Las not received its full discussion: we espect that further light will be thrown ipon it, from various quarters: we there ore adjourn the main question; we deire the disputants to dismiss all topics hat do not immediately belong to it; all ersonal considerations; all excursions; ad to endeavour to reduce it to the greatst possible practicable simplicity; and to sect the inquiry with facts of what has een elsewhere. When those measures, thich have been found available in any lace, shall have been freely canvassed y the numbers of intelligent men to hom this subject is interesting, the result all be, must be, beneficial to the pubė: both to church and state.

es Martyrs, ou le Triomphe de la Redigion Chrétienne. The Martyrs; or, the Triumph of the Christian Religion. By F. A. de Chateaubriand, &c. 3 vol. 8vo. Price £178. Dulan and Co. London,

1809.

THIS work, which we find extremely ficult to class according to its rank in erature, for it appears to be a novel, d, we think, an unsuccessful, attempt At things unheard, as yet, in prose or rhyme;" gins whimsically enough by a double vocation to the Celestial Muse, and to rantagonist, the Muse of Heathenism. "Celestial Muse! you who did inspire poet of Sorrentum and the blind man of bion, you who placed your solitary throne the Thabor, you who delight in soma thoughts, in grave and sublime meditions, I now implore your assistance! Teach e on David's harp the songs I am to recite; ove all, give to my eyes some of those ars which Jeremiah shed on the misfortunes Sion: I design to rehearse the sufferings "the persecuted church!

"And thou, Virgin of Pindus, ingenious ughter of Greece, descend thou also in thy irn from the summit of Helicon :

ted prefatory observations, and introduced
this work by an extract, as the best
means we could choose to display, at a
glance, the spirit of the performance. To
address in the same breath, and for the
same purpose, the Holy Spirit, who in-
spired the prophets, and the imaginary
being which presided over profane poetry;
to wander from Thabor and Sion to Pin-
dus and Helicon; to associate David and
Jeremiah with the Muse of Falsehoods,'
and the relation of the sufferings of the
persecuted church with an effort of the
sprightly Goddess of Fable, must be in
a man of Mr. C's known talents, a vo-
luntary aberration from taste, judgment,
and propriety. He need not be told, that
in Epopee, a double invocation must in-
fallibly destroy the very effect that a single
address is intended to produce, namely,
that of commanding attention, by im-
pressing the hearer with the idea that the
Bard is under the influence of a super-
natural being, who speaks through him,
Deus adest; that by his double invoca- -
tion to the Eternal Spirit, and to a my-
thological deity, he has placed a poetical-
illusion in the very light which has dis-
pelled it for ever; that by his double ap-
peal to truth and to falsehood, the mind
of the reader is prepared to expect fiction;
Truth itself, depraved by the company he
yet, fiction ceases to be interesting, and
forces her to keep, loses her claim to cre-
dibility. Mr. C. is as well acquainted as
we can possibly be, with the numberless
authorities, both ancient and modern, by
which we might support and enforce these
observations.

But this impropriety becomes more glaring, and indeed insufferable, as he proceeds in the marvellous part of his poem; (for this is given as an epic poem in prose,) we shall therefore delay our reflections on this peculiarity till that part of the performance is under consideration, and proceed to give an abstract of the fable.

th! sprightly Goddess of Fable! thou whom cendants, had been placed by the MesDemodocus, the last of Homer's desisfortunes and death itself cannot sadden, shall not reject the flowery garlands with senians in a temple erected to Homer; in hich thou overspreadest the tombs! Come, which he officiated as priest. In that Inse of Falsehoods! Come, struggle with peaceful abode, his cares were divided e Muse of Truth. Formerly, she endured between his altar and his daughter Cytuel evils under thy name; now, by thy modocée, a maid of fifteen," who grew efeat grace her triumph, and confess that she under his eyes like a young olive-tree, as more worthy that thou wast to reign over which a gardener rears with care, by he he lyre." side of a fountain, and which is the love We have, contrary to our custom, omit-of earth and of heaven." (There are mas

ny such comparisons.) One thing only embitters Demodocus's happiness; Hierocles, pro-consul of Achaia, and favourite of Galerius, a barbarian, capable and guilty of all manner of crimes, has conceived a violent passion for Cymodocée, and has solicited her hand. The honour has been refused, at the prayers of the trembling maid; and to shelter her from the violence of this powerful and unprincipled suitor, her father has consecrated her to the muses as one of their priestesses. Returning one night with her nurse, from the festival of Diana-Limnatide, Cymodocée lost her guide, and strayed in the mountains. After the terror very natural to a young female in such a situation, she determined to put herself under the protection of a Naïad, that is, she sought shelter in a grotto, whence issued a spring of water. She had advanced but a few steps into the grotto, when she discovered a young hunter asleep; the moon shone with splendour on his manly countenance, and Cymodocée, impressed with Homeric ideas, conceited that she saw Endymion; and that she had disturbed the mysteries of Diana. Dreading the resentment of the vindictive goddess, she knelt down to invoke her, and deprecate her wrath. As she prayed aloud, her voice startled the hunter's dog, and the dog's barking awoke his master. Astonished at seeing a woman kneeling, he arose with precipitation.

"What," said Cymodocée, confused and still kneeling, "Is it possible that thou shouldest not be the hunter Endymion ?"

"And you," said the young man, equally wonder-struck, "Are you not an angel?" "An angel!" echoed the daughter of Demodocus.

Then said the stranger, full of trouble : "Woman, rise up, it is before God only that we ought to bend our knees."

After a short silence, the priestess of the Muses said to the stranger:

"If thou art not a god, concealed under a mortal form, thou art doubtless a stranger whom the satyrs have led astray, like myself, in the woods. In what harbour did thy vessel enter? Didst thou come from Tyre, so celebrated for the wealth of her merchants? Didst thou come from the charming Corinth, loaded with the rich gifts of thine hosts? Art thou one of those who traffick on the seas, even as far as the columns of Hercules? Dost thou follow the cruel Mars in battles? Or, rather, art thou not the son of one of those mortals, formerly adorned with a scep

tre, and who reigned over a country abundant
in flocks, and beloved by the gods ?"
The stranger answered:

Universe, and I am only a man, full of trou "There is but one God, the Ruler of the I am the son of Lasthénès. I was returning ble and of weakness. I am called Eudore; from Thalamis, I was going back to my f ther's; night overtook me, I fell asleep on the banks of this fountain. But, you, how came you here alone? May heaven preserve in you that innate modesty, the purest of fears after that of God. (Que le ciel vous conserve la pudeur, la plus belle des craintes après celle de Dieu.)

Cymodocée was a good deal perplexed at this strange language; and no wonder ; at last, thinking to make herself more interesting, she said,

"I am the daughter of Homer, the immortal bard."

The stranger only replied:

"I know a book more sublime than his." Abashed by the brevity of that answer, Cymodocée said to herself:

"This young man is from Sparta.” of Lasthénès said: She then related her own story. The son

"I will conduct you back to your father."

This is certainly the most extraordinary mode we have ever seen of bringing two lovers (for so they will be, bye-and-bye) acquainted together; or of introducing t a young heathen damsel the first hint of the Christian religion. We have gives the clashing interlocution which, throughthis passage at length, as a specimen of out the performance, marks the Christian and Heathen personages of this poem. Indeed, in many instances, as in this, the affected contrast borders on the ridiculous, and its general effect is to degrade truth itself into an ostentatious pedantry, while it reduces the gay fictions of fable to the trifling display of a school-exercise.

:

But, to resume our account of the fable Cymodocée, protected by Eudore, soon finds her nurse, who vents her fears and joys in all the garrulity attributed by poets to her age and station. This being over, Eudore said, " modocus, here is your nurse, your father's Daughter of Dedwelling is not distant: may God take pity on your soul!" And, without wait ing for the answer of Cymodocée, be takes his departure, "like an eagle." Cymodocée is more convinced than ever that this hunter is one of the immortals; and she carefully restrains from turning

er head towards him, lest she should be Tuck dead by the vision.

On her return to the temple, Cymoxée, after mutual effusions of tenderess, tells her father of her meeting with e hunter; the aged priest, on hearing it, arsts into a rage, and reproaches the e abling maid with having dishonoured s grey hairs, and her Homeric ancestry, neglecting to requite the hunter's kindess by an invitation to his hospitable roof. he old nurse, thinking to mend matters, ys, that as the young man was " as in Isome as one of the immortals," they ere afraid to invite him in, lest the ldren of the earth "should conceive spicions. This lame excuse enrages the a man the more, till at length Cymoeće" conceived the intention" of apeasing her father's anger; which she did fectually, by representing to him, that anger, like hunger, was a bad adviser," d that there was a remedy to the mis ance, for the young man had told her hɔ he was, and it would be easy to trace m Demodocus on this congratulates mself on the happy result of his solicide to instruct his daughter's youth, for she far excels all the maids of her age solid sense; and the Graces alone can rpass her in embroidering veils." proves that he knows Eudore's family. ao are among the most respectable peo* of Achaia; and it is agreed to set out at day to pay them a visit, and to make em presents, which, according to ancient stom, are minutely described, and traced ough several hands.

to furnish a hostage to the Roman people, he went to Rome at the age of eighteen ; to replace his father. He had been till then a very good boy; though somewhat spoiled by his mother, Sephora; but, in that capital he soon became downright naughty. He associated with Prince Con stantin, with Jerome, Augustin, and other young men, and spent his time in seeing plays, driving curricles, singing, making love, and so on, till at last Marcellin, Bishop of Rome, after many useless admonitions, separated him from the Christian commtinion. Eudore was at first. struck with astonishment and remorse; but soon returned to his old course; at length he brought himself into some em-. barrassment with the imperial family, and was sent by the Emperor Diocletian to the army, then acting against the Franks under the command of the Cesar Constantius. His friend Constantin, however, gave him letters of recommendation to the Cesar his father; by whom he was most graciously received.

Shortly after Eudore's arrival he greatly distinguished himself in an engagement, and obtained the Civic crown; also the command of the Greek auxiliaries. In a subsequent battle he was wounded, and taken prisoner by the Franks. His life was saved by a Roman slave, who, unperceived, by the Barbarians, took him bloody and fainting, from a heap of slain, and brought him into the interior of the country. His deliverer proves to be a christian priest named Zacharie, a voluntary slave to the, Franks, in exchange for the father of a numerous family. This good man's admonitions were ineffectual to reclaim the lost sheep, for the present; but he was more successful in alleviating his distresses, and in procu

Demodocus and his daughter arriving at sthenes's habitation found the family gaged in harvest, with that primeval aplicity, which retraced to one part of company, the days of the patriarchs ; to the other, the golden age of Ho-ring him his liberty. This being obtained, An entertainment followed; to this Eudore then directed his steps to Lutetia ceeded a concert: Cymodocée, taking (Paris) where the Cesar Constantius kept his lyre, sung of the Muses, of Júpiter, court. He accompanied him in an expeof Homer, her ancestor: Eudore, ac- dition against Carrausius, who had usur- . mpanying himself on an Hebrew cinnor,ped the sovereignty in Great Britain. By ng of the creation of the world, of his good conduct Eudore rose gradually to lam and Eve, and of Sion. Cymnodocée the rank of first tribune of the Britannic f course, compared to one of the god-legion; then to that of master of the es whom she served; and Eudore, to ng David. Cyril, Bishop of Sparta, present; he had come on purpose to Eudore relate his adventures. Eudore then says, that being of the

of Philopamen, which was bound VOL. VI. [Lit. Pan, Aug. 1809.]

cavalry. He commanded the army which defeated the Picts under the walls of Petuaria (Beverley, in Yorkshire) afterwards he overwhelmed the Usurper bim self, on the banks o the Tamesis near. the swampy village of Londinum (LoL

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