Anonyme, "Literature" (Bell's Weekly Messenger)

Literature does not appear to be in a better condition in France than it is among us. Since the days of Buffon, D'Alembert, Diderot, Rousseau, and Voltaire, the French can boast of no writer above mediocrity – they have no mathematicians of any consequence, no historian, no profound or real philosopher – their best living poet is the Abbé Delille, who is now residing in this metropolis. This Monsieur l'Abbé, however, is esteemed only as a plausible versifier, which, in a language so unmusical as the French […] can certainly not give him a title to the admiration of the world. The Abbe [sic] has addressed an epistle to a She Cat, wherein we find the subsequent lines: –

“Tu viens, le dos en voûte, & la queue endoyante [sic],
“Offrir va [sic] douce hermine à ma main caressante :
Oï diranger [sic] gaiment, par mille bonds divers,
Et la plume, & la main qui t'adressa ces vers.”

           Translation. – (Far superior to the Original).
With arched back, and playful wavering tail,
Puss comes, and offers my flattering hand
The softest ermine, or her pranks assail
The pen and paper, which my lines demand.

It is worth remarking, that the above French lines have been so much admired in France, that a Parisian reviewer, in quoting them, has subjoined the following note: – malheureux le cœur froid qui peut lire ces vers de Delille ; et n'etre pas attendri ! Wo to the frozen heart that can peruse these lines of Delille without feeling a tender emotion ! – So much for Republican sensibility, and sentimental stuff¹ !