I First called, upon my return, on Dr. Wolcot. I found him little, if anything, altered; his faculties unclouded, and his conversation as piquant as ever. He once pulled off his wig, when I happened to be there. His head might have well served Gall and Spurzheim for the study of their whimsicalities. It was exceedingly fine. When young, he must have been very handsome. One of his sisters, whom I well remember, had the same fine features, both were of dark complexion.

I went into Warwickshire, after publishing one or two translation from Körner; the song, “Men and Boys,” was one of them. Leamington was then rising into notice. A fine hotel was building, and having an invitation to dine on the opening of the Bedford Arms, to meet Dr. Parr, he invited me to Hatton, of which invitation I did not hesitate to avail myself. I stopped a gap perchance here, in default of an editorship, filling that office for some months. There was an election at Warwick. The interest of the Warwick family could only return one member in place of two, the liberals having succeeded in getting in their nominee. Dr. Parr rode in from Hatton in the most extraordinary costume I ever remember, a dressing-gown under his coat, a

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large wig and clerical hat over all, with one spur, boot, stockings, and his servant well mounted riding before, in place of behind his master.

“Well, Mr. Redding, it is all right. I think it useful that the aristocracy should not have it all their own way. Now my friend, Jack Toms is returned for the borough with Sir Charles Greville, things are as they should be. I have no objection to the castle interest returning one member. I respect our old families.” He added, “it is a triumph no doubt for the people here who can hardly be said to have been represented before. Who are you going to dine with to-morrow?”

“Come with me, we will dine with Sir Charles Greville. I wish him to see that there is nothing personal towards himself in the course we have pursued. He is an excellent man.”

The next day we both dined with Sir Charles. The party under twenty. As we were going, the Doctor said, “the Castle has had a proper lesson in the return; I like the aristocracy if it will keep within its proper limits.” When dinner was over, and two or three glasses of wine had gone round, the Doctor asked permission to have his pipe, saying he would go and sit by the chimney and take care the smoke went up, the Prince of Wales had allowed him his pipe at Carlton House. He was in one of his best humours. Parr’s appearance, when dressed for dinner,

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was well becoming a divine of the old school. His huge cauliflower wig overshadowed his bushy eyebrows, and his cheeks swelled out at times when retaining the smoke, while he paused to make a rejoinder to some remark from another. Then the smoke was puffed forth in a volcanic cloud, and the doctor replied, or gave a learned dissertation upon the subject agitated. His mind was a vast magazine of information;—it was overfilled. Politics, of course, were not the topic on such an occasion at Sir Charles’s table, but the antiquities of the vicinity. The Avon, which the doctor classed with the more celebrated rivers of antiquity, and the information that the name signified only a river in the old language of the country, and therefore that it should have the prefix of Shakspeare to discriminate it, as there were several Avons. Quotations from Horace, in relation to his repasts, and the pleasure derived from knowing how our species lived in private life two thousand years ago were touched upon. A love of the classics was second nature to Parr. He infused that love into his friends and pupils—that love which is now fast dying away among us. When a nation begins to descend in literature, it commences by neglecting that of the past, until it comes to regard it with revulsion, tolerating only the present, as most congenial to its own descent. When Parr talked, all were eager listeners. His manner, when overbearing, most probably arose from his early occupation of instructing youth, but his general manner was mild, and even condescending. That he could thunder upon an occasion is well known, but I never saw a specimen of his excitement. At Hatton he did not dress until dinner time. I often found him

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in his library of a morning, in complete dishabille, in a dressing gown and slippers, a velvet cap on his head, and his everlasting pipe. Though utterly regardless of his toilet on getting up, he prepared for dinner with care. His last operation was to take, or order his favourite servant Sam to bring, his awful wig. Three or four of those wigs stood ready dressed in a line near the foot of the stairs at Hatton, upon stands or blocks. When dressed, the change from his dishabille wonderfully altered his appearance. I have seen him with his pipe at five o’clock in the morning in his garden during summer. There was a summer-house there in which he smoked, when some one read to him, and if the weather was warm, one side of this house, looking upon a grassy spot where his horses fed, the animals would often push in their heads if the window were open, as if to inhale a little of the smoke. The people used to call that summer-house the “Lion’s den.” Sheridan, Fox, Erskine, Mackintosh, Burdett, the Bishop of Cloyne, and a host of great names had been received in that little place. I found there once a son of the Bishop of Durham, reading latin to the doctor. When I came in, he ordered the youth away, saying, “Mr. R. and I are going to have a little talk on politics.”

His love of the simple manners of the old days was strong. He would go into the kitchen about once in a month, and smoke his pipe by the fire, making Jack Bartlam, as he called the Rev. John Bartlam of Alcester, go with him—“now this is the way our old fashioned clergy lived.” He would not let the servants go away. Another custom of his, was never to let a beggar pass his door, without giving him something. When with-

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out small change, he would go to his cook and send out a hearty luncheon by her hands. The livery of his servants was unostentatious, but made of the best material, if an inferior sort were offered by the tradesman, he would often buy it for himself, but his servants must have the best. His favourite servant, Sam, he told me, was a high Tory in politics, “he is a good servant, what a pity we should differ.” Sam was not overstocked with wisdom, and would debate stoutly with his master at times, when he knew he might do so to the Doctor’s amusement. Parr was under the middle height in stature, square and strongly built, his body large in proportion to his lower limbs. His eyes were grey, of the middling size, and sparkled to the last when animated in conversation. The back part of his head was massy and capacious, his forehead full. His characteristic benevolence appeared most in his mode of life. He was remarkable for his kindness to his friends, neighbours, and servants, rendering them all the good in his power. He lisped a little in speaking. He drank seldom more then half a dozen glasses of wine, but he fed largely, rather than choicely, when at a dinner party, or with a friend. It was singular that when alone, he scarcely eat at all, or satisfied himself with a mouthful of any thing that fell in his way. His stomach was strong, and his digestive powers excellent. When fish was on the table, where there was shrimp sauce, the moment the fish was removed, he would pour out the sauce on his plate and eat it, and this down to the last years of his life. Six or eight persons were his favourite number at table. It was seldom known at Hatton how many would dine. I have sat down with

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eight or nine, when he imagined Mrs. Parr and myself were to be his only guests. The copiousness of his information, the clearness, and order of his language, were remarkable, but the latter was too formal. He was not a mere “verb and noun man,” as some have erroneously said, nor did he parade his learning ostentatiously. He had read almost every English writer of note, besides the ancient classics, which he knew so critically. He did not display his classical knowledge in mixed society. With the right kind of company, he overflowed with this knowledge and learned lore. His manner of speaking, and putting things was peculiar, and more remarkable than his matter, those of course died with him, and cannot be described. He regarded our sanguinary law with indignation. Placed in the witness-box at the assizes, on a life and death case, when he had given his evidence, he began to lecture the judge and court. “Go down, Dr. Parr, go down,” said the judge. “I will go down, my lord, I will go down, I will go out of this slaughter-house as fast as I can.” Preaching the assize sermon, he took for his text, “God shall smite thee thou whited wall; for sittest thou to judge me after the law, and commandest me to be smitten contrary to the law.” He partook, with his friend Romilly, in the condemnation of our sanguinary code, now so wisely ameliorated. I mentioned to him a trial then coming on for seditious libel. He said “Mr. Redding, they might as well try to scare the thunder with the attorney-general’s parchments, as think to suppress obnoxious truths with penalties,” a storm was passing at the time. “The pen must conquer. I have made men tremble with it—I made Windham. You remember the fate of poor

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Joseph Gerald, tried for sedition by slavish Scotchmen. He had been a pupil of mine. Poor Gerald acted unwisely, imprudently. Those Scotch judges would have done any thing acceptable to power. Gerald was at large on bail, but I knew from high quarters, and from some of my friends, that he must expect no mercy. I knew how to get money to save his bail. I urged him to leave the country, and let me manage the rest. He knew he might depend upon me. Had I reduced myself to pauperism, I would have saved him. Our conversation took place at the residence of Sir James Mackintosh. Gerald hesitated, and replied, “No, there are others who must stand at the bar with me—I led them into it. Did I stand alone in the matter, I would fly. Honour forbids my doing so.” He went to trial, and you know the result. I raised some money for him, but he was needlessly, and without reason hurried on shipboard. I, and one or two others of his friends, wished to communicate with him, and to send him some necessaries, but even a communication by letter was denied us. When I found such atrocious conduct, so useless in every way to the ends of justice, if the sentence had been just, such a ferocious determination to be barbarous, I sat up all night and wrote a letter six sides long to Windham. I never wrote any thing so severe before or since.’ You know I can do this. I sent off the letter, to which I never got a reply, but an order to permit a communication was given. Windham and I were never friends afterwards. It was the last thing I could do in Gerald’s behalf. Windham must have felt I stung him—I hope he did feel—if he could ever feel any thing for he was a hard-hearted man. A

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trait in this opprobrious persecution must be mentioned in one of the counsel for the prosecution. When the trial was over, the crown prosecutor went to Gerald, and asked him if he had done or said any thing to complain of, in regard to his conduct in the proceedings. Gerald replied in the negative, that he could not have acted in a less offensive manner. On retiring, he put his purse into Gerald’s hand, but though moneyless, Gerald was too proud to accept the tender.

It was in the library at Hatton the Doctor related the circumstances. I was standing with my elbow on the chimney place, and was interested by the peculiar mode in which Parr told the tale, by his indignant manner, and reprobation of the Scotch judges, one of whom had notoriously prejudged the case, by saying in a public company before the trial, that besides fourteen years transportation, the offenders ought to be publicly flogged. This person’s name was Clerk. The crime was advocating Parliamentary Reform.

Parr drew my attention very awkwardly on entering his church one Sunday morning, while he was reading the lessons, he stopped and fixed the eyes of the whole congregation upon myself and a lady, who was my companion, by saying to his servant, “Sam show that lady and gentleman into my pew.” In reading the lessons, when he came to a wrong translation in a passage, he would stop and say, this is not correctly translated, it should have been rendered so and so, or “This passage has a different meaning from the original. I would not have you in error about any thing, my good parishioners.” In reading the proclamation against vice and immorality, he began, it was about the time

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of the Queen Caroline’s prosecution, “My beloved brethren, you must not be deceived in any thing. I am going to read the king’s proclamation against vice and immorality. You will take notice that it is not issued in his Majesty’s private character, but in that of a ruler and king—it has nothing to do with his majesty as a private individual.”

He rebuked me for calling the Athanasian creed damnable—“damnatory, you mean Mr. Redding, that we say, perhaps we mean the same.” He was much attached to his little church, and loved to sit and listen to the bells. He was only perpetual curate. When the owner of the living came, for a short time annually, who was a Bristol clergyman, the Doctor contrived to be absent on a journey, and when he returned, he would address his parishioners: “If you have heard any peculiar religious opinions during my absence, forget them.” He would have common names used in place of the more refined. I heard a lady ask for asparagus, “No madam,” said Parr, “sparrowgrass if you please.” I observed that he pronounced some old words in both the recognized modes Alexandrĭa, and Alexandrīa, Euphrătēs, and Euphrātěs, but he had Milton for an authority in the latter case. He told me to see Italy, he had often wished it, but could never find leizure. No one should die without seeing it—go, go! I was acquainted with his friends the Bartlams, one of whom, the Rev. John, died suddenly in Harley Street, an excellent divine and good scholar. After his death, Parr had an empty chair put in his old place at the table, on the days he used to come over from Alcester to dine. Bartlam’s death was a great shock to him; he never resumed his

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former cheerfulness afterwards. I attended what he called his “Maypole day.” It began at one o’clock, and terminated between eight and nine. The ladies, who were visitors, dined with him in his library.

I knew the Rev. Mr. Field who wrote Parr’s life, and attended his funeral, he died at the age of eighty-five, in August 1851, near Leamington. He was a descendant of the Cromwell family, and a dissenting clergyman, whom Parr desired might be one of his pall bearers, and “no high church pride to be shown on the occasion.” I believe I was a kind of favourite with Parr. Not a year before he died, I had agreed to spend ten days with him at Hatton. The first Mrs. Parr I never knew, nor had aoy desire to know, she was a dreadful vixen. The second was a quiet agreeable lady, of amiable manners, without any extraordinary intellectual pretensions.

Parr was a good economist. If there were to be only four at table, he ordered his cook to prepare, for that number, something plain and good. A friend or two would drop in, and then he would go to his cook and order something additional, and was often obliged to do this two or three times. The turnpike tolls fell off after his decease, on that part of the road, so numerous were those who called at Hatton to visit or compliment its curate. Some came from America, France, and the German states. In the course of a conversation about Arius and Athanasius, in which I said that the latter had killed Arius, or something like it, Parr went into the whole affair at once, but had not proceeded far before he recollected he must visit the cook, for the day was drawing on. While he was absent, I scrawled the following lines. Dr. Parr in soliloquy:

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“More coming to dine?” Then a pipe-puff and wink— “There’s Cormouls from Tanworth—there’s you— I must step to the cook—there’s Jack Bartlam, I think, And there’s whimsical Arthur, that’s two— There’s Kendal from Warwick; we shall eight be at table, I must punish economy harder, I must! Yes, to the cook, and see if she’s able To add a fresh dish from the larder— I’ll be back in a moment, and end the dispute About Athanasius, whom you make a brute!”

The doctor laughed. Then puffed away, gave a whole history of Athanasius and Arius off hand. Reproved me for speaking disrespectfully of some of the fathers, but all in good humour, and we had an uncommonly pleasant day. When I quitted the county, to go to Hatton and take leave was an imperious duty. I found Parr from home. I left a note, as I expected to have gone again to the continent. He wrote me in his illegible hand.

I thank you much for sending me the ‘Globe.’ I haven’t had time yet to read the correspondence between Murat and Talleyrand, and during the confusion of preparing a catalogue of my library, I have put it by in some place where, in my present hurry, I know not the place to look for them. I must thank you for giving them to me, and they shall be treasured as a keepsake. Most heartily do I wish health and happiness to you.

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If I am alive when you return to England, I hope you will come and spend a week or ten days with me.

“To Mr. Redding, with Dr. Parr’s best
respects and kindest wishes.”

I saw him for the last time, in that row of low brick houses, a little westward of St. George’s Hospital, facing Hyde Park. I sat an hour or two with him, talking of the change of the times, from those when Priestly was persecuted at Birmingham, and the walls were chalked with “no philosophers.” I asked if he was not afraid, especially as the mob was directed in its outrages by those who knew better. He said that he had a horse ready in his stable, and some friends who would have given him timely information. Twenty miles, even for a mad mob, was rather a long march to burn a poor parson’s house. He should have lost his library, and that would have been a sad thing, but it could not be helped. The mob only ‘talked’ of proceeding to Hatton. He was the friend of Priestly, and they could never make him otherwise by intimidation. If Priestly’s political or religious tenets were opposed to those of the church of England, his great scientific attainments and their utility, should have saved him from such usage. He said he dared the storm. If they burned his house, so far from changing his sentiments by that, they would have strengthened them. I promised to visit Warwickshire again, and bidding him farewell, saw him no more.

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With many little weaknesses, he was the most Christian man I ever knew; charity was his prominent virtue.

The Reverend Robert Bland, of Kenilworth, that excellent scholar, editor of the Greek anthology, I used to meet at Hatton, but his duties prevented frequent visits. He died in the prime of life, about the same time as Parr.

The Reverend Mr. Cormouls was another clergyman with whom I was acquainted there. He lived ‘at Tanworth, and had in early life been in the service of the East India Company. His parish was retired, and he was much attached to it. The church was on the summit of a hill. He was like a father to his parishioners, and his knowledge, acquired in the world and abroad, enabled him to render kind services to the poor. He made up and supplied them with simple medicines. He put an end to their quarrels and disputes. He was an excellent horticulturist. He published a book containing some crotchetty ideas of his own respecting the laws of motion. Robust of constitution, he used to plunge into a deep pond in one of his fields every morning, and dive from end to end. His sermons were plain and practical, well adapted to the capacity of his country hearers. He abhorred polemical discussions and theological hair splitting. Parr declared him one of the most honest and useful clergymen he knew. “He loves his parish as well as I do mine.” I published two letters to the doctor on the game laws, while I was in the county. The following letter from that worthy clergyman makes mention of them. I had promised to visit him.

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“I admire your just and manly compliment to our friend Dr. Parr, and your luminous and able law history and deductions from the game laws. Your remedy is certainly an improvement upon existing laws. But there is now an additional grievance upon the community in some districts, that I think will be likely, like many other grievances, to supply the means of its own cure. The game on some estates is eating a fourth of the husbandman’s crop, to his own ruin and the public privation. The question will arise whether the land is to be considered as the supporter of game or man, and which shall be reckoned the most valuable creature. If the philosophers carry the point, of the equal animality of the two species, I vote for the preservation of the game and the destruction of man, who if more powerful, is the more miserable of the two, and, therefore, it is but wise to kill off as many of the species as are unnecessary to the preservation of hares, partridges, and pheasants from foxes and weasels. This being the employ to which the great so willingly devote themselves, and they of necessity being the wisest, because they are the first of their kind, the earth should be voided for the support of game alone, and a suitable number of sportsmen. Seriously, however, I think all game beyond the precincts of a gentleman’s own demesne, which ought not to be more than from five

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hundred to two thousand acres, should be of public right. All game captured within these limits, which should be publicly marked by notices, should be a felony ad valorem.

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“With respect to the life to come, the notices of it are clear in Socrates and Pythagoras, in the Chinese and Gentoo moralists also, independent of scripture. Indeed, those of the two last are but the old patriarchal religion or that of tradition, at least of the consensus hominum. For the greatest question that lies against scripture is not whether its generals of hopes are sound and its duties right, but whether its histories were not compiled and suited to the principles. Now, prophecy and the sublime character of the completer of scripture answer this—but more on this subject at another time and occasion.

I well remember neither he nor Parr would tolerate

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the Pagan introduction of the word altar, as applied to the communion table. “It was a table, Madam, a table,” said Parr to a lady, “it was such a thing as a supper is taken upon—led to the altar, Madam, led to the fiddlestick. Led to the altar, Madam, is not a proper phrase to describe marriage, although marriage is in our church a Christian rite, we have no pagan altars.”

Dr. Wade, called, afterwards in London, the “radical Doctor,” vicar of St. Nicolas, in Warwick, was a pupil of Parr’s, who designated him as “whimsical Arthur,” a term which was exemplified in his subsequent life. I became acquainted with him in Warwickshire. His family was one of reputation. His father I well recollect, a respectable justice of the peace, who executed his duties in a considerate and honourable manner. He healed disputes, and never bore hard upon the poor. He had two sons, the elder brought up to the church, died several years before the Doctor, having a living in Shropshire. Dr. Wade was sent to sea in early life, as a midshipman, and was in the ‘Immortalité’ frigate, Commodore Owen, in active service off Boulogne, while the flotilla was preparing; the frigate was often a mark for the French shells. One burst over Wade’s head among the rigging, and getting leave to come home soon afterwards, he brought with him a couple of the jagged ugly looking splinters. His mother, most attached to her younger son, would not let him go again to sea, and it was determined to fabricate a clergyman out of the incipient middy. In a little time, when sufficiently advanced, he was placed under Parr’s tuition, and became a good scholar. He was a little restless in

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temper, and odd, whence the name Parr conferred upon him. He lived at the vicarage, which was kept for him by his aunt. He was temperate, judicious in many things, but apt at times to break through the rules of clerical correctness. He grew fond of ease, and sometimes of a little self-indulgence. I had often gone with him to Hatton, where he was of course a welcome guest, though sometimes he would keep away for a time, nobody knew why. We went together to Parr’s Mayday fêtes, and there he had one of those fits of odd temper peculiar to himself. How he became a champion of the chartists I do not know. From 1833 to 1840, I was absent from London, when he resided there, keeping a curate in the country. After I returned, we met as we had done before. I happened to say to him one day, that I had some expectation of an appointment I should like, given under Lord Melbourne’s administration. At once, he broke forth in a tirade against the government, Whigs, Tories, all together. I said “if Dr. Parr was alive, he would hear you with astonishment, and call you something more than ‘whimsical.’” He ran on so strangely, that I could not tell what to make of it. At last he told me that any one who would take anything under such a government, was not acquainted with his duty to the people.

“Dr. Wade,” I replied, “I have never changed my principles. I am a moderate man, but a liberal at setting out in life, and am so still. We have a liberal ministry. I am no chartist, or abettor of chartists.” We parted. In a few days I met him in St. James’s Park. “Good morning, Doctor,” I addressed him, as usual. He made no reply, though I halted. I then

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passed on, determined that an acquaintance of twenty years should not be broken off by me. Again I saw him by accident, and the same thing occurred. This closed our intimacy for ever. At the funeral of my old friend Campbell, I met him, in the Jerusalem Chamber of Westminster Abbey. He saw me, and muttered something about a “melancholy occasion.” I was not, at such a moment, in a humour to think of Dr. Wade, after four or five years of such unwarrantable estrangement. Poor Campbell, our twelve years literary connection, past scenes, conversations, meetings, recollections of him who shared them all, recalled by the pall before me, took from my mind every care about one who had treated me rudely. I had introduced him to the poet fifteen years before. At any other time it might have been different.

I have that clinging to the past, rather than the present, which is common to us all, and love old friends. I am seldom lured by the illusions of hope as to future friendships. The doctor I never saw again. In person he was strongly made, and took little exercise. He wrote with perspicuity, and could preach as good a sermon as any bishop on the bench. I imagine he had a great desire of notoriety, but would not be at the pains to work it out, and like many public characters not more clever, sought it through supporting some popular predilection of the hour where he could be regarded as a man of influence. The love of clerical ease which fattens, is neither the temperament for the divine, nor the politician under the sable garb. The doctor championed extreme opinions à I’outrance. Poor Lord Melbourne, the kindest and most gentlemanly

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of men, he abused mercilessly. It is singular, and a trait for which I cannot account, that the ease and polished manners of the gentleman displease a certain class of persons in trade, and one genus of politicians is composed entirely of these. It might be thought that amenity of manner, and a shrinking sense of what is due to those around as to feeling, would rather be applauded. I doubt whether our Manchester politicians like a well-bred gentlemanly man. Accustomed to business and those arts, which, despite denial, render the mind callous to delicate impressions in the never-ending pursuit and preference of gain over all other considerations, lofty feelings must be absent, with those impulses which give birth to real greatness of soul. The mental standard falls to the level of that to which it has been habituated as the most desirable, and perfect of all things. Where it is the end-all of life, we find the haste to get it often degenerates into acts of dishonesty. I am much mistaken if glaring instances of this vice will not soon creep in among those who are honest only because they think it the best policy. The following is one of the doctor’s letters:—

“Your letter ‘refreshed’ me in this region of dullness and stupidity, more than perhaps you will suppose. Your dialogue between Brandenburgh House and Carlton House (in the Times), has excited attention here, though party feeling may qualify the term with some. You write in such good spirits, that I conclude you have leisure. If so, I should be inexpressibly happy

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if you would come and stay a few weeks at St. Nicholas Vicarage. I sometimes wish I had never known the pleasure of your society here, (in Warwickshire.) I feel so much regret at the loss of it. I am happy to hear of your determination to come down to the Maypole, (Dr. Parr’s), but you must take up your quarters with me. The doctor is in good health and spirits. I intend going over to dine in a few days, when I shall be happy to be the bearer of your respects to him. The dandy still flutters about the hospital, but his fortune is not so great as was at first represented. K. however, has built a new room upon the strength of the unexpected alliance.

“Mr. Greathead’s house at Guy’s Cliff, when you come down, will be worthy your notice. I am not sufficiently versed in architecture to characterize the ornaments and decorations he is adding.

“But, my dear Sir, you must be tired of reading my crude suggestions to myself. However, believe me to be

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most happy to hear from you. My house-keeping is supported from my father’s purse, so. don’t think of my narrow income, if you will but come down. It will be a source of real happiness to me to have your company.

I told you I intended to be at Cambridge about this time, and here I am. You told me you would run down and see me. I expect you will be as good as your word. All the choice I allow you as a man of honour is to fix your own time for coming. As an opera goer, you will not care about Madam Sontag, nor would you desire any great craniological or physionomical satisfaction by the study of the Duke of Gloucester’s head or countenance, who is Chancellor. Not that his head would look bad among the “Heads” of the university, but you may perhaps call to mind the soliloquy of the Fox in the statuary’s shop—‘Tis a pity so fine

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a head should have so little brains.’ From all such considerations, I think you would see more of the real modern Cambridge if you come at a quiet time; and as you are now at liberty, I shall be most happy and proud to see you any day or hour (for I am a fixture) you please. You will be at no expense here but a bed, and perhaps I can get you that in college, as all the men are going, and of course the place is getting thin. If you prefer a festivity at the commencement of July, you can please yourself. You must dine in hall. We will ramble about the Fitzwilliam museum, the colleges, library, and pleasure grounds, and at three attend cathedral service and King’s College chapel, &c., with much more, so pray do come.

After twenty years’ acquaintance, even under Parr’s definition of Dr. Wade’s character of “whimsical,” our acquaintance could hardly have been supposed to terminate in such a manner. What had I to do with his wild political opinions, having shifted his old principle with so much indifference. Parr’s voluminous wig would have experienced earthquake tremulousness on hearing of his pupil’s new fangled ideas. He would never have passed it over. Deeply indebted to Sir Francis Burdett personally, yet when Sir Francis abused Fox for his whiggery in 1806, as he had abused Pitt for his Toryism, Parr wrote him as follows:

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“My heart aches for you. I cannot assent to the principles, or approve of the spirit which appears in your advertisement. I do not forget that you were in the most disinterested manner my patron. I shall never cease to keep in view the noble qualities of your mind. Much I lament your errors, and I tremble at the prospect of their consequences. I think it is my private duty to tell you so, and my public duty to support the administration, which you, to my surprise and sorrow, have determined to oppose. From the bottom of my soul, dear Sir Francis I wish you health and every worldly blessing, and I pray God Almighty to deliver you from your counsellors, who mean little good to you, and will do less to their country. I shall strive to give my vote for you and Mr Byng on Monday. Farewell! Heaven is witness to my sincerity, when I subscribe myself, with great respect, your well wisher.

This letter was given me by the Reverend Dr. Harwood, the venerable historian of Lichfield, at that city, when Sir Francis wound up his career by turning his coat, ten or a dozen years after Parr’s decease. I have not seen it in his Memoirs. It broke off the intercourse between Parr and Burdett for a considerable time, but they finally became reconciled. In 1838, in Staffordshire, when the baronet took the chair to uphold a working man’s association, to show how incon-

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sistent Sir Francis had been, I published the letter in my possession, and received a message from some of his tenantry at Formark in Derbyshire, an estate belonging to Sir Francis, that if they caught me there, they would hang me; to which I merely replied, that I’d be hanged then if they should catch me there.

While I was in Warwickshire, the Prince Regent paid a visit to Ragely, the fine estate of the marquis, whose lady was such a favourite of his royal highness. The daughter of a wealthy tenant of the marquis had an uncommon desire to see the prince, and told Lady Hertford of it. Her ladyship said, “to be sure, poor girl, she shall see him.”

She stationed the girl and a companion female in the ante-room, through which the prince would pass to the drawing-room. Unfortunately, Lady Hertford told her princely guest that the girls had a wonderful inclination to see him, and where she had placed them. The prince on passing through the room went up to the lasses and addressed them, when one fell on the carpet, having fainted away, and the other stood speechless as a statue. The prince quickened his pace out of the room, and sent Lady Hertford to operate for their restoration. I turned the affair into rhyme, in the shape of a letter, descriptive of the scene from a rustic lass to her friend at Birmingham. I fear it made a laugh at the expence of the poor girls, but really such rustic manners ought not to have been extant in those times, especially when the affability of the Regent was so remarkable. Ladies do not think so much of the awfulness of a prince just now. The country people of Warwickshire were a

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duller race than they are at present, as they then were in most agricultural districts.

I had been only eight or nine miles from the grave of Shakspeare and had not visited it. The subject was started at breakfast one day, when a friend was with me.

We set out accordingly, glanced at Lucy’s place, on the left hand, where the same family resides still in its descendants, and went straight into Stratford Church. There we lingered at the poet’s tomb without perceiving that a congregation had assembled, almost as scanty, it is true, as that of Swift, when no one but his clerk was present, and he addressed him, “dearly beloved Roger.” We hastened away from the church, the service being begun before we were clear of the door, and left his ashes who wanted no memorial of his glory—no weak witness of his name who soared so loftily:—

“And so sepulchred, in such pomp doth lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die!”

There appears no certainty that the house in which Shakspeare is said to have been born is the real place. I never met with any satisfactory evidence to show it was so. On what ground the tradition rests, I am unaware. Tradition is in most things a very fallacious guide. There was a style in a field called Julius Cæsar’s style. A noted antiquary insisted that it was a proof of there being some work of the Romans

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near by. The first countryman passing was asked if he knew why that was called Julius Cæsar’s style. He replied, “yes, it was put up by old Julius Cæsar of this here neighbourhood. I can remember old Julius Cæsar when I was a child.”

The head of the Lucy family, at that time, I also well recollect. He was a little insignificant man, ambitious of parliamentary honours, and paid dearly for an estate near Fowey in Cornwall, which before the Reform Act returned two members, but lost both after the act passed.

The light way in which human life was treated in those days disgusted me with the assizes. There were then a hundred and sixty offences punishable with death, from high treason to picking a pocket of one shilling. I once or twice attended them. Reporters were not always to be had in the country, I never was a reporter, and could do no more than write off the heads of the cases, but this was generally sufficient. I have seen prisoners acquitted by accident, who were so certain of being found guilty, that the minds of the members of the bar present, and of the spectators were made up from the evidence for the prosecution. Prisoners, too stupid to make the most inefficient defence for themselves, were often sacrificed. As to the judge being the prisoner’s advocate, it is impossible. My belief is, that this was one of those empty saws current in the time the judges were little more than instruments of the crown, to engender a false reliance upon them, and thus render convictions more facile where the crown was interested. It is a laborious thing to hunt out evidence, arrange it, and put it in a proper state for a defence. How could

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a judge defend a prisoner, without being supplied with facts to meet the one-sided knowledge brought to bear against the criminal when at the bar. A judge can only see fair play in relation to what comes before him. He cannot know what is kept back, or may be wanting for the defence. A girl possessed of tolerable confidence swore a rape against one of the most stupid clownish young fellows ever arraigned. Her story was clearly told, and there seemed no chance for the life of the prisoner. A solicitor present, whispered to Reader, the counsel, “that poor fellow is as innocent of the charge as I am, he lives near me—he will be convicted.” It is true, the rustic scarcely knew whether he was on his head or his heels—death would have been his doom, but for this accident. Reader, on the young woman attempting to leave the witness box, said, “stay, my girl, I want to talk to you a little.” He cross examined her, and in five minutes the table was turned by her brazen effrontery, and the prisoner was a free man in place of being unknowingly on the verge of a finished existence. A defence by counsel was not then permitted. This practice of the law, in regard to human life, generated hard-heartedness in the assize courts, and robbed capital punishment of its terrors.

I remember sitting once with the counsel close to a servant girl, in the prime of life, who had murdered her mistress, as some said, ‘under the immediate instigation of the devil.’ She did not attempt a justification. She only said her young mistresses had gone out for a walk, and she was below cutting up a cucumber, when something came into her head that she must kill her. She went up stairs, and cut the old lady’s throat with the

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knife she had in her hand. Her mistress was kind, she had no complaint to make against her, she said. While the jury were out, I threw a note to the solicitor for the prosecution. “They say, if found guilty, she will be executed where the murder was committed?” I took care that the prisoner, who could see the table over my shoulder, should not observe what I wrote.

The chairman would then propose an adjournment until half-past two, to lunch in the interim, when the men would have been strangled and cut down, after hanging an hour for passing a pound note, or stealing to the value of a few shillings. I remember men for small offences comparatively, who were executed with few spectators present. In those days, it was the criminal of magnitude, that drew the sympathy of crowds. Two convicts, I remember, behaved well, until the chaplain began a practice of endeavouring to worm out a confession as to an accomplice. From that moment, they would have no more communication with him, not even on the scaffold, and so they died. How greatly is all this changed since! How nobly is the spirit and letter of

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justice carried out now! It is well nigh the difference between civilization and barbarism.

On returning to town, I sent some articles to the New Monthly Magazine, a publication originally in double columns, like the “Gentleman’s,” a strange medley of politics and chance articles. It belonged to Mr. Colburn, who determined to improve it. Talfourd, the late judge, and myself, both commenced writing in it about 1820. Talfourd was studying the law in the Temple. He contributed several papers, principally on the lake style of poetry. He was at that time, a great devotee to Charles Lamb’s school of authorship, and all he then wrote had a tint of its peculiarity. Colburn had set his magazine to high Tory principles, speculating for success in a rivalry with Sir Richard Phillips, who had carried on the Monthly Magazine for some years before, on the opposite side. The New Monthly was, at first, rampant in its politics. It had existed about five or six years, low enough in literary merit. William Grenville Graham, already mentioned, introduced me to Talfourd, both belonging to the Temple. Talfourd and Graham were forensic rivals at the academics in Chancery Lane. The former and myself were to aid in the improved work, which had then no ostensible editor, the papers being sent to the printer, with some arrangement as to order of place, but no rule as to tone. The politics had become little distinguishable, because the political speculation had met no support, being feeble and ill sustained. The literary character of the work was to be the desideratum in future. Colburn wanted a good editor’s name. He knew how the public were managed by a name, and he could pay handsomely. He made this

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observation to Upcot of the London Institution. I had known a little of Campbell in 1814; but of his qualifications for a periodical work, I knew nothing; in fact, he had none, for he had never edited any periodical work, being quite a recluse of the study in his habits. He had the reputation of being remarkably fastidious, strongly attached to the classical school of literature. ‘This will not do for friend Talfourd,’ thought I, ‘the Lamb school will not be exalted in future, I much doubt if Wordsworth will be admitted what he thinks himself to be, the next poet after Milton.’ An arrangement was made, Campbell to take the usual duties of an editor, and to commence in January 1821. Talfourd was to contribute the dramatic article, and such others as were acceptable. I was to edit the third annual volume in double column, small type, and contribute as Talfourd did, to the two volumes, of which Campbell was to have the more immediate care. The two volumes in large print, each consisted of five or six hundred pages of original writing. The small print volume contained about the same number of pages as those of the first part, but from the size of the type, I had much matter to find in the way of compilation, of which it for the most part consisted. Such were the political events, the drama, the fine arts, at first furnished by Robert Hunt, a brother to Leigh Hunt; another series on the arts was by Beazley, the architect; varieties, rural economy, sent by a country correspondent; new publications with critical notices, some were mine; but they were executed for the most part by a hand paid for the contribution, together with notices of foreign books. The literary report and works in the press were sent

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through Colburn, for obvious trade reasons. We had a city correspondent for commerce. To undertake my task, I laid by, for the moment, every other literary object. Campbell had delayed to do anything, but prepare a lecture of his own, until the latest moment. A stranger to the details of his new duties, he had never kept up a correspondence with men associated for a literary purpose. He lived at Sydenham, but took lodgings in Margaret Street. We met there on business, consulted, he dallied, and in the middle of the month told Colburn he could not go on by himself. It seemed as if he had the universe on his shoulders. Colburn engaged Du Bois, whom Campbell had long known, to act as his coadjutor. The former, fidgetty as time was wasting, asked me if I could not get a few contributions. I made every effort in my power, Talfourd did the same, and articles came in, which the poet regarded as if he was going over a work on which all his own fame rested. Du Bois talked too plainly to him on the matter, having been well experienced in periodical literature, and offended him. In the mean time, my own part made good progress. Colburn sent me, in rapid succession, all I wanted, for his attention in this respect, was never wanting. Talfourd promised me the drama on a particular day, and he was to be depended upon. Colburn shrunk from stating either his hopes or fears to Campbell, who was exceedingly excitable. I had to hear all, while my own share in the labour of the magazine should have exempted me from what was not my own business. It was disagreeable to hear apprehensions and complaints in which I had no concern, and I thus lost precious time I should have

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applied to looking after other affairs. I completed two numbers of my own part, and then told Campbell I supposed he approved of them, or he would have mentioned it to me without ceremony.

“O, all that will do,” said Campbell, “but some of the other articles I have, will be thought to give my opinions.”

He was so absorbed in his labours though with little progress, that he never looked at mine. Among others whom I asked to aid us, was Aberdeen Perry of the “Morning Chronicle,” a very intelligent and discerning personage. He knew Campbell as an old friend. I had contributed to his columns. He flatly refused, because the “New Monthly” was the title of another magazine, named “New” for party purposes. “Attack principles if you will, it is all well, but to take a name with the view of profiting by it under such objects, it is impossible—I cannot approve of such an act. There was a ‘New Times’ started against the ‘Times.’ How should I like a ‘New Morning Chronicle’ to be brought out against me, by an advantage taken of the law. I know neither Campbell nor you had anything to do with that, the old sentiments of the magazine will not be supported, I am aware, but it is the sanction of a bad principle.” Perry kept his word. I had received an introduction to Ugo Foscolo, when I came from Paris two years before. I now urged him to contribute. He sent an article on Neapolitan affairs. I had still time to complete my own share of the work, but found myself obliged to interfere where it was a continued trespass upon my leisure. Two or three trifles were all I wrote on my own account. I had completed turning the “Lyre

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and Sword” of Körner; I made a translation of “Guilt” by Adolf Müllner; I had a large portion of my “Notes on Normandy,” (but those I laid by), also collections towards “My History of Wine.” These remained at a stand still. Another crisis ensued, for Campbell came to an open difference with Du Bois, on the commencement of the second month of his editorship. They separated; the poet’s pride was hurt. Colburn, with a downcast countenance, came and asked me to endeavour to reconcile them. I found that course would not do. Campbell urged Colburn to ask me to undertake the duty. I saw that I should have a heavy task if I did; but I found from what I observed of Campbell, that this must be the case, should the thing go on; for I was convinced the poet and the publisher would not long otherwise be in harmony. I called on Campbell, told him that order was everything in such a concern, and he would be desperately annoyed if every post brought him two or three dozen letters to answer, that if he would abandon that troublesome duty, Colburn should send all relative to the magazine, direct to me, and I would select what was worthy of regard, and call upon him for his opinion. He seemed to bend before the reasonableness of this. Mrs. Campbell, too, said, “I will search his pockets, he has letters there now which I dare say should be answered. He loses, throws, or puts them aside continually, and forgets where.” Campbell laughed; but I took care to keep my hold on Mrs. Campbell’s promise. In a little time the poet, feeling he had not much to do, became contented, and went on smoothly, excepting one or two “untoward events” of his own seeking. One was a specimen of his utter

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thoughtlesness. Mr. Peregrine Courtenay had received from Mr. Canning, who was much pleased with the magazine, a copy of his letter to Mr. Bolton, of Liverpool, then unpublished. It was intended to be merely a guide to the writer of the political events of the month; in other words to myself, Courtenay said afterwards that he had told Campbell so, when he gave it him in the street. Campbell put it into my hands in his own house, as we were taking coffee together.

“This belongs to your part of the magazine. Mr. Canning sent it by Mr. Courtenay.”

The article suited, I was pleased to be able to put it in entire. After the magazine came out, I met Courtenay, in a great fume.

“Why you have published Canning’s letter which I gave Campbell expressly, as a guide not to make any mistake about what Canning had written, the other publications having given erroneous accounts. Canning is annoyed greatly about it.” I mentioned that Campbell had given it to me to use as I pleased—that I deeply regretted it, now it was too late.

“He is forgetful, indeed, if that is the case,” said Courtenay, much chagrined.

When I told the poet of it he said: “What the devil did Courtenay give it to me for at all? I forgot all about it.”

I was thus obliged to be careful, and consume time

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I ought to have husbanded, in looking after everything in the magazine. Sometimes the poet would go away and forget to correct his own papers, which the printer teazed me about. I had early imbibed the erroneous idea, that the duties of the press were of immediate, in place of remote, importance to the public, in proportion as truth and reason predominated in their administration, and that due application to keep them right, would be certain to prevail. I did not mind labour. Even my receipts of income I had sometimes suffered to run into arrear, from not thinking about them until they were wanted, and then found a difficulty in obtaining them, though, never in connection with this magazine. I have several times been seated at a writing-table from eight on one morning, till ten the next night, and had a little food brought me, to prevent an accident to a proprietary, which gave me no thanks for such gratuitous application. The toils of literature are deemed by traders, upon a level with those of weeding or ploughing, only there is the difficulty of measuring them by the square yard. I have had officials in places where no aid could be obtained, who were good for nothing, or got drunk, been obliged to read the printer’s proofs as well as my own, and only just saved the mails. In executing my task with the “New Monthly,” I was only absent from London once, nine days together, for ten years. It was not the labour, but the anxiety when absent, that prevented my having any enjoyment away. I lived as much as possible in the suburbs of the metropolis, to have something of the country, to which I was ever attached.

I had known many of the literary characters of the

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day, but it was surprising how quickly time brought in new men, and carried off their predecessors. I was not acquainted with Byron, I was not in town while he resided there, I say “Byron,” because true greatness dwells not on titles. Titles are for the living. Who writes William Pitt, Esq., or Charles Fox, Esq.—that ridiculous affix? Bonaparte, Nelson, Byron, are the proper appellations. Who says Mr. Shakspeare or Mr. Milton, or writes the Christian names of Turenne or Marlborough? We write Bacon, not Lord Verulam. Fame will not respect fashionable vanities, especially when city usury or ministerial favour obtains what ought to be the heritage of the gallant or highly endowed. Titles are become so multiplied of late, that as Windham said of officers of all sorts, when the volunteer system was in its glory, it was impossible to spit out of the window, and not spit upon a colonel’s head. But I digress—I had now returned to literary society, and labour. It is toil, but it beguiles time in a mode few other pursuits can do, and is to the mind, the bane and antidote. It engrosses the faculties, I speak of original composition, and though I have often wished for a moment I belonged to some business where “thought would destroy my paradise,” I have doubted my sincerity. Could I make a tabula rasa of all I had thought, read, and seen, that would otherwise have been dead to me! There is a love for our intellectual nearly as strong as for our natural being.

I met Peter Finnerty just after Campbell and myself began our labours. He smiled about Perry’s delicacy as to literary titles. Who did not know Peter in those days?

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I was inclined to defend Perry; he was high-minded in his opinions. Peter was a singular compound of honesty and prodigality, of generosity and oddity. He died in the following year, some months before the death of Lord Londonderry. His prophecy that this nobleman would cut his own throat was a singular circumstance. Finnerty had been intimate with Sir Home Popham, and long before this, accompanied the expedition to Walcheren, with the intention of writing an account of it. Lord Londonderry heard of this, and by one of those stretches of power too common in his public life, had Finnerty sent back perforce, suspecting what was very likely, that Peter would communicate with the “Morning Chronicle,” an opposition paper. Peter lashed his lordship and his expedition, in consequence, and the Marquis got him indited for libel. He was imprisoned for twelve months. The Marquis and Finnerty had been well acquainted, and just sifter his enlargement, he met Londonderry in Pall Mall, where his lordship with that front, which on another occasion Burke styled the ære perennius, in allusion to a particular individual, with his cool urbanity of manner, apparently so innocent, and so ignorant of what had just before occurred, asked Finnerty how he was, and trusted he was well. Peter remarked it to a friend, and said he never saw such impudence in his life. “My opinion is, he will cut his own throat one of these days—he will!” Time passed away. Finnerty’s prophecy was recalled, when after his death in May or June of the same year, Lord Londonderry did become his own executioner. He need not have insulted the man, over whom he had exercised an unconstitutional power. The nonchalance of Lord Londonderry was a trait in his character. When

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Brougham was inflicting upon him, the most provoking castigations in the House of Commons, he would seem not to hear it, and play with a flower he had in his hand; his heart, no doubt, writhing.

Alluding to the cause of Lord Londonderry’s death, there was a singular story current soon afterwards, which remains uncontradicted, in reference to that event. I heard it repeated at a private table, where a man of rank, who knew him well was present, and no disbelief of it was expressed.

Despite Campbell’s acumen, and Du Bois’s reading, a wag outwitted both in the first number, in an article giving an account of “the writings of one Richard Clitheroe.” The hurry and confusion incident on getting out the number, which in most periodical works, generally renders’ the first one of the worst, because it is intended to be the best, could alone account for the admission, professedly, of a paper by a writer of the Reign of James I., who left plays in two quarto volumes, of which only one copy was extant; specimens of the pretended play were given, and it was stated that the early part of the author’s life was prefixed. These statements were themselves suspicious. Only one copy extent; plays in two quarto volumes of so late a date, unknown, together with their author!

When Canning died, I wrote the article respecting him in the “New Monthly Magazine.” I have already spoken of meeting this distinguished man. His eloquence was of a high order, singularly elaborate and exact for one of his poetical temperament. It was a stream of pure unadulterated English, flowing copiously with classic elegance, seldom assisted by those elevated

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flights of passionate declamation, and never degraded by those meannesses of phraseology or metaphor, which have been observed occasionally in the speeches of others of our orators. In England, as the case has been in all free nations, eloquence is, or rather was till lately, very highly valued. The art of swaying an audience and impressing great truths by a public speaker, had grown into a repute not ill-merited, if its consequences in encouraging the open discussion of political measures be duly considered.

Where so many good speakers were found, it was no little glory to shine pre-eminent. Canning was, perhaps, our first orator when he died—for Brougham had none of the graces in his oratory, however powerful. He appeared studied in language, and lucid. He had a good intonation, and a candid and manly delivery. He possessed great power, though in this respect alone he was inferior to Brougham. He was for the most part in full possession of himself, his style highly refined, and he always produced a deep impression upon his hearers. His logic was never confused, nor his resources common-place, like those of Sir Robert Peel. But it may be doubted whether the elegant musical flow of his language, bordering upon fastidious correctness, or the arguments clothed in it, would alone have obtained him the celebrity he deservedly did obtain. He possessed a quality which was peculiarly well adapted to render him attractive to an English audience; for his speeches, though so correct and elegant, being generally unmingled with spirit-stirring paroxysms of declamation, might seem tame to coarse unpolished ears. The quality alluded to, was a happy wit, of a species peculiarly his

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own. With this wit he seasoned his oratory, irresistably fixed the attention of his hearers, and turned his opponents into ridicule. Nothing is so difficult as to define different kinds of wit, or wherein one kind differs from another. Negatively, Canning’s was nothing like the ironical humour of Tierney, nor the strong and brilliant light that flashed from Sheridan’s ever ready fancy. It was peculiarly his own, varied, always agreeable, and seldom severe; it was lively, playful, and directed to scarify rather than lacerate. Sometimes it consisted of no more than a dexterous use of alliterative words; at others of a sly, happy allusion, and often of open satire. He sometimes dazzled and confused his opponent rather than wounded him. In argument, he almost always admitted what was undeniable in fact, and clear to an unprejudiced mind, not glossing it over, or leaving it untouched, and took his stand of defence upon some specious and often unanswerable objection. His ministerial coadjutors, in their over-zeal, put falsehood and truth upon a level, acting without conscience or discrimination.

Thus Canning obtained a reputation for candour from his opponents which they denied to his associates. If, for example, the question were one of Borough corruption and Reform, while his colleagues asserted all was as it should be, perfect and pure, Canning granted that the evils complained of existed; that the representation was not so perfect as it might be made; but he opposed the sweeping change required, because the evil that existed was less than that which would accrue in endeavouring to administer a remedy. In his speeches, he was not sparing of the figures of rhetoric, yet, when he

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used them, they were very happily brought out. One of these felicitous figures occurs at this moment; he was speaking of the disturbance of some “radicals,” in the North of England and of their being encouraged by his political opponents. “Vain and hopeless enterprise to raise that spirit of discontent, and then to govern it! They may stimulate the steeds into fury, till the chariot is hurried to the brink of a precipice; but do they flatter themselves that they can then leap in, and hurling the incompetent driver from his seat, check the reins just in time to turn from the precipice and avoid the fall! I fear they would attempt in vain. The impulse, once given, may be too impetuous to be controlled; and intending only to change the guidance of the machine, they may hurry it and themselves to inevitable destruction.” Notwithstanding what has been said of the easy flow and elegance of his delivery, he was sometimes vehement in his manner; then, deeply in earnest, he assumed a part which gave out the whole character of his ardent mind; he flung his utmost soul into his words, and seemed alive only to the truth and importance of what he spoke, and of the consequences dependent upon it. Those who only heard him on ordinary questions can hardly conceive the effect of one of the rare, and therefore, perhaps, more impressive outpourings of his eloquence upon such occasions. The serenity of his brow, during the passionate earnestness of his appeals, imparted additional weight to their influence, by giving the idea of innate strength—of that repose which is imaged in the rock when the tempest lowers upon it. Yet he could flit over his opponent’s arguments as lightly as a sunbeam along the waters, equally master of the jocular, and the serious, of the playful, and severe.

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Canning had concentrated in union, for the common benefit, the moderate men of two great political parties, which had consented to merge, in consideration of the general welfare, those few shades of speculative opinion upon which they differed. It was Canning who showed them that their mutual differences ought not to be put into the balance against a positive benefit to the community. He thus consolidated one of the most honourable and disinterested coalitions which Great Britain ever saw. He was forsaken, and ungenerously treated by his former coadjutors, men as far below him in intellect and genius, as they were inferior in honest patriotic feeling. He had recourse for support to those who differed from him on political questions, much less than they who had so cavalierly attempted to expel him from the honourable post, his sovereign had conferred upon him. He had given the country of his affection, reason to believe that the state of public affairs would be considered in sober earnestness; and that every practicable remedy would be applied to existing evils. The people were no longer to be deluded with ministerial promises, made without the intention of their fulfilment. Session after session of parliament being suffered to pass in merely asking supplies, and making an empty parade of words, marshalled in the same courtier-bred phrases, and he was just beginning to witness the success of his measures, and to receive the well-merited reward of applause from his fellow-citizens.

Having attained the summit of a laudable ambition, he could not, perhaps, have quitted the world at a moment more propitious to an honourable reputation, when his term of life is considered. Protracted years had not left

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him the mere wreck of a commanding intellect, to die like Marlborough, a “driveller and a show.” He was taken off before the winter of life, on which he was upon the verge, had chilled the warm impulses of his heart, dulled the edge of his wit, or changed the force and elegance of his language into laborious imbecility.

Here was enough of glory for the satisfaction of human vanity, and much more than fell to the lot of a tithe of the distinguished men who preceded him. It was for his country alone Canning should have survived, for the people of England, of whom he proudly styled himself one, to whom he looked for support, and of which number he died. He sprang not from the “order,” the ignorant, bigoted, haughty and selfish portion of which had denied him, and the king and people of England their support. He sprang from the people, the source of all intellect of moment, of all power in all nations, if they knew how to use that truth; he

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sprang from the ranks of which, in the body of our “hereditary legislators,” the stock of understanding they possess, is alone kept up by perpetual transfusion.

About this time the cockney school of literature, as it was called, gave the tone to a small class of publications. It was a school of contracted views, affecting great simplicity and benevolence, and might be called a branch in descent from Southey and the Lake School, but mixed up with metropolitan opinions, and a habit of dwelling upon trifles, and holding very limited ideas of things. It was confined, or nearly so, to a circle ten miles round London.

The subjects treated upon were not drawn from the infinite diversity of mind the metropolis proffers for study, but from rural contemplations, and descantings upon the scenery of nature almost upon the verge of the streets and houses. The Alps were nothing to Primrose Hill, and the elms upon its summit, were as the cedars of Lebanon to the ready writer. Hampstead outvied Parnassus, dandelions and daffydown-dillies, butter-cups and periwinkles, outshone roses and exotics in the floral song. The sensibility was awakened to novel things, much in the way Coleridge, with a spice of the same tendency, addressed a Jerusalem pony, “I hail thee brother!” New phrases were coined for application to the plashy ground tenanted by Rhodes the cowkeeper, and his lacteal animals, and the peak of Hampstead became as famous in their view as Chimborazo in that of the Herr Humboldt. Wilson ridiculed the school in “Blackwood” too unmercifully, pushing his ridicule as usual to excess, as if making small

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things great, and passing over great things in doing so, were anything more than an untoward fancy, harmless enough in its way. Its devotees too, were excellent kind men. It might have been an affected lackadaisical school, touched with a sort of literary effeminacy, that from indicating want of stamina, bespoke little longevity, and a constant tendency to exhale itself into dissolution. Cockaigne had always its peculiar literature, down to that of the Seven Dial ballads. Talfourd set out in his literary career with some of the tendencies of this school, and did not wholly shake them off until a late period in his life. A paper called “Modern Improvements,” one of his first in the “New Monthly,” was of this class. It had a species of mannerism in thought. Charles Lamb was of this school, not in his delightful “Essays” on men and things, but in his prosaic verse and affected peculiarities. New phrases were sought, and the irregularities wrought by time became “venerable jaggednesses” at last, to adopt one of their phrases. To suppress mendicity was to stifle the poetry of life, and obliterate its picturesqueness, and the Strand Bridge was a splendid nuisance. The school sank from its own inanition, but not until it had criticised, and contemned all connected with the classic school, and the ages past before the Lakers broke in to enlighten the darkness of English literature. This literary hobby rode to death, as usual, left no enduring work, but it was harmless, and added variety to the hour, and it did not pander to the coarse tastes of the rabble. Campbell could not tell what to make of some of its productions. He did not read any of the mass of passing literature, or very little of it. A small thing

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would throw his mind out of its equilibrium, and torment him with the idea, that he should be thought a member of the new school. I had then the trouble of softening his prejudices, and of assuring him that such and such an article in our last number, if not strictly classical gave us diversity, and that everybody knew a magazine was the depository of every variety of sentiment and feeling. I found at last, I could influence him so as to remove the great apprehensiveness of his own taste being put in jeopardy. The next thing was to do almost the whole work myself, and say nothing about it. I always showed him the poetry inserted, for it was to his ill-credit in the work if that which was unworthy appeared. As to the prose, I soon knew the subjects on which he would be fastidious, and gave him the scope and sense of them by taking them in my pocket to his house. There was one essential difference between us. I could work best by getting my breakfast between seven and eight o’clock, and continuing my labour until I had done for the day. The head was clear, and attention more easily fixed. Campbell would work in the night, because he should not be disturbed, and not get to his bed till three in the morning, oftentimes stimulating himself with a pipe. I met this difficulty by taking coffee with him once or twice a week, and leaving him at ten or eleven o’clock. This was all I troubled him with, in relation to the work. I imagine he had destroyed the original manuscript of the lectures he delivered at the Royal Institution, for he wrote over again all that appeared in the magazine. They occupied much of his time. It is wonderful how largely he read for them, and then his proofs were what

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the printers call “foul,” but too frequently. This gave them much trouble, yet it is extraordinary how he varied in this respect, his manuscript being at times as neat as any professed copyist could make it. Every communication sent to the publication was answered by myself. We lost no author’s manuscripts, regarding them as so much property; modern neglect in this respect, is disgraceful. On the first of every month I returned all articles to the bookseller, except short pieces of poetry easily copied. If any were kept back, I stated the reason. An author’s time is his bread, hardly earned too, compared to the receipt for labour in other pursuits.

The “old man of the mountain,” seemed in a little time to have fallen off Campbell’s shoulders. Matters got then to the other extreme. All the responsibility rested with me without the honour, he said I knew as well what would suit as he did. His want of punctuality as to his copy was at first troublesome, because his own article always commenced a number. He was generally accurate in stating the quantity of pages his matter would make, I kept back a little poetry to fill up a vacancy in case it should occur. I then got all the rest of the magazine printed, the first sheet or half sheet going to press last, to the printer’s great relief. Even at the eleventh hour, the typographer was too often vexed about Campbell’s copy, when my cares for the month were at an end.

I have spoken of Foscolo, the great name of the later Italian literature. I was introduced to him by a letter from M. Biagioli, of the College of Louis le Grand, in Paris. When I returned, after my long absence, I

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brought over a present to him from his friend and countryman, a folio of Dante in manuscript. Foscolo lived at Moulsey, but had a lodging in Blenheim Street. There my introduction took place to this friend of Alfieri, well known as he was throughout Europe. Foscolo, at the moment I entered the room, was under the hands of his barber, lathered to the eyes. The lower part of his face looked like the wood-cut of a monkey I had in an edition of Gay’s fables when I was a boy. The upper part was fine, a good forehead, fine large grey eyes, his brow expansive, scanty sandy coloured hair, all, however, depreciated by the suds and napkin over his shoulders. He sputtered from his ample lips through the snowy froth, “Sit down, my good friend, I have heard of you—we will talk presently.”

His frame was compact, rather actively made, his stature of the middle height, his address mild. His temper was exceedingly irascible, and kindled from the slightest cause. He had applied to his studies with that enthusiastic ardour which is not so much the accompaniment of literary investigation as of genius. I once found him at noon-day in Wigmore Street, in summer, shut up, studying by candle light, having prolonged his sitting from the night before, while he was composing an article for the “Quarterly Review.” He had studied the finest writers of Greece and Italy down to those of the middle ages inclusive. Admiring Alfieri, he imitated him in keeping as close as possible to the severe style of

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Dante. Foscolo was by birth a Greek, a native of Zante. His family was originally from Venice, but not “una antica famiglia Veneta, dissendente dall’ illustre famiglia Foscari,” as some ignorantly reported. This was contradicted to myself personally, by the Chevalier Pecchio. Foscolo was fond of being thought a Venetian, and it is true that his father was a surgeon in the navy of that republic, before it was reduced to slavery by Austria. He was educated at Padua. After some adventures in the army, during which he continued his studies, he devoted himself to learning. In the condensation and vigour of his Italian style, he has been surpassed by no native writer. He came to England and might have secured bread and peace here, but that his furious temper continually estranged him from his friends. He became more irritable than ever, through his imprudence in building a cottage with borrowed capital. His life was marked by vicissitudes. His literary articles generally related to the works and writers of his own country.

At that time our literature had not lowered its standard as it has done since, and there were well-educated persons in sufficient numbers to afford such a writer a great degree of patronage. He has given the world his own opinion of himself in a sonnet to be found among his writings. It is not literally correct, for we are apt to draw our own portraits too flatteringly. He possessed versatility of talent, a pure taste, and was a sound reasoner. His mind was truly elevated, and his memory wonderfully retentive. His temper was his great failing, and he would too often disregard the latter in the relation of any fact, and thus

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get into a dilemma. But his faults were few to his excellencies; they were trival offences against private sociality, while his talents and writings were for all the world, and will never be forgotten in Italy. In England his style and works can only be appreciated by a few. He was a pleasing companion at certain seasons, when the suaviter in modo ruled. Hurried by his impetuosity into assertions which his utmost ingenuity could not justify, he became excited even to wildness. I remember breakfasting with him, at South Bank. Count Porro of Milan, Count Santa Rosa, (once war-minister of Piedmont, afterwards killed in Greece), the Chevalier Pecchio, Campbell, and one of the brothers Ugoni, were present. The conversation turned upon the policy of permitting hospitals for foundlings. Some of the party thought them useful establishments. Foscolo insisted that infanticides were more numerous where such establishments did not exist. He asserted that the Protestant capitals of Europe were more licentious than the Catholic. Santa Rosa thought differently, statesman as he was, and gave his reasons. Foscolo replied that in Geneva alone, there were more loose women than in Paris. This spoken in the hurry of his excitement, he would not retract. Driven into a corner, he continued to insist on that being the fact.

“Now, M. Foscolo,” said Santa Rosa, “how many inhabitants are there in Geneva?”

To this Foscolo put in the plea of ignorance.

“Very well, M. Foscolo, the population of Geneva is

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some twenty thousand people—how can such a thing be possible.”

“Now if Paris contains a million of people, and Geneva twenty thousand, it is absurd to argue the matter further, M. Foscolo. There must be half a million of females in Paris, young and old, and in Geneva altogether only ten or eleven thousand.”

“You will not believe me, I see, M. de Santa Rosa—no, no!”

Here he worked himself into a fury, and rising from the table, his eyes flashing fire, went into an adjoining room, and threw himself upon a sofa. Campbell walked off, as was his way, Porro and Santa Rosa sat perfectly tranquil. Pecchio first, and then I, went into the room to calm him, but in vain, and we took our departure. The next time we met, it was all forgotten. We used to play at chess together, when he would make a bad move, and flying into a passion with himself tear off his hair by the handful. I, therefore, proposed that we should play no more, as it might lead to a

* I suspect this statement originated in the same sources as one of a Mr. Haidone, at a public meeting where all sorts of random assertions are made for a purpose.

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personal quarrel. He said that he was sorry for it, he could not help quarrelling with himself, being so careless in his moves. We agreed, therefore, to play no more together. I had recommended him two persons as amanuenses. One remained with him but a short time, Foscolo said he knew no language but his own, and that badly enough. The second quarrelled with him, not being able to bear his excitable temper.

We had, I remember, a breakfast party in Wigmore Street. The venerable patriarch and historian, Mr. Roscoe, then nearly eighty years of age, was present. Rogers and Campbell, I forgot who besides, were of the party. We waited long for the Poet of Memory, who always lay long in bed. During the interval, I could not help admiring once more, and for the last time, the fine old Roman character, or what I fancy to be so, of Roscoe. His countenance, stature, bearing, all well-sustained the illusion. It is seldom celebrated personages carry with them so close an alliance between noble personal appearance and mental excellence. His reputation is fully sustained, whose only lasting reputation is to be preserved in the better and wiser intellects of the age. He was one of man’s true nobility, a race that the breath of kings can neither make nor unmake. No two individuals could exhibit contrasts more strikingly opposed than Roscoe and Foscolo. But the minds of both were of the richest ore.

Under the notion of being independent, Foscolo was apt to behave with rudeness. He had ceased to visit Holland House, for he had a great dislike to Lady Holland, saying, in his energetic way, “I would not go to heaven with Lady Holland—I could go to hell

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with his lordship.” The latter, with that kindness of disposition which marked all his actions, sent some delicacies to Foscolo during his last illness. Foscolo sent them back full of false pride, when in articulo mortis. Yet he regarded his lordship with deep respect. He one day told me such a romance about a copy of an antique bust which he possessed, making a novelty of it, that I said:

“You are hoaxing me, M. Foscolo, I know where the original of that bust of Daphne is to be found; this is a cast from it.”

He took my remark ill, saying some coarse things. I observed to him that I sat quiescent when he and some of his southern friends raged and fumed upon small occasions, but that he must not expect to play upon me by things palpably erroneous. He then began to abuse a friend of mine. I smiled at first, but though he was exceedingly provoking, I merely took up my hat to go away; when he became still more enraged. I calmly observed to him: “M. Foscolo, you are a Venetian, or else I should have thought you a Greek of the Lower Empire—what have I done or said to irritate you to such a degree?” I had used no threat, but told him I pitied him. I bore no animosity towards him, God forbid, then or now. I had so sincere a respect for his nobler qualities, that I never could have been his enemy. I imagined, and do so still, that his low living laid the foundation of the complaint that terminated his existence, and caused much of his irritability. I often remonstrated with him upon the subject. I once found he had passed two whole days, having taken only a single cup of coffee. The day

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after the above dispute, a Bow Street officer walked into my lodgings in Upper Berkeley Street, smiling as he told his errand. He said that an odd-looking foreigner had been to the magistrate at the Mary-le-Bone police office, to request I might be bound over to keep the peace towards him. I could not help laughing, and assured the officer I had too high a respect for M. Foscolo to dream of being the instrument of the slightest injury towards him, or such a fool towards myself as he might suspect. The officer took my word for my appearance the next morning.

I called upon Campbell, and told him the story, and he agreed to go with me We went early, and saw Mr. Rawlinson, the magistrate, who laughed at the affair, but thought I might have been a little brusque upon the occasion from my complexion. We waited some time before Foscolo came, unattended, and began a story to the bench, which I ventured to interrupt, by saying:

“I suppose M. Foscolo’s purpose is to bind me over to keep the peace, can it not be done at once? It is rather hard to have a double infliction under the present proceeding.”

“Is that what you wish, M. Foscolo?” said the magistrate.

Foscolo replied in the affirmative, but still wanted to tell his story, which the magistrate said was occupying time uselessly. I signed the necessary document, and two other securities, one of whom was Campbell, having done the same, we took our departure.

Poor Foscolo! I saw him no more alive. I visited his grave in Chiswick church-yard, when memory pain-

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fully recalled the pleasant hours we had passed together. Campbell wished to see his place of rest, and I agreed to walk there again, thus making a sort of pilgrimage to the spot, but, “infirm of purpose,” the poet never accomplished that object, the length of the walk appalled him. Foscolo’s genius and sterling qualities that thus, when living, were neutralized by his fiery nature, could not after his death but re-appear in their pristine brilliancy. His fine conceptions, and the rich poetry of his soul are in his works. They will preserve his fame. The words “Ugo Foscolo, Obiit xiv. die Septembris, A.D. 1827, Ætatis 52,” over his remains, are fast obliterating, owing to the gravestone being laid on a level with the footpath at Chiswick, and continually trampled over. It is between the church and the tomb of Hogarth on the south, or south-east of the edifice. So rests the writer of “The Sepulchres,” of “Tieste,” “Ricciardo,” and “Ajax;” of the “Letters of Ortis,” of the “Essay on Petrarch,” and works of which the merit can only be well comprehended in Italy, or by thorough Italian scholars. He met death with fortitude, and, as in life, he was vain of being thought a man of sterling courage, so his death did not belie it. I once entered his room when he was a little indisposed, and not up. A table stood near his bedside, and upon it was a naked dagger, books, and a lamp.

“What does this dagger do here, Foscolo?”

“I am not thinking of suicide. I have been composing, and I must have all that contributes to help the mind before my eyes—there is a skull. Here are my thoughts, shewing me an illegible scrawl upon paper. You have my ‘Sepulchres?’”

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“I know which really pleases me the most—not the more touching portions, but that scene which brings up the past in so spirited a manner off the Isle of Eubœa; next the allusion to Parini.”

Some of his Greek translations were wonderfully terse and spirited, full of the fire of true poetry. When I reflect on the failings “flesh is heir to,” it is rare that in the sons of genius they are not balanced by corresponding virtues. Foscolo’s generosity, and his kindness of soul, were pre-eminent. Most of his failings were the results of an irritable bodily constitution, and too little of that reflection on common things, which he devoted to the lofty and ideal, of which the many feel so little, and which the world is little worthy of feeling. Here is a specimen of his French:

“Ce n’est que depuis avant hier, que j’ai apris de maladie de ——; mais j’ai été en même tems tranquilisé par Mrs. Campbell, qui m’assure comme il n’existait plus de danger. Le même soir, j’ai reçu votre billet dont je vous remercie de tout mon cœur, et je vous en aurais remercié plustôt sans l’indisposition qui depuis plusieurs jours me tourmente, accompagnée d’une constante head-ach qui à peine me permet de faire usage de mes yeux; et mes yeux aussi sont en mauvaise condition. Lorsque je pourrai sortir, j’irai sous peu vous

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serrer les mains, et faire des congratulations à Madame; et lorsque vous viendrez vous serez toujours le bienvenu. Il me faut—il me faut comme de l’air et le pain—il me faut un traducteur; mais où diable donner de la tête pour le trouver? En attendant, je ne puis rien faire; et, en attendant, adieu de tout mon cœur.

“For heaven’s sake send me by the bearer, and you shall have them returned to-morrow, all the numbers of the N. M. M. in which I wrote, but more particularly all those in which I wrote about Pietro delle Vigne, and Guido Cavalcanti, and if you have any remaining proofs of the article of Sordelle, or my French MS., or that of your own translation of the Sappho, send it to me.

“The bearer will wait for an answer. Forgive the dictation of my letter, because I am sitting for my portrait before M. Pistrucchi, poet and painter. If you wish to hear his improvisations, you must come this evening to tea at eight o’clock,

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It is not possible to recur to those perished days, when I used to meet Foscolo, Santa Rosa, and others, the better natives of the south, and to recal conversations and friendly discussions, mostly faded from memory, without adding another bosom query to the mystery of our humanity, regretting too, at how low a rate they were once valued, compared to the elevated price which memory at present sets upon them.

* A furrowed brow, intent and deep-sunk eyes, Fair hair, lean cheeks. and mind and aspect bold; The proud quick lip where seldom smiles arise, Bent head, and well-formed neck, breast rough and cold, Limbs well composed; simple in dress yet choice, Swift or to move, act, think, or thought unfold. Temperate, firm, kind, unused to flattering lies, Adverse to the world, adverse to me of old; Ofttimes alone and mournful: evermore Most pensive, all unmoved by hope or fear, By shame made timid, and by anger brave, My subtle reason speaks: but ah! I rave— ’Twixt vice and virtue, hardly know to steer— Death may for me have fame and rest in store!