NOTES.

Note 1. Page 357.

The Blues.

About the year 1781, it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies, where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue-stocking Clubs: the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, 'We can do nothing without the blue stockings;' and thus by degrees the title was established."-CROKER's Boswell, vol. iv, p. 480.

Note 2. Page 357.

The Row.

Paternoster-Row-long and still celebrated as a very bazaar of booksellers.-E.

Note 3. Page 358.
Refreshing.

This cant phrase was first used in the Edinburgh Review-probably by Mr. Jeffrey.-E.

Note 4. Page 361.

Renegade.-Bother by.

Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.-E.

Note 5. Page 361.

Old Girl's Review.

"My Grandmother's Review, the British."-See vol. iv, Appendix to "Don Juan," and MOORE's Notices, vol. ii, p. 117. This heavy journal has since been gathered to its grandmothers.-E.

Note 6. Page 361.

The "Journal de Trévoux" (in fifty-six volumes), is one of the most curious collections of literary gossip in the world, and the Poet paid the British Review an extravagant compliment, when he made this comparison.-E.

Note 7. Page 361.

Sic me servavit Apollo.

Sotheby is a good man- —rhymes well (if not wisely); but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night of a rout at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me(something about Agamemnon, or Orestes, or some of his plays) notwithstanding my symptoms of manifest distress-for 1 was in love, and just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips were near my then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the gallery where we stood at the time. Sotheby, I say, had seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and spared neither. William Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, saw my case, and coming up to us both, took me by the hand, and pathetically bade me farewell; "for," said

he, "I see it is all over with you." Sotheby then went away: Sic me servavit Apollo.'-B. Diary, 1821.

Note 8. Page 364.

He is made a collector

Mr. Wordsworth is collector of stamps for Cumberland and Westmoreland.-E.

Note 9. Page 364.

At Grange's.

Grange is or was a famous pastrycook and fruiterer in Piccadilly.

Note 10. Page 365.
Sir George.

The late Sir George Beaumont-a constant friend of Mr. Wordsworth.-E.

Note 11. Page 365.

The venerable Earl of Lonsdale. Towards the close of the American war, this nobleman, liberally offered to build, and completely furnish and man, a ship of seventy-four guns, for the service of his country, at his own expense:-hence the sobriquet in the text.-E.

Note 12. Page 366.

So buoyant, so buoyant !

Fact from life, with the words.

Note 13. Page 366.

Sir Humphry.

The late Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal Society.-E.

The late Miss Lydia White, whose hospitable functions have not yet been sup plied to the circle of London artists and literati—an accomplished, clever, and truly amiable, but very eccentric lady.-E.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE PRAYER OF NATURE.*

FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair ?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?

Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ;
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh point to me the path of truth!

Thy dread omnipotence I own;

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let superstition hail the pile,

Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rights beguile.

Shall man confine his Maker's sway

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?

Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne.

Shall man condemn his race to hell

Unless they bend in pompous form;

* Written when the author was nineteen years of age, these remarkable stanzas were not included in the publication of 1807, though few will hesitate to place them higher than any thing given in that volume.-E.