causes of this want of success; but the only ones at all sufficient are the general distaste apparent throughout England to provincial literature, and the extremely low prices of the works issued from the London press. This last reason is perfectly comprehensible; as a work issued for a limited number of readers cannot be given so cheaply as one likely to be read by the generality. But the other reason cannot be at all understood; as, without making any comparison between the literary merits of the two branches, local literature must contain a great deal of information highly useful and advantageous to the inhabitants of each separate locality, which information, possibly, by a great many, would never have been met with otherwise, without great research. Such reading, the Editor endeavoured to procure; and he had hoped, from the praises bestowed on the Periodical by the press, that he had somewhat approached his aim. But it is useless to say more on this subject. The Editor and Proprietors have now only to thank their friends and subscribers for their continued support, and to assure them of their grateful remembrance.

To those who have assisted him in the present Periodical,to Drs. Hamilton and Sheppard, Messrs. Bellamy, Lane, Oxland, and Needham,—the Editor offers his best thanks; and particularly begs the first and last-named gentlemen to excuse the non-completion of their communications. The 'Diary of a Sailor' would, probably, have afforded several curious bits of information in bygone manœuvres; and 'The Castle of the Tor' deserves being carried on to the end, for the sake of its interesting and well-told adventure. The notice given above will, however, it is hoped, be sufficiently explanatory, and show that the public, not the Editor and Proprietors, are to be blamed for this abrupt termination.

25, Hobart Street, Stonehouse,

June 1st, 1847.

IN pursuing our researches relating to the great men of the West of England, we chanced to light on the once well known, humorous and mirth-exciting works of the soi-disant Peter Pindar; and in spite of the great difference between his career and that of the brave but unfortunate Sir Walter Raleigh-given in our last year's volume-we could not repress our inclination to take the satirist as the subject of our next memoir. Besides, said we, it would be passing from "grave to gay," and we should thus have an opportunity of showing our readers that we are not always of a melancholy and sedate cast of countenance, but that we enjoy a laugh as heartily and as readily as any of them.

Before commencing the short history of the life of this remarkably clever and witty personage, we could, if we liked to digress, endeavour to examine what laughter is, how occasioned, and why one and all are not similarly affected and induced to laugh by a humorous expression or coincidence. Thence we could be led into a disquisition on the difference between wit, humour, and ribaldry; but fortunately for ourselves and for those of our readers who like to see such difficulties clearly and forcibly explained, the acute and learned Leigh Hunt has already made the explanation of this matter the subject of two volumes, that are

* It is needless to do more than merely indicate the contemporaries of the subject of this memoir, as it will be immediately comprehended, even were it not known before, that there must have been something "rotten in the state," at and after the middle of the eighteenth century, to have given birth to four such men as are here collected. Add to this the American Revolt and the French Revolution, and there is already a kind of excuse for many of the overhardy expressions to be found in the works we are now speaking of.

NO I. NEW SERIES.

B

exceedingly interesting. To these two volumes we must refer any enquirer.

Of these points we need speak no further; neither need we exert ourselves in declaiming against those who, giving way to their present love of approbation, have been so imprudent, so willfully blind to their own real fame, as to mix up vile ribaldry with their own sharp wit; for we believe, that at the present moment, the general mind is so far educated, that the coarse stale humour-broad humour, as it is sometimes called-of past times, is no longer palatable. Wolcot, we are sorry to say, appears to have been one of these thoughtless wits, who sacrificed his finer and better feelings, that would have procured him a much sounder and a more lasting reputation had they been cultivated, to the applause that his satires so readily obtained.

His first pieces, although written in a rough jaunty style, betraying an unpolished expression, evidently shew a due appreciation of the beauties of nature, and a power of association of ideas that would have led him to greatness as a descriptive poet; but the necessary studies formed, to an impatient man, a long road to fame; particularly as he knew his power of satire and the readiness with which it is received. Even with his vocation chosen, he took no pains to chasten his style; but, on the contrary, gave way to what he knew would please the public taste of the times, just then highly excited, and requiring strong meats of all kinds. Thus it is that, to a rich racy humour, a rapid association of ridiculous ideas, and a voluminous flow of words, he added a coarseness of expression, almost amounting to obscenity, that entirely destroys the real merits of his works, and renders them unfit for general perusal. Few of his pieces are free from this impurity; and whether he attacks public or private morals, religious excess, pseudo artists, and would-be poets or poetesses, his tongue is everywhere stained with the same sad words. Satire, we know, demands a somewhat wider range of expression than a simple remonstrance or rebuke; but still we cannot see why even satire should not always be clothed in decent language,

There is another reason why, in spite of his humour, we feel we ought to find fault with this our countryman, he was no respecter of persons, but attacked one and all, or rather the greatest of all, with no small degree of pertinacity; and we feel that we cannot readily excuse one who has never passed over in silence an error in judgment in another, even when that other was his own king. In this respect, Wolcot has much to answer for, even supposing every ridiculous trait he mentions to be correct; for although we know, that kings or queens, princes and rulers are mortal, and therefore liable to err as well as ourselves, we do not like to see the veil of their little personal failings, that cannot in any way affect ourselves, unceremoniously drawn aside by so rude and scornful a hand as his was. Even the errors of great ideas, and great men demand, in our opinion, an earnestness and a seriousness of expression, as well as other measure and other rhyme, than the jingle of a satire can ever yield.

Wolcot, was born at Dodbrook, near Kingsbridge, May 9, 1738. His parents were substantial yeomen, who, with an uncle at Fowey, did their utmost to procure him a decent education. He was first sent to the free-school at Kingsbridge, under Mr. Morris, then to Liskeard,