Harangue the Horse Guards on a cure of souls?
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Paul's?
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet,
To rave at usurers in Lombard Street?

Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing stumbling style:
"Whoever with a piercing eye can see
Through the past records of futurity?"
All gape, no meaning:-the puffed orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour.
Truth and the text he labours to display,

Till both are quite interpreted away:

So frugal dames insipid water pour,

Till green, bohea, or coffee, are no more.

His arguments in giddy circles run

Still round and round, and end where they begun :
So the poor turnspit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses ground.
No parts distinct or general scheme we find,
But one wild shapeless monster of the mind:
So when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though she licks the ruins, all her cares
Scarce mend the lumps, and bring them but to bears.
Ye country vicars, when you preach in town

A turn at Paul's, to pay your journey down,
If you would shun the sneer of every prig,
Lay by the little band, and rusty wig:
But yet be sure, your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the sound of Bow.
Speak not the phrase that Drury Lane affords,
Nor from 'Change Alley steal a cant of words.
Coachmen will criticise your style; nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther;
The dregs of the canaille will look askew,
To hear the language of the town from you;
Nay, my lord mayor, with merriment possest,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the aldermen to hear the jest.

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The taste for these imitations of Horace's "Art of Poetry" gave rise, in 1709, to a playful "Art of Cookery," by a witty lawyer, William King, LL.D., who was born in 1663, and educated at Westminster School and Christchurch. His wit drew him away from opportunities of solid gain. His "Art of Cookery" begins with the flavour of Horace, in this fashion:

Ingenious Lister, were a picture drawn

With Cynthia's face, but with a neck like brawn;
With wings of turkey, and with feet of calf,
Though drawn by Kneller, it would make you laugh!
Such is, good sir, the figure of a feast,

By some rich farmer's wife and sister drest;
Which, were it not for plenty and for steam,
Might be resembled to a sick man's dream,
Where all ideas huddling run so fast,
That syllabubs come first, and soups the last.
Not but that cooks and poets still were free,
To use their power in nice variety;
Hence mackerel seem delightful to the eyes,
Though dressed with incoherent gooseberries.
Crabs, salmon, lobsters, are with fennel spread,
Who never touch'd that herb till they were dead;

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Yet no man lards salt pork with orange-peel, Or garnishes his lamb with spitchcock'd eel.

But as this poem is too long to be given complete, let it be represented by a finished work in praise of

APPLE-PIE.

Of all the delicates which Britons try,
To please the palate, or delight the eye;
Of all the several kinds of sumptuous fare,
There's none that can with apple-pie compare,

For costly flavour or substantial paste,

For outward beauty or for inward taste.

When first this infant-dish in fashion came,

Th' ingredients were but coarse, and rude the frame;
As yet unpolish'd in the modern arts,

Our fathers ate brown bread instead of tarts:
Pies were but indigested lumps of dough,
Till time and just expense improv'd them so.
King Cole (as ancient British annals tell)
Renown'd for fiddling and for eating well,
Pippins in homely cakes with honey stew'd,
"Just as he bak'd," the proverb says, "he brew'd!"
Their greater art succeeding princes show'd,
And modelled paste into a neater mode;
Invention now grew lively, palate nice,
And sugar pointed out the way to spice.

But here for ages unimprov'd we stood,
And apple-pie was still but homely food;
When god-like Edgar, of the Saxon line,
Polite of taste, and studious to refine,
In the dessert perfuming quinces cast,
And perfected with cream the rich repast.
Hence we proceed the outward parts to trim,
With crinkumcranks adorn the polish'd brim,
And each fresh pie the pleas'd spectator greets
With virgin-fancies, and with new conceits.
Dear Nelly, learn with care the pastry art,
And mind the easy precepts I impart :
Draw out your dough elaborately thin,
And cease not to fatigue your rolling-pin:
Of eggs and butter see you mix enough:
For then the paste will swell into a puff,
Which will, in crumpling sounds, your praise report,
And eat, as housewives speak, "exceeding short."
Rang'd in thick order let your quinces lie;
They give a charming relish to the pie.

If you are wise, you'll not brown sugar slight,
The browner (if I form my judgment right)
A deep vermilion tincture will dispense,
And make your pippin redder than the quince.
When this is done, there will be wanting still,
The just reserve of cloves and candied peel;
Nor can I blame you, if a drop you take
Of orange-water, for perfuming-sake.
But here the nicety of art is such,
There must not be too little nor too much :
If with discretion you these costs employ,
They quicken appetite; if not, they cloy.
Next, in your mind this maxim firmly root,
"Never o'ercharge your pie with costly fruit:"
Oft let your bodkin through the lid be sent,
To give the kind imprison'd treasure vent;
Lest the fermenting liquor, closely press'd,
Insensibly, by constant fretting, waste,
And o'er-inform your tenement of paste.

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To choose your baker, think, and think again (You'll scarce one honest baker find in ten): Adust and bruis'd, I've often seen a pie, In rich disguise and costly ruin lie,

While pensive crust beheld its form o'erthrown, Exhausted apples griev'd, their moisture flown, And syrup from the sides ran trickling down.

Oh be not, be not tempted, lovely Nell,
While the hot-piping odours strongly smell,
While the delicious fume creates a gust,

To lick th' o'erflowing juice, or bite the crust.
You'll rather stay (if my advice may rule)
Until the hot's corrected by the cool;

Till you've infused the luscious store of cream,
And chang'd the purple for a silver stream;
Till that smooth viand its mild force produce,
And give a softness to the tarter juice.

Then shalt thou, pleas'd, the noble fabric view,

And have a slice into the bargain too;
Honour and fame alike we will partake,
So well I'll eat what you so richly make.

Christopher Pitt's natural good taste did not hinder him from living a man's life in the world, and doing his duty till his death in 1748. William Shenstone looked upon his good taste as something by which he was overweighted in the race of life. He had a form of genius that, with more vigour of character, would have won him a place with Allan Ramsay, Thomson, and Dyer, as one of the few poets of his day for whom there was a real world out of town. But Shenstone's sense of nature hardly rose above the glories of an artificial garden. His father, a gentleman farmer, left him an estate, the Leasowes, near

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WILLIAM SHENSTONE. From the Portrait prefixed to his Works (1764).

Hales Owen, which would be worth £300 a year to him if he farmed it as his forefathers had done. But Shenstone had been to college, picked up Frenchclassical notions about taste and refinement, and, by way of improving his little good, he wasted his

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe.
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.

Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd, and I could not but love; Was faithless, and I am undone !

There was a glancing back into Elizabeth's reign in these days, with a faint revival of interest in Spenser that may, perhaps, be associated with the signs of a returning sense of what is beautiful in the great world of which we are a part. Ambrose Philips had imitated Spenser's "Pastorals;" Shenstone's "Schoolmistress" attempted to describe a village dame-school in Spenserian stanzas, with some efforts at an imitation of Spenserian English, that by no means rose to the level of John Philips's imitation of Milton in "The Splendid Shilling," or of the best of all work formed on the manner of Spenser, one of the longer poems produced in the time of George II., Thomson's "Castle of Indolence."

Great indeed was the contrast between Shenstone's elegant weakness and the healthy battle of brave, tender-hearted Samuel Johnson with the ills of life. Among the prose writers Johnson will be spoken of more fully, but he was a poet and he lived a poem. He had two worlds to conquer: that within was disputed against his resolute religious will by a disease that threatened at times even to deprive him of his reason; while in the outer world poverty strove in vain to lay him low. Disease could make him ungainly, seam his face, twitch his arms, strip him of all physical attributes of dignity; poverty could close against him all the conventional ways to social rank: but he won all that a true man most prizes by the sterling worth that made Samuel Johnson, even in his poverty, the backbone of the literature of his time. He was born in Queen Anne's reign, in 1709, and as a young child was touched by Queen Anne for his scrofula, when touching for " King's Evil" was revived as a side suggestion of Right Divine in kings. In 1738, after a preceding life of struggle, Johnson began his career in London with a poem_upon "London" that attracted Pope's attention. It was based on the third satire of Juvenal, but the strength and tenderness of his own nature gave it life. For ten years more he battled on, and then, in 1749, when he was forty years old, published an imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal—

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

Let observation with extensive view, Survey mankind, from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life: Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride To tread the dreary paths without a guide,

With fatal heat impetuous courage glows,
With fatal sweetness elocution flows,
Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath,
And restless fire precipitates on death.

But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold
Fall in the gen'ral massacre of Gold;
Wide-wasting pest, that rages unconfin'd,

And crowds with crimes the records of mankind!
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws,
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws;
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys,
The dangers gather as the treasures rise.

Let hist'ry tell where rival kings command
And dubious title shakes the madded land,
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword,
How much more safe the vassal than the lord;
Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r,
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tow'r,
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound,
Tho' confiscation's vultures hover round.

The needy traveller, serene and gay,
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy,
Increase his riches and his peace destroy:
New fears in dire vicissitude invade,
The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade,
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief,
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.
Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails,
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales;
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care,
Th' insidious rival and the gaping heir.

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From ev'ry room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright Palladium of the place,
And smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold:
For now no more we trace in ev'ry line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine;
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th' indignant wall.

But will not Britain hear the last appeal,

Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal?
Thro' Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,
Degrading nobles and controlling kings:

Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions but the price of votes ;
With, weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand :

To him the Church, the Realm, their pow'rs consign,
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine,
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r,
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r,

Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please,

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Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth,
See motley Life in modern trappings dress'd,
And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest:
Thou who couldst laugh where Want enchain'd Caprice,
Toil crush'd Conceit, and man was of a piece;
Where Wealth unlov'd without a mourner died;
And scarce a sycophant was fed by Pride;
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate,
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldly state;
Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws,
And senates heard before they judg'd a cause:
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe?
Attentive Truth and Nature to descry,
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye,
To thee were solemn toys or empty show,

The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe:
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain.

Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind,
Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind;
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare,
Search every state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r.
Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate,
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend,

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Hate dogs their flight, and Insult mocks their end;

At length his sov'reign frowns-the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye,

His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly:
At once is lost the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest;
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.

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Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine? 120
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight?
Why but to sink beneath Misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulfs below?

What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife,
And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life?
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde,
By kings protected, and to kings allied?
What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine,
And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign?

When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Through all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown;
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.
Are these thy views? proceed, illustrious youth,
And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth!
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat,
Till captive Science yields her last retreat;
Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty Doubt resistless day;
Should no false Kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright;
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain,
And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;

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