A closing word as to M. Rouquet himself. The _Etat des Arts_ was duly noticed by the critics--contemptuously by the _Monthly Review_, and sympathetically by the _Gentleman's_ and the _Scots Magazine_. In 1755, the year to which it belongs, its author put forth another work--_L'Art Nouveau de la Peinture en Fromage ou en Ramequin_ [toasted cheese], _invente pour suivre le louable projet de trouver graduellement des facons de peindre inferieures a celles qui existent_. This, as its title imports, is a skit, levelled at the recent _Histoire et Secret de la Peinture en Cire_ of Diderot, who nevertheless refers to Rouquet under _Email_, in the _Dictionnaire Encyclapedique_, as "_un homme habile_." He seems, however (like "_la_ _peinture a l'huile_)," to have been somewhat "_difficile_"; and as we have said, his discoveries (for he had that useful element in enamel-work, considerable chemical knowledge), like Zincke's, perished with him. Several of his portraits, notably those of Cochin and Marigny, were exhibited at the Paris Salons. Whether he was overparted, or overworked, in the Pompadour atmosphere; or whether he succumbed to the "continual headache" of which he speaks in his letter to Hogarth, his health gradually declined. In the last year of his life, his reason gave way; and when he died in 1759, it was as an inmate of Charenton. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE RHYMER "Emam tua carmina sanus?"--MARTIAL. F. OF H. I want a verse. It gives you little pains;-- You just sit down, and draw upon your brains. Come, now, be amiable. R. To hear you talk, You'd make it easier to fly than walk. You seem to think that rhyming is a thing You can produce if you but touch a spring; That fancy, fervour, passion--and what not, Are just a case of "penny in the slot." You should reflect that no evasive bird Is half so shy as is your fittest word; And even similes, however wrought, Like hares, before you cook them, must be caught;-- Impromptus, too, require elaboration, And (unlike eggs) grow fresh by incubation; Then,--as to epigrams,.. F. of H. Nay, nay, I've done. I did but make petition. You make fun. R. Stay. I am grave. Forgive me if I ramble: But, then, a negative needs some preamble To break the blow. I feel with you, in truth, These complex miseries of Age and Youth; I feel with you--and none can feel it more Than I--this burning Problem of the Poor; The Want that grinds, the Mystery of Pain, The Hearts that sink, and never rise again;-- How shall I set this to some careless screed, Or jigging stave, when Help is what you need, Help, Help,--more Help? F. of H. I fancied that with ease You'd scribble off some verses that might please, And so give help to us.