volume, entitled "The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs," was thrown accidentally in my way; and its perusal occasions me to acquaint the readers of the Table Book with its uncommon merit. I do not know any thing concerning the poet beyond what I have derived from printed particulars, which I now endeavour to diffuse. That he is highly esteemed by a discriminating brother bard in his native county, is apparent by the following beautiful address to him in the Nottingham Mercury:

STANZAS.

My thoughts are of a solitary place,'

Where twilight dwells, where sunbeams rarely fall; And there a wild-rose hangs in pensive grace, Reflected in a fountain clear and small; Above them rise dark shadowy trees and tall, Whilst round them grow rank night-shades in the gloom,

Which seem with noxious influence to pall The fountain's light, and taint the flower's perfume; As fainly they would mar what they might not outbloom.

These, mind me, Millhouse! of thy spirit's light,
That twilight makes in life so dark as thine!
And though I do not fear the rose may blight,

Or that the fountain's flow may soon decline;
Hope, is there none, the boughs which frown malign,
High over-head, should let in heaven's sweet face;

Yet shall not these their life unknown resign, For nature's votaries, wandering in each place, Shall find their secret shade, and marvel at their grace.

It appears from a small volume, published in 1823, entitled "Blossoms-by Robert Millhouse-being a Selection of Sonnets from his various Manuscripts," that the Rev. Luke Booker, LL.D. vicar of Dudley, deemed its author "a man whose genius and character seemed to merit the patronage of his country, while his pressing wants, in an equal degree, claimed its compassion." The doctor "presumed to advocate his case and his cause" before the "Literary Fund," and a donation honourable to the society afforded the poet temporary relief. This, says Millhouse, was" at a time when darkness surrounded me on every side." In a letter to Dr. Booker, lamenting the failure of a subscription to indemnify him for publishing his poems, when sickness had reduced a wife and infant child to the borders of the grave, he says, "I am now labouring under indisposition both of body and mind; which, with the united evils of poverty and a bad trade, have brought on me a species of

melancholy that requires the utmost exertions of my philosophy to encounter." About this period he wrote the following :➡

TO A LEAFLESS HAWTHORN.

Hail, rustic tree! for, though November's wind
Has thrown thy verdant mantle to the ground:
Yet Nature, to thy vocal inmates kind,

With berries red thy matron-boughs has crown'd.
Thee do I envy: for, bright April show'rs
Will bid again thy fresh green leaves expand;
And May, light floating in a cloud of flow'rs,
Will cause thee to re-bloom with magic hand.
But, on my spring, when genial dew-drops fell,
Soon did life's north-wind curdle them with frost;
And, when my summer-blossom op'd its bell,
In blight and mildew was its beauty lost.

Before adducing other specimens of his talents, it seems proper to give some account of the poet; and it can scarcely be better related than in the following MEMOIR OF ROBERT MILLHOUSE, BY HIS ELDER BROTHER, JOHN MILLHOUSE.

Robert Millhouse was born at Nottingham the 14th of October, 1788, and was the second of ten children. The poverty of his parents compelled them to put him to work at the age of six years, and when ten he was sent to work in a stocking-loom. He had been constantly sent to a Sunday school, (the one which was under the particular patronage of that truly philanthropic ornament of human nature, the late Mr. Francis Wakefield,) till about the last-mentioned age, when a requisition having been sent by the rector of St. Peter's parish, Dr. Staunton, to the master of the school, for six of his boys to become singers at the church, Robert was one that was selected; and thus terminated his education, which merely consisted of reading, and the first rudiments of writing.

When sixteen years old he first evinced an inclination for the study of poetry, which originated in the following manner.-Being one day at the house of an acquaintance, he observed on the chimney-piece two small statues of Shakspeare and Milton, which attracting his curiosity, he read on a tablet in front of the former, that celebrated inscription

"The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind !"

Its beauty and solemnity excited in his mind the highest degree of admiration!

At the first opportunity he related the occurrence to me with apparent astonishment, and concluded by saying, "Is it not Scripture?" In reply, I told him it was a passage from Shakspeare's play of the "Tempest," a copy of which I had in my possession, and that he had better read it. For, although he had from his infancy been accustomed to survey with delight the beautiful scenery which surrounds Nottingham, had heard with rapture the singing of birds, and been charmed with the varied beauties of the changing seasons; and though his feelings were not unfre quently awakened by hearing read pathetic narratives, or accounts of the actions and sufferings of great and virtuous men, yet he was totally ignorant that such things were in any wise connected with poetry.

He now began to read with eagerness such books as I had previously collected, the principal of which were some of the plays of Shakspeare, Paradise Lost, Pope's Essay on Man, the select poems of Gray, Collins, Goldsmith, Prior, and Parnell, two volumes of the Tatler, and Goldsmith's Essays, all of the cheapest editions. But, ere long, by uniting our exertions, we were enabled to purchase Suttaby's miniature edition of Pope's Homer, Dryden's Virgil, Hawkesworth's translation of Telemachus, Mickle's version of the Lusiad, Thomson's Seasons, Beattie's Minstrel, &c. These were considered as being a most valuable acquisition; and the more so, because we had feared we should never be able to obtain a sight of some of them, through their being too voluminous and expensive.

In 1810 he became a soldier in the Nottinghamshire militia, joined the regiment at Plymouth, and shortly afterwards made an attempt at composition.

It will readily be expected that now, being separated, we should begin to correspond with each other; and one day, on opening a letter which I had just received from him, I was agreeably surprised at the sight of his first poetical attempt, the "Stanzas addressed to a Swallow;" which was soon after followed by the small piece written "On finding a Nest of Robins." Shortly after this the regiment embarked at Plymouth, and proceeded to Dublin; from which place, in the spring of 1812, I received in succession several other efforts of his muse.

Being now desirous of knowing for certain whether any thing he had hitherto produced was worthy to appear in print, he requested me to transmit some of them to the editor of the Nottingham Review, with

a desire that, if they met with his approbation, he would insert them in his paper; with which request that gentleman very promptly complied. Having now a greater confidence in himself, he attempted something of a larger kind, and produced, in the summer of 1812, the poem of "Nottingham Park."

In 1814 the regiment was disembodied, when he again returned to the stockingloom, and for several years entirely neglected composition. In 1817 he was placed on the staff of his old regiment, now the Royal Sherwood Foresters; and in the following year became a married man. The cares of providing for a family now increased his necessities; he began seriously to reflect on his future prospects in life; and perceiving he had no other chance of bettering his condition than by a publication, and not having sufficient already written to form a volume, he resolved to attempt something of greater magnitude and importance than he had hitherto done; and in February, 1819, began the poem of "Vicissitude." The reader will easily conceive that such a theme required some knowledge of natural and moral philosophy, of history, and of the vital principles of religion. How far he has succeeded in this poem is not for me to say; but certain it is, as may be expected from the narrowness of his education, and his confined access to books, his knowledge is very superficial: however, with unceasing exertions, sometimes composing while at work under the pressure of poverty and illhealth, and at other times, when released from his daily labour, encroaching upon the hours which ought to have been allotted to sleep, by the end of October, 1820, the work was brought to a conclusion.

To his brother's narrative should be added, that Robert Millhouse's "Vicissitude," and other poems, struggled into the world with great difficulty, and were succeeded by the volume of "Blossoms." The impression of both was small, their sale slow, and their price low; and nearly as soon as each work was disposed of, the produce was exhausted by the wants of the author and his family.

Fresh and urgent necessities have required fresh exertions, and the result is "The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs," a four-shilling volume, "printed for the Author and sold by R. Hunter, St. Paul's Church-yard, and J. Dunn, Not tingham." The book appeared in the

"Tis difficult for little men

To raise their feeble pigmy heads so high,
As to attract the glance of passing ken

Where giant shoulders intercept the sky;
And ah! 'tis difficult for such as I,

To wake fit strains where mighty minstrels sing;
Perhaps, even this, shall but be born and die;

Not fated to enjoy a second spring,

prepared to offer whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind."* Every English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true sense of the word. His "Song of the Patriot" is a series of energetic stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding prescribed

wing.

In this poem there are stanzas expressed with all a poet's fire, and all a patriot's heartfelt devotion to his country. Land of my fathers! may thy rocky coast

Long be the bulwark of thy free-born race;
Long may thy patriots have just cause to boast
That mighty Albion is their native place;
Still be thy sons unequall'd in the chase
Of glory, be it science, arts, or arms;

And first o'erweening conquerors to disgrace;
Yet happier far, when Peace in all her charms,
Drives out from every land the din of war's alarms.
Potent art thou in poesy-Yet there still

Is one thing which the bard hath seldom scann'd ; That national, exalting local thrill,

Which makes our home a consecrated land :] 'Tis not enough to stretch the Muses' wand O'er states, where thy best blood has purchas'd fame; Nor that thy fertile genius should expand To cast o'er foreign themes the witching flame:

already quoted.

A beacon, lighted on a giant hill;

A barrier, to control the despot's will;

A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state;

An instrument of all-directing fate

Is Britain; for whate'er in man is great, Full to that greatness have her sons attain'd; Dreadful in war to hurl the battle's weight; Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain'd; Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain'd.

In wealth and power stupendous is our isle!
Obtain'd by Labour's persevering hand:
And heaven-born Liberty extends her smile
To the remotest corners of our land:
The meanest subject feels her potent wand;
Peasant and peer are by one law controll'd;

And this it is, that keeps us great and grand:
This is the impulse makes our warriors bold,
And knits more close the bond our fathers seal'd of old.

The prevailing feature in Robert Millhouse's effusions is of a domestic nature.

name.

Be every hill and dale, where childhood wanders,
And every grove and nook, the lover knows,
And every stream, and runlet that meanders,
And every plain that covers freedom's foes
The dwelling-place of Song,-and where repose
The great immortal worthies of our isle

Be hallow'd ground-and when the pilgrim goes
To hail the sacred dust, and muse awhile,

Be heard the free-born strain to blanch the tyrant's smile.

The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. "In the most virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times

place and the hearth of his family its brightest spots. One of his sonnets combines these feelings:

HOME.

Scenes of my birth, and careless childhood hours! Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales! Where oft I wander'd, plucking vernal flowers, And revell'd in the odour-breathing gales; Should fickle Fate, with talismanic wand,

Bear me afar where either India glows, Or fix my dwelling on the Polar land,

Where Nature wears her ever-during snows; Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn; When placid evening paints the western sky,

• Robert Hall

O born of heaven, thou Child of magic Song!

What pangs, what cutting hardships wait on thee, When thou art doom'd to cramping Poverty; The pois'nous shafts from Defamation's tongue, The jeers and tauntings of the blockhead throng. Who joy to see thy bold exertions fail; While Hunger, pinching as December's gale, Brings moody dark Despondency along.

And, should'st thou strive Fame's lofty mount to scale,

The steps of its ascent are cut in sand;
And half-way up,-a snake-scourge in her hand,
Lurks pallid Envy, ready to assail :
And last, if thou the top, expiring, gain,
When Fame applauds, thou hearest not the strain.

In this sheet there is not room to further make known, or plead at greater length, the claims of Robert Millhouse to notice and protection. I should blush for any reader of poetical taste, with four shillings to spare, who, after perusing the preceding extracts, would hesitate to purchase the poet's last little volume. I should more than blush for the more wealthy, who are reputed patrons of talent, if they decline to seek out and effectually succour him. I am, and am likely to remain, wholly unacquainted with him: my only wish is to induce attention to a talented and estimable individual, who is obscure and neglected, because he is unobtrusive and modest.'

August 8, 1827.

backward, and preserve the same sense. There is specimen of this "literary ingenuity" in the present volume of the Table Book, (col. 28.) The "Lives of the Saints" afford another, viz :

St. Martin (of whom there is an account in the Every-Day Book, vol. i. p. 1469) having given up the profession of a soldier, and being elected bishop of Tours, when prelates neither kept carriages, horses, nor servants, had occasion to go to Rome, in order to consult his holiness upon some important ecclesiastical matter. As he was walking gently along the road, he met the devil, who politely accosted him, and ventured to observe how fatiguing and indecorous it was for him to perform so long a journey on foot, like the commonest of cockle-shell-chaperoned pilgrims. The saint knew well the drift of Old Nick's address, and commanded him immediately to become a beast of burthen, or jumentum ; which the devil did in a twinkling, by assuming the shape of a mule. The saint jumped upon the fiend's back, who, at first, trotted cheerfully along, but soon slackened his pace. The bishop, of course, had neither whip nor spurs, but was possessed of a much more powerful stimulus, for, says the legend, he made the sign of the cross, and the smarting devil instantly galloped away. father of sin returned to sloth and obstiSoon, however, and naturally enough, the nacy, and Martin hurried him again with repeated signs of the cross, till twitched and stung to the quick by those crossings so hateful to him, the vexed and tired reprobate uttered the following distich in a rage :

Signa te, Signa: temere me tangis et angis:
Roma tibi subito motibus ibit amor.
That is

AN INFERNAL PALINDROME. [Palindrome. A word or sentence which is the same

sentence Subi dura a rudibus.

Johnson.]

Whence did Geoffry Crayon derive "The Poor Devil Author," the title to one of his "Tales of a Traveller," but from a legendary story, according to which the devil is acquainted with versification, although his lines are constructed in a very remarkable manner; for they can be read forward and

-ibit makes tibi-and so forth.

These lines have been quoted imperfectly and separately in "Encyclopedies and other books, under the words "Palindromical verses;" but the reader will not easily meet with the legendary tale, which gives them historical consistence and meaning.

Garrick Plays.

No. XXIX.

My father's Usher, but the world's beside, Because he goes before it all in folly.

'Twas the best fashion'd and well-order'd thing,
That ever eye beheld: and therewithal,
The fit attendance by the servants used,
The gentle guise in serving every guest,
In other entertainments; every thing
About your house so sortfully disposed,
That ev'n as in a turn-spit (call'd a Jack)
One vice assists another; the great wheels,
Turning but softly, make the less to whirr
About their business; every different part
Concurring to one commendable end:
So, and in such conformance, with rare grace
Were all things order'd in your good Lord's house.
Bass, The most fit Simile that ever was.
Vinc. But shall I tell you plainly my conceit,
Touching the man that (I think) caused this order?
Bass. Aye, good my Lord,

Vinc. You note my Simile?
Bass. Drawn from the turn-spit
Viac. I see, you have me.

Even as in that quaint engine you have seen
A little man in shreds stand at the winder,
And seems to put in act all things about him,
Lifting and pulling with a mighty stir,-
Yet adds no force to it, nor nothing does :
So, though your Lord be a brave gentleman,
And seems to do this business, he does nothing.
Some man about him was the festival robe
That made him shew so glorious and divine.

Bass. I cannot tell, my Lord; but I should know, If any such there were.

Vine. Should know, quoth you?

I warrant, you know well. Well, some there be,
Shall have the fortune to have such rare men
(Like brave Beasts to their arms) support their state;
When others, of as high a worth and breed,
Are made the wasteful food of them they feed.➡
What state hath your Lord made you for your service?

The same Bassiolo described.

Lord's Daughter, his place is great; for he is not only

• Turn.

Unknown, 1652.]

Lover's Frown.

Roderiguez. Thy uncle, Love, holds still a jealous

eye

On all my actions; and I am advised,
That his suspicious ears

Are still behind the hangings; that the servants
Have from him in command to watch who visits.
'Tis safest, in my judgment, in his
presence
That thou forbear to cast a smile upon me;

And that, like old December, I should look
With an unpleasant and contracted brow.

Varina. What, can'st thou change thy heart, my dear, that heart

Of flesh thou gav'st me, into adamant,

Or rigid marble? can'st thou frown on me?

Rod. You do mistake me, sweet, 1 mean not so To change my heart; I'll change my countenance, But keep my heart as loyal as before.

Var. In truth I cannot credit it, that thou Can'st cast a frown on me; I prithee, try. Rod. Then thus:

(he tries, and cannot; they smile on each other.) Var. I prithee, sweet, betake thyself to school; This lesson thou must learn; in faith thou art out, Rod. Well, I must learn, and practice it, or we Shall blast our budding hopes.

Var. Come, try again.

Rod. But if I try, and prove a good proficient; If I do act my part discretely, you

Must take it as a play, not as a truth;

Think it a formal, not a real frown.

Var. I shall

Rod. Then thus: i'faith, minion, I'll look to thee.

(she swoons.)

Rod. Why, how now, sweet!-I did mistrust thy weakness:

Now I have learn'd my part, you are to seek.

Var. 'Faith, 'twas my weakness; when I did perceive

A cloud of rage condensed on thy brow,
My heart began to melt.

[From "Love Tricks," a Comedy, by James Shirley.]

Passionate Courtship.

Infortunio. I must have other answer, for I love

you.

Selina. Must! but I don't see any necessity that I must love you. I do confess you are, A proper man,