of Poland," and an " Ode to befriend the society of decayed musicians." The Ode, we are told, was " written in the little farm of Dandelion, near Margate, which has since been converted into a scene of public entertainment." About this time, he made one of a party of pleasure, to visit the ship that had carried Cooke; and "he had found a bitter easterly wind blowing full on his face; but as his eyes had ever been remarkably strong, and had never suffered in any manner from long exertion in miniature painting, or in nightly reading, he was not aware how doubly they might suffer from that insidious enemy to organs so delicate, the east wind!" We accordingly have several pages about his " ocular sufferings." In the vicinity of Lyme, he meets with a boy of some distinction. "The youngest, afterwards the great William Pitt, was now a wonderful boy of 14, who eclipsed his brother in conversation, and endeared himself not a little to the Poet, by admiring a favourite horse which he then rode, of singular excellence,"&c. "Hayley often reflected on the singular pleasure he had derived from his young acquaintance, regretting, however, that his own poetical reserve had prevented him imparting to the wonderful youth the epic poem he had begun on the liberty of the country." Hayley now quitted London for good and all, and settled himself at his villa at Eastham. His mother died about this time, and he seized the opportunity of constructing two epitaphs, one in English verse, and the other in Latin prose. For a year or two (or to 1777-8) he visits and versifies away as usual, and doctors his eyes, still weak and inflamed. He next attempted Harris the manager, but he too rejected the offered play of the "Viceroy." He did from page 170 to page 209, in a disturbed and feverish sleep; but we think he informs us that he wrote an Epistle to Howard, another to Gibbon, Epistles on History, and the Triumphs of Temper, by the end of the year 1780. But now comes matter of a somewhat graver cast; and we shall let Mr Hayley speak for himself." Perhaps no man, on the point of removing from him a wife, with whom he felt it impossible to live, ever shewed more tender or more sincere anxiety to promote her ease, comfort, and welfare, to the utmost of his power, than Hayley manifested in conducting all this painful business. "What he felt, and what his countenance proved him to have felt on the occasion, may be conjectured from some striking expressions of his intellectual and affectionate valet, Harry, which shall be reserved for the closing words of this chapter. "The Poet, after receiving his Eliza in London, and remaining there with her a week, escorted her, on the 27th of April, to the house of their benevolent friend, Mrs Beridge, in Derby. He remained in that town a few days, to provide its new inhabitant with a residence to her liking.After bidding her adieu with much tenderness and anguish of heart, he threw himself into a post-chaise with his attendant Harry, who exclaimed to his master, as soon as they were off the stones: I thank God, sir, you are now got safe out of that town, for I have for many hours been afraid, that I should see you drop down dead in the midst of it.' But Now, what have we to do with Hayley's domestic concerns, it may perhaps be asked by some consistent hater of personality, and lover of the Edinburgh Review-Nothing. then he has thought proper to intersperse, throughout two enormous quarto volumes, ex-parte statements of what ought to have been held in sacred and inviolable silence for evermore. He has meanly, basely, and falsely striven to build up for himself a reputation for the finest feeling and most thoughtful humanity, at the expense of the most shameful violation of natural duties to the injured dead. The poor devil keeps incessantly drivelling and blubbering about his " pitiable Eliza," with whom he had not the love and the virtue to live, that he might sooth her sorrows; and does all he can to shew, that her caprices were such as not only to justify his living apart from her, but to demand it; and that for her sake he submitted to the painful sacrifice. But the heartless hypocrite cants confessed in every page; and every man, with a common human soul, will despise the impotent struggles which he makes to libel the character of his dead wife. Several of her letters are published, that he might have an opportunity of giving, we think, his own cold, conceited, episto lary effusions to the mother of his beloved child, at the time when he had shut his doors against her, and left her a prey to the disturbing thoughts that too often agitated her keenly affectionate, and most disinterested and forgiving heart. We had marked for quotation a number of passages fitted to expose the wretched creature, but they are too loathsome for the present Number. And pray, what right had Hayley to abandon his amiable and elegant wife to her misfortunes, whatever was their deplorable kind or degree, and to trundle maudlin along to Cowper, who was afflicted with a similar visitation ? He had no right to whine and wail about the "Bard of Olney," for he had other sacred duties to perform, which he wickedly left unperformed; and there is no want of charity in affirming that mere vanity and egotism drew him to the couch of Cowper. He did not sit there as a Christian, but as a literary man; and all the while continued slavering forth his mawkish verses, till he seems occasionally to have made even himself sick. The truth is, that we have been seized with such a loathing disgust with this heartless, brainless versifier, that we must stop short with this very imperfect notice of his memorable Memoirs; but in a month or two, when the two millstones are sunk into the dam of oblivion, we shall probably give such extracts (accompanied with a few comments) as will justify us in the little we have said, and give us a still better opportunity for exposing the real worthlessness of this pretender, who certainly will henceforth rank at the very bottom of the scale of English drivellers. LETTERS OF TIMOTHY TICKLER, ESQ. TO EMINENT LITERARY CHARACTERS. No. IX. To Thomas Campbell, Esq. Editor of Colburn's Conduit-Street Magazine. DEAR TOM,-It is now about twenty years since you and I turned into Johnny Dowie's, to wash the dust out of our throats with a pint of Giles's ale, if I remember right, though perhaps it might have been with a crown bowl of punch. You were then a young man of high reputation-deservedly high, for you had published the Pleasures of Hope. Your fancied schemes of future life were brilliant; and no wonder. Scott had scarcely appeared in our literature; Byron was a boy at Harrow; Wordsworth a butt of derision to the shallow creatures who exercised the art critical in those days; Coleridge was dreaming as at present; Southey had not published his great poems, and was under a sort of cloud; Darwin was gradually getting voted a bore of the first magnitude; this Magazine was among the things uncreated-nay, I may say, unhoped for or unconceived; and, positively, you were alone, the rising star of our poetical world. We freely discussed your prospects. Though at that date Time had not thinned my flowing hair, as he has done since, and be hanged to him, nor bent me in his iron hand, as he has vainly attempted to do, still I was so much your senior as to entitle me to give advice even to a man of your sur prising talents. Like St Paul at the feet of Gamaliel, the doctor of laws, you listened to the voice of my instructions, while in social conversation we sluiced over our ivories the ever-to-behonoured extract of Sir John Barleycorn. With a mild suavity, I pointed out a path of glory to you; and the beaming of your intelligent eye, and the heartfelt pressure which you occasionally gave my hand, shewed that you appreciated my intentions. We have never met since. You went to London, and I fixed permanently in Southside. You dwelt in the throng and bustle of men, amid the intercourse of wits and sages, in the noise and tumult of civilization-I, in the silent hills, in the heart of the glories of nature, in the company of the simple and unrefined. But think not that I was an incurious spectator of your progress. I rejoiced in the estimation in which you were held. I shall never be ashamed of the national feeling which makes us Scotchmen proud of one another's success throughout the world, and ready to promote it. It is a higher feather in our cap than the grand name of "the nation of gentlemen," or "the modern Athens," or "the dwellers under the pillars of the Parthenon." You did not, indeed, 1823. gave do as much as I expected; but what you did was of the first order. I forthe un-nationality of the spirit which directed your choice of such subjects for your elegant muse as "Gertrude of Wyoming," and the "Exile of Erin," because I knew you were a Whig, and compelled, ex-officio, to chaunt the praises of rebellion, successful or unsuccessful, "all over the world;" particularly when, as in the Irish case, it is marked with unmitigated ferocity of murder and conflagration. I forgave it, I say, for the sake of" the Mariners of England," "the Battle of the Baltic," and "Our Countrymen in Flanders." It would be absurd were I at this time of day to compliment you on "Lochiel," and "O'Connor's Child," when everybody has them by heart. I own I did not like to see you at task-work for the booksellers; but I remembered that those who lived to please, should please to live. Above all, I did not approve of your new connection with Colburn's Magazine. There is something nasty and plagiary in the very name; and, little as I value Sir Pythagoras, I sympathized with his indignation against this robbery of his title. I was sorry, besides, to see you put yourself at the head of such capons as cackle for that periodical-making yourself Bashaw of a band of Balaamites, Commanderin-Chief of a Company of crestless Cockatoos. (There, by the by, is a fine specimen of apt alliteration's artful aid.) But that is your look-out, not mine; I hope you find your account in it. It is concerning a passage in your Magazine for September that I am now addressing you. Let me again revert to the last evening I had the pleasure of meeting you at Johnny Dowie's. You may remember we had been sitting in one of the tiniest of the tiny cribs of that celebrated man, who is now gathered to his fathers, employed as I have already mentioned. Why do I dwell on such trifles? Simply because I never have thought of that evening without pleasure. On leaving the house, the morning-sun was illuminating the lofty tenements of the old town. "Good night," said I, "Thomas, or rather, good morning. God bless you through life, and make you an honour to the land of your birth. You are, I perceive, Thomas, a Whig-endeavour, notwith standing, to be an honest man. Be, if Such a tribute, however, I cannot if 66 abuse on men of genius, is going too far; and, as a friend, I must shortly expostulate with you on the subject. You have, no doubt, heard people sometimes complain of what it pleases them to call the scurrilities of Kit's Magazine. You have seen Jeffrey, afraid to say it, keep hinting at the accusation. You have read the lamentations of this very Hazlitt about it; and you take up the Liberal, which of course you do professionally, you will hear the vermin yelping to the same tune. Now, all the fraternity know that they are lying. We might be as scurrilous as a Billingsgate basket-women, or as legal Brougham, the moral chimney-sweeper," (as Byron calls him,) had we been Whigs, without exciting reprehension, or, had we been stupid Tories, without being clamoured against. But Tories we are, and, still worse, clever Tories; and, worst of all, Tories employed in demolishing Whiggery. Hinc illa lacryma-hence the squeaking of the base creatures crouching under us. Any lie that could tend to annoy us, was a fair weapon; and the best they could think of, was this charge of personal scurrility. We beg leave to deny it; but suppose it for a moment true, will you, Mr Thomas, have the goodness to find anything in our pages which can, in personality, compare with this character of Mr Fuseli, which you have printed, Mr Thomas, and which you have paid for. The vermin who wrote it, has, it appears, suffered some slight from that great man, and accordingly we are told, that “His (Fuseli's) ideas are gnarled, hard, and distorted like HIS FEATURES; his theories, stalking and straddle-legged like -HIS GAIT; his projects, aspiring and gigantic like HIS GESTURES; his performance, uncouth and dwarfish like-HIS PERSON. His pictures are also like himself, WITH EYEBALLS OF STONE STUCK IN RIMS OF TIN, AND MUSCLES TWISTED TOGETHER LIKE ROPES OR WIRES." -New Monthly Magazine, No. XXXIII. p. 214. Yes, Mr Campbell, that is the language you have used towards Mr Fuseli. I say you have used, for the fellow who wrote it is below even contempt. Fuseli would be degraded if he horsewhipped him; he might order his footman to kick him, perhaps, but he would in that case owe an apology to the flunky for employing him in such dirty work. I say it is to you he is to look for redress for this brutal attack, which is about the vilest thing I have seen for a long time, even among the vilenesses of Whiggery. What, sir! do you think, that because Mr Fuseli is a great painter, you are to take indecent liberties with his person? Do you think yourself entitled to abuse the outward configuration given him by his Creator, which neither you nor he could alter? Do you think it just and gentlemanlike criticism on his works to fling ribald jests on his features, his gait, his gestures, his person, his eyeballs, and his muscles? If you do, Mr Campbell, you are sadly altered for the worse. Misery, they say, brings a man in contact with strange bedfellows; so, it would appear, does editing. Had any man, three years ago, told me, that Thomas Campbell, the author of the "Pleasures of Hope," of "Gertrude," of "O'Connor's Child," of the "Mariners of England," would be guilty of such filth, I am pretty sure the answer would be to pull him by the nose. What the motive of the fellow, whose pen traced the words, was, I, of course, cannot tell-perhaps Fuseli discharged him from the situation of colour-grinder, a post to which he might aspire through vanity; but, that you, Mr Campbell, should, in cold blood, have sent such a piece of offal to the press, does both astonish and grieve me. I hope we shall have an ample apology to Fuseli in your next Number; if we have not, I shall only conclude, that he despises the quarter from which the attack has come-and just think of that! Fuseli the painter, despising Campbell the poet! You may, perhaps, reinember what an outcry was raised here, in Edinburgh, I mean, against Hogg's incomparable jeu-d'esprit, the Chaldee MS. Even yet the things about the Scotsman keep carping at it. There was some cant mixed up with the cry, such as "insult offered to scriptural language," parody on Ezekiel," &c.; but that, you know, was not the real ground of offence. It was complained that it was personal, and reflected on bodily defect or misfortune. A long time after it was published, this complaint was renewed with all the bitterness of envious hate, by an infatuated editor of a Magazine, in that brutal series of attacks on us which produced such lamentable results. 1823. Now, if a verse or two of this Manuscript did transgress in this sort, much may be said in its excuse, for the people who gathered about Constable's periodical, were so utterly obscure, poor gazetteers, and other such third-rate Grub-Street folk, that there was no way of describing them without alluding to their appearance. They had done nothing by which they could be known-they were merely good-fornothing hacks, who had banded themselves together to put down, in obedience to their employers' tradesmenlike views, a rival magazine. How then could Hogg avoid describing their persons, if he thought fit to mention them at all? The Chaldee was; more over, meant for anything rather than for malignity, and, as the Shepherd says in his Life, all that was looked for was a retort courteous or uncourteous, of the same kind. It was, in fact, a mere local joke; and if it be read or relished beyond Newington or Stockbridge, it is only on account of its internal humour and merit, just as we now read, with all the freshness of the original fun-Dean Swift's papers on Partridge, Curl, Norris,and fifty others, of whom we know little, and care less. But take the very worst verses of it, and compare them with this attack on the person of a man of fervid and original genius, a foreigner too, who has domiciled among us, and you will be ashamed of yourself if you ever condescended to join in the clamour of your Whig associates against the scurrilities of this Magazine. We were also most roundly rated because Z. or Ochlenschlaeger, or some other of our friends, cracked a joke on this scribe of yours, Hazlitt, for being "pimpled." None of us knows any thing of his personal appearance-how could we?-But what designation could be more apt to mark the scurvy, verrucose, uneven, foully-heated, dis- I am, Dear Tom, P. S.-You let the Cockneys invade Conduit-Street by far too much. Why the deuce, Tom, did you tolerate the fellow who wrote, "Oh! there are moments dear and bright, Dorning, forsooth! Hip! Cockney! Postscript by ODoherty. DEAR TOM, I have just stepped across the hills into Tickler's cabin, and take the liberty of thrusting this slip into my friend Tim's epistle, merely to say that you ought to send Dominie Small-text back again to Coventry. It would be a good ridding of him. He has no more head than Cyrus the Elder. Talking of the miracles of my wise father-land, he takes occasion to blame both parties there for superstition. The Catholics, he says, are believing in Humbugger Hohenlohe's letting a young wench's clapper loose, while the Orangemen are equally asinine in crediting the fact, that an orange lily suddenly budded forth while the Glorious, Pious, and Immortal Memory was giving. Now, |