carried too far, and thrown away upon worthless subjects, whose very flattery displays absence of taste and genius, as well as of modesty and shame.  To a fellow of the name of Dagee, who sang the coronation of Napoleon the First in two hundred of the most disgusting and ill-digested lines that ever were written, containing neither metre nor sense, was assigned a place in the administration of the forest department, worth twelve thousand livres in the year—­besides a present, in ready money, of one hundred napoleons d’or.  Another poetaster, Barre, who has served and sung the chiefs of all former factions, received, for an ode of forty lines on Bonaparte’s birthday, an office at Milan, worth twenty thousand livres in the year—­and one hundred napoleons d’or for his travelling expenses.

The sums of money distributed yearly by Bonaparte’s agents for dedications to him by French and foreign authors, are still greater than those fixed for regular literary pensions.  Instead of discouraging these foolish and impertinent contributions, which genius, ingenuity, necessity, or intrusion, lay on his vanity, he rather encourages them.  His name is, therefore, found in more dedications published within these last five years than those of all other Sovereign Princes in Europe taken together for the last century.  In a man whose name, unfortunately for humanity, must always live in history, it is a childish and unpardonable weakness to pay so profusely for the short and uncertain immortality which some dull or obscure scribbler or poetaster confers on him.

During the last Christmas holidays I dined at Madame Remisatu’s, in company with Duroc.  The question turned upon literary productions and the comparative merit of the compositions of modern French and foreign authors.  “As to the merits or the quality,” said Duroc, “I will not take upon me to judge, as I profess myself totally incompetent; but as to their size and quantity I have tolerably good information, and it will not, therefore, be very improper in me to deliver my opinion.  I am convinced that the German and Italian authors are more numerous than those of my own country, for the following reasons:  I suppose, from what I have witnessed and experienced for some years past, that of every book or publication printed in France, Italy, and Germany, each tenth is dedicated to the Emperor.  Now, since last Christmas ninety-six German and seventy-one Italian authors have inscribed their works to His Majesty, and been rewarded for it; while during the same period only sixty-six Frenchmen have presented their offerings to their Sovereign.”  For my part I think Duroc’s conclusion tolerably just.