eminent people as anybody can be. We would not blot a single
line from Boswell. We protest against a word being effaced from the
garrulous pages of Lady Blessington and Leigh Hunt. We "hang" the stars
with which Earl Russell has _milky-wayed_ Moore's Diary. But we are no
"lion-hunters," (the name should be "lion-harriers,") simply because
this chase is not the best way to take the game we desire. What does the
lion-hunter secure? A commonplace observation upon the weather, an
adroit or awkward parry of flattery, and some superficial compliment
upon one's native place or present residence; for a great man at bay is
nothing more nor less than a casual acquaintance extremely on his guard,
and, commonly, extremely fatigued by admirers. True, one obtains an
acquaintance with the great man's voice, and the hearth where he lives,
and the right to boast with truth, "I have seen him." _Voila tout!_ Now
this is not what we want. We desire some good, clear, faithful account
of these people, as they are, when they talk freely and easily to their
contemporaries, to their peers. Boswell's picture of the Literary Club
is invaluable, although, with the insatiable curiosity of the nineteenth
century, we regret that the prince of reporters failed to sketch the
persons and peculiarities of the _dramatis personae_ whose conversations
he has so faithfully recorded.

We wish to go behind the scenes, and to hear the conversation engaged in
in the green-room. We expect to see some dirt, some grease-pots, stained
ropes, and unpainted pulleys,--and, to tell the truth, we want to see
these blemishes. They are encouraging. They lessen the distance between
us and it by teaching us that even fairy-land knows no exemption from
those imperfections which blur our purest natures.

A work has lately appeared in Europe which in some measure gratifies
this desire. It exhibits in full light a good many scenes of literary
life in Paris. They may be and probably are exaggerated, but
exaggerations do not mar truth; if they did, we should be obliged to
throw away the microscope, with nativities and divining-rods. We are
tempted to give our readers a share of the pleasure we have found in
perusing this picture of Paris life. We forewarn them that we have taken
liberties innumerable with the book. We have compressed into these few
leaves a volume of several hundred pages. We have discarded all the
machinery of the author, and introduced him personally to the read