ciently remarkable, being old, for revival. Jaccompanied his refusal with some very severe The article on John Foster has more value; remarks on what he called the Laureate's being, it is stated, the only memoir of that apostacy from his former principles. His andistinguished writer which has yet appear writings. Take, for example, his review of tipathies did not, however, extend to Southey's ed. Mr. John Foster is better known as the Chronicles of the Cid, in which he does an essayist than a Baptist minister at Broad-ample justice to the genius and industry of its mead; and we read with interest, in these author." pages, that, from the moment when Robert Hall began to preach there, Foster resolved to cease lecturing, and became, though himself a good speaker, a patient listener to the great orator :

The portrait of an eminent contempora ry of the two last originals is graphic:

"William_Thorpe was another celebrated preacher in Bristol during the times of Hall and Foster. Some one, Coleridge, we be"Not one of the published portraits give lieve, who was intimate with all three, said any thing like an idea of Foster; the one by that 'Hall's mind was a fountain exhaustless Branwhite resembles him when he was youngin its resources, and Thorpe's a reservoir vast er; but as we saw him, we should not have in its capacity.' Mr. Thorpe possessed a prorecognized in it any traces of the original. digious memory, but he was by no means an Mr. Foster's face was large, and the features original-minded man. Fancy, reader, a permassive; the forehead was very high, and py-son of amazing bulk-a very Daniel Lambert ramidal in shape, being broadest at its lower in canonicals, and you will have a general portion. His head was covered by a very idea of Mr. Thorpe. Physically considered, evident curly wig, which one might at a glance discover was not of the most fashionable man

he was indeed a 'great man;' and if the term were applied, too, to his mental organization, ufacture. A huge pair of silver spectacles, it would be by no means inapplicable. His with circular glasses almost as big as penny abundant fat seemed to have availed itself of face was large, and so fleshy, that the superpieces, nearly concealed two dark small eyes, which glistened brightly beneath a couple of the laws of gravitation, and fallen down in shaggy eyebrows; the face was ploughed with huge folds beneath his chin. His head was deep lines, and the forehead furrowed all over partially bald, covered on the temples with with wrinkles of thought;' around his neck short curly black hair; his eyes were dark and was a dingy white cravat, and his coat was ill-bright, and the mouth possessed a very sweet fitting, and of a rusty black. Altogether he expression. Most bishop-like was his person, was the most slovenly-looking man we ever which, when attired in the gown, looked like a saw in a pulpit. As we are not going to write large terrestrial globe, with an equator of a critique on Mr. Foster's sermon, we shall not black silk girdling its majestic proportions. dwell upon it, but confine ourselves principally His arms, short, hung like the flippers of a to the describing his manner in the pulpit. monstrous turtle by his side, and, whenever he After he had given out his text in a mum- moved, the very pulpit creaked again. Mr. bling, gurgling, husky, voice, he commenced Thorpe's voice, as might be expected, from the somewhat in this way- Now, I dare say some depth and breadth of his chest, was sonorous of you will think I am going to preach a very and melodious; and occasionally, when he odd sermon from such an odd text;' and then poured forth a very torrent of eloquence, it he went on, gradually enlisting the attention of produced a most solemn impression. His his hearers, whilst he described in magnificent forte was gorgeous description, and the expolanguage, the idol temples of the East. Soon, sition of the prophetic books. No one surhis congregation was wrapt in wonder and de- passed him in this respect. We have heard light, as they listened to his gorgeous descrip- him hold an audience enchained for two mortions, and we do not think that one individual tal hours, by his wonderful power of wordpresent stirred hand or foot until his glowing painting, if such a word may be coined, to exdiscourse came to an end. Then long-sus- press just what we may mean. On one occapended breathing found indulgence in deep-sion, we well remember the prodigious imdrawn sighs, and every one gazed at every pression which he produced by a sudden quesone else, and looked or nodded admiration. tion; he had been describing the angel of Some remained for a time with lips apart and death as hovering over the vast audience, with eyes still fixed upon the pulpit, as if spell- a scroll in his hands, on which was inscribed bound; and all felt, on the termination of the the names of those who would be his next vicdiscourse, a relief from the pressure on the tims After a powerful passage, he suddenly intellect, which the ponderous stores, heaped on paused, and then with solemn emphasis exit from the magazine of the orator, had occa- claimed, 'And who amongst you has his name sioned.**Foster was a man of strong pre-written on that scroll? This will not, perjudices. In the year 1833, Robert Southey paid his last visit to his native city; and Mr. time was electrical." Foster was invite to meet him at the house of a mutual friend, but he declined doing so, and

haps, tell in narration, but the effect at the

The next noticeable person on our list

of extracts is Hannah More. Of her, the A rich sweep of meadows far below our fee author has attempted a sort of Daguerréo- closed by the renowned metropolis, its vast type portrait. The sketch contains a overhanging cloud now actually adorning the touching anecdote of Mrs. Garrick, which view, being umbered by the level sun-a we do not remember to have seen before-in the boundless fading blue, dim cupolas, and dusky red ariel roof of majestic circular extent, though the fond remembrance, consecrat- spires innumerable glittering or darkening ing relics, which is its touching element, is beneath it; in the midst one, in form and preserved in many a more familiar one:- stature proudly eminent, rising dark as a rock of black marble, and as stupendous-ST. "It is well known that Mrs. Garrick was PAUL'S CATHEDRAL. 'The clergyman of most devotedly attached to her dear Davy,' Highgate, possibly,' I said to myself. Yet as she called him. When the great tragedian there was a something of the remains of troubdied, his wife would not allow a single article lous thinking, a look of worn and wearied senin his room to be removed from its place; and sibility, that hardly suited the idea of fat, conas soon as the coffin was borne from the house, tented piety 'looking downward on the earth,' the room in which he died was locked up, and which, as yielding an English clergyman a for thirty years no one was permitted to enter tenth of the treasures of her 'ample lap,' may it. At the end of that period, Mrs. More in- very reasonably attract down to her even the formed me, she happened to be visiting her eye of an enlightened son of mother church. old friend Mrs. Garrick, whom she described He looked very like a comfortable priest, at as a little, bowed-down old woman, who went least, and only that cast of thought redeemed about leaning on a long gold-headed cane, the whole outer man from fulfilling the idea dressed in deep widow's mourning, and always of Thomson's 'round fat oily man of God,' talking of her dear Davy.' Some circumstan- What if that should be Coleridge himself? I ces occurred which rendered it necessary that meditated again; and reconnoitred my genshe should quit her residence, and Mrs. More tleman from a distance, whose only business was present with her when the long closed room seemed the same as mine, to catch the last of was opened. She said that when the door a glorious day unbroken by walls. After all, was thrown back on its hinges, and the win- perhaps, he is one of the happy, sleek cits dow-shutters unbarred, the room was actually located in romantic Highgate, just waiting darkened by millions of moths, which arose 'dinner going up;' and now he seemed fixed from the mouldered bed and the hangings of in reverie, gazing at mighty London (from the room-every square inch of the bed furni- this point of view truly picturesque). ture was eaten through and through, and, on trying now to guess exactly the whereabout the air being admitted, dropped to pieces.- of his little dusky room behind a huge wareThe solid articles of furniture alone remained house in the Minories, or the old alley streets, uninjured-but the mouldy smell of every that unluckily escaped the fire; now he looks thing around was so unendurable, that the at his watch. Ah! he smells, in the fine frenplace had to be fumigated before it was habi-zy of gastric imagination, the soup! Unwortable, even for a short time."

in

The description of Coleridge is more justly appreciative, but still wanting intelligence:

He's

and, next day, recognized the saviour of my bit of silk in the celebrated inmate of Mr. Gilthat he owed all his poetical inspiration to man's house at Highgate. **He told me

Bowles's sonnets.

thy conjecture !-no-his was the poet's eye -he was admiring nature; albeit all Cockaigne was in his cue. It was Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the metaphysician and poet-both, or must not truth almost say neither, or not the perfection of either, through the collision "I had just returned from my Lake visit, re-letters from the North, partly introductory, of the two characters? I had in my pocket ferred to in the preceding pages, and was strolling in a beautiful meadow of romantic site, five miles from the metropolis, and outside of the village of Highgate, when I passed a rather corpulent, clerkly-looking man of the middle size, sauntering along, the autumn He has said, I believe, the same in his Life, which I cannot say I ever evening being a glorious one, when a courteous kind of voice said, 'Look to your pocket-his fortunate reclamation from a rage for met with; and not only his love for poetry, but handkerchief, sir,' which was, indeed, nearly trailing the ground behind. Turning to thank metaphysical disputation that threatened to him, I saw a pale, rather heavy, phlegmatic- utterly engross his entire mind. Probably looking face, apparently of from fifty to sixty his dreaminess still runs into his poetry, and many will think that he never was cured-that years' standing, with grey hairs, grey eyes, 이 the fantastic creations of his imagination turn a benign expression, yet somewhat inexpres sive as a whole, marked with a peculiar lan-all his philosophy into dreams. His metaguor, that might be a calm interval of pain physics sorely clog the wings of his fancy: Peor profound pensiveness, or an absence of gasus falls into a heavy trot over thorny mind that often mimics deep thought, when ground full of old roots, and his fancy flies perhaps the mind rests from thinking. His way with him while theorizing up to the twinkling eyes seemed to enjoy the landscape.highest heaven of invention,' leaving common

than one, almost screaming from within,-the tall stranger's tones were as high without; all were too busy to have satisfied any inquiry; and in the midst of uproar, the sound of wheels was heard-it was the carriage of the master of the mansion returning home. To him, who seemed astonished at the scene, the friend of the dead or dying woman turned, and detained him on the steps of the carriage, before he could set foot on the ground, pointing at the same time to the female figure. The servants, however, quickly explaining the cause of the turmoil, angry words passed, and he was no nearer to his benevolent objectthe introducing his burden (which he had brought on his back from Heaven knows where) into the house. Some wine, restoratives, and volatile essences, and smelling-bot

was gratified to find the 'suspended animation of the sufferer itself happily suspended so far as to admit the entrance of a whole glass of wine, her deglutition seeming to me better than could be expected.' It was a young woman in draggled plight, but her features were hardly visible where I stood. Her humane but unreflecting friend had found her in

sense to wonder at his vast flight to the clouds, | vants resisted. There was a voice, or more and how far within none know, until he comes down again with a demonstration from Latmos. or some such grand mount, blessed with lunar favor and influence. ** He inquired about Edinburgh chit-chat with ostensible indiffer ence, but ill-concealed eagerness, especially of the doings and sayings of the great little pole-star of the literary world-Jeffrey, whose battery of long range against him, as one of the knot of hypochondriacal and whining poets that haunt the Lakes,' as he wickedly described them, evidently broke through his habitually lofty elevation of thoughts, which kept, or seemed to keep, a calm for ever round him. He even anxiously hinted repeatedly his non-relationship to that family, in a manner which I fancy his friend Wordsworth (whose opinion of Coleridge I had listened to not a fortnight before) would have deemed an 'un-tles, were sent out from the dwelling, and I kind cut' at least, and Southey not less so.Of his friend Wordsworth, however, he spoke with admiration, though disclaiming for himself, as well as him, all pretension to be considered of any school, much less founders of one. Yet Wordsworth enunciated the pretension himself in the long preamble to the Lyrical Ballads, and the fact seemed certain; but it was not for me to controvert so eminent aa fit, or fainting from illness, and insisted, on man's manifesto of abdication for himself and the score of humanity, on the admission for compeers. Mr. Wordsworth had, however, the might of this poor woman into the strange so recently maintained the precise contrary, gentleman's house; so I was informed aftereven to eager vindication of its peculiar tenets, wards. He forgot that, he himself being unas constituting a new 'school,' chiefly that the known, the inmates might justly fear that it most familiar dialect is fit for poetry, and the was a ruse to rob the house. concocted between humblest subjects for its matter, that I felt some 'Jack Sheppard' of the day and his rather astonished, and thought that poets dif- lady; or even if he could have proved his fered more widely even than doctors. At a own respectability, he could not answer for subsequent interview, Mr. Coleridge favored hers. The air was no bad aid to recovery me with some hints of an attempt on his own from syncope, and every relief but a lodging life-which I found afterwards was even then was afforded, as I have shown. This did not almost completed, being published either that content Percy Bysshe Shelley, for he it was; year or the next. I refer to the 'Biographia but he vociferated a philippic against the selfLiteraria' I fancied then that it was one of ishness of the aristocracy; he almost wept; the shadowy embryos of his fertile mind. he stood prophesying downfall to the unfeelnever to be embodied, for he was never with-ing higher orders! a servile war! a second out a project, and the last was usually the chosen one, his well beloved above the rest, on which he proposed to 'build his fame.""

The following adventure, related of Shelley, reads, we are bound to say, somewhat apocryphal. That it is, at any rate, an incorrect version, can scarcely be doubted :

edition, in England, of the bloody tragedy of the French revolution, and I know not what more; the gentleman being at all this very indignant, and the servants insolently bantering him. Indeed, one could not well wonder at this, for his gestures and deportment were like those of a madman. Meanwhile, his female protégé, finding attention directed from her"I had crossed the fine fields between High-adjusted her drapery, seemingly making up self to the parties quarrelling, very quietly gate and Hampstead to the latter place, when her mind that no more relief was likely to be just entering on the Heath, at rather a late forthcoming; and I fancied that her tones, hour, I was startled by a sort of disturbance when she made some passing remark, were of among a few persons at the door of a large the harsh, hoarse, unfeminine kind, which is house. Drawing near, I perceived what seemed the lifeless body of a woman, by the soon acquired by those wretched women who imperfect light of one lantern, upheld in a half-perambulate London streets after nightfall, in sitting posture, with lolling head, by a tall cold and damp weather, when on the very young man, evidently no vulgar brawler by his speech, but in a highly excited state, who seemed disposed to force an entrance with his One of the best sketches in this somewhat senseless charge, which two or three men-ser-indifferent gallery is that of Haz itt :

brink of starvation."

"In his parlor, which was well furnished. (a back room, and very still, the street being little of a thoroughfare,) sat a middle-aged man, slippered, and in a dishabille indicating recent uprising (he had probably not retired until it was daybreak). He had rather hard but strongly-marked features, which only be came expressive after much drawing out of his feeling by intercourse. He received me with what appeared shyness or reluctance to be disturbed, but which I afterwards found to be his habit at first meeting. His tones were quite as low as those of Coleridge: when not excited, they were almost plaintive or querulous, but his placidity breathed more of unconscious pensiveness than that of his brother thinker, whose complacent meekness always rather savored of acting, at least of a conscious attention to sage or martyr-like bearing, until his aroused enthusiasm broke through all, elevated his tones and even stature, and the man was forgotten in the inspired declaimer. Both these men were living in marital celibacy; that is, married, but separated; the lady of each could say of each, 'his soul is like a star, and dwells apart.' The secrets of married homes, like those of the last long home, should be let alone, for clouds and darkness always hang over them to third parties. I have only to do with the literary star,' not the frail mortal, except so far as the latter may be pleased to reveal himself. The soft-looked maiden who announced me having withdrawn, he proffered me a cup of his strong tea, seemingly without lacteal adulteration, to employ me whilst he made up his packet for the boy who was in waiting to convey it to the printing-office. I had brought him some letters from Edinburgh, an object, at that time, to those who maintained a large correspondence, for there was no penny postage in those days; and amongst them a parcel of missives from Mr. Jeffrey, at my mention of whose name his features seemed at once lit up, as a dark lake is irradiated by the flash of a sunbeam. Some thought darted from behind his rather troubled and fretful-looking phiz, which I do not agree with some persons in calling handsome, and his languor and constraint of manner, that had almost damped me into dislike, gradually wore off, and ease, cordiality, warmth, and at last outbreaks of uttered feeling in unstudied eloquence, as we conversed, created, in a manner, a new being before my eyes; and then, and not till then, I could harmonize the two ideas which before clashed strangely,-the vivacious, highspirited, rampant author, pugnacious as those who monthly and quarterly baited him, and the low-spirited, low spoken, almost whining recluse, sitting over his solitary tea at midday, whom I had half disliked while I pitied. could now imagine, in the energetic speaker before me, the ill used, insulted, belied-highly-gified, but rather perversely given to startling paradox and literary dandyism-William Hazlitt."

In the next attempt the writer has been fortunate in his subject :

"In the month of July, 1824, the body of Lord Byron was brought from Missolonghi to England, and on being landed from the Florida, was removed to the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull, who then resided in Great George Street, Westminster. Having availed myself of peculiar facilities, I saw, on one occasion, the corpse of the poet-the lid of the coffin being for some necessary purpose removed. It was at night that the work of opening the shell commenced. This was soon effected, and when the last covering was removed, we beheld the face of the illustrious dead,

All cold and all serene.

Were I to live a thousand years, I should
never, never forget that moment. For years
I had been intimate with the mind of Byron.
His wondrous works had thrown a charm
around my daily paths, and with all the en-
thusiasm of youth I had almost adored his
genius. With his features, through the me-
dium of paintings, I had been familiar from
my boyhood; and now, far more beautiful,
even in death, than my most vivid fancy had
ever pictured, there they lay in marble repose.
The body was not attired in that most awful
of habiliments--a shroud. It was wrapped in
a blue cloth cloak, and the throat and head
were uncovered. The former was beautifully.
moulded. The head of the poet was covered
with short, crisp, curling locks, slightly streak-
ed with grey hairs, especially over the temples,
which were ample and free from hair, as we
see in the portraits. The face had nothing of
the appearance of death about it--it was nei-
ther sunken nor discolored in the least, but of
a dead, marble whiteness-the expression was
that of stern quietude. How classically beau-
tiful was the curved upper lip and the chin.
I fancied the nose appeared as if it was not in
harmony with the other features; but it might
possibly have been a little disfigured by the
process of embalming. The forehead was
high and broad-indeed, the whole head was
extremely large-it must have been so to have
contained a brain of such capacity. But what
truck me most was the exceeding beauty of
the profile, as I observed it when the head was
lifted, for the purpose of adjusting the furni-
ture. It was perfect in its way, and seemed
like a production of Phidias. Indeed, it far
more resembled an exquisite piece of sculp-
ture than the face of the dead-so still, so
sharply defined, and so marble-like in its re-
pose. I caught the view of it but for a mo-
ment; yet it was long enough to have it
stamped upon my memory as

A thing of beauty,

which poor Keats tells us is a joy for ever.' It is indeed a melancholy joy to me to have gazed upon the silent poet. As Washington

Irving says of the old sexton, who crept into the vault where Shakspeare was entombed, and beheld there the dust of ages, 'It was something to have seen the dust of Byron.""

an hour, and returned by the Grand Michts to Chamonix, where they arrived about half-past nine, after nineteen hours of walking, part of the time up to their middles in snow. This was Con. til's twelfth ascent, and he thinks his last. The two feet have been lust. They wish particularly wonder is, that all the time only three lives and to mention the attention they received from the master of the Hôtel de Londres during their subsequent confinement, four days, from bad eyes and pirants the same good luck they met with them faces. To conclude: they wish for all future asselves." The youths were seen on the summit from the valley with the aid of telescopes, and looked like emmets.

There are other sketches: and of these Robert Southey and Joseph Cottle, Abernethy and Faraday, Paganini, Joanna Baillie, Count d'Orsay, James Montgomery, Edward Irving, Sir Robert Peel, Cobbett, and other political characters, are hit off with various degrees of effect,-but not with sufficient insight into character to justify quotation. The author is, unfortunately, ORIGINAL MINIATURE OF OLIVER CROMWELL. somewhat deficient in the literary qualifica-- We have been shown, by an artist just returned tions for the task which he has undertaken.

from Italy, a most interesting miniature portrait
of Oliver Cromwell, and decidedly one of the
finest and most expressive heads we have ever
seen of the Lord Protector. It is in a circular sil-
ver mounting, with a gold rim, and set as a star
in very showy Bristol diamonds, and was evident-

It was purchased from a dealer in curiosities at
Milan, who was entirely ignorant of whose por-

trait it was.

He stated it to be that of, he believed, "un certo ministro Ingl se chiamato Ottobalwhich was doubtless a clever attempt on the part do," "a certain English minister called Ottobald," of an Italian to say Oliver; and further, that he French officer. had bought it among some other things from an old It is difficult to account for so

DICKENS AND MRS. TROLLOPE IN RUSSIA.-Im-ly intended to be worn pendent round the neck. mortal Pickwick has just made his bow to the Russians in Russian costume; in more prosaic language, the Pickwick Papers have been transl tted into Russian. Notwithstanding it requires a complete knowledge of Cockney language and peculiarities to appreciate thoroughly the sayings, doings, and adventures of the hero of the tights and gaiters, and of his friends, acquaintances, persecutors, and enemies, I am told that the translation has excited very great interest indeed, and valuable a portrait (we should say probably by obtained very great success among all readers of Cooper, though in a bolder style than his usual this northern clime. Yet it is certain that Pick-high finish) finding its way to Milan; but as we wick must have suffered cruelly in being convey and Broughton, for instance-fled to Switzerland, know that some of the Republican party-Ludlow ed from one language to another-he and his are too thoroughly and completely Cockney. Dick- and resided there, and their families for many ens must be delighted with this translation; for it generations, it may have fallen into the French is impossible to conceive a greater popularity for officer's hands as part of the spoil when Switzera work than to be presented to a people and in a land was occupied by the French troops during language so little known to the rest of the world the revolutionary period, or it might be, at some as those of the Czar. former period.-Lit. Gazette.

Another personage of our acquaintance has also recently had the honor of being brought out in NEW SIGN OF DEATH.-The following discovRussian-the coarse and clever Widow Barnaby ery may be of great service in cases of suspected of Mrs. Trollope. As I believe Mrs. T. is a red death. The communication was lately made to hot Tory, she will no doubt be particularly grati- the Royal Academy of Sciences, Paris, by M. Riified at figuring in a land where good old Tory ab-pault; who, in directing the attention of members solutism flourishes in all its strength and all its glory. At all events, she will value her Russian honors as a set-off to the tarring and feathering to which her beloved and loving friends on the other side of the Atlantic hope some day to subject her. Correspondence Lit. Gaz.

to the discovery, observed, that it consisted in perfect flaccidity of the iris when the globe of the eye is compressed in two opposite directions. If the individual be living the pupil retains its cirdead, the aperture becomes irregular, and the circular form, notwithstanding the compression: if

cular form is lost.

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.-Mr. J. Wooldey, of Baston, Notts, and Trinity College, Cambridge; LOUIS BUONAPARTE.-The death of this ex-king and Mr J. T. Hurt, of Winkwath, Derbyshire, belongs to literary history. Like his elder brothaged nineteen years, attained the summit of Monter Lucian, he was not only distinguished for his Blanc on the 5th of August, 1846. They left the Hôtel de Londres about eight o'clock in the morn ing of the 4th, and arrived at the Grands Michts soon after 3 P. M., where they rested, but could not sleep for fleas and avalanches. At 2 A. M. they left the rock amidst flashes of lightning from the distance, arrived at the Grand Platium about seven, and at the summit about half-past one, in a high wind. By this time two of the guides had fallen off. They stayed at the summit about half

love of literature and the arts, but the author of several productions of an interesting character; of which we may mention a series of historical documents, given to the world ab ve twenty years ago, and a story cal ed Marie, ou les Peines de l' Amour. Amiable and upright through life, he has bequeathed some honorable reminiscences to his once-kingdom of Holland, and the bulk of his large property to his son and heir Louis, the late prisoner of Ham.