410 Paragraphs from a Portfolio. QOct. 



own pursuit was humorously represented by his definition of — " Lexico- 

 grapher, a writer of dictionaries, a harmless drudge;" and " Grub-street, 

 the name of a street in London much inhabited by writers of small 

 histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems j whence any mean produc- 

 tion is called Grub-street." 



Tom Warton, the Laureate, abounded in eccenti-icities, as is the case 

 with most men who have lived much by themselves. Tom Wai-ton had 

 *' kept his chambers" for thirty years in a coUege. He had an extraor- 

 dinary fondness for puppet-shews^ and all sorts of street exhibitions, pro- 

 vided they were attended with a drum. The charm was in the drum. 

 He was a thorough believer in the frequent appearance of ghosts, though 

 I do not recollect whether he ever was indulged in person with any visit 

 from the tombs. One of his propensities, and a most unaccountable one, 

 though he shared it with Selwyn and many others of note, was his fond- 

 ness for seeing executions. In one instance, when he had some parti- 

 cular reason to fear the indecorum of being present, he was known to 

 have disguised himself in a smock-frock, and appeared as a carter. 



He was desperately ridiculed in the " Probationary Odes for the Lau- 

 reateship," and the joke was made keener bj' an ode of his own being the 

 one inserted among the burlesques. Unluckil}', nothing could be more 

 capable of being turned into a caricature of the whole art and mystery of 

 those unfortunate productions, Birthday Odes. The Laureate seemed to 

 take the jest in good pai-t, but the blow was not to be parried. 



IVIason, the poet, was a good deal of a coxcomb. All the world have 

 laughed at the story of the senior wrangler, who on going to the play 

 one night when the king was present, and seeing the audience standing 

 up, begged of them to sit down again, declaring that he had not expected 

 Cambridge news to be so soon known in London, and that, though he >vas 

 senior wrangler, he was still but a man. 



]\Iason went nearly the same length of modest deprecation. He had 

 written a heavy poem called Isis, containing some reflections on Oxford, 

 and speedily forgotten by every body. Some years after, he paid a visit 

 to Oxford, and congratulating himself that he entered it at the close of 

 the evening, his friend asked him the reason, " Oh^ to be unseen !" Avas 

 the answer ; " remember my ' Isis.' " 



The French have a pleasant little anecdote of a poet suddenly awak- 

 ened from his dream of popularity. The bard had published some 

 verses on the Lottery, which fell lifeless. After running about Paris 

 for a week to gather his laurels, and finding that the crop had entirely 

 failed, he left the city of the IMuses and Graces, with a solemn protest 

 against ever believing again that a Parisian knew good verses from 

 bad. 



Within a league or two of the abandoned city, he sat down to rest 

 himself, and soon perceived that he was the object of marked attention 

 to all the passers by. Some took off their hats — some pressed their hands 

 on their bosoms — some looked up to Heaven, as if thanking it for having 

 sent so distinguished a genius upon earth. The bard was surprised, 

 delighted, overwhelmed with gratitude. " Paltry Pai'isians \" he 

 exclaimed, " your brains are stuffed with the dust of your stupid streets. 

 It is only in the country that sensibility exists ; — this is true fame at 

 last." He rose, and continued gratefullj' taking off his hat to every 



