VII.

This moment blest as ye, Beneath his own home-trees, With friends and fellows girt around, Up springs the western breeze, Bringing the parting weather— Shall all depart together? Ah, no!—he goes a wretch alone upon the lonely seas.

VIII.

To him the mouldering tower— The pillar'd waste, to him A broken-hearted music make Until his eyelids swim. None heeds when he complaineth, Nor where that brow he leaneth A mother's lips shall bless no more sinking to slumber dim.

IX.

Winter shall wake to spring, And 'mid the fragrant grass The daffodil shall watch the rill Like Beauty by her glass But woe for him who pineth Where the clear water shineth, With no voice near to say—How sweet those April evenings pass!

X.

Then while through Nature's heart Love freshly burns again, Hither shall ye, plumed travellers, Come trooping o'er the main; The selfsame nook disclosing Its nest for your reposing That saw you revel years ago as you shall revel then.{C}

XI.

—Your human brother's lot! A few short years are gone— Back, back like you to early scenes— Lo! at the threshold-stone, Where ever in the gloaming Home's angels watch'd his coming, A stranger stands, and stares at him who sighing passes on.

XII.

Joy to the Travail-worn! Omnific purpose lies Even in his bale as in your bliss, Careerers of the skies! When sun and earth, that cherish'd Your tribes, with you have perish'd, A home is his where partings more shall never dim the eyes.

FOOTNOTES:

{A} "They all quit together; and fly for a time east or west, possibly in wait for stragglers not yet arrived from the interior—they then take directly to the south, and are soon lost sight of altogether for the allotted period of their absence. Their rapidity of flight is well known, and the 'murder-aiming eye' of the most experienced sportsman will seldom avail against the swallow; hence they themselves seldom fall a prey to the raptorial birds."—CUVIER, edited by Griffiths. Swallows are long-lived; they have been known to live a number of years in cages.

{B} In the fanciful language of Chateaubriand, "This daughter of a king (the swallow) still seems attached to grandeur; she passes the summer amid the ruins of Versailles, and the winter among those of Thebes."

{C} "However difficult to be credited, it seems to be ascertained beyond doubt, that the same pair which quitted their nest and the limited circle of their residence here, return to the very same nest again, and this for several successive years; in all probability for their whole lives"—Griffiths' CUVIER.



THE DILIGENCE.

A LEAF FROM A JOURNAL.

A diligence is as familiar to our countrymen as a stage-coach; and, as railroads flourish more amongst us than with our less commercial and enterprising neighbours, it is probable that, to many English travellers, it is even more familiar. There is no need, therefore, to describe the portentous vehicle. Suffice it to say, that, of the three compartments into which it is divided, I found myself lodged—not in the coupee which looks out in front, and which has the appearance of a narrow post-chaise that has been flattened and compressed in the effort to incorporate it with the rest of the machine—nor in the rotunde behind, where one rides omnibus-fashion—but in the central compartment, the interieur, which answers to the veritable old English stage-coach, and carries six. I was one of the central occupants of this central division; for I had not been so fortunate as to secure a corner seat. Now, for the convenience of the luckless person who occupies this position, there depends from the roof of the coach, and hangs just before his face, a broad leathern strap, with a loop through which he can, if so disposed, place his arms; and, when his arms are thus slung up, he can further rest his head upon them or upon the strap, and so seek repose. Whether he finds the repose he seeks, is another matter. One half of the traveller swings like a parrot on his perch, the other half jolts on stationary—jolts over the eternal stones which pave the roads in France. Perhaps there are who can go to roost in this fashion. And if it is recorded of any one that he ever slept in this state of demi-suspension—all swing above, all shake below—I should like very much to know, in the next place, what sort of dreams he had. Did he fancy himself a griffin, or huge dragon, beating the air with his wings, and at the same time trotting furiously upon the ground? Or, in order to picture out his sensations, was he compelled to divide himself into two several creatures, and be at once the captured and half-strangled goose, with all its feathers outstretched in the air, and the wicked fox who is running away with it, at full speed, upon its back? As to myself, in no vain expectation of slumber, but merely for the sake of change of position, I frequently slung my arms in this loop, and leaning my head against the broad leathern strap, I listened to the gossip of my fellow-travellers, if there was any conversation stirring; or, if all was still, gave myself up to meditations upon my own schemes and projects.

And here let me observe, that I have always found that a journey in a stage-coach is remarkably favourable to the production of good resolution and sage designs for the future; which I account for partly on the ground that they cannot, under such circumstances, demand to be carried into immediate execution, and therefore may be indulged in the more freely; and partly on this other ground, that one who has become a traveller has loosened himself from his old customary moorings, and so gives himself, as it were, a new starting-point in life, from which he may, if the spirit of delusion is still happily strong within him, draw a mathematically straight line in the given direction A B, to be the faithful index of his future career.

What a generous sample of humanity it is that a well filled diligence carries out of the gates of Paris! The mountain of luggage upon the roof, consisting of boxes of all shapes and sizes, does not contain in its numerous strata of stuffs, and implements, and garments, rags and fine linen, a greater variety of dead material, than does the threefold interior, with its complement of human beings, of living character and sentiment. As to the observation not unfrequently made, that Frenchmen have less variety of character than ourselves, it is one which seems to me to have little or no foundation. Something there doubtless is of national character, which pervades all classes and all classifications of men; and this colouring, seen diffused over the mass, makes us apprehend, at first view, that there is in the several parts a radical similarity which, in fact, does not exist. We have only to become a little more intimate with the men themselves, and this national colouring fades away; while the strong peculiarities resulting from social position, or individual temperament, stand out in sharp relief. And, in general, I will venture to say of national character—whatever people may be spoken of—that one may compare it to the colour which the sea bears at different times, or which different seas are said to be distinguished by: view the great surface at a distance, it is blue, or green, or grey; but take up a handful of the common element, and it is an undistinguishable portion of brackish water. It is French, or Flemish, or Spanish nature in the mass, and at a distance; looked at closer, and in the individual, there is little else than plain human nature to be seen.

But I did not open my journal to philosophize upon national character; but to record, while it is still fresh in my memory, some part of the conversation to which I was, as I travelled along, of necessity, and whether willingly or unwillingly, a listener. To the left of me the corner seats were occupied by two Englishmen—would it be possible to enter into a diligence without meeting at least two of our dear compatriots? They were both men in the prime of life, in the full flush of health, and apparently of wealth, who, from allusions which they dropt, could evidently boast of being of good family, and what follows of course—of having received an university education; and whom some one of our northern counties probably reckoned amongst its most famous fox-hunters. All which hindered not, but that they proved themselves to belong to that class of English travellers who scamper about the Continent like so many big, boisterous, presumptuous school-boys, much to the annoyance of every one who meets them, and to the especial vexation of their fellow-countrymen, who are not, in general, whatever may be said to the contrary, an offensive or conceited race, and are by no means pleased that the name of Englishmen should be made a by-word and a term of contempt. Opposite to me sat a Frenchman, of rather formal and grave demeanour, and dressed somewhat precisely. He was placed in a similar position in the diligence to myself; he had, however, curled up his leathern strap, and fastened it to the roof. Apparently he did not think the posture to which it invited one of sufficient dignity; for during the whole journey, and even when asleep, I observed that he maintained a certain becomingness of posture. Beside me, to the right, sat a little lively Frenchwoman, not very young, and opposite to her, and consequently in front also of myself, was another lady, a person of extreme interest, who at once riveted the eye, and set the imagination at work. She was so young, so pale, so beautiful, so sad, and withal so exceeding gentle in her demeanour, that an artist who wished to portray Our Lady in her virgin purity and celestial beauty, would have been ravished with the model. She had taken off her bonnet for the convenience of travelling, and her dark brown hair hung curled round her neck in the same simple fashion it must have done when she was a child. She was dressed in mourning, and this enhanced the pallor of her countenance; ill-health and sorrow were also evidently portrayed upon her features; but there was so much of lustre in the complexion, and so much of light and intelligence in the eye, that the sense of beauty predominated over all. You could not have wished her more cheerful than she was. Her face was a melody which you cannot quarrel with for being sad—which you could not desire to be otherwise than sad—whose very charm it is that it has made the tone of sorrow ineffably sweet.

Much I mused and conjectured what her history might be, and frequently I felt tempted to address myself in conversation to her; but still there was a tranquillity and repose in those long eyelashes which I feared to disturb. It was probable that she preferred her own reflections, melancholy as they might be, to any intercourse with others, and out of respect to this wish I remained silent. Not so, however, my fellow-traveller of her own sex, who, far from practising this forbearance, felt that she acted the kind and social part by engaging her in conversation. And so perhaps she did. For certainly, after some time, the beautiful and pensive girl became communicative, and I overheard the brief history of her sufferings, which I had felt so curious to know. It was indeed brief—it is not a three-volumed novel that one overhears in a stage-coach—but it had the charm of truth to recommend it. I had been lately reading Eugene Sue's romance, The Mysteries of Paris, and it gave an additional interest to remark, that the simple tale I was listening to from the lips of the living sufferer bore a resemblance to one of its most striking episodes.

The shades of evening were closing round us, and the rest of the passengers seemed to be preparing themselves for slumber, as, leaning forward on my leathern supporter, I listened to the low sweet voice of the young stranger.

"You are surprised," she said in answer to some remark made by her companion, "that one of our sex, so young and of so delicate health, should travel alone in the diligence; but I have no relative in Paris, and no friend on whose protection I could make a claim. I have lived there alone, or in something worse than solitude."

Her companion, with a woman's quickness of eye, glanced at the rich toilette of the speaker. It was mourning, but mourning of the most costly description.

"You think," she continued, replying to this glance, "that one whose toilette is costly ought not to be without friends; but mine has been for some time a singular condition. Wealth and a complete isolation from the world have been in my fate strangely combined. They married me"——

"What! are you a married woman and so young?" exclaimed the lady who was addressed.

"I have been; I am now a widow. It is for my husband that I wear this mourning. They took me from the convent where I was educated, and married me to a man whom I was permitted to see only once before the alliance was concluded. As I had been brought up with the idea that my father was to choose a husband for me, and as the Count D—— was both handsome and of agreeable manners, the only qualities on which I was supposed to have an opinion, there was no room for objection on my part. The marriage was speedily celebrated. My husband was wealthy. Of that my father had taken care to satisfy himself; perhaps it was the only point on which he was very solicitous. For I should tell you that my father, the only parent I have surviving, is one of those restless unquiet men who have no permanent abode, who delight in travelling from place to place, and who regard their children, if they have any, in the light only of cares and encumbrances. There is not a capital in Europe in which he has not resided, and scarcely a spot of any celebrity which he has not visited. It was therefore at the house of a maiden aunt—to whom I am now about to return—that I was married.

"I spent the first years of my marriage, as young brides I believe generally do, in a sort of trouble of felicity. I did not know how to be sufficiently thankful to Heaven for the treasure I found myself the possessor of; such a sweetness of temper and such a tenderness of affection did my husband continually manifest towards me. After a short season of festivity, spent at the house of my aunt, we travelled together without any other companion towards Paris, where the Count had a residence elegantly fitted up to receive us. The journey itself was a new source of delight to one who had been hitherto shut up, with her instructress, in a convent. Never shall I forget the hilarity, the almost insupportable joy, with which the first part of this journey was performed. The sun shone out upon a beautiful landscape, and there was I, travelling alone with the one individual who had suddenly awoke and possessed himself of all my affections—travelling, too, with gay anticipations to the glorious city of Paris, of which I had heard so much, and in which I was to appear with all the envied advantages of wealth.

"As we approached towards Paris, I noticed that my husband became more quiet and reserved. I attributed it to the fatigue of travelling, to which my own spirits began to succumb; and as the day was drawing to a close, I proposed, at the next stage we reached, that we should rest there, and resume our journey the next morning. But in an irritable and impetuous manner, of which I had never seen the least symptom before, he ordered fresh horses, and bade the postilion drive on with all the speed he could. Still as we travelled he grew more sullen, became restless, incommunicative, and muttered occasionally to himself. It was now night. Leaning back in the carriage, and fixing my eye upon the full moon that was shining brightly upon us, I tried to quiet my own spirit, somewhat ruffled by this unexpected behaviour of my husband. I observed, after a short time, that his eye also had become riveted on the same bright object; but not with any tranquillizing effect, for his countenance grew every minute more and more sombre. On a sudden he called aloud to the postilion to stop—threw open the carriage-door, and walked in a rapid pace down towards a river that for some time had accompanied our course. I sprang after him. I overtook, and grasped him as he was in the very act of plunging into the river. O my God! how I prayed, and wept, and struggled to prevent him from rushing into the stream. At length he sat down upon the bank of the river; he turned to me his wild and frenzied eye—he laughed—O Heaven! he was mad!

"They had married me to a madman. Cured, or presumed to be cured, of his disorder, he had been permitted to return to society; and now his malady had broken out again. He who was to be my guide and protector, who was my only support, who took the place of parent, friend, instructor—he was a lunatic!

"For three dreadful hours did I sit beside him on that bank—at night—with none to help me—restraining him by all means I could devise from renewed attempts to precipitate himself into the river. At last I succeeded in bringing him back to the carriage. For the rest of the journey he was quiet; but he was imbecile—his reason had deserted him.

"We arrived at his house in Paris. A domestic assisted me in conducting him to his chamber; and from that time I, the young wife, who the other morning had conceived herself the happiest of beings, was transformed into the keeper of a maniac—of a helpless or a raving lunatic. I wrote to my father. He was on the point of setting out upon one of his rambling expeditions, and contented himself with appealing to the relatives of my husband, who, he maintained, were the proper persons to take charge of the lunatic. They, on the other hand, left him to the care of the new relations he had formed by a marriage, which had interfered with their expectations and claims upon his property. Thus was I left alone—a stranger in this great city of Paris, which was to have welcomed me with all its splendours, and festivities, and its brilliant society—my sole task to soothe and control a maniac husband. It was frightful. Scarcely could I venture to sleep an hour together—night or day—lest he should commit some outrage upon himself or on me. My health is irretrievably ruined. I should have utterly sunk under it; but, by God's good providence, the malady of my husband took a new direction. It appeared to prey less upon the brain, and more upon other vital parts of the constitution. He wasted away and died. I indeed live; but I, too, have wasted away, body and soul, for I have no health and no joy within me."

Just at this time a low murmuring conversation between my two fellow-countrymen, at my left, broke out, much to my annoyance, into sudden exclamation.

"By God! sir," cried one of them, "I thrashed him in the Grande Place, right before the hotel there—what's its name?—the first hotel in Petersburg. Yes, I had told the lout of a postilion, who had grazed my britska against the curbstone of every corner we had turned, that if he did it again I would punish him; that is, I did not exactly tell him—for he understood no language but his miserable Russian, of which I could not speak a word—but I held out my fist in a significant manner, which neither man nor brute could mistake. Well, just as we turned into the Grande Place, the lubber grazed my wheel again. I jumped out of the carriage—I pulled him—boots and all—off his horse, and how I cuffed him! My friend Lord L—— was standing at the window of the hotel, looking out for my arrival, and was witness to this exploit. He was most dead with laughter when I came up to him."

"I once," said his interlocutor, "thrashed an English postilion after the same fashion; but your Russian, with his enormous boots, must have afforded capital sport. When I travel I always look out for fun. What else is the use of travelling? I and young B——, whom you may remember at Oxford, were at a ball together at Brussels, and what do you think we did? We strewed cayenne pepper on the floor, and no sooner did the girls begin to dance than they began incontinently to sneeze. Ladies and gentlemen were curtsying, and bowing, and sneezing to one another in the most ludicrous manner conceivable."

"Ha! ha! ha! Excellent! By the way," rejoined the other, "talking of Brussels, do you know who has the glory of that famous joke practised there upon the statues in the park? They give the credit of it to the English, but on what ground, except the celebrity they have acquired in such feats, I could never learn."

"I know nothing of it. What was it?"

"Why, you see, amongst the statues in the little park at Brussels are a number of those busts without arms or shoulders. I cannot call to mind their technical name. First you have the head of a man, then a sort of decorated pillar instead of a body, and then again, at the bottom of the pillar, there protrude a couple of naked feet. They look part pillar and part man, with a touch of the mummy. Now, it is impossible to contemplate such a figure without being struck with the idea, how completely at the mercy of every passer-by are both its nose—which has no hand to defend it—and its naked toes, which cannot possibly move from their fixed position. One may tweak the one, and tread upon the other, with such manifest impunity. Some one in whom this idea, no doubt, wrought very powerfully, took hammer and chisel, and shied off the noses and the great toes of several of these mummy-statues. And pitiful enough they looked next morning."

"Well, that was capital!"

"And the best of it is, that even now, when the noses have been put on again, the figures look as odd as if they had none at all. The join is so manifest, and speaks so plainly of past mutilation, that no one can give to these creatures, let them exist as long as they will, the credit of wearing their own noses. The jest is immortal."

The recital of this excellent piece of fun was followed by another explosion of laughter. The Frenchman who sat opposite to me—a man, as I have said, of grave but urbane deportment, became curious to know what it was that our neighbours had been conversing about, and which had occasioned so much hilarity. He very politely expressed this wish to me. If it was not an indiscretion, he should like to partake, he said, in the wit that was flowing round him; adding, perhaps superfluously, that he did not understand English.

"Monsieur, I am glad of it," I replied.

Monsieur, who concluded from my answer that I was in a similar predicament with respect to the French language, bowed and remained silent.

Here the conversation to my left ceased to flow, or subsided into its former murmuring channel, and I was again able to listen to my fair neighbours to the right. The lively dame who sat by my side had now the word; she was administering consolations and philosophy to the young widow.

"At your age health," said she, "is not irretrievable, and, sweet madam, your good looks are left you. A touch of rouge upon your cheek, and you are quite an angel. And then you are free—you will one day travel back again to Paris with a better escort than you had before."

And here she gave a sigh which prepared the hearer for the disclosure that was to follow.

"Now I," she continued, "have been married, but, alas! am not a widow. I have a husband standing out against me somewhere in the world. In the commercial language of my father, I wish I could cancel him."

"What! he has deserted you?" said her fair companion, in a sympathizing tone.

"You shall hear, my dear madam. My father, you must know, is a plain citizen. He did not charge himself with the task of looking out a husband for his girls; he followed what he called the English plan—let the girls look out for themselves, and contented himself with a veto upon the choice, if it should displease him. Now, Monsieur Lemaire was a perfect Adonis; he dressed, and danced, and talked to admiration; no man dressed, danced, or talked better; his mirth was inexhaustible—his good-humour unfailing."

Well, thought I to myself, what is coming now? This lady, at all events, chose with her own eyes, and had her own time to choose in. Is her experience to prove, that the chance of securing a good husband is much the same, let him be chosen how he may?

"No wonder, then," continued the lady, "that I accepted his proposal. The very thought of marrying him as paradise; and I did marry him."

"And so were really in paradise?" said the widow, with a gentle smile.

"Yes, yes! it was a paradise. It was a constant succession of amusements; theatre, balls, excursions—all enjoyed with the charming Lemaire. And he so happy, too! I thought he would have devoured me. We were verily in paradise for three months. At the end of which time he came one morning into the room swinging an empty purse in the air—'Now, I think,' said he with the same cheerful countenance that he usually wore, 'that I have proved my devotion to you in a remarkable manner. Another man would have thought it much if he had made some sacrifice to gain possession of you for life; I have spent every farthing I had in the world to possess you for three months. Oh, that those three months were to live over again! But every thing has its end.' And he tossed the empty purse in his hand.

"I laughed at what I considered a very pleasant jest; for who did not know that M. Lemaire was a man of ample property? I laughed still more heartily as he went on to say, that a coach stood at the door to take me back to my father, and begged me not to keep the coachman waiting, as in that case the fellow would charge for time, and it had taken his last sou to pay his fare by distance. I clapped my hands in applause of my excellent comedian. But, gracious Heavens! it was all true! There stood the coach at the door, the fare paid to my father's house, and an empty purse was literally all that I now had to participate with the gay, wealthy, accomplished Lemaire."

"What!" I exclaimed with rage and agony, as the truth broke upon me, "do you desert your wife?"

"Desert my charming wife!" he replied. "Ask the hungry pauper, who turns his back upon the fragrant restaurant, if he deserts his dinner. You are as beautiful, as bright, as lovely as ever—you cannot think with what a sigh I quit you!"

"But"——and I began a torrent of recrimination.

"'But,' said he, interrupting me, 'I have not a sou. For you,' he continued, 'you are as charming as ever—you will win your way only the better in the world for this little experience. And as for me—I have been in Elysium for three months; and that is more than a host of your excellent prudent men can boast of, who plod on day after day only that they may continue plodding to the end of their lives. Adieu! my adorable—my angel that will now vanish from my sight!' And here, in spite of my struggles, he embraced me with the greatest ardour, and then, tearing himself away as if he only were the sufferer, he rushed out of the room. I have never seen him since."

"And such men really exist!" said the young widow, moved to indignation. "For so short a season of pleasure he could deliberately compromise the whole of your future life."

"Is it not horrible? His father, it seems, had left him a certain sum of money, and this was the scheme he had devised to draw from it the greatest advantage. Mais, mon Dieu!" added the lively Frenchwoman, "of what avail to afflict one's-self? Only if he would but die before I am an old woman! And then those three months"——

Here the diligence suddenly stopped, and the conductor opening the door, invited us to step out and take some refreshment, and so put an end for the present to this medley conversation.



WHO WROTE GIL BLAS?

In the year 1783, Joseph Francisco De Isla, one of the most eminent of modern Spanish writers, published a Spanish translation of Gil Blas. In this work some events were suppressed, others altered, the diction was greatly modified, the topographical and chronological errors with which the French version abounded were allowed to remain, and the Spanish origin of that celebrated work was asserted on such slender grounds, and vindicated by such trifling arguments, as to throw considerable doubt on the fact in the opinion of all impartial judges. The French were not slow to seize upon so favourable an occasion to gratify their national vanity; and in 1818, M. le Comte Francois de Neufchateau, a member of the French Institute and an Ex-minister of the Interior, published a dissertation, in which, after a modest insinuation that the extraordinary merit of Gil Blas was a sufficient proof of its French origin, the feeble arguments of Padre Isla were triumphantly refuted, and the claims of Le Sage to the original conception of Gil Blas were asserted, to the complete satisfaction of all patriotic Frenchmen. Here the matter rested, till, in 1820, Don Juan Antonio Llorente drew up his reasons for holding the opinion of which Isla had been the unsuccessful advocate, and, with even punctilious courtesy, transmitted them before publication to M. Le Montey, by whose judgment in the matter he expressed his determination to abide. M. Le Montey referred the matter to two commissioners—one being M. Raynouard, a well-known and useful writer, the other M. Neufchateau, the author whom Llorente's work was intended to refute.

This literary commission seems to have produced as little benefit to the public as if each of the members had been chosen by a political party, had received a salary varying from L1500 to L2000 a-year, and been sent into Ireland to report upon the condition of the people, or into Canada to discover why French republicans dislike the institutions of a Saxon monarchy. To be sure, the advantage is on the side of the French academicians; for, instead of sending forth a mass of confused, contradictory, and ill-written reports, based upon imperfect evidence, and leading to no definite conclusion, the literary commission, as Llorente informs us, was silent altogether; whereupon Llorente attributing, not unnaturally, this preternatural silence on the part of the three French savans, to the impossibility of finding any thing to say, after the lapse of a year and a half publishes his arguments, and appeals to literary Europe as the judge "en dernier ressort" of this important controversy. Llorente, however, was too precipitate; for on the 8th of January 1822, M. de Neufchateau presented to the French Academy an answer to Llorente's observations, on which we shall presently remark.

It is maintained by the ingenious writer, Llorente—whose arguments, with such additions and remarks as have occurred to us upon the subject, we propose to lay before our readers,

1st, That Gil Blas and the Bachiller de Salamanca were originally one and the same romance.

2dly, That the author of this romance was at any rate a Spaniard.

3dly, That his name was Don Antonio de Solis y Ribadeneira, author of Historia de la Conquista de Mejico.

4thly, That Le Sage turned the single romance into two; repeating in both the same stories slightly modified, and mixing them up with other translations from Spanish novels.

As the main argument turns upon the originality of Le Sage considered as the author of Gil Blas, we shall first dispose in a very few words of the third proposition; and for this purpose we must beg our readers to take for granted, during a few moments, that Gil Blas was the work of a Spaniard, and to enquire, supposing that truth sufficiently established, who that Spaniard was.

Llorente enumerates thirty-six eminent writers who flourished in 1655, the period when, as we shall presently see, the romance in question was written. Of these Don Louis de Guevarra, author of the Diablo Cojuelo, Francisco de Santos, Jose Pellicer, and Solis, are among the most distinguished. Llorente, however, puts all aside—and all, except Pellicer perhaps, for very sufficient reasons—determining that Solis alone united all the attributes and circumstances belonging to the writer of Gil Blas. The writer of Gil Blas was a Castilian—this may be inferred from his panegyric on Castilian wit, which he declares equal to that of Athens; he must have been a dramatic writer, from his repeated criticisms on the drama, and the keenness with which he sifts the merit of contemporary dramatic authors; he must have been a great master of narrative, and thoroughly acquainted with the habits and institutions of his age and country; he must have possessed the art of enlivening his story with caustic allusions, and with repartees; he must have been perfectly conversant with the intrigues of courtiers, and have acquired from his own experience, or the relation of others, an intimate knowledge of the private life of Olivarez, and the details of Philip IV.'s court. All these requisites are united in Solis:—he was born at Alcala de Henares, a city of Castile; he was one of the best dramatic writers of his day, the day of Calderon de la Barca. That he was a great historical writer, is proved by his Conquista de Mejico; his comedies prove his thorough knowledge of Spanish habits; and the retorts and quiddities of his Graciosos flash with as much wit as any that were ever uttered by those brilliant and fantastic denizens of the Spanish stage. He was a courtier; he was secretary to Oropezo, viceroy successively of Navarre and of Valencia, and was afterwards promoted by Philip IV. to be "Oficial de la Secretaria" of the first minister Don Louis de Haro, and was allowed, as an especial mark of royal favour, to dispose of his place in favour of his relation. This happened about the year 1654—corresponding, as we shall see, exactly with the mission of the Marquis de Lionne. Afterwards he was appointed Cronista Mayor de las Indias, and wrote his famous history. These are the arguments in favour of Solis, which cannot be offered in behalf of any of his thirty-six competitors. It is therefore the opinion of Llorente that the honour of being the author of Gil Blas is due to him; and in this opinion, supposing the fact which we now proceed to investigate, that a Spaniard, and not Le Sage, was the author of the work, is made out to their satisfaction, our readers will probably acquiesce.

The steps by which the argument that Gil Blas is taken from a Spanish manuscript proceeds, are few and direct. It abounds in facts and allusions which none but a Spaniard could know: this is the first step. It abounds in errors that no Spaniard could make—(by the way, this is much insisted upon by M. de Neufchateau, who does not seem to perceive that, taken together with the preceding proposition, it is fatal to his argument:) this is the second step, and leads us to the conclusion that the true theory of its origin must reconcile these apparent contradictions.

A Spanish manuscript does account for this inconsistency, as it would furnish the transcriber with the most intimate knowledge of local habits, names, and usages; while at the same time it would not guard him against mistakes which negligence or haste, or the difficulty of deciphering a manuscript in a language with which the transcriber was by no means critically acquainted, must occasion. Still less would it guard him against errors which would almost inevitably arise from the insertion of other Spanish novels, or the endeavour to give the work a false claim to originality, by alluding to topics fashionable in the city and age when the work was copied.

The method we propose to follow, is to place before the reader each division of the argument. We shall show a most intimate knowledge with Spanish life, clearly proving that the writer, whoever he is, is unconscious of any merit in painting scenes with which he was habitually familiar. Let any reader compare the facility of these unstudied allusions with the descriptions of a different age or time, even by the best writers of a different epoch and country, however accurate and dramatic they may be—with Quentin Durward or Ivanhoe, for instance; or with Barante's Histoire des Ducs de Bourgogne, and they will see the force of this remark. In spite of art, and ability, and antiquarian knowledge, it is evident that a resemblance is industriously sought in one case, and is spontaneous in the other; that it is looked upon as a matter of course, and not as a title to praise, by the first class of writers, while it is elaborately wrought out, as an artist's pretension to eminence, in the second. If Le Sage had been the original author of Gil Blas, he would have avoided the multiplication of circumstances, names, and dates; or if he had thought it necessary to intersperse his composition with them, he would have contented himself with such as were most general and notorious; the minute, circuitous, and oblique allusions, which it required patient examination to detect, and vast local knowledge to appreciate, could not have fallen within his plan.

Secondly—We shall point out the mistakes, some of them really surprising even in a foreign writer, with regard to names, dates, and circumstances, oversetting every congruity which it was manifestly Le Sage's object to establish. We shall show that the Spanish novels inserted by him do not mix with the body of the work; and moreover we shall show that in one instance, where Le Sage hazarded an allusion to Parisian gossip, he betrayed the most profound ignorance of those very customs which, in other parts of the work passing under his name, are delineated with such truth of colouring, and Dutch minuteness of observation.

If these two propositions be clearly established, we have a right to infer from them the existence of a Spanish manuscript, as on any other hypothesis the claims of an original writer would be clashing and contradictory.

M. Neufchateau, as we have observed, reiterates the assertion that the errors of Gil Blas are such as no Spaniard could commit, leaving altogether unguarded against the goring horn of the dilemma which can only be parried by an answer to the question—how came it to pass that Le Sage could enumerate the names of upwards of twenty inconsiderable towns and villages, upwards of twenty families not of the first class; and in every page of his work represent, with the most punctilious fidelity, the manners of a country he never saw? Nay, how came it to pass that, instead of avoiding minute details, local circumstances, and the mention of particular facts, as he might easily have done, he accumulates all these opportunities of mistake and contradiction, descends to the most trifling facts, and interweaves them with the web of his narrative (conscious of ignorance, as, according to M. Neufchateau, he must have been) without effort and without design.

Let us begin by laying before the readers the pieces du proces. First, we insert the description of Le Sage given by two French writers.

"Voici ce que disoit Voltaire a l'article de Le Sage, dans la premiere edition du Siecle de Louis XIV.:—

"'Son roman de Gil Blas est demeure, parcequ'il y a du naturel.'

"Dans les editions suivantes du Siecle de Louis XIV., Voltaire ajoute un fait qu'il se contente d'enoncer simplement, comme une chose hors de doute; c'est que Gil Blas est pris entierement d'un livre ecrit en Espagnol, et dont il cite ainsi le titre—La vidad de lo Escudero Dom Marco d'Obrego—sans indiquer aucunement la date, l'auteur, ni l'objet de cette vie de l'ecuyer Dom Marco d'Obrego."

"Extrait du Nouveau Porte-feuille historique, poetique, et litteraire de Bruzen de La Martiniere.

"'Baillet n'entendoit pas l'Espagnol. Au sujet de Louis Veles de Guevarra, auteur Espagnol, dans ses jugements des savants sur les poetes modernes, Sec. 1461, il dit: On a de lui plusieurs comedies qui ont ete imprimees en diverses villes d'Espagne, et une piece facetieuse, sous le titre El Diabolo Cojuelo, novella de la otra vida: sur quoi M. de La Monnoye fait cette note. Comment un homme qui fait tant le modeste et le reserve a-t-il pu ecrire un mot tel que celui-la? Cette note n'est pas juste. Il semble que M. de La Monnoye veuille taxer Baillet de n'avoir pas sontenu le caractere de modestie, qu'il affectoit. Baillet ne faisoit pas le modeste, il l'etoit veritablement par etat et par principe; et s'il eut entendu le mot immodeste, ce mot lui auroit ete suspect; il eut eu recours a l'original, ou il auroit trouve Diablo, et non Diabolo, Cojuelo et non Cojudo, et auroit bien vite corrige la faute. Mais comme il n'entendoit ni l'un ni l'autre de ces derniers mots, il lui fut aise, en copiant ses extraits, de prendre un el pour un d, et de changer par cette legere difference Cojuelo, qui veut dire boiteux, en Cojudo, qui signifie quelqu'un qui a de gros testicules, et sobrino l'exprime encore plus grossierement en Francois. M. de La Monnoye devoit moins s'arreter a l'immodestie de l'epithete, qu'a la corruption du vrai titre le Guevarra."

"Au reste, c'est le meme ouvrage que M. La Sage nous a fait connoitre sous le titre du Diable Boiteux; il l'a tourne, a sa maniere, mais avec des differences si grandes que Guevarra ne se reconnoitroit qu'a peine dans cette pretendue traduction. Par exemple, le chapitre xix de la seconde partie contient une aventure de D. Pablas, qui se trouve en original dans un livre imprime a Madrid en 1729, (sic.) L'auteur des lectures amusantes, qui ne s'est pas souvenu que M. Le Sage, en avoit insere une partie dans son Diable Boiteux, l'a traduite de nouveau avec assez de liberte, mais pourtant en s'ecartant moins de l'original, et l'a inseree dans sa premiere partie a peu pres telle qu'elle se lit dans l'original Espagnol. Mais M. Le Sage l'a traitee avec de grands changements, c'est sa maniere d'embellir extremement tout ce qu'il emprunte des Espagnols. C'est ainsi qu'il en a use envers Gil Blas, dont il a fait un chef-d'oeuvre inimitable."—(Pages 336-339, edition de 1757, dans les Passetemps Politiques, Historiques, et Critiques, tome 11, in 12.)

As an example of the accuracy with which Le Sage has imitated his originals, we quote the annexed passages from Marcos de Obregon—Page 3.

"En leyendo el villete, dixo al que le traia: Dezilde a vuestro amo, que di goyo, que para cosas, que me inportan mucho gusto no me suelo leuantar hasta las doze del dia: que porque quiere, que pare matarme me leuante tan demanana? y boluiendose del otro lado, se torno a dormir."

"Don Mathias prit le billet, l'ouvrit, et, apres l'avoir lu, dit an valet de Don Lope. 'Mon enfant, je ne me leverois jamais avant midi, quelque partie de plaisir qu'on me put proposer; juge si je me leverai a six heures du matin pour me battre. Tu peux dire a ton maitre que, s'il est encore a midi et demi dans l'endroit ou il m'attend, nous nous y verons: va, lui porter cette reponse.' A ces mots il s'enfonca dans son lit, et ne tarda guere a se rendormir."

"No quereys que sieta ofensa hecha a un corderillo, como este? a una paloma sin hiel, a un mocito tan humilde, y apazible que, aun quexarse no sabe de una cosa tan mal hecha? cierto y quisiera ser hombre en este punto para vegarle."

"'Pourquoi,' s'ecria-t-elle avec emportement—pourquoi ne voulez-vous pas que je ressente vivement l'offense qu'on a fait a ce petit agneau, a cette colombe sans fiel, qui ne se plaint seulement pas de l'outrage qu'il a recu? Ah! que ne suis-je homme en ce moment pour le venger!"

After this we think we are fairly entitled to affirm, that Le Sage was not considered by his contemporaries as a man of original and creative genius; although he possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of appropriating and embellishing the works of others, that his style was graceful, his allusions happy, and his wit keen and spontaneous. If any one assert that this is to underrate Le Sage, and that he is entitled to the credit of an inventor, let him cite any single work written by Le Sage, except Gil Blas, in proof of his assertion. Of course Gil Blas is out of the question. Nothing could be more circular than an argument that Le Sage, because he possessed an inventive genius, might have written Gil Blas; and that because he might have written Gil Blas, he possessed an inventive genius. This being the case, let us examine his biography. Le Sage was born in 1668 at Sargan, a small town near Vannes in Bretagne; at twenty-seven he published a translation of Aristoenaetus; and declining, from his love of literature, the hopes of advancement, which, had he taken orders, were within his reach, he came to Paris, where he contracted an intimate friendship with the Abbe de Lyonne, who settled a pension on him, taught him Spanish, and bequeathed to him his library—consisting, among other works, of several Spanish manuscripts—at his death. His generous benefactor was the third son of Hugo, Marquis de Lyonne, one of the most accomplished and intelligent men in France. In 1656 he was set on a secret mission to Madrid; the object of this mission was soon discovered in the peace of the Pyrenees 1650, and the marriage of Maria Theresa of Austria, eldest daughter of Philip IV., with Louis XIV. During his residence in Spain the Marquis de Lyonne lived in great intimacy with Louis de Haro, Duke of Montoro. The Marquis de Lyonne was passionately fond of Spanish literature; he not only purchased all the printed Spanish works he could procure, but a vast quantity of unprinted manuscripts in the same language, all which, together with the rest of his library, became at his death the property of his son, the Abbe de Lyonne—the friend, patron, and testator of Le Sage. To these facts must be added another very important circumstance, that Le Sage never entered Spain. Of this fact, fatal as it is to Le Sage's claims, Padre Isla was ignorant; but it is stated with an air of triumph by M. Neufchateau, is proved by Llorente, and must be considered incontestable. The case, then, as far as external evidence is concerned, stands thus. Le Sage, a master of his own language, but not an inventive writer, and who had never visited Spain, contracts a friendship which gives him at first the opportunity of perusing, and afterwards the absolute possession of, a number of Spanish manuscripts. Having published several elegant paraphrases and translations of printed Spanish works, he published Gil Blas in several volumes, at long intervals, as an original work; after this, he published the Bachelier de Salamanque, which he calls himself a translation from a Spanish manuscript, of which he never produces the original. Did the matter rest here, much suspicion would be thrown upon Le Sage's claims to the authorship of Gil Blas; but we come now to the evidence arising, "ex visceribus causae," from the work itself, and the manner of its publication.

The chief points of resemblance between Gil Blas and the Bachelier de Salamanque, are the following:—

1. The Bachelier de Salamanque is remarkable for his logical subtilty—so is Gil Blas.

2. The doctor of Salamanque, by whom the bachelor is supported after his father's death, is avaricious—so is Gil Blas's uncle, the canon of Oviedo, Gil Perez.

3. The doctor recommends the bachelor of Salamanca to obtain a situation as tutor—the canon gives similar advice to Gil Blas.

4. The bachelor is dissuaded from becoming a tutor—Fabricio dissuades Gil Blas from taking the same situation.

5. A friar of Madrid makes it his business to find vacant places for tutors—a friar of Cordova, in Gil Blas, does the same.

6. The bachelor is obliged to leave Madrid because he is the favoured lover of Donna Lucia de Padilla—Gil Blas is obliged to leave the Marquise de Chaves for the same reason.

7. Bartolome, the comedian, encourages his wife's intrigues—Melchier Zapata does the same.

8. The lover of Donna Francisca, in Granada, is a foreign nobleman kept there by important business—the situation of the Marquis de Marialva is the same.

9. The comedian abandons an old and liberal lover, for Fonseca, who is young and poor—Laura prefers Louis de Alaga to his rival, for the same reason.

10. Bartolome, to deceive Francisca, assumes the name of Don Pompeio de la Cueva—to deceive Laura, Gil Blas pretends to be Don Fernando de Ribera.

11. Le Bachelier contains repeated allusions to Dominican friars, and particularly to Cirilo Carambola—similar allusions abound in Gil Blas, where Louis de Aliaga, confessor of Philip III., is particularly mentioned.

12. The character of Diego Cintillo, in the Bachelier de Salamanque, is identical with that of Manuel Ordonez in Gil Blas.

13. An aunt of the Duke of Uzeda obtains for the bachelor the place of secretary in the minister's office—Gil Blas obtains the same post by means of an uncle of the Count of Olivarez.

14. The bachelor, whilst secretary at Uzeda, assists in bringing about his patron's daughter's marriage—Gil Blas does the same whilst secretary of the Duke of Olivarez.

15. Francisca, the actress, is shut up in a convent at Carthagena, because the corregidor's son falls in love with her—Laura, in Gil Blas, is shut up in a convent, because the corregidor's only son falls in love with her.

16. The adventures of Francisca and Laura resemble each other.

17. So do those of Toston and Scipio.

18. Toston and Scipio both lose their wives; and both disbelieve in reality, though they think proper to accept, the excuses they make on their return.

19. Finally, in Gil Blas we find a vivid description of the habits and manners prevalent in the European dominions of Spain during the reigns of Philip III. and Philip IV. But in no part of Gil Blas do we find any allusion to the habits and manners of the viceroy's canons, nuns, and monks of America; and yet Scipio is dispatched with a lucrative commission to New Spain. It may fairly be inferred, therefore, that so vast a portion of the Spanish monarchy did not escape the notice of the attentive critic who wrote Gil Blas; and the silence can only be accounted for by the fact, that the principal anecdotes relating to America, were reserved to make out the Bachelier de Salamanque, from the remainder of which Gil Blas was taken.

Now, the dates of Gil Blas and the Bachelier de Salamanque were these:—the two first volumes of Gil Blas were published in 1715, the third volume in 1724, which, it is clear, he intended to be the last. First, from the Latin verses with which it closes; and secondly, from the remark of the anachronism of Don Pompeyo de Castro, which he promises to correct if his work gets to a new edition. In 1735 he published a fourth volume of Gil Blas, and, in 1738, the two volumes of the Bachelier de Salamanque as a translation. Will it be said that Le Sage's other works prove him to have been capable of inventing Gil Blas? It will be still without foundation. All his critics agree, that, though well qualified to embellish the ideas of others, and master of a flowing and agreeable style, he was not an inventive or original writer. Such is the language of Voltaire, M. de la Martiniere, and of Chardin, and even of M. Neufchateau himself; and yet, it is to a person of this description that the authorship of Gil Blas, second only to Don Quixote in prose works of fiction, has been attributed.

Among the topics insisted upon by the Comte de Neufchateau as most clearly establishing the French origin of Gil Blas, an intimate acquaintance with the court of Louis XIV., and frequent allusions to the most remarkable characters in it, are very conspicuous. But to him who really endeavours to discover the country of an anonymous writer, such an argument, unless reduced to very minute details, and contracted into a very narrow compass, will not appear satisfactory. He will recollect that the extremes of society are very uniform, that courts resemble each other as well as prisons; and that, as was once observed, if King Christophe's courtiers were examined, the great features of their character would be found to correspond with those of their whiter brethren in Europe. The abuses of government, the wrong distribution of patronage, the effects of clandestine influence, the solicitations and intrigues of male and female favourites, the treachery of confidants, the petty jealousies and insignificant struggles of place-hunters, are the same, or nearly so, in every country; and it requires no great acuteness to detect, or courage to expose, their consequences—the name of Choiseul, or Uzeda, or Buckingham, or Bruhl, or Kaunitz, may be applied to such descriptions with equal probability and equal justice. But when the Tiers Etat are portrayed, when the satirist enters into detail, when he enumerates circumstances, when local manners, national habits, and individual peculiarities fall under his notice; when he describes the specific disease engendered in the atmosphere by which his characters are surrounded; when, to borrow a lawyer's phrase, he condescends to particulars, then it is that close and intimate acquaintance with the scenes and persons he describes is requisite; and that a superficial critic falls, at every step into errors the most glaring and ridiculous. There are many passages of this description in Gil Blas to which we shall presently allude; in the mean time let us follow the advice of Count Hamilton, and begin with the beginning—

"Me voila donc hors d'Oviedo, sur le chemin de Penaflor, au milieu de la campagne, maitre de mes actions, d'une mauvaise mule, et de quarante bons ducats, sans compter quelques reaux que j'avois voles a mon tres-honore oncle.

"La premiere chose que je fis, fut de laisser ma mule aller a discretion, c'est-a-dire au petit pas. Je lui mis la bride sur le cou, et, tirant mes ducats de ma poche, je commencai a les compter et recompter dans mon chapeau. Je n'etois pas maitre de ma joie; je n'avois jamais vu tant d'argent; je ne pouvois me lasser de le regarder et de le manier. Je la comptois peut-etre pour la vingtieme fois, quand tout-a-coup ma mule, levant la tete et les oreilles, s'arreta au milieu du grand chemin. Je jugeai que quelque chose l'effrayoit; je regardai ce que ce pouvoit etre. J'apercus sur la terre un chapeau renverse sur lequel il y avoit un rosaire a gros grains, et en meme temps j'entendis une voix lamentable qui prononca ces paroles: Seigneur passant, ayez pitie, de grace, d'un pauvre soldat estropie: jetez, s'il vous plait, quelques pieces d'argent dans ce chapeau; vous en serez recompense dans l'autre monde. Je tournai aussitot les yeux du cote d'ou partoit la voix. Je vis au pied d'un buisson, a vingt ou trente pas de moi, une espece de soldat qui, sur deux batons croises, appuyoit le bout d'une escopette, qui me parut plus longue qu'une pique, et avec laquelle il me couchoit en joue. A cette vue, qui me fit trembler pour le bien de l'eglise, je m'arretai tout court; je serrai promptement mes ducats; je tirai quelques reaux, et, m'approchant du chapeau, dispose a recevoir la charite des fideles effrayes, je les jetai dedans l'un apres l'autre, pour montrer au soldat que j'en usois noblement. Il fut satisfait de ma generosite, et me donna autant de benedictions que je donnia de coups de pieds dans les flancs de ma mule, pour m'eloigner promptement de lui; mais la maudite bete, trompant mon impatience, n'en alla pas plus vite; la longue habitude qu'elle avoit de marcher pas a pas sous mon oncle lui avoit fait perdre l'usage du galop."

In France, the custom of travelling on mules was unknown, so was the coin ducats, so was that of begging with a rosary, and of extorting money in the manner in which Gil Blas describes. In fact, the "useful magnificence," as Mr Burke terms it, of the spacious roads in France, and the traffic carried on upon them, would render such a manner of robbing impossible. How then could Le Sage, who had never set his foot in Spain, hit upon so accurate a description? Again, Rolando explains to Gil Blas the origin of the subterraneous passages, to which an allusion is also made by Raphael; now such are in France utterly unknown.

Rolando, giving an account of his proceedings, says, that his grandfather, who could only "dire son rosaire," "rezar su rosario." This is as foreign to the habits of a "vieux militaire Francois," as any thing that can be imagined; and, on the other hand, exactly conformable to those of a Spanish veteran:—

"Nous demeurames dans le bois la plus grande partie de la journee, sans apercevoir aucun voyageur qui put payer pour le religieux. Enfin nous en sortimes pour retourner an souterrain, bornant nos exploits a ce risible evenement, qui faisoit encore le sujet de notre entretien, lorsque nous decouvrimes de loin un carrosse a quatre mules. Il venoit a nous au grand trot, et il etoit accompagne de trois hommes a cheval qui nous parurent bien armes."

In this statement are many circumstances irreconcilable with French habits. 1st, A whole day passing without meeting a traveller on the high-road of Leon, an event common enough in Spain, but in France almost impossible; 2d, the escort of the coach, a common precaution of the Spanish ladies against violence—the fact that the coach is drawn by mules, not horses, of which national trait six other instances may be found in the same story:—

"Plusieurs personnes me voulurent voir par curiosite. Ils venoient l'un apres l'autre se presenter a une petite fenetre par ou le jour entroit dans ma prison; et lorsqu'ils m'avoient considere quelque temps, ils s'en alloient. Je fus surpris de cette nouveaute: depuis que j'etois prisonnier, je n'avois pas vu un seul homme se montrer a cette fenetre, qui donnoit sur une cour ou regnoient le silence et l'horreur. Je compris par la que je faisois du bruit dans la ville, mais je ne savois si j'en devois concevoir un bon ou mauvais presage." ... "La dessus le juge se retira, en disant qu'il alloit ordonner au concierge de m'ouvrir les portes. En effet, un moment apres, le geolier vint dans mon cachot avec un de ses guichetiers qui portoit un paquet de toile. Ils m'oterent tous deux, d'un air grave et sans me dire un seul mot, mon pourpoint et mon haut-de-chausses, qui etoit d'un drap fin et presque neuf; puis, m'ayant revetu d'une vieille souquenille, ils me mirent dehors par les epaules."

This is an exact description of the manner in which prisoners were treated in Spain, but bears not the slightest resemblance to any abuse that prevailed at that time in France:—

"Une fille de dix ans, que la gouvernante faisoit passer pour sa niece, en depit de la medisance, vint ouvrir; et comme nous lui demandions si l'on pouvoit parler au chanoine, la dame Jacinte parut. C'etoit une personne deja parvenue a l'age de discretion, mais belle encore; et j'admirai particulierement la fraicheur de son teint. Elle portoit une longue robe d'un etoffe de laine la plus commune, avec une large ceinture de cuir, d'ou pendoit d un cote un trousseau de clefs, et de l'autre un chapelet a gros grains"—"Rosario de cuentas gordas."—Lib. II. c. 1.

This is an exact description of a class of women well known in Spain by the name Beata, but utterly unknown in France till the Soeurs de Charite were instituted:—

"Pendant qu'ils etoient ensemble j'entendis sonner midi. Comme je savois que les secretaires et les commis quittoient a cette heure la leurs bureaux, pour aller diner ou il leur plaisoit, je laissai la mon chef-d'oeuvre, et sortis pour me rendre, non chez Monteser, parcequ'il m'avoit paye mes appointemens, et que j'avois pris conge de lui, mais chez le plus fameux traiteur du quartier de la cour."-Lib. III.

During the reign of Philip III. and Philip IV., and even till the time of Charles IV., twelve was the common hour of dinner, and all the public offices were closed: this is very unlike the state of things in Paris during the reign of Louis XV., when this romance was published.

In Spain, owing in part to the hospitality natural to unsettled times and a simple people, in part to the few strangers who visited the Peninsula, inns were for a long time almost unknown, and the occupation of an innkeeper, who sold what his countrymen were delighted to give, was considered degrading: so dishonourable indeed was it looked upon, that where an executioner could not be found to carry the sentence of the law into effect upon a criminal, the innkeeper was compelled to perform his functions: therefore the innkeepers, like usurers and other persons, who follow a pursuit hostile to public opinion, were profligate and rapacious. Don Quixote teems with instances to this effect; and there are other allusions to the same circumstance in Gil Blas. It must be observed that if M. Le Sage stumbled by accident upon so great a peculiarity, he was fortunate; and if it was suggested to him by his own enquiries, they were more profound in this than in most other instances. The Barber, describing his visit to his uncle's, (1, 2, 7,) mentions the narrow staircase by which he ascended to his relation's abode. Here, again, is a proof of an intimate acquaintance with the structure of the hotels of the Spanish grandees: in all of them are to be found a large and spacious staircase leading to the apartments of the master, and a small one leading to those of his dependents. So the hotel in which Fabricio lives, (3, 7, 13,) and that inhabited by Count Olivarez, are severally described as possessing this appurtenance. It is singular that Le Sage, who seems to have been almost as fond of Paris as Socrates was of Athens, should have picked up this intimate knowledge of the hotels of Madrid. The knowledge of music and habit of playing upon the guitar in the front of their houses, is another stroke of Spanish manners which no Frenchman is likely to have thought of adding to his work (1, 2, 7.) Marcelina puts on her mantle to go to mass. This custom prevailed in Spain till the sceptre passed to the Bourbons—in many towns till the time of Charles III., and in small villages till the reign of Charles IV. Gil Blas joins a muleteer, (1, 3, 1,) with four mules which had transported merchandise to Valladolid—this method of carrying goods is not known in France. The same observation applies to 3, 3, 7. Rolando informs Gil Blas, (1, 3, 2,) "Lorsqu'il eut parle de cette sorte, il nous fit enfermer dans un cachot, ou il ne laissa pas languir mes compagnons; ils en sortirent au bout de trois jours pour aller jouer un role tragique dans la grande place."

This exactly corresponds with the Spanish custom, which was to allow prisoners, capitally convicted, three days to prepare for a Christian death. Rolando continues, "Oh! je regrette mon premier metier, j'avoue qu'il y a plus de surete dans le nouveau; mais il y a plus d'agrement dans l'autre, et j'aime la liberte. J'ai bien la mine de me defaire de ma charge, et de partir un beau matin pour aller gagner les montagnes qui sont aux sources du Tage. Je sais qu'il y a dans cet endroit une retraite habitee par une troupe nombreuse, et remplie de sujets Catalans: c'est faire son eloge en un mot. Si tu veux m'accompagner, nous irons grosser le nombre de ces grands hommes. Je serai dans leur compagnie capitaine en second; et pour t'y faire recevoir avec agrement, j'assurerai que je t'ai vu dix fois combattre a mes cotes."

The chain of mountains of Cuenca Requena Aragon y Abaracin, in which the Tagus rises, does contain such excavations as Rolando employed for such purposes as Rolando mentions, (1, 3, 11.) The grace of Carlos Alfonso de la Ventolera in managing his cloak, was an Andalusian accomplishment, and an accomplishment which ceased to prevail when the Bourbons entered Spain. It could not have been applied to describe a Castilian, as it was confined to the inhabitants of Murcia, Andalusia, Valencia, and la Mancha. How could Le Sage have known this? When the Count Azumar dines with Don Gonzalo Pacheco, the conversation turns on bull-fights, (2, 4, 7.)

"Leur conversation roula d'abord sur une course de taureaux qui s'etoit faite depuis peu de jours. Ils parlerent des cavaliers qui y avoient montre le plus d'adresse et de vigueur; et la-dessus le vieux comte, tel que Nestor, a qui toutes les choses presentes donnoient occasion de louer les choses passees, dit en soupirant—Helas! je ne vois point aujourd'hui d'hommes comparables a ceux que j'ai vus autrefois, ni les tournois ne se font pas avec autant de magnificence qu'on les faisoit dans ma jeunesse."

This alludes to the "Caballeros de Plaza," as they were called, gentlemen by birth animated by the love of glory, very different from the hired Picadors. This custom of the Spanish gentlemen, which many of our fox-hunting and pheasant-shooting squires will condemn for its cruelty, was very common during the reigns of Philip III. and IV., but gradually declined, and was at last only prevalent at the Fiestas Reales. The last example was known in 1789, to celebrate the jura of the Prince of Asturia, afterwards the pious and exemplary Ferdinand VII. This must have been before his attempted parricide. Ambrosio de Lamela, in order to accomplish his designs on Simon, (2, 6, 1,) purchases articles at Chelva in Valencia, among others—

"Il nous fit voir un manteau et une robe noire fort longue, deux pourpoints avec leurs hauts-de-chausses, une de ces ecritoires composees de deux pieces liees par un cordon, et dont le cornet est separe de l'etui ou l'on met les plumes; une main de beau papier blanc un cadenas avec un gros cachet, et de la cire verte; et lorsqu'il nous eut enfin exhibe toutes ses emplettes, Don Raphael lui dit en plaisantant: Vive Dieu! Monsieur Ambroise, il faut avouer que vous avez fait la un bon achat."

Now this is a faithful portrait of the inkstand, called Tintero de Escribano, which the Spanish scriveners always carry about with them, and which it is most improbable that M. Le Sage should ever have seen in his life, or indeed have heard of but through the medium of a Spanish manuscript. The account proceeds; and the distinction, which the reader will find taken with so much accuracy, between the inquisitor and familiar of the holy office, is one which, however familiar to every Spaniard, it is not likely a Frenchman should be acquainted with. In France the inquisitor was confounded with the commissary, and all were supposed to be Dominican friars.

"La, mon garcon barbier etala ses vivres, qui consistoient das cinq ou six oignons, avec quelques morceaux de pain et de fromage: mais ce qu'il produisit comme la meilleure piece du sac, fut une petite outre, remplie, disoit-il, d'un vin delicat et friand," (2, 6.)

This custom of carrying wine in a leathern bag, is a peculiar trait of Spanish manners.

Catalena, the chambermaid of Guevarra, nurse of Philip IV., obtains from her mistress, for Ignatio, the archdeaconry of Granada, which, as "pais de conquista," was subject to the crown's disposal:—

"Cette soubrette, qui est la meme dont je me suis servi depuis pour tirer de la tour de Segovie le seigneur de Santillane, ayant envie de rendre service a Don Ignacio, engagea sa maitresse a demander pour lui un benefice an Duc de Lerme. Ce ministre le fit nommer a l'archidiaconat de Granade, lequel etant en pays conquis; est a la nomination du roi."

Now, that Le Sage should have been acquainted with this fact, for fact it unquestionably is, does appear astonishing. Till the concordat of 1753, the kings of Spain could only present to dignities in churches subject to the royal privilege, among which was this of Granada, by virtue of particular bulls issued at the time of its conquest. This is a fact, however, with which very few Spaniards were acquainted. Antonio de Pulgar, in his Cronica de Los Reyes Catholicos, c. 22, tells us that Isabella, "En el proueer de las yglesias que vacaron en su tiempo, ouo respecto tan recto, que pospuesta toda afficion siempre supplico al Papa por hombres generosos, y grandes letrados, y de vida honesta; lo que no se lee que con tanta diligencia ouiesse guardado ningun rey de los passados." Another remarkable passage, and to us almost conclusive, is the following—

"Je le menai au comte-duc, qui le recut tres poliment, et lui dit qu'il s'etoit si bien conduit dans son gouvernement de la ville de Valence, que le roi, le jugeant propre a remplir une plus grande place, l'avoit nomme a la viceroyaute d'Aragon. D'ailleurs, ajouta-t-il, cette dignite n'est point au-dessus de votre naissance, et la noblesse Aragonoise ne sauroit murmurer contre le choix de la cour."

This alludes to a dispute between the Spanish government and the Aragonese, which had continued from the days of Charles V. The Aragonese claimed either that the king himself should reside among them, or be represented by some person of the royal blood. Charles V. appointed, as viceroy of Aragon, his uncle, the Archbishop of Zaragoza, and then Don Fernando de Aragon, his cousin. Philip II. appointed a Castilian to that dignity. This produced great disturbances in Aragon, and the dispute lasted till 1692, when the Aragonese settled the matter by putting the Castilian viceroy, Inigo de Mendoza, to death. His successor was an Aragonese, Don Miguel de Luna, Conde de Morata, and he was succeeded by Don John of Austria, his brother. It is most improbable that M. Le Sage, whose knowledge of Spanish literature was very superficial, and whose ignorance of Spanish history was complete, should have understood this allusion. This, therefore, leads to the conclusion that it must have been taken from a Spanish manuscript.

In conformity with this we find Mariana saying, in the days of Ferdinand and Isabella—"Los Aragoneses no querian recebir por Virrey a D. Ramon Folch, Conde de Cardona, que el rey tenia senalado para este cargo; decian era contra sus fueros poner en el gobierno de su reyno hombre extrangero. Hobo demandas y respuestas, mas al fin el rey temporizo con ellos, y nombro por Virrey a su hijo D. Alonso de Aragon, Arzobispo de Zaragoza."

Can any one doubt that the writer of the following passage had seen the spot he describes?

"Il me fit traverser une cour, et monter par un escalier fort etroit a une petite chambre qui etoit tout an haut de la tour. Je ne fus pas peu surpris, en entrant dans cette chambre, de voir sur une table deux chandelles, qui bruloient dans des flambeaux de cuivre, et deux couverts assez propres. Dans un moment, me dit Tordesillas, on va nous apporter a manger: nous allons souper ici tous deux. C'est ce reduit que je vous ai destine pour logement. Vous y serez mieux que dans votre cachot; vous verrez de votre fenetre les bords fleuris de l'Erema, et la vallee delicieuse qui, du pied des montagnes qui separent les deux Castilles, s'etend jusqu'a Coca. Je suis bien que vous serez d'abord peu sensible a une si belle vue, mais quand le temps aura fait succeder une douce melancolie a la vivacite de votre douleur, vous prendrez plaisir a promener vos regards sur des objets si agreables."

These notices of reference, taken at random, are all adapted to the places at which they are found—the narrative leads to them by regular approximation, or they are suggested by the subject and occasion which it draws forth. To introduce a given story into the body of a writing without abruptness, or marks of unnatural transition,

"Ut per laeve moventes, Effundat junctura ungues."

is, as Paley observes, one of the most difficult artifices of composition; and here are upwards of a hundred Spanish names, circumstances, and allusions, incorporated with the story written, as M. Neufchateau assures us, by a Frenchman concerning the court of Louis XIV. A line touching on truth in so many points, could never have been drawn accidentally; it is the pencil thrown luckily full upon the horse's mouth, and expressing the foam which the painter, with all his skill, could not represent without it. Let the reader observe how difficult Le Sage has found the task of connecting the anecdotes taken from Marcos de Obregon, and put into the mouth of Diego, with the main story. How awkward is this transition? "Le seigneur Diego de La Fuente me raconta d'autres aventures encore, qui lui etoient arrivees depuis; mais elles me semblent si peu dignes d'etre rapportees, que je les passerai sous silence."

The next branch of the argument which we are called upon to consider, relates to the Spanish words in Gil Blas, which imply the existence of a Spanish manuscript. The names Juan, Pedro, often occur in Le Sage's work, and Pierre, Jean, are sometimes used in their stead. The word Don is prefixed by the Spaniards to the Christian, and never to the surname, as Don Juan, Don Antonio, not Don Mariana, Don Cervantes. In France, Dom, its synonyme, is, on the contrary, prefixed to the surname—as Dom Mabillon, Don Calmet. Le Sage always adheres to the Spanish custom. The robber who introduces Gil Blas to the cavern, says, "Tenez, Dame Leonarde, voici un jeune garcon," &c. Again, "On dressa dans le salon une grande table, et l'on me renvoya dans la cuisine, ou la Dame Leonarde m'instruisit de ce que j'avais a faire.... Et comme depuis sa mort c'etoit la Senora Leonarda qui avoit l'honneur de presenter le nectar a ces dieux infernaux," &c. This expression "Senora Leonarda," is much in favour of a Spanish original; why should not Le Sage have repeated the expression "Dame Leonarde," on which we have a few observations to offer, had it not been that he thought the word under his eyes at the moment would lend grace and vivacity to the narrative. A French writer would have said, "Tenez, Leonarde," or perhaps, "Tenez, Madame Leonarde;" but such a phrase as "Tenez, Dame Leonarde," in a French writer, can be accounted for only by the translation of "senora." So we have "la Senora Catalena," (7, 12)—"la Senora Sirena," (9, 7)—and "la Senora Mencia," (8, 10) of the French version, and instead of "une demoiselle," "une jeune dame," which is a translation of "senorita." In giving an account of his projected marriage with the daughter of Gabriel Salero, Gil Blas says, (9, 1)—"C'etoit un bon bourgeois qui etoit comme nous disons poli hasta porfiar. Il me presenta la Senora Eugenia, sa femme, et la jeune Gabriela, sa fille." Here are three Spanish idioms—"hasta porfiar," which Le Sage thinks it necessary to explain, "la Senora Eugenia," "Gabriela." Diego de la Fuente tells his friend, "J'avois pour maitre de cet instrument un vieux 'senor escudero,' a qui je faisois la barbe. Il se nommoit Marcos Dobregon." A French author, instead of "senor escudero," would have said, "vieux ecuyer;" a Spanish transcriber would have written "Marcos de Obregon." We have (x. 3, 11) "Senor Caballero des plus lestes," "romances" instead of "romans," (1, 5,) "prado" instead of "pre," twice, (4, 10; 7, 13.)

Laura says—"Un jour il nous vint en fantaisie a Dorothee et a moi d'aller voir joner les comediens de Seville. Ils avaient affiche qu'ils representaient la famosa comedia, et Embajador de si mismo, de Lope de Vega Carpio.... En fin le moment que j'attendais etant arrive, c'est-a-dire, la fin de la famosa comedia, nous nous en allames." We have "hidalgo" instead of "gentilhomme" three times; "contador mayor" twice, once used by Chinchillo, again by the innkeeper at Suescas, "oidor" instead of "juge" or "membre de la cour royale," "escribano" instead of "notaire," (8, 9.) "Hospital de ninos" instead of "hospice des enfans orphelins," "olla podrida" three times "marmalada de berengaria," (9, 4,) and "picaro" instead of "fripon," (4, 10, 12.) Scipio says, "un jour comme je passois aupres de l'eglise de los reyes." There is at Toledo a church named "San Juan de los Reyes." How could Le Sage, who never had been in Spain, know this fact? Gil Blas thus relates an event at Valencia—"Je m'en approchai pour apprendre pourquoi je voyois la un si grand concours d'hommes et de femmes, et bientot je fus au fait, en lisant ces paroles ecrites en lettres d'or sur une table de marbre noir, qu'il-y avait audessus de la porte, 'La posada de los representantes,' et les comediens marquaient dans leur affiche qu'ils joueraient ce jour-la pour la premiere fois une tragedie nouvelle de Don Gabriel Triaguero." This passage is an attestation of the fact, that during the reign of Philip IV. the buildings of the Spanish provinces in which dramatic performances were represented were at the same time the residence, "posada," of the actors—a custom even now not altogether extinguished; but which Le Sage could only know through the medium of a Spanish manuscript. Gil Blas, imprisoned in the tower of Segovia, hears Don Gaston de Cavallos sing the following verses—

"Ayde nie un ano felice Parece un soplo ligero Pero sin duda un instante Es un siglo de tormento."

Where did Le Sage find these verses, sweet, gracious, and idiomatic as they are? The use of the word "felice" for "feliz" is a poetical license, and displays more than a stranger's knowledge of Spanish composition. It has been said that Smollett has left many French words in his translation of Gil Blas, and that too strong an inference ought not to be drawn from the employment of Spanish phrases by Le Sage. But what are the words? Are they words in the mouth of every one, and such as a superficial dilettante might easily pick up; or do they, either of themselves or from the conjunctures in which they are employed, exhibit a consummate acquaintance with the dialect and habits of the people to which they refer? Besides, it should be remembered that French is a language far more familiar to well-educated people in England, than Spanish ever was to the French, and that Smollett had lived much in France; whereas Le Sage knew from books alone the language which he has employed with so much colloquial elegance and facility. We now turn to the phrases and expressions in French which Le Sage has manifestly translated.

The first word which occurs in dealing with this part of the subject is "seigneur" as a translation for "senor;" "seigneur" in France was not a substitute for "monsieur," which is the proper meaning of "senor." On the use of the word "dame" we have already commented. Instead of Dame Leonarde and Dame Lorenzo Sephora, a French writer would have put "Madame" or "la cuisiniere," or "la femme de chambre," as the case might be. So the exclamation of the highwayman, "Seigneur passant," &c., must be a translation of "Senor passagero." Describing the parasite at Penaflor, Gil Blas says, "le cavalier portait une longue rapiere, et il s'approcha de moi d'un air empresse, Seigneur ecolier, me dit-il, je viens d'apprendre que vous etes le seigneur Gil Blas de Santillane. Je lui dis, seigneur cavalier, je ne croyois pas que mon nom fut connu a Penaflor." "Le cavalier" means a man on horseback, which is not a description applicable to the parasite; "chevalier" is the French word for the member of a military order. "Cet homme," or "ce monsieur," would have been the expression of Le Sage if "este caballero" had not been in the manuscript to be copied. "Carillo" for "Camillo," "betancos" for "betangos," "rodillas" for "revilla;" and yet M. Le Sage is not satisfied with making his hero walk towards the Prado of Madrid, but goes further, and describes it as the "pre de Saint Jerome"—Prado de Ste Geronimo, which is certainly more accurate. Again he speaks of "la Rue des Infantes" at Madrid, (8, 1)—"De los Infantos is the name of a street in that city—and in the same sentence names "une vieille dame Inesile Cantarille." Inesilla is the Spanish diminutive of Ines, and Cantarilla of Cantaro. The last word alludes to the expression "mozas de Cantaro," for women of inferior degree. Philip III. shuts up Sirena "dans la maison des repenties." This is also the name of a convent at Madrid, called "casa de las arrepentidas." But a still stronger argument in favour of the existence of a Spanish manuscript, is to be found in the passage which says that Lucretia, the repentant mistress of Philip IV., "quitte tout a coup le monde, et se ferme dans le monastere de la Incarnacion;" that having been founded by Philip III. in compliance with the will of Dona Margarita, his wife, it was reserved expressly for nuns connected in some way with the royal family of Spain; and that therefore Lucretia, having been the mistress of Philip IV., was entitled to become a member of it.

"Nous apercumes un religieux de l'ordre de Saint Domingue, monte, contre l'ordinaire de ces bons peres, sur une mauvaise mule.{A} Dieu soit loue, s'ecria le capitaine." In this sentence all the passages in Italics are of Spanish origin. "Seigneur cavalier, vous etes bien heureux qu'on se soit adresse a moi plutot qu'a un autre: je ne veux point decrier mes confreres: a Dieu ne plaise que je fasse le moindre tort a leur reputation: mais, entre nous, il n'y en a pas un qui ait de la conscience—ils sont tous plus durs que des Juifs. Je suis le seul fripier qui ait de la morale: je ne borne a un prix raisonable; je me contente de la livre pour sou—je veux dire du sou pour livre. Graces au ciel, j'exerce rondement ma profession." Here we find "Seigneur cavalier," "a Dieu ne plaise," which is the common Spanish phrase, "no permita Dios," "Graces an ciel," instead of "Dieu merci," from "Gracias a Dios." A little further we find the phrase "Seigneur gentilhomme," which can only be accounted for as a translation of "Senor hidalgo;" "garcon de famille," (1, 17,) "benefice simple," (11, 17) are neither of them French expressions. "The virtuous Jacintha," says Fabricio, "merite d'etre la gouvernante du patriarche des Indes." Now, it is impossible that the existence of such a dignity as this should have been known at Paris. It was of recent creation, and had been the subject of much conversation at Madrid. "Garcon de bien et d'honneur," (1, 2, 1,) "un mozo, hombre de bien y de honor." "Je servis un potage qu'on auroit pu presenter au plus fameux directeur de Madrid, et deux entrees qui auroient eu de quoi piquer la sensualite d'un viceroi." It is impossible not to see that the first of the phrases in italics is a translation "del director mas famoso de Madrid;" first, because a Frenchman would have used "celebre," and secondly, because the word "director" in a different sense from that of confessor was unknown at Madrid. The allusion to the Viceroy, a functionary unknown to the French government, also deserves notice. The notaire, hastening to Cedillo, takes up hastily "son manteau et son chapeau." This infers a knowledge on the part of the writer that the Spanish scrivener never appeared, however urgent the occasion, without his "capa." We have the word "laboureurs" applied to substantial farmers, (1, 2, 7.) This is a translation of "labradores," to which the French word does not correspond, as it means properly, men dependent on daily labour for their daily bread. "J'ai fait elever," says the schoolmaster of Olmedo, "un theatre, sur lequel, Dieu aidant, je ferai representer par mes disciples une piece que j'ai composee. Elle a pour titre les jeunes amours de Muley Bergentuf Roi de Moroi." "Disciples" is a translation of "discipulos." A French writer would have said "eleves." Again, the title of the Pedant's play is thoroughly Spanish. It was intended to ridicule the habit which prevailed in Spain, after the expulsion of the Moriscoes in 1610, of adapting for the stage Moorish habits and amusements, by making a stupid pedant in an obscure village, select them as the subject of his tragedy.

Describing the insolence of the actors, Gil Blas says, "Bien loin de traiter d'excellence les seigneurs, elles ne leur donnoient pas meme de la seigneurie." This would hardly be applicable to the manners of the French. The principal of Lucinde's creditors, "se nommoit Bernard Astuto, qui meritoit bien son nom." The signification of the name is clear in Spanish; but in French the allusion is totally without meaning. This probably escaped Le Sage in the hurry of composition, or it would have been easy to have removed so clear a mark of translation. The following mark is still stronger. Speaking of Simon, the bourgeois of Chelva, he says—"Certain Juif, qui s'est fait Catholique, mais dans le fond de l'ame il est encore Juif comme Pilate." Now, the lower classes of Spain perpetually fall into this error of calling Pilate a Jew; and this is a trait which could hardly have occurred to a foreign writer, however well acquainted with Spain, much less to a writer who had never set his foot in that country. Here we cannot help observing, that the whole scene from which this passage is taken is eminently Spanish. In Spain only was such a proceeding possible as the scheme for deprecating Simon, executed by Lucinda and Raphael. The character of the victim, the nature of the fraud, the absence of all suspicion which such proceedings would necessarily provoke in any other country, are as conclusive proofs of Spanish origin as moral evidence can supply. Count Guliano is found playing with an ape, "pour dormir la siesta." Lucretia says to Gil Blas, "Je vous rends de tres humbles graces," "doy a usted muy umildes gracias." A French writer would have said, "Je vous remercie infiniment." Melendez is described as living "a la Porte du Soleil du coin de la Rue des Balustrees," "esquina de la Calle de Cofreros." There is such an alley as this, but it is unknown to ninety-nine Spaniards in a hundred. Beltran Moscada tells Gil Blas, "Je vous reconnois bien, moi—nous avons joue mille fois tous deux a la Gallina ciega." This Le Sage thinks it necessary to explain by a note, to inform his readers that it is the same as "Colin Maillard." From all these various phrases and expressions, scattered about in different passages of Gil Blas, and taken almost at random from different parts of the work, the conclusion that it was copied from a Spanish manuscript appears inevitable.