was released from torment, and life in a moment!-Examiner. A JACOBITE SONG. Welcome, welcome, my clansmen bold, Our hearts though few, are staunch and true, Our Prince's plume is the eagle's feather, A hunting in freedom the stout red deer, And the right of the Chevalier. 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 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 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- Which throbs in holy ecstasy, Tell that the spotless innocent Sweet boy! pour forth thy guileless pray`r, No harsh refusal can be given. Oh, might his infant orison Find grace before the Almighty throne, With hopes of heavenly bliss elate, In welcome death I'd close my eyes, 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 Yes! there was once a time, for then But loved this quiet valley too. But now I need the bustling world, The excitement which its vortex gives- Although I feel contempt and hate To feel how needful 'tis to me. 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 haying 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 ; Its tumult and wrath in, |