bore on the face of it so palpable a stamp of truth. The whimsicality of the way in which the disclosure was made. The weeping and groaning of the kind-hearted humorist. The quick revulsion, and finale in the common chord of merriment ;-all this is genuine, and points to the photographic accuracy of the self-nar

ration.

Hydropathists assert that it is good for the human constitution to box oneself up in a vapour-bath, and when one is nearly suffocated, and the pulse is up to a hundred and twenty, to dart out, and plunge into ice-cold water. And thus it may, by some obscure analogy, be wholesome to start from the general philanthropy and overwhelming jocularity of Sydney Smith, and tumble head-foremost into Rogers. Rogers was a frequent visitor at Oatlands, where he often came across Thomas Raikes. Monk Lewis was a great favourite there, it seems. "One day after dinner, as the Duchess was leaving the room, she whispered something into Lewis's ear.

He was much affected, his eyes filled with tears. We asked what was the matter. "Oh," replied Lewis, "the Duchess spoke so very kindly to me!"-"My dear fellow," said Colonel Armstrong, "pray don't cry; I daresay she didn't mean it."

This is good; and we bear the dash of vinegar, in the case of a man for whom we have little respect. It is otherwise when Byron comes on the table. The "table-talk" then begins to be offensive. The truth is, the revelations of modern literature, as one by one the contemporaries of the great bard die and disclose their secrets, offer a startling result. We find here, as in the case of one still less excusable, the further ramification of a wide-spread system of conventional depreciation, which seems to have existed as secretly as the Holy Vehme of Germany, and to have judged and executed with as little remorse. In Moore's case, there was the concurrent treason--the adulation of the book as it proceeded day by day, balanced off by the daily detraction of the journal. We do not find so much fault with Raikes, who speaks of the poet as a man of the world might be expected to do. But here we discover the heartless

half-Halifax, half-Dennis of his day-embellishing his table-talk with habitual sneers and inuendoes pointed against the man who had begun by honorably distinguishing him above his contemporaries, who continued to the last to keep his breast open to him, and of whom he had volunteered to sing,

Thy heart, methinks,

Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile.

How is all this to be accounted for? In one way-and in one only. Moore and Rogers felt, and it galled themwhat Scott, more generous, said, without feeling galled-" Byron bet me." Well, it only swells the noble bard's triumph. Of the cannon of a defeated enemy have the grandest monuments been reared to heroes. These little poisoned arrows are not enough to make a pillar of; but they may dangle as trophies over a tomb which called for an epitaph like Swift's: "save me from my friends;" for thus might it be paraphrased.

Well now that we have made a clean breast of it, let us try to think no more about it. We wish from our soul that these pleasant, witty, sparkling fellows had not put it upon us to be seriously angry with them for a single instant. It is not our fault, but theirs. We have already forewarned the reader that as far as Sam Rogers is concerned, somewhat of an envious disparaging temper runs through all this table-talk of his. Perhaps it does not go farther than an absence of real freshness of feeling, where feeling is most ostentatiously paraded. It is the rouge assuming the place of the blush, that offends. A defect, this, which may, after all, let us charitably hope, be partly traced to the reporter, the Reverend Alexander Dyce, who may possibly— we speak without any disparagement to his own temper or principleshave only caught the pointed and poisoned ends of the poet's discourse on the target of his memory, and allowed the harmless shaft and the downy feather to quiver outside.

Nevertheless, it is certain, absence of heart weakens the wit in Rogers' instance as much as its presence, in that of Sydney Smith, strikingly enhances it. We do, after all, laugh

with a heartier abandonment when a slight touch of emotion ripples the fountain of tears. At the same time there are themes in which the heart has no concern: and here we have no fault to find. How well and shortly put is the following, in which the closing parenthesis forms the point!

"An Englishman and a Frenchman having quarrelled, they were to fight a duel; and, that they might have a better chance of missing one another, they agreed that it should take place in a room perfectly dark. The Englishman groped his way to the hearth, fired up the chimney, and brought down-the Frenchman. (Whenever I tell this story in Paris, I make the Frenchman fire up the chimney.)

Talleyrand ought to have been a man after Rogers' own heart. Nobody said such good things as Talleyrand: yet here we have nothing worth recording, as coming from him. A few ordinary remarks and a strange account of Napoleon in a fit constitute the sum total. By the by, talking of Napoleon reminds us of an anecdote we remember to have heard many years ago related by a witty Scotch baronet, who had served in a regiment of dragoons in the French war, and who happened to visit Paris in 1802, during the short peace. Everyone flocked to pay court to the First Consul. Amongst these were numerous English officers, including militia in abundance. Whoever could make an excuse for a red coat, availed himself of it. A gentleman of some property in the neighbourhood of Kingston was amongst these; and appeared, his portly person arrayed in the conspicious uniform of the Surrey militia. As he

passed into the presence, Napoleon, not recognising the dress, put to him the question, Quel regiment, monsieur?" The Saxon, whose French was more that of "Stratford atte Bowe" than of Paris, felt suddenly at a loss and after some hesitation stammered out "Le regiment de Souris? Monsieur." "Le regiment de souris," repeated Napoleon, slightly frowning; but the next moment relaxing into a smile, added,-" Ah, apparement c'est une uniforme de fantasie que vous portez !"

There is something revoltingly characteristic of the man in the frequency with which Talleyrand's

thoughts and words turn upon apoplectic fits, sudden palsies, &c. He seems to revel in the convulsions of his friends as much as in those of empires. We all remember the scene at that dinner, where the gourmet archbishop had dropped upon his next neighbour's shoulder, and his servant, who was behind his chair, after trying in vain to unclench his master's teeth with a fork, pulled him out of the room to die, while the feast closed over him, and went on. Here we have it, on the same authority, that Napoleon had a fit at Strasburg, and foamed at the mouth. Raikes gives a choice bon mot on the same attractive subject:

"Talleyrand's friend Montrond has been subject of late to epileptic fits, one of which attacked him lately after dinner at Talleyrand's. While he lay on the floor in convulsions, scratching the carpet with his hands, his benign host remarked with a sneer, C'est qu'il me paráit, qu'il veut absolument descendre.""

It appears that this prince of wits could indeed, like Scarron, jest with visitations of this shocking kind, even in his own person. Lord Stuart de Rothesay related the following anecdote to Raikes :

"The Prince was unwell at Paris, some years ago, but wished to take a journey into the country. Stuart called upon him, and strongly advised him to defer the journey; which he fortunately did, and in two days afterwards he was seized with a fit, from which he only recovered by severe bleeding. After a few days Stuart paid him another visit, and found him quite well, eating some soup, when Talleyrand said, 'C'est bien heureux que je ne sois pas parti pour la campagne; je calcule que je serois arrivé à Chartres le jour de ma maladie ; j'aurois de suite envoyé chercher des sangsues chez mon ami l'Evêque; il est très dévot, il ne m'auroit envoyè que l'extrême onction, et je ne serois pas sûrement içi à manger ma soupe aujourd'hui."

We had hoped to have entered more at our leisure upon Mr. Raikes's volumes, the rather as we wished to make the amende for what might appear a too disparaging tone with reference to them, when we first mentioned them. The fact is, they are a great deal better worth reading than one at least of the other books we have been quoting. A fuller in

sight is given in their pages into the best society of London and Paris twenty years ago, than we remember to have found elsewhere. A diary is scrupulously kept; and although it is here and there much too frequently eked out by cuttings from the newspapers, there is less of self and more of others than in that of the other journalizer of that day, whose notes have been of late so prominently before the public—we mean Thomas Moore. Thomas Raikes was, as we have said, an undistinguished but regular habitué of the salons and drawing-rooms of London and Paris. In that capacity he saw, heard, read, and wrote diligently. It would be more appropriate to say that he looked, listened, studied, and noted down diligently. He was all eye, ear, and hand; and, except where his passion for toadyism carried him away, he may be considered as having been a shrewd and competent judge of character. The portion of the journal we have here was written while he lived en retraite in Paris. But he seemed all the while to know as much of the dessous des cartes of London life as if he was connected with it by the telegraphic wire. How he was blinded by the rays of royalty and aristocracy is abundantly and constantly manifest to any one who reads his book. Those who do not, will be amused by such entries as this. Raikes had just presented the Duke of York with a picture of Louis XV. when a boy, The following was the reply (bad English and all) :

"Dear Raikes,

"I cannot sufficiently thank you for the picture which you have been so good as to send me.

"You do not do it justice in abusing the painting of it; besides which, I think it extremely curious, and will, I can assure you, be considered by me as a great addition to my collection.

"Ever, my dear Raikes,

"Yours most sincerely,
"FREDERICK."

The literary value of this document, as a specimen of the epistolary style, can only be equalled by its worth as a memorial of affection: both may be left to be determined by those who can see with the eyes of Mr. Raikes.

Here is an interesting obituary. It deserves to be placed beside the epitaph of Lady O'Looney.

"Tuesday, 16th April, 1833. — A sad, melancholy day. At seven o'clock this morning died my deeply-regretted friend Lord Foley. One short week's illness has carried him to the grave. For twenty-five years

have I lived with him in the closest intimacy, and never knew a kinder or more friendly heart than his. The unbounded hospitality of his nature brought him into pecuniary difficulties, which embittered the latter years of his life; and I very much fear that anxiety of mind contributed to render his last illness fatal. He was of a noble and princely disposition; a kind, affectionate parent, and a warm friend. He married the sister of the Duke of Leinster, and has left eight children. He was lord of the bedchamber, and captain of the band of Gentlemen Pensioners to the present King."

But it will not do to make selections in an invidious spirit. The reader who turns over these volumes will sometimes light upon matter which will interest, amuse, and instruct him. A good healthy tone of politics pervades the journal. Mr. Raikes was a conservative on principle as well as from personal friendships; and often deals shrewdly with party questions then perplexing the wisest heads in England. But he is best in his croquis of character. No where do we find Beau Brummell sofreely and delicately sketched as here. He was an intimate of Beau Raikes; who understood his rival thoroughly, yet depicts him with a kindly and unenvious pen. Some of the events recorded are to be found both in the journal and in the Table Talk. For instance, the Marchioness of Salisbury's death in 1835. Here the wit and the beau exhibit their several peculiarities. Rogers has a sly soupçon of humour crossing his pathetic. "Ah," he exclaims, "the fate of my old acquaintance, Lady Salisbury! The very evening of the day on which the catastrophe occurred, I quitted Hatfield; and I then shook her by the hand,— that hand which was so soon to be a cinder!" Thus," says Raikes, musing after his manner, perished old Lady Salisbury, whom I have known all my life as one of the leaders of ton in the fashionable world. She was a Hill, sister to the late, and aunt to the present, Marquis of Downshire." On one point, however, the man of letters and the man of ton differ. 66 "She was one of the beauties of her day," says Raikes. "She never had any pretensions to

beauty," says Rogers. Both these men were of an age to have been able to judge for themselves. Rogers was thirteen years younger than Lady Salisbury. Raikes was twenty years younger. She retained her youthful appearance, such as it was, to an advanced age; and both knew her early in their lives. Raikes, after describing her adherence to old customs, informs us that after the disfranchisement of the boroughs, her ladyship went by the sobriquet of Old Sarum, "with the exception, that to the last she bid defiance to reform." We have heard from another source, that her pride, which was excessive, indulged itself in unmeasured scorn of the Lamb family. This broke out into furious paroxysms when a member of it became premier. It appears that the ancestors of that house, for one or two generations, had been men of business connected with the property of the Cecils. The Dowager, on one occasion, being asked how the Lambs made their money, replied, with magnificent generalization "By robbing the Lords Salisbury!"

We must quit these pleasant, if not quite satisfactory pages. In the case of the first published of the works we have glanced at, scarcely more could have been looked for than what has actually been given. It was the misfortune of Sydney Smith to have been, in society, what Barham was in poetic literature, a professed drole, who was expected to act up to his character. A misfortune for themselves in each of these instances,for this reason, that both of the men belonged to a profession which refused to licence the legitimate performance of their rôle; and possessed talents that might have ensured them a more forward place in their respective walks than they could ever attain by bolting into burlesque. The two canons of St. Paul's thus gravitated by their levity, as Horne Tooke said of himself; but, what was worse, deprived the world, the one of a bold and brilliant philosopher and philanthropist, if not a distinguished divine, -the other of a rich and harmonious poet. Taking it for granted, then, that Sydney Smith mistook his part in life, perhaps, it might be said, forfeited his best claims upon our respect, by relinquishing his true and noblest vocation, it could not reason

ably be expected that his biographer, with every pious intention, could produce a full continuous flowing narrative of her father's life. Gracefully as Lady Holland, (or rather Lady Holland's mother; for the memoir was composed principally by her, and at her death came into her daughter's hands for publication,) gracefully and feelingly, we say, as the biographer has performed her task, it is easy to see the disadvantages under which she laboured disadvantages, nevertheless, by which the public are not quite losers to a proportionate extent; since the biographical memoir (taken along with the correspondence) may probably be as entertaining in its present form-or formlessness-as it would have been had it been drawn from more uniform materials in a more regular way.

We have already explained-at least hinted-in what way Rogers's reminiscences must be considered defective. They do not, indeed, aspire or pretend to be more than a foretaste of what is to come. The public had a right to expect, nevertheless, that these first pressings of the grape should have had at least the average amount of flavour and strength. Can we believe that such is the case? If we must, then let us not fret ourselves with impatience for what remains. It will not be tokay. We can afford to wait. But there is one hope. These table-sayings are selections made by another. Let us not pronounce till we hear what the poet-wit has to say for himself. We have seen what memories of him have lived in the brain of a friend. Let us bide our time, and see what his own "pleasures of memory" have been.

In giving to the world any reminiscences, however, of such men as these, an editor cannot make a mistake. As public characters themselves, their lives and thoughts are public property. No apology is necessary for presenting them to the world, in any commonly respectable garb. The same excuse will not serve in a case such as that of the publication of Mr. Thomas Raikes's diary. There was nothing to call it forth. It might have remained in manuscript, in the hands of his family, and the world could not and would not have complained. And consequently, when it does appear, a more rigid rule of criticism

must naturally be applied to it than in the other case. It will be askedis it presumption, or is it not, that thus prompts the publication of the private journal of a private gentleman, who lived at a period not yet to be treated as historic? The answer to this question will depend upon the contents of the book,-how it is written-what it is about. We have already acquitted the editor of blame on this score. We venture to predict that the public will very generally agree in the verdict. With every disposition to vindicate the negative as well as positive rights of readers as regards the matter submitted to

them, we have felt justified in pronouncing that the student of life and manners would have been a loser had this journal been withheld. It forms a pleasant and readable addition to the stock of individual experiences on which a general estimate of the tone and temper and complexion of English and French polite society within the last twenty years will have some day to be made. With all its faults and some short-comings, it enables us to commend, as we do, the zeal of the editor which has forced through these discouraging circumstances into print a private diary not undeserving of public notice.

now

Ir was a cold bright afternoon in the month of March, 18-; the morning had been gusty, and the sun was going down amidst a glare of copper and fiery clouds, indicative of angry weather, and presaging a stormy night. Its dying rays were kindling on the top of a broad belt of dark fir trees, which ran in a circle of nearly two miles around a smooth green lawn, slightly sloping up towards the north, and terminating in an extremely large and old fashioned mansion, with a low roof, balustraded clumsily, and heavily chimnied, and flanked at each side by a tall weathercock; both of which having been blown out of repair during a tempest in the reign of his Gracious Majesty, George the Second, had stiffened in their sockets, and now pointed obstinately and hopelessly to separate points of the compass. The front of the house was singularly wanting in physiognomy, presenting an unbroken

Ireland a Threnody.

surface of facial stupidity and flatness, relieved by a few sickly creepers, which,straggling here and there, looked like the thin ringlets on the cheek of an aged spinster. Before the door was a small pleasure ground defended by a ha-ha; the avenue was a mile long to the high road, terminating in two lofty and elaborately worked iron gates, which were hinged on great columns of white stone, each supporting an heraldic cockatrice or griffin, boldly but roughly carved, as it rested its paw on a sloping scutcheon, with a scroll beneath on which was traced the word Decrevi," being manifestly the motto, shield, and crest of the proprietor of the mansion. From each side of the old gates ran a wall which girdled the whole demesne

once strong and defensive, now full of large gaps where the stones had given way to the ceaseless hammer of old time, or fallen beneath the green but fatal blandishments of the ivy.