kespeare. Malone, in an “Inquiry” into the authenticity 杭州保健养生按摩 of these writings, in 1796, completely exposed their spuriousness. Pinkerton, one of their most zealous advocates, himself perpetrated a similar forgery of a volume of Scottish poems, issued as ancient ones. He enjoyed the particular patronage of Horace Walpole.
A number of satires and other poems appeared at this time which deserve only a mere mention. These are “The Pursuits of Literature,” by Thomas James Mathias; “Anticipation,” by Richard Tickell, being an anticipation of the king’s Speech, and the debates of Parliament; “An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers,” by 杭州足浴用品批发市场 Mason, under the assumed name of Malcolm Macgregor; “The Rolliad,” also a political satire, in 1785. To this succeeded “Probationary Odes,” from the same party. These were eclipsed by the publications of Dr. John Wolcot, under the name of Peter Pindar, who 杭州水疗spa按摩会所 for twenty years kept the public laughing by his witty and reckless effusions, in which the king especially was most unmercifully ridiculed. Wolcot had the merit of discovering Opie, the painter, as a
sawyer in the neighbourhood of Truro, and pushing him forward by his praises. Of the Royal Academicians he was a relentless enemy, and to them addressed several odes, of the most caustic and damaging kind. Later on came the inimitable poems of the “Anti-Jacobin,” written by Canning, Hookham Frere, and others, among which it is sufficient to recall the “Needy Knife-grinder,” and the 杭州特殊的男士spa satires on the Addington Administration. But now there came a voice from Scotland that filled with envy the crowd of second-rate poets of London, and marked the dawn of a new era. A simple but sturdy peasant—with no education but such as is extended to 杭州水磨 every child in every rural parish of Scotland; “following the plough along the mountain side,” laboriously sowing and reaping and foddering neat; instead of haunting drawing-rooms in bob-
tailed coat and kid gloves, dancing on the barn-floor, or hob-nobbing with his rustic chums at the next pot-house—set up a song of youth, of passion, of liberty and equality, so clear, so sonorous, so ringing with the clarion tones of genius and truth, that all Britain, north and south, stood still in wonder, and the most brazen vendor of empty words and impudent pretensions to intellectual 杭州桑拿全套信息披露 power owned the voice of the master, and was for a moment still. This master of song was Robert Burns (b. 1759; d. 1796). Need we say more? Need we speak of the exquisite beauty of the “Cotter’s Saturday Night”?—of the fun of “Tam o’ Shanter”?—of the satiric drollery of his laughter at antiquarian and other pretenders?—of the scathing sarcasms on sectarian cant in “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” and a dozen other things?—of the spirit of love and the spirit of liberty welling up in his heart in a hundred living songs?—of the law of man’s independence and dignity stamped on the page of eternal memory in the few words—”A man’s a man for a’ that”? Are not these things written in the book of human consciousness, all the world over? Do not his fellow-countrymen sing them and shout t