“The impartial and profound judgment of Madame admits of no further discussion on this point,” said I. “What does she think of the present state of our dramatic literature?” “Why,” replied Madame, “you have many great poets, but when they write for the stage they lose themselves entirely; your Valter Scote’s play of Robe Roi is very inferior to his novel of the same name.” “It is a great pity,” said I, “that Byron did not turn his Childe Harold into a tragedy--it has so much energy--action--variety!” “Very true,” said Madame, with a sigh; “but the tragedy is, after all, only suited to our nation--we alone carry it to perfection.” “Yet,” said I, “Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies.” “Eh bien!” said Madame, “one rose does not constitute a garden!” And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned to a celebrated traveller to discuss with him the chance of discovering the North Pole. There were one or two clever Englishmen present; Vincent and I joined them. “Have you met the Persian prince yet?” said Sir George Lynton to me; “he is a man of much talent, and great desire of knowledge. He intends to publish his observations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have an admirable supplement to Montesquieu’s Lettres Persannes!” “I wish we had,” said Vincent: “there are few better satires on a civilized country than the observations of visitors less polished; while on the contrary the civilized traveller, in describing the manners of the American barbarian, instead of conveying ridicule upon the visited, points the sarcasm on the visitor; and Tacitus could not have thought of a finer or nobler satire on the Roman luxuries than that insinuated by his treatise on the German simplicity.” “What,” said Monsieur D’E--(an intelligent ci-devant emigre), “what political writer is generally esteemed as your best?” “It is difficult to say,” replied Vincent, “since with so many parties we have many idols; but I think I might venture to name Bolingbroke as among the most popular. Perhaps, indeed, it would be difficult to select a name more frequently quoted and discussed than his; and yet his political works are the least valuable part of his remains; and though they contain many lofty sentiments, and many beautiful yet scattered truths, they were written when legislation, most debated, was least understood, and ought to be admired rather as excellent for the day than estimable in themselves. The life of Bolingbroke would convey a juster moral than all his writings: and the author who gives us a full and impartial memoir of that extraordinary man, will have afforded both to the philosophical and political literature of England one of its greatest desideratums.” “It seems to me,” said Monsieur D’E--, “that your national literature is peculiarly deficient in biography--am I right in my opinion?”