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Part of the 2d Volume. Six sheets in 4to, with six cuts.

25. Collection, &c.

Collection of the best works written in the French language, inscribed to the amateurs of elegant typography, and of accurate editions. Vol. XXXV. and XXXVI., including the Thoughts of Blaise Pascal, Vol. I. and II. (To be continued.) Printed for and by P. Didot, Senior. Price in boards, 9 francs, ditto fine paper, 15 f.; ditto super. vellum, 30 f..

26. Correspondence Politiques et Administrative, &c.

Political and Administrative Correspondence, by J Fiévée, 8th Part. One small octavo volume.

M. Fiévée is undoubtedly one of the best political writers at present living in France. Seven numbers of his correspondence have been published in the last two years and a half, all of which have created a high interest in those ranks of society where political questions are a customary topic of discourse. M. F.'s style is full of energy, and remarkably sarcastic. No wonder therefore that his publications have procured him numerous enemies. But it must be owned, his talents are not the only cause of the enmity his works have excited against him. He is not without a considerable portion of vanity; and his pamphlets, though seldom containing more than six or seven sheets of print, are never free from his own personal praise. In M. F.'s opinion, M. F. might be the best deputy, the best peer, the best minister possible, and still M. F. disdains being either minister, peer, or deputy. When a man shows such high wrought pride, he seldom persuades others; and his best reasonings, though founded on the firmest basis of truth, hardly ever succeed in making con

verts.

The eighth number of his work contains two supposed letters to a friend in England on the late elections. The author has drawn a very able picture of the present state of parties in France. The royalists, he says, though numerous, being without the spirit of intrigue, play a very small part in the political world, which is divided between the ministerial and independent parties. The latter is what was formerly called the revolutionary. The ministerials vill, soon or late, unite with the independents, and then attribute the misfortune of France to the obstinacy of the royalists.

A short time before the election began, a novel was published, called the Farmer and the Nobleman. This work was full of revolutionary principles, and intended to level all distinction of ranks. M. F. asks,

why the nobility are constantly a butt to attacks in a monarchy, whereof that same nobility form a constitutional part, and where the king daily creates new dukes, marquisses, counts, or barons. The inthrow an odium or a ridicule upon one of tention of government can hardly be to its fundamental institutions. And M. F. concludes very rightly, we imagine, by saying to government; either abolish nobility, or take care that your nobility be respected.

The nobles, perhaps you will say, show high pretensions, and threaten to overthrow the constitution. But that argument cannot hold, after recollecting that the nobility are no more, as formerly, a body, and that a nobleman has no other influence than what his personal riches can give him. At present in France, a Montmorency, if depriv ed of 3000 fr. landed income, cannot be come a deputy, and has, in fact, less influence than the rich farmer, his neighbour.

This consideration leads M. F. to another of high importance. The peerage is the body representing the aristocratical power: its influence ought to be great enough to balance the favours of the court, and the independent principles of the deputics Many peers, however, have not even the means to keep a coach; 10,000 francs a-year is the income fixed for a baron. A peer of Great Britain would cut but a sorry figure with L. 400 a-year. The consequence of the want of landed property in the Chamber of Peers, and the democratical spirit of the late election law, have already had one natural consequence: we mean, that in the last elections, the monied men have had a decided advantage over the landholders; and this, which, according to M. F. would be unfortunate in all countries, is still more so in France, where commerce is only a secondary interest. M. F. states, not without foundation, that the man whose property is all in money, must naturally feel less interested in the prosperity of his country than the landholder, whose private happiness is attached to the soil.

M. F.'s pamphlet concludes with a few observations on the liberty of the press. This is the weakest part of his work. It contains, however, some excellent ideas, among which we have remarked what M. F. says on the unfortunate state of a nation, where the public opinion is not regulated by the Chambers.

We have now said enough to give bur readers an idea of M. F.'s work, and shall conclude with quoting a singular fact. A little while before the last election, the Lord Privy Seal, Baron Pasquier, wrote to the prefect of a department, where ministers found some opposition:-" What am I to think of a prefect who cannot

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guerre

de la

28. Memoire sur la Vendée, in 1815, &c. Memoirs of the War in the Ven

dée in 1815, by the Baron de Canuel, Lieutenant-General of the Royal armies. With a map of the Theatre of the War, and a Portrait of the Marquis de la Roche Jaquelein. 1 vol. 8vo.

29. Des Libertés, &c.

On the Liberties of the Gallican Church, &c. by D. Baillet, one of the Librarians of the Library of Versailles. (Pamphlet.)

30. Appreciation, &c.

The project of a Law concerning the three Concordats appreciated; by J. D. Lanjuinais, Peer of France. (Pamphlet.)

31. Essai sur l'Indifférence, &c. Essay on Indifference in matters of Religion, vol. 1. (To be continued.) 32. La Revelation prouvée par elle même, &c.

Revelation proved by itself; a work intended to penetrate young people with the truths of the Christian doctrine, and to prevent their falling into irreligion. (Pamphlet.)

33. Les Conversations Maternelles,

Maternal Conversations, by Madame Dufresnoy. 2 vols. 18mo.

34. Euvres de F. G. J. S. Andrieur, &c.

The works of F. G. J. S. Andrieux, with cuts. 3 vols. 8vo.

M. A. is a very agreeable poet and theatrical writer. His best comedy is called Les Etourdis, (The Wild Young Man.) He has also composed one called The Old Fop; the principal character and chief scene of which are taken from the English comedy of The Clandestine Marriage. Last year, M. A. gave a piece called The Actress; very ably written, but of à rather immoral tendency: The intention of

the author appearing to be a wish to prove that an actress is not an unfit match for a nobleman. M. A.'s fugitive poems are agreeable and fluent compositions. This is the first time that his works have been published collectively.

35. Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, &c.

A history of the Italian Republics de Sismondi. of the middle ages; by C. L. Sismonde Vols. XII. XIII. and XIV. 8vo. (To be continued.) 36. Histoire des guerres du Vivarais, &c.

The History of the wars in Vivain favour of the Royal cause, from the rais and the neighbouring Provinces, Establishment of the camp at Talès in 1790, to 1816; by Andéol Vincent, &c. 1 vol. 8vo.

37. De quelques abus, &c.

On some Abuses introduced into the
Religious System. (Pamphlet.)
38. Alphonse et Azelia, &c.
Alphonse and Azelia, a Novel; by
Madame C. H. M. 2 vols.

12mo.

39. Galerie Morale et Politique, &c. Count de Segur. 1 vol. Moral and Political Gallery, by the

40. Observations Critiques, &c. Critical Observations on the work called the Genius of Christianity; by i vol M. de Châteaubriand, &c.

8vo.

41. Les Folies du Siècle, &c. The Follies of the Age, a philoso phical Novel. I vol. 8vo.

This novel is not so much a philosophical as a political work, chiefly intended to flatter the ministry, and to shew that the plans followed by the present ministers are thor, who has not thought fit to put his the best and the wisest possible. The auname on the title page, supposes a young man returned from his travels, with high flown German ideas; his family, honest citizens of Paris, unable to understand him, at last believe that he has lost his senses; and, by the advice of the family doctor, his father leads him to a private madhouse. There he finds several lunatics, which gives the author an opportunity of painting the different parties which divide France at the present moment. The style of this work is remarkably agreeable and witty. Few works read more fluently. It is a pity that the author has not shown a more independent spirit, which might have given a great interest and much piquant to his tale.

Paris, January 5, 1818,

ORIGINAL POETRY.

ORIGINAL POETRY BY BURNS.

[The following unpublished reliques of our immortal Bard were lately communicated to us from a highly respectable quarter. We quote one short passage from the very obliging letter that accompanied them: As every thing that fell from the pen of Burns is worthy of preservation, I transcribe for your Miscellany the complete copy of a song which Cromek has printed, (page 423 of his vol.) in an unfinished state,-together with two fragments that have never yet been published. The originals of these I possess in the handwriting of their unfortunate Author, who transmitted them inclosed in letters to a constant friend of his through all his calamities, by whom they were finally assigned to me."]

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Here's Maitland, and Wycombe, and wha does na like 'em,

Be built in a hole o' the wa'!

Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core;
May he that would turn the Buff and Blue
coat,
Be turned to the back o' the door.

Here's a health to them that's awa,
An' here's to them that's awa!
Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth
gowd,

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw.
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed;
And wha would betray old Albion's rights,
May they never eat of her bread!

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Shall never be forgot;

'Tis shrined amid the holy throng;
"Tis woven in immortal song!-
Yes!-Campbell of the deathless lay,
The ardent poet of the free,
Has painted Warsaw's latest day,
In colours that resist decay,
In accents worthy Thee;
Thy hosts on battle field arrayed,
And in thy grasp the patriot blade!
Oh! sainted is the name of him,
And sacred should his relics be,
Whose course no selfish aims bedim ;
Who, spotless as the seraphim,
Exerts his energy,

To make the earth by freemen trod,
And see mankind the sons of God!

And thou wert one of these; 'twas thine,
Through thy devoted country's night,
The latest of a freeborn line,
With all that purity to shine,
Which makes a hero bright;
With all that lustre to appear,
Which freemen love, and tyrants fear.

A myrtle wreathe was on thy blade, Which broke before its cause was won!Thou, to no sordid fears betrayed, Mid desolation undismayed, Wert mighty, though undone ; No terrors gloomed thy closing scene, In danger and in death serene!

Though thou hast bade our world farewell,

And left the blotted lands beneath,
In purer, happier realms to dwell;
With Wallace, Washington, and Tell,
Thou sharest the laurel wreathe-
The Brutus of degenerate climes !
A beacon-light to other times!

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS
CHARLOTTE.

OH! life is but the bubble
That bursts upon the stream,
The phantom of a trouble

That haunts a sick man's dream.

An hour of hard mischances,
A lazar house of sin,
Where wickedness enhances
The griefs that grow therein.
The cottage and the palace

Alike are doom'd to woe;
But in the royal chalice,

The bitterest waters flow.
In the palace and the cottage,
Vices in ambush lie;
Yet vice's royal fruitage

May soonest tempt the eye.

In the sight of a pure father
Is virtue's race begun ;
The virtue of a mother

Is virtue's talisman.
Yet are not Princes banish'd
From nature's kindly lap,
The smile of love evanish'd,
Expos'd to hard mishap.
The golden links of kindred
Lighten the heaviest lot,
Yet mankind long have wonder'd
That Princes know them not.
They wander far from wisdom,
And like the stars on high,
Each shines in his cold system,
Without one common tie.
Yet in a frozen region,

Our Charlotte's heart was warm;
Amid a world's contagion,

Her soul escap'd from harm.
A pure round dew-drop lying
Upon the tree of death,
The wholesome west wind flying
After the Siroc's breath.
A green spot in the desart,

Where nature is most drear,
Cast there as 'twere by hazard,
The pilgrim's heart to cheer.
A censer of sweet incense,
To purify the land
From the corrupting influence
Scatter'd by vice's hand.
Heaven's bow its beauty arching
Above a serpent's den;
Bright as an angel marching
Among the sons of men.
The worthless may inherit
A palace and a throne,
But ah! the glorious spirit
Of pity was her own.
Yes! at her presence, hunger
Fled from the poor man's hearth
And nakedness no longer

Lay couch'd on the cold earth. For her, in many a cottage

A morning prayer was said,
And infancy and dotage

Bade bless the Royal Maid.
Her soul's untaught perfections
Fled to the humble dome,
For food to the affections

They could not find at home.
Yet Heaven at last regarded
Affection's weary void,
And her kindly heart rewarded
With a friend, who was her pride,
A spirit rear'd by nature,

In the same genial zone,
That seem'd in every feature
Reflected from her own.

"Twas love, 'twas joy, 'twas duty;
But ah! it soon was past;

The rainbow in its beauty, "Twas too intense to last. My tears are for the woman,

They flow not for the Queen,
And the glorious harvest coming,
Of which the flower was seen.
Weep for the childless mother,

Who to the world had shown,
In bloom that could not wither,
Pure virtue on a throne.
Woe for the royal daughter,
Oh! woe unto our Isle,
For famine, fire, and slaughter
Had fled before her smile.

The poor man's star arising,
The star so seldom seen,
To glad his cold horizon,

The poor man's promis'd queen.
With love that gladness borrows
From the work it has begun,
She would have scann'd his sorrows,
And rais'd him up to man.
Years of alloyless glory,

The golden age again, The theme of proudest story

Had been our Charlotte's reign.
Yes! it had been the standard

To measure future kings,
And they, who from it wander'd,
Had been unhonour'd things;
And then, one happy nation,

No yoke but love to bear,
Like Eden's new creation,

Had flourished free and fair.
Oh! woe for gentle woman
So beautiful in form,
In loveliness so beaming,
So patient in the storm!
In man's tempestuous weather
An anchor firmly cast,-
The link that binds together
The future and the past.
In love so pure, so ardent,
To shelter man from wrong,
So faithful, and so fervent,

In peril's hour so strong.
She cannot be a stranger

To woes she counts her own,
Yet there is many a danger
That she must meet alone.
Oh! yes there is a season
Of hopes, and loves, and fears,
In its result the reason

Of blessedness or tears.
Amid a glorious vision
Death enters in by stealth,
In the bitterest derision

Of beauty and of health.
Like an invader rushing
Resistlessly, and wild,
And by one conquest crushing
The mother and the child.

Oh! woe for the lov'd lady,

Her hopes were at the height; She ween'd that fate was ready To give a king to light. Alas! the sad disaster,

The grave became her throne,
Aye, and the worm the sister
Of her and of her son.

Yet on her heart's last gleaming
There fell one glimpse of love,
And strong affection beaming
A sunlight from above.
God bless the widow'd stranger,
Who stayed her weary head
In her extremest danger,

When all but pain had fled.
Ten hundred thousand sisters
In England had been found
To sooth the sad disasters

That fell so fast around. Ten hundred thousand mothers Had watch'd beside her bed; Ten hundred thousand fathers Have wept the lady dead.

THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR.
(By the late John Philpot Curran.)
My mother sigh'd-the stream of pain
Flow'd fast and chilly o'er her brow;
My father pray'd, nor pray'd in vain-
Sweet mercy cast a glance below!
Mine husband dear, the sufferer cried,

My pains are o'er; behold your son! Thank heaven, sweet partner, he replied, The poor boy's labour's then begun. Alas! the hapless life she gave,

By fate was doom'd, to cost her own,
For, soon she met an early grave,
Nor stay'd her partner long alone.
They left their orphan, here below,
A stranger wild, beneath the sun,
This lesson sad, to learn, from woe-
The poor man's labour's never done.
No friendly voice, of pious care,

My childhood's devious steps to guide, Or bid my vent'rous youth, beware,

The griefs, that smote, on every side; Still, 'twas a changing round of woe,

Woe, never ending, still begun, That taught my bleeding heart, to know, The poor man's labour's never done. Soon dies the fault'ring voice of fame,

The vows of love, too warm to last, And friendship! what a faithless dream! And wealth's! how soon the glare is past! But sure, one hope remains to save; The longest course must soon be run, And, in the shelter of the grave,

The poor man's labour must be done.

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