Mr. Colton has an excellent taste for the fine arts, and has expended considerable sums in forming a picture gallery. Every nook of his apartment is literally covered with the treasures of art, including many of the _chefs d'oeuvres_ of the great masters, and many valuable paintings are placed on the floor for want of room to suspend them against the wainscot. I may here observe, that his present domicile does not exactly correspond with that described as his former "castle" in London, inasmuch as it is part of a royal residence, it being on the second floor, on one side of the quadrangle of the Palais Royal, overlooking the large area of that building, and opposite to the _jet d'eau_ in the centre. But his habits and mode of dress appear to be unchanged. He has only one room; he keeps no servant, (unless a boy to take care of his horse and cabriolet); he lights his own fire, and, I believe, performs all his other domestic offices himself. But, notwithstanding these whimsicalities, he is generous, hospitable and friendly. He still, when a friend "drops in," produces a bottle or two of the finest wines and a case of the best cigars, of which he is a determined smoker. I will only add, that he continues to employ himself in literary composition. Among other pieces not published in England, he has written an ode on the death of Lord Byron, a copy of which he presented me, but which I unfortunately lent--and lost. A small edition was printed at Paris for private circulation. He has also written an unpublished poem in the form of a letter from Lord Castlereagh in the shades, to Mr. Canning on earth, the caustic severity of which, in the opinion of those who have heard it read, is equal to that of any satire in the English language. I remember only the two first lines-- "Dear George, from these _Shades_, where no wine's to be had. But where rivers of flame run like rivers run mad." And the following, in allusion to the instrument with which Lord C. severed the carotid artery, and which was the means of producing such a change in the destiny of the present prime minister, who was then on the eve of going out to India as governor-general,-- "Have you pensioned the Jew boy that sold me the knife?" It is to be lamented that such a man should be an exile from his native country.--But I draw a veil over the rest, and sincerely hope that his absence from England will not be perpetual. * * * * * * * * THE DEAD TRUMPETER. TO ILLUSTRATE A CELEBRATED FRENCH PICTURE. _(For the Mirror.)_ 'Tis evening! the red rayless sun Glares fiercely on the battle plain;-- _Morn_ saw the deadly fray begun, Morn heard _thy_ bugle wake a strain, Poor soldier! and its warning breath Call'd _thee_, and myriads to death!