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 h