xistence we had previously no conception, that of a sentimental
harlequin.[139]

In the early part of his life, Stockdale undertook many poetical
pilgrimages; he visited the house where Thomson was born; the
coffee-room where Dryden presided among the wits, &c. Recollecting the
influence of these local associations, he breaks forth, "Neither the
unrelenting coldness, nor the repeated insolence of mankind, can
prevent me from thinking that _something like this enthusiastic
devotion may hereafter be paid to ME_."

Perhaps till this appeared it might not be suspected that any unlucky
writer of verse could ever feel such a magical conviction of his
poetical stability. Stockdale, to assist this pilgrimage to his
various shrines, has particularised all the spots where his works were
composed! Posterity has many shrines to visit, and will be glad to
know (for perhaps it may excite a smile) that "'The Philosopher,' a
poem, was written in Warwick Court, Holborn, in 1769,"--"'The Life of
Waller,' in Round Court, in the Strand."--A good deal he wrote in
"May's Buildings, St. Martin's Lane," &c., but

"In my lodgings at Portsmouth, in St. Mary's Street, I wrote my 'Elegy
on the Death of a Lady's Linnet.' It will not be uninteresting to
sensibility, to thinking and elegant minds. It deeply interested me,
and therefore produced not one of my weakest and worst written poems.
It was directly opposite to a noted house, which was distinguished by
the name of _the green rails_; where the riotous orgies of Naxos and
Cythera contrasted with my quiet and purer occupations."

I would not, however, take his own estimate of his own poems; because,
after praising them outrageously, he seems at times to doubt if they
are as exquisite as he thinks them! He has composed no one in which
some poetical excellence does not appear--and yet in each nice
decision he holds with difficulty the trepidations of the scales of
criticism--for he tells us of "An Address to the Supreme Being," that
"it is distinguished throughout with a natural and fervid piety; it is
flowing and poetical; it is not without its pathos." And yet,
notwithstanding all this condiment, the confection is evidently good
for nothing; for he discovers that "this flowing, fervid, and poetical
address" is "not animated with that vigour which gives dignity and
impression to poetry." One feels for such unhappy and infected
authors--they would think of themselves as they wish at the moment