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 exhibition-for, 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 extraordinary as the chessplaying 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 and point them out. Perhaps, the magical charm of both consists in the appearance of animated and fervent sincerity, which accompanies the sentiment of what they are delivering; which is not a little aided by the angelic, but somewhat vague and unmeaning smile, which is almost always playing about the lips of both. Finally, it must be confessed, that we are apt soon to get satisfied, if not satiated, with the hearing of both. They surprise and delight us for a time, but are too much beyond our reach, and, perhaps, interfere too much with our self-love, to create a permanent sympathy, Nothing but the exquisite simplicity, and appearance of good-nature and sincerity, accompanying both, has permitted them to be tolerated so long as they have.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, UNDER A DRAWING REPRESENTING A WEEPING FEMALE WATCHING A CHILD AT PRAYER.

THAT dewy eye, whose fringed lid

Just shades its beauteous orb of blue,—

That upturn'd forehead, almost hid

By glossy locks of golden hue,—

Those rosy hands with fervour prest,

And stretch'd devoutly tow'rd the sky-
That quivering lip-that heaving breast,

Which throbs in holy ecstasy,-

Tell that the spotless innocent
Breathes a petition to his God,
While angels' wings are kindly lent
To bear it to their best abode.

Sweet boy! pour forth thy guileless pray'r,
And let its incense mount to Heaven ;
For sure to one so pure and fair

No harsh refusal can be given.

Oh, might his infant orison

Find grace before the Almighty throne,
Oh, might the virtues of my son
For all his mother's faults atone,

With hopes of heavenly bliss elate,

In welcome death I'd close my eyes,
Sure that we here should separate
Only to meet in Paradise.

There are two kinds of gaiety. The one arises from want of heart:-being touched by no pity, sympathizing with no pain, even of its own causing,-it shines and glitters like a frost-bound river in the gleaming sun. The other springs from excess of heart-that is, from a heart overflowing with kindliness towards all men and all things; and, suffering under no superadded grief, it is light from the happiness which it causes-from the happiness which it sees. This may be compared to the same river, sparkling and smiling under the sun of summer-and running on to give fertility and encrease to all within, and even to many beyond, its reach.

WRITTEN IN A VALLEY IN GERMANY.

Time was, when I had gladly dwelt

In this sequestered lovely glen—
Among these peaceful hills, nor felt
A wish to mingle more with men.

Miss Baillie has lately edited a volume of small pieces of poetry" for the benefit of a friend." It is published by subscription, and, we believe, is not sold-a sufficient number of copies for the subscribers having only been struck off. From the editor's extensive literary connections, she has been able to include in the list of names those of many of our highest poets, as well as of persons of every rank in letters. We give the following jeud'esprit of Mr. Southey's. We should not, à priori, have thought him likely to write this good-humoured quiz on himself and his confraternity :

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY, BY ONE OF THE LAKE POETS.

How does the water come down at Lodore?

Here it comes sparkling,

And there it lies darkling ;
Here smoking and frothing,

Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along, conflicting strong;
Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,

Showering and springing,

Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking.

Turning and twisting

Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting

With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in ;

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,

And quivering and shivering,

And hitting and splitting,

And shining and twining,

And rattling and battling,

And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,

And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,