"He is the author of that famous No.

996, for which you have all been giving me the credit." "The rascal foiled me at capping verses," Dean Swift said, "and won a tenpenny piece of me, plague take him!" "He has suggested an emendation in my 'Homer,' which proves him a delicate scholar," Mr.Pope exclaimed.
"He knows more of the French king than any man I have met with; and we must have an eye upon him," said Lord Bolingbroke, then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and beckoning a suspicious-looking person who was drinking at a side-table, whispered to him something.
Meantime who was he?
where was he, this youth who had struck all the wits of London with admiration?
His galloping charger had returned to the City; his splendid court-suit was doffed for the citizen's gabardine and grocer's humble apron.
George de Barnwell was in Chepe--in Chepe, at the feet of Martha Millwood.
VOL III.
THE CONDEMNED CELL.
"Quid me mollibus implicas lacertis, my Elinor?
Nay," George added, a faint smile illumining his wan but noble features, "why speak to thee in the accents of the Roman poet, which thou comprehendest not?
Bright One, there be other things in Life, in Nature, in this Inscrutable Labyrinth, this Heart on which thou leanest, which are equally unintelligible to thee! Yes, my pretty one, what is the Unintelligible but the Ideal?
what is the Ideal but the Beautiful?
what the Beautiful but the Eternal?
And the Spirit of Man that would commune with these is like Him who wanders by the thina poluphloisboio thalasses, and shrinks awe-struck before that Azure Mystery." Emily's eyes filled with fresh-gushing dew.

"Speak on, speak ever thus, my George," she exclaimed.

Barnwell's chains rattled as the confiding girl clung to him.

Even Snoggin, the turnkey appointed to sit with the Prisoner, was affected by his noble and appropriate language, and also burst into tears.
"You weep, my Snoggin," the Boy said; "and why?
Hath Life been so charming to me that I should wish to retain it?
hath Pleasure no after-Weariness?
Ambition no Deception; Wealth no Care; and Glory no Mockery?
Psha! I am sick of Success, palled of Pleasure, weary of Wine and Wit, and--nay, start not, my Adelaide--and Woman.