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LXXII.

Wilkes," said the Devil, “I understand all this; You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, (1) And seem to think it would not be amiss

To grow a whole one on the other side Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his

Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide,

He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labour, For at the best he will but be your neighbour.

LXXIII.

* "However, I knew what to think of it,
| When I beheld you, in your jesting way,
Fitting and whispering round about the spit
1. Where Belial, upon duty for the day,
With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt,
His pupil; I knew what to think, I say:
That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills;
I'll have him gagg'd—'t was one of his own bills.
LXXIV.

Call Junius!" (2) From the crowd a shadow stalk'd,
And at the name there was a general squeeze,
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd

la comfort, at their own aerial ease,

But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd,
As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder,
Or like a human colic, which is sadder.

LXXV.

The shadow came a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure,
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth;
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth:
Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger,
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth;
But as you gazed upon its features, they
Changed every instant-to what, none could say.

LXXVI.

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less

Could they distinguish whose the features were; The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess; They varied like a dream-now here, now there; And several people swore from out the press, They knew him perfectly; and one could swear He was his father: upon which another Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother:

Thence in natural birth, sedition, revolt, revolution.

France had received the seeds, and reap'd the harvest of horrors;
Where-where should the plague be stay'd? Oh, most to be pitied
They of all souls in bale, who see no term to the evil
They by their guilt have raised, no end to their inner upbraidings!
iam I could not choose but know," etc.-L. E.

For the political history of John Wilkes, who died chamberlain of the city of London, we must refer to any history of the reign of George III. His profligate personal character is abundantly displayed in the collection of his letters, published by his daughter! since his death.-L. E. (2) In Southey:

Who might the other be, his comrade in guilt and in suffering,
Brought to the proof like him, and shrinking like him from the trial?
Nameless the Libeller lived, and shot his arrows in darkness;
Cadetected he pass'd to the grave, and, leaving behind him
Notions works on earth, and the pest of an evil example,
Went to the world beyond, where no offences are hidden.
Mask'd had he been in his life, and now a visor of iron,

Riveted round his head, had abolish'd his features for ever.

Speechless the standerer stood, and turn'd his face from the Monarch,

Iron-bound as it was, ... so insupportably dreadful,

Soon or late, to conscious guilt is the eye of the injured."—L. E. (3) Among the various persons to whom the Letters of

LXXVII.

Another, that he was a duke, or knight,

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,

A nabob, a man-midwife; (3) but the wight
Mysterious changed his countenance at least
As oft as they their minds: though in full sight
He stood, the puzzle only was increased;
The man was a phantasmagoria in
Himself he was so volatile and thin. (4)

LXXVIII.

The moment that you had pronounced him one,
Presto! his face changed, and he was another;
And when that change was hardly well put on,
It varied, till I don't think his own mother
(If that he had a mother) would her son

Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other;
Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task,
At this epistolary "Iron. Mask." (5)

LXXIX.

For sometimes he, like Cerberus, would seem"Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem

That he was not even one; now many rays Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam

Hid him from sight-like fogs on London days: Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. (6)

LXXX.

I've an hypothesis-'t is quite my own;
I never let it out till now, for fear
Of doing people harm about the throne,

And injuring some minister or peer,
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown:
It is--my gentle public, lend thine ear!
"Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call
Was really, truly, nobody at all.

LXXXI.

I don't see wherefore letters should not be
Written without hands, since we daily view
Them written without heads; and books, we see,
Are fill'd as well without the latter too:
And really till we fix on somebody

For certain sure to claim them as his due,
Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother
The world to say if there be mouth or author.

Junius have been attributed we find the Duke of Portland, Lord George Sackville, Sir Philip Francis, Mr. Burke, Mr. Dunning, the Rev. John Horne Tooke, Mr. Hugh Boyd, Dr. Wilmot, etc.-L. E.

(4) "I don't know what to think. Why should Junius be dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his grave without sending his sidehov to shout in the ears of posterity, 'Junius was X. Y. Z., Esq. buried in the parish of *.***.. Repair his monument, ye churchwardens! Print a new edition of his Letters, ye booksellers!' Impossible,- the man must be alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I like him; he was a good hater."-B. Diary, Nov. 23, 1813.-Sir Philip Francis died in Dec. 1818.-L. E.

(5) The mystery of "l'homme au masque de fer," the everlasting puzzle of the last century, has at length, in general opinion, been cleared up, by a French work published in 1825, and which formed the basis of an entertaining one in English by Lord Dover. See the Quarterly Review, vol. xxxiv. p. 19.-L. E.

(6) "That the work entitled The Identity of Junius with a distinguished Living Character established proves Sir Philip Francis to be Junius, we will not affirm; but this we

LXXXII.

"And who and what art thou?" the Archangel said. "For that you may consult my title-page," Replied this mighty shadow of a shade:

"If I have kept my secret half an age,

I scarce shall tell it now.-"Canst thou upbraid," Continued Michael, "George Rex, or allege Aught further?" Junius answer'd, "You had better First ask him for his answer to my letter: LXXXIII.

"My charges upon record will outlast

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." "Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some past Exaggeration? something which may doom Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast Too bitter-is it not so?-in thy gloom Of passion."-"Passion!" cried the phantom dim, "I loved my country, and I hated him. LXXXIV.

"What I have written, I have written: let

The rest be on his head or mine!" So spoke Old “Nominis Umbra;” (1) and while speaking yet, Away he melted in celestial smoke. (2) Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't forget

[Tooke, To call George Washington, (3) and John Horne And Franklin ;"-but at this time there was heard A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd.

LXXXV.

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid
Of cherubim appointed to that post,

The devil Asmodeus to the circle made

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost Some trouble. When his burden down he laid,

"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a "I know it," quoth the incubus; "but he [ghost!" Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.

LXXXVI.

"Confound the renegado! I have sprain'd
My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think
Some of his works about his neck were chain'd.
But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink

can safely assert, that it accumulates such a mass of circumstantial evidence, as renders it extremely difficult to believe he is not; and that, if so many coincidences shall be found to have misled us in this case, our faith in all conclusions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may henceforth be shaken." Mackintosh.-L. E.

(1) The well-known motto of Junius is, "Stat nominis umbra."-L. E.

(2) In Southey :

"Caitiffs, are ye dumb? cried the multifaced demon in anger;
Think ye then by shame to shorten the terin of your penance?
Back to your penal dens !-And with horrible grasp gigantic
Seizing the guilty pair, he swung them aloft, and in vengeance
Hurl'd them all abroad, far into the sulphurous darkness.
Sons of Faction, be warn'd! And ye, ye slanderers! learn ye
Justice, and bear in mind that after death there is judgment.
Whirling, away they flew! Nor long himself did he tarry,
Ere from the ground where he stood, caught up by a vehement
whirlwind,

He too was hurried away; and the blast with lightning and thunder
Volleying aright and aloft amid the accumulate blackness,
Scatter'd its inmates accurst, and beyond the limits of ether
Drove the hircine host obscene: they howling and groaning
Fell precipitate down to their dolorous place of endurance."-L. E.

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Of Skiddaw (4) (where as usual it still rain'd),
I saw a taper, far below me, wink,
And, stooping, caught this fellow at a libel-
No less on history than the Holy Bible.

LXXXVII.

"The former is the devil's scripture, and

The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair Belongs to all of us, you understand.

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, And brought him off for sentence out of hand: I've scarcely been ten minutes in the airAt least a quarter it can hardly be: I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

LXXXVIII.

Here Satan said, "I know this man of old,
And have expected him for some time here;
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,

Or more conceited in his petty sphere:
But surely it was not worth while to fold

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: With carriage) coming of his own accord. We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored

LXXXIX.

"But since he's here, let's see what he has done." "Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates

The very business you are now upon,

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" "Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say; You know we're bound to that in every way."

XC.

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which By no means often was his case below, Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch His voice into that awful note of woe

To all unhappy hearers within reach

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; But stuck fast with his first hexameter, Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

Was the voice of the angel heard through the silence of heaven Ho! he exclaim'd, King George of England standeth in judgment! Hell hath been dumb in his presence. Ye who on earth arraign'd Come ye before him now, and here accuse or absolve him!

. From the souls of the blessed Some were there then who advanced; and more from the shuts of the meeting,

Spirits who had not yet accomplish'd their purification,
Yet being cleansed from pride, from faction and error deliver'd,
Purged of the film wherewith the eye of the mind is clouded,
They, in their better state, saw all things clear

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One alone remain'd, when the rest had retired to their station Silently he had stood, and still unmoved and in silence, With a steady mien, regarded the face of the Monarch. Thoughtful a while he gazed:

Here then at the Gate of Heaven we are met!" said the Spirit; 'King of England! albeit in life opposed to each other, Here we meet at last. Not unprepared for the meeting Ween I; for we had both outlived all enmity, rendering Each to each that justice which each from each had withholden. In the course of events, to thee I seem'd as a Rebel, Thou a Tyrant to me;-so strongly doth circumstance rule men During evil days, when right and wrong are confounded! Washington!" said the Monarch, well hast thou spoken, and truly, Just to thyself and to me. On them is the guilt of the contest Who, for wicked ends, with foul arts of faction and falsehood, Kindled and fed the flame: but verily they have their guerdon. Thou and I are free from offence.'

When that spirit withdrew, the Monarch around the assembly Look'd, but none else came forth." etc.-L. E

(4) Mr. Southey's residence is on the shore of Derwent water, near the mountain Skiddaw.-L. E.

XCI.

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd
Into recitative, in great dismay
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard

To murmur loudly through their long array;
And Michael rose ere he could get a word
Of all his founder'd verses under way, [best-
And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend! 't were
Non Di, non homines-you know the rest." (1)

XCII.

A general bustle spread throughout the throng,
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation;
The angels had of course enough of song
When upon service; and the generation
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long
Before, to profit by a new occasion! [what! (2)
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What!
Pye (3) come again? No more-no more of that!"

XCIII.

The tumalt grew; a universal cough

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,

When Castlereagh has been up long enough

Before he was first minister. of state,

XCVI.

He said (I only give the heads)-he said,
He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way
Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,
Of which he butter'd both sides; 't would delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works-he would but cite a few-
Wat Tyler-Rhymes on Blenheim-Waterloo.

XCVII.

He had written praises of a regicide;

He had written praises of all kings whatever;
He had written for republics far and wide,
And then against them bitterer than ever:
For pantisocracy he once had cried

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever;
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin-

Had turn'd his coat-and would have turn'd his skin.

XCVIII.

He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory; he had call'd
Reviewing (4) "the ungentle craft," and then
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd-

I mean the slaves hear now); some cried "Off, off!" Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose

Himself an author) only for his prose.

XCIV.

The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave;

A good deal like a vulture in the face, Vith a book nose and a hawk's eye, which gave A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, Was by no means so ugly as his case; ut that indeed was hopeless as can be, uite a poetic felony "de se.”

XCV.

ben Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise With one still greater, as is yet the mode earth besides; except some grumbling voice, Which now and then will make a slight inroad pon decorous silence, few will twice

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; ad now the bard could plead his own bad cause, With all the attitudes of self-applause.

0
"Mediocribus esse poetis
Non Di, non homines, non concessere columnæ."-Horace.
Tout genre est permis, hors le genre ennuyeux."-Boileau.
The king's trick of repeating his words in this way
a fertile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar (Dr. Wol-
; for example-

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath
Amidst the regiments of death,

Now turn'd to Whitbread with complacence round,
And, merry, thus address'd the man of beer :-

Whitbread, is 't true? I hear, I hear,

You're of an ancient family-renown'd

What! What! I'm told that you 're a Timb

Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:

What, Whitbread, is it true what people say?
Son of a roundhead are you? hæ! hæ! ha!

Thirtieth of January don't you feed?

Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head" !—L. E.

(3) Henry James Pye, the predecessor of Mr. Southey in poet-laureateship, died in 1813. He was the author of

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd: He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, And more of both than any body knows.(5)

XCIX.

He had written Wesley's life:-here turning round To Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours,

In two octavo volumes, nely bound,

With notes and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there's no ground

For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints."

C.

Satan bow'd, and was silent. "Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline

My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

As it was once, but I would make you shine Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

many works, besides his official Odes, among others Alfred, an epic poem-all of which have been long since defunct. Pye was a man of good family in Berkshire, sat some time in parliament, and was eminently respectable in every thing but his poetry.-L. E.

(4) See Life of Henry Kirke White.

(5) "This sarcasm about Southey's professional authorship comes with a bad grace from a man who, for several years, has been in the habit of receiving several thousand pounds per annum, all for value received in verse and prose, from the magnificent exchequer of Albemarle Street. What right has Lord Byron to sneer at Southey as a writer of all work?' Has he not himself published, within these two years, two volumes of tragic blank verse; one volume of licentious ottava rima; one pamphlet of clever polemical criticism, seasoned with personalities against all sorts of men; besides writing an Armenian grammar?" Blackwood, 1822.-L.E.

CI.

"But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision! Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall Judge with my judgment, and by my decision

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. (1) I settle all these things by intuition,

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, Like King Alfonso.(2) When I thus see double, I save the Deity some worlds of trouble."

CII.

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so

He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents,
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang." (3)
CIII.

Those grand heroics acted as a spell;

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell;

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions

(I) In Southey:

"Lift up your heads, ye gates; and ye everlasting portals,
Be ye lift up! For lo! a glorified Monarch approacheth,
One who in righteousness reign'd, and religiously govern'd his people.
Who are these that await him within ?-Nassau, the deliverer,
Him I knew
Thou, too, O matchless Eliza,
Excelient Queen, wert there! and thy brother's beautiful spirit.
There too was he of the sable mail, the hero of Cressy,
Lion-hearted Richard was there, redoubtable warrior!
I saw the spirit of Alfred-

Alfred than whom no prince with loftier intellect gifted.
Bede I bebeld, who humble and holy,

Shone like a single star, serene in a night of darkness.
Bacon also was there, the marvellous Friar;

Thee, too, Father Chaucer! I saw, and delighted to see thee
And Shakspeare, who in our hearts for himself hath erected an empire,
A train, whom nearer duty attracted,

Through the Gate of Bliss came forth to welcome their Sovereign,
Many were they, and glorious all. Conspicuous among them
Wolfe was seen; and the Seaman who feil on the shores of Owhyhee;"
And the mighty Musician of Germany,† ours by adoption,
Who beheld in the King his munificent pupil and patron-
There, too, Wesley I saw and knew-And Burke I beheld there.
Here, where wrongs are forgiven, was the injured Hastings beside him;
There was our late-lost Queen, the nation's example of virtue,"
etc. etc. etc.-L. E.

(2) Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said, that "had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities."

(3) See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared with a curious perfume and a most melodious twang," or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225.-[" As the vision shut his volume, a strain of delightful music seemed to fill the apartment."-"The usual time," says Grose, “at which ghosts make their appearance is midnight, and seldom before it is dark; though some audacious spirits have been said to appear even by day-light; but of this there are few instances, and those mostly ghosts who had been laid, and whose terms of confinement were expired. I cannot learn that ghosts carry tapers in their hands, as they are sometimes depicted. Dragging chains is not the fashion of Eng. lish ghosts: chains and black vestments being chiefly the accoutrements of foreign spectres seen in arbitrary govern ments; dead or alive, English spirits are free. During the narration of its business, a ghost must by no means be interrupted by questions of any kind: its narrations being completed, it vanishes away, frequently in a flash of light; in which case, some ghosts have been so considerate as to desire the party to whom they appeared to shut their eyes: -sometimes its departure is attended with most delightful music." Provincial Glossary.-L. E.]

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(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell,
And I leave every man to his opinions);
Michael took refuge in his trump-but, lo!
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!
CIV.

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down;(4) Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, Into his lake, for there he did not drown;

A different web being by the Destinies Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er Reform shall happen either here or there.

CV.

He first sank to the bottom-like his works,
But soon rose to the surface-like himself;
For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks, (5)
By their own rottenness, light as an elf,
Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks,

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,
In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision,"
As Welborn says-" the devil turn'd precisian."

(4) In Southey:

"When I beheld them meet, the desire of my soul o'ercame me, And when with harp and voice the loud hosannahs of welcome Fill'd the rejoicing sky, as the happy company entered Through the Everlasting Gates; I, too, press'd forward to enter But the weight of the body withheld me.-I stoop'd to the founta Eager to drink thereof, and to put away all that was earthly: Darkness came over me then at the chilling touch of the water, And my feet, methought, sunk, and I fell precipitate. Starting Then I awoke, and beheld the mountains in twilight before me, Dark and distinct; and, instead of the rapturous sound of hosar bar Heard the bell from the tower, TOLL! TOLL! through the sic evening."-L. E.

(5) A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten: then floats, as most people know.

[Curran in one of his speeches compared a bad man to dead body buoyant on a corrupted stream, and rising as rots." We quote the simile from recollection, but with any intention of interpreting the coincidence into à cha of plagiarism against Lord Byron.-P. E.]

(6) Southey's Vision of Judgment appears to us to be ill-judged and not a well-executed work. It certaing added nothing to the reputation of its author in any resp The nobleness of his motive does not atone for the a cretion of putting it into so reprehensible a form. Milte example will, perhaps, be pleaded in his vindication; Milton alone has ever founded a fiction on the basis of r lation, without degrading his subject. He alone has s ceeded in carrying his readers into the spiritual world other attempt of the kind has ever appeared that cac read without a constant feeling of something like burles and a wish that the Tartarus and Elysium of the idolatr Greeks should still be the bell and the heaven of por A smile at the puerilities, and a laugh at the abs of the poet, might then be enjoyed by the reader, with an apprehension that he was guilty of profanity in gi it. Milton has been blamed by the most judicious crit and his warmest admirers, for expressing the counsch Eternal Wisdom, and the decrees of Almighty Power words assigned to the Deity. It offends against po propriety and poetical probability. It is impossible to ceive ourselves into a momentary and poetical belief t words proceeded from the Holy Spirit, except on the rant of inspiration itself. It is here only that Miiton fa and here Milton sometimes shocks. The language conduct ascribed by Milton to his inferior spirits, seces well with our conceptions and belief respecting their nat and existence, that in many places we forget that they in any respect, the creatures of imagination. The h phemies of Milton's devils offend not a pious ear, bers they are devils who utter them. Nor are we displeased " the poet's presumption in feigning language for bes

CVI.

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion

Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion,

And show'd me what I in my turn have shown; All I saw farther, in the last confusion,

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.(1)

APPENDIX.

NOTE [A.]

MR. WILLIAM SMITH'S SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 14, 1817. See antè, p. 404. *THE honourable member then adverted to that tergiversation of principle which the career of political ndividuals so often presented. He was far from sapposing, that a man who set out in life with the profession of certain sentiments was bound to conclade life with them. He thought there might be many ccasions in which a change of opinion, when that change was unattended by any personal advantages, when it appeared entirely disinterested, might be the pirit, because it is a language that lifts the soul to heaven; And we more than believe, we know and feel, that, whatver may be the nature of the language of angels, the lanage of the poet truly interprets their sentiments. The wards are human; but the truths they express, and the doctrines they teach, are divine. Nothing of the same kind can be said of any other fable, serious or ludicrous, pious or profane, that has yet been written in any age or lan. guage. Blackwood, 1822.-L. E.

The Vision of Judgment appeared, as has been already said, in the Liberal-a Journal which, consisting chiefly of pieces by the late Mr. Hazlitt and Mr. Leigh Hunt, was not red from ruin by a few contributions, some of the highest merit, by Lord Byron. In his work, entitled Lord Byron ad his Contemporaries, Mr. Hunt assaulted the dead poet, with reference to this unhappy Journal; and his charges were has taken to pieces at the time in the Quarterly Review:"Mr. Hunt describes himself as pressed by Lord Byron into the undertaking of that hapless magazine: Lord Byron, the contrary, represents himself as urged to the service by the Messrs. Hunt themselves." e. g.

Genoa, Oct. 9, 1822.-I am afraid the Journal is a bad business, and won't do, but in it I am sacrificing my. I self for others. I can have no advantage in it. I believe the brothers Hunts to be honest men; I am sure that they Are poor ones; they have not a nap. They pressed me to engage in this work, and in an evil hour I consented; still I thail not repent if I can do them the least service. I have done all I can for Leigh Hunt since he came here, but it is almost aseless: his wife is ill; his six children not very tractable; and in affairs of this world he himself is a perfeet child. The death of Shelley left them totally aground; and I could not see them in such a state without using the common feelings of humanity, and what means were in my power to set them afloat again.'

"Again-Mr. Hunt represents Lord Byron as dropping is connection with The Liberal, partly because his friends at home (Messrs. Moore, Hobhouse, Murray, etc.) told him it was a discreditable one, and partly because the business did not turn out lucrative.

"It is a mistake to suppose, that he was not mainly inenced by the expectation of profit. He expected very large returns from The Liberal. Readers in these days need ant be told, that periodical works which have a large sale are a mine of wealth: Lord Byron had calculated that matter well.'-Lord Byron and his Contemporaries, p. 50.

The failure of the large profits-the non-appearance of the golden visions he had looked for, of the Edinburgh er Quarterly returns-of the solid and splendid proofs of this new country which he should conquer in the regions

result of sincere conviction. But what he most detested, what most filled him with disgust, was the settled, determined malignity of a renegado. He had read in a publication (The Quarterly Review), certainly entitled to much respect from its general literary excellences, though he differed from it in its principles, a passage alluding to the recent disturbances, which passage was as follows:

"When the man of free opinions commences professor of moral and political philosophy for the benefit of the public-the fables of old credulity are then verified his very breath becomes venomous, and every page which he sends abroad carries with it poison to the unsuspicious reader. We have shown, on a former occasion, how men of this description are acting upon the public, and have explained in what manner a large part of the people have been prepared for the virus with which they inoculate them. The dangers arising from such a state of things are now fully apparent, and the designs of the incendiaries, which have for some years been proclaimed so plainly, that they ought, long ere this, to have been prevented, are now manifested by overt acts.'

"With the permission of the House, he would read an extract from a poem recently published, to which, he supposed, the above writer alluded (or at least to productions of a similar kind), as constituting a part of notoriety, to the dazzling of all men's eyes and his own -this it was-this was the bitter disappointment which made him determine to give way.'-Ibid. p. 51.

"Now let us hear Lord Byron himself:

"Genoa, 9bre 18th, 1822.—They will, of course, attribute motives of all kinds; but I shall not abandon a man like Hunt because he is unfortunate. Why, I could have no pecuniary motives, and, least of all, in connection with Hunt.'

"Genoa, IObre 25th, 1822.-Now do you see what you and your friends do by your injudicious rudeness? actually cement a sort of connection which you strove to prevent, and which, had the Hunts prospered, would not, in all probability, have continued. As it is, I will not quit them in their adversity, though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the usual et cetera. My original motives I already explained; (in the letter which you thought proper to show ;) they are the true ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, and I told Leigh Hunt, when he questioned me on the subject of that letter. He was violently hurt, and never will forgive me at the bottom; but I cannot help that. I never meant to make a parade of it; but if he chose to question me, I could only answer the plain truth, and I confess, I did not see any thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was "a bore," which I don't remember. Had this Journal gone on well, and I could have aided to make it better for them, I should then have left them, after a safe pilotage off a lee-shore, to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. As it is, I can't, and would not if I could, leave them among the breakers. As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion, between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We meet rarely, hardly ever; but I think him a good-principled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. I do not know what world he has lived in; but I have lived in three or four, but none of them like his Keats-and-Kan. garoo terra incognita. Alas! poor Shelley! how he would have laughed had he lived! and how we used to laugh now and then at various things which are grave in the suburbs.'" The Reviewer proceeds to comment on Mr. Hunt's general abuse of Lord Byron's manners, habits, and conversation, in these terms:

"The witness is, in our opinion, disqualified to give evidence upon any such subjects: his book proves him to be equally ignorant of what manners are, and incompetent to judge what manners ought to be: his elaborate portraiture of his own habits is from beginning to end a very caricature of absurdity; and the man who wrote this book, studiously cast, as the whole language of it is, in a free-and-easy conversational tone, has no more right to decide about the conversation of such a man as Lord Byron, than has a pert apprentice to pronounce ex cathedra-from his one-shilling

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