poem with which his name is oftenest associated, "The Pleasures of Memory." The poem hit the mild taste of the time and, strange as it seems to us now, it rapidly passed through fifteen editions. When he was thirty his father died and he became the head of his father's banking business, possessed of large wealth and an income of at least £5,000. His younger brother took to business, relieving him of the burden of banking details, thus leaving him comparatively free to indulge his taste for literature, art and society. Like Dr. Johnson, he became more of a power as a leader of men socially than as a poet. His elegant home and profuse hospitality made him a person of much importance in his time. His record as a poet rests upon "The Pleasures of Memory," "Human Life," and "Italy," all written in the same tranquil strain-in measure suggesting Pope, Johnson and Goldsmith, his patron saints in literature. In his old age he was regarded as the Nestor among poets. Everybody prized his friendship and feared his enmity. His kindness as a patron, with his severity toward those who asked no favors of him, is, perhaps, over-illustrated by a remark of the poet, Campbell. When some one complained of Rogers' spiteful tongue, Campbell said: "Borrow five hundred pounds of

him, and he will never say a word against you until you want to repay him."

Rogers' benevolence was not alone in giving money to the needy; it extended to kindly offices of friendship, and a generous use of his influence. In a letter from Tom Moore to John Murray, the publisher, we have a pleasant picture of the banker-poet as a man-always eager to serve a worthy person or help a good cause. It seems that Murray had offered Crabbe £3,000 for his works, and, though the sum was a mine of wealth to the impecunious poet, friends acting as his agents declined the offer, thinking to get a better one from a rival publisher. In that they failed, and Crabbe was disconsolate. In this crisis Rogers and Moore went to Murray and urged a renewal of the generous offer. Murray relented and the two withdrew from the publisher's office much elated.

"But," says Moore, "Rogers insisted that I should accompany him to Crabbe's lodgings, and enjoy the pleasure of seeing him relieved from his suspense. We found him sitting in his room, alone, and expecting the worst; but soon dissipated all his fears by the agreeable intelligence which we brought."

When the poet was eighty-one years old, an event occurred which somewhat disturbed the old man's serenity. One Sunday his bank was bur

glarized, and the sum of £50,000 was stolen from the vault. The man's temperament proved equal to the emergency. His promptitude prevented the cashing of the stolen notes. The Bank of England repaid them under his guaranty of indemnity, and after two years he recovered the notes by the payment of £2,500. Speaking of the incident at the time, the old man said, "I should be ashamed of myself if I were unable to bear a shock of this kind at my age.'

In Dyce's Table Talk of Samuel Rogers, we find a few glimpses of the practical or business side of the poet's nature.

Lord Erskine heard of some one who had died worth £200,000; Rogers observed, "Well, that's a very pretty sum to begin the next world with!"

Here's a pointer for the banker of the period, whose daily mail is not complete unless it contains several fine opportunities to enhance his popularity by subscribing to worthy causes. To all letters soliciting his subscription, Rogers approvingly quoted Erskine as replying in this form of words:

"Sir, I feel much honoured by your application to me, and I beg to subscribe-here the reader had to turn over the leaf, only to find after the word 'subscribe' the formal conclusion-'myself your obedient servant.'"

Matthias in "The Pursuits of Literature" refers to Rogers as the banker who "dreams on Parnassus. The allusion is to a letter to Mr. Pitt, in which Rogers said: "Things, sir, are not changed. Time was when bankers were as stupid as their guineas could make them; they were neither orators, nor painters, nor poets. But now," etc.

"When literature is the sole business of life," Rogers is quoted as saying, "it becomes a drudgery; when we are able to resort to it only at certain hours, it is a charming relaxation." He adds: "In my earlier years, I was a banker's clerk, obliged to be at the desk every day from ten till five o'clock; and I never shall forget the delight with which, on returning home, I used to read and write during the evening."

Rogers' modesty, revealed by the anonymous publication of most of his literary work, is best seen in his refusal of the poet laureateship in 1850, after the death of Wordsworth.

Rogers' "Pleasures of Memory" is far from cumulative in beauty and strength. The first few pages are best-a well-drawn picture of the poet's old home, a country village, with the mingled joy and sadness inspired by a return to the haunts of childhood after long years of absence. The "speaking quietude" of the scene and the tender

melancholy of the poet find happy expression in the formal pentameter so popular in the last half of the eighteenth century. Here is the picture:

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Still'd is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron charms no more
With treasur'd tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What pensive sweets this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old Mansion, frowning thro' the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze.
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heav'n convey'd.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.

See, thro' the fractur'd pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest.

Long may the ruin spare the hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glee,

The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;