We should have liked, had time permitted, to have transcribed one or two of Mr Reach’s sketches of scenery, especially his description of the Landes, where, instead of wine, men gather a harvest of resin, and where the shepherds imitate the crane, by walking perpetually upon stilts. We already possessed some knowledge of that singular region from the writings of George Sand, but Mr Reach’s description is more simple, and certainly more easily realised. His account also of Pau, and its society, and the neighbouring scenery, is remarkably good; but so is the book generally, and therefore we need not particularise. Only, as we are bound to discharge the critical function with impartiality, and as we are rather in a severe mood, this not being one of our claret days, we take leave to say that the legends which he has engrafted are by far the least valuable portion of the volume. Everybody who knows anything of modern bookmaking, must be aware that such tales are entirely attributable to the fertile genius of the author; for we would as soon believe in the discovery of a buried treasure, as in the existence of those grey-haired guides, veteran smugglers, and antique boatmen, who are invariably brought forward as the Homeridæ or recounters of floating tradition. We have travelled a good deal in different parts of the world, and seen as much of that kind of society as our neighbours; but we can safely aver that we never yet met with a local Sinbad who had anything to tell worth the hearing. If an author wants the materials of romance, the best place that he can frequent is a commercial traveller’s room. We have been privileged to hear in such social circles more marvels than would furnish forth a whole library of romance, with this additional advantage, that the narrator of the tale, whether it referred to love or war, was invariably its principal hero.