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[288] We sat up, therefore, late, and talked a great deal about the living poets. Of Scott he spoke with much respect as a man, and of his works with judicious and sufficient praise. For Campbell he did not seem to have so much regard; and for Lord Byron none at all, since,. though he admired his talent, he seemed to have a deep-rooted abhorrence of his character, and besides, I thought, felt a little bitterness against him for having taken something of his own lakish manner lately, and, what is worse, borrowed some of his thoughts. On the whole, however, he seemed fairly disposed to do justice to his contemporaries and rivals. . . . . In the morning early I recommenced my journey. . .

March 23.—At Birmingham I took a post-chaise and went on, and slept at Hatton,—old Dr. Parr's. This was another pleasant literary visit. The old gentleman received me with kindness, and recognized me at once. I had a letter to him, but it was not necessary, as he remembered me. Since I saw him, age has laid a heavy hand upon him, and he has bent under it. . . . . His mind, however, seems to have remained untouched. He is still as zealous as ever; dogmatizes in politics with all his former passion, and gives himself up, perhaps, rather more to his prejudices, which cling closer to his character, as the moss clings closer to the rock, until at last it seems to identify itself with it. He talked a great deal of the literary establishments in Great Britain; seemed to despise Edinburgh, where, he said, you would not get so much knowledge at a lecture as you would in the same time at an English gentleman's dinner-table; preferred Oxford to Cambridge, though he is a Cantabrigian; spoke with galling contempt of Monk; and, in short, seemed disposed to spare very little that came in his way.

His politics were even more outrageous. He still praised Bonaparte, and entered into a defence of General Jackson and his Indian warfare in Florida, and seemed equally discontented with the Ministry and the Opposition, at home. Yet there is evidently not a real bitterness in his feelings. He differs from most persons, even among his friends, but the reason is chiefly that he has lived so little in the world as hardly to be a part of it, and if he has any relationships, they are to an age that for us has gone by, of which he seems a rude but an imposing relic. . . . . Setting his learning aside,—where he still stands alone among English scholars,—there are two traits in his character which would redeem greater faults; I mean his kindness, and the prevalent sense of religion, which seems always to be upon him, even when he is talking in his angriest moods. I felt both when

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