The life of this man would of itself make an entertaining volume; a short digression upon it therefore may be excused. He was almost the next descendant from one of the most extraordinary men of talent and genius that this kingdom ever knew, and apparently inherited many of his progenitor’s eccentricities. A young man of one of the noblest families in the kingdom, and immediate heir to a dukedom, conceiving himself aggrieved by an illustrious personage, of rank higher than his own, sent him a challenge, and a duel was the consequence. In the rencontre, the individual challenged, had a very narrow escape, the ball having grazed his cheek.
The affair necessarily engrossed a considerable share of public conversation, and among other things of which it was the cause, our gentleman thought proper to publish a most bitter and exasperating pamphlet against the young nobleman who had sent the challenge.
The consequence was what might naturally be expected. Col. L. first enquired whether the author was, from his station in life, worthy of his resentment. On finding that he was a gentleman, a duel ensued, in which the Quixotic advocate of Royalty, was shot through the body, but astonished even his adversary by the courage and firmness with which he conducted himself. What his motive was, can hardly be imagined; but as his circumstances were but moderate, he not improbably conceived, that he might be rewarded with patronage and preferment. This, however, was not the case, though it must be acknowledged that the illustrious Personage, whose advocate he had so rashly been, once sent him compliments of enquiry and condolence.
He was certainly a man of considerable talents, and particularly in poetry. He published many things, which were well received, and he left a great deal more behind him.
The following extract from an unpublished poem, called a Hymn to Venus, occurs in our manuscript, and justifies what has been said of the author’s abilities.
“The various world thy various powers delight,
Thy star precedes the morn, and gilds the night;
Thee, when Aurora’s fingers paint the day,
In the pure blush of morning we survey;
Or throned with Phœbus as he sets in gold,