literature, rush to our memory. But we think we have already quoted
enough to disprove the sentence, which the illustrious biographer
has himself disproved in more than twenty passages, which, if he is
pleased to forget, we thank Heaven posterity never will. Now we are
on the subject of this Life, so excellent in many respects, we
cannot but observe that we think the whole scope of its philosophy
utterly unworthy of the accomplished mind of the writer; the
philosophy consists of an unpardonable distorting of general truths,
to suit the peculiarities of an individual, noble indeed, but
proverbially morbid and eccentric. A striking instance of this
occurs in the laboured assertion that poets make but sorry domestic
characters. What! because Lord Byron is said to have been a bad
husband, was (to go no further back for examples)--was Walter Scott
a bad husband, or was Campbell, or is Mr. Moore himself? why, in
the name of justice, should it be insinuated that Milton was a bad
husband, when, as far as any one can judge of the matter, it was
Mrs. Milton who was the bad wife? And why, oh! why should we be
told by Mr. Moore,--a man who, to judge by Captain Rock and the
Epicurean, wants neither learning nor diligence,--why are we to be
told, with peculiar emphasis, that Lord Bacon never married, when
Lord Bacon not only married, but his marriage was so advantageous as
to be an absolute epoch in his career? Really, really, one begins
to believe that there is not such a thing as a fact in the world!]

"Now for the hedge!" cried Lovett, unheeding his comrades; and his horse
sprang into the road.

The three men now were drawn up quite still and motionless by the side of
the hedge. The broad road lay before them, curving out of sight on
either side; the ground was hardening under an early tendency to frost,