"I did not return to Town till Sunday morning, when I found your
letter at my chambers. I hope you will accept, as a sufficient
excuse, the extreme fatigue and languor which I felt all yesterday for
not answering it immediately.
I lament exceedingly, that my father should not have been early enough
in his application to the Lieutenant of the County, in whose gift, by
the frame of the bill, the appointment is placed, and in whose hand, I
fear, by the act itself it will remain.
I cannot conjecture to whom it has been promised by Col. Wodehouse. To
Alderson is not at all probable, from the part he has taken against
the Wodehouse's, who are the most bigoted and relentless Tories in
existence. To Preston [another provincial barrister in Norwich, and
the late Jermy, who was shot by Rush], ought not to be probable,
because he is not competent either in law or common sense to fill the
office; and the favour to him would be an injury to the public. My
father has every claim to it, and I think that it would have been no
more than what was due from Col. Wodehouse, both to the county and my
father, to offer it to him before he promised it to another.
I wish you might be right in your surmise, that the patronage will be
placed in another quarter; but, of that there is the faintest chance,
I should advise you to press my father to exert himself to procure the
appointment, as it will be an office of the most agreeable kind,
affording considerable profit at very little trouble. I, myself, know
not a soul in the world who could influence any one of the present
government: and any enquiries or attempt by me would have, in all
probability, an adverse operation. I am of no importance whatever to
any party, but my opinions, humble and insignificant as they are, have
been noticed and recorded; and I am down in the black book for
persecution, rather than in the red for favour. Of little note and
importance as I am, such is the consciousness, in their own infirmity,
in those who rule us, that the very lowest who have denounced their
system, are objects of their hatred, for they are the objects of their
fear; and those who have put them to the pain of apprehension, are
marks for their revenge. I should think that the best course that my
father could take would be to apply to Mr. John Harvey, to induce his
brother, Onley Harvey, Esq. (a brother barrister of my father too), to
ask it of the Home Department; if he asked it (supposing the gift to
be there), I think, without doubt it would be given. [The rest of the
letter relates to family matters, and concludes my love to William. He
attributes too much honour to me by looking to me with any
admiration.] My duty to my father.
I am, dear Madam,
Yours very truly,
HENRY COOPER."
My task is all but accomplished. I have but now to lay before the reader
the promised verses; those on Buonaparte are characteristic of the
writer, who, with his high intellectual powers, possessed to the last, a
noble and independent spirit, which despised even the appearance of
servility. I shall then add the notices that appeared in the _Morning
Chronicle_, and _Gentleman's Magazine_, soon after his decease, which
clearly show that He, whose death they record, was no common person; as,
also, the high estimation he was held in by the profession, to which he
was an honour; and by the public who admired him for his eloquence, and
prized him for his independence of character. In the sketches I have
given of the two lives, which were, of necessity intermingled,--it is
true, I have given but a rough outline of each, and my hope is they will
portray the lineaments and character as effectually as a more lengthened
biography; as I have seen, and often the character of a friend's face
better given in a few mere outlines, than in the finished likeness. In
looking at a small duodecimo edition I possess of Plutarch's lives, I
perceive that the lives of his greatest heroes and statesmen, are
comprised within a hundred pages, and yet how clearly does he portray
their lives to the reader. He gives a few anecdotes of their youth, a
few salient points of their character in manhood, and then concludes with
their actions and their deaths; and leaves the rest to the imagination
and "the mind's eye;" and who, after, reading them, does not see clearly
before him the man whose life has been so ably delineated? I mean not,
by this, to compare myself for an instant, with that great writer; but,
having, as I said before, such slender materials to deal with, I have, as
far as I was able, and after re-perusing the writer referred to, done my
best, with my small abilities to follow his example, and pursue his
arrangement; I can only hope I may have in part succeeded.
After the notices referred to, I shall end by laying before the reader
the verses written on my brother, after his death, by my mother and Mr.
Wing; and in the appendix I shall refer the reader to the life of Erskine
before alluded to; as, also, to the trial of Mary Ann Carlile, which will
show, and clearly, the style of the eloquence of her advocate on the
occasion, combined as it is with powerful argument, and that clearness
and lucid order which were his forte. And now, reader, to use the words
of Cicero, in concluding one of his epistles to a friend, "vale et
valeas."
"IN BONAMPARTEM."
He ne'er shall be extoll'd by me,
Whom wealth and fortune raise to power;
But he, alone who will be free
From sordid shame, or live no more.
Let him with wreaths of song be crown'd,
Who life, deflower'd of glory, spurn'd,
And breaking from his kindred round,
To Carthage and to death return'd.
With him, who when his righteous hand,
In vain the splendid blow had given,
The tyrant, only chang'd, disdain'd
The light of unregarded Heaven.
And Cato--thou, who tyranny
All earth besides enslaved, withstood;
And failing to high liberty,
Pour'd fierce libation of thy blood.
Oh, Godlike men! you leave no praise
For him who to the king could bend,
To add a few unhonor'd days
To life, at latest--soon to end.
Nor him self-raised to Gallia's throne,
Who, rushing with his martial hordes,
Cast Europe's ancient sceptres down,
And made his slaves her sov'reign lords.
For his was not the heart that dar'd
When with the battle all was lost,
Plunge in the whirlpool of the war,
And share the slaughter of his host;
Nor his, the indignant soul with brave
And Roman arm, his life to shed;
But still he sought by flight to save
His outlaw'd and unlaurell'd head.
With face to earth his vet'rans' lay
In ruins all who bore his name;
His mighty Empire past away,
And blasted, as a Chief, his fame.
Yet--yet--(so let him live) content
The sentence of his foes he bore,
Like a vile felon to be sent
An exile to a wretched shore.