ANGLO-AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE. vatory. at Edinburgh. After a eulogium upon his driven along with such force against the base of the hill writings, the memoir thus draws to a close.] Profes- from whence the spring gushes, as to shiver the rocks, and sor Wallace was not more distinguished by his mental give place unto the water which instantly welled forth. endowments than for his moral virtues and private They farther add, that the rainbow received equal damage worth. In every relation of life his conduct was exwith the more durable material, and being shattered to pieces, the fragments were mingled with the fountains, emplary. In his family and domestic circle he was and caused the prismatic colours which, though brought greatly beloved. In his general intercourse with the out by the sun, are ever resident in the translucent body world he was upright, sincere, and independent. In of the fountain; and the tints of the rainbow were blent society, his habitual cheerfulness and good humour, with the wave. Both town and fountain are now abanamiable manners, benevolent disposition, and a never-doned to the aborigines, the war with Mexico having so failing fund of anecdote, rendered him a delightful com- weakened the resources of the government as to render panion and a universal favourite. Generous and liberal them incapable of defending their infant capital from the in all his sentiments, he entertained no envy of the dis- assaults of the Indian marauder, coveries of his contemporaries; no jealousy of the reputation of younger men; but was ready at all times to applaud and encourage merit wherever, and in whatever shape, it made its appearance. For such of his pupils as manifested any remarkable capacity or application, he entertained an esteem almost amounting to affection; and he was always ready to use his influence, which was considerable, in order to forward their views in life, or render them any service. In every measure affecting the public good, or the scientific renown of his country, he took a warm interest. He was the means of procuring a monument to be erected in Edinburgh to Napier, the celebrated inventor of logarithms; and the last occupation of his life was to investigate the administration of some of the public charities of the city. Mr Wallace was one of the original non-resident Fellows of this society. He was also a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh; a Corresponding Member of the Institution of Civil Engineers; an Honorary Member of the Cambridge Philosophical Society; and a few weeks before his death he was elected an Honorary Member of the Royal Irish Academy. After an illness which had for several years prevented him from mixing in society, he died at his residence in Edinburgh on the 28th of April 1843, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, respected by all, and sincerely regretted by a wide circle of personal friends. CURIOUS INDIAN TRADITION. Some two hundred miles in the interior of the republic of Texas, where the flat interminable prairies have ceased, the rolling country has commenced, and the evergreen summits of the verdant and flowery hills are in sight, was built not long since, on the very skirt of the territory of the fiercest and most turbulent Indian tribes, a small town to which the name of Austin was given. For its healthy locality it was selected as the seat of government of the republic, and it gave every prospect of becoming one of the most populous and active, as it is the most lovely city in this exceedingly picturesque and beautiful country. Situated in a gently sloping valley on the banks of the wild Colerado, just below the cataracts, and surrounded on all sides by groves of trees, green hillocks, and sparkling fountains, it lies in quiet seclusion, almost hid from the sight of the passing stranger. In fact, the only object to be seen at a distance is the president's house, a white neat building on the top of a little hill. Not far from the town, gushing from the broad fissure in the rocky base of a hill, and falling into a deep natural basin, almost like a well, is a pure and delicious fountain, known as Barton's Spring. Perhaps no water was ever more truly cool and refreshing. Surrounded on all sides by rocks or lofty trees, interminable groves of which branch off on three sides, it does not feel the effect of the sun's rays but during a very short period of the afternoon, when, through a large opening between certain lofty and stately cedars, the beams of the great luminary fall upon the spring, and gild its sparkling and virgin waters with every tint of the rainbow. This lasts during about three quarters of an hour, when the sun sinking still lower, its rays are utterly concealed from the fall. This has given rise to a most curious and characteristic superstition on the part of the many tribes of Indians who at different times have camped near the spring. In ages gone by, say they, during a severe and terrible storm, of which they profess merely to hand down the tradition, a more than usually gorgeous rainbow was Their ships sail better, and are worked by fewer men; their settlers pay more for their land than our colonists, administrative talent is called into play, whether in the and yet undersell them in their own markets. Wherever management of a hotel, or a ship, or a prison, or a factory, there is no competing with them; and, after a little intercourse with them, I was not surprised that it should be so, for the more I travelled through the country, the more was I struck with the remarkable average intelligence which prevails. I never met a stupid American; I never met one man from whose conversation much information might not be gained, or who did not appear familiar with life and business, and qualified to make his way in them. There is one singular proof of the general energy and capacity for business which early habits of self-dependence tics, takes a lively interest in them (though many abstain, have produced; almost every American understands poliunder discouragement or disgust, from taking a practical part), and is familiar not only with the affairs of his own township or county, but with those of the state and of the union; almost every man reads about a dozen newspapers every day, and will talk to you for hours if you will listen to him, about the tariff, and the bank, and the Ashburton treaty. Now, anywhere else the result of all this would be the neglect of private business; not so here; an American seems to have time not only for his own affairs, but for those of the commonwealth, and to find it easy to reconcile the apparently inconsistent pursuits of a bustling politician and a steady man of business. Such a union is rarely to be met with in England-never on the continent. -Godley's Letters from America. THE MULBERRY-TREE BY S. W. PARTRIDGE. THE Mulberry-tree, the Mulberry-tree! For the spring may come, and the spring may go, And her hastier mates in beauty glow, Yet still she waits her fitting time, Till summer hath reached its sunny prime. What child of the wood so wise as she? But when chill spring hath passed away, Complete sets of the Journal, First Series, in twelve volumes, and also odd numbers to complete sets, may be had from the publishers or their agents. A Stamped Edition issued for transmission, post free, price Twopence halfpenny. Printed by William Bradbury, of No. 6, York Place, and Frederiek Mullett Evans, of No. 7, Church Row, both of Stoke Newington, in the county of Middleses, printers, at their office, Lombard Street, in the precinet of Whitefriars, and city of London; and Published (with permission of the Proprietors, W. and R. CHAMBERS,) by WILLIAM SOMERVILLK ORR, Publisher, of 3, Amen Corner, at No. 2, AMEN CORNER, both in the parish of Christ. church, and in the city of London.-Saturday May 18 1844. BURGH JOURNAL CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF "CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,” “CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE," &c. No. 21. NEW SERIES. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1844. WHAT IS POETRY? THIS question has been often asked, but never very satisfactorily answered, partly owing to the ordinary difficulties of definition, and partly to the variances of men's minds with regard to the matter in question. As repeated failures form no good reason for another declining to make still a new attempt, we shall try what we can do to satisfy our readers upon the subject. Poetry, we would say, is, without any regard to verse or prose forms, that department of literature which refers to whatever is beyond common perception and reason, and whatever is above the ordinary in our experiences, our ideas and their associations, and also in our sentiments. A very little explanation will show how the mental faculties are concerned in both prose and poetry. There are faculties in the mind, of great utility, and most needful for important ends in life, the purpose of which is to form correct ideas merely of what exists, and of things as they exist, and to reason correctly with regard to these. Such faculties have their literature, but there is nothing elevated or fine about it: it is simply prose. As is well known, there are minds chiefly given to the exercise of these faculties, to the neglect of everything else; which delight exclusively in matters of fact, and in regarding things barely as they are; which judge rigidly of all things as they do actually bear upon each other, and plod for ever amongst material interests. These are prosaic minds-great minds | they may be in their own line; but still, the thoughts produced by them are essentially prosaic. Many scientific and philosophic men are of this character almost solely; and it is the lot of a vast portion of ordinary men to spend life in such a constant round of commonplace duties, that their minds never get any higher. Such minds, as they excogitate nothing of an ideal character, so neither are they capable of enjoying it when it is presented by others. Newton sees no value in Shakspeare, because he proves nothing; and the town council of Greenock condemns the art of poetry, because it produces none of the ordinary profits attending other arts. PRICE 14d. are likened. Hence arise the terms rosy cheeks, cherry lips, and thousands of others, time out of mind constituting the phrase magazine of the poet. The resemblance may be more compound, and also more vague, or remote from common perceptions. For example, the stars, as spread over the sky, are somewhat like the flowers spread over the ground. One might therefore speak of the stars as the flowers of the sky, and of the flowers as the stars of the earth. This would be poetry. Or abstract ideas may be concerned. For instance, the remembrance of a first love may long survive in the mind, giving a melancholy grace to a nature which, from other circumstances, was rude and unsocial. This might be likened to a single pensive-branched tree adorning a sort of wilderness. That would be poetical. It might be spoken of as adorning the desert of the heart; which would be still more so. To this department of poetry belong allegories and apologues. Allegorical characters and objects constituted almost the sole stock of the English poets of a particular period. We have them in infinite profusion in Spenser. The Pilgrim's Progress is a combination of finely sustained allegories. As an example-sin is described as a burden, which continues to oppress Christian's shoulders till he reaches the foot of the cross. A fit of low spirits in his subsequent career is personated as Giant Despair seizing him and confining him in a dungeon. Moral fables are founded upon these resemblances between the actual and the abstract. For instance, the familiar idea of a benefactor, injured by one whom he has cherished into the power of inflicting the injury, is perfectly represented in the alleged fact of a countryman taking up a snake almost lifeless with cold, and reviving it in his bosom, until it rewards his kindness by a bite. These resemblances and analogies of things constitute a large department of poetry, though some authors deal much less in them than others. On this point, as on many others in literature, fashion exercises much control. Regular similes, beginning as when,' once abounded in verse; now they are never seen. It is held to be best to weave in the two parts of the comparison more thoroughly with each other. Amongst living English poets, Moore is the most remarkable for com But there is much in this world beyond common per-parison. ception and reason; and for all that is so, there are appropriate faculties in our intellectual and sentimental nature. All things, besides having each its own exact cognizable character, are related to each other by analogies and resemblances in endless and often mystic complexity. There may be a very simple kind of resemblance, as between a red cheek and the rose, a full pair of lips and the cherry, a white neck and the lily, and so forth. It is poetical to point out such resemblances, but simply because of there being a recognised beauty in the objects to which those spoken of Many things are too multiform or vast to be fully grasped by the perceptive and reasoning powers; and what some minds can comprehend, or have had opportunities of acquiring a thorough knowledge of, are but feebly seen and reasoned about by others. Whatever things in any mind go beyond the range of the perceptive and reasoning powers, fall into the domain of a sentimental faculty-wonder-which is usually very much delighted to receive them. Some minds, it is true, are so fond of exact knowledge, that, where they are ignorant or unable to see causes. they steadily repress the beyond the ordinary in our experiences, our ideas and their associations, and also in our sentiments. The daily routine of life, its various duties, its various comforts, are not in general poetical. No man feels his trade to be poetical, not even the shepherd or the ploughman. The Circassian does not feel his warlike life in the resistance to Russia poetical. These things only acquire a poetical character when regarded objectively, and at a distance, when there is some aid to their effect in certain prepossessions of our minds, or when the literary artist makes such a judicious selection of them, and presents them with such associations as to impose upon us. Thus it is that humble life, usually unpleasing from its mean circumstances, captivates us in the Cotter's Saturday Night. Apart from artistic selection and association, experiences in life only are poetical when they are of an extraordinary kind. Thus, the poorest labourer's death is poetical. Thus, the return of a sailor boy to his cottage home, after a long voyage, is poetical. So, also, is the language used by the humblest persons, when they speak under the pressure of strong or passionate feeling: take as an example the evil forebodings of Meg Merrilees to the Laird of Ellangowan when forced to leave his estate. There are romantic situations and special exigencies in life which the literary artist feels to be poetical, and of which he accordingly makes use. For examples, we have only to refer to history, biography, and the records of domestic anecdote; or to the pages of the fictionist, in which such things are given either real or simulated. It is hardly necessary to observe, that merely to be extraordinary, is not to be poetical. Many extraordinary ideas and sentiments are ludicrous and mean. To be poetical, it is necessary that they should partake of another character, which we are now to advert to as an element of poetry. operation of wonder; but this is the rare case of only a few philosophical minds. To the great mass, the exercise of wonder is but too agreeable, tending to prevent them from making proper efforts to attain precise knowledge. In many cases, however, the exercise of wonder is unavoidable, in consequence of the absolute incapacity of the mind to grasp ideas. For example, though a single soldier is a readily formed idea, we cannot readily form the idea of an army of a million, like that of Xerxes or Napoleon. Such an army becomes accordingly a theme of wonder, and a legitimate subject of poetry. So, also, we all understand what a mile is; but no one can form an idea of the distance of Sirius, twenty millions of millions of miles. The whole idea of the sublime, about which books have been written, is here explained: it lies merely in the excess of things beyond the ready apprehension of the perceptive and reasoning powers; all this excess falling under the charge of wonder. Another familiar example is in Time: present, it is matter for the perceptive faculties; past, it escapes them, and becomes a proper theme for wonder. Hence we always feel that there is a poetry in the olden time, the days of other years; and from a sympathy in our ideas, we think of everything as being then fairer, purer, wiser, better, though rigid reason assures us of the reverse. So, also, whatever we cannot readily trace to causes, becomes wonderful in our eyes, and false causes are often assigned by the imagination. Hence the numberless superstitions and mythologies of mankind from first to last, all of them having a poetical character, or at least being capable of being viewed in a poetical light. Examples were here needless; but we may remark that, as the minds of individuals, of nations, and of mankind at large, advance, there is a constant flow of things out of the domain of wonder into that of the perceptive faculties. Matter of wonder is perpetually turning into matter of knowledge. The domain of poetry, it may be thought, is thus getting always more and more limited; but it is not so in reality, and this is because every step we take in knowledge only introduces us to a wider extent and higher range of the unknown, on which our wonder has occasion for only increased exercise. As an illustration-the northern lights are regarded by the ignorant peasantry of Sweden and some adjacent countries as a grand hunting match of cer-associations. To physical and moral beauty the mind tain ideal beings-they are spoken of as the Wild Huntsmen: this is poetical: but when we abandon this idea, and, looking to science for information, learn that these brilliant coruscations are produced by electric agency, we do not cease to find in them matter of poetry. On the contrary, in reflecting on them as natural phenomena, and connecting them with a wondrous agent which wears the names of heat, light, electricity, magnetism, only as so many various vizards, we have much more grand conceptions of these appearances, and are, as it were, raised from a first to a second heaven of the poetical. So, also, the circles of brighter and fresher greensward, enclosed by a line bare of herbage, which are in ignorance esteemed as ball-rooms of the fairies, and called fairy-circles, form, in that state of our minds, a poetical idea: in time, we learn that these objects are simply the result of the mode of propagation of a species of agaric or fungus, and have perhaps a providential end in the renewing of the grasses on old pastures. Is this necessarily a prosaic idea? No. If we connect the second cause with the First, we shall find that knowledge on this subject only substitutes a grand for a simple poem in our minds. The elimination of all truth is attended by similar effects. The superstition dies, only that there may be raised from its ashes a more glorious birth of ideas, beautiful as they are true. It is only in the transition that we have reason to fear for a loss of the poetical. When we have ascended to the mountaintops of truth, and looked round us, we feel that in our extended view we have found a poetry infinitely exceeding in interest that which we have put beneath our feet. Our definition of poetry includes also whatever is This is the principle of beauty-that undefinable but always unmistakable peculiarity which all minds of a certain degree of cultivation have a pleasure in contemplating. There is an inherent beauty in many of the objects of nature, also in the manner in which things exist, and are associated, for which a faculty of the mind is adapted, and this same quality we readily recognise in ideas and sentiments, and also in their of the true poet is keenly alive. The flower-besprent earth, the lustrous glories of the heavens by day and night, the loveliness of youthful and innocent woman, the splendours of noble artificial scenes, the pomps of war, of regal triumphs, and of imaginative religions all these things attract and arrest him; nor is he less delighted to survey the beauty of gentleness, courtesy, justice, truth, sanctity, and all other fine abstractions. These become to him, of course, materials for his art, and accordingly of such things has poetry been composed since its very dawn amongst civilised men. Such may be said to be an outline-perhaps a very faint, but still in the main a faithful one-of the constituents of poetry. What, again, are its uses? Believing that everything in nature has legitimate uses, we must believe poetry to have such too, since it clearly has a place in nature. Can we be far wrong in assigning to poetry the purpose of, in the first place, entertaining, and, in the second, refining and elevating us, by the representations which it gives of all that is ultra-commonplace, and lofty, and beautiful, in the physical and moral world? Most men are forced to spend their time chiefly amongst the actual and the homely, for the duties of life and society cannot be otherwise performed. But a life of the Real alone, satisfies no one. We have an imaginative nature also, which craves its appropriate food and associations. See, under the influence of this power, how the youngest children that can walk and speak, even when left entirely alone, unite to make up a representative or dramatic life, and never are two minutes at a time themselves! To the same cause may be ascribed the pleasure we take in the half untrue parades of the social world, in this respect well called a masquerade. There must, indeed, be illusion in life, or it would apparently be unendurable. Now, poetical literature is one of the means of gratifying this part of our nature, and a very convenient means too, since the mere reading of a book gives us all we want, and saves us the necessity of taking our illusions in a substantial form, by making them part of our own lives. And it becomes very obvious, from its accordance with the educative principle, that, if the poetry presented daily as the imaginative food of any human being, be a concentration of the beautiful in imagery and sentiment, it will enliven, excite, and strengthen those parts of his nature, and proportionately advance him in the scale of intellectual and moral being. All reverence, then, to the lyre, provided it be attuned only to songs which are lovely and pure, and be not made, instead of the occasional amusement, the engrossing business of life! There are great differences in the tastes of different individuals and different ages with regard to poetry. Some men are heard denying that to be at all poetical in which others see much poetry. For example, much of the verse of Pope is now denied by many to be poetry, although in his own time it was universally received as such, and by many has ever been so. The cause of this discrepancy of opinion is mere partiality of judgment. It is now the tendency of most cultivated minds, with regard to poetry, to look chiefly to the ideas and sentiments, and little to the language in which these are expressed. Seeing that Pope mainly adverts to the artificial world, these persons conceive that he does not write poetry, overlooking that, in the fine selection of phraseology, and its musical arrangement, as well as in the references to what is elegant in life, and moral and aspiring in conduct, and even in the polished sarcasms launched at whatever is the reverse, we have, in the writings of the Twickenham bard, truly poetic elements, though not of the kind now most in vogue. On the other hand, fashion in Pope's time made men look to these latter features alone, and liberal natures can still admit their beauty, even while the absence of more poetical qualities is deplored. So, also, many rashly express a doubt whether the metrical works of Scott are poetry, missing in them the high strain of sentiment which they are disposed to regard exclusively in that light, and failing to see that in the incidents and descriptions of this wondrous fictionist, and even in his antiquarianism, there is a poetry of the richest kind. The present age is thought to be less given to poetry in general than many which have preceded it, and certainly of the large quantity of this kind of literature produced, there is very little which attracts much attention. It is thought to be an anti-spiritual age-an age engrossed by material interests and social improvements. The voice of the muse is lost in the clank of the steamengine, and the worship of Apollo sinks beneath that of Plutus. But perhaps there is great fallacy in these conclusions, and it might be as easily shown that the vast mechanical, scientific, and social improvements for which the age is remarkable, constitute in themselves an employment for many of the poetical class of minds, as well as a theme of quasi-poetical contemplation for the great body of the public; thus precluding the necessity for the exertions of merely literary poets. We are sensible that this definition of poetry must be far from satisfying the class of minds accustomed to analyse thought; but we are at the same time certain that a more profound inquiry into the subject would fail altogether of effect in the present place. If what has been said shall be found to convey to the bulk of ordinary readers some definite idea of the main constituents of poetry, we shall have accomplished our chief object. Perhaps a more limited utility may be served in showing to the numberless persons who aspire to the honours of the poet, what qualities and powers are required from them before they can have the least chance of attaining their end. All may rhyme and scribble; but to how few out of the bulk of mankind can it be given to compose thoughts, the first requisites of which are that they be new, striking, and beautiful, and for the expression of which it is further necessary that there be gifts and acquirements in language infinitely above those required for common purposes. Let the young verse-writer consider all this, and pause before he spends on a vain pursuit time which, devoted to the genuine means of mental cultivation and enlightenment, might render him perhaps a more than usually respectable member of society. RECOLLECTIONS OF AN ITALIAN. AN EVENING PARTY AT M. NECKER'S IN 1790. THE destruction of the Bastille, attended as it was by political consequences, marked the era of a great change in the society of Paris, to which I had been a short while before introduced. Notwithstanding the occurrence of disorders amongst the populace, there was a general feeling of satisfaction with the change. The Parisians, gay, fickle, and voluptuous at that time, as they have ever since been, had begun to mingle together without regard to castes and classes, and it had become customary to meet, at all great parties, the men eminent for talent and public services, as well as those whose distinction lay in mere rank. It was universally acknowledged by such of the nobility themselves as had remained after the first emigration, that this was a great improvement. The parties given at the house of M. Necker, where his daughter, Madame de Staël, presided, were of the highest brilliancy, being attended by a great number of persons of distinction, both foreign and French, as well as by the principal men of science and literature of the time, and all those who had come into notice in consequence of the recent political movements. The particular party of which I am now to speak, was given to celebrate the anniversary of the return of the great minister to Paris-an event still looked back to as auspicious to France. On this occasion there were assembled the whole élite of the day, fresh from assisting at the Federation on the Champs de Mars. Conducted thither by my tutor, Condorcet, I had no sooner entered the suite of splendid drawing-rooms, than I found myself in the midst of all who were then busied in forming the national history. Count Mirabeau, Monseigneur Perigord (Talleyrand), Gregoire, Bishop of Blois, Alexander Lameth, Adrian Duport, and several others, were conversing animatedly together. The venerable astronomer Lalande, Barthelemy, author of the Travels of Anacharsis, the illustrious mathematician Lagrange, Marmontel, so well known by his tales, with M. Monge, and the Marquis of Fontvieille (the infamous St Just), were grouped around Madame de Staël and the Marchioness La-Tour-du-Pin. The Comte Lanjuinais, and MM. Malesherbes, Camille Jourdan, Barnave, and Target, were in warm conversation with the Duc La Rochefoucault Liancourt. My countryman, the celebrated Alfieri, was reciting some of his poetry to a group of ladies, with the air and gestures of a maniac. At an extremity of the room, towards the garden, was a group apparently in conversation on serious topics, and composed of M. Necker himself, Montmorin, with some other ministers, and the Marquis Lafayette, with some of his staff-officers of the national guard. The handsome Viscount Montmorency-the favourite of our hostess-the Marquis La-Tour-du-Pin, the Marshall Beauvau, with MM. Dupuis, Volney, the dramatist Defaucherets, and the painter David, were admiring an original painting of Raphael, which hung opposite the entrance of the front drawing-room, and David was the spokesman of the party. However, Madame de Staël, dressed as a Greek heroine, and seated on a magnificent ottoman almost in the centre of the room, formed decidedly the principal point of attraction, both as being our hostess, and the acknowledged lioness-in-chief of the Fauxbourg St Germain. With my venerated conductor I joined the party of Necker and Lafayette; but very few minutes had elapsed when the usher announced Madame la Vicomtesse Beauharnais, who, being then separated from her husband, was accompanied by Messieurs Kellerman and Jourdan, and by her beautiful little son Eugene, then about eight years of age. Soon after, the highlyscented and highly-affected Madame de Genlis, with the Duc de Chartres (now king of the French), also Madame Campan, and other ladies and gentlemen of the court and of the Palais Royal, were introduced; and about ten o'clock the party formed not only a fine coup d'œil, but a truly extraordinary assembly of remarkable men and women. The different groups now began to mingle together, to converse loudly and facetiously. Wit and raillery were often made use of by the fair, and hilarity and good humour pervaded the whole society, while a profusion of all sorts of refreshments and delicacies were circulating amongst the guests without interruption. But one thing was rather painfully remarkable, that, with the exception of the American and Swiss diplomatists, none of the foreign ambassadors honoured the party with their presence. About eleven o'clock, the hum and confusion of the assembly were succeeded by order; the talkative guests resumed their respective seats, and a musical entertainment was commenced by Madame de Staël taking her place at the piano, while Madame de Beauharnais seated herself at the harp, in order to play with our hostess a charming duet of Jommelli. While they were performing their parts with the skill and taste for which they were noted, two rather indifferent-looking guests arrived, who, to avoid disturbing the music, took their seats beside the entrance-door. The performance being ended, and both ladies having deservedly received the thanks and compliments of all, a rather shabbily-dressed old gentleman, followed by a very plainly-habited little, thin, and pale young man, approached the throne of the queen of the party, while all the company, and especially myself, had their eyes fixed upon them. The old man was then unknown to me, but well known to all the assembly; but the little, thin, and pale young man had never been seen before in any society, and, with the exception of Monge and Lagrange, nobody knew him. The old gentleman, who was the celebrated Abbé Raynal, then the leader of the historico-philosophical school of France, presented to Madame de Staël, as a young protegé of his, M. Napoleon Bonaparte. All the lions and lionesses shrugged their shoulders, made a kind of grimace of astonishment at hearing such a plebeian name, and, unmindful of the little, thin, and pale young gentleman, each resumed his conversation and amusement. Raynal and Bonaparte remained beside Madame de Staël, and I soon observed that Mesdames Beauharnais, La-Tour-du-Pin, Campan, and the other ladies, not excepting the affected Madame de Genlis, formed a group around them. Condorcet, Alfieri, and myself, joined this party. The abbé spoke of his protegé as a very promising, highly talented, very industrious, and well-read young man, and particularly mentioned his extraordinary attainments in mathematics, military science, and historical knowledge. He then informed Madame de Staël that Bonaparte had left the service in consequence of having been ill-treated by his colonel, but that he wished now to re-obtain a commission, because for the future merit and skill, and not intrigue and favouritism, would be necessary for gaining rank and honour in France. Josephine Beauharnais, who had been attentively hearing all, and who at the same time had been minutely examining the countenance of Bonaparte, with that grace and unaffected kindness that were so natural to her, said, M. L'Abbé, I should feel great pleasure, indeed, if M. Bonaparte will allow me to introduce and recommend him to the minister of war, who is one of my most intimate friends.' The thin and pale little gentleman very politely accepted the offer; and ani mated probably by the prospect of a speedy appointment, soon began to show in his conversation that at the top of his little body Providence had placed a head that contained a great and extraordinary mind. In a short time the great lions, moved by curiosity, flocked around to hear what was going on. Mirabeau was one of the curious; and Madame de Staël, as soon as she saw him approaching, said, with a smile, M. le Comte, come here; we have got a little great man; I will introduce him to you, for I know that you are naturally fond of men of genius.' The ceremony having been performed, the pale little gentleman shook hands with the great Count de Mirabeau, who, I must say, did not appear as stooping to him, but conducted himself with all due politeness. Now political chit-chat was introduced; and the future emperor of France took part in the discussions, and often received much praise for his lively remarks. When Mirabeau and the Bishop of Autun began to debate with Madame de Staël on the character and talents of Pitt, then prime minister of England, and the former styled him a statesman of preparations,' and 'a minister who governed more by his threats than by his deeds,' Bonaparte openly showed his disapprobation of such an opinion. But when the Bishop of Autun praised Fox and Sheridan for having | asserted that the French army, by refusing to obey the orders of their superiors and of the executive, had set a glorious example to all the armies of Europe, because by so doing they had shown that men, by becoming soldiers, did not cease to be citizens, Bonaparte said, 'Excuse me, monseigneur, if I dare to interrupt you; but as I am an officer, I beg to speak my mind. It is true that I am a very young man, and it may appear presumptuous in me to address an audience composed of so many great men; but as, during the last three years, I have paid the most intense attention to all our political troubles and phases, and as I see with sorrow the present state of our country, I will expose myself to censure rather than pass unnoticed principles which are not only unsound, but subversive of all established governments. As much as any of you, I wish to see all abuses, antiquated privileges, and usurped rights and immunities, annulled; nay, as I am at the beginning of my career, and without wealth or powerful friends, it will be my duty and my best policy to support the progress of popular institutions, and to forward improvement in every branch of the public administration. But as in the last twelve months I have witnessed repeated alarming popular disturbances, and seen our best men divided into factions which promise to be irreconcilable, I sincerely believe that now, more than ever, a strict discipline in the army is absolutely necessary for the safety of our constitutional government, and for the maintenance of order. Nay, I apprehend that, if our troops are not compelled strictly to obey the orders of the executive, we shall soon feel the excesses of a democratic torrent, which must render France the most miserable country of the globe. The ministers may be assured, that if, by these and other means, the growing arrogance of the Parisian canaille is not repressed, and social order rigidly maintained, we shall see not only this capital, but every other city in France, thrown into a state of indescribable anarchy, while the real friends of liberty, the enlightened patriots now working for the weal of France, will sink beneath a set of leaders who, with louder outcries for freedom on their tongues, will be in reality only a set of savages, worse than the Neroes of old!' This speech of the hitherto unknown youth, delivered with an air of authority which seemed natural to the speaker, caused a deep sensation. I remember seeing Lalande, Lacretelle, and Barthelemy, gazing at him with the most profound attention. Necker, St Priest, and Lafayette, looked at each other with an uneasy air. Mirabeau nodded once or twice significantly to Talleyrand and Gregoire, who appeared sheepish, downcast, and displeased. Alfieri, notwithstanding his aristocratic pride, and his natural dislike for young men's harangues, paid not only attention to the speaker, but seemed |
