He who was all charity has found none in the judgment pronounced on him by his contemporaries; but posterity will be more just.  The wild theories and fanciful opinions of Shelley, on subjects too sacred to be approached lightly, carry with them their own condemnation; and so preclude the evil which pernicious doctrines, more logically reasoned, might produce on weak minds.  His theories are vague, dreamy, always erroneous, and often absurd:  but the imagination of the poet, and the tenderness of heart of the man, plead for pardon for the false doctrines of the would-be philosopher; and those who most admire his poetry will be the least disposed to tolerate his anti-religious principles.  As a proof that his life was far from being in accordance with his false creed, he enjoyed, up to his death, the friendship of some of the most excellent men, who deplored his errors but who loved and valued him.

William Spencer, the poet, dined here yesterday.  Alas! he has “fallen into the sere and yellow leaf,” for though sometimes uttering brilliant thoughts, they are “like angel visits, few and far between;” and total silence, or half-incoherent rhapsodies, mark the intervals.

This melancholy change is accounted for by the effects of an indulgence in wine, had recourse to in consequence of depression of spirits.  Nor is this pernicious indulgence confined to the evening, for at a dejeuner a la fourchette at two o’clock, enough wine is drunk to dull his faculties for the rest of the day.  What an unpoetical close to a life once so brilliant!

Alas, alas, for poor human nature! when, even though illumined by the ethereal spark, it can thus sully its higher destiny.  I thought of the many fanciful and graceful poems so often perused with pleasure, written by Mr. Spencer amid the brilliant fetes in which he formerly passed his nights, and where he often found his inspirations.  His was ever a courtly Muse, but without the hoop and train—­a ball-room belle, with alternate smiles and sentimentality, and witty withal.  No out-bursting of passion, or touch of deep pathos, interrupted the equanimity of feeling of those who perused Spencer’s verses; yet was their absence unmissed, for the fancy, wit, and sentiment that marked them all, and the graceful ease of the versification, rendered them precisely what they were intended for,—­les vers de societe, the fitting volume elegantly bound to be placed in the boudoir.

And there sat the pet poet of gilded salons, whose sparkling sallies could once delight the fastidious circles in which he moved.  His once bright eyes, glazed and lustreless, his cheeks sunken and pale, seeming only conscious of the presence of those around him when offered champagne, the excitement of which for a few brief moments produced some flashing bon mot a propos de rien passing at the time, after which his spirits subsided even more rapidly than did the bubbles of the wine that had given them their short excitement.