nobility, gentry, and others, about
Bury,--C. Lamb respectfully informs his friends and the public in
general, that he is leaving off business in the acrostic line, as he is
going into an entirely new line. Rebuses and Charades done as usual, and
upon the old terms. Also, Epitaphs to suit the memory of any person
deceased.'"

Mrs. Williams probably then suggested that Lamb should write her
epitaph, for in his next letter he says:--"I have ventured upon some
lines, which combine my old acrostic talent (which you first found out)
with my new profession of epitaphmonger. As you did not please to say,
when you would die, I have left a blank space for the date. May kind
heaven be a long time in filling it up."

On page 48 will be found some lines to one of Mrs. Williams' daughters.
The acrostic on page 65 is to another. These would both be Emma Isola's
pupils.

* * * * *

TRANSLATIONS

Page 66. _Translations from Vincent Bourne_.

Vincent Bourne (1695-1747), the English Latin poet, entered Westminster
School on the foundation in 1710, and, on leaving Cambridge, returned to
Westminster as a master. He was so indolent a teacher and disciplinarian
that Cowper, one of his pupils, says: "He seemed determined, as he was
the best, so to be the last, Latin poet of the Westminster line."
Bourne's _Poemata_ appeared in 1734. It is mainly owing to Cowper's
translations (particularly "The Jackdaw") that he is known, except to
Latinists. Lamb first read Bourne in 1815. Writing to Wordsworth in
April of that year he says:--"Since I saw you I have had a treat in the
reading way which comes not every day. The Latin Poems of V. Bourne
which were quite new to me. What a heart that man had, all laid out upon
town and scenes, a proper counterpoise to _some people's_ rural
extravaganzas. Why I mention him is that your Power of Music reminded me
of his poem of the ballad singer in the Seven Dials. Do you remember his
epigram on the old woman who taught Newton the A B C, which after all he
says he hesitates not to call Newton's _Principia_? I was lately
fatiguing myself with going through a volume of fine words by L'd
Thurlow, excellent words, and if the heart could live by words alone, it
could desire no better regale, but what an aching vacuum of matter--I
don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a consequence of
shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age of the old Elisabeth
poets--fr