nearest to us as Christians, and that doctrines which it was impossible for human reason to discover, or adequately to explain, are easy to receive, and to be believed on the authority of the written word of God. When we observe, that in the knowledge and prac tice of moral duties there is no mystery, that the charge for which Christ died was no question in morals, and that the difference in religion, which distinguishes us from Jews and other unbelievers, is not a moral difference, we may be sure that something besides moral duty is necessary to make us Christians, and to secure our salvation; and therefore that the most virtuous life does not supersede the necessity of a right faith. And when we are directed to prove all things, and to contend earnestly for the faith; and are moreover taught that without faith it is impossible to please God; we have at once a caution against the indifference which would persuade us that we have no concern with the mysterious doctrines of religion, as well as a motive to diligence in the study of the scriptures, that we may be made wise unto salvation; and may ac quire that steadiness of faith, and firmness of religious principle, which may enable us to please God in all our actions, and to glorify his holy name.

ART. VIII. Journal of a Tour and Residence in Great Britain, during the years 1810 and 1811: by a French Traveller. With remarks on the Country-its Arts, Literature, and Politics; and on the manners and customs of its Inhabitants. In Two Vols. Edinburgh, Constable and Co. 1815. WE predict that this book will become a favorite with literary loungers. It treats of a great variety of matter, and the style of it is rapid and easy. The author seems to have omitted no opportunity of acquiring information; and the circumstance of his being a foreigner, adds to his merit, as he writes, in general, in good English. He appears to be a very chatty, goodhumoured, versatile sort of gentleman-fond of seeing every thing he hears of, and of telling every thing he has seen; and all this with so little appearance of form or previous arrange ment, that an inquisitive person, in looking through his pages, will experience something like the gratification afforded to minds of a peculiar turn, on over-hearing a private conversation, or getting a peep at a confidential letter. He says of himself in his preface:

The writer of this journal has spent nearly two years in Great Britain, without any other object than that of seeing the country. He was born in France, and had resided more than twenty years in

the United States of America before he made this voyage. Το give the friends he had left in America the pleasure of following him upon the map,-of seeing and thinking with him,—and, in order to retain some traces of new objects, the remembrance of which would otherwise soon have faded on his memory, he sent, from the beginning, a journal of what he did and saw, faithfully and plainly recorded. Such a journal is like gathering fruit into a basket. If you attempt it only with your hands, when they are full, you drop what you have already, in endeavouring to get

more.

The journal was written in English, because the things and persons the traveller saw, were best described in the language of the country, which is become familiar to him by long habit. It was seen in England by a few friends, who read parts of it with interest, and for the first time in his life, the idea entered his mind of writing a book! He does not mean to throw any responsibility on his friends; none of them pressed him to publish; he did not yield to their solicitations; and he alone is answerable for the consequences, alarming as they may be. He was, indeed, encouraged by the consideration, that no travels in England, by a native of France, had come to his knowledge deserving of notice. M. Faujas de St. Fond gave all his attention to minerals; Madame Roland, Madame de Genlis, and Madame de Staël, have spoken incidentally of what they have seen in England, through the medium of their various prejudices, or for effect in works of imagination. In remoter times, the Chevalier Hamilton published only the chronique scandalease of a profligate court. Sully thought only of his embassy. Their present successor did not merely traverse England; he lived in it without business, and was not pressed for time. His wife, who is English, was with him; and he owes to her introduction a greater share of domestic intimacy than foreigners usually enjoy in England, or indeed in any country. His acquaintance with the language enabled him to observe with greater ease and accuracy than the generality of French tourists. In short, he might hope to do better what none had done well.

Private anecdotes have been excluded as much as possible. It is a great sacrifice; for they do not merely amuse the reader, but they initiate him into the peculiarities of national manners, and the mysteries of domestic life. They instruct without the form of instruction. You may give them to your friends: but it is an unpardonable indelicacy to make a public exhibition of those who have opened their doors to you, and shown you kindness.

We highly approve the feeling which dictated the preceding sentence, and are sorry that our limits do not allow us to give the whole of the preface, which is obviously written, not under the supposed necessity of saying something, but because the author really had something essential to say. The beginning of the journal is dated Dec. the 24th, 1809. The author tells us

about packets and custom-house officers, and says: " I overheard the head seizer asking the Captain, whether he preferred having his wine or his spirits seized; and the Captain seemed to take the proposal in very good part, and told me afterwards the man was very friendly to him." Of the women at Falmouth, he says, that they "move about with an elastic gait, on the light fantastic patten, making a universal clatter of iron upon the pavement." Fantastic is not exactly the word we should have chosen to designate that clumsy defence for the female foot, - which it is intended to describe.

Of the beautiful seat of Lord Mount Edgecumbe, we are presented with a long description, elucidated by a map and an elevation of "a small gothic ruin of modern erection." We are, however, told rather cavalierly, that "there is nothing done at Mount Edgecumbe, which agentleman of moderate fortune could not perform; and nature herself has been at no great expense of bold rocks or mountains; it is a lump of earth sloping to the water, more or less abruptly, but with great variety, and deeply indented with bays." When our author gets to Exeter, he is delighted with the chanting, or as he terms it, the chant in the cathedral, and assures us that "angels in heaven cannot sing better." Of the opportunities of comparative judgment between the celestial choristers, and those of the good city of Exon, which may have been afforded to our French-American friend, we are ignorant; and shall for the present rest satisfied with his assurance. He pronounces the Exchange at Bristol to be in excellent style;" and concerning the manner of living of the wealthy inhabitants of that city, he assures us, that "Lucullus dines with Lucullus every day." He terms the Hot-well" à harmless medical spring," Harmless and medical are two words which we are always happy to find in connection, but are inclined to doubt whether medicinal would not have conveyed his meaning better. He is quite in raptures with the cream-colored buildings of Bath. We fear, however, that the residents in that favorite city will not be much gratified to have it reported that "Bath is a sort of great monastery, inhabited by single people, particularly superannuated females. No trade, no manufactures, no occupations of any sort, except that of killing time, the most laborious of all." Our author at last arrives in London, and we must think him very fortunate in his morning perambulations through the streets of the metropolis, for he says, "I have heard no cries in the streets,-seen few beggars, -no obstructions or stoppages of carriages, each taking to the left."

The author shines in his observations on the comforts and, dis-comforts of society, and speaks of the loneliness of isolation in a crowd, with all the tact of a gentleman whose quickness of feeling and accuracy of moral perception entitle him to participate in select conversation. He says;

The letters we brought have not procured many useful or agreeable acquaintances; some of them have not been followed by the slightest act of politeness; and although we have to acknowledge the attentions of some persons, their number is very small, and we feel alone in the crowd. London is a giant: strangers can only reach his feet. Shut up in our apartments, well warmed and well lighted, and where we seem to want nothing but a little of that immense society in the midst of which we are suspended, but not mixed, we have full leisure to observe its outward aspect and general movements, and listen to the roar of its waves, breaking around us in measured time, like the tides of the ocean.

The detail of the author's views and opinions of the amusements, occupations, and accommodations of London, is exceedingly amusing; but we find ourselves obliged to pass by much matter, which will reward the attention of the reader of the work. Painting seems a favorite subject with the writer, many of his criticisms are in good taste, but some of his assertions rather bold. He does justice to the inimitable grace and truth of Sir Joshua Reynolds' designs; but exaggerates the reproach which has been cast upon the coloring of this great master, by coolly assuring us that "many of his pictures are now only black and white." From pictures, Monsieur (we wish he had indulged us with his name) makes a sudden digression to dinners, and after the names of Lawrence, Wilkie, Shee, &c. we find ourselves introduced to a bill of fare, or rather a ground-plan of a dinner à-la-mode at Mrs. Glasse's, and tantalized with "fish, oyster-sauce, fowls, soup, &c." An elaborate receipt for making a plum-pudding is generously given in a note; and to guard his readers against the calamitous error of the Frenchman, who served up to his expectant friends the boiled ingredients for his boudin anglais in a tureen, the author has been so kind as to specify that "the cloth is to be taken from it before serving." From English beef, and English pudding, nothing can be more natural than the transition to Mr. Whitbread; and the House of Comm ons supplies the subject of a considerable portion of the book. After politics we return to pictures, and then are introduced to the theatres. Some of our dramatic pieces and performers are very well criticised. Our author has a happy talent for working round from one subject to another. With

out the shock of a sudden transition, and immediately after finding him discussing the merits of "We fly by Night,” « Hit or Miss," Cooke and Mrs. Siddons, we perceive ourselves, we know not how or why, entangled with Gale Jones and Sir Francis Burdett, the wrongs of electors, and the rights of ministers. Among the fashionable follies of the day, the barouche-club is not omitted; and our author, who really draws well for an amateur, presents his readers with vignette represen tations of our stage coaches, and then we come back to Mrs. Siddons again. Deep thinkers may find some interest, but we fear not much consolation, in viewing the statement given of the national debt; and the depreciation of the currency of the country but readers of a more ordinary class will be much better pleased by the infinite variety of miscellaneous matter which is supplied by visits to Bury St. Edmond's, Salisbury, Chepstow, Tenby, Llangollen, &c. &c. From Chester and Liverpool, our tourist makes his way through the country of the Lake-poets to Scotland, where he observes, as many others have done before him, that the costume of the highlanders bears a close resemblance to the dress of the Roman soldiery; and is very angry that "the vulgar contrivance of hats and shoes" should "betray the northern barbarian." It does not betray them all. In the account of Edinburgh and its vicinity, we find all that we expected to find, and a great deal more. Our author cannot be accused of that frequent indulgence of moral feeling and metaphysical enquiry, which men of pleasure, and men of business are apt to call prosing; but as an occasional specimen of that nature, we select the following passage. "Close to Edinburgh, on the slope of Catton Hill, the tomb of Hume is shown, a sort of low tower which he himself built in his lifetime, to receive all that was to remain of his existence. L'immortalité,' says Villeterque, est le songe du dernier sommeil : on ne se reveille pas pour en jouir.' Fallacious as the sentiment of immortality may seem to some, they still desire that the remembrance of them should be preserved.

The sight of Loch Katrine, by aid of the poetry of Walter Scott, calls from our lively traveller some observations, which we will give to our readers, trusting, that the justness of the sentiment will excuse some trifling inelegance in the diction. His style is not always classical, but it is always intelligible, and, as a foreigner, he certainly does wonders; were it only in saying and admitting what follows.

True poets in France write in prose. First among them I should certainly, name Jean Jaques Rousseau, who wrote nothing