the ship, in the handwriting of Coke, is the couplet:

'It deserveth not to be read in schools,
But to be freighted in the ship of fools.'

Thomas Shadwell, the Poet Laureate and historiographer of William III.,
was a Norfolk man. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. It is said by
Noble that he was an honest man. Of course he was. Chalmers accuses him
of indecent conversation, or Lord Rochester would not have said that he
had more wit and humour than any other poet. I am afraid he confers
little honour on his native county. 'Others,' wrote Dryden in one of his
satires,

'To some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.'

Sir Robert Walpole, who saved England from wooden shoes and slavery, was
of a Norfolk family, yet flourishing; as are the Townshends, to whom we
owe the introduction of the turnip. Norfolk also can boast of Sir Thomas
Gresham and Sir Francis Walsingham. In Norfolk was born that 'great
oracle of law, patron of the Church, and glory of England,' as Camden
calls him, Sir Henry Spelman. At Bickling, in the same county, was born
that ill-starred Anne Boleyn, of whom it is written that

'Love could teach a monarch to be wise,
And Gospel light first beamed from Boleyn's eyes.'

In the same neighbourhood, also, was born John Baconthorpe, the resolute
doctor, of whom Pantias Pansa has written: 'This one resolute doctor has
furnished the Christian religion with armour against the Jews stronger
than that of Vulcan.' Pansa was a Norfolk man, and so was the great
botanist Sir W. Hooker.

Who has not heard of Lynn, in Norfolk, where, when Eugene Aram was the
usher,

'Four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school'?

It was in that old town Fanny Burney, the friend of Mrs. Thrale and Dr.
Johnson, the author of novels like 'Evelina,' which people even read
nowadays, was born on the 13th of June, 1752. She grew up low of
stature, of a brown complexion. One of her friends called her the dove,
which she thought was from the colour of her eyes--a greenish-gray; her
last editor thinks it must have been from their kind expression. She was
very short-sighted, like her father. In her portrait, taken at the age
of thirty, merriment seems latent behind a demure look. At any rate, her
countenance was what might be called a speaking one. 'Poor Fanny!' said
her father, 'her face tells what she thinks, whether she will or no. I
long to se