t 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." W