Yet Wolcot was

was taking a more licentious range. fond of my father's company; from frequenting it, was induced to think seriously; and had he more frequented it, would have become, perhaps, not only almost, but altogether a christian.—But it were better to advert to his Poetry. I remember my Father's expressing his approbation of Wolcot's "Ode to the Genius of Great Britain." It was a beautiful Ode, the stanza of which I soon after adopted in a little poem entitled" the Genius of Karnbre". '—a mountain in Cornwall. Wolcot, indeed, had, a few days before, read to ure some stanzas on Karnbre, of which I retained but a faint reccollection. This was in 1776; when the Doctor was heard, halfjestingly, to complain to my master, that I had assailed his mountain, and carried it by storm. And, in language less sublime, he charged me with having committed a trespass on his grounds, and ludicrously threatened me with an action. Itwas in 1776, that Wolcot was called in to a beloved Sister, who had been seized with

sudden stupour and died after a week's illness; notwithstanding all his efforts, and those of Dr. Gould then resident at St. Austel, now at Truro. Both physicians tho' unable to define her disease, entertained hopes of her recovery; particularly Wolcot, of whom my father's high opinion was much shaken after his protestation the day only before her death, that she was in no danger. "I vow to God I see no danger!" said he :-It was very seldom, however, that the Doctor thus committed him

self.-To the memory

tear

of that Sister, even now I drop à

"She too, congenial mind!—she, too, is gone,
Whose cherub features yet the scene endear-
She, whom a brother's love with pride shall own,
As long as love shall heave the sigh sincere!
Thy lively voice yet vibrates on my ear,
While on thy favourite crocus' golden hue,
Thy lily's tender tint I drop a tear;
While I again salute, as life were new,

Thy garden's southern hedge, where peep'd the hare bell blue.

Yes! where those lilacs flaunt their vagrant shade,
With thee I seem to haste, as once we hied,
To the trim spot, and wield my careless spade,
And plant thy roots the sunny fence beside,
And prop thy hyacinths, thy tulip's pride;
Or listen to thy woodnotes clear and sweet;

And bid thy gentle redbreast there abide—
Poor cheerless bird !—methinks thy form to meet,
Still hopping o'er each print that marks thy little feet

'Twas there the blackbird built his early nest, Neat artist! plaistering its pale moss with elay; And, mid the yet unblossom'd hawthorn blest,

Swell'd to the morning light his sprightly lay!

And there, while purpling clouds sank west away, Thy own melodious robin pour'd her throat,

Nor ceas'd, tho' all around were dusky-gray! E'en now the melancholy warblings float

I see thee charm'd, as erst, by every pensive note!"'*

To Wolcot's bold prescription of calomel (not then in fashion) my Father had to attribute a temporary escape from the gout which had attacked his stomach. But at length arrived the fatal hour, which no medicine could avert! And he died the death of a saint! On the 8th of February 1777, he was buried at St. Clement's, not in the family-vault in the Polwhele transcept, but in the church-yard; where, nigh his mortal part, my remains I hope will be deposited. He disliked vaults in churches; and in his objections, anticipated what has been lately argued on the subject.

Notice of Opie.

Opie, in his first efforts at Truro, by no means pleased the ladies :-His portraits of female beauty fell far short of the originals. He well deserved the following which I recollect to have written " pro re nata." "Ah! spare, rude hoy! that virgin cheek,

Where love lies ambush'd in a dimple!

* See Local Attachment, last book.

Go, try thy hand on Prudence Pk-
Thy pencil would hit off her pimple."

Notices of Catharine Macaulay.

I had the honour of being introduced to Mrs. Catharine Macaulay and Dr. Wilson, at Alfred-house; and at the celebration of Mrs. Macaulay's birthday, April 2 1777,-was encouraged, among other competitors for her smiles, to present her with an ode.†-I was introduced, also, to the young Dramatic Poetess of Bristol Miss Hannah More; who, whilst Catharine was receiv ing homage at Bath from greybeards and from boys, was, herself, enthroned amidst a crowd of boarding

* A girl with a large pimple on her nose. might see the pimple on her nose.'

"

"All eyes

It was soon after published together with five other odes, which had been, likewise, presented and read to "a polite and brilliant audience" on the same memorable occasion.The first ode (as it is called) by Graves, the author of the Spiritual Quixotte, closes with

"Britannia's glory thro' the world display'd

And dauntless freedom by one matchless Maid!!! to wit, by Mrs, Catharine Macaulay.-The second, is an irregular ode by Mr. Rack, who tells us, that " Apollo is" god whom all revere !!!"-The author of the third ode, was a Mr. Hinks-The fourth was by the Truro schoolboy: Its second and third stanzas were worthy (as the critics of the

school misses tutored to lisp, in soothing accents, her

Dramas and her praises.

Letter from Mrs. Macaulay.

Sir,

Bath August 23th 1778.

My having been almost continually npon the road has prevented me from answering the favor of your letter dated May 11th. Your poem of Henry and Rosamond will in my estimation be a valuable adition* to my miscellanious* works. A little scurilous* abuse from those illiberal critics the Reviewers ought not to give

day asserted) of being rescued from oblivion. In the fifth ode, Mr. Hippesley

"Amaz'd, half-drowsy, waken'd in a fright,
Arose, and penn'd his vision of the Night"-

And in the sixth, Mr. Meylex (os magna sonaturum) exclaims: "Lo! the child of Liberty!

"Tis she! tis she! tis she!"

It is well known, that Mrs. Macaulay was afterwards married to Dr. Graham, (who, in the introduction to the six odes presents his acknowlegements to Dr. Wilson" thro' her agreeable medium;") and that, with Dr. Graham (and other champions of democracy) she emigrated to America and died there.

This great Historian was not an orthogra phist.-My good old friend Cruttwel shewed me once a MS. in her hand-writing; the bad spelling of which proved a very inaccurate acquaintance with the English language. Yet this MS. contained passages of even Ciceronian eloquence.