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and admired. In the present day it seems unneces- critical than just in including O'Keefe, the amusing sarily merciless and severe, yet lines like the follow- | farce writer, among the objects of his condemnation. ing still possess interest. The allusion to Pope The plays of Kotzebue and Schiller, then first transis peculiarly appropriate and beautiful:lated and much in vogue, he also characterises as 'heavy, lumbering, monotonous stupidity,' a sentence too unqualified and severe. In the 'Mæviad' are some touching and affectionate allusions to the author's history and friends. Dr Ireland, dean of Westminster, is thus mentioned :

Oh for the good old times! when all was new,
And every hour brought prodigies to view,
Our sires in unaffected language told
Of streams of amber and of rocks of gold:
Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art,
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.
Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves,
Less to display our subject than ourselves :
Whate'er we paint-a grot, a flower, a bird,
Heavens, how we sweat! laboriously absurd!
Words of gigantic bulk and uncouth sound,
In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
While points with points, with periods periods jar,
And the whole work seems one continued war!
Is not this sad?

F-Tis pitiful, heaven knows;
Tis wondrous pitiful. E'en take the prose :
But for the poetry-oh, that, my friend,
I still aspire-nay, smile not-to defend.

You praise our sires, but, though they wrote with force,
Their rhymes were vicious and their diction coarse;
We want their strength; agreed; but we atone
For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.
For instance Hasten to the lawny vale,
Where yellow morning breathes her saffron gale,
And bathes the landscape'

P.-Pshaw; I have it here.
'A voice seraphic grasps my listening ear:
Wandering I gaze; when lo! methought afar,
More bright than dauntless day's imperial star,
A godlike form advances.'

F-You suppose

These lines perhaps too turgid; what of those? 'The mighty mother-'

P.-Now, 'tis plain you sneer, For Weston's self could find no semblance here: Weston! who slunk from truth's imperious light, Swells like a filthy toad with secret spite, And, envying the fame he cannot hope, Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope. Reptile accursed!-0 memorable long, If there be force in virtue or in song, O injured bard accept the grateful strain, Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train, With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay, For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay! So may thy varied verse, from age to age, Inform the simple, and delight the sage.

:

Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares.
Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power,
And take their colour from the natal hour,
Then, Ireland, the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose!
Thou knowest how soon we felt this influence bland,
And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand,
And shaped rude bows, and uncouth whistles blew,
And paper kites (a last great effort) flew ;
And when the day was done, retired to rest,
Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast.
In riper years, again together thrown,
Our studies, as our sports before, were one.
Together we explored the stoic page

Of the Ligurian, stern though beardless sage!
Or traced the Aquinian through the Latine road,
And trembled at the lashes he bestowed.
Together, too, when Greece unlocked her stores,
We roved in thought o'er Troy's devoted shores,
Or followed, while he sought his native soil,
'That old man eloquent' from toil to toil;
Lingering, with good Alcinous, o'er the tale,
Till the east reddened and the stars grew pale.
Gifford tried a third satire, an Epistle to Peter Pin-
dar (Dr Wolcot), which, being founded on personal
animosity, is more remarkable for its passionate
vehemence and abuse than for its felicity or correct-
ness. Wolcot replied with A Cut at a Cobbler,'
equally unworthy of his fame. These satirical la-
bours of our author pointed him out as a fit person
to edit The Anti-Jacobin,' a weekly paper set up
by Canning and others for the purpose of ridiculing
and exposing the political agitators of the times. It
was established in November 1797, and continued
only till the July following. The connection thus
formed with politicians and men of rank was after-
wards serviceable to Gifford. He obtained the situa-
tion of paymaster of the gentlemen pensioners, and
was made a commissioner of the lottery, the emolu-
ments of the two offices being about L.900 per an-
num. In 1802 he published a translation of Juvenal,
to which was prefixed his sketch of his own life, one
of the most interesting and unaffectel of autobio-

The contributions of Mrs Piozzi to this fantastic
garland of exotic verse are characterised in one feli-graphies.
citous couplet-

See Thrale's gray widow with a satchel roam,
And bring, in pomp, her laboured nothings home!
The tasteless bibliomaniac is also finely sketched :-

Others, like Kemble, on black letter pore,
And what they do not understand, adore;
Buy at vast sums the trash of ancient days,
And draw on prodigality for praise.
These, when some lucky hit, or lucky price,
Has blessed them with The Boke of Gode Advice,
For ekes and algates only deign to seek,
And live upon a whilome for a week.

The 'Baviad' was a paraphrase of the first satire of Persius. In the year following, encouraged by its success, Gifford produced The Maviad, an imitation of Horace, levelled at the corruptors of dramatic poetry. Here also the Della Crusca authors (who attempted dramas as well as odes and elegies) are gibbeted in satiric verse; but Gifford was more

He also translated Persius, and edited the plays of Massinger, Ford, and Shirley, and the works of Ben Jonson. In 1808, when Sir Walter Scott and others resolved on starting a review, in opposition to the celebrated one established Edinburgh, Mr Gifford was selected as editor. In his hands the Quarterly Review became a powerful political and literary journal, to which leading statesmen and authors equally contributed. He continued to discharge his duties as editor until within two years of his death, which took place on the 31st of December 1826. Gifford claimed for himself a soul

That spurned the crowd's malign control-
A fixed contempt of wrong.

He was high spirited, courageous, and sincere. In most of his writings, however, there was a strong tinge of personal acerbity and even virulence. He was a good hater, and as he was opposed to all political visionaries and reformers, he had seldom time to cool. His literary criticism, also, where no such

prejudices could interfere, was frequently disfigured
by the same severity of style or temper; and who-
ever, dead or living, ventured to say aught against
Ben Jonson, or write what he deemed wrong com-
ments on his favourite dramatists, were assailed
with a vehemence that was ludicrously dispropor-
tioned to the offence. His attacks on Hazlitt, Lamb,
Hunt, Keats, and others, in the Quarterly Review,
have no pretensions to fair or candid criticism. His
object was to crush such authors as were opposed
to the government of the day, or who departed from
his canons of literary propriety and good taste. Even
the best of his criticisms, though acute and spirited,
want candour and comprehensiveness of design. As
a politician, he looked with distrust and suspicion
on the growing importance of America, and kept
alive among the English aristocracy a feeling of dis-
like or hostility towards that country, which was
as unwise as it was ungenerous. His best service to
literature was his edition of Ben Jonson, in which
he successfully vindicated that great English classic
from the unjust aspersions of his countrymen. His
satirical poetry is pungent, and often happy in ex-
pression, but without rising into moral grandeur or
pathos. His small but sinewy intellect, as some one
has said, was well employed in bruising the butter-O! when this frame, which yet, while life remained,
flies of the Della Cruscan Muse. Some of his short
copies of verses possess a quiet plaintive melancholy

Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;
Cold turf which I no more must view,
Dear name which I no more must sigh,

A long, a last, a sad adieu!

The above affecting elegiac stanzas were written by Gifford on a faithful attendant who died in his service. He erected a tombstone to her memory in the burying-ground of Grosvenor chapel, South Audley Street, with the following inscription and epitaph::

and tenderness; but his fame must rest on his influence and talents as a critic and annotator-or

more properly on the story of his life and early struggles-honourable to himself, and ultimately to his country-which will be read and remembered when his other writings are forgotten.

The Grave of Anna.

I wish I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void;
A waste unlovely and unloved.
But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

And pluck the ragged moss away,

·

And weeds that have no business there?' And who with pious hand shall bring

The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold,

And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallowed mould?
And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye;
Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

'Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died February 6th, 1815, in the forty-third year of her age, of a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with exemplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful testimony of her uncommon worth, and of his perpetual gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meritorious services.

Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest,
Still lives thy memory in one grateful breast,
That traced thy course through many a painful year,
And marked thy humble hope, thy pious fear.

Thy duteous love, with trembling hand sustained,
Dissolves (as soon it must), may that blessed Power
Who beamed on thine, illume my parting hour!
So shall I greet thee where no ills annoy,
And what was sown in grief is reaped in joy:
Where worth, obscured below, bursts into day,
And those are paid whom earth could never pay.'

Greenwich Hill.

FIRST OF MAT.

Though clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast,
And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed:
All soon, propitious to our prayer,
Gave promise of a brighter day;
The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blasts in zephyrs died away.

So have we, love, a day enjoyed,

On which we both-and yet, who knows
May dwell with pleasure unalloyed,

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant, from that dome-crowned hill,
To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
The circling Thames' majestic flow!
How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale,
To watch the chequered light and shade
That glanced upon the shifting sail!
And when the shadow's rapid growth
Proclaimed the noon-tide hour expired,
And, though unwearied, nothing loath,'
We to our simple meal retired;
The sportive wile, the blameless jest,

The careless mind's spontaneous flow,
Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.
The babe that on the mother's breast
Has toyed and wantoned for a while,
And sinking in unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile;
Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
When, ere thy ruby lips could part
(As close to mine thy cheek was laid),
Thine eyes had opened all thy heart.

Then, then I marked the chastened joy
That lightly o'er thy features stole,
From vows repaid (my sweet employ),
From truth, from innocence of soul:
While every word dropt on my ear

So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill),
So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear,

And e'en thy pause had music still. And O! how like a fairy dream

To gaze in silence on the tide, While soft and warm the sunny gleam Slept on the glassy surface wide! And many a thought of fancy bred,

Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Played lightly round the heart, and shed Delicious languor o'er the mind.

So hours like moments winged their flight,
Till now the boatmen on the shore,
Impatient of the waning light,
Recalled us by the dashing oar.
Well, Anna, many days like this

I cannot, must not hope to share;
For I have found an hour of bliss

Still followed by an age of care. Yet oft when memory intervenes→→ But you, dear maid, be happy still, Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,

The day we passed on Greenwich Hill.

To a Tuft of Early Violets.

Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' watery skies;
Retire, retire! these tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
That Sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

Stern winter's reign is not yet past

Lo! while your buds prepare to blow, On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas, for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you, and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.

Come then, ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away;

O come, and grace my Anna's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride; For there has liberal nature joined

Her riches to the stores of art,
And added to the vigorous mind
The soft, the sympathising heart.
Come then, ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
O come, and grace my Anna's breast.
O! I should think-that fragrant bed
Might I but hope with you to share-
Years of anxiety repaid

By one short hour of transport there.
More blessed your lot, ye there shall live
Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful Muse shall give
A verse-the sorrowing maid a sigh.

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We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was the late English minister, the Right Honourable GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this he had distinguished himself at Eton school for his classical acquirements and literary talents. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under secretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin was commenced. The contributions of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers (a burlesque on the sentimental German drama), and New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles and their supporters in England. As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, is instanced by the fact that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, ‘just alike to freedom and the throne,' and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties.

The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder.

[In this piece Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life :

'Cold was the night wind: drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way sore."]

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is your road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!

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Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-

Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;
But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee dd firstWretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded

Spiritless outcast!

[Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a

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.]

Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son.

[By the Right Hon. George Canning.]

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!)

transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan- By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,

thropy.]

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Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom-
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.

Another satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was The Pursuits of Literature, in four parts, the first of 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 some

[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his time treasurer of the household to her majesty eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds-]

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in-
Alas, Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in 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.

Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B. A. in Trinity college, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the 'Pursuits of Literature,' Mr Mathias was author of 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 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 of his uncle. While resident at Truro, Wolcot discovered the talents of Opie

The Cornish boy in tin mines bred—

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 thy eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies:
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A Tom-tit 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 an-
other subject of his satire-

A president, on butterflies profound,

Of whom all insect-mongers sing the praises,
Went on a day to catch the game profound

On violets, dunghills, violet-tops, and daisies, &c. He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureate, 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, payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. 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

whose 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 pro-wrote legibly, but with great ease and celerity.' In tegé, 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

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 Acade

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