here they would be available for the historian, for the archaeologist, for
the editor, and for the general inquirer.

Let me hope that something may be proposed; I have myself hunted through
dusty MS. folios, quartos, duodecimos innumerable, and my investigations
have not been wholly useless.

If there be any who look with a favourable eye upon these hints, I shall be
glad to hear from them.

KENNETH R. H. MACKENZIE.

68. Mortimer Street.

* * * * *

"THE WHIPPIAD."

(Vol. vii., pp. 393. 417.)

Perhaps a few lines from a fellow-collegian of Reginald Heber, during his
last years of residence at Brazenoze College, may throw light on this
discussion.

My contemporary MS. copy of _The Whippiad_ contains Heber's _own notes_,
additional ones by myself, explanatory of places and persons mentioned,
autographs of the latter, and Blackwood's printed copy (the subject of
inquiry), No. 333., July, 1843.

The _notes_ subjoined to Blackwood's printed copy are _Heber's notes_,
varying only from my MS. copy in immaterial points.

As to the _epigram_ mentioned in p. 417., the two first stanzas were by
Heber, and written (as I think) after his election to All Souls. The third
was attributed to Mr. Wilson, the learned High Master of Clithero School.

Very many _jeux d'esprit_ by Heber, relative to convivialities and passing
events in Brazenoze and All Souls, live in the memory and MSS. of his
surviving friends; but their amiable author would doubtless have wished
them to be forgotten, with the subjects to which they related. The
forbearance of Mr. Halliwell made him vainly anxious for the suppression of
_The Whippiad_.

I subjoin from Heber's autograph a Song for a Bow Meeting, near St. Asaph,
in or about 1808. It has an airy freshness, and is (as I believe)
unpublished.

LANCASTRIENSIS.

I.

The Soldier loves the laurel bright,
The Bard the myrtle bough,
And smooth shillalas yield delight
To many an Irish brow.
The Fisher trims the hazel wand,
The Crab may tame a shrew,
The Birch becomes the pedant's hand,
But Bows are made of yew.

CHORUS.

The yew, the yew, the hardy yew!
Still greenly may it grow,
And health and fun
Have everyone
That loves the British Bow.

II.

'Tis sweet to sit by Beauty's side
Beneath the hawthorn shade;
But Beauty is more beautiful
In