(_From a Correspondent._)
The recent death of this eccentric man of letters may perhaps render the
following recollections generally interesting.
I remember once spending an afternoon with him at Mr. Tucker's, quill
merchant, Middleton-street, Clerkenwell; when I was delighted with the
spontaneous flow of his Latin, his quotations from the ancient and
modern poets, and indeed his masterly and eloquent developement of every
subject that his acute intellect chose to dilate upon; I was, however,
sorry to perceive there was occasionally a want of "holding in" in his
conversation upon points which a due self-respect for those acquirements
which he possessed, equal to any individual living, should have taught
him to have observed. To describe this deficiency as laconically as
possible, Mr. Colton wanted that mental firmness which the unfortunate
Burns has aptly enough termed "Self-control." I once saw him, in the
company of the above mentioned Mr. Tucker, seat himself, at Edmonton
Fair, in one of those vulgar vehicles called swings: he was highly
delighted with the novelty of the exercise, which he enjoyed amidst the
rude stare and boisterous grins of the motley group around him; "this
_is_ life," said he, upon getting out of the swing, "what shall we see
next?" In his poem of _Hypocrisy_, he has beautifully eulogized General
Graham, who showed his sense of this intellectual tribute by sending the
author a complimentary piece of plate. Like Goldsmith, Mr. Colton
entertained an unfortunate predilection for gaming, and although he
often proved a better match for his wily antagonists than "the mild bard
of Auburn" was to his, still he was subject to the fluctuations of the
Goddess of Chance, and the quiet charms of literature which once had a
beautiful hold upon his mind, were succeeded by the demons of worldly
anxiety, which heavy losses, among professed gamesters as acute as
himself, would occasionally subject him to. ENORT.
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