not _then_ Lord Orford) certainly had not been aware
that Chatterton was other than a gentleman by birth and station. The
natural dignity of the boy, which had not condescended to any degrading
applications, misled this practised man of the world. But recurring to
Lord Byron's insinuations as to a systematic design of running Lord
Orford down, I beg to say that I am no party to any such design. It is
not likely that a furious Conservative like myself, who have the
misfortune also to be the most bigoted of Tories, would be so. I
disclaim all participation in any clamour against Lord Orford which may
have arisen on democratic feeling. Feeling the profoundest pity for the
'marvellous boy' of Bristol, and even love, if it be possible to feel
love for one who was in his unhonoured grave before I was born, I resent
the conduct of Lord Orford, in this one instance, as universally the
English public has resented it. But generally, as a writer, I admire
Lord Orford in a very high degree. As a letter-writer, and as a
brilliant sketcher of social aspects and situations, he is far superior
to any French author who could possibly be named as a competitor. And as
a writer of personal or anecdotic history, let the reader turn to
Voltaire's 'Siecle de Louis Quatorze,' in order to appreciate his
extraordinary merit.

* * * * *

Next will occur to the reader the forgery of 'Junius.' Who did _that_?
Oh, villains that have ever doubted since '"Junius" Identified'! Oh,
scamps--oh, pitiful scamps! You, reader, perhaps belong to this wretched
corps. But, if so, understand that you belong to it under false
information. I have heard myriads talk upon this subject. One man said
to me, 'My dear friend, I sympathize with your fury. You are right.
Righter a man cannot be. Rightest of all men you are.' I was
right--righter--rightest! That had happened to few men. But again this
flattering man went on, 'Yes, my excellent friend, right you are, and
evidently Sir Philip Francis was the man. His backer proved it. The day
after his book appeared, if any man had offered me exactly two thousand
to one in guineas, that Sir Philip was _not_ the man, by Jupiter! I
would have declined the bet. So divine, so exquisite, so Grecian in its
perfection, was the demonstration, the _apodeixis_ (or what do you call
it in Greek?), that this brilliant Sir Philip--who, by the way, wore
_his_ order of the Bath as universally as ever he taxe