At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

which appeared in 1794. Though published anonymously, this work was written by Mr THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr Mathias was sometime treasurer of the household to her majesty Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B.A. in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the

cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languished at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many-they were few
When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu-
tor, law professor at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.*

[During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]

The following epitaph on his son who died in 1820, shews that Canning could write in a tender and elegiac as well as satirical strain.

Mr Canning's Epitaph on his Son. Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees, Which made that shortened span one long disease, Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope, Meek resignation, pious charity;

And, since this world was not the world for thee, Far from thy path removed, with partial care, Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare; Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, And fixed on Heaven thine unreverted eye! Oh! marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies! In youth, with more than learning's wisdom wise! As sainted martyrs, patient to endure! Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure! Pure from all stain-save that of human clay, Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away!By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest! While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doomPour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. A satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was

It is stated by Mr C. Edmonds, editor of Poetry of the AntiJacobin (1854), that the above song having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr Pitt, he was so amused with it that he took a pen, and composed the last stanza on the

spot.

some Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue; The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George III. (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope, a satirical poem (1798); and various other light evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr Mathias also wrote some Latin odes, and translated into Italian several English poems. He wrote Italian with elegance and purity, and it has been said that no Englishman, since the days of Milton, has cultivated that language with so much success. The Pursuits of Literature contains some pointed satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which there is a great display of learning. George Steevens said the poem was merely a peg to hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been fatal to Mr Mathias. His works appear to be utterly forgotten.

DR JOHN WOLCOT.

DR JOHN WOLCOT (1738-1819) was a coarse but lively satirist, who, under the name of Peter Pindar,' published a variety of effusions on the topics and public men of his times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George III., who was a good subject for the poet; though the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dodbrooke, a village in Devonshire, in the year 1738. His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intending that he should become his own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in medicine, and 'walked the hospitals' in London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir William Trelawney, governor of that island, who had engaged him as his medical attendant. The social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; but his time being only partly employed by his professional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living in the church, which happened to be then vacant. The bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon his sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly of negroes, and Sunday being their principal holiday and market, the attendance at the church was very limited. Sometimes not a single person came, and Wolcot and his clerk-the latter being an excellent shot-used at such times, after waiting for ten minutes, to proceed to the sea-side, to enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed pigeons ! The death of Sir William Trelawney cut off all further hopes of preferment, and every inducement to a longer residence in the island. Bidding adieu to Jamaica and the church, Wolcot accompanied Lady Trelawney to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall. He inherited about £2000 by the death

The Cornish boy in tin-mines bredwhose genius as an artist afterwards became so distinguished. He also materially assisted to form his taste and procure him patronage; and when Opie's name was well established, the poet and his protégé, forsaking the country, repaired to London, as affording a wider field for the exertions of both. Wolcot had already acquired some distinction by his satirical efforts; and he now poured forth a series of odes and epistles, commencing with the Royal Academicians, whom he ridiculed with great success and some justice. In 1785 he produced no less than twenty-three odes. In 1786 he published The Lousiad, a Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos, which had its foundation in the fact, that an obnoxious insect-either of the garden or the body-had been discovered on the king's plate among some green peas, which produced a solemn decree that all the servants in the royal kitchen were to have their heads shaved. In the hands of an unscrupulous satirist like Wolcot, this ridiculous incident was an admirable theme. The publication of Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides afforded another tempting opportunity, and he indited a humorous poetical epistle to the biographer, commencing:

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame;
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson 'midst his native north;
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!....

Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale ;

Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

Close as a supple courtier to a king;

Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power;
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had blessed thine eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies:

Yes, his broad wing had raised thee-no bad hackA tomtit twittering on an eagle's back.

In addition to this effusion, Wolcot levelled another attack on Boswell, entitled Bozzy and Piozzi, or the British Biographers. The personal habits of the king were ridiculed in Peeps at St James's, Royal Visits, Lyric Odes, &c. Sir Joseph Banks was another subject of his satire :

A president, in butterflies profound,

Of whom all insect-mongers sing the praises, Went on a day to hunt this game renowned,

On violets, dunghills, nettle-tops, and daisies, &c. He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureat; Peter's Pension; Peter's Prophecy; Epistle to a Fallen Minister; Epistle to James Bruce, Esq., the Abyssinian Traveller; Odes to Mr Paine; Odes to Kien Long, Emperor of China; Ode to the Livery of London, and brochures of a kindred description on most of the celebrated events of the day. From 1778 to 1808, above sixty of these poetical pamphlets were issued by Wolcot. So formidable was he considered, that the ministry, as he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to silence. He also boasted that his writings had been translated into six different languages. In 1795, he obtained from his booksellers an annuity of £250,

This handsome allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy loss of the other parties, for upwards of twenty years. Neither old age nor blindness could repress his witty vituperative attacks. He had recourse to an amanuensis, in whose absence, however, he continued to write himself, till within a short period of his death. His method was to tear a sheet of paper into quarters, on each of which he wrote a stanza of four or six lines, according to the nature of the poem: the paper he placed on a book held in the left hand, and in this manner not only wrote legibly, but with great ease and celerity? In 1796, his poetical effusions were collected and published in four volumes 8vo, and subsequent editions have been issued; but most of the poems have sunk into oblivion. Few satirists can reckon on permanent popularity, and the poems of Wolcot were in their nature of an ephemeral description; while the recklessness of his censure and ridicule, and the want of decency, of principle, and moral feeling, that characterises nearly the whole, precipitated their downfall. He died at his house in Somers' Town on the 14th January 1819, and was buried in a vault in the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, close to the grave of Butler. Wolcot was equal to Churchill as a satirist, as ready and versatile in his powers, and possessed of a quick sense of the ludicrous, as well as a rich vein of fancy and humour. Some of his songs and serious effusions are tender and pleasing; but he could not write long without sliding into the ludicrous and burlesque. His critical acuteness is evinced in his Odes to the Royal Academicians, 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 sketch 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!

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.

25

'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 ?'

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 brew-house 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 wondrous 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 provoke 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 along 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 not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum-book,
With gilded leaves of ass's-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. Quare.

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 ass's-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.'.

...

'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 cursed
If I know what to answer first.'

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye;
But ere 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 woe at this drear night,
A pilgrim of the gloom?
If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'

'Alas! thou heardst a pilgrim mourn
That once was prized by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

'But shouldst 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.'

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!

THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE.

WILLIAM CROWE (circa 1746-1829) was the son of a carpenter at Winchester, and was admitted upon the foundation as a poor scholar. He was transferred to New College, Oxford, and was elected Fellow in 1773. He rose to be Professor of Poetry and Public Orator, holding at the same time the valuable rectory of Alton Barnes. Crowe was author of Lewesdon Hill (1786), a descriptive poem in blank verse, and of various other pieces. Several editions of his Poems have been published, the latest in 1827. There is poetry of a very high order in the works of Crowe, though it has never been popular.

Wreck of the Halsewell,' East Indiaman. See how the sun, here clouded, afar off Pours down the golden radiance of his light Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair, But falsely flattering, was yon surface calm, When forth for India sailed, in evil time, That vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told, Filled every breast with horror, and each eye With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss. Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm Shattered and driven along past yonder isle, She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art, To gain the port within it, or at worst, To shun that harbourless and hollow coast From Portland eastward to the promontory Where still St Alban's high-built chapel stands.

But art nor strength avail her-on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;
And there 'mong rocks and high o'erhanging cliffs
Dashed piteously, with all her precious freight,
Was lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jaws
Swallowed up quick! The richest-laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that annual sent
To the Philippines o'er the southern main
From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,

Were poor to this; freighted with hopeful youth,
And beauty and high courage undismayed

By mortal terrors, and paternal love,
Strong and unconquerable even in death-
Alas, they perished all, all in one hour!*

The Miseries of War.

From 'Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre of Oxford, on the Installation of the Duke of Portland as Chancellor of the University.'

If the stroke of war

Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste th' effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix;
Then might the bard, though child of peace, delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow;
Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on
Whom justice arms for vengeance. But alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heavier on th' exposéd innocent;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves
Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.—Oh, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,

Sing their mad hymns of triumph-hymns to God,
O'er the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughtered sons!

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Several ladies cultivated poetry with success at this time. Among these was MRS CHARLOTTE SMITH (whose admirable prose fictions will afterwards be noticed). She was the daughter of Mr Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and born on the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for precocity of talents, and for a lively playful humour that shewed itself in conversation, and in compositions both in prose and verse. Being early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly though expensively educated, and introduced into society at a very early age. Her father having decided on a second marriage, the friends of the young and admired poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, and she was induced to accept the hand of Mr Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. The husband was twentyone years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash union was productive of mutual discontent and misery. Mr Smith was careless and extravagant,

The Halsewell, Captain Pierce, was wrecked in January 1786, having struck on the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck, between Peverel Point and St Alban's Head. All the passengers perished; but out of 240 souls on board, 74 were saved. Seven interesting and accomplished young ladies (two of them daughters of the captain) were among the drowned.