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, Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter [Advice to Landscape Painters.] Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel, There's very little landscape in a garret. A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick, I think, too, that a man would be a fool, Or even by them to represent a stump: Must make a very poor autumnal clump. And in some paintings we have all beheld All this, my lads, I freely grant; Claude painted in the open air! Where scenes of true magnificence you'll find; 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, 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: But, brother sinner, do explain What power hath worked a wonder for your toes- 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 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, Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : he cried, "Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!' On which the dame the curious scheme revealed Which made the Solomon of Britain start; 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!' Red hot with novelty's delightful rage, Of such undreamt-of honour proud, 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: Indeed in a most humble light, God knows! 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, Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also, And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes: Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Devoured the questions that the king did ask ; For whose most lofty station thousands sigh! Now majesty into a pump so deep Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. And now his curious majesty did stoop And lo! no single thing came in his way, 'What's this? hae hae? What's that? What's this? What's that?' So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl, Things that too oft the public scorn; Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, Almost to Windsor that they would extend: Now did the king for other beers inquire, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire; Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. And after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs. Not to forget to take of beer the cask, Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd, To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, 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, Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs, Exclaimed, 'O heavens! and can my swine Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?' 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; I'll prick you every year, man, I declare; best. You put your liveries on the draymen-hae? Hae, Whitbread! you have feathered well your nest. Then searched his brains with ruminating eye; 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; If she whose love did once delight, But should'st thou not poor Marion know, May Day. The daisies peep from every field, 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. 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! To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep. And swells the thundering horrors of the decp. 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; Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour- I view, alas! what ne'er should die- A form that feels of death the leaden sleep- I view a pale-eyed panting maid; I see the Virtues o'er their favourite weep. Ah! could the Muse's simple prayer A world should echo with her name. Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her seal- In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er. 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 had stated that the poems were the production of a youth of seventeen, published for the purpose of facilitating his future studies, and enabling him to pursue those inclinations which might one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society.' Such a declaration should have disarmed the severity of criticism; but the volume was contemptuously noticed in the Monthly Review, and Henry felt the most exquisite pain from the unjust and ungenerous critique. Fortunately the volume fell into the hands of Mr Southey, who wrote to the young poet to encourage him, and other friends sprung up to succour his genius and procure for him what was the darling object of his ambition, admission to the university of Cambridge. His opinions for some time inclined to deism, without any taint of immorality; but a fellow-student put into his hands Scott's 'Force of Truth,' and he soon became a decided convert to the spirit and doctrines of Christianity. He resolved upon devoting his life to the promulgation of them, and the Rev. Mr Simeon, Cambridge, procured for him a sizarship at St John's college. This benevolent clergyman further promised, with the aid of a friend, to supply him with £30 annually, and his own family were to furnish the remainder The Byron has also consecrated some beautiful lines to the To an Early Primrose. necessary for him to go through college. Poetry Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! was now abandoned for severer studies. He competed for one of the university scholarships, and at the end of the term was pronounced the first man of his year. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, being again pronounced first at the great college examination, and also one of the three best theme writers, between whom the examiners could not decide. The college offered him, at their expense, a private tutor in mathematics during the long vacation; and Mr Catton (his tutor), by procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of £66 per annum, enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance which he had received from Mr Simeon and other friends."* This distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health and life. Were I,' he said, 'to paint Fame crowning an under-graduate after the senate-house examination, I would represent him as concealing a death's head under the mask of beauty.' He went to London to recruit his shattered nerves and spirits; but on his return to college, he was so completely ill that no power of medicine could save him. He died on the 19th of October 1806. Mr Southey continued his regard for White after his untimely death. He wrote a sketch of his life and edited his Remains, which proved to be highly popular, passing through a great number of editions. A tablet to Henry's memory, with a medallion by Chantrey, was placed in All Saints' church, Cambridge, by a young American gentleman, Mr Francis Boot of Boston, and bearing the following inscription-so expressive of the tenderness and regret universally felt towards the poet-by Professor Smyth : : Warm with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, He told the tale, and showed what White had been; *Southey's Memoir prefixed to Remains of H. K. White. Whose modest form, so delicately fine, And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, And hardens her to bear Sonnet. What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet; noon, Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? The Star of Bethlehem. When marshalled on the nightly plain, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, |