In earlier life he had attached himself to that party of which Mr. Fox was the head, and he exercised his satirical vein at the expence of the leading members of administration, in the miscellaneous volume of poetry known by the name of “the Rolliad.” His first, however, and greatest delight, was in old English poetry, which in the manner of Headley, he collected, illustrated, and it may be said, adorned. His biographical sketches are remarkable for neatness, precision, and accuracy. He abounded in anecdote, which, when required, he detailed with great felicity. He was for some time in Russia, and had lived on terms of much familiarity with Prince Potemkin; of whose luxurious and voluptuous style of living, he would often relate many extraordinary particulars. This Prince would have the fish called the Strelitz, a great delicacy of the table, brought alive from the Crimea to Petersburg, in relays of fresh water, stationed at different distances, by which means, and by the time of their arrival, they must have cost a most prodigious sum of money. It is not impossible that this gentleman’s health might somewhat suffer from the above intimacy. He was a great valetudinarian, and obliged to live with the extremest circumspection with regard to his diet, and to abstain altogether from wine. He used to tell a facetious story of himself in an adventure which he met with in the north of Germany. He was returning from Petersburg, when by some accident, he and his servant were detained on the road, and with much difficulty reached a miserable village late in the evening. They were almost famished, but neither the master nor the servant could make the host comprehend their wants. They tried all the languages of which they had knowledge, but none could my host understand. At length, on looking out of the window, the servant saw some poultry; on which he seized the landlord by the arm, and, as loud as he could, imitated the crowing of a cock. The man took the hint, and immediately twisted off the necks of two chickens, on which the travellers supped deliciously. His health continuing to decline, Mr. ⸺ found himself obliged to withdraw from the different societies of which he was a member, and altogether resided at an elegant retirement within twenty miles of the metropolis. Here he died very prematurely, leaving behind him a strong impression of some of the best and most pleasing qualities, which can and which ought to characterize the English gentleman. He was particularly partial to the Symposium, of which a brief account is here given, and never failed, as long as it subsisted, to attend its meetings. He used facetiously to call it his “Petit Baton.”