The life of the historian—by Dr. Huxley—is rather a history of his philosophy than of his life; in which the eminent scientist—with due apology for intrusion upon literary ground—sets his logic to an easy canter all around the soberer paces of the great Scotch charger—showing nice agreement in the paces of the two, and commending and illustrating the metaphysics of the Historian, with a pretty fanfaronade of Exposition and Applause.
A Pair of Poets.
Two poets.
Were it only to change the current of our talk, I bring now a brace of poets to your notice; not well paired indeed, as you will find: but each one in his own way giving us music that strongly contrasts with The Deserted Village, and the ponderous Satires of Johnson.
Shenstone.
Shenstone[[4]] is a name not very much known—not very much worth knowing: he was a big, somewhat scholarly, fastidious, indolent, rhyme-haunted man, who had studied at Oxford, and who, when the muses were buzzing about his ears, came into possession of a pretty farm in that bit of Shropshire which (by queer English fashion) is planted within the northern borders of Worcestershire; and it was there that he wrote—what is typical of all that he ever wrote, and what has his current and favorite sing-song in it:—
"Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look
I never once dreamt of my vine.
May I lose both my pipe and my crook
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I prized every hour that went by
Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I prized them no more."
And again—
"When forced the fair nymph to forego
What anguish I felt at my heart!