vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always watch like sentinels over
the repose of my lips. Careless and indifferent as I seem to all things,
nothing ever escapes me: the minutest erreur in a dish or a domestic, the
most trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, my glance detects in
an instant, and transmits for ever to my recollection.

"You have seen Jouy's 'Hermite de la Chaussee D'Antin?'" said our host to
Lord Vincent.

"I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual aim at something
pointed, which as perpetually merges into something dull. He is like a
bad swimmer, strikes out with great force, makes a confounded splash, and
never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort not to sink.
Indeed, Monsieur D'A--, your literature is at a very reduced ebb;
bombastic in the drama--shallow in philosophy--mawkish in poetry, your
writers of the present day seem to think, with Boileau--

"'Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.'"

"Surely," cried Madame D'Anville, "you will allow De la Martine's poetry
to be beautiful?"

"I allow it," said he, "to be among the best you have; and I know very
few lines in your language equal to the two first stanzas in his
'Meditation on Napoleon,' or to those exquisite verses called 'Le Lac;'
but you will allow also that he wants originality and nerve. His thoughts
are pathetic, but not deep; he whines, but sheds no tears. He has, in his
imitation of Lord Byron, reversed the great miracle; instead of turning
water into wine, he has turned wine into water. Besides, he is so
unpardonably obscure. He thinks, with Bacchus--(you remember, D'A--, the