themselves so recently beheld. The terrific descriptions of the poet, given with all the power of the most masterly declamation, approached, at moments, to the vividness of reality. Scarce a sentiment was uttered which did not find an echo in every bosom around me, and I could not refrain from praying, that in the theatres of my own country I should never be a witness to emotions derived from any kindred cause. Talma appeared to me, in his personation of Augustus, to aim at presenting some shadows of Bonaparte. Indeed there was a vehemence and abruptness in his acting, so little conformable with my own ideas of the character, that I was satisfied that he intended to pourtray the great product of the revolution. Talma afterwards mentioned that Cinna was the play which Bonaparte chiefly liked; and that one day, after witnessing its representation, he mentioned, that the depth and justice of the political reflections which every where occur in the writings of Corneille, had so much impressed him with admiration for the genius of the poet, that if he had been living in his time, he would have made him his prime minister. S.

LETTERS FROM TOURS.

NO. II.

MISS MARY BALL TO MISS JANE JINKINS.

DEAR Jane, we reach'd Paris as day-light was closing,
And its aspect, to use a French phrase, was imposing,
Its magnificent portals, majestic and wide,

Through which Temple-bar without stooping might ride→
Its houses of such Brobdignagian height

That they make Portland-place Lilliputian quite,—

Its spacious Boulevards with their vistas of green,

Flank'd with structures of stone that ennoble the scene→→→→
The Rue de la Paix, with the Tower at its end,

All of brass like the one in which Danae was penn'd,-
(This was made out of cannon, and Boney must pop
Himself, like the knob of a poker, at top;

But it's gone, and a little white flag met my eyes
That look'd like a kite in the shadowy skies),—

All these sights, quickly seen in succession, combined

To dazzle, delight, and astonish my mind.

We drove to Meurice's, and there should each thing go
That, to use Papa's phrase, cannot jabber the lingo,

For our language is spoken by all that you meet,

Nay, even the charges are English complete,

And beef and plum-pudding you get if you choose,

With young roasted-pig, which the French hate like Jews.
Next morning with Pa to the Louvre I flew,
The statues, and marbles, and sculptures to view.
La! Jenny, they 're quite indecorous: why, Madam,
They've not e'en the primitive wardrobe of Adam!
I didn't know which way to look; but in France
These matters are view'd with complete nonchalance;
And the ladies around me, like cool connoisseurs
Were raving in raptures on limbs and contours-
"O Dieu! que c'est beau! c'est superbe, magnifique !
Voilà ce que c'est que de suivre l'antique."

"There's the young piping Faun-hark, he 's going to warble,
Is it petrified nature, or animate marble?

Is this one of the stone-produced men of Deucalion?
That the vivified nymph of enamour'd Pygmalion ?"
Thus mounting the hobby Virtù, the fair prancers
Interrogate statues, though none of them answers;
Then hurry to criticise ice at Tortoni's,

Or the elephant actor that plays at Franconi's.

Colour'd gowns without sleeves are the promenade dress, Which to me has a servant-like look, I confess ;

Some wear an elaborate cap, but upon it

Not an atom of hat or iota of bonnet !

Then they lace down their waists, while the garment so scant is
That you see the hips working like lean Rozinantes ;

And 'tis painful to mark the unfortunate stout
Screwing every thing in that the hips may stick out.
Their legs, as our malaprop statesman once said,
"Form the capital feature in which they 're ahead"
Of us and of all from the Thames to the Po,

And the reason is plain-they are always on show;
For to walk on such horrible pavements as these

They must constantly hold up their clothes to the knees.—

I shall tell you, of course, all the lions I've seen,

And the places and wonders at which I have been ;
But as things of importance flow first to my pen,
You shall hear of my bonnet in Rue Vivienne.

The bonnets in fashion are sable as ink,
But there's nothing, to me, so becoming as pink;
And my visage would look, in black lining and borders,
Less feminine, Jenny, than Mr. Recorder's.

So I vow'd I would do my face justice, in spite

Of fashion and France, and not look like a fright.
The French I have learnt is what Chaucer, you know,
Says was taught to the scholars at Stratford-by-Bow,
But at Paris unknown-so I got a Precisian

To teach me the phrases and accent Parisian;
And in stating my wants I was cautious to close
With "Il faut qu'il soit doublé en couleur de rose."
I wish you had seen their indignant surprise,
The abhorrence they threw in their shoulders and eyes,
And the solemn abjurings each minx took upon her,
As if I had offer'd offence to her honour.
"Nous en avons en noir-mais O Ciel! O Dieu!
En rose!! Ah, vous n'aurez pas ça dans la rue.

Ce n'est pas distingué-c'est très mal-honnête,

C'est passé-c'est chassé"-Six weeks out of date!

Then they tried on their own, and exclaimed How becoming! "C'est charmant-distingué :"-I knew they were humming,

For I look'd just as sable, and solemn, or worse

Than the plume-bearing figure preceding a hearse.-
Would they put in a lining of pink, if I waited?
This point was in corners and whispers debated;

But granted, on pledge not to tell for they said, it
Might implicate deeply their à-la-mode credit.

And the price? "Soixante francs, quand c'est monté comme cela;
C'est toujours prix-fixé-nous ne marchandons pas."

I blush'd as I offer'd them forty; but they

Took the cash without blushing or once saying nay.

I think you'll allow me one merit, dear Jane,—
I'm the least of all women inclined to be vain ;
But this bonnet, I frankly confess, did enhance
The notion I had of myself-and of France.
The value I set on my beauty is small,

For the manner-the fashion's the thing, after all:
Thus in bonnets it isn't the feathers and lace,

So much as the smartness, gentility, grace,

That the wearer possesses;-now these, you'll acknowledge, I
May modestly claim without any apology;

And I offer you none for this lengthen'd report

On my bonnet, (the plume would be handsome at Court),

For I'm sure my dear Jenny would wish me to state

All that interests deeply my feelings and fate.

The scene where my purchase first made its début

I reserve for the next for the present adieu :

I meant to add more, but I hear Papa call,

So can only subscribe myself—Yours, Mary Ball.

P. S.

Pray, Jenny, don't quarrel with me, but the laws,

If I write on this flimsy and bibulous gauze ;

For were I to scribble on substance less taper,

They would charge double-postage, though one sheet of paper.
I think the Police has commanded it thin

For reading outside all the secrets within.

We left Chamounix by way of the sublime Alpine pass of the Téte Noire. We should have preferred passing over the mountain of the Col de Balme, but the weather was thick and cloudy, and all the attractions of the Col de Balme consist in its commanding prospect of the Alps around Mont Blanc, for the enjoyment of which a clear sky is indispensable. We had no reason to repent our choice; for the scene of wild magnificence presented by the Tête Noire, is certainly one of the most remarkable and the most interesting which Alpine scenery can afford. Nature appears here to luxuriate in savage grandeur: she has here achieved her masterpiece in the style of sombre magnificence; and the traveller may be said to sup full of all the horrors of the picturesque. Chamounix itself, with all its impending snows and glaciers, presents a picture of smiling beauty and graceful loveliness, in comparison with this dark glen of rocks, and precipices, and cataracts, funereal firs, inaccessible crags, and bottomless abysses

"Umbrarum hic locus est, somni, noctisque sopora."

and one has abundant reason to invoke with the poet" umbræ silentes," and all other deities of night and gloom, before attempting to describe these vales, on which the sun never shines, and where the rocks eter

nally echo the roar of the cataract. The valley, of which one side is bounded by the gigantic range of gloomy precipice, called the Tête Noire, is named Valorsine. In general, it is not half a mile in width. A few green pastures, studded with châlets and goatherds' cottages, lie deep sunk in the abyss, overhung on both sides by cliffs and wild precipices, rising rank above rank in gloomy grandeur, clothed with ranks of black firs, sometimes relieved by the lighter green foliage of the beech and larch. Here and there a bright cascade is seen, pouring its silvery and foaming stream down the rocks and amidst the foliage, till it finds its way into the furious torrent called the Eau Noire, which foams along the bottom of the glen. The village (as it is called) of Valorsine is situated in the middle of this valley, consisting of a few wooden châlets and huts inhabited by cowherds, and surrounded by pastures inclosed with rude stone walls. The people of Valorsine are said to be a remarkably fine race. I cannot say we saw any striking instances of beauty. They supplied us with some excellent milk, not served up by the "fraiches et discretes laitieres" of Rousseau: at least, the former charm was wanting-the latter, probably for that reason, might exist in high perfection. Our Chamounix guides (the ever-to-berespected François Simon and Vincent Payaud), who were most conscientious Ciceronis on all occasions, and never spared the legs of mules or men when a cascade or a point of view was within reach, insisted on our climbing about half a league up the sides of a mountain to admire a cascade, which they assured us, by way of recommendation, had so captivated Monsieur Canning, l'Ambassadeur Anglais, that he gave them five francs on condition that they should shew it to all his countrymen who passed that way. The cascade of Barberine we found to be a fine fall of turbulent foam, which any where else than in this land of cascades would have been well worth the soaking from the spray, which was the price our admiration cost us. From Valorsine we proceeded to Trient, by a path full of the most romantic beauties; at first, along the valley, following the sides of the torrent, which we crossed and recrossed several times by rude narrow wooden bridges, over which our mules stepped most dextrously. We then rapidly ascended a dangerous and wild path up the sides of the mountain of the Tête Noire, passing along the edge of continual precipices, and fir-covered rocks and heights beetling over our heads. In one of the wildest spots in this scene is an enormous mass of solid rock, half covered with brushwood, lichen, and moss, and which, to our surprise, was inclosed within neat new deal palisadoes. A long inscription announced that this rock was the fee-simple of Lord Guildford, who had purchased it of the Commune, and inclosed it, from a feeling of fondness for this romantic glen, through which he had passed on returning from Greece and Italy. We also heard it said, that his Lordship had endeavoured to purchase the little lake of Chêde, in Savoy, whose crystal face perpetually reflects the snows of Mont Blanc-curious instances of the pleasure conferred by the feeling of property in any object that is interesting, even though the full enjoyment of that object is in no degree rendered more easy or complete by the possession of the title-deeds. Lord Guildford's cosmopolitan feelings and locomotive habits are not less remarkable than his knowledge and attainments.

We arrived at the little cluster of huts and châlets, called Trient,

somewhat glad to escape from dizzy precipices and rocky glens, in passing which it was difficult to participate the sang froid of our guides and mules. Trient is situated in one of the wildest and most desolate scenes that can be conceived; and the châlets and their inhabitants almost equal, in uncouthness and wild simplicity, what one conceives of a tribe of Esquimaux or New Zealanders. Their provisions appeared not much of a superior description. Some sour wine, bad cheese, and potatoes, were all that the inn of the place afforded; which however we dispatched in a sort of cabin where we could scarcely stand upright, with a wooden window, which served for the bed-room and dwelling-room of the family. We presently remounted our mules, and wound by a steep and difficult path, over rocks and amidst brushwood, to the summit of the range of mountains called the Forclaz, which here incloses the valley of the Rhone, and separates the lower country of the Vallais from Savoy. On reaching the summit, a new scene opened upon us-bold shelving mountains, covered with alternate pastures and forests, gradually slope down to the valley of the Rhone, through which, at three leagues distance, the river was gliding in silvery and meandering brightness; while far beyond, the horizon was closed up by the rugged heights beyond Sion, sometimes frowning under a black burthen of clouds, and at others glittering forth in all their snowy splendour. Descending the mountain-path, we arrived in the Rhone valley, and presently found ourselves in the dirty and desolate town of Martigny-a place which concentrates a large portion of the filth, disease, and bigotry of the canton of Vallais, one of the most filthy, unwholesome, and bigoted countries of Europe.

The people have all an appearance of misery and stupidity; and dirt and wretchedness pervade every habitation. We were surprised, however, to find a smaller number of Goitres and Cretins than we had expected. Some still exist; but so many of these helpless wretches had perished in the revolutionary wars, that their number is very insignificant in comparison with what it was twenty years ago. Both Mr. Cox and Dr. Moore speak of Martigny as the head-quarters of this wretched calamity. We saw only a few hanging about the inns and the church, and endeavouring to attract the commisseration of travellers by a display of their infirmities. Many of them are deaf, dumb, and complete idiots. Some have a sort of inarticulate power of speech, and a very slender portion of intellect; and others appear to be only visited with the personal deformity of a tumour on the neck, and features slightly distorted, without any affection in speech, hearing, or common sense. In short, you meet in the valleys every gradation of this singular malady, from the most hideous objects of disease and imbecility to the gentle protuberance and roundness of neck, which is observable in the finest women in the Vallais, and indeed in Switzerland generally. The causes of this affliction have hitherto puzzled the investigation of naturalists. Saussure ascribes it to the relaxing tendency of the warm and stagnant air in these close Alpine valleys, of which the Vallais, where the disease is most found, is certainly the closest and worst ventilated. This singular valley, formed by the course of the Rhone, is not less than one hundred miles in length from its frontier on the canton of Uri to its junction with the Pays de Vaud; walled in on all sides by a magnificent chain of mountains,