The Sun.
London, England, 1844-01-01 00:00:00

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

We expected more entertainment from the
reminiscences of " Prince Talleyrand" than we
have met with. One or two of the anecdotes
related of him are good—especially the hoax
which he played off on an impertinent provincial
functionary, who had visited him at his country
seat,Valencay ; but altogether the article wears the
appearance ofhaving been manufactured expressly
to order, and if we are not mistaken, the Prince's
account of his own melodramatic adventure with
a friend of his in America, who suddenly went
mad, and as suddenly conceived the project of
his assassination, has already appeared in print.
However, the article has some redeeming points;
the incidental sketches of the chateau of
Valencay and its aristocratic inmates are neatly
hit off; and those who are not very exacting as
regards quality of anecdote, but are satisfied with
mere superficial gossip, will be pleased with it.
And here, while on the subject of Talleyrand,
we cannot refrain from expressing our surprise
that no authentic memoir has yet been published
of this extraordinary man. The materials must
surely be abundant and accessible without much
difficulty, for from the time when, as Bishop
of Autun, lie solemnly consecrated the revolu-
tionary banners at the first celebrated meet-
ing at the Champ de Mars, down to the
period of his last visit to England as French
Ambassador, he was constantly before the pub-
lic—now holding office under the Directory—
now concerting with Citizen Bonaparte the
Eighteenth Brumaire—now conducting the most
important diplomatic busyness of the Consulate
and the Empire—now plotting the overthrow of
the latter and the restoration of the Monarchy—
and now, his last tortuous achievement, figuring
as one of the chief confidential advisers of the
King of the Barricades. The private life of this
slippery and successful politician, who bade de-
fiance to the caprice of Fortune, and even made
her his obsequious tool—his Slave of the Lamp,
could of course only be written by a friend, but
his public life is the history of his times, and
might therefore be written efficiently by any one
familiar with that stormy epoch. Mr. Alison,
we think, would acquit himself of the task with
great success. The " The Court of Cupid" is an
ingenious
idea whose skilful working-out will re-
commend it to all lovers of light reading. Lady
Londonderry, we see contributes " A Narrative
of her Visit to the Court of Vienna," and im-
presses us with a vivid idea of the conversa-

iional talents of Prince Metternich. We have
been amused by the following touch of aristo-
cratic prejudice :—" Five o'clock dinners," says
the Marchioness, " are to n►e very disagreeable;
they entirely cut up and destroy the day, and
are extremely inconvenient to persons who like
a long morning." In our old-fashioned simpli-
city we had forgotten that a West-end London
morning does not commence till two P.M., and
that midnight occurs about the time when
we are busy with our breakfast. But we have
one comfort—it is never too late to amend
the error of one's notions. " Barak Johnson" is
a tragic narrative, told vigorously and unaffectedly
by Miss Strickland. The illustration that accom-
panies it, is too exaggerated in expression. The
murderer does not look as if he were bent on dis-
patching his victim to the capacious bosom of
Abraham, but simply as if he were making wry
faces under the influence of a brisk dose of Epsom
salts. " A Visit to Rousseau's Residence, Les
Charmettes," has one besetting fault—namely,
that it takes too favourable a view of the charac-
ter of this maudlin, vicious sentimentalist, who
did more to corrupt his age and that which im-
mediately succeeded it, than any dozen authors of
his time. We fear we shall shock the prejudieesof
many of our readers, when we state our deliberate
conviction that Rousseau never had a healthy,
natural feeling in his life. lle was that meanest
of creatures, a selfish, whining egotist, and we
trace much of his malign influence in the earlier
writings of Byron, and the rhapsodical bursts of
Hazlitt. " People when at Home" exhibits, in
a satirical, but not ill-natured spirit, the difference
between a family circle made up for company,
and the same family when alone in the retire-
ment of their sitting-room. Mr. Poole's essay
on " Gentility—Vulgarity" reminds us of some
of Steele's best essay's in the " Tatler." We sub-
join Miss Cook's " Song of the Winter Tree,"
chiefly for the adroit and ready manner in which
the moral application is brought.in in the closing
stanza :
" What a happy life was mine when the sunbeams used
to twine
Like golden threads about my summer suit ;
When my warp and woof of green let enough of light
between,
Just to dry the dew that lingered at my root.
" What troops of friends I had when my form was richly
clad,
And I was fair 'mid fairest things of earth !
Good company came round, and I heard no rougher
sound
Than Childhood's laugh in bold and leaping mirth.

"The old man sat him down to note my emerald crown,
And rest beneath my branches thick and bright ;
The squirrel on my spray kept swinging all the day,
And the song birds chattered to me through the night.
" The dreaming poet laid his soft harp in my shade,
And sung my beauty, chorussed by the bee;
The village maiden came to read her own dear name,
Carved on my bark, and bless the broad green tree.

" The merry music breathed, while the bounding dancers
wreathed

In mazy windings round my giant stem ;
And the joyous words they poured, as they trod the
chequered sward,
Told the green tree was a worshipped thing by them.
" Oh, what troops of friends I had, to make my strong
heart glad,
What kind ones answered to my rustling call !
I was hailed with smiling praise, in the glowing summer
days,
And the beautiful green tree was loved by all.
"But the bleak wind wind hath swept by, and the gray
cloud dimmed the sky,
My latest leaf has left my inmost bough ;
I creak in grating tones, like the skeleton's bleached
bones,

And not a footstep seeks the old tree now.
" I stand at morning's dawn, the cheerless and forlorn ;
The sunset comes and fines me still alone -
The mates who shared my bloom have left me in my
gloom ;
Birds, poet, dancers, children—all are gone.