still the same facility of expression, still the same lucidity.”—This aroused Michaud, upon whom the affectionate words of a sincere friend had just before produced no effect. He started, and sitting upright in his bed, exclaimed, in a tremulous voice, “Yes! yes! _still_ the same! still——” and he sunk exhausted and dying on his pillow: these were his last words! To criticise the works of Michaud properly would require a volume; we can therefore only lay before our readers a list of such as from their merit and celebrity are ever likely to fall under the eye of English readers. His greatest claim to the attention of posterity is doubtless the one before us, “The History of the Crusades,” of which his biographer, who is certainly less of an eulogist than any one we ever saw assume a similar task, very justly says, “It may be said, without exaggeration, that it is one of the most valuable historical works that our age has produced. To its completion he sacrificed almost every moment of twenty of the best years of his life.” No reader requires to be told that it was a labour of love.—He was the founder of, and a considerable contributor to, “La Biographie Universelle,” a work which England may envy France the conception and execution of; and if to these we add his beautiful poem of “Le Printemps d’un Proscrit,” we think we name all that he wrote that would be interesting at the present day: the other historical works are feeble, and the political squibs of a journalist after a lapse of half a century, are only acceptable to him who may be writing the history of the time. In this latter vein we may, however, suppose him to have excelled; mixed up from an early age with politics and journalism; possessed of a lively imagination and great facility of expression; constantly in the world, and deeply interested in its movements; we can fancy his _vers de société_, of which so much is said, to have been piquant and sparkling. We subjoin a specimen, written upon Buonaparte’s expedition to Egypt:— Que de lauriers tombés dans l’eau, Et que de fortunes perdues! Que d’hommes courent au tombeau, Pour porter Bonaparte aux nues! Ce héros vaut son pesant d’or; En France, personne n’en doute; Mais il vaudrait bien plus encore, S’il valoit tout ce qu’il nous coute. * * * * * What laurels in the waters fall, What fortunes sink no more to rise! What men lie shrouded in death’s pall, That Bonaparte may gain the skies! This hero’s worth his weight in gold; In France of that there’s no one doubts; But greater far his worth, if sold At what he costs—or thereabouts!