nifications. Such is religious controversy, that all the persecution of Louis XIV. and his Confessor but propagated Jansenism, while the Regent laughed at them, and they were never heard of more.

The learned body of the Sorbonne soon found more dangerous adversaries in the wits and philosophers of the eighteenth century. There is scarcely a work of one of their pens, which it has not condemned. The mode of puffing a book now is very well understood. The mode then was to mingle in it a considerable portion of impiety; the Sorbonne took it into consideration, and ordered it to be burned by the hangman. Three months' continual advertisement in the Times, with an article in each periodical, could not attract so much attention to a volume. Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, D'Alembert, &c. all advertised their works through the means of the Sorbonne and the Parliament. To the first of these wits, in particular, the learned body formed a source of everlasting fun. "Since the invention of printing," say Voltaire's Kehl editors, "the faculty of Paris have arrogated to themselves the right of uttering their opinion in bad Latin on every book that displeases them." Once in the case of the "Emile," I believe, they thought proper to extend this privilege, by translating their condemnation from bad Latin into worse French. When the "Belisaire" was published (in 1767), the learned doctors were shocked to find, that any author dared to think, far less print as an opinion, that all the heroes and sages of antiquity were not damned. The Sorbonne, in consequence, thundered censures in barbarous Latin and blundering French, and by so doing supplied the wags with fun and epigram for a month. Voltaire wrote on this occasion his "Trois Empereurs en Sorbonne." These three Emperors are -Trajan, Titus, et Marc Aurele,

Quittant le beau séjour de la gloire immortelle,

Pour venir en secret s'amuser dans Paris.

Quelque bien qu'on puisse être, on veut changer de place ;

C'est pourquoi les Anglais sortent de leur pays.

L'esprit est inquiet, et de tout il se lasse ;

Souvent un bienheureux s'ennuie en paradis."

The Emperors are shown all the lions of Paris, are presented and conducted every where.

"Ils voulurent enfin tout voir et tout connaître ;
Les boulevards, la foire, et l'opéra bouffon,

L'école où Loyola corrompit la raison,

Les quatre facultés, et jusqu'à la Sorbonne.

Ils entrent dans l'étable où les docteurs fourrés
Ruminaient Saint Thomas, et prenaient leurs degrès,
Au séjour de l'ergo, Ribaudier en personne

Estropiait alors un discours en latin.

Quel latin, juste ciel ! les héros de l'empire

Se mordaient les cinq doigts pour s'empêcher de rire."

Af

The old Romans find no favour among the theologians, and are astonished to find themselves damned and condemned to all eternity. ter some witty expostulation they make their retreat, while their guides excuse themselves by having mistaken the mansion,

"Nous pensions en effet vous mener en Sorbonne ;

Et l'on vous a conduit aux Petites-maisons."

But French philosophy is not indebted to the Sorbonne for its famebestowing censures alone: as a university it produced Turgot and

Morellet. There are few books more delightful to the man of letters than retrospective glances and recollections of school and college: even the simple account by Marmontel of his country college, where his maintenance and education cost his parents the serious sum of four or five louis a-year, is interesting. The account of the Sorbonne, in the commencement of Morellet's Memoirs, threw for me an interest over those ruins, which more than out-balanced all odious association with its bigot decrees. The Abbé's description of the life he led there, his connexions with Turgot and the Briennes, recall those happy times of one's own life, when study was a business, forming the serious subject of thought and topic of conversation-when the world of philosophy and literature was fresh before us, our only world in view-before we had learned its petty history, and tasted of its passions-before we had fathomed its shallow waters, and found its depths but in sophism and invective.

Had the ignorant wretches of the Revolution known even of the name of Turgot as connected with the Sorbonne, they would have respected it as little as that of Richelieu. Indeed they were not guided so much by indignation against any name, as by the mere itch to destroy.

"So full of valour, that they smote the air

For breathing in their faces."

The year 1820 was, I believe, the æra of my first visit to the Sorbonne, and of my consequent meditations. A year or two rolled over the pilgrim's head in other climes and peregrinations, and the beginning of 1823 found him once more in Paris, and in company with his literary friends. They spoke of Villemain, of his genius, and of his eloquence as a lecturer, and I determined to hear him. It was in the Sorbonne be gave his course, and I arrived there an hour before the time in order to procure admittance-and lo! the Sorbonne was gay, spruce, and in full repair: green was no longer the livery of its court-yard, nor sooty gloom that of its walls; and a neat and elegant hall lately fitted up, was crammed even to suffocation with all the young students in Paris that could gain admission. Villemain was all the rage, and here were united at his audience the various characters of the metropolis-the unkemped, spectacled head of the student of the Pays Latin-the young, Anglicified Exquisite of the Chaussée d'Antin-the Englishman himself, with his blank gravity of countenance, standing and perspiring in the crowd, for the sake of the 'have to say,' and the German with his unmistakeable square countenance. At the foot of the lecturer's seat were chairs for the most distinguished auditors. It was just after the disturbances among the students, the dissolution of the School of Medicine, and the destitution of all the liberal professors. Expressions of censure or applause were strictly forbidden. In spite of this, the entrance of General Foy excited a considerable tumult, and the cheers of his admirers could not be kept down. Soon after, the Duc de Montmorency made his appearance-he had lately read a recantation of the liberal opinions he had professed at the beginning of the Revolution-and the Duke was saluted by a general hem, and laugh, that disconcerted him much more than any hissing could have done.

Villemain at length made his appearance-an insignificant, meanlooking personage, with his head thrown back. He was the image of Curran, and his eye was as piercing and as full of genius as that of the

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. Appropos 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!

LONDON LYRICS.

Poor Robin's Prophecy.

WHEN girls prefer old lovers,
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell's skull discovers
What passed 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 fiddler's 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.

THE CROWN OF VICTORY.

A Tale from La Motte Fouqué.

THE celebrated sculptor and goldsmith of Tuscany, master Benvenuto 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: 66 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!"

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 ?"