when--late in life, as he lay on his sofa tortured by an old wound--
news was brought him of Napoleon's death, burst into a storm of
weeping that would not be controlled.  On Hazlitt, bound up heart and
soul in what he regarded as the cause of French and European liberty
and enlightenment, Waterloo, the fall of the Emperor, the
restoration of the Bourbons, fell as blows almost stupefying, and
his indignant temper charged Heaven with them as wrongs not only
public but personal to himself. 

In the writing of the Characters he had found a partial drug for
despair.  But his enemies, as soon as might be, took hold of the
anodyne.  Like the Bourbons, they had learnt nothing and forgotten
nothing. 

The Quarterly Review moved--for a quarterly--with something like
agility.  A second edition of the book had been prepared, and was
selling briskly, when this Review launched one of its diatribes
against the work and its author. 

Taylor and Hessey [the booksellers] told him subsequently that they