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able evidence of being composed altogether from is now, we believe, in a private asylum-hopeless, the impulses of the writer's mind, as excited by ex- but not dead to passing events. This sad terminaternal objects and internal sensations. Here are no tion of so bright a morning it is painful to contemtawdry and feeble paraphrases of former poets, no plate. Amidst the native wild flowers of his song attempts at describing what the author might have we looked not for the deadly nightshade'-and, become acquainted with in his limited reading. The though the example of Burns, of Chatterton, and woods, the vales, the brooks, "the crimson spots Bloomfield, was better fitted to inspire fear than i' the bottom of a cowslip," or the loftier phenomena hope, there was in Clare a naturally lively and cheerof the heavens, contemplated through the alterna- ful temperament, and an apparent absence of strong tions of hope and despondency, are the principal and dangerous passions, that promised, as in the case sources whence the youth, whose adverse circum- of Allan Ramsay, a life of humble yet prosperous stances and resignation under them extort our sym-contentment and happiness. Poor Clare's muse was pathy, drew the faithful and vivid pictures before the true offspring of English country life. He was us. Examples of minds highly gifted by nature, struggling with, and breaking through the bondage of adversity, are not rare in this country: but privation is not destitution; and the instance before us is, perhaps, one of the most striking of patient and persevering talent existing and enduring in the most forlorn, and seemingly hopeless condition, that literature has at any time exhibited.'

In a short time Clare was in possession of a little fortune. The present Earl Fitzwilliam sent £100 to his publishers, which, with the like sum advanced by them, was laid out in the purchase of stock; the Marquis of Exeter allowed him an annuity of fifteen guineas for life; the Earl of Spencer a further annuity of £10, and various contributions were received from other noblemen and gentlemen, so that the poet had a permanent allowance of £30 per annum. He married his Patty of the Vale,' the rosebud in humble life,' the daughter of a neighbouring farmer; and in his native cottage at Helpstone, with his aged and infirm parents and his young wife by his side-all proud of his now rewarded and successful genius-Clare basked in the sunshine of a poetical felicity. The writer of this recollects, with melancholy pleasure, paying a visit to the poet at this genial season in company with one of his publishers. The humble dwelling wore an air of comfort and contented happiness. Shelves were fitted up, filled with books, most of which had been sent as presents. Clare read and liked them all! He took us to see his favourite scene, the haunt of his inspiration. It was a low fall of swampy ground, used as a pasture, and bounded by a dull rushy brook, overhung with willows. Yet here Clare strayed and mused delighted.

Flow on, thou gently-plashing stream,
O'er weed-beds wild and rank;
Delighted I've enjoyed my dream
Upon thy mossy bank:
Bemoistening many a weedy stem,
I've watched thee wind so clearly,
And on thy bank I found the gem

That makes me love thee dearly.
In 1821 Clare came forward again as a poet. His
second publication was entitled The Village Minstrel
and other Poems, in two volumes. The first of these
pieces is in the Spenserian stanza, and describes the
scenes, sports, and feelings of rural life-the author
himself sitting for the portrait of Lubin, the humble
rustic who 'hummed his lowly dreams'

Far in the shade where poverty retires. The descriptions of scenery, as well as the expression of natural emotion and generous sentiment in this poem, exalted the reputation of Clare as a true poet. He afterwards contributed short pieces to the annuals and other periodicals, marked by a more choice and refined diction. The poet's prosperity was, alas! soon over. His discretion was not equal to his fortitude: he speculated in farming, wasted his little hoard, and amidst accumulating difficulties sank into nervous despondency and despair. He

a faithful painter of rustic scenes and occupations, and he noted every light and shade of his brooks, meadows, and green lanes. His fancy was buoyant in the midst of labour and hardship; and his imagery, drawn directly from nature, is various and original. Careful finishing could not be expected from the rustic poet, yet there is often a fine delicacy and beauty in his pieces, and his moral reflections and pathos win their way to the heart. "It is seldom,' as one of his critics remarked, 'that the public have an opportunity of learning the unmixed and unadulterated impression of the loveliness of nature on a man of vivid perception and strong feeling, equally unacquainted with the art and reserve of the world, and with the riches, rules, and prejudices of litera ture.' Clare was strictly such a man. His reading before his first publication had been extremely limited, and did not either form his taste or bias the direction of his powers. He wrote out of the fulness of his heart; and his love of nature was so universal, that he included all, weeds as well as flowers, in his picturesque catalogues of her charms. In grouping and forming his pictures, he has recourse to new and original expressions-as, for ex| ample—

Brisk winds the lightened branches shake By pattering, plashing drops confessed; And, where oaks dripping shade the lake, Paint crimping dimples on its breast. sonnet to the glow-worm is singularly rich in this vivid word-painting:

A

Tasteful illumination of the night,

Bright scattered, twinkling star of spangled earth!
Hail to the nameless coloured dark and light,
The witching nurse of thy illumined birth.

In thy still hour how dearly I delight

To rest my weary bones, from labour free;
In lone spots, out of hearing, out of sight,

To sigh day's smothered pains; and pause on thee,
Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree,
Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear;
Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to see,
Gilding and glistering in the dewdrop near:
O still-hour's mate! my easing heart sobs free,
While tiny bents low bend with many an added

tear.

In these happy microscopic views of nature, Grahame,
the author of the Sabbath, is the only poet who can
be put in competition with Clare. The delicacy of
some of his sentimental verses, mixed up in careless!
profusion with others less correct or pleasing, may
be seen from the following part of a ballad, The Fate
of Amy:

The flowers the sultry summer kills
Spring's milder suns restore;
But innocence, that fickle charm,
Blooms once,
and blooms no more.
The swains who loved no more admire,
Their hearts no beauty warms;
And maidens triumph in her fall
That envied once her charms.

Lost was that sweet simplicity;

Her eye's bright lustre fled; And o'er her cheeks, where roses bloomed, A sickly paleness spread.

So fades the flower before its time,

Where cankerworms assail; So droops the bud upon its stem Beneath the sickly gale.

What is Life?

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

Its length A minute's pause, a moment's thought. And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn, That robs each flowret of its gem-and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound? That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?

A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. And Peace? Where can its happiness abound? No where at all, save heaven and the grave. Then what is Life! When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. "Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortal how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

Summer Morning.

"Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the giggling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees,
Peruse and pause on nature's book.
When nature every sweet prepares

To entertain our wished delay-
The images which morning wears,

The wakening charms of early day! Now let me tread the meadow paths,

Where glittering dew the ground illumes, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths

Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes. And hear the beetle sound his horn,

And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
A hailing minstrel in the sky.
First sunbeam, calling night away
To see how sweet thy summons seems;
Split by the willow's wavy gray,

And sweetly dancing on the streams.
How fine the spider's web is spun,

Unnoticed to vulgar eyes;

Its silk thread glittering in the sun
Arts bungling vanity defies.
Roaming while the dewy fields

'Neath their morning burthen lean, While its crop my searches shields,

Sweet I scent the blossomed bean.
Making oft remarking stops;
Watching tiny nameless things
Climb the grass's spiry tops
Ere they try their gauzy wings.

So emerging into light,

From the ignorant and vain Fearful genius takes her flight, Skimming o'er the lowly plain.

The Primrose-A Sonnet.

Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green;

How much thy presence beautifies the ground!
How sweet thy modest unaffected pride
Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side!
And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found,
The schoolboy roams enchantedly along,

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight:
While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,
O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring
To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight;
The welcome news of sweet returning spring.

The Thrush's Nest-A Sonnet.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy and oft an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:

And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.*

First-Love's Recollections.

First-love will with the heart remain
When its hopes are all gone by;
As frail rose-blossoms still retain

Their fragrance when they die:
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With the shades 'mid which they sprung,
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which spring's blossoms hung.
Mary, I dare not call thee dear,
I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.

I felt a pride to name thy name,
But now that pride hath flown,
And burning blushes speak my shame;
That thus I love thee on.

How loath to part, how fond to meet,
Had we two used to be;

At sunset, with what eager feet
I hastened unto thee!

Scarce nine days passed us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh,

A moment's memory when alone,

Would bring thee in mine eye;

* Montgomery says quaintly but truly of this sonnet, 'Here we have in miniature the history and geography of a thrush's nest, so simply and naturally set forth, that one might think such strains

No more difficile

Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.

But let the heartless critic who despises them try his own hand either at a bird's nest or a sonnet like this; and when he has succeeded in making the one, he may have some hope of being able to make the other.'

But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace;
Though there thy beauty lingers yet,
It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers.

Dawnings of Genius.

In those low paths which poverty surrounds,
The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds
(That necessary tool of wealth and pride),
While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side,
Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace
The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,
The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;
And often bent, as o'er some magic spell,
He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell:
Raptures the while his inward powers inflame,
And joys delight him which he cannot name;
Ideas picture pleasing views to mind,

For which his language can no utterance find;
Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight,
Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;
So while the present please, the past decay,
And in each other, losing, melt away.
Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,

He feels enraptured, though he knows not why;
And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain,
And dwells on something which he can't explain.
The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed,
Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;
Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain,
And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.
So have I marked the dying ember's light,
When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,
With glimmering glow oft redden up again,
And sparks crack brightening into life in vain;
Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,
Till faint, and fainting, the last twinkle dies.

Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart,
Its painful pleasing feelings to impart ;
Till by successless sallies wearied quite,
The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight:
The wick, confined within its socket, dies,
Borne down and smothered in a thousand sighs.

[Scenes and Musings of the Peasant Poet.]
[From the Village Minstrel.']

Each opening season, and each opening scene,
On his wild view still teemed with fresh delight;
E'en winter's storms to him have welcome been,
That brought him comfort in its long dark night,
As joyful listening, while the fire burnt bright,
Some neighbouring labourer's superstitious tale,
How 'Jack-a-lantern,' with his wisp alight,
To drown a 'nighted traveller once did fail,
He knowing well the brook that whimpered down the
vale.

And tales of fairyland he loved to hear,
Those mites of human forms, like skimming bees,
That fly and flirt about but everywhere;
The mystic tribes of night's unnerving breeze,
That through a lock-hole even creep with ease:
The freaks and stories of this elfin crew,
Ah! Lubin gloried in such things as these;
How they rewarded industry he knew,

And how the restless slut was pinched black and blue.

How ancient dames a fairy's anger feared,
From gossip's stories Lubin often heard;
How they on every night the hearthstone cleared,
And, 'gainst their visits, all things neat prepared,
As fays nought more than cleanliness regard;
When in the morn they never failed to share
Or gold or silver as their meet reward,
Dropt in the water superstition's care,
To make the charm succeed, had cautious placed
there.

And thousands such the village keeps alive;
Beings that people superstitious earth,
That e'er in rural manners will survive,

As long as wild rusticity has birth

To spread their wonders round the cottage-hearth. On Lubin's mind these deeply were impressed; Oft fear forbade to share his neighbour's mirth: And long each tale, by fancy newly dressed, Brought fairies in his dreams, and broke his infant rest.

pass

He had his dreads and fears, and scarce could
A churchyard's dreary mounds at silent night,
But footsteps trampled through the rustling grass,
And ghosts 'hind grave-stones stood in sheets of
white;

Dread monsters fancy moulded on his sight;
Soft would he step lest they his tread should hear,
And creep and creep till past his wild affright;
Then on wind's wings would rally, as it were,
So swift the wild retreat of childhood's fancied fear.
And when fear left him, on his corner-seat
Much would he chatter o'er each dreadful tale;
Tell how he heard the sound of 'proaching feet,
And warriors jingling in their coats of mail;
And lumping knocks as one would thump a flail;
Of spirits conjured in the charnel floor;

And many a mournful shriek and hapless wail, Where maids, self-murdered, their false loves de

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morn,

From wood and pasture, opened on his view! When tender green buds blush upon the thorn, And the first primrose dips its leaves in dew: Each varied charm how joyed would he pursue, Tempted to trace their beauties through the day; Gray-girdled eve and morn of rosy hue Have both beheld him on his lonely way, Far, far remote from boys, and their unpleasing play.

Sequestered nature was his heart's delight; Him would she lead through wood and lonely plain, Searching the pooty from the rushy dike; And while the thrush sang her long-silenced strain, He thought it sweet, and mocked it o'er again; And while he plucked the primrose in its pride, He pondered o'er its bloom 'tween joy and pain; And a rude sonnet in its praise he tried, Where nature's simple way the aid of art supplied.

The freshened landscapes round his routes unfurled, The fine-tinged clouds above, the woods below, Each met his eye a new-revealing world, Delighting more as more he learned to know; Each journey sweeter, musing to and fro. Surrounded thus, not Paradise more sweet; Enthusiasm made his soul to glow;

His heart with wild sensations used to beat; As nature seemly sang, his mutterings would repeat. Upon a molehill oft he dropt him down, To take a prospect of the circling scene, Marking how much the cottage roof's thatch brown Did add its beauty to the budding green

Of sheltering trees it humbly peeped between ; The stone-rocked wagon with its rumbling sound; The windmill's sweeping sails at distance seen; And every form that crowds the circling round, Where the sky, stooping, seems to kiss the meeting ground.

And dear to him the rural sports of May,
When each cot-threshold mounts its hailing bough,
And ruddy milkmaids weave their garlands gay,
Upon the green to crown the earliest cow;
When mirth and pleasure wear a joyful brow;
And join the tumult with unbounded glee,
The humble tenants of the pail and plough:
He loved old sports,' by them revived, to see,
But never cared to join in their rude revelry.

O'er brook-banks stretching, on the pasture-sward
He gazed, far distant from the jocund crew;
"Twas but their feats that claimed a slight regard;
"Twas his-his pastimes lonely to pursue-
Wild blossoms creeping in the grass to view,
Scarce peeping up the tiny bent as high,
Betinged with glossy yellow, red or blue,
Unnamed, unnoticed but by Lubin's eye,

That like low genius sprang, to bloom their day and die.

O! who can tell the sweets of May-day's morn,
To waken rapture in a feeling mind;

When the gilt east unveils her dappled dawn,
And the gay woodlark has its nest resigned,
As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind;

Morn reddening round, and daylight's spotless hue,
As seemingly with rose and lily lined;

While all the prospect round beams fair to view, Like a sweet opening flower with its unsullied dew.

Ah! often brushing through the dripping grass,
Has he been seen to catch this early charm,
Listening the 'love-song' of the healthy lass
Passing with milk-pail on her well-turned arm;
Or meeting objects from the rousing farm-
The jingling plough-teams driving down the steep,
Wagon and cart; and shepherd-dogs' alarm,
Raising the bleatings of unfolding sheep,

As o'er the mountain top the red sun 'gins to peep.

Nor could the day's decline escape his gaze;
He loved the closing as the rising day,
And oft would stand to catch the setting rays,
Whose last beams stole not unperceived away;
When, hesitating like a stag at bay,

The bright unwearied sun seemed loath to drop,
Till chaos' night-hounds hurried him away,
And drove him headlong from the mountain top,
And shut the lovely scene, and bade all nature stop.

With contemplation's stores his mind to fill, O doubly happy would he roam as then, When the blue eve crept deeper round the hill, While the coy rabbit ventured from his den, And weary labour sought his rest again; Lone wanderings led him haply by the stream, Where unperceived he 'joyed his hours at will, Musing the cricket twittering o'er its dream, Or watching o'er the brook the moonlight's dancing

beam.

And here the rural muse might aptly say, As sober evening sweetly siles along, How she has chased black ignorance away, And warmed his artless soul with feelings strong, To teach his reed to warble forth a song; And how it echoed on the even-gale, All by the brook the pasture-flowers among: But ah! such trifles are of no availThere's few to notice him, or hear his simple tale.

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latter years were gratified by the talents and reputation of his two sons, James and Horace. James, the eldest, was educated at a school at Chigwell, in Essex, and was usually at the head of his class. For this retired schoolboy spot' he ever retained a strong affection, rarely suffering, as his brother relates, a long interval to elapse without paying it a visit, and wandering over the scenes that recalled the truant excursions of himself and chosen playmates, or the solitary rambles and musings of his youth. Two of his latest poems are devoted to his reminiscences of Chigwell. After the completion of his education, James Smith was articled to his father, was taken into partnership in due time, and eventually succeeded to the business, as well as to the appointment of solicitor to the Ordnance. With a quick sense of the ridiculous, a strong passion for the stage and the drama, and a love of London society and manners, Smith became a town wit and humorist delighting in parodies, theatrical colloquies, and fashionable criticism. His first pieces appear to have been contributed to the Pic-Nic newspaper established by Colonel Henry Greville, which afterwards merged into The Cabinet, both being solely calculated for the topics and feelings of the day. A selection from the Pic-Nic papers, in two small volumes, was published in 1803. He next joined the writers for the London Review-a journal established by Cumberland the dramatist, on the novel principle of affixing the writer's name to his critique.

The Review proved a complete failure. The system right, which had been originally offered to Mr Murof publishing names was an unwise innovation, de-ray for L.20, was purchased by that gentleman, in stroying equally the harmless curiosity of the reader, 1819, after the sixteenth edition, for L.131. The and the critical independence of the author; and articles written by James Smith consisted of imitaCumberland, besides, was too vain, too irritable and tions of Wordsworth, Cobbett, Southey, Coleridge, poor, to secure a good list of contributors. Smith Crabbe, and a few travesties. Some of them are then became a constant writer in the Monthly inimitable, particularly the parodies on Cobbett and Mirror (wherein Henry Kirke White first attracted Crabbe, which were also among the most popular. the notice of what may be termed the literary world), Horace Smith contributed imitations of Walter and in this work appeared a series of poetical imita- Scott, Moore, Monk Lewis, Lord Byron, W. T. tions, entitled Horace in London, the joint production Fitzgerald (whose 'Loyal Effusion' is irresistibly of James and Horace Smith. These parodies were ludicrous for its extravagant adulation and fustian), subsequently collected and published in one volume Dr Johnson, &c. The amount of talent displayed in 1813, after the success of the Rejected Addresses by the two brothers was pretty equal; for none of had rendered the authors famous. Some of the James Smith's parodies are more felicitous than that pieces display a lively vein of town levity and of Scott by Horace. The popularity of the 'Rejected humour, but many of them also are very trifling Addresses' seems to have satisfied the ambition of and tedious. In one stanza, James Smith has given the elder poet. He afterwards confined himself to a true sketch of his own tastes and character :- short anonymous pieces in the New Monthly Magazine and other periodicals, and to the contribution of some humorous sketches and anecdotes towards Mr Mathews's theatrical entertainments, the authorship of which was known only to a few. The Country Cousins, Trip to France, and Trip to America, mostly written by Smith, and brought out by Mathews at the English Opera House, not only brought the witty writer a thousand pounds-a sum filled the theatre, and replenished the treasury, but

Me toil and ease alternate share,
Books, and the converse of the fair,
(To see is to adore 'em);

With these, and London for my home,
I envy not the joys of Rome,

The Circus or the Forum!

To London he seems to have been as strongly at

tached as Dr Johnson himself. 'A confirmed me

Your lower limbs seemed far from stout
When last I saw you walk;

The cause I presently found out
When you began to talk.

The power that props the body's length,
In due proportion spread,

In you mounts upwards, and the strength
All settles in the head.

tropolitan in all his tastes and habits, he would often allusion without shrugging up his shoulders, and to which, we are told, the receiver seldom made quaintly observe, that London was the best place in ejaculating, 'A thousand pounds for nonsense!' summer, and the only place in winter; or quote Dr Mr Smith was still better paid for a trifling exerJohnson's dogma-"Sir, the man that is tired of tion of his muse; for, having met at a dinner party London is tired of existence." At other times he the late Mr Strahan, the king's printer, then sufferwould express his perfect concurrence with Dring from gout and old age, though his faculties reMosley's assertion, that in the country one is always mained unimpaired, he sent him next morning the maddened with the noise of nothing: or laughingly following jeu d'esprit :quote the Duke of Queensberry's rejoinder on being told one sultry day in September that London was exceedingly empty-"Yes, but it's fuller than the country." He would not, perhaps, have gone quite so far as his old friend Jekyll, who used to say, that "if compelled to live in the country, he would have the approach to his house paved like the streets of London, and hire a hackney-coach to drive up and down the street all day long;" but he would relate, with great glee, a story showing the general conviction of his dislike to ruralities. He was sitting in the library at a country house, when a gentleman, informing him that the family were all out, proposed a quiet stroll into the pleasure-grounds. "Stroll! why, don't you see my gouty shoe?" "Yes, but what then? you don't really mean to say that you have got the gout? I thought you had only put on that shoe to avoid being shown over the improvements." There is some good-humoured banter and exaggeration in this dislike of ruralities; and accordingly we find that, as Johnson found his way to the remote Hebrides, Smith occasionally transported himself to Yorkshire and other places, the country seats of friends and noblemen. The 'Rejected Addresses' appeared in 1812, having engaged James and Horace Smith six weeks, and proving one of the luckiest hits in literature.' The directors of Drury Lane theatre had offered a premium for the best poetical address to be spoken on opening the The easy social bachelor-life of James Smith was new edifice; and a casual hint from Mr Ward, secretary to the theatre, suggested to the witty brothers perately, and at his club-dinner restricted himself to much impaired by hereditary gout. He lived temthe composition of a series of humorous addresses, his half-pint of sherry; but as a professed joker and professedly composed by the principal authors of the day. The work was ready by the opening of the diner out,' he must often have been tempted to theatre, and its success was almost unexampled. gout began to assail him in middle life, and he graover-indulgence and irregular hours. Attacks of Eighteen editions have been sold; and the copy-dually lost the use and the very form of his limbs, bearing all his sufferings, as his brother states, with 'an undeviating and unexampled patience.' One of

* Memoir prefixed to Smith's Comic Miscellanies, 2 vols.

1841.

6

Mr Strahan was so much gratified by the compli
ment, that he made an immediate codicil to his
will, by which he bequeathed to the writer the sum
of L.3000! Horace Smith, however, mentions that
Mr Strahan had other motives for his generosity,
for he respected and loved the man quite as much
as he admired the poet. James made a happier,
though, in a pecuniary sense, less lucky epigram
on Miss Edgeworth :-

We every-day bards may 'anonymous' sign—
That refuge, Miss Edgeworth, can never be thine.
Thy writings, where satire and moral unite,
Must bring forth the name of their author to light.
Good and bad join in telling the source of their birth;
The bad own their EDGE, and the good own their
WORTH.

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