We belong to the unpopular family of Tell-truths, and would not flatter Apollo for his Lyre."-ROB ROY.

Julia Sévéra; ou, L'An Quatre Cent Quatre-vingt-douze. Par J. C. L. SIMONDE DE SISMONDI, Auteur de l'Histoire des Français, de l'Histoire des Républiques Italiennes du Moyen Age, de la Littérature du Midi de l'Europe, &c. &c. Paris, Treuttel et Würtz. 3 vols. 1822.

THIS is a very curious and interesting book. The fact of its being the production of M. Sismondi, would of itself attract attention. When an author of high fame publishes a work in an entirely new line of writing, it becomes most interesting, were it on that account alone. The pen of an erudite and lofty-minded historian producing a novel, affords a contrast of composition especially striking; and M. Sismondi, descending from his works of labour and dignity to a composition of this nature, presents to us an unusual example of versatility as well as brilliancy of talent.

Julia Sévéra is composed from the overflowings of the information which it was necessary to acquire for his French history. The immense labour of the study requisite for the production of that work may be, in some measure, conceived from the statement in M. Sismondi's preface, that he grew pale (pali) over all the chronicles, all the codes of laws, and all the lives of the saints of that period! Merely to read them over, a task sufficiently arduous, did not suffice; he was obliged to study them, in a manner which rendered him conversant with the most minute detail, and must have impressed each character individually on his mind. He informs

us, for example, that he read Gregory of Tours through three different times! Possessing this extraordinary degree of information concerning an age so generally unknown, M. Sismondi wished to give a more full and exact account of the state of Gaul during the last years of the Roman Empire, than the nature of historical composition would allow. He has, therefore, chosen "le cadre d'un roman," to represent the manners and modes of life of the various classes that inhabited Gaul at that period;-and the sole merit which he claims, is that of having done this with the truth of an historian, and the accuracy of an antiquary. He modestly confesses, that he does not expect to throw the life and interest into his story, which so eminently belong to those admirable Scotch novels, which give the manners of the country at the period of which they treat, with all the freshness and fidelity of authentic memoir. This is praise which their author may indeed look on as adding a branch of laurel to the crown which the hands of all classes of readers have been eager to place upon his head. M. Sismondi, a man of high fame and striking genius, takes him for a model, and expresses his ambition to catch some portion of the spirit which flows with such animating interest throughout all his works.

But Julia Sévéra possesses, in our opinion, far greater merit than that of accurate description. Were it from the pen of an unknown writer, we should at once characterize it as the production of a man of high talent. If the conduct of the story be deficient, or the interest occasionally flag, we are more than repaid by the vivid representation of scenery and personal appearance-the dramatic situations, and the rapid dialogue and admirable sketching of character, with which it abounds.

We have long wished in vain for books of the nature

of this novel. The generality of historical novels are the most uninteresting and disagreeable of that numerous class of literature. They are usually written by persons who have little more acquaintance with the period in which they place their hero, than may be gathered from general history; and who choose known names only with the view of increasing the interest of their story, or the expectation of embellishing some event, with the outlines of which all are in great measure acquainted. But they generally shock us, by degrading our historical favourites into novelish characters, or giving their own explanation of the bare and simple action which history leaves unaccounted for, and to which all love to have their own key. In this mixture, truth and fancy seldom accord-and, even when we may not have sufficient knowledge to point out exactly all the errors of language and manners, we feel by their vagueness that they belong to no real period-that they are the mere coinage of the writer; and their pretension to reality serves only to destroy the charm which skilful invention might have bestowed on a story purely fictitious.

This applies more particularly to those romances the scene of which is placed in very remote periods. As M. Sismondi says in his preface, "un historien seul à occasion d'acquérir cette connaissance des temps anciens, qui lui permet de placer un roman à une époque reculée, avec une observation sévère des mœurs du temps :" and historians will seldom be found willing to give us this kind of minor history. Their works, in general, present nothing but a detail of events. We know that such battles have been fought-that such men have waded through crime to power-and that such and such laws have been enacted; but the temper of the age, and the feelings and

the habits of the people, we are left to gather as we may, from the public record of the actions of the great. Even the physical appearance of the country is unknown to us. It therefore happens that the mass of readers feel little interest for those ages of history when the face of society was different from any with which we are now intimately acquainted-when men scarcely appear to have been of the same race with ourselves. Memoirs, indeed, supply the want which we experience in reading history; but memoirs of remote times exist only in the chronicles kept by the ignorant and credulous monks, in the lives of saints, and in the traces which can be collected from the laws, as they were enacted. But it requires the genius of M. Sismondi to extract from such materials the knowledge which we desire; and it is most rare to find the comprehensiveness of mind requisite for such an undertaking united to the persevering industry of the mere antiquary. Without this, the work would be but imaginary sketches; -it would sink into dry details, devoid of life and interest. Ivanhoe is the only book which occurs to us, of the nature we consider so desirable-but it relates to a period less enveloped in the dark mist of past ages; and if the story be far superior to that of Julia Sévéra, we must award to M. Sismondi the praise of more intimate acquaintance with the very remote period he has so forcibly brought before our eyes.

The story opens with the arrival of a band of fugitives on the banks of the Loire, who have been driven from their home by an incursion of the Franks. They have no means of crossing the river, and expect every moment to be overtaken by the enemy. Felix Florentius, a noble Roman, whose vast domains stretch along the opposite shore of the river, comes to their assistance. The de

scription of the terror and sufferings of the fugitives recalled to our memory the very striking passage in the Memoirs of Madame de la Roche Jacquelin, in which she also recounts a flight across the Loire; and it is saying much when we affirm, that with this recollection of a dreadful reality, we still dwelt with eager interest upon M. Sismondi's spirited and picturesque narrative. Felix succeeds, after some peril, in bringing in safety to his territory the whole band; and we find that he has rescued the only daughter of Julius Sévérus, senator and Comte de Chartres.

Julia Sévéra, of course, is the heroine, and she is accordingly endowed with courage, magnanimity, beauty, and all other heroine-like requisites. She is received by Sylvia Numantia, the noble mother of Felix, with all kindness, and desired to look on Noviliacum as her paternal home. While she is conducted thither, Felix turns his attention to the relief of her destitute followers, whose feelings on their escape are thus vividly related:

"Le débarquement continuait cependant, et les malheureux qui n'avaient d'abord songé qu'à sauver leur vie, en se voyant déposés sur ce rivage paisible, repassaient dans leur mémoire tous les biens, peut-être tous les amis qu'ils avaient perdus. La peur avait fait place à un morne abattement. Chaque famille se groupait autour des misérables restes de sa propriété. Les femmes assises sur des pierres ou des troncs d'arbres, appuyaient leurs têtes sur leurs genoux, tandis que leurs enfans les embrassaient en pleurant; les maris retenant par le licol un cheval, un ânc, chargé des débris de leur ménage, et quelquefois une ou deux vaches, les contemplaient en silence. Tous semblaient envisager pour la première fois l'avenir, cet avenir qui commençait pour eux sur une terre étrangère, et qu'ils n'étaient points sûrs de rendre supportable, même au prix des plus pénibles travaux."— Tom. i. p. 50, 51.

The description of the house, its site, and disposition,