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of a Mr. Fawcet, our poet learned to accent hard words, as he called them; add to this two or three old folios, they were the principal sources of his learning. "I, at this time," says his brother, "read the London Magazine,' about two sheets of which was set apart for a review: this, and the Poet's Corner,' always attracted Robert's attention. One day, he repeated a song which he had composed to an old tune. I was much surprised that a boy of sixteen should make such verses, and persuaded him to try whether the editor of our paper would give it a place in the Poet's Corner.' He tried, and succeeded."

He continued to reside with his brother till 1784, when the question came to be decided, - whether those who had not served an apprenticeship should work at the trade of a shoemaker. The master who employed Robert was threatened with a prosecution if he continued so to do. He returned home, and was received by his old patron, Mr. Austin. It was during this short stay of two months, he probably formed his plan for that charming poem, the "Farmer's Boy." He again returned to London, and was bound apprentice to a Mr. John Dudbridge.

"It was in a garret," says his brother, "amid six or seven workmen, his active mind composed the Farmer's Boy.'" He amused himself by studying the violin, upon which he became a good player; but afterwards, he wrote to his brother George, who had then left London, " I have sold my fiddle, and got a wife." The "Farmer's Boy" fortunately fell into the hands of Capel Lofft, every way able to appreciate its beauties; and, to his honour be it said, he did not permit genius to languish in obscurity. Bloomfield died in 1823.

SELF-DEVOTION IN A BARD.

THE Ancient History of Ireland has preserved a remarkable instance of extraordinary selfdevotion, in the person of a bard, named Feircheirtne, who evinced, in the manner of his death, a strength of affection for his patron, and sublimity of soul, scarcely to be paralleled. Feircheirtne was bard to Conrigh, a celebrated chieftain, who lived in splendor on the banks of the Fiounglaise, in the county Kerry. This warrior was married to Blanaid, a lady of transcendent beauty, who had been the meed of his prowess in single combat with Congculionne,

a knight of the Red Branch. But the lady was secretly attached to the knight, and, in an accidental interview which she had with him, from the battlements of her castle, offered to follow his fortunes, if he would at a certain time, and on receiving a certain signal, storm the castle, and put her husband and his attendants to the sword. Congculionne promised to observe her directions, and executed them to the letter, inundating the castle with the blood of its inhabitants. Feircheirtne, however, probably in consequence of the veneration paid to his character as bard, escaped the slaughter, and followed, at a distance, Blanaid and her ravisher to the Court of Concovar Mac Nessa, determined to sacrifice his perfidious Mistress to the manes of his murdered patron.

When the bard arrived at Emania, he found Concovar and his Court, together with the lovers, walking on the top of a rock called Rinchin Beara, and enjoying the extensive prospect which it commanded. Blanaid hap

pening to detach herself from the rest of the company, stood wrapt in meditation on that part of the cliff which overhung a deep precipice. The bard, stepping up to her, began an

adulatory conversation; then, suddenly springing forward, he seized her in his arms, and throwing himself with her headlong down the precipice, both were dashed to pieces.

KEATING.

COWPER.

THIS poet, understanding some one wished to take his portrait, wrote to a friend as follows:

"Whoever means to take my phiz, will find himself sorely perplexed in seeking for a fit occasion. That I shall not give him one, is certain; and if he steals one, he must be as cunning and as quick-sighted a thief as Autolycus himself. His best course will be to draw a face, and call it mine, at a venture. They who have not seen me these twenty years will say, perhaps, "Though it is not perfectly the thing, yet there is somewhat of the cast of his countenance. If the nose were a little longer, and chin a little shorter, the eyes a little smaller, and the forehead a little more protuberant, it would be just the man." And thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may represent me to the public eye with as much exact

ness as yours has bestowed on you, though I suppose the original was full in his view, when he made the attempt."

RACINE.

THE "Memoirs of the Life of Racine" are written by his son, who added some account of his father's friends, Boileau, Moliere, and La Fontaine.

"My father," says young Racine, "to disgust my brother from writing verses, and from fear that he should attribute to my father's tragedies the attention that was paid to him by the men of rank about the Court, said to him, "Do not suppose that my verses procure me all this notice. Corneille writes much finer verses than I can do, yet no one pays him the least attention. He is only admired for the mouths of the actors. So, instead of tiring a company with reciting my own verses, (about which I never talk,) I content myself with conversing with them in the way they like, and talking of things that amuse them. My business with them, is to tell them how clever themselves are; so that, sometimes, when the Prince de Condé has passed many hours with me, you would be

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