_(To the Editor of the Mirror.)_
SIR,--The following additional particulars respecting the celebrated
author of "Lacon," may not be unacceptable to your readers, as a sequel
to the interesting account of that eccentric individual inserted at p.
431, in your recently completed volume.
It will be in the recollection of many, that about the period of the
murder of Weare, by Thurtel, Mr. Colton suddenly disappeared from among
his friends, and no trace of him, notwithstanding the most vigilant
inquiry, could be discovered. As Weare's murder produced an
unprecedented sensation in the public mind, it gave rise to a variety of
reports against the perpetrators of that horrible crime, imputing to
them other atrocities of a similar kind. It is needless now to say that
most of these suspicions were wholly without foundation.
It was at length ascertained, that Mr. C., finding himself embarrassed
with his creditors, had taken his departure for America, where he
remained about two years, travelling over the greater part of the United
States; and it is much to be desired that he would favour the public
with the result of his observations during his residence in that
country; as probably no person living is qualified to execute such a
task with more shrewdness, judgment, or ability.
He is now residing at Paris, where he has been about two years and a
half, and where I had frequently the pleasure of meeting him during the
last winter, and of enjoying the raciness of his conversation, which
abounds in wit, anecdote, and an universality of knowledge. It is too
well known that he is not unaddicted to the allurements of the gaming
table, and it is understood among his immediate friends, that he has
been--what few are--successful adventurer, having repaired in the
saloons of Paris, in a great degree, the loss he sustained by the
forfeiture of his church livings. His singular coolness, calculation,
and self-mastery, give him an advantage in this respect over, perhaps,
every other votary of the gaming table.
Mr. Colton has an excellent taste for the fine arts, and has expended
considerable sums in forming a picture gallery. Every nook of his
apartment is literally covered with the treasures of art, including many
of the _chefs d'oeuvres_ of the great masters, and many valuable
paintings are placed on the floor for want of room to suspend them
against the wainscot. I may here observe, that his present domicile does
not exactly correspond with that described as his former "castle" in
London, inasmuch as it is part of a royal residence, it being on the
second floor, on one side of the quadrangle of the Palais Royal,
overlooking the large area of that building, and opposite to the _jet
d'eau_ in the centre. But his habits and mode of dress appear to be
unchanged. He has only one room; he keeps no servant, (unless a boy to
take care of his horse and cabriolet); he lights his own fire, and, I
believe, performs all his other domestic offices himself. But,
notwithstanding these whimsicalities, he is generous, hospitable and
friendly. He still, when a friend "drops in," produces a bottle or two
of the finest wines and a case of the best cigars, of which he is a
determined smoker.
I will only add, that he continues to employ himself in literary
composition. Among other pieces not published in England, he has written
an ode on the death of Lord Byron, a copy of which he presented me, but
which I unfortunately lent--and lost. A small edition was printed at
Paris for private circulation. He has also written an unpublished poem
in the form of a letter from Lord Castlereagh in the shades, to Mr.
Canning on earth, the caustic severity of which, in the opinion of those
who have heard it read, is equal to that of any satire in the English
language. I remember only the two first lines--
"Dear George, from these _Shades_, where no wine's to be had.
But where rivers of flame run like rivers run mad."
And the following, in allusion to the instrument with which Lord C.
severed the carotid artery, and which was the means of producing such a
change in the destiny of the present prime minister, who was then on the
eve of going out to India as governor-general,--
"Have you pensioned the Jew boy that sold me the knife?"
It is to be lamented that such a man should be an exile from his native
country.--But I draw a veil over the rest, and sincerely hope that his
absence from England will not be perpetual.
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