THE AUTHOR OF "LACON."
(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."