31 January–6 February 1825

And if Henry Clay is dead, another great spirit has gone, like Byron's, over the unvoy- ageable gulf, another contemner of moral dis- tinctions, to the award of the Divinity who set those distinctions, and not the less created the genius which defied them. Man feels a property in the eloquence, as in the poetry, of his fellows, or rather owes allegiance to those who exercise lordship over his noblest and dearest capacities, and so the public loss is mourned as when a sovereign dies. But it is a paradox that is again and again forced on our wonder, how those who act a part so important in its influences on the world should be permitted to give their genius to the worst passions, to cast the children's bread before the dogs. That ancient doctrine that a human soul is but a larger or less emanation from the Infinite soul is so agreeable to our im- agination that something like this has always been a cherished part of popular belief. , . . Man is but the poor organ through which the breath of Him is blown; a pipe on which stops are sounded of strange music. A torch not lighted for itself. Yet these, such is the mystery of Free Will, turn on the hand that feeds them, dishonour the energy that inspires them, blas- pheme the spirit that in them blasphemes. By- ron, who partook richest of Divinity, foully ridi- cules the virtues practised to obey Him. Clay scorns the laws which bind all God's creatures.