But more substantial praise belongs to this amiable man.  Not only is Pierre-Aime Lair a lover and collector of tangible antiquities—­such as glazed tiles, broken busts, old pictures, and fractured capitals—­all seen in “long array”, up the windings of his staircase—­but he is a critic, and a patron of the literary antiquities of his country.  Caen (as I told you in my last despatch) is the birth-place of MALHERBE; and, in the character now under discussion, it has found a perpetuator of the name and merits of the father of French verse.  In the year 1806 our worthy antiquary put forth a project for a general subscription “for a medal in honour of Malherbe,"[125] which project was in due time rewarded by the names of fifteen hundred efficient subscribers, at five francs a piece.  The proposal was doubtless flattering to the literary pride of the French; and luckily the execution of it surpassed the expectations of the subscribers.  The head is undoubtedly of the most perfect execution.  Not only, however, did this head of Malherbe succeed—­but a feeling was expressed that it might be followed up by a Series of Heads of the most illustrious, of both sexes, in literature and the fine arts.  The very hint was enough for Lair:  though I am not sure whether he be not the father of the latter design also.  Accordingly, there has appeared, periodically, a set of heads of this description, in bronze or other metal, as the purchaser pleases—­which has reflected infinite credit not only on the name of the projector of this scheme, but on the present state of the fine arts in France.

Yet another word about Pierre-Aime Lair.  He is not so inexorable as M. Lamouroux:  for he has dined with me, and quaffed the burgundy and champagne of Lagouelle, commander in chief of this house.  Better wines cannot be quaffed; and Malherbe and the Duke of Wellington formed the alternate subjects of discourse and praise.  In return, I have dined with our guest.  He had prepared an abundant dinner, and a very select society:  but although there was no wand, as in the case of Sancho Panza, to charm away the dishes, &c. or to interdict the tasting of them, yet it was scarcely possible to partake of one in four... so unmercifully were they steeped and buried in butter! The principal topic of discourse, were the merits of the poets of the respective countries of France and England, from which I have reason to think that Pope, Thomson, and Young, are among the greatest favourites with the French.  The white brandy of Pierre-Aime Lair, introduced after dinner, is hardly to be described for its strength and pungency.  “Vous n’avez rien comme ca chez vous?” “Je le crois bien, (I replied) c’est la liquefaction meme du feu.”  We broke up before eight; each retiring to his respective avocations—­but did not dine till five.  I borrowed, however, “an hour or twain” of the evening, after the departure of the company, to enjoy the more particular