“He lived a poet in this town (If we may term our modern writers poets), Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued, his pen of steel. His ink was temper’d with the biting juice, And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew. He never wrote but when the elements Of fire and water tilted in his brain.” HEYWOOD: _Fair Maid of the Exchange_. Among the tailors who have been authors, Paul Whitehead takes a very respectable rank; which is more, I am sorry to say, than he does among men. The career of the two Whiteheads has a moral in it. William, the son of a Cambridge baker, was, like Paul, the tailor’s son, a most successful tuft-hunter; but then he hunted chiefly after patricians of principle,—of good principle. William was a gentle lad; he walked through the university of his native city with quiet credit, and passed into Lord Grey’s family as private tutor; where he taught mildly, and wrote classical tragedies of so soporific a nature, that the reading of them might safely be recommended to the sleepless by hypnologists. William the baker was a highly respectable and never-too-soon-to-be-forgotten individual. It is otherwise with roystering Paul the tailor. Chapel-yard, Holborn, was the cradle (in 1709) of this boisterous and biting poet. His father would have been content to see him take measures to follow his example; but as Hervagault, the first pseudo-Dauphin, quitted his father’s board to make assault upon the throne of Capet, so Paul, backed by his friends, aimed at the realm of rhyme, and would wear his father’s coats, but would not make them. His sire apprenticed him to a mercer; the ambitious son went and entered himself at the Temple. Paul was one of those daring wits whom profane men most admire; and as the young tailor’s style was one which had respect for neither Olympus nor the mortals, he became a laureate, like William the Baker, but not, like him, poet-laureate to the King. Paul of Castle-yard was laureate to the “Bucks.” He was a member of the most reprobate clubs of the day. He was a member of the brotherhood of Medenham Abbey,—not of the pious and pot-heaving Cistercians, who gurgled their throats with good old wine, but of the God-denying and profligate crew that had Sir Francis Dashwood for their prior. Paul was the Parny of this and similar sets; and when his patrons required a lay against loyalty, a rhyme against royalty, a metrical kick at kings, songs against statesmen, or diatribes against dunces, the Muse of the tailor’s clever boy was ever ready for the nonce. For clever he was, despite the abuse of Churchill—himself very far from immaculate. If Paul was a reprobate, Churchill was that, and a parson to boot,—two professions which should never be united in one and the same individual. And yet Churchill wrote— “May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul!”