The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 556, July 7, 1832. Various

His face was pale and emaciated, the cheek bones being remarkably prominent; his left arm was considerably contracted, as he was fond of saying, from a pistol wound received in a duel. His habits were low; when not at the gaming house, he was to be found in one of the lower English houses, smoking and drinking, entertaining his pot companions, and acting what is vulgarly called, the "king of the company." He possessed a fund of anecdote and wit, and had his manners been more polished, and his character less exceptionable, his society would doubtless have been much courted.

      His lodgings, which were in the Palais Royal, above the Café Phoenix, were particularly filthy; his bedroom, into which all visiters were shown, was truly disgusting; though he had at the same time two sitting-rooms, handsomely furnished, which were constantly locked, and into which he himself perhaps did not enter once in a month. An anecdote, which he related to me, will tend to illustrate his character and style of living. A pair of his pantaloons became much worn in the pockets, and he took them to a tailor to be repaired. They were brought home when he was absent, and left below with the porter, who gave them to him on his return. The following morning the tailleur called while Colton was still in bed, for the cash; he was shown into the bedroom by the miserable little urchin who attended daily to light the fire, &c., and demanded in payment twenty sous; this was resisted on the part of Colton as exorbitant, and the tailleur, vexed at having parted with his work before payment, seized a pair that were at the bedside, (imagining them the same that he had stitched,) and was about to quit the room with them as security, when the reverend gentleman, drawing a pistol from under his pillow, and presenting it at the terrified mender of garments, swore he would favour him with the contents unless the pantaloons were replaced: this was of course complied with, and our indignant tailleur immediately proceeded to Monsieur le Commissaire, who dispatched messengers to require the attendance of the party who had thus threatened the life of a Citizen of Paris. Colton then explained that the pantaloons of which the plaintiff had taken possession, were those he had worn on the preceding day, and contained cash that he had brought from the gaming-house to the amount of nearly £2,000. He was of course discharged on payment of the twenty sous to the tailor.

      Although generally considered mean, I have much pleasure in stating that I have known him perform many acts of charity, frequently giving a dinner to some one of his reduced countrymen, (of whom there are too many in Paris,) and occasionally assisting them with small sums of money. It has been stated that the dread of an operation which became necessary for a complaint under which he laboured, was the cause of his suicide; this I much doubt, since I have never met with a man of greater fortitude and stronger nerve. I am rather disposed to think that the depressed state of his finances, severing the only hold he had on his dissolute associates, and the attention paid too often to wealth, though accompanied by vice, having disappeared, he found himself pennyless and despised; he was without religious consolation; his health declined, his spirits were broken; he was, and felt himself, alone in the world, without friends and without commiseration, and in a moment of desperation he put a period to his reckless existence.

      Your correspondent, Enort, has certainly viewed the sunny side of his character; and that too I am disposed to think, with a burning glass. I have passed many hours in his society, pleased with his wit and epigrammatic sallies, but strive in vain to call to my recollection "the spontaneous flow of his Latin, his quotations from the ancient and modern poets, and his masterly and eloquent developement of every subject that his acute intellect chose to dilate upon." His conversation was ever egotistical in the extreme: the bold assertion that his Lacon was the most clever work in the English language, was ever on his lips, and I regret to add, obscenity and irreligion too often supplied the place of wit or rational converse.

      Palace Row, New Road.

      W.W.

      KING KENULPH'S DAUGHTER

      This is little better than a versified fact. The outline may be found in Sir Robert Atkyns' History of Gloucestershire, p. 435.

      King Kenulph he died, as kings have died,

      The will of the Lord be done;

      And he left to the care of his daughter fair,

      Queen Quendred, an infant son.

      The daughter gazed at her brother king,

      Her eye had an evil mote;

      And then she played with his yellow hair,

      And patted his infant throat;

      And then she muster'd a bloody mind,

      And whisper'd a favour'd slut,

      While patting the infant monarch's throat,

      It would not be much to cut.

      The favour'd gipsey noted the hint,

      And she thought it not amiss,

      She hied to the infant's governor,

      And gave him a loving kiss.

      The kiss of woman's a wond'rous juice,

      That poisoneth pious minds,

      It worketh more than the wrath of hell,

      And the eye of justice blinds.

      So they cut the infant monarch's throat,

      They buried him in the wood,

      The Mistress Quendred liv'd as a queen,

      And they thought the deed was good.

      Now mark, how ill is a crime conceal'd,

      Bad deeds will never accord,

      The murder never beheld at home,

      Was to light elsewhere restor'd,

      They wash'd their hands in the monarch's blood,

      And the world roll'd on the same,

      Till swift to the holy shrine at Rome,

      A fluttering dove there came.

      A dove, a peaceful, timorous bird,

      That carried a parchment scroll,

      And in letters of gold, the crime it told,

      That blasted a sister's soul.

      That fluttering dove flew round the shrine,

      Where the Pope by chance was led,

      And he let the scribbled parchment fall

      On his holiness' bald head.

      Now the Pope was very sore perplex'd,

      At the words the dove had scrawl'd,

      For he could not read the pig-squeak tongue,

      Which is now old English call'd.

      He questioned the French ambassador,

      The news of that scroll to speak.

      Who bowing observed, "it was not French,

      He never had learn'd the Greek."

      He ask'd a monk from Byzantium,

      A monk as fat as a tench,

      He merely remark'd "it was not Greek,

      He never had learn'd the French."

      He question'd the grave Lord Cardinal,

      He ordered the monks to pray'rs,

      The monks ne'er knew what language it was,

      When they saw it was not theirs.

      But there chanced to be an Englishman,

      At Rome, on a trading hope,

      The tale of blood and the letters gold,

      He read to the holy Pope.

      'Twas how King Kenulph an infant son,

      Bequeath'd to his daughter's care,

      And how the daughter slaughtered the son,

      It clearly mention'd where.

      Then the Pope cried, "Heaven's will be done,"

      And a loud Hosanna sung,

      The