Among book-collectors, Antiquaries, and Men of Taste, let me speak with becoming praise of the amiable and accomplished M. AUGUSTE LE PREVOST—­who is considered, by competent judges, to be the best antiquary in Rouen.[76] Mr. Dawson Turner, (a name, in our own country, synonymous with all that is liberal and enlightened in matters of virtu) was so obliging as to give me a letter of introduction to him; and he shewed me several rare and splendid works, which were deserving of the commendations that they received from their owner.

M. Le Prevost very justly discredits any remains of Roman masonry at Rouen; but he will not be displeased to see that the only existing relics of the castle or town walls, have been copied by the pencil of a late travelling friend.  What you here behold is probably of the fourteenth century.

[Illustration]

The next book-collector in commendation of whom I am bound to speak, is MONSIEUR DUPUTEL; a member, as well as M. Le Prevost, of the Academy of Belles-Lettres at Rouen.  The Abbe Turquier conducted me thither; and I found, in the owner of a choice collection of books, a well-bred gentleman, and a most hearty bibliomaniac.  He has comparatively a small library; but, withal, some very curious, scarce, and interesting volumes.  M. Duputel is smitten with that amiable passion,—­the love of printing for private distribution—­thus meriting to become a sort of Roxburghe Associate.  He was so good as to beg my acceptance of the “nouvelle edition” of his “Bagatelles Poetiques," printed in an octavo volume of about 112 pages, at Rouen, in 1816.  On taking it home, I discovered the following not infelicitous version of our Prior’s beautiful little Poem of the Garland.

  La Guirlande.

  Traduction de l’Anglais de Prior.

  Pour orner de Chloe les cheveux ondoyans,
    Parmi les fleurs nouvellement ecloses
    J’avais choisi les lis les plus brillans,
  Les oeillets les plus beaux, et les plus fraiches roses.

  Ma Chloe sur son front les placa la matin: 
      Alors on vit ceder sans peine,
    Leur vif eclat a celui de son teint,
    Leur doux parfum a ceux de son haleine.

  De ses attraits ces fleurs paraissaient s’embellir,
  Et sur ses blonds cheveux les bergers, les bergeres
  Les voyaient se faner avec plus de plaisir
  Qu’ils ne les voyaient naitre au milieu des parterres.

    Mais, le soir, quand leur sein fletri
  Eut cesse d’exhaler son odeur seduisante,
    Elle fixa, d’un regard attendri,
  Cette guirlande, helas! n’agueres si brillante.

  Des larmes aussi-tot coulent de ses beaux yeux. 
    Que d’eloquence dans ces larmes! 
  Jamais pour l’exprimer, le langage des dieux,
  Tout sublime qu’il est, n’aurait assez de charmes.

  En feignant d’ignorer ce tendre sentiment;
    “Pourquoi,” lui dis-je, “o ma sensible amie,
  Pourquoi verser des pleurs? et par quel changement
  Abandonner ton ame a la melancholie?”