glowing descriptions of Davis. Thus, when Davis calls the Duke of Marlborough "a tall, handsome man, for his age, with a very obliging address, of clear and sound judgment," &c., &c., Swift writes in the margin, "Detestably covetous," a character we now know to be true. "The Duke of Ormond has," says Davis, "all the qualities of a great man, except that (those) of a statesman," to which Swift assents; but the Duke of Somerset "has hardly common sense;" the Earl of Nottingham is an endless talker;" the Duke of Bolton is "a great booby;" Earl Rivers is "an arrant knave in common dealings;" the Earl of Portland, " as great a dunce as I ever knew;" the Earl of Derby, alas! for Stanley, as arrant a scoundrel as his brother." Then comes a good nobleman, the Earl of Thanet-he is "of great piety and virtue;" but, alas! the Earl of Sandwich is "a puppy;" Earl Ranelagh," the vainest old fool I ever saw;" Lord Lucas, "a good, plain humdrum;" the Earl of Chesterfield, "the greatest knave in England;" the Earl of Berkeley, "intolerably lazy, and somewhat covetous," Lord Guilford is "a very silly fellow;" and Lord Wharton, "the most universal villain I ever knew." Now, we submit that, historically, these characters are true; and also we beg to infer from it, that the gentlemen of England, descended from these, have nothing to be proud of, although their ancestors' portraits are painted by Lely and Jervis, and their names are mentioned by Burke. In short, they come in the category of those whose ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through fools and villains since the flood." And, alas! for that silly pride, the pride of birth; is not this, since no human being is perfect, also true of our own? Swift's epigrams are, it may be supposed from the foregoing, exceedingly plain-spoken; two of them upon windows-diamond-pointed pencils were then common; and Mr. Pope turned a pretty compliment with one of them, both curious and good. Of course, the window written on was that of an inn, some of the glass of which would, with such an autograph, fetch a good price in the market of curiosities. ON AN INN-WINDOW. "The glass, by lover's nonsense blurr'd, The doctor always had something to say against love. The second preserves a hit against another mistress, whom he hatedthe Church: AT AN INN AT CHESTER. "The church and clergy here, no doubt, The couplet below satirizes the musical feuds between Handel and Bonincini, and does not say much for the dean's love of music, however greatly it may enhance his wit:— ON A MUSICAL DISPUTE. "Strange! all this difference should be One upon Colonel Chartres, that old villain, whose fate is familiar to us, from his portrait in Hogarth's "Rake's Progress," has been stolen by Pope, and applied to Lord Coningsby; the best of it is, that with neither is it original, the idea being found in the Latin "Anthology." Swift's we quote; it is the same as Pope's in all but the name:— EPITAPH ON F. C. (FRANCIS CHArtres). In the batch which follows, some of our readers will find old friends. They are, indeed, the most pointed which we have. "You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home." FROM THE FRENCH. "Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool; But you, yourself, may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet." ON A CHILD'S DEATH. My friend complains that God has given 'Tis good to have a friend at court." I heard Mr. Thackeray in his admirable lecture attest that Swift had never spoken well of a child; nay, nor had mentioned one, except to say, "that it squalled." I hope he will consider this an exception. The * I also quote the Latin:"Johannes hic jacet Mirandula-cetera norunt Et Tagus et Ganges-forsan et Antipodes." 545 thought which seems abrupt in four lines, is TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY WHO SPOKE IN a very solemn and touching one, and has been expanded by worse rhymesters than Swift into twenty or thirty verses; and so adieu to the "dean," as pre-eminently the dean, as well as Wellington was the duke. We have omitted many, very many, of his epigrams, some of them searching, bitter, and cutting sharply as a razor; especially that one upon Whitshed's motto on his coach. Let us believe this: it were good for us to have a Swift alive now, to lash the stupidity and the vices of pretenders to talent, to government and to places. Dr. Abel Evans, whose name fills a conspicuous place in a wretched Oxford hexameter and pentameter, "Alma novem genuis celebres Rhedycina poetas Bubb, Stubb, Cobb, Crabb, Trapp, Young Carey, Tickel, Evans," PRAISE OF LIBERTY. TO A FRIEND ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. "On parent knees, a naked new-born child, A very pompous overdrawn compliment is that upon Pope's translation of Homer: "So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms, Curious also in its repetition is this one: ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF KILDARE. "Who kill'd Kildare? who dar'd Kildare to kill?" DEATH ANSWERS: Weeping thou satst, whilst all around thee smiled; « I kill'd Kildare, and dare kill whom I will." Pye (the Laureat), Mason (author of Caractacus), Wolcot (Peter Pindar), Aikin, and Mrs. Robinson, have all left epigrams. The lady is memorable as being mistress of the Duke of York, and also founder of that sentimental school of poetry which Gifford, the editor of the Quarterly, utterly annihilated by his satires, the "Baviad" and "Moviad." We quote it on account of its being a specimen of exploded silliness; the reader will notice what Mrs. Malaprop calls the "nice derangement of her epitaphs:" TO HIM WHO LAMENTED SEEING A BEAUTIFUL "The lucid tear from Lesbia's eye, "For, like the sun, her eyes diffuse O'er her fair FACE so bright a ray, The capitals and italics are Mrs. Robinson's, not our own. Let us now hasten towards the close of a gossiping article, by culling some of the unknown :-one, on THE OPERA. "An opera, like a pillory, may be said, ON A PALE LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND. Is it because the absent rose Has gone to paint her husband's nose?" And rich in its satire is the one on that head of a College at Oxford, who starved his horses. The doctor had set an undergraduate the task of making verses on the theme, omne ignotum pro magnifico. And these, so the story goes, were the result: "Averse to pampered and high-mettled steeds, Good, also, is that repartee, TO A BOASTER OF HIS ANCESTOR'S EXPLOITS. "Still storming cities! burning ships in harbor! I wish your grandfather had been a barber." In the days of the Regency, amongst that galaxy of wits, the effulgence of whose fame lightens even the present day, we find, of course, plenty of epigrammatists. There was Wolcot (Peter Pindar,) who, after satirizing "great George our King," extended his favors, when he himself was an old man, to his successors. There were the writers in "The Oxford Sausage," that eccentric but witty magazine; there were Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere, the editors of "The Microcosm;" there were Hunt, Lamb, Moore, and Byron, the last of whom, as being for the most part illustrative of his feelings, we shall quote. The first was addressed to his wife a few months before their separation: "There is a mystic thread of life, So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none." The next tells a very different story: LORD BYRON TO HIS LADY, On the sixth anniversary of their marriage. "How strangely time his course has run, Neither of these, however, is a very excellent specimen of the art. The last we shall quote is in the best style of the serious epigram. It is printed in the French edition of Lord Byron's works (Paris 1826, page 716), but has been attributed to Scott. Nor have we now the proper books near us to verify the authorship. With us they bear the title of LINES FOUND IN LORD BYRON'S BIBLE. "Within this awful volume lies was The idea of a French invasion in 1803, called forth a host of broadsides in verse, and caricatures, and loyal and patriotic epigrams. The divine afflatus was not wanting in the songs, as those who, like us, have seen the original broadside of Campbell's "Mariners of England," can witness; nor point wanting in the epigrams; but they are too much adapted to the times to quote, and for this reason also we omit many upon the fashions, the dandies, and dandizettes of the Regency. In fact, we have come to the limits of an article like our own, and should we continue any longer might tire our readers. For this reason, also, we forbear to quote any theatrical epigrams, which abound in all sorts of magazines of the days of Garrick, or of Kemble, Siddons, and Kean. In our own days, Punch and other satirical publications have been the outlet for epigrammatic writers, and some of these productions have been of the most brilliant and forcible kind. But a feeling has gradually arisen that the versified epigram is old-fashioned, and therefore the prose style is now more indulged in than before. In this, especially in his comedies, Douglas Jerrold is unrivalled, and one of the most beautiful in 66 the language by this author is to be found in The Hermit of Bellyfulle," the finest and most philosophic of this writer's works; a writer, by the way, whose wit is too fine ever to reach extreme popularity. The Hermit is preaching patience. "Do you know," said he, "what patience did?" "Patience wanted a nightingale, patience waited-and the egg sang!" The ellipsis is there perfect; the space between the small egg and the singing-bird charming; the silence of the listening night is something of the sublime. But from even an essay short as our own, upon this subject, one should not omit the name of that poet, dear to all lovers of humor as of poetry, Thomas Hood. We have but space for one of his productions; but that is a good one; neither has it a melancholy cadence, Our sparkles shall not be touched with a lurid light; let therefore even the German tourist, who, accompanying Prince Albert from "Vaterland," made this mistake, laugh at the EPIGRAM. "Charmed with the drink which Highlanders compose, A German traveller exclaimed with glee, Potzausend! sare, if this be Athol Brose, How good de Athol Boetry must be !" So ends our Gallop: we must pull up now, and let the reins hang upon the neck of our tired steed. We have gone at a pretty good rate from the Alcæus and Sappho to Thomas Hood; we have seen that these small darts of wit can be serious or jocose, inimical or friendly; that they can give us a hint upon love, upon war, or even upon religion. Connected with this we shall find, that even in the small space of an epigram we have perhaps the best definition of the most sublime idea which ever entered the brain of manneed we say, ETERNITY? "Reason does but one quaint solution lend To Nature's deepest yet divinest riddle; Time is but a beginning and an end, Eternity is nothing but a middle." This is from the pen of the author of "Alethea;" verily, after reading it, let us hope that the general reader will say, that, even from our imperfect sketch, "There is much in an epigram." It is sometimes instructive, and at all times interesting, to learn something of the eccentricities, failings, and foibles of remarkable persons. Such traits form the most attractive and salient points of biographical works; they may be called the coloring of literary portraiture, and, being endowed with an individual vitality, are found to linger longest in the memory of the general reader. Having gathered together a number of these personal anecdotes, we propose to pass away a gossiping, and not wholly an unprofitable, half hour in relating them to our readers. It is painful to reflect upon the inordinate vanity which characterizes many illustrious lives. When Cæsar became bald, he constantly wore the laurel-wreath with which we see him represented on medals, in the hope of concealing the defect; and Cicero's egotism was so great, that he even composed a Latin hexameter in his own praise: Oh fortunatam natam me Consule Roman. (Oh fortunate Rome when I was born her consul!) a line which elicited the just sarcasms of Juvenal. Queen Elizabeth left 3000 different dresses in her wardrobe when she died; and during many years of the latter part of her life, would not suffer a looking glass in her presence, for fear that she should perceive the ravages of time upon her countenance. Mæcenas, the most egregious of classic exquisites, is said to have" wielded the Roman Empire with rings on his fingers." The vanity of Benvenuto Cellini is too well known to need repetition. Sir Walter Raleigh was, perhaps, the greatest beau on record. His shoes, on court-days, were so gorgeously adorned with precious stones, as to have exceeded 6000 guineas in value; and he had a suit of armor of solid silver, with jewelled sword and belt, the worth of which was almost incalculable. The great Descartes was very particular about his wigs, and always kept four in his dressing closet; a piece of vanity wherein he was imitated by Sir Rich ard Steele, who never expended less than equalled, in his own opinion, those of the |