And make them sprout 'spite of their want of worth;

No, I do wish my girls should wish me live;
Which few do wish that have a greedy sire,
But still expect, and gape with hungry lip,
When he'll give up his gouty stewardship.
Friend. Then I wonder,

You not aspire unto the eminence

And height of pleasing life. To Court, to Court-
There burnish, there spread, there stick in pomp,
Like a bright diamond in a Lady's brow.

There plant your fortunes in the flowring spring,
And get the Sun before you of Respect.
There trench yourself within the people's love,
And glitter in the eye of glorious grace.

What's wealth without respect and mounted place?
Fortune. Worse and worse!-I am not yet dis-

traught,

I long not to be squeez'd with my own weight,
Nor hoist up all my sails to catch the wind
Of the drunk reeling Commons. I labour not
To have an awful presence, nor be feared,
Since who is fear'd still fears to be so feared.
I care not to be like the Horeb calf,

One day adored, and next pasht all in pieces.
Nor do I envy Polyphemian puffs,
Switzers' slopt greatness. I adore the Sun,
Yet love to live within a temperate zone.
Let who will climb ambitious glibbery rounds,
And lean upon the vulgar's rotten love,
I'll not corrival him. The sun will give

As great a shadow to my trunk as his ;
And after death, like Chessmen having stood
In play, for Bishops some, for Knights, and Pawns,
We all together shall be tumbled up

Into one bag.

my

Let hush'd-calm quiet rock
life asleep;
And, being dead, my own ground press my bones;
Whilst some old Beldame, hobbling o'er my grave,
May mumble thus:

'Here lies a Knight whose Money was his Slave."

Caperwit. Adjectives! would you have a poem

without

Adjectives? they're the flower, the grace of all our lan

guage,

A well-chosen Epithet doth give new soul
To fainting Poesy, and makes every verse
A Bride! With Adjectives we bait our lines,
When we do fish for Gentlewomen's loves,
And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear
Of amorous ladies; with the music of
These ravishing nouns we charm the silken tribe,
And make the Gallant melt with apprehension
Of the rare Word. I will maintain 't against
A bundle of Grammarians, in Poetry

The Substantive itself cannot subsist
Without its Adjective.

Friend. But for all that,

Those words would sound more full, methinks, that are

not

So larded; and if I might counsel you,

You should compose a Sonnet clean without 'em.

A row of stately Substantives would march
Like Switzers, and bear all the fields before 'em ;
Carry their weight; shew fair, like Deeds Enroll'd;
Not Writs, that are first made and after fill'd.
Thence first came up the title of Blank Verse ;-
You know, Sir, what Blank signifies?-when the sense,
First framed, is tied with Adjectives like points,
And could not hold together without wedges:
Hang 't, 'tis pedantic, vulgar Poetry.

Let children, when they versify, stick here
And there these piddling words for want of matter
Poets write Masculine Numbers.

[From the "Guardian," a Comedy, by Abraham Cowley, 1650. This was the first Draught of that which he published afterwards under the title of the "Cutter of Coleman Street ;" and contains the character of a Foolish Poet, omitted in the latter. I give a few scraps of this character, both because the Edition is scarce, and as furnishing no unsuitable corollary to the Critical Admonitions in the preceding Extract.-The "Cutter " has always appeared to me the link be. tween the Comedy of Fletcher and of Congreve. In the elegant passion of the Love Scenes it approaches the former; and Puny (the character substituted for the omitted Poet) is the Prototype of the half-witted Wits, the Brisks and Dapper Wits, of the latter.]

Doggrell, the foolish Poet, described.

Cutter. the very Emblem of poverty and poor poetry. The feet are worse patched of his rhymes, than of his stockings. If one line forget itself, and run out beyond his elbow, while the next keeps at home (like him), and dares not show his head, he calls that an Ode.

Tabitha. Nay, they mocked and fleered at us, as we sung the Psalm the last Sunday night.

Cutter. That was that mungrel Rhymer; by this light he envies his brother poet John Sternhold, because he cannot reach his heights.

Doggrell (reciting his own verses.) Thus pride doth still with beauty dwell,

And like the Baltic ocean swell.

Blade. Why the Baltic, Doggrell? Doggrell. Why the Baltic!-this 'tis not to have read the Poets. •

She looks like Niobe on the mountain's top. Cutter. That Niobe, Doggrell, you have used worse than Phoebus did. Not a dog looks melancholy but he's compared to Niobe. He beat a villainous Tapster 'tother day, to make him look like Niobe.

ANCIENT WAGGERY.

For the Table Book.

C. L.

[From the "Pleasant Conceits of old Hobson, the merry Londoner; full of humourous Discourses and merry Merriments:-1607."]

How Maister Hobson hung out a lanterne and candlelight.

In the beginning of queen Elizabeth's reign, when the order of hanging out lanterne and candlelight first of all was brought up, the bedell of the warde where Maister Hobson dwelt, in a dark evening, crieing up and down, "Hang out your lauternes ! Hang out your lanternes !" using no other wordes, Maister Hobson tooke an emptie lanterne, and, according to the bedells call, hung it out. This flout, by the lord mayor, was taken in ill part, and for the same offence Hobson was sent to the Counter, but being released, the next night following, thinking to amend his call, the bedell cryed out, with a loud voice, "Hang out your lanternes and candle!" Maister Hobson, hereupon, hung out a lanterne and candle unlighted, as the bedell again commanded; whereupon he was sent again to the Counter; but the next night, the bedell being better advised, cryed Hang out your lanterne and candle light! Hang out your lanterne and candle light!" which Maister Hobson at last did, to his great commendations, which cry of lanterne and candle light is in right manner used to this day.

66

Hobson's wife had many pyes in the oven, one of his servants had stole one of them out, and at the tauerne had merrilie eat it. It fortuned, the same day, that some of his friends dined with him, and one of the best pyes were missing, the stealer thereof, after dinner, he found out in this manner. He called all his servants in friendly sort together into the hall, and caused each of them to drinke one to another, both wine, ale, and beare, till they were all drunke; then caused hee a table to be furnishedwith very goode cheare, whereat hee likewise pleased them. Being set altogether, he saide, "Why sit ye not downe fellows?" "We bee set already," quoth they."Nay," quoth Maister Hobson, “he that stole the pye is not yet set."-"Yes, that I doe!" quoth he that stole it, by which means Maister Hobson knewe what was become of the pye; for the poor fellowe being drunke could not keepe his owne secretts.

THE FIRST VIOLET.
The spring is come: the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower-
And she lifts up her head of dewy blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers-that flower beloved the most,
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dim December-
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours,
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget
The virgin-virgin violet.

YORKSHIRE SAYING.
For the Table Book.

"LET'S BEGIN AGAIN LIKE THE CLERK OF BEESTON."

How Maister Hobson found out the Pyestealer.

• The custom of hanging out lanterns before lamps were in use was earlier than queen Elizabeth's reign.

T. Q. M.

canto improvviso. On approaching the shop of Trapassi, whence the melody proceeded, they were surprised to see a lovely boy pouring forth elegant verses on the persons and objects which surrounded him, and their admiration was increased by the graceful compliments which he took an opportunity of addressing to themselves. When the youthful poet had concluded, Gravina called him to him, and, with many encomiums and caresses, offered him a piece of money, which the boy politely de clined. He then inquired into his situation and employment, and being struck with the intelligence of his replies, proposed to his parents to educate him as his own child. They consented, and Gravina changed his name from Trapassi to Metastasio, and gave him a careful and excellent education for his own profession.

At fourteen years of age, Metastasio produced his tragedy of " Giustino," which so pleased Gravina, that he took him to Naples, where he contended with and excelled some of the most celebrated improvisatori of Italy. He still, however, continued his study of the law, and with a view to the only two channels of preferment which prevail at Rome, also assumed the minor order of priesthood, whence his title of abate. In 1718, death deprived him of his patron, who bequeathed to him the whole of his personal property, amounting to fifteen thousand crowns. Of too liberal and hospitable a disposition, he gradually made away with this provision and then resolved to apply more closely to the law. He repaired to Naples, to study for that purpose, but becoming acquainted with Brugnatelli, usually called "the Romanina," the most celebrated actress and singer in Italy, he gave himself up entirely to harmony and poetry. The extraordinary success of his first opera, "Gli Orti Esperidi," confirmed him in this resolution, and joining his establishment to that of "the Romanina and her husband, in a short time he composed three new dramas, "Cato in Utica," Ezio," and "Semiramide." followed these with several more of still greater celebrity, until, in 1730, he received and accepted an invitation from the court of Vienna, to take up his residence in that capital, as coadjutor to the imperial laureate, Apostolo Zeno, whom he ultimately succeeded. From that period, the life of Metastasio presented a calm uniformity for upwards of half a century. He retained the favour of the imperial family undiminished, for his extraordinary talents were admirably seconded by the even tenor of

66

He

his private character, and avoidance of court intrigue. Indefatigable as a poet, he composed no less than twenty-six operas, and eight oratorios, or sacred dramas, besides cantatas, canzoni, sonnets, and minor pieces to a great amount. The poetical characteristics of Metastasio are sweetness, correctness, purity, simplicity, gentle pathos, and refined and elevated sentiment. There is less of nature than of elegance and beauty in his dramas, which consequently appear insipid to those who have been nourished with stronger poetic aliment.

Dr. Burney, who saw Metastasio at the age of seventy-two, describes him as looking like one of fifty, and as the gayest and handsomest man, of his time of life, he had ever beheld. He died after a short illness at Vienna, in April 1782, having completed his eighty-fourth year, leaving a considerable property in money, books, and valuables. Besides his numerous works, which have been translated into most of the European languages, a large collection of his letters, published since his death, supplied copious materials for his biography.

Mrs. Piozzi gives an amusing account of Metastasio in his latter days. She says:"Here (at Vienna) are many ladies of fashion very eminent for their musical abilities, particularly mesdemoiselles de Martinas, one of whom is member of the acade mies of Berlin and Bologna: the celebrated Metastasio died in their house, after having lived with the family sixty-five years more or less. They set his poetry and sing it very finely, appearing to recollect his conversation and friendship with infinite tenderness and delight. He was to have been presented to the pope the very day he died, and in the delirium which immediately preceded dissolution, raved much of the supposed interview. Unwilling to hear of death, no one was ever permitted to mention it before him; and nothing put him so certainly out of humour, as finding that rule transgressed. Even the small-pox was not to be named in his presence, and whoever did name that disorder, though unconscious of the offence he had given, Metastasio would see no more."

Mrs. Piozzi adds, "The other peculiarities I could gather from Miss Martinas were these that he had contentedly lived half a century at Vienna, without ever even

* General Biog. Dict. Dict. of Musicians,

wishing to learn its language; that he had never given more than five guineas English money in all that time to the poor; that he always sat in the same seat at church, but never paid for it, and that nobody dared ask him for the trifling sum; that he was grateful and beneficent to the friends who began by being his protectors, but who, in the end, were his debtors, for solid benefits as well as for elegant presents, which it was his delight to be perpetually making. He left to them at last all he had ever gained, without the charge even of a single legacy; observing in his will, that it was to them he owed it, and that other conduct would in him have been injustice. He never changed the fashion of his wig, or the cut or colour of his coat, so that his portrait, taken not very long ago, looks like those of Boileau or Moliere at the head of their works. His life was arranged with such methodical exactness, that he rose, studied, chatted, slept, and dined, at the same hours, for fifty years together, enjoying uninterrupted health, which probably gave him that happy sweetness of temper, or habitual gentleness of manners, which was never ruffled, except when his sole injunction was forgotten, and the death of any person whatever was unwittingly mentioned before him. No solicitation had ever prevailed on him to dine from home, nor had his nearest intimates ever seen him eat more than a biscuit with his lemonade, every meal being performed with even mysterious privacy to the last. When his end approached by rapid steps, he did not in the least suspect that it was coming; and mademoiselle Martinas has scarcely yet done rejoicing in the thought that he escaped the preparations he so dreaded. Latterly, all his pleasures were confined to music and conversation; and the delight he took in hearing the lady he lived with sing his songs, was visible to every one. An Italian abate here said, comically enough, Oh! he always looked like a man in the state of beatification when mademoiselle de Martinas accompanied his verses with her fine voice and brilliant finger.' The father of Metastasio was a goldsmith at Rome, but his son had so devoted himself to the family he lived with, that he refused to hear, and took pains not to know, whether he had in his latter days any one relation left in the

world."

We have a life of Metastasio, chiefly derived from his correspondence, by Dr. Burney.

I called upon you this morning, and found that you were gone to visit a dying friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor N. R. has lain dying now for almost a week; such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed through life a strong constitution. Whether he knew me or not, I know not, or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group I saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his Wife, their two Daughters, and poor deaf Robert, looking doubly stupified. There they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. R. Speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. By this time it must be all over with him. In him I have a loss the world cannot make up. He was my friend, and my father's friend, for all the life that I can remember. I seem to have made foolish friendships since. Those are the friendships, which outlast a second generation. Old as I am getting, in his eyes I was still the child he knew me. To the last he called me Jemmy. I have none to call me Jemmy now. He was the last link that bound me to B. You are but of yesterday. In him I seem to have lost the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. Lettered he was not; his reading scarcely exceeding the Obituary of the old Gentleman's Magazine, to which he has never failed of having recourse for these last fifty years. Yet there was the pride of literature about him from that slender perusal; and moreover from his office of archive keeper to your ancient city, in which he must needs pick up some equivocal Latin; which, among his less literary friends assumed the airs of a very pleasant pedantry. Can I forget the erudite look with which having tried to puzzle out the text of a Black lettered Chaucer in your Corporation Library, to which he was a sort of Librarian, he gave it up with this consolatory reflection" Jemmy," said he, "I do not know what you find in these very old books, but I observe, there is a deal of very indifferent spelling in them." His jokes (for he had some) are ended; but they were old Perennials, staple, and always as good as new. He had one Song, that spake of the "flat bottoms of our foes coming over in darkness," and alluded to a threatened Invasion, many years since blown over; this

In spite of the devil and Brussels' Gazette ! What is the Brussels' Gazette now? I cry, while I endite these trifles. His poor girls who are, I believe, compact of solid goodness, will have to receive their afflicted mother at an unsuccessful home in a petty village in-shire, where for years they have been struggling to raise a Girls' School with no effect. Poor deaf Robert (and the less hopeful for being so) is thrown upon a deaf world, without the comfort to his father on his death-bed of knowing him provided for. They are left almost provisionless. Some life assurance there is; but, I fear, not exceeding--. Their hopes must be from your Corporation, which their father has served for fifty years. Who or what are your Leading Members now, I know not. Is there any, to whom without impertinence you can represent the true circumstances of the family? You cannot say good enough of poor R., and his poor Wife. Oblige me, and the dead, if you