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Irish orator. He mingled his sorbet, flung himself back, held forth a very nervous hand, and began. His lecture was professedly on Eloquence; on which theme, apropos to every thing and nothing at all, he discussed any topic, and digressed as abruptly as Sterne. He began with Plutarch, and spoke so eloquently and ignorantly of that learned Theban as to convince me that he was not much farther acquainted with the great biographer than the naïve translation of Amyot could supply him. He called Plutarch eloquent, and he called Lucian eloquent, so that, if he had not very erroneous ideas, he at least made use of a very strange vocabulary. Notwithstanding these blunders, acute and epigrammatic talent shone in every thing he said; and he was evidently one of that numerous class of littérateurs, who do not care much what they say, provided they make a point. He has given frequent instances of this since, and although he is almost the only professor allowed to possess his chair by the government, still his secret principles, or the generous tendency natural to genius, lead him frequently in moments of warmth into downright liberalism. His actions, however, are as conformable as can be wished; he voted for the admission of Freyssinous to the academy-the great test of an academician's ultraism; and would, I dare say, do the same to-morrow for any archbishop-he of Lyons always excepted.

To continue an account of his lecture, a comparison between Lucian and Voltaire was excellent. From Lucian he went to Justin, Tertullian, and the early fathers, and here his vocabulary came certainly to have sense, for then there is eloquence. As Villemain extemporizes, he often digresses; and though occupied with antiquity, he is very fond of slipping from the classic stilts into the disputes of modern times. Apropos des bottes, he continues to discuss in almost every lecture the merits and demerits of the classic and romantic school. And it is not at all extraordinary to hear him argue to-day in a tone diametrically opposite to his arguments of yesterday.

Villemain has published a Life of Cromwell, praised by the Quarterly Review, and not admired in France. He has also lately published a volume of Melanges, containing Eloges, otherwise Essays, on Montaigne, Montesquieu, and others, all finely written, and far more worthy of notice than many a foreign volume reviewed in England. He will yet, I have no doubt, establish a reputation superior to any literary character of the present day in France.

Such is the only name and personage that now supports the reputation of the Sorbonne, and who resembles the fervid and fickle genius of profane learning, pushing from her stool the superannuated deity of scholastic divinity, and forcing the old walls of the Sorbonne to echo in praise the names it most abhorred. Who knows, however, but that under the fostering influence of the Bourbon princes, the old goddess may revive:-" ça viendra, ça viendra," as the popular and prophetic chanson says!

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LONDON LYRICS.

Poor Robin's Prophecy.

WHEN girls prefer old lovers,
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell's skull discovers
What pass'd in Thurtell's brain :
When farms contain no growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
For sure the sky will fall.

When Boston men love banter,
When loan-contractors sleep,
When Chancery-pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep :
When topers swear that claret's
The vilest drink of all;

Then, housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.

When Southey leagues with Wooller, When dandies shew no shape, When fiddlers' heads are fuller

Than that whereon they scrape :

When doers turn to talkers,

And Quakers love a ball;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.

When lads from Cork or Newry

Won't broach a whisky flask,

When comedy at Drury

Again shall lift her mask :
When peerless Kitty utters
Her airs in tuneless squall,

Then, cats, desert your gutters,
For sure the sky will fall.

When worth dreads no detractor,
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,

And manager and actor

Lie down like kid and lamb;

When bard with bard embraces,

And critics cease to maul,

Then, travellers, mend your paces,

For sure the sky will fall.

When men, who leave off business
With butter-cups to play,

Find in their heads no dizziness,

Nor long for "melting day :"

When cits their pert Mount-pleasants

Deprive of poplars tall;

Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants, For sure the sky will fall.

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THE celebrated sculptor and goldsmith of Tuscany, master Benvebuto Cellini, was on a fine summer's evening returning from Fontainebleau, where he had presented to King Francis the First several plans for the embellishment of that palace. He looked vexed and angry, as was his wont when he met with obstacles either in his way of life or in his art; and how rarely are these spared even to the favourites of fortune! But such was not Master Benvenuto's mode of reasoning. He was determined to have his own way though he should fight for it. His anger increased as he approached the metropolis, and felt the influence of the close city air; stopping short, he turned the head of his richly caparisoned mule across a meadow, grumbling all the while. "If I had but my beautiful drawings and designs safely out of this infernal city, and my two brave Italian companions by my side, never should King Francis or his metropolis see me more. I should immediately ride on towards my lordly Florence, where I left the most sublime works of art unfinished; works which the brutes in this country know not how to value. Even King Francis-"

Here he stopped, looking round him almost shy, as if he thought the king could have heard him. Soon however he began again: "Yet, one can not help respecting him after all; and it is worth the journey and all the vexation I have had, to know how one feels in the presence of such a mighty warlike king! What a pity he is not as handsome as he is great!"

Following this train of thought, he rode on slowly but more cheerfully, without noticing his road or thinking of its end; his bold and manly features assumed a more placid expression, and before his mind's eye there rose the form of a royal hero, as commanding and handsome in body as powerful in mind. His mule had in the mean time, without direction, taken a narrow little-frequented path, which led through gardens and inclosed fields to a single cottage.

Of a sudden Master Benvenuto was roused from his reverie by a shrill voice calling his name; the trampling of a horse was heard at the same time. With the speed of lightning he had his long double-edged poniard in his right, a well-loaded pistol in his left hand, and thus, springing nimbly from his mule and placing himself behind it as behind a wall, he called out through the increasing darkness of the evening: Though you be one or ten or twenty, come on, ye robbers and murderers! come on! You shall soon see that you have to do not only with a clever artist but with a brave undaunted soldier, who has already laid low more than a hundred of your description never to rise again! Come on, ye rascals, I say!"

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The new comer stopt his little spirited animal, and said laughing: "Mon dieu et mon père! What noise to no purpose! Don't you know me, Maitre Cellini ?"-"What! is it you, Doctor?" said Benvenuto angrily; "how come you to overpower an honest man with your stormy vociferations? You may be a clever physician, but it seems you know but little how to behave when travelling, and that might in this instance have cost you your life, and occasioned me much grief and inconvenience hereafter?"

"Infiniment obligé," said the Frenchman with a polite bow, and then continued as before in his broken Italian, "You talk of travelling: is it a journey from town to this little cottage?" " Travelling is travelling," said Benvenuto very seriously, again mounting his mule, "and indeed your journey might have easily brought you into the next world !"

"I live, however," said Doctor Petitpre lightly; and then asked whether he should have the pleasure and honour of Master Cellini's company in a visit he had to pay to his sick countryman the painter Luigi. "Is Luigi ill?" cried Benvenuto, much concerned, and the Doctor expressed his sorrow at being obliged to answer in the affirmative. Nor was the complaint trifling; and he had advised his patient to exchange the close city air for the purer atmosphere of this farm. **I am afraid," he added, "his complaint is more in the mind than in the body! His heart may be affected !"

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"Nonsense," cried Benvenuto, angrily. Your wretched Paris air has caused it! Thus far you are right; but this farm won't cure him. All your French air is fit to poison or stifle any honest soul! I am only astonished that your very dogs don't drop dead like those that are sent into the mephitic grotto near Naples !"

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"Sir," cried the Frenchman in a great passion, "you are completely in the wrong. France enjoys the very best climate, and its air is the most salubrious that can be."

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But the equally angry Italian interrupted this patriotic speech, saying: "And what do you talk of a sick heart? I tell you, the heart of my friend Luigi is more sound than your's. Have not I seen him at Milan perform the most wonderful games and exercises, with a degree of agility and strength, as if not only the youthful Dioscuris, but cheerful Mercury, the messenger of the gods himself, had descended to this earth and adopted his frame? How will you now persuade me that his heart is not sound? It is this diabolical air alone that kills him, and that you must counteract, that alone! And, Sir," he added, doffing his cap with unfeigned respect, "a physician like you, one of the most experienced and learned I ever knew, must be sucessful even in this wondrous struggle against the nature of the country."

"Infiniment obligé, Maitre Cellini. I also consider you as the first sculptor that ever lived," replied the Frenchman, likewise doffing his bonnet and bowing deeply. He added, perfectly recovered from all his former anger, "I hope to give you a proof in your friend's case that your favourable opinion of me has not deceived you."

At this moment the riders halted before the little farmhouse. The physician took care to provide well for the mule and his own horse, and then ascended with noiseless steps, accompanied by Benvenuto, the stairs which led to the apartment of the sick painter. Cellini had observed from the yard the light of the window, which shone bright and fair through the leaves of the trees before it, and as he followed the doctor he began to hum the words of an Italian sonnet, "Alla' dolce ombra de le belle frondi."

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But the physician suddenly interrupted him, whispering into his ear with violent gesticulations: "Point de poesie maintenant, Maître Cellini! surtout point de poesie lyrique! Poetry is at present poison for your friend," he continued, " and though he reads and writes poetry

all day long, which I have no means to prevent, yet you must not begin too."

"Well, well," answered Benvenuto, "you are the master in these things; I obey blindly." The physician shook his hand, and they entered the room of the painter Luigi.

The pale youth, paler in the clear light of a lamp suspended from the ceiling, sat beside a large table of books and papers, reading a paper which he seemed to have but just then written. A melancholy smile played on his handsome face, and he scarcely noticed the opening of the door. But when Benvenuto called out, "By all the saints! that is my Luigi! and yet it is not himself either!" the youth arose in joyful surprise, and hastened to throw himself into his friend's arms. In making this attempt he would have fallen to the ground from weakness, had not Cellini's strong arms caught and supported him. Affected at seeing his friend in this state, Benvenuto turned round to the physician, who shook his head full of melancholy meaning, so that the Italian cried out with a voice unusually soft: "By heaven! nothing is more foolish than thus to fall sick in the very prime of youth! Coulds't thou not resist a little better the thick air of this vile Paris, Luigi? And has the divine spark of genius been given thee to no better purpose, than to be extinguished by the first breath of this foul atmosphere? For shame, my lad; the eagle is not made to creep on the ground catching mice!"

"Catching mice!" repeated Luigi, smiling, "not that exactly. He despises the lowly booty; but even the eagle may be pinioned to the ground, his wings broken, he soars no longer, and yet he may not die."

Benvenuto started back. "Boy," said he, "think not of such frightful similes. Come, quick now; show me your workshop. I have been so completely overwhelmed by all the noble works of art which the French king has laid on my shoulders, as if I were one of the beaven-storming giants, that I have never been, since thy arrival in this hateful city, to see thee in thy workshop. But now show me thy latest paintings and the newest designs and sketches."

But the youth, slowly shaking his head with its long glossy curls, said with a painful smile, "Workshop!-paintings !-sketches!—I can paint no longer!"

Benvenuto at this rose, with indignation in his mien, exclaiming"And thou still livest deprived of the heavenly gift! thou, who hadst already reached such perfection, who didst live only in the smiles of genius, and hadst no joy but in thy noble art! and yet thou livest deprived of this heavenly gift!"

"Not much longer, I think," said Luigi, softly; but the angry Benvenuto, regardless of the gentle tone, continued in his loud manner"And if thou art no longer a painter, wherefore come into this country at the call of its monarch? Shall the Italian name become a mockery among these hyperborean barbarians, because thou sittest in vain before the canvass and no heavenly forms are created by thy hands? Woe to thee! What hast thou done? Or is it only in this infernal city that thy art has forsaken thee? Then will I depart from hence immediately with my companions, escaping, in God's name, from the influence of

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