Moore, Bishop of Ely, which his Majesty had purchased for six thousand guineas, the author adds: When George I. sent these books to the University, he sent at the same time a troop of horse to Oxford, which gave occasion to the following wellknown epigram from Dr. Trapp, smart in its way, but not so clever as the answer from Sir William Browne: The King, observing, with judicious eyes, The state of both his Universities, To one he sent a regiment; for why? To th' other he sent books, as well discerning THE ANSWER. The King to Oxford sent his troop of horse, With equal care, to Cambridge books he sent, The books were received Nov. 19, 20, &c., 1715. INDIA RUBBER. India Rubber is now so cheap and common, that it seems worth while to make a note of the following passage in the Monthly Review for Feb. 1772. It occurs at p. 71, in an article on "A familiar Introduction to the Theory and Practice of Perspective, by Joseph Priestly, LL.D. F.R.S., 8vo. 5s., boards. Johnson." Our readers, perhaps, who employ themselves in the art of drawing, will be pleased with a transcript of the following advertisement:-"I have seen," says Dr. Priestly, "a substance, excellently adapted to the purpose of wiping from paper the marks of a black lead pencil. It must, therefore, be of singular use to those who practise drawing. It is sold by Mr. Nairne, mathematical instrument-maker, opposite the Royal Exchange. He sells a cubical piece, of about half an inch, for three shillings; and, he says, it will last several years." 7* JUVENAL'S TENTH SATIRE. poems Amongst the of the Rev. Thos. Warton, vicar of Basingstoke, who is best remembered as the father of two celebrated sons, is one entitled The Universal Love of Pleasure, commencing : All human race, from China to Peru, Pleasure, howe'er disguised by art, pursue. Warton died in 1745, and his Poems were published in 1748. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes appeared in 1749; but Boswell believes that it was composed in the preceding year. That Poem, as we well remember, commences thus tamely: Let observation with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru. Though so immeasurably inferior to his own, Johnson may have noticed these verses of Warton's with some little attention, and unfortunately borrowed the only prosaic lines in his poem. Besides the imitation before quoted, both writers allude to Charles of Sweden. Thus Warton says:— 'Twas hence rough Charles rush'd forth to ruthless war. Johnson, in his highly-finished picture of the same monarch, says: War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field. This reminds me of a conversation, many years since, with the late William Wordsworth, in which some mention had been made of the opening lines of the tenth satire of Juvenal:— Omnibus in terris, quæ sunt a Gadibus usque Auroram, et Gangem, pauci dignoscere possunt "Johnson's translation of this," said Wordsworth, "is ex tremely bad: 'Let observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru.' "And I do not know that Gifford's is at all better : 'In every clime, from Ganges' distant stream, To Gades, gilded by the western beam, Few, from the clouds of mental error free, In its true light, or good or evil see.' "But," he added, musing, "what is Dryden's? Ha! I have it :'Look round the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or, knowing, it pursue.' "This is indeed the language of a poet; it is better than the original." "SIR GAMMAR VANS." AN IRISH NURSERY STORY. Last Sunday morning at six o'clock in the evening, as I was sailing over the tops of the mountains in my little boat, I met two men on horseback riding on one mare: so I asked them, "Could they tell me whether the little old woman was dead yet, who was hanged last Saturday week for drowning herself in a shower of feathers?" They said they could not positively inform me, but if I went to Sir Gammar Vans he could tell me all about it. "But how am I to know the house?" said I. "Ho, 'tis easy enough," said they, "for it's a brick house, built entirely of flints, standing alone by itself in the middle of sixty or seventy others just like it." "Oh, nothing in the world is easier," said I. "Nothing can be easier," said they; so I went on my way. Now this Sir G. Vans was a giant, and bottlemaker. And as all giants, who are bottlemakers, usually pop out of a little thumb bottle from behind the door, so did Sir G. Vans. "How d'ye do?" says he. "Very well, I thank you,” says I. "Have some breakfast with me?" "With all my heart," says I. So he gave me a slice of beer, and a cup of cold veal; and there was a little dog under the table that picked up all the crumbs. "Hang him,” says I. "No, don't hang him," says he; "for he killed a hare yesterday; and if you don't believe me, I'll show you the hare alive in a basket." So he took me into his garden to show me the curiosities. In one corner there was a fox hatching eagle's eggs; in another there was an iron apple-tree, entirely covered with pears and lead; in the third there was the hare which the dog killed yesterday alive in the basket; in the fourth there were twenty-four hipper switches threshing tobacco, and at the sight of me they threshed so hard that they drove the plug through the wall, and through a little dog that was passing by on the other side. I, hearing the dog howl, jumped over the wall; and turned it as neatly inside out as possible, when it ran away as if it had not an hour to live. Then he took me into his park to show me his deer : and I remembered that I had a warrant in my pocket to shoot venison for His Majesty's dinner. So I set fire to my bow, poised my arrow, and shot amongst them. I broke seventeen ribs on one side, and twenty-one and a half on the other; but my arrow passed clean through without ever touching it, and the worst was I lost my arrow: however, I found it again in the hollow of a tree. I felt it; it felt clammy. I smelt it; it smelt honey. "Oh, ho!" said I, "here's a bee's nest," when out sprung a covey of partridges. I shot at them; some say I killed eighteen; but I am sure I killed thirty-six, besides a dead salmon which was flying over the bridge, of which I made the best apple pie I ever tasted. This worthy is mentioned in that curious little chap-book, A Strange and Wonderful Relation of the Old Woman that was drowned at Ratcliff Highway, in two parts. I now quote the passage from a copy of the genuine Aldermary churchyard edition : At last I arrived at Sir John Vang's house. 'Tis a little house entirely alone, encompassed about with forty or fifty houses, having a brick wall made of flint stone round about it. So, knocking at the door, "Gammer Vangs," said I, "is Sir John Vangs within ?" "Walk in," said she, "and you shall see him in the little, great, round, three-square parlour." This Gammer Vangs had a little old woman her son. Her mother was a churchwarden of a large troop of horse, and her grandmother was a Justice of the Peace; but when 1 came into the said great, little, square, round, three-corner'd parlour, I could not see Sir John Vangs, for he was a giant. But I espied abundance of nice wicker bottles. And just as I was going out, he called to me and asked me A description of osiers used in coarse basket-making. what I would have? So looking back I espied him just creeping out of a wicker bottle. It seems by his profession he was a wicker bottle maker. And after he had made them, he crept out at the stopper holes. It is said that the Rev. Thomas Kerrich, the well-known librarian of the University of Cambridge, could repeat by heart the whole of the eight and forty pages of this strange gallimawfrey. SATIRICAL POEMS ON WILLIAM IIг. Some years since I copied from a MS. vol., compiled before 1708, the following effusions of a Jacobite poet, who seems to have been " a good hater" of King William. I have made ineffectual efforts to discover the witty author, or to ascertain if these compositions have ever been printed. My friend, in whose waste-book I found them-a beneficed clergyman in Worcestershire, who has been several years dead-obtained them from a college friend during the last century. UPON KING WILLIAM'S TWO FIRST CAMPAGNES. "Twill puzzle much the author's brains, That is to write your story, To know in which of these campagnes Like Heroe, nothing fearing, Namur was taken in your sight, And Mons within your hearing. ON THE OBSERVING THE 30TH OF JANUARY, 1691. Cease, Hippocrites, to trouble heaven, How can ye think to be forgiven The dismal deed you've done? When to the martyr's sacred blood, |