THE LATE MR. COLTON.
(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.