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tain observations he made upon the absurd custom the Tory press indulged in of calling the Prince the first gentleman of Europe, and the Adonis of the age. Mr. Leigh Hunt very naturally ridiculed the idea of applying the epithet of Adonis to a fat old man, and that of the first gentleman in Europe to one who had behaved so infamously to the wife he had sworn to protect and cherish. When his term of imprisonment had expired, he wrote an article in the "Examiner," the paper he edited, congratulating his readers on his enlargement, and assuring them that he had derived considerable benefit from the discipline he had undergone. And, added the wit, I am no less delighted at the vast improvement I find in the Prince Regent: for, when I was sent to jail he was fat, old, and a bad husband; whereas now, I am told, "he is thin, young, and lives with his wife." Some few days after he was threatened by the Attorney-General with a prosecution, whereupon the facetious poet explained to his readers, that he had been punished for saying that the Prince was old, fat, and a bad husband, and that they were now threatening him with another prosecution for declaring he was young, thin, and lived with his wife. The Attorney-General saw he should come off second best in this encounter, and very wisely dropped the matter.

In person, Ernest Jones is small, well made, and has the peculiarity of red hair; his eye is gray, fiery and piercing. In disposition he is sanguine and generous. Eager in the expression of his opinions, whether of politics, morals, philosophy or religion. He is a man of fortune, and passes his time in prison in writing. He is somewhere about his thirty-fifth year.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

The author of "Memorials of a Tour in Greece" is the son of Mr. Milnes, a gentleman of fortune and estate near Pontefract. He was born about the year 1806, and after receiving a classical education at Cambridge, spent a considerable time in travelling; on his return he was elected member for Pontefract, which honor he has retained ever since. In politics he is a Tory Radical. His principal works are "Memorials of a Tour in France," "Poems of Many Years," "Poetry for the People," and "Palm Leaves." A complete edition of his works has been published by Mr. Moxon, in four volumes. He is genial in his manners, though occasionally he ventures in a little display, which somewhat partakes of affectation and conceit, and exposes him to the lash of the satirist.

We remember on one occasion he entered a large party, having just returned from the queen's ball; he was consequently in his court dress, with sword, &c. Observing two young ladies, with whom he had some slight acquaintance, seated on a couch at one end of the room, the member for Pontefract advanced, and kneeling midway between, listened blandly to their conversation, now and then joining in, as a sort of Greek chorus, on a very small scale. They seemed somewhat astounded at the coolness of the proceeding, and changed the subject of discourse; Mr. Sidney Smith, who was seated at a little distance, observed the mise en scène, and said to a lady who was at his side, Well, I have often heard of the cool of the evening, but I have never seen it till now.'

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Another instance is recorded of the old wit's schooling to the young and flippant poet: one evening the author of "Memorials was about to leave a party where the distinguished prebend was present, and going up to him, he bade him good-bye in this fashion: "Good-bye, Sidney, I must go; I have promised Howley (the Archbishop of Canterbury) to drop in at his soiree to-night." "Farewell, dear Mr. Milnes," said the old divine, "but before you go let me give you one word of advice-don't call him Howley !" It must be borne in mind, Howley is the archbishop's family name.

Mr. Milnes, it strikes us, [we do not belong to the inner and devoted circles of his admirers,] looking upon him as an unprejudiced man, ab extra, may be considered as a journalist in verse, a diarist, a letter-writer, a traveller, anything but a poet. His Pegasus, we imagine, would never have furnished Schiller the divine animal of his myth, sacred for ever to genius. He would not have spurned the harness or affected the precipice. He is rather the musa pedestris walking the plains, firm paced, clean footed, a serviceable nag, but far from the Olympic course. We are struck, in looking over Mr. Milnes' volumes; we see not why they should not be indefinitely extended, with this serviceableness of the imagination. He carries the inventive faculty with him, as a foot rule in his pocket, and can take in a moment the gauges of any object, whether it be a sonnet for a pebble at Iona, or an ode to the black stone at Mecca. He is a man who travels much about the world, and to whom nature or art, it matters nothing which, are perpetually saying, stand and deliver, when he will disburden himself of an epic in the small charge of a book full of national verses. They are all excellent, smooth, plausible; the arrow is straight, well selected, deftly feathered, but there is a want of strength in the bow, or the right arm behind it. In fine, Mr. Milnes is an amateur in verse. A writer of his frequency and fluency may certainly lay claim to being an accomplished man, but unless he exhibits some one pervading power by

which he is mastered, he cannot be a man of genius. With all his opportunities, he has not written anything for the heart of the world. His name excites respect, but it awakens no sentiment.

Consider him as an essayist or poem writer, his anecdotes and memorabilia are notable. His books are cool, gentlemanly in style, excellent for what the American booksellers, in a climate which is a fair test of the matter, are fond of advertising as "good for summer reading;" Brummell might have read them without ruffling his cravat, Lord Byron have written them without ever throwing away his. The wit which Sydney Smith fastened upon him in the drawing room, sticks to him in the study. Wherever he goes, "whatever realms, whatever climes to see," he carries along with him the same sunless world, tempered, indeed, by the mild radiance of the room; gently invigorated by descending dews, the forms of nature preserved, but colorless, a season for meditation, inactivity and progression to sleep, "the cool of the evening."

Mr. Milne's poetry is too frequently commonplace and trite. And to this he adds a style which degenerates into the languid; his idea of perfection seems to be repose; but after a time the reader is wearied with this apathetic indifference: in some pieces it undoubtedly adds to the effect, but when all tunes are played in the same adagio movement, it becomes a mannerism; there is also often the old conventional expression, which no man of an original mind would use. The following verse is a specimen of it—

"When God built up the dome of blue,

And portioned earth's prolific floor,

The measure of his wisdom drew

A line between the rich and poor.

And till that vault of glory fall,

Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame,

Or saving love be all in all,

That rule of life will rest the same."

This is truly adjective poetry; what can be in worse taste than "dome of blue," and "vault of glory."

"We know not why, we know not how,
Mankind are framed for weal or woe,

But to the Eternal law we bow,

If such things are, they must be so.

Yet let no cloudy dreams destroy

One truth outshining bright and clear,
That wealth is ONLY hope and joy,

And poverty BUT pain and fear."

The only and the but are very significant.

We give one more specimen of this languor of manner which we conceive is the great defect of his style; his languor of thought, of course is irremediable; but he certainly might, by a more forcible expression, assume the appearance of vigor.

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