of permitting to come abroad, as I grew into a tall, and-I must confess it-rather an awkward lad, neither a man nor a boy. The second day after my arrival at Fromewood, I heard that Mr. Disbrook was in the house. I was in my bed-room just then, for I went up rather early to dress for dinner, because,-now don't smile-because I was anxious to try the powers of the first razor I had ever possessed. I had stirred up a famous lather, and was standing on tiptoe before the glass,-the soap-suds half stopped up my nostrils, I had drawn the razor from the hot water, and was already brandishing the reeking blade, when my father opened the door, and said, "Charles, I hear that Mr. Disbrook is in the library." Down went the razor,-the foaming bubbles of the lather shrunk away in the shaving-box,-I wiped the soap from "my unrazored lip" and chin,-flung on my coat and waistcoat, and was down stairs in a minute. The image of Mr. Disbrook had so long hovered about my memory, that I had shaped his character, and even his person, to my own favourite ideas of my old kind hearted companion. For the moment I quite forgot that I was no longer a boy;-I rushed into the room, and seized his hand. I knew that I could not be mistaken, for he was in the library alone with Lady M- -S. I scarcely looked up, my whole heart was dancing with joy; a thousand words were at my tongue's end, when I did look him full in the face, and really stared at him, for I saw a look of calm, cool surprise, and felt only the coldest return to my hearty shake of the hand. "Don't you remember me?" I exclaimed, eagerly. "I cannot say I do, Sir," replied a very tranquil voice, while a provokingly quiet smile just curled his lip. "I am Charles Sr. Don't you remember a wild mischievous boy, who was much noticed by you a long while ago?-I am sure you must remember.". I paused, for my eye met his. "I have some slight recollection, but it must, indeed, be a long time ago," said the voice, in a still cooler tone, while the smile lost all its dim lustre. It was not what he said-it was his look, and that I can't describe-though I don't forget it. I could not help sinking into a deep reverie for some minutes, then my thoughts woke up, and I became seventeen again,-all my cool common-place feelings returned at once. Mr. Disbrook had turned away-I looked round, and attentively surveyed him from head to foot, to observe if it were really the Mr. Disbrook, the gay friend of my boyhood, who stood before me. There was enough of his former self remaining to tell me I was not mistaken as to the person; but the Mr. Disbrook I now beheld was a staid, thin, gentlemanly man, much shorter than myself. I listened, half unconsciously, to his voice, -he was talking in a dry languid tone to Lady Ms, about the state of the roads. The window was open-I stepped out into the verandah, and began to think. I gravely walked down the steps, still in deep thought;-onward I walked, till I stopped at the gate of the Mill-Meadow, or rather, the gate stopped me. There I stood leaning both my elbows on the gate, and my head on both my hands, whistling very loudly,-but not for want of thought. Was there ever any thing more annoying?-Up rushed a galloping, scampering, herd of pigs, which had been grubbing about in the field. They heard my whistle, and came grunting, and poking their snouts through the lower bars of the gate. I was completely disconcerted, and burst out into an absolute roar of laughter. It was too late to try my new razor that day. Mr. Disbrook stayed to dinner;-I rather like him. In turning over, the other day, the pages of "Grimm's Correspondence," a book to which every lover of literature must always recur with delight, we chanced upon the following notice of one of Madame de Staël's earliest productions, if not her very earliest, --and which is not included in her published works. It is always curious to observe the first buddings and indications of a mighty genius, and equally so to turn to the expression of contemporary opinions and prognostics, when we have all the subsequent facts in our possession. It is, as we have said elsewhere, one of the peculiar gifts of M. de Grimm, to forestall, in nearly every instance, the judgment of posterity. In other critical writers we often find entertainment from the discrepancy between the prophecy and the result; but this very rarely happens with him. With reference to Madame de Staël, he has from the first spoken of her in the highest terms, even in the notice of the very early attempt which we subjoin. It is, as will be seen, of a comedy. It is strange that Madame de Staël has written so little that is comic, for her powers in that way were really great,--a fact which would not exactly be imagined from her graver works. In several brilliant instances, of late years, humour, seriousness, and pathos have been alternate in the same work; but Madame de Staël has never varied the two latter with the flashes of her wit. Very few tokens of it, indeed, exist, except in the little comedies, composed solely for family representation, which are published among her posthumous works. But these are excellent. Some passages in "Le Capitaine Kernadec," remind us of Molière. The notice, of which we have been speaking, is as follows. It is dated in 1778. "Pendant que M. Necker fait des arrêts qui le couvrent de gloire, et qui rendront son administration éternellement chère à la France; pendant que Madame Necker renonce à toutes les douceurs de la société pour consacrer ses soins à l'établissement d'un nouvel hospice de charité; leur fille, un enfant de douze ans,* mais qui annonce déjà des talens au dessus de son âge, s'amuse à composer de petites comédies dans le goût des demi-drames de M. de SaintMarc. Elle vient d'en faire une en deux actes, intitulée Les Inconvéniens de la Vie de Paris, qui n'est pas seulement fort étonnante à son âge, mais qui a paru même fort supérieure à tous ses modèles. C'est une mère qui a deux filles, l'une élevée dans la simplicité de la vie champêtre, l'autre dan tous les grands airs de la capitale. Cette dernière est sa favorite, grâce à son esprit et à sa gentillese; mais le malheur où cette mère se trouve réduite par la perte d'un procès considérable lui fait voir bientôt laquelle des deux méritait le mieux son estime et sa tendresse. Les scènes de ce petit drame sont bien liées, les caractères soutenus, et le développement de l'intrigue plein de naturel et d'intérêt. M. Marmontel qui l'a vu représentée dans le salon de Saint Ouent par l'auteur et sa petite société, en a été touché jusq'aux larmes." Wo. FROM THE EXAMINER. Extract from a Letter from "Jonas, an Ex-Mail Horse.” SOON after, I found myself a fresh and healthy young horse, in the hands of a dealer:-and oh! Sir, now comes the bitter tale of Men change themselves sometimes into strange and disgusting animals, and think themselves happy and respectable; but never to the deadliest foe I have had, would I wish the misery of being, as I was, tortured to death in the traces of that curse upon horse-flesh, a fast-travelling mail. I have much to say, and I am sure that from so intelligent and all-knowing a being, you would like to hear much; but I have been of late so distressed for breath, * She was not more than ten years old. that I have the greatest horror of wasting it: I will, therefore, only just beg you to imagine, as well as you can, the panting, the toil, the sweat, the agony, the terrors, the pain-the labouring of the heart and lungs-the reeling of the head--the sinking of the knees -the bursting of the eyes-the lolling tongue-the parched throat -the brutal and maliciously-aimed scourgings-and all the dreadful miseries to which the poor animal is doomed who, for the despatch of business, must run ten miles an hour! You may imagine it as much as you will, but you must come infinitely short of the sad reality: I know it, but I cannot tell it. I felt a little consolation, one night, at the outset of the stage(we worked only seven miles an hour then)-to hear the guard (who having no passengers thought it unnecessary to take care of the bags, and had therefore perched himself on the box) say to the coachman, (excuse these parentheses, for I have the rumbling of the wheels yet in my head,) I felt a little consolation, I say, to hear him, after d- his eyes, remark to the coachman that there was a bill then in the house-(ah, Sir, I was in that house when I was not a horse)—for preventing cruelty to animals. I was consoled, Sir, for I hoped for some relief; but good heavens!" what a piece of work is man :"-" There is, is there?" said the dramdrinking brute who drove us, giving me at the same moment a furious cut over the eyes, though I assure you, Sir, I was then drawing more than my share, while the off-wheeler was running in slack traces;-"There is-is there?" said he, b his limbs -(and here, Sir, I could not help joining in his curse, which, for a horse, you know was wrong)" and there's another bill in the house, too, I hear 'em say, for making the mail run twelve miles an hour." I heard, and my heart sunk within me-I don't know if the bill passed, but we soon found that we must run ten miles in the hour. The first dreadful evening came on: in the 15th mile I laboured in agony: a hill was then before us, but we must not slacken:-the whip resounded;-the curse roared over our heads:-we strained-we panted-we reeled--we trembled-we groaned!-Already at the brow of the hill we had arrived, when my heart burst, and I was released from torment, and life in a moment! COLERIDGE. FROM THE SAME. THERE has lately issued from the press, a work entitled "Letters on England," by the Count de Soligny. If it be in truth the production of a foreigner, it displays the most acute penetration into our character and manners, and a very great felicity in sketching them. National prejudice, evinced in the first few letters, wears off by degrees, and, towards the end, the Count becomes VOL. III. No. 16.-Museum. 2 T tinged, on many subjects, with the Anglomanie. He does not, however, (and no wonder,) get reconciled to our gloomy and supercilious tone of society and deportment;-and gives us a few rubs on that subject, which it would be quite as well if we were to attend to. His observations extend to nearly all subjects-quite all, indeed, if we except politics, from which he has evinced the most scrupulous forbearance; unless, perhaps, the absence of this enthralling topic arises from the suppression by the translator, of the letters and passages which relate to it-for where was there ever a Frenchman of the nineteenth century, who could talk or write for half an hour without its introduction?—With the exception of this, however, the book touches on all things;-character, society, external scenery, both of town and country-and, above all, literature, the drama, and the arts. With regard to poetry, M. de Soligny confesses himself to be quite a convert to the English taste, and, what is indeed strange, is a most ardent partisan of the Lake School! We believe he is the first of his country.— We shall choose our extract from the notice of Mr. Coleridge. (-Each of our most prominent poets is separately discussed.-) What follows may, perhaps, account for and excuse the admiration of his friends, for certainly,-as his eulogist partly admits,-those who have no knowledge of that gentleman but from his "prent bukes," cannot be expected to be so high or so lavish in his praise : "After this account of Coleridge's published works, you will, perhaps, think that I am hardly entitled to speak, as I have done at the beginning of this letter, of the extent and power of his genius. But I have heard him talk!—and, when this has happened to any one, it seems to be an understood thing here, that, from that time forth, he may be as enthusiastic as he pleases in his admiration of Coleridge's powers, without incurring the charge of extravagance. In truth, the first evening passed with this person, if he happens to be in a talking mood, (and when is he not?) is an era in a man's life. I had no true notion of what is called the natural gift of eloquence, till I had been present at this extraordinary exhibitionfor it is literally such. You do not go to converse, or to hear others converse; for it is the fault of Coleridge that, where he is, there can be no conversation. You go to hear him talk, and you expect and desire to hear nothing else. Between his prose writing and his talking, there is no sort of comparison. If what he says in the course of one evening could be written down, it would probably be worth all the prose he has ever published, in whatever light it were regarded; whether as to depth of thought, splendour of imagery, felicity of illustration, extent and variety of learning, or richness, purity, and elegance of diction. His talking is as extraor dinary as the chess-playing of the mechanical figure that was exhibited some years ago in Paris. You sit, and witness it in silent admiration, and wonder how it can be: and, like that, there's no puzzling or putting him out. He seems wound up, and must go on to the end. But when that end will arrive no one can guess; so that the spectators are frequently obliged to get up and go away in the middle of the game-not being able to anticipate any finish to it. Like that celebrated figure too, he always comes off triumphant. I never heard of any one having a chance with him: in fact, if there were not an evident appearance of his feeling all that he says, at the time he says it, he could be considered in no other light than as a wonderful talking machine, that talks on and on, because it can't help it. But, perhaps, Coleridge's eloquence might, with more truth, be compared to Catalani's singing. It is as rich, as brilliant, as dazzling, and as inexhaustible as that; and can as little be followed by the orchestras who are to accompany and fill up the pauses of it, or the audience who are listening to it. It may be full of inaccuracies and solecisms for what any one knows; and there are not wanting many to assert, that this is the case in both instances; but in neither can any one detect |