Mr. Bowles is here “peremptorily called upon to speak of a circumstance which gives him the greatest pain,—­the mention of a letter he received from the editor of ‘The London Magazine.’” Mr. Bowles seems to have embroiled himself on all sides; whether by editing, or replying, or attributing, or quoting,—­it has been an awkward affair for him.

Poor Scott is now no more.  In the exercise of his vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the subject of a coroner’s inquest.  But he died like a brave man, and he lived an able one.  I knew him personally, though slightly.  Although several years my senior, we had been schoolfellows together at the “grammar-schule” (or, as the Aberdonians pronounce it, “squeel”) of New Aberdeen.  He did not behave to me quite handsomely in his capacity of editor a few years ago, but he was under no obligation to behave otherwise.  The moment was too tempting for many friends and for all enemies.  At a time when all my relations (save one) fell from me like leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and my few friends became still fewer,—­when the whole periodical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not the literary press) was let loose against me in every shape of reproach, with the two strange exceptions (from their usual opposition) of “The Courier” and “The Examiner,”—­the paper of which Scott had the direction was neither the last nor the least vituperative.  Two years ago I met him at Venice, when he was bowed in griefs by the loss of his son, and had known, by experience, the bitterness of domestic privation.  He was then earnest with me to return to England; and on my telling him, with a smile, that he was once of a different opinion, he replied to me, ’that he and others had been greatly misled; and that some pains, and rather extraordinary means, had been taken to excite them.’  Scott is no more, but there are more than one living who were present at this dialogue.  He was a man of very considerable talents, and of great acquirements.  He had made his way, as a literary character, with high success, and in a few years.  Poor fellow!  I recollect his joy at some appointment which he had obtained, or was to obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which prevented the further extension (unless by a rapid run to Rome) of his travels in Italy.  I little thought to what it would conduct him.  Peace be with him!—­and may all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be as readily forgiven him, as the little injury which he had done to one who respected his talents, and regrets his loss.

I pass over Mr. Bowles’s page of explanation, upon the correspondence between him and Mr. S——.  It is of little importance in regard to Pope, and contains merely a re-contradiction of a contradiction of Mr. Gilchrist’s.  We now come to a point where Mr. Gilchrist has, certainly, rather exaggerated matters; and, of course, Mr. Bowles makes the most of it.  Capital letters, like Kean’s name, “large upon the bills,” are made use of six or seven times to express his sense of the outrage.  The charge is, indeed, very boldly made; but, like “Ranold of the Mist’s” practical joke of putting the bread and cheese into a dead man’s mouth, is, as Dugald Dalgetty says, “somewhat too wild and salvage, besides wasting the good victuals.”