A literary imposition similar to that which was practised in England by Chatterton, was effected in France, in 1804. A small volume was published, at Paris, edited by M. Vanderbourg, and professing to be the “Poems of Margaret Eleanor Clotilda de Vallon-Chalys”, afterwards Madame de Surville, a French poetess of the fifteenth century. They were said to have been discovered, in 1782, among the dusty archives of his family, by a M. de Surville, a descendant of the fair authoress, who had a transcript of them made. The originals were unfortunately destroyed by fire, and M. de Surville lost his life during the French revolution, but the copy of the poems was saved, and, with much difficulty, was procured by the editor. Madame de Surville is represented as having displayed singularly precocious abilities; to have been married in 1421; and to have lived at least to the age of ninety, exercising her poetical talent to the last. Serious doubts as to the truth of this story are entertained by the literary men of France. But, though the authenticity of these compositions may be disputed, there can be no dispute respecting their merit. There is a grace, sweetness, and spirit, in them which are exceedingly delightful. From the following translation of the supposed Madame de Surville’s “Verses to My First Born,” which appeared in an early number of the New Monthly Magazine, some idea may be formed of her poetical talents: My cherished infant! image of thy sire! Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses! Sleep little one, and close those eyes of fire, Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses. Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumbers lend thee Delights which I must never more enjoy! I watch o’er thee, to nourish and defend thee, And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy. Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure! Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee! And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure, It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o’er thee. Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend, when thou awakest, Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise; Thy mother’s face thou never now mistakest, And thou hast learned to look into her eyes. What! do thy little fingers leave the breast, The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure? Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest, E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure. My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore! My infant love! my comfort! my delight! I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er, I blame the quick return of every night. His little arms stretch forth--sleep o’er him steals-- His eye is closed--he sleeps--how still his breath! But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals, He seems to slumber in the arms of death.