Isaac's rigadoon shall live as long As Rafael's painting, or as Virgil's song. Nay, who reads the poem wherein those lines are found, though the author predicted for them in self-applauding pleasantry, that Whilst birds in air, or fish in streams we find, Or damsels fresh with aged partners join'd, As long as nymphs shall with attentive ear A fiddle rather than a sermon hear, So long the brightest eyes shall oft peruse These useful lines of my instructive muse. Even of the most useful of those lines, the “uses are gone by.” Ladies before they leave the ball room, are now no longer fortified against the sudden change of temperature by a cup of generous white wine mulled with ginger; nor is it necessary now to caution them at such times against a draught of cold small beer, because as the Poet in his own experience assured them Destruction lurks within the poisonous dose, A fatal fever, or a pimpled nose.[3] [Footnote 3: SOAME JENYNS.] CHAPTER CXXVI. MR. BAXTER'S OFFICES. MILLER'S CHARACTER OF MASON; WITH A FEW REMARKS IN VINDICATION OF GRAY'S FRIEND AND THE DOCTOR'S ACQUAINTANCE. ——_Te sonare quis mihi Genîque vim dabit tui? Stylo quis æquor hocce arare charteum, En arva per papyrina Satu loquace seminare literas?_ JANUS DOUSA. That dwelling house which the reader may find represented in Miller's History of Doncaster, as it was in his time, and in the Doctor's, and in mine,—that house in which the paper-hangers and painters were employed during the parenthesis, or to use a more historical term, the Interim of this part of our history,—that house which when, after an interval of many years, I saw it last, had the name R. Dennison on the door, is now, the Sheffield Mercury tells me, occupied as Mr. Baxter's Offices. I mean no disrespect to Mr. R. Dennison. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Baxter. I know nothing of these gentlemen, except that in 1830 the one had his dwelling there, and in 1836 the other his offices. But for the house itself, which can now be ascertained only by its site, totally altered as it is in structure and appearance, without and within,—when I think of it I cannot but exclaim, in what Wordsworth would call “that inward voice” with which we speak to ourselves in solitude, “If thou be'est it,” with reference to that alteration,—and with reference to its change of tenants and present appropriation I cannot but carry on the verse, and say—“but oh how fallen, how changed!”