"Titles are marks of honest men and wise-- The fool or knave that wears a title lies." * * * * * "They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Produce their debt, instead of their discharge." These are perhaps too frigid and naked. They have the cold insulation of the blocks in Mosaic. This in satire may be called "the being meritorious to a fault." Young was something of an improvisatore, and almost the prettiest thing that I remember is a little sketch of a garden-scene during his courtship. One of the ladies referred to was Elizabeth, daughter of Lee, Earl of Litchfield; she afterwards became his wife. "Sometime before his marriage, the poet walking in his garden at Welwyn, with his lady and another, a servant brought him word that a great person wished to speak with him. 'Tell him,' said the doctor, 'I am too happily engaged to change my situation.' The ladies insisted he should go, as his visitor was a man of rank, his patron and his friend; and as persuasion had no effect on him, they took him, one by the right hand, the other by the left, and led him to the garden gate. He then laid his hand upon his heart, and in the expressive manner for which he was so remarkable, uttered the following lines: "Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven, And thus disputed orders sent from heaven; Like him I go, but yet to go am loth-- Like him I go, for angels drove us both. Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind-- His Eve went with him, but mine stays behind." Passages occurred between our Poet and Voltaire while the latter was in England, and in these his powers of improvisation stood him in good stead. I will not quote instances. Dr. Young has been reckoned an example of primeval piety, but gloom was mingled with it. When at his house in the country, he spent many hours among the tombs of his own churchyard. I have noticed his mode of study while at Oxford. These peculiarities betokened gloominess of temper, in spite of his occasional fondness for hunting and the bowling-green. "His wit was" more crushing than "poignant"--his poetic faculties were rather strong than beautiful.--Indeed his works often display a dark, stern roughness. In a word, he was a writer of a vast and sombre imagination--full of metaphor--rather metaphysical--sometimes obscure, and this rather from idea than expression; for his diction (as that of most great writers is,) was simple and healthy. He had the force of the later Pollock, without his extravagance--the melancholy of Kirke White, without his proneness to inane complaint; and in a word, possessed many merits with few failings. Edward Young died in April, 1765, aged eighty-four years, and was buried beside his wife under the altarpiece of the church at Welwyn.