statesmen and authors equally contributed. He continued to discharge his duties as editor until within two years of his death, which took place on the 31st of December 1826. Gifford claimed for himself A soul That spurned the crowd's malign control- His He was high-spirited, courageous and sincere. In most of his wri tings, however, there was a strong tinge of personal ascerbity, and even virulence. He was a good hater, and as he was opposed to all political visionaries and reformers, he had seldom time to cool. literary criticism, also, where no such prejudices could interfere, was frequently disfigured by the same severity of style or temper; and whoever, dead or living, had ventured to say aught against Ben Jonson, or write what he deemed wrong comments on his favourite dramatists, were assailed with a vehemence that was ludicrously disproportioned to the offence. His attacks on Hazlitt, Lamb, Hunt, and others, in the Quarterly Review,' have no pretensions to fair or candid criticism. His object was to crush such authors as were opposed to the government of the day, or who departed from his canons of literary propriety and good taste. Even the best of his criticisms, though acute and spirited, want candour and comprehensiveness of design. As a politician, he looked with distrust and suspicion on the growing importance of America, and kept alive among the English aristocracy a feeling of dislike or hostility towards that country, which was as unwise as it was ungenerous. His best service to literature was his edition of Ben Jonson, in which he successfully vindicated that great English classic from the unjust aspersions of his countrymen. His satirical poetry is pungent, and often happy in expression, but without rising into moral grandeur or pathos. His small but sinewy intellect, as some one has said, was well employed in bruising the butterflies of the Della Cruscan Muse. Some of his short copies of verses possess a quict, plaintive melancholy and tenderness; but his fame must rest on his influence and talents as a critic and annotator, or more properly, on the story of his life and early struggles-honourable to himself, and ultimately to his country-which will be read and remembered when his other writings are forgotten. The Grave of Anna. I wish I was where Anna lies, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, But who, when I am turned to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, [there? And who with pious hand shall bring The above affecting elegiac stanzas were written by Gifford on a faithful attendant who died in his service. He erected a tombstone to her memory in the burying-ground of Grosvenor Chapel, South Audley Street, with the following inscription and epitaph: Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died February 6th, 1815. in the forty-third year of her age, of a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with exemplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful testimony of her uncommon worth and of his perpetual gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meritorious services: Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest, The sportive wile, the blameless jest, Which richer tables may not know. The babe that on the mother's breast Looks up to catch a parting smile; Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, Then, then I marked the chastened joy While every word dropt on my ear So soft-and yet it seemed to thrillSo sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, And e'en thy pause had music still. And oh how like a fairy dream And many a thought of fancy bred, So hours like moments winged their Till now the boatman on the shore, Impatient of the waning light, Recalled us by the dashing oar. Well, Anna, many days like this I cannot, must not hope to share; Yet oft when memory intervenes- THE ANTI-JACOBIN POETRY. We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin' weekly paper, of which Mr. Gifford was editor. In this publication, various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin' was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party-spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was Mr. J. H. FRERE (noticed in a subsequent section), and GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this, he had distinguished himself at Eton School for his classical acquirements and literary talents. To a periodical work, the Microcosm,' he contributed several clever essays. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under-secretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin' was commenced, Gifford being editor. The contributions of Mr. Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers'-a burlesque on the sentimental German drama-and New Morality,' a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles, and their supporters in England. In this poem of New Morality' occur four lines often quoted: Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe; As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, and also perhaps on account of their slashing and ferocious style, is instanced by the fact, that the 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin,' collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, 'just alike to freedom and the throne,' though somewhat prone to intrigue, and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. From a speech delivered at Plymouth in 1823, we extract a short passage containing a fine simile: Ships of the Line in Port. The resources created by peace are means of war. In cherishing those resources, we but accumulate those means. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in the waters above your fown, is a proof they are devoid of strength and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in perfect stillness-how soon upon any call of patriotism, or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage-how quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these magnificent machines when springing from inaction into a display of its might-Such is England herself: while apparently passive and motionless, she silently concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion. But God forbid that that occasion should arise. After a war sustained for nearly a quarter of a century-sometimes single-handed, and with all Europe arranged at times against her or at her side, England needs a period of tranquillity, and may enjoy it without fear of misconstruction. The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder. In this piece. Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: 'Cold was the night-wind: drifting fast the snows fell; When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.' FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d-d first Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast! [Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.] Song by Rogero in The Rovers.' Whene'er with haggard eyes I view I think of those companions true niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.] Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in |