A little less facetious, and a great deal more obstreperous, was fine rattling, rattleheaded Plumer.  He was descended,—­not in a right line, reader, (for his lineal pretensions, like his personal, favoured a little of the sinister bend) from the Plumers of Hertfordshire.  So tradition gave him out; and certain family features not a little sanctioned the opinion.  Certainly old Walter Plumer (his reputed author) had been a rake in his days, and visited much in Italy, and had seen the world.  He was uncle, bachelor-uncle, to the fine old whig still living, who has represented the county in so many successive parliaments, and has a fine old mansion near Ware.  Walter flourished in George the Second’s days, and was the same who was summoned before the House of Commons about a business of franks, with the old Duchess of Marlborough.  You may read of it in Johnson’s Life of Cave.  Cave came off cleverly in that business.  It is certain our Plumer did nothing to discountenance the rumour.  He rather seemed pleased whenever it was, with all gentleness, insinuated.  But, besides his family pretensions, Plumer was an engaging fellow, and sang gloriously.—­

Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sangest, mild, child-like, pastoral M——­; a flute’s breathing less divinely whispering than thy Arcadian melodies, when, in tones worthy of Arden, thou didst chant that song sung by Amiens to the banished Duke, which proclaims the winter wind more lenient than for a man to be ungrateful.  Thy sire was old surly M——­, the unapproachable church-warden of Bishopsgate.  He knew not what he did, when he begat thee, like spring, gentle offspring of blustering winter:—­only unfortunate in thy ending, which should have been mild, conciliatory, swan-like.—­

Much remains to sing.  Many fantastic shapes rise up, but they must be mine in private:—­already I have fooled the reader to the top of his bent;—­else could I omit that strange creature Woollett, who existed in trying the question, and bought litigations?—­and still stranger, inimitable, solemn Hepworth, from whose gravity Newton might have deduced the law of gravitation.  How profoundly would he nib a pen—­with what deliberation would he wet a wafer!—­

But it is time to close—­night’s wheels are rattling fast over me—­it is proper to have done with this solemn mockery.

Reader, what if I have been playing with thee all this while—­peradventure the very names, which I have summoned up before thee, are fantastic—­insubstantial—­like Henry Pimpernel, and old John Naps of Greece:—­

Be satisfied that something answering to them has had a being.  Their importance is from the past.

[Footnote 1:  I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were desolate.—­Ossian.]

OXFORD IN THE VACATION

Casting a preparatory glance at the bottom of this article—­as the wary connoisseur in prints, with cursory eye (which, while it reads, seems as though it read not,) never fails to consult the quis sculpsit in the corner, before he pronounces some rare piece to be a Vivares, or a Woollet—­methinks I hear you exclaim, Reader, Who is Elia?