him.

himself upon the men of his time, yet in one way quite unpleasantly. Unhappily he had no sense of money obligation, and in all the memoirs, letters and diaries of the time we get this view of Men can forgive every other human fault than looseness in respect to money. Years ago Bulwer wrote an essay on "The Management of Money," in which he said " Money is character." It is an aphorism to which time constantly gives proof. Hunt was thriftless and would accept money from any person. Carlyle records how he left shillings and sovereigns on his mantelpiece for Hunt to pick up, and Macaulay has entries in his diary how he "loaned" money to him constantly. Dickens was supposed to have drawn him in the character of Harold Skimpole, though when pressed he denied it. Certainly there was nothing of the heartlessness about Hunt that was portrayed in Skimpole. Nevertheless, as long as "Bleak House" is read, Hunt will stand as the original of Skimpole, though it is terribly unjust to the memory of a great and lovable man. Hunt died in 1859 in his seventy-fifth year. was one of the most appreciative of critics, and his guidance through the mazes of our literature is safe and genial.

He

SAMUEL ROGERS.

(1763-1855.)

THE following verses have always been much admired by lovers of poetry:

Hail, Memory, hail! In thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine,
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And place and time are subject to thy sway,
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
So Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away.
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest
Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest.

They are the concluding lines of a once very "The Pleasures of Memory,"

celebrated poem,

by Samuel Rogers.

Both poem and poet are now tolerably well forgotten, but it is worth recalling that less than a hundred years ago Rogers was considered to be one of the greatest of English poets. Byron writing in his journal says: "Scott is undoubtedly the monarch of Parnassus and the most English of bards. I should place Rogers next in the living list. I value him more as the last of the best school; Moore and Campbell both third."

Nor was Byron alone in this opinion. The leading critics of the early part of the last century united in placing Rogers among the foremost poets of that period-a period that included Wordsworth and Coleridge, Scott and Byron, Shelley and Keats.

Time has not justified that early verdict, but the "Pleasures of Memory" is a poem still well worth reading, and the poet himself was a very remarkable man.

If refined tastes, love of literature, wealth, honor, and length of days constitute human happiness Samuel Rogers ought to have been one of the happiest of men. He was born in London in 1763 and died in 1855 when past his ninetysecond year. His father was a banker, and Samuel succeeded him as head of the firm when

thirty years of age. At forty he retired with a

handsome income, set up a modest establishment in a pleasant quarter of London, surrounded himself with books and works of art, and for the remainder of his long life wrote, traveled and entertained his friends, associating with the most distinguished men and women of his time, and knowing every European of distinction worth knowing.

It was at his table the intimacy between Byron and Moore was begun, where the brilliant Sheridan uttered his happiest witticisms, where Mme. De Staël triumphed in argument over Mackintosh, where Erskine related the story of his first brief, where Wellington described the battle of Waterloo, and where Sydney Smith humorously lamented over Macaulay's torrent of talk, which would be improved by a "few flashes of silence."

Old Dr. Burney, who had known London society for half a century, wrote of Rogers in 1804, saying: "He gives the best dinners to the best company of men of talents and genius I know."

The biographies, memoirs and correspondence of the most eminent men and women of the first half of the nineteenth century, abound with references to Rogers, and particularly to his breakfasts and the company he entertained.

Rogers had a great reputation for keen, incisive and witty satire in conversation. His own humorous excuse for some of his sharp sayings was that his voice was weak and nobody would hear him or pay any attention if he only maintained good humor. Some one complained to the poet, Campbell, once that Rogers said bitter things about his friends. "Borrow five hundred pounds of him," replied the poet," and he will never say one word against you until you want to repay him."

He was liberal and charitable with his money, and was free in aiding his friends and those who needed assistance.

He was very fond of Tom Moore, but was disposed to treat him much as Dr. Johnson treated Garrick; he would not suffer any one else to criticise him, but never spared him himself.

One of his remarks about Moore was, "Moore dines in one place, wishing he was dining in another place, with an opera ticket in his pocket which makes him wish he was dining nowhere.' He was one of Landseer's earliest admirers and patrons. Once when the artist had heard that Rogers had praised the picture of a Newfoundland dog he expressed to him his gratification.