The life of this “merry bachelor” exemplified one venerable proverb, and disproved another: born in 1760, and dying in 1840, he was “as old as the Hills,” having led a long life and a merry one. He was a remarkably early riser; but that which contributed more to his longevity was his gaiety of heart, and his being merry and wise: he had his cares and crosses, but when nearly ruined by an adverse speculation in indigo, he retired with the remains of his property to chambers in the Adelphi. His books were valued at 6000_l._ He had been a Mecænas in his time, and had patronised two friendless poets, Bloomfield and Kirke White. He was the Hull of his friend Theodore Hook’s _Gilbert Gurney_, and suggested some of the eccentricities of Paul Pry. Authorship and Trade are thought to be “wide as the poles asunder,” though sometimes attempered by circumstances. David Booth, who wrote the _Analytical Dictionary_ and a critical work on English Composition, was originally a brewer, then a man of letters; and late in life he realised much money by imparting to brewers the secret of preventing Acidification in Brewing. Among the strange successes of authorship may be mentioned the popularity of works published anonymously, which their authors have not cared to claim. The accomplished Dr. William Maginn wrote the tragic story of the Polstead murder, in 1827, in the form of a novel, entitled the _Red Barn_, the sale of which extended to many thousand copies; yet no one suspected it to be the work of an elegant scholar, critic, and poet. Literary Fame, Lord Byron affected to despise, in the following entry in his entertaining _Ravenna Journal_, January 4th, 1821: I was out of spirits—read the papers—thought what _fame_ was, on reading in a case of murder that Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the _Life of Pamela_, which he was _tearing_ for _waste_ paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c., and a _leaf_ of _Pamela wrapped round the bacon_. What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of _living_ authors (_i. e._ while alive)—he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature), and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets)—what would he have said could he have traced his pages from their place on the French prince’s toilets (see Boswell’s _Johnson_) to the grocer’s counter and the gipsy murderess’s bacon? What would he have said—what can any body say—save what Solomon said long before us. After all, it is but passing from one counter to another—from the bookseller’s to the other tradesman’s, grocer or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship.