LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH.

TDB true biographical interest lies in the adventures or the feelings of the hero, or in the display of the growth and forma- tion of his mind. An autobiography may not be suffieient to give us a complete picture of the life and character of an in- dividual ; of his manners it cannot convey more than an im- perfect idea ; but without his own confessions no man's life can be thoroughly written. Even BOSWELL'S JOH NsON, with all its excellence, cannot be considered a perfect biography, if judged by the highest standard ; for of half the Doctor's life we know but little more than the leading events, and are left to guess at the bitterness of his early struggles for subsistence in London, and the minute details of his domestic life and habits during that period; whilst we possess not much better evidence as to the development of his mind than the commentaries and speculations of BOZZY himself. It may be guessed from these remarks, that we consider a perfect biography should resemble a drama, where the interest centres in a single person, and where the other characters, with whatever truth and spirit they may be drawn, are entirely subordinate to the principal ; and whence every thing, moreover, should be rigidly banished which does not tend to carry on the story or develop the character. Hence, a work may be curious, instructive, entertaining, and even possess in parts a considerable interest, without coming up to our notions of a bi'graphy. And such is the book before us, though oceinionally clogged with extracts that rather belong to the writings of MACKINTOSH that to his life.

The sources from which Mr. MACKINTOSH drew the materials for this memoir of his father are fourfold. (1.) A charming auto- biographical sketch, though dashed with a little disquisition, opens the subject, and brings down the life till 1785, when MACKIN- TOSH, iu his twentieth year, was a student at Edinburgh. (2.) The Journals and Letters of Sir JAMES furnish a large stock of matter ; but as the journals are principally occupied with his read- ing ue his Indian excursions, they are chiefly critical or descrip- tive; and tire letters written from India mostly relate to public affairs. The criticism, however, is that of an able craftsman and ac- complished scholar; and the more elaborate pieces are often beauti- ful, it' not biographical. The letters present a picture of the terror with which the success of NAPOLEON had affected the calmest mbels; showing also how little was known of the actual state of the Continent, and what little use even philosophers make of the past when judging of the present. (3.) The friends of Sir JAMES have furnished reminiscences of the man or portraits of his mind. Among these, Mr. BASIL MONTAGU gives an interest- ing sketch of some early circuit adventures,—though he contrives to tell as much-of himself as of his hero; Lord ABINGER writes an encomiastic letter, which is clear in its few facts, but misty in its description ; JEFFREY'S epistle is general, but critical amid all its generalities ; and SIDNEY SMITH has sent a letter remarkable for its terseness, vigour, and discrimination, and when we consider to whom it was sent, and upon what occasion, distinguished for blunt honesty. (4.) Miss MACKINTOSH has in a few pages given an account of the last illness of her father; which, even if com-

pared with the autobiographical introduction, may be pronounced the gem of the volume. We know of nothing beyond it in bio- graphical writing for graphic simplicity and truth; and if it be rather minute, the minuteness forms its charm. We see the change which coming dissolution is working in the mind of the man ; we catch glimpses of the respectful, unobtrusive earnestness of the daughter, to bring the philosopher into the paths of holiness ; we perceive faith increasing with decreasing intellect, and detect in the last intelligible though scarcely con- nected sentence of the dying metaphysician the ruling passion

strong in death. The matter, various in its nature, and collected from such various quarters, is strung together by Mr. R.- J.

MACKINTOSH in a connected narrative; which is characterized by impartiality, and more was hardly to be looked for. The most interesting part of life is when a man is forming his character, and struggling with the difficulties of starting in the world : of this a son can know nothing, and is not always likely to hear much. Neither is so near a relative well qualified to observe and bring out those weaknesses of character or peculiarities of manner which go to make up the mental portrait, especially when the separation is recent. It follows, that the volumes before us

are rather memoirs pour servir than actual memoirs. Whether fuller materials are in existence, or will ever be published, is another question. But though there is not enough in this book to furnish a com- plete life of MACKINTOSH, there is enough to show that he was a very fortunate man, although the Whigs did overlook him at the close of life. His father was a Scotch officer with a small patri- monial property : in the exercise of his profession he was much from home, and in the habit, it would appear, of spending the whole of his income on himself. Young JAMIE at ten years of age. was sent to school ; where he acquired little save the love and practice of reading, which in such a case was pretty sure to be desultory. At fifteen he went to Aberdeen College ; where his studies were of necessity more methodical, but not more so than the College discipline enforced. IIis most eminent companion here was ROBERT Hata.; whose auspicious influence he acknow- ledged through life, and in conjunction with whom a debating society was founded. In this club, and in a similar one at Edin- burgh, he doubtless laid the foundation of that ready command of language and smart and epigrammatic mode of retort that stood him in good stead in the Nuclide"? Gallica? ; thiaigh he seems to attribute, and perhaps truly, his abstract and distaiisitional man- ner to the same school. At Aberdeen he remained four years ; varying his graver studies by writing verses and falling. in love. In his nineteenth year he quitted College, "with little regular and exact knowledge, but with considerable activity of mind, and boundless literary ambition." In fixing upon a profession, his thoughts were first turned to the Scottish bar—but his lather's means were considered too scanty : he next suggested that of a London bookseller—but here again the want of capital interposed an obstacle. At last medicine was fixed upon, and he set out for Edinburgh.

At the Scottish capital he seems to have talked and read a good deal more than he studied ; and to have beep, in the words of the song, "all for love, and a little for the bottle." His medical know- ledge and general ability were, however, sufficient to enable him to take his degree; and early in the year following (178S), our new- made doctor started for London. Soon after his arrival, he married ; but how he lived for the next three years, we can only guess. His father's death gave him the property ofa small estate, burdened with an annuity ; and the available income he appears to have forestalled. He also, after making some unsuccessful attempts in the medical world, became a member of the "press-gang ;" and was regularly engaged on the Oracle newspaper, besides contributing to other journals. In the intermediate period between 1788 and 1791 (his son considers in 1789, but a reference to the books of his inn would have fixed the exact time), he foresook medicine for the law: but in these years we see no trace of his pursuing its study; nor, if he had pursued it, can we perceive, with his indolent, careless, and unbusiness-like habits, coupled with his want of connexion, that he would have stood much chance of success. The publication of Mr. BURKE'S Reflections, and the offer of 301. from a bookseller, pro- duced the Vindicice Gallia?. His habits of controversy, his de- sultory historical and political reading, and his former study of BURKE'S style, were all of service ; and having to write against time, Ile was unable to be diffusive or trimming. Its appearance may be said to have made his fortune, and to have raised Mr. MACKINTOSH from the embarrassed adventurer to the popular author. He was in- troduced to the leading men of the Whig party, and eventually to some of the Tories ; for the march of the Revolution somewhat ter- 'rifled the Vindicator, and induced him iu after editions to soften his stronger passages a little. He now also began to pursue with some vigour the study of the law, and in 1795 was called to the bar ; but, in the words of Lord ABINGER, " his progress at the commence- ment was not equal to his just pretensions. He still therefore con- tinued to write for the press, and in 1799 began his Lectures on the Law of Nature and Nations. Whether his public retiactations or his private intimacies with the enemy had disgusted his party —whether they preferred to lose a partisan rather than listen to his expositions—or whether their neglect was merely another in- stance of Whig impolicy and indolence—we know not; but, whilst the Tories exerted themselves in procuring the use of Lincoln's Inn Hall, his party friends did nut even patronize his lectures. "The number of my pupils," he writes to a friend, "amounted to about one hundred and fifty • among whom are six Peers, a dozen Members of the House of dommons, not one of either sort from my own friends in Opposition, except Lord Holland and Brog- den. I own this piqued me not a little; but I owe duties to my own character, which their ingratitude shall not provoke me to violate. The other party have shown great patronage of the undertaking.. Grant, Lord Minto, S. Louglas, Canning, &c. have attended, most of them regularly." It does not appear from evidence that he ever deserted his party; though many of its mem- bers thought so, and the acceptance of the Recordership of Bom- bay a few years after (in 1803) seemed to give some handle to the charge. But the truth seems to be, that MACKINTOSH was a moderate politician, whom the excesses of the Revolution and the successes of BONAPARTE alike frightened, and whom the Tories skilfully removed from the field of action when they found him incorruptible. We have passed over the trial of PELTIER; and the remaining points of his career are too public to require much notice. Ile went to India to acquire a competence (for, notwithstanding his great reputation, his income was only 1200/. a year after seven years' practice); but, as his son intimates, without considering the state of society ; and his ill-health and impatience together brought him back too early to enable him to receive the full advantages of the temporary banishment. On his return (in 1812), he declined PERCEVA Cs offer of a seat in Parliament and in office; joined his old friends the Whigs; and fought steadily, though not very boldly, in their ranks, till his death. His friends and family ap- pear to consider him an ill-used and neglected man ; • for the junction with CANNING in 1827 only made him a Privy Councillor, and a subordinate palm at the India Board was all he got from the GREY Ministry. That men of less celebrity and less intellectual merit sere more lavishly rewarded, is true; but there is no blinking the fact, that Sir JAMES had outlived his political uses. Ile was not a practical man; he was not a ready debater ; he was some- what too apt to daily courtesies with the enemy ; and wanted then, if lie ever possessed, the nerve and courage— perhaps the impudence—to contend with the insolent and desperate faction the Reform Bill was about to sting into madness.

Alter all, too, his reputation was in some degree factitious. The

glory or Iluerce was reflected on his antagonist. Had MACKIN- 'rosir slowly made his way into the world without having written the V i ndicice, he might have delivered his Lectures with private and even public approbation, but he never would have figured in Lincoln's Inn Hall, and numbered peers and statesmen amongst his audience. The unapt eloquence of his defence of PELTIER would have been riilieuled instead of pardoned ; and when he wearied the House el Commons with a lecture, no association of ideas would have reminded the Members that Buittem wearied their fathers. That he had abilities to acquire a permanent fame, there can be little question but, as he frequently complains in his Journal, he wanted resolution to choose and steadiness to apply. He fol- lowed the law for a livelihood; and when he retired from the bench, lie vacillated between politics and history, till advancing years cut short his purpose with his life. The best and the worst that can be said of him, perhaps, is, that lie was a good man, who might have been a great one ; but in the opinion of a friend who knew him thoroughly (Ronene Hard.), his greatness would have most adorned a protessorship,—a mode of life that was the earliest vision and the latest dream of JAMES MAC K- ,INTOSII. had this choice been made in the prime of life, it is pro- bable that the discipline and stimulus of duty, united, would have confined him to a more methodical course of study, and compelled him to a more concentrated exertion, which might have ended in the production of a work on legal or metaphysical science, that could have taken its place beside the Commentaries of BLACK- STONE or the Moral Sentiments of SMITH. We say it is probable; for it is scarcely certain. "The cask long retains the scent which it first receives ;" and the dreamy diffusiveness of the debating society stuck by MACKINTOSH to the last. Neither was his mind happily adapted to achieve greatness; for.its leading powers were antagonistical. His genius disposed him to speculation ; his am- bition, or rather a morbid longing, rendered him desirous of the exciting glories of a public career.

We have spoken of the autobiography, and our first extracts shall he taken from it. The following touching passages, relating to his childish home and early affections, are worth whole pages of dry and pompous generality at second or third hand; and his day-dreams remind one of Rasselas.

"I was reared with great care and tenderness by my mother, who lived with her mother and sisters at a small house called Clune. I can now, at the dis- tance of twenty years and fifteen thousand miles, call before me, with great dis- tinctness. the prospect from the window of cur little parlour of the lake with its uninterrupted expanse of twenty-four miles, and its walls of perpendi- cular wooded rock ; the road that leads down to the cottage, all its windings all the smallest objects on each side of it ; the little path where we walked

down the burn,' and the tuif seat where we rested, are more present to my fancy than any other objects in nature. My mother was not happy. Sly father, a slumber n and younger brother, found his pay not too much for his own ex- penses; and all the kindness of her family did not deliver her mind from the feeling of dependence. This, perhaps, conttibuted to the extreme affection which she felt for me. There is nothing whiA so much lightens the Widen of receiving benefits as the pleasure of conferring them. I alone depended on her. She loved me with that tinniness which we ate naturally disposed to cherish for the companion of our poverty. The only infant in a family of several women, they rivalled each other in kindness and indulgence towards me ; and I think I. can ut this day discover in my character ninny of the effects of this early education." * lu the year 1779, I parted from my good and fond mother ; who went to

England to my father, then in camp near Plymouth, and who soon after accom- panied him to Gibraltar, where she died She wrote me two tenets, in one of which she described the action between Sir George Rodney and Dun Juan Langara, of which she was an eye-witness; and in her last she sent me two Scotch bank-notes of we pound each, which seemed at that time an inex- haustible fortune."

PAY-DREAMING.

" About the same time, I read the old translation (called Dryden's) of Plu- torch's Lives, and lac/yard's Roman History. 1 well remember that the perusal of the last led me into a ridiculous habit, from which I shall never be totally free. I used to fancy myself Empeior of Constantinople. 1 disnibuted (dikes and provinces amongst icy schoolfellows. I loaded my favourites with dignity and power, and I often made the objects of my dislike kel the weight of my imperial resentment. I carried on the series of political events in solitude for several hours ; I resumed them and continued them from day to day for months. Ever since, 1 have been more prone to building castles in the air than most others. My castle-building has always been of a singular kind. It was not the anticipation of u sanguine disposition, expecting extraordinary success in its pursuits. Sly disposition is not sanguine; and my visions have generally regarded things as touch unconnected with my ordinary pursuits, and as little to tie exp. cted, as the clown of Constantinople at the school of Fortiose. These faucies, indeed, have never amounted to conviction ; or, in other words, they never influenced my actions; but I must confess that they have often been as steady and of regular recurrence as conviction itself, and that they have sumetimes erected a little faint expectation,—a state of mind in which my wonder that they should be realised would not be so great as it rationally ought

to be. The indulgence of this die g propensity produces good and bad consequences. It pioduces indolence, improvidence, cheerfulness; a study is its favourite scene; and I have no doubt that many a man, surrounded by piles of folios, and apparently engaged in the most profound researches, is in reality often employed in distributing the offices and provinces of the empire of Con-

stantinople."

Let us jump at once from the opening to the) closing scene. It is the one by his daughter that has been already alluded to.

" LIecontiuueJ, however, notwithstanding, very feeble and very low ; but it was hoped this was only the effect of his being unable to take solid food, and of much medicine. Ile took his airing every day ; seemed to occupy himself a. amend in his library ; and, from ignorance of the cause of his illness, he was looked upon as cenvaleseent. He did not think so himself; and so very re- markable a change took place in many of his habits, and even in his manner of thinking and meow upon many Subj,ets, that I must own neither did I ever feel he was recovering, though I struggled against the conviction, which was con-

tinually pressed upon me, that he was soon to be taken from us. His nights were very wakeful, and spent in much uneasiness of body ; he became vett. ',Rent and thoughtful, had his Bible frequently open before him, spoke more

than usual upon religious subjects; perhaps it would be more correct to say -upon God, and his disposition towards nem. His mind seemed less occupied with speculations, and more with his own personal relationship to hie Creator. During this period, likewise, he spoke habitually more of his family and friends, of his children and grandehilthen, than from the nature and variety of his oc- cupations he had often opportunities of indulging in.

" But the two most remarkable changes which I observed in him at this period, were regarding politics and his own health, both of which had tier many years naturally engaged a large share of his attention—the one from inclination, the other from a lung course of delicate health; he now spoke rarely upon either. As regards politics, this was the more remarkable, occurring as it did at a moment of general excitement, in consequence of the sudden resignation of his own political friends, and the Duke of Wellington having been desired by the King to form a new Administration. Nothing else was talked of, and

every body ve ho came to see hint came full of this one subject. For the first time in his snug and active life lie remained quiet and unexcited; the little he did say WAS very calmly tittered; and he spoke like one who had no more interest in the changes than that springing from the love of order, justice, and the wellbeing of his country, which were inextinguiehable in his mind.

" Though he suffered constant palm he did nut look to medical assistance with much anxiety or hope. He took the medieines offered to him, but he had lost all interest in them. Nor did he, as formerly, watch for the au rival of Dr. Darling ; though he entertained a very high opinion of his skill, and felt much indebted to hint fur Lis unweat ied attention to him during a period of many years. This struck me very much : he had always been partial to medicine as a science, and, fr3m the weak state of health he had been in for many years, he had acquired a habit of watching his symptoms, and trying different remedies to a degree we sometimes lamented. " During the week preceding his last illness, I was alone with him, as he was

pronounced sufficiently recovered to admit of his family engagementshis illness had interrupted. No one at this pet iod had the slightest conception

of his real state; he appeared more languid, but less suffering, than be had dune for some days. We were desired to urge him to go out in the carriage every day ; and he was so gentle and unresisting, that he consented, contrary often to his own inclination, to take an airing most days. Ile gave up at this time going down to his library, and preferred sitting in the thawing-room with me ; he sometimes required me to read to him, but more generally he read to himself. He did not like me to be long an ay from him, and though he talked little, he seemed pleased to have me with him. He was often very thoughtful, and it was evident he was contemplating the probability of his death. Many things I did not observe so much at the time have since convinced me of this. The character of his conversation, when he did speak, was most affecting: he talked of his own past life with so much humility and so much severity, scented so little conscious of his great and good qualities, and so desirous that his children should profit by what he called his miters. His children were continually the .objects of thoughts at this time, as was manifest from his frequently speaking of them.

" At other times he would speak of God with more reverence and awe than I

have almost ever met with. His voice fell, his whole person seemed to bow

down, as if conscious of a superior presence, while in a subdued, solemn, deeply-thoughtful manner, lee slowly expressed himself. He allowed me to read to him passages out of different authors, listening so meekly and so attentively

to what I read, as at times almost to overpower me. He did not in many things

agree with them ; and he gave his reasons so calmly and so clearly, that I often could not answer him, though I did not always feel convinced by ( I was

going to say) his arguments, but this would be too strong a terns for the gentle,

humble, inquiring character of these conversations, in which he seemed think- ing aloud, and expressing the difficulties of an honest mid deeply serious. mind. I one day read to hint the 29th chapter of Job ; which affected him to tears.

Our Lord Jesus Christ was very frequently the subject of his thoughts; he seemed often perplexed, and unable to comprehend much of his history. Ile once said to me, It is a great mystety to me: I cannot understand it.' At another time, lie told me, that, during the many sleepless nights he passed, the contemplation of the character of Jesus Christ, and thoughts concerning the Gospel, with prayer to God, was his chief occupation. lie spoke of the delight he had in dwelling upon his noble character. I have beard his voice falter as he repeated, ' He went about doing good ;' but he added, ' There is much con- nected with him I cannot understand.' I cannot attempt to give his own words, but his difficulty lay in the account given of the manner in which Jesus becomes the Saviour of men.

" I have already mentioned that he suffered much pain. One morning he told me, that he had been praying to God to deliver hint from his sufferings, and to permit him to die. 1 spoke of the solemnity of death, and the awfulness of meeting God, and that I felt we ought first to seek of God to be prepared by him to meet him. Ile was silent a little, and thoughtful ; and then answered,

I thought we might have such perfect confidence in God, that we might even venture to make known to him all our sufferings and all our wants, and that he would not be offended : it was in this belief I asked him to put an ecd to my sufferings; with submission, however, I desire to ask it.' On another occasion, I told him a friend had prayed for him : he seemed pleased, and said, ' The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much." 1 must here just observe, that the full force of such quotations of the Scripture by my father, will not be felt in a country where they are so common, except I further add, that it was no habit of his; and whenever he used Scripture language as the expression of his feelings, he did so with much thought and great solemnity of manner.

" On Monday, May 22d, he was finally taken ill. During Tuesday, Wed- nesday, and part of Thursday, our dear father knew those around hint, and oc- casionally spoke to each of us in a way that proved he did ; and even up to Saturday, the day he ceased to speak at all, there was a graciousness in his man- ner, when his medical friends approached his bedside, that affected me very much ; he smiled so benignantly on them, did what they required of him so willingly, and once or twice expressed pleasure in wade them, with such ani- mation and in a tone and manner so unusual with him. There was in all this no anxiety about himself visible; no eagerness for their help was expressed; it was as his friends that he seemed glad to see them. It was some mitigation of one suffering during the succeeding days, that he appeared to be free from pain of any kind. Indeed, no word escaped him by which we could have learnt that any thing was the matter with him. " At the same time that he seemed so unconcerned about his body, the ac-

tivity of his mind was truly amazing. Though all his ideas were in confusion,

he poured out his accurate expressions of deep thought upon the many subjects that had been the study of his life, with an energy and in a tone and manner that reminded us of former years, and was so peculiar to him when in health and vigour. He had a look of deep thoughtfulness, spoke with a powerful voice, weighed his words, and sometimes stopped, not satisfied with a word he had used, and he did not go on until he found the one which pleased him. He watched us as we moved about hint, but he coutinued talking ; and if lie asked a question, he waited for an answer. At one time he suddenly stopped and sand, What is the name of that man two writes upon Decrees and upon Election ?' None of us could satisfy him ; and, after repeating his question, lie paused some time, and then added with a smile, ' He cannot frighten me

now.'

On Saturday, a great change took place ; lie became very silent, and had the appearance of one listening ; the intelligence of his countenance did not diminish, it only changed its character ; a look of peace and dignity was mingled with it, such as I had never witnessed in that dear face before. Whenever a word from the Scriptures was repeated to him, he always manifested that be heard it ; and I especially observed that, at every mention of the name of Jesus Christ, if his eyes were closed, he always opened them, and looked at the person who had spoken. I said to him at one time, 'Jesus Christ loves you •' he answered slowly, and pausing between each word, 'Jesus Christ—lave—the same thing.' He uttered these last words with a most sweet. smile. After a lung silence, he said, ' I believe—.' We said, in a voice of ineiiiiry—' In God? ' He answered —' In Jesus.' Ile spoke but once inure after this. Upon our inquiry how he felt, he said he was happy.' "From that time to NVednesday morning at a quarter before six, when he breathed his last, we waited upon and watched beside him; but lie took no more notice of us, and, judging by his tiertifffiel brow, his calm, though in- creasingly serious and solemn countenance, he willingly yielded up his spirit into the hands of Him whom he had proved to be indeed a most faithful Creator.

His remains were removed from his house in Latigham Place, where he died, on the 30th of May, for interment at the parish.church of Hampstead, on the 4th of June.

It should have been said that part of the Journal consists of notes made during, several visits to I'aris, in 1802,1814, and under CHARLES the Tenth, and of remarks upon London society after his return from India. They have not much relation to himself, but they are perhaps the most amusing parts of the book. We take a few anecdotes.

now A KING ANSWIMS AN ARGU3IENT.

"Mr. Dundas said that, from his experience in affairs, lie bad been taught to have very little faith in historians. ' For instance,' insisted lie, ' the moth es I and my colleagues have assigned for our resignation, drawn from the Popery question, no historian will believe ; aid, if any mentions it, he will treat it as a mere pretext to cover the real motive, and he will support his representation by very plausible arguments: yet nothing can be mole true than that the reason we assigned was the real one. The King was prepared to oppose us on the Popery question. As early as the time of the Falun, I had a conversation with

him on the subject.' I hope,' said the King, ' Government is not pledged to any thing in favour of the Romanists' (that was his expression). ' No,' was my answer ; abut it will be a matter for future consideration, whether, to render the measure the more efficient, it will not be proper to embrace diem in some liberal plan of policy." What say you to my coronation oath" asked the King. ' That can only apply to your Majesty, 1 conceive, in your executive capacity : it does not refer to you as part of the Legislature.' • None of your Scotch metaphysics, Mr. Dundas,' replied the King."

A DIPLOMATIC errev.

" Some anecdotes relating to Bonaparte were thrown nut. He was, in a curious degree, ignorant of the early circumstances of the Revolution. When iu Egypt, lie learned many of them in conversation with his fellow General, Desaix. Ile was particularly struck and affected by the events which led to the downfal of the unfortunate Louis the Sixteenth. ' Oh, that he had had nie near him I' would he often exclaim. Ile happened one day to ask a person whether it was trite that Talleyrand hail ever been a Bishop. The person questioned, afraid of being discovered by his master in a falsehood, yet conscious of the otli:nce which he might give to so powerful a minister as Talleyrand, framed his answer with ludicrous circumspection: ' Tout le monde le dit, et awl, je le crois.'"

A GOURMAND.

" Cambacres, who, you know, was a remarkable gourmand, was one day at council with Napoleon; and he was observed, when the hour became very late, to show great symptoms of impatience and restlessness. He at last wrote a note, which he called to a gentleman usher in waiting to carry. Napoleon, suspecting the contents, nodded to an aide.de-camp to intercept the despatch. As he took it into his hands, Cambaciarem begged earnestly that lie would not read a trifliug note on familiar matters. Napoleon, however, as is his manner, persisted, and found it to be a note to the conk, containing only the following woeds: 'Garde.: les entremets—des rotis soul perdus.'"

A SEVERE QUESTION.

" Set out for the Dutchess of Wellington's. We were obstructed by a long line of carriages, and did not get in till after eleven. Adair introduced me to a woman of considerable talents, Madame de Chatenav ; who asked me the very severe question, ' What were the works by which I had gained so high a repu- tation?' I was obliged, as usual, to have recourse to my projects."

LOUIS PIIILIP.

" Camille Jourdan called on me fur about an hour on his way to dine with the Duke of Orleans at Twickenham. He is so very amiable a man, that I always see and hear him with pleasure, even when his mild character produces those ambiguous and indecisive political opinions to which men of such a cha- racter are liable. After he was gone, I received a note from him, begging me, in the name of the Duke of Orleans, to come to dinner; and I yielded to curi- osity. I found them in a large and very handsome house on the banks of the river, before you come to the village. The Duke told me that lie bad, many years ago, translated the greater part of my book against Burke. He presented me to the Dutchess. They are both as civil, humble, and easily pleased, as if they had been Mr. Williams and Miss Jones. The children are pretty—the Due de Chartres, the Duke de Nemours, and three Princesses. The second Duke, on being asked his name, could only say '

HOUSE OF COMMONS CURRYCOMB.

" F— said it was delightful to see how completely the currycomb of the House of Commons had taken off all the gilding and lackering that Castlereagh had brought from the Congress."

ESTIMATE OF FRANCIS IIORNF.R.

" The only event which now appears interesting to me, is the scene in the Ilouse of Commons on Monday." Lord Morpeth opened it in II speech so per-

fect, that it might have been well placed as a passage in the most elegant Eng- lish writer: it was full of feeling ; every topic was skilfully presented, and contained, by a sort of prudence which is a part of taste, within safe limits; he slid over the thinnest ice without cracking it. Canning filled well what would

• The motion for a new writ for St. Mawes. in the room of the late Mr. Horner.

have heel, the Vile pare of a calm observer ot Loraer's iodate life and talents. Mannera Sutton's most affecting speech was a tributeof affection from a private friend become a political enemy ; Lord Lascelles, at the head of the country gentlemen of England, c!osing this affecting, improviug, and most memorable scene, by declaring, ' that if the sense of the House could have been taken on this occasion, it would have been unanimous.' I may say, without exaggera- tion, that never were so many words uttered without the least suspicion of ex - aggeration ; and that never was so much honour paid in any age or nation to intrinsic claims alone. A Howard introduced, and an English House of Cum- moth: adopted, the proposition of thus honouring the memory of a man of thirty-eight, the sun of a shopkeeper, who never tilled an ufliee ur had the power of obliging a living creature, and whose grand title to this distinction was the belief of his virtue. [low honourable to the age and to the House ! A country where such seutimenta prevail is nut ripe fur destruction."

ROMILLT AND naoccuam.

— A dinner of Abolitionists at Stephen's.—Wilberforce, Romilly, Brougham, &c. &v. Several hortible accounts of cruelty by masters to their slaves. I admired the honest fervour of Stephen's zeal, as well as the vigour of his understanding. Wilberforce's natural levity and desultoriness were very tibservahle in a conversation about business, which afforded no scope for his gentle liveliness. Before business, however, he showed more of his natural and charming pleasantry than I had seen before. I never observed any man so deeply and violently alh.eted by the recital of cruelty as Bomilly : he curbed his emotion with a like violence, but during the afternoon was irritable and gloomy. The address and insinuatiou of Brougham are so great. that nothing lint the bad temper which he cannot always hide, could hinder him front mastering every body as lie doe's Hominy. He leads others to his ; he generally appears at first to concur with theirs, and never more than half opposes it at once. This management is helped by an air of easy frankness, that would lay suspicion herself asleep. Ile will place himself at the head of an Opposition, among whom he is unpopular ; he will conquer the House of Gnomons, who hate, but who now begin to fear him."

We could take many more of a similar sort ; but we have gone far enough to indicate the nature of the work, and must refer the reader to the volumes. A little more concentration would have given them more force ; but as they are, they form a pleasing and interesting memorial of an amiable and emineut roan.