It will not be thought then that I have repeated with any disrespectful intention what was said of Wilberforce by Mr. Pitt. The observation was brought to mind while I was thinking how many passages in these volumes were composed with a double intention, one for the public and for posterity, the other private and personal, written with special pleasure on my part, _speciali gratiâ_, for the sake of certain individuals. Some of these which are calculated for the meridian of Doncaster the commentators may possibly, if they make due research, discover; but there are others which no ingenuity can detect. Their quintessence exhales when the private, which was in these cases the primary intention has been fulfilled. Yet the consciousness of the emotions which those passages will excite, the recollections they will awaken, the surprize and the smile with which they will be received,—yea and the melancholy gratification,—even to tears,—which they will impart, has been one and not the least of the many pleasures which I have experienced while employed upon this work. Πολλά μοι ὑπ᾽ ἀγκῶ– –νος ὠκέα βέλη Ἒνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας Φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.[1] [Footnote 1: PINDAR.] But while thus declaring that these volumes contain much covert intention of this kind, I utterly disclaim all covert malevolence. My roving shafts are more harmless even than bird bolts, and can hurt none on whom they fall. The arrows with which I take aim carry tokens of remembrance and love, and may be likened to those by which intelligence has been conveyed into besieged places. Of such it is that I have been speaking. Others indeed I have in the quiver which are pointed and barbed. ἐμοὶ μὲν ὧν Μοῖσα καρτερώ- -τατον βέλος ἀλκᾷ τρἐφει.[2] When one of these is let fly, (with sure aim and never without just cause,) it has its address written on the shaft at full length, like that which Aster directed from the walls of Methone to Philip's right eye. [Footnote 2: PINDAR.] _Or' c'est assez s' estre esgare de son grand chemin: j'y retourne et le bats, et le trace comme devant._[3] [Footnote 3: BRANTOME.] CHAPTER LXXVIII. AMATORY POETRY NOT ALWAYS OF THE WISEST KIND. AN ATTEMPT TO CONVEY SOME NOTION OF ITS QUANTITY. TRUE LOVE THOUGH NOT IN EVERY CASE THE BEST POET, THE BEST MORALIST ALWAYS. _El Amor es tan ingenioso, que en mi opinion, mas poetas ha hecho el solo, que la misma naturaleza._ PEREZ DE MONTALVAN. I return to the loves of Leonard and Margaret. That poet asked little from his mistress, who entreated her to bestow upon him, not a whole look, for this would have been too great a mercy for a miserable lover, but part of a look, whether it came from the white of her eye, or the black: and if even that were too much, then he besought her only to seem to look at him: