micians, and in various passages scattered throughout his works; while his ease and felicity, both of expression and illustration, are remarkable. In the following terse and lively lines, we have a good caricature portrait of Dr Johnson's style :

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart !

[Advice to Landscape Painters.] Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel, London's the very place to mar it; Believe the oracles I tell,

There's very little landscape in a garret.
Whate'er the flocks of fleas you keep,

'Tis badly copying them for goats and sheep;
And if you'll take the poet's honest word,
A bug must make a miserable bird.

A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick,
Ill represents the glorious orb of morn;
Nay, though it were a candle with a wick,
'Twould be a representative forlorn.

I think, too, that a man would be a fool,
For trees, to copy legs of a joint stool;

Or even by them to represent a stump:
Also by broomsticks-which, though well he rig
Each with an old fox-coloured wig,

Must make a very poor autumnal clump.

You'll say, 'Yet such ones oft a person sees
In many an artist's trees;

And in some paintings we have all beheld
Green baize hath surely sat for a green field:
Bolsters for mountains, hills, and wheaten mows;
Cats for ram-goats, and curs for bulls and cows.'

All this, my lads, I freely grant;
But better things from you I want.
As Shakspeare says (a bard I much approve),
"List, list! oh list! if thou dost painting love.'

Claude painted in the open air!
Therefore to Wales at once repair,

Where scenes of true magnificence you'll find;
Besides this great advantage-if in debt,
You'll have with creditors no tête-à-tête;

So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind; Who, hunt you with what noise they may, Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay.

The Pilgrims and the Peas.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood,

And in a curled white wig looked wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes.

A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes,
A sort of apostolic salt,

That popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limped as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin, soon peccavi cried;

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever, When home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way,
Hobbling with outstretched hams and bending knees,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathising with his groaning feet.

'How now!' the light-toed whitewashed pilgrim broke,

You lazy lubber!'

'Confound it!' cried the t'other, ''tis no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear:
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No! to the devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe!

But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain-

What power hath worked a wonder for your toes-
Whilst I just like a snail, am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye?' 'Why,' cried the other, grinning, 'you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas.'

The Apple Dumplings and a King.

Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, Whipping and spurring,

Happy in worrying

A poor defenceless harmless buck
(The horse and rider wet as muck),
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Entered through curiosity a cot,

Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, Had finished apple dumplings for her pot:

In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke, 'What's this? what's this?
what, what?

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand;

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he cried,
"Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed!
What makes it, pray, so hard!' The dame replied,
Low curtsying, 'Please your majesty, the apple.'

Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!' (Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king. "Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is— It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces: Strange I should never of a dumpling dream! But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ?' 'Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she; 'I never knew That folks did apple dumplings sew;' "No!' cried the staring monarch with a grin; How, how the devil got the apple in?'

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed
By which the apple lay so sly concealed,

Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the palace with full speed repaired,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared
All with the wonders of the dumpling art.
There did he labour one whole week to show
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker;
And, lo! so deep was majesty in dough,

The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!

Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majesties.

Full of the art of brewing beer,

The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame; Quoth he unto the queen, My dear, my dear,

Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brewRich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew.

Shame, shame we have not yet his brewhouse seen!'
Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red hot with novelty's delightful rage,
To Mister Whitbread forth he sent a page,
To say that majesty proposed to view,
With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed,
His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed,
And learn the noble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honour proud,
Most rev'rently the brewer bowed;

So humbly (so the humble story goes),

He touched e'en terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus,

'Happy are we that our great king should name us As worthy unto majesty to show

How we poor Chiswell people brew.'

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought:
To majesty the welcome tidings brought,
How Whitbread, staring stood like any stake,
And trembled; then the civil things he said;
On which the king did smile and nod his head;

For monarchs like to see their subjects quake;
Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are,
Proclaiming reverence and humility:
High thoughts, too, all these shaking fits declare,
Of kingly grandeur and great capability!
People of worship, wealth, and birth,
Look on the humbler sons of earth,

Indeed in a most humble light, God knows!
High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs,
Where ships below appear like little skiffs,

The people walking on the strand like crows. Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made: Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid

He should not charm enough his guests divine, He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine: Busy as horses in a field of clover,

Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over,
Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation,
To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,
To visit the first brewer in the land;

Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner, christened Chiswell Street;
But oftener, charmed with fashionable air,
Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,

His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise,
With Lady Harcourt joined the raree show,

And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes:
For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,
Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise,
Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys,

Devoured the questions that the king did ask; In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen!

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.
Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon)
Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon:
And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye,
To view and be assured what sort of things
Were princesses, and queens, and kings,

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!
And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan,
Few were the mouths that had not got a man;

Now majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:
Examining with care each wond'rous matter
That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,
A chattering bird we often meet,
A bird for curiosity well known,
With head awry,

And cunning eye,

Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop
To count the nails on every hoop;

And lo! no single thing came in his way,
That, full of deep research, he did not say,

"What's this? hae hae? What's that? What's this? What's that?'

So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak,
As if each syllable would break its neck.

Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl,
Our sov'reign peeps into the world of small:
Thus microscopic geniuses explore

Things that too oft the public scorn;
Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,

By finding systems in a peppercorn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare,
To make the majesty of England stare,
That he had butts enough, he knew,
Placed side by side, to reach to Kew;
On which the king with wonder swiftly cried,
'What, if they reach to Kew, then, side by side,
What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?'
To whom, with knitted calculating brow,
The man of beer most solemnly did vow,

Almost to Windsor that they would extend:
On which the king, with wondering mien,
Repeated it unto the wondering queen;
On which, quick turning round his haltered head,
The brewer's horse, with face astonished, neighed;
The brewer's dog, too, poured a note of thunder,
Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.
Now did the king for other beers inquire,
For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire;
And after talking of these different beers,
Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs.

This was a puzzling disagreeing question,
Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion;
A kind of question to the Man of Cask
That even Solomon himself would ask.
Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum book,

With gilded leaves of asses'-skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write-

Memorandum.

A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates.

Mem.

'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer,

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

Quære.

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

Mem.

To try it soon on our small beer-
"Twill save us several pounds a-year.
Mem.

To remember to forget to ask

Old Whitbread to my house one day.
Mem.

Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offered me, away.

Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin,
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his asses'-skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say,
'Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?'
'Yes, please your majesty,' in humble notes
The brewer answered- Also, sire, of oats;
Another thing my horses, too, maintains,
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains.'
'Grains, grains!' said majesty,' to fill their crops?
Grains, grains!-that comes from hops-yes, hops,
hops, hops!'

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault'Sire,' cried the humble brewer, 'give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive;

Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.'

'True,' said the cautious monarch with a smile,
'From malt, malt, malt-I meant malt all the while.'
"Yes,' with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.'
'Yes,' answered majesty, with quick reply,
‘I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.’

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine;
On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.
And now before their sovereign's curious eye-
Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their stye-
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs;
On which the observant man who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own;
On which the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Fear and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal,

Exclaimed, 'O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine?

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?'
To which the king assented with a nod;

On which the brewer bowed, and said, 'Good God !'
Then winked significant on Miss,
Significant of wonder and of bliss,

Who, bridling in her chin divine,

Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,
And then her lowest curtsy made

For such high honour done her father's swine.
Now did his majesty, so gracious, say

To Mister Whitbread in his flying way,

'Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hae what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men?

D'ye hunt?-hae, hunt? No no, you are too old;
You'll be lord-mayor-lord-mayor one day;
Yes, yes, I've heard so; yes, yes, so I'm told;
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay;

I'll prick you every year, man, I declare;
Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor.
Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.

You put your liveries on the draymen-hae?

Hae, Whitbread! you have feathered well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hae, of all your stock!
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock ?'
Now Whitbread inward said, 'May I be curst
If I know what to answer first.'

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye;
But e'er the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and balked the honour of reply.

Lord Gregory.

[Burns admired this ballad of Wolcot's, and wrote another on the same subject.]

'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,

A midnight wanderer sighs;
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,
And lightnings cleave the skies.'
'Who comes with wo at this drear night,
A pilgrim of the gloom!

If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'
'Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn
That once was prized by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn

Thou gav'st to love and me.

But should'st thou not poor Marion know,
I'll turn my feet and part;
And think the storms that round me blow,
Far kinder than thy heart.'

May Day.

The daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odour yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labour drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then lads, &c.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note! What warbles he, with merry cheer? 'Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!'

Then lads, &c.

Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye, And throws a smile around his sky; Embracing hill, and vale, and stream, And warming nature with his beam. Then lads, &c.

The insect tribes in myriads pour, And kiss with zephyr every flower; Shall these our icy hearts reprove, And tell us we are foes to Love! Then lads, &c.

Epigram on Sleep.

[Thomas Warton wrote the following Latin epigram to be

placed under the statue of Somnus, in the garden of Harris, the philologist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original.]

Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori;

Alma quies, optata, veni, nam sic sine vitâ Vivere quam suave est; sic sine morte mori. Come, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer, And, though death's image, to my couch repair; How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie, And, without dying, O how sweet to die!

To my Candle.

Thou lone companion of the spectred night!
I wake amid thy friendly watchful light,

To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep.
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,

And swells the thundering horrors of the deep. From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies, Now blackened, and now flashing through the skies; But all is silence here beneath thy beam.

I own I labour for the voice of praise

For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days?

Thus while I wondering pause o'er Shakspeare's page, I mark in visions of delight the sage,

High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime; A column in the melancholy waste (Its cities humbled and its glories past),

Majestic 'mid the solitude of time.

Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour-
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship shower!

I view, alas! what ne'er should die-
A form that wakes my deepest sigh-

A form that feels of death the leaden sleep-
Descending to the realms of shade,

I view a pale-eyed panting maid;

I see the Virtues o'er their favourite weep.

Ah! could the Muse's simple prayer
Command the envied trump of fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare-

A world should echo with her name.
Art thou departing, too, my trembling friend!
Ah, draws thy little lustre to its end?

Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her seal-
O let me pensive watch thy pale decay;
How fast that frame, so tender, wears away,
How fast thy life the restless minutes steal!
How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah! falling-falling-ready to expire!

In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er.
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap;
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now
no more!

Thus shall the sons of science sink away,

And thus of beauty fade the fairest flowerFor where's the giant who to Time shall say 'Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power!'

Birthplace of H. K. White, Nottingham.

Henry was a rhymer and a student from his earliest years. He assisted at his father's business for some time, but in his fourteenth year was put apprentice to a stocking-weaver. Disliking, as he said, 'the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stockings, he wanted something to occupy his brain, and he felt that he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or indeed in anything except one of the learned professions.' He was at length placed in an attorney's office, and applying his leisure hours to the study of languages, he was able, in the course of ten months, to read Horace with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in Greek. At the same time he acquired a knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, and even applied himself to the acquisition of some of the sciences. His habits of study and application were unremitting. A London magazine, called the Monthly Preceptor, having proposed prize themes for the youth of both sexes, Henry became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth year, obtained a silver medal for a translation from Horace; and the following year a pair of twelveinch globes for an imaginary tour from London to Edinburgh. He next became a correspondent in the Monthly Mirror, and was introduced to the acquaintance of Mr Capel Lofft and of Mr Hill, the proprietor of the above periodical. Their encouragement induced him to prepare a volume of poems for the press, which appeared in 1803. The longest piece in the collection is a descriptive poem in the style of Goldsmith, entitled Clifton Grove, which shows a remarkable proficiency in smooth and elegant versification and language. In his preface to the volume, Henry