ives-player. In the Fleet
or King's Bench he would have stood against Powell, who was reckoned the
best open-ground player of his time. This last-mentioned player is at
present the keeper of the Fives-court, and we might recommend to him for
a motto over his door, "Who enters here, forgets himself, his country,
and his friends." And the best of it is, that by the calculation of the
odds, none of the three are worth remembering!--Cavanagh died from the
bursting of a blood-vessel, which prevented him from playing for the
last two or three years. This, he was often heard to say, he thought
hard upon him. He was fast recovering, however, when he was suddenly
carried off, to the regret of all who knew him. As Mr. Peel made it a
qualification of the present Speaker, Mr. Manners Sutton, that he was an
excellent moral character, so Jack Cavanagh was a zealous Catholic,
and could not be persuaded to eat meat on a Friday, the day on which he
died. We have paid this willing tribute to his memory.

Let no rude hand deface it,
And his forlorn "_Hic Jacet_."'

NOTES to ESSAY IX

(1) The celebrated Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) first discovered and
brought out the talents of the late Mr. Opie the painter. He was a poor
Cornish boy, and was out at work in the fields when the poet went in
search of him. 'Well, my lad, can you go and bring me your very best
picture?' The other flew like lightning, and soon came back with what he
considered as his masterpiece. The stranger looked at it, and the young
artist, after waiting for some time without his giving any opinion, at
length exclaimed eagerly, 'Well, what do you think of it?' 'Think of
it?' said Wolcot; 'Why, I think you ought to be ashamed of it--that you,
who might do so well, do no better!' The same answer would have applied
to this artist's latest performances, that had been suggested by one of
his earliest efforts.

(2) If two persons play against each other at any game, one of them
necessarily fails.

ESSAY X. ON LIVING TO ONE'S-SELF(1)

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po.

I never was in a better place or humour than I am at present for writing
on this subject. I have a partridge getting ready for my supper, my fire
is blazing on the hearth, the air is mild for the season of the year,
I have had but a slight fit of indigestion to-day (the only thing that
makes me abhor myself), I have three hours good before me, and