ETHELGAR, A SAXON POEM.

'TIS not for thee, O man! to murmur at the will of the Almighty. When the thun⯑ders roar, the lightnings ſhine on the riſing waves, and the black clouds ſit on the brow of the lofty hill; who then protects the flying deer, ſwift as a ſable cloud, toſt by the whiſtling winds, leaping over the rolling floods, to gain the hoary wood: whilſt the lightnings ſhine on his cheſt, and the wind rides over his horns? When the wolf roars; terrible as the voice of the Severn; moving ma⯑jeſtic as the nodding foreſts on the brow of Mi⯑chel-ſtow; who then commands the ſheep to fol⯑low the ſwain, as the beams of light attend upon the morning?—Know, O man! That God ſuffers not the leaſt member of his work to periſh, with⯑out anſwering the purpoſe of their creation. The evils of life, with ſome, are bleſſings: and the plant of death healeth the wound of the ſword.—Doth the ſea of trouble and affliction overwhelm thy ſoul, look unto the Lord, thou ſhalt ſtand [6] firm in the days of temptation, as the lofty hill of Kinwulf; in vain ſhall the waves beat againſt thee; thy rock ſhall ſtand.

Comely as the white rocks; bright as the ſtar of the evening; tall as the oak upon the brow of the mountain; ſoft as the ſhowers of dew, that fall upon the flowers of the field, Ethelgar aroſe, the glory of ^*Exanceaſtre: noble were his anceſtors, as the palace of the great Kenric; his ſoul, with the lark, every morning aſcended the ſkies; and ſported in the clouds: when ſtealing down the ſteep mountain, wrapt in a ſhower of ſpangling dew, evening came creeping to the plain, cloſing the flowers of the day, ſhaking her pearly ſho⯑wers upon the ruſtling trees; then was his voice heard in the grove, as the voice of the nightingale upon the hawthorn ſpray; he ſung the works of the Lord; the hollow rocks joined in his devo⯑tions; the ſtars danced to his ſong; the rolling years, in various mantles dreſt, confeſt him man.—He ſaw Egwina of the vale; his ſoul was aſto⯑niſhed, as the Britons who fled before the ſword of Kenric; ſhe was tall as the towering elm; ſtately as a black cloud burſting into thunder; fair as the wrought bowels of the earth; gentle and [7] ſweet as the morning breeze; beauteous as the ſun; bluſhing like the vines of the weſt; her ſoul as fair as the azure curtain of heaven. She ſaw Ethelgar; her ſoft ſoul melted as the flying ſnow before the ſun. The ſhrine of St. Cuthbert united them. The minutes fled on the golden wings of bliſs. Nine horned moons had decked the ſky, when Aelgar ſaw the light; he was like a young plant upon the mountain's ſide, or the ſun hid in a cloud; he felt the ſtrength of his fire; and, ſwift as the lightnings of Heaven, purſued the wild boar of the wood. The morn awoke the ſun; who, ſtepping from the mountain's brow, ſhook his ruddy locks upon the ſhining dew; Aelgar aroſe from ſleep; he ſeized his ſword and ſpear, and iſſued to the chace. As waters ſwiftly falling down a craggy rock, ſo raged young Aelgar thro' the wood; the wild boar bit his ſpear, and the fox died at his feet. From the thicket a wolf aroſe, his eyes flaming like two ſtars; he roared like the voice of the tempeſt; hunger made him furious, and and he fled like a falling meteor to the war. Like a thunderbolt tearing the black rock, Aelgar darted his ſpear through his heart. The wolf raged like the voice of many waters, and ſeizing Aelgar by by the throat, he ſought the regions of the bleſſed.—The wolf died upon his body.—Ethelgar and [8] Egwina wept.—They wept like the rains of the ſpring; ſorrow ſat upon them as the black clouds upon the mountains of death: but the power of God ſettled their hearts.

The golden ſun aroſe to the higheſt of his po⯑wer; the apple perfumed the gale; and the juicy grape delighted the eye. Ethelgar and Egwi⯑na bent their way to the mountain's ſide, like two ſtars that move through the ſky. The flowers grew beneath their feet; the trees ſpread out their leaves; the ſun played upon the rolling brook; the winds gently paſſed along. Dark, pitchy clouds veiled the face of the ſun; the winds roar⯑ed like the noiſe of a battle; the ſwift hail de⯑ſcended to the ground; the lightnings broke from the ſable clouds, and gilded the dark brown cor⯑ners of the ſky; the thunder ſhook the lofty moun⯑tains; the tall towers nodded to their foundations; the bending oaks divided the whiſtling wind; the broken flowers fled in confuſion round the moun⯑tain's ſide. Ethelgar and Egwina ſought the ſa⯑cred ſhade, the bleak winds roared over their heads, and the waters ran over their feet. Swift from the dark cloud the lightning came; the ſkies bluſhed at the ſight. Egwina ſtood on the brow of the lofty hill, like an oak in the ſpring; the light⯑nings [9] danced about her garments, and the blaſting flame blackened her face: the ſhades of death ſwam before her eyes; and ſhe fell breathleſs down the black ſteep rock: the ſea received her body, and ſhe rolled down with the roaring water.

Ethelgar ſtood terrible as the mountain of Main⯑dip; the waves of deſpair harrowed up his ſoul, as the roaring Severn plows the ſable ſand; wild as the evening wolf, his eyes ſhone like the red vapors in the valley of the dead: horror ſat upon his brow; like a bright ſtar ſhooting through the ſky, he plunged from the lofty brow of the hill, like a tall oak breaking from the roaring wind. Saint Cuthbert appeared in the air; the black clouds fled from the ſky; the ſun gilded the ſpang⯑ling meadows; the lofty pine ſtood ſtill; the violets of the vale gently moved to the ſoft voice of the wind; the ſun ſhone on the bubbling brook. The ſaint, arrayed in glory, caught the falling mortal; as the ſoft dew of the morning hangs upon the lofty elm, he bore him to the ſandy beech, whilſt the ſea roared beneath his feet. Ethelgar opened his eyes, like the grey orbs of the morning, folding up the black mantles of the night—Know, O man! ſaid the member of the bleſſed, to ſubmit to the will of [10] God; he is terrible as the face of the earth, when the waters ſunk to their habitations; gentle as the ſacred covering of the oak; ſecret as the bottom of the great deep; juſt as the rays of the morning. Learn that thou art a man, nor repine at the ſtroke of the Almighty, for God is as juſt as he is great. The holy viſion diſappeared as the atoms fly before the ſun. Ethelgar aroſe, and bent his way to the college of Kenewalein; there he flouriſhes as a hoary oak in the wood of Arden.

KENRICK. TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.

WHEN winter yelled through the leafleſs grove; when the black waves rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of the ſun; when the ſilver brook ſtood ſtill, and ſnow environed the top of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blaſted fields, and the boughs of the leafleſs trees bent with the loads of ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering light of the weſtern ſky; Kenrick, terrible as the tem⯑peſt, young as the ſnake of the valley, ſtrong as the mountain of the ſlain; his armour ſhining like the ſtars in the dark night, when the moon is veiled in ſable, and the blaſting winds howl over the wide plain; his ſhield like the black rock, prepared himſelf for war.

Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the firſt rays of the morning ſtar, ſwift as the fly⯑ing deer, ſtrong as a young oak, fierce as an even⯑ing [12] wolf, drew his ſword; glittering like the blue vapours in the valley of Horſo; terrible as the red lightning, burſting from the dark-brown clouds: his ſwift bark rode over the foaming waves, like the wind in the tempeſt; the arches fell at his blow, and he wrapt the towers in flames; he fol⯑lowed Kenrick, like a wolf roaming for prey.

Centwin of the vale aroſe, he ſeized the maſſy ſpear; terrible was his voice, great was his ſtrength; he hurled the rocks into the ſea, and broke the ſtrong oaks of the foreſt. Slow in the race as the minutes of impatience. His ſpear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, ſwept down whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the ſtones of hail at the approach of the ſun.

Awake, O Eldulph! Thou that ſleepeſt on the white mountain, with the faireſt of women; no more purſue the dark-brown wolf; ariſe from the moſſy bank of the falling waters; let thy gar⯑ments be ſtained in blood, and the ſtreams of life diſcolour thy girdle; let thy flowing hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into terror.

[13] Egward, keeper of the barks, ariſe like the roaring waves of the ſea: purſue the black com⯑panies of the enemy.

Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the ſtars, act like yourſelves.

Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, ſwel⯑led with rain, the Saxons moved along; like a blazing ſtar the ſword of Kenrick ſhone among the Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he burnt up the ranks of his enemy.

Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward ſported in blood, armies melted at his ſtroke. El⯑dulph was a flaming vapour, deſtruction ſat upon his ſword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock before the ſword of Mervin.

Egward purſued the ſlayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin ſmoked on his hand.

Like the rage of a tempeſt was the noiſe of the battle; like the roaring of the torrent, guſhing from the brow of the lofty mountain.

[14] The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the howling winds.

Ye virgins! ariſe and welcome back the purſu⯑ers; deck their brows with chaplets of jewels; ſpread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon his crooked ſword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his knees are red with the gore of the foe.

Ye ſons of the ſong, ſound the inſtruments of muſic; ye virgins, dance around him.

Coſtan of the lake, ariſe, take thy harp from the willow, ſing the praiſe of Kenrick, to the ſweet ſound of the white waves ſinking to the foundation of the black rock.

Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious.

CERDICK, TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.

THE roſe-crowned dawn dances on the top of the lofty hill. Ariſe, O Cerdick, from thy moſſy bed, for the noiſe of the chariots is heard in the valleys.

Ye Saxons, draw the ſword, prepare the flying dart of death: ſwift as the glancing ſight meet the foe upon the brow of the hill, and caſt the war⯑riors headlong into the roaring ſtream.

The ſwords of the Saxons appear on the high rock, like the lake of death reflecting the beams of the morning ſun.

The Britons begin to aſcend the ragged frag⯑ments of the ſhrinking rock: thick as the hail in the howling ſtorm, driven down the mountain's ſide, the ſon of the tempeſt; the chariot, and the horſe roll in confuſion to the blood-ſtained vale.

[16] Sons of war, deſcend, let the river be ſwelled with the ſmoaking ſtreams of life, and the moun⯑tain of the ſlain aſcend to the ſtars.

They fall beneath the ſpear of Cerdick.

Sledda is a flame of fire. Kenbert ſcatters the never-erring ſhaft of death. Aelle is a tempeſt, a cloud burſting in blood, a winter's wind blaſt⯑ing the ſoul: his knees are encircled with life⯑warm gore, his white robe is like the morning ſky. Ceaulin's ſpear is exalted like the ſtar of the evening; his fallen enemies riſe in hills around him.

The actions of Cerdick aſtoniſh the ſoul; the foe is melted from the field, and the gods have loſt their ſacrifice.

Cerdick leans upon his ſpear, he ſings the praiſes of the gods: let the image be filled with the bo⯑dies of the dead, for the foe is ſwept away like purple bloom of the grape, no more to be ſeen. The ſacred flames aſcend the clouds, the warriors dance around it. The evening ſlowly throws her duſky vale over the face of the ſun.

[17] Cerdick aroſe in his tent.

Ye ſons of war, who ſhake the ſilver javelin and the pointed ſhield, ariſe from the ſoft ſlumbers of the night, aſſemble to council at the tent of Cer⯑dick.

From the dark-brown ſpring, from the verdant top of the impending rock, from the flowery vale, and the coppiced heath, the chiefs of the war aroſe.

Graceful as the flower that overlooks the ſilver ſtream, the mighty Cerdick ſtood among the war⯑riors: attention ſeals up their lips.

Why will ye ſleep, ye Saxons, whilſt the hang⯑ing mountain of fortune trembles over our heads; Let us gird on the reeking ſword, and wrap in flame the town of Doranceaſtre: ſtrong as the foundation of the earth, ſwift as the impetuous ſtream, deadly as the corrupted air, ſudden as the whirlwind piercing to the hidden bed of the ſea, armed in the red lightnings of the ſtorm, will we come upon the foe. Prepare the ſword and ſhield, and follow the deſcendant of Woden.

[18] As when the ſable clouds inceſſantly deſcend in rivers of rain to the wood-crowned hills, the foundation of the ground is looſened, and the foreſt gently ſlides to the valley, ſuch was the ap⯑pearance of the warriors, moving to the city of Doranceaſtre: the ſpears appeared like the ſtars of the black night, their ſpreading ſhields like the evening ſky.

Turn your eyes, O ye Saxons, to the diſtant mountain: on the ſpreading top a company is ſeen; they are like the locuſts of the Eaſt, like a dark-brown cloud expanding in the wind: they come down the hills like the ſtones of hail; the javelin nods over the helm; death ſports in their ſhadows. They are children of Woden: ſee the god of battle fans the air, the red ſword waves in their banner. Ye ſons of battle, wait their ap⯑proach, let their eyes be feaſted with the chaplets of victory.

It is Kenrick! I ſee the lightning on his ſhield! his eyes are two ſtars, his arm is the arrow of death! he drinks the blood of the foe, as the rays of the ſummer ſun drink the ſoftly ſtealing brook: he moves like the moon, attended by the [19] ſtars; his blood-ſtained robe flies around him, like the white clouds of the evening, tinged with the red beams of the ſinking ſun.

See the chaplet hangs on his helm: ſhade him, O ye ſons of war, with the pointed ſhield.

Kenrick approaches; the ſhields of the brave hang over his head. He ſpeaks; attention dances on the ear.

Son of Woden, receive a conquering ſon; the bodies of the ſlain riſe in mountains; the aſhes of the towns choak up the river; the roaring ſtream of Severn is filled with the ſlaughtered ſons of thunder; the warriors hang upon the cliffs of the red rocks; the mighty men, like the ſacrifice of yeſterday, will be ſeen no more; the briars ſhall hide the plain; the graſs dwell in the deſolate ha⯑bitation; the wolf ſhall ſleep in the palace, and the fox in the temple of the gods; the ſheep ſhall wander without a ſhepherd, and the goats be ſcat⯑tered in the high mountains, like the ſurrows on the bank of the ſwelling ſlood; the enemies are ſwept away; the gods are glutted with blood, and peace ariſes from the ſolitary grove.

[20] Joy wantons in the eye of Cerdick. By the powers that ſend the tempeſt, the red lightning, and roaring thunder; by the God of war, whoſe delight is in blood, and who preys upon the ſouls of the brave; by the powers of the great deep, I ſwear that Kenrick ſhall ſit on my throne, guide the ſanguine ſpear of war, and the glittering ſceptre of peace.

Cerdick girds his ſon with the ſword of royalty: The warriors dance around him; the clanging ſhields echo to the diſtant vales; the fires aſcend the ſkies; the town of Doranceaſtre increaſes the flame, and the great image is red with the blood of the captives: the cries of the burning ſoe are drowned in the ſongs of joy; the aſhes of the image are ſcattered in the air, the bones of the foe are broken to duſt.

Great is the valour of Cerdick, great is the ſtrength of Kenrick.

GODRED CROVAN, A POEM.

Compoſed by DOPNAL SYRRIC Scheld of Godred Crovan; King of the Iſle of Man.

ARISE, O ſon of Harald the Black, for the ſon of Syrric ſleeps upon the mountain, under the moſſy rock; prepare thy ſilver lance, ſhake the clotted gore of the wolf from thy ſpreading ſhield; Fingal of the brown lake, whoſe ſword divides the lofty pine, whoſe ſpear is ever moiſt with the blood of the ſlain, will aſſiſt thy arm. Culliſin who ſleeps on the brow of the mountain, whoſe feet are ſwift as the days of mirth, will draw forth his troops from the foreſt. The lions of the plain, Morvor and Eſſyr, will ſwell thy army, as the falling rain ſwells the ſilver brook: they wait for thy preſence, as the brown meadow for the ſpring; they will ſhoot out in blood, and bloſſom in victory.

[22] Godred Crovan, ſon of Harald the Black, whoſe name has put to flight armies, ariſe.

Godred aroſe; he met the chiefs on the plain; they ſat down, and feaſted till the evening: there ſat Cochlin with the long ſpear, whoſe arm is a thunderbolt: on the banks of the ſea he fought an hoſt, and rained blood on the plain of Mervor: brown is his face as the ſun-burnt heath; ſtrong his arm as the roaring ſea: he ſhook his black locks like clouds toſſed by the winds: he ſings the ſong of joy. Godwin of the ruſhy plain lay upon the ſkin of the wolf; his eyes are ſtars, his blows are lightning. Tatwallin ſat by his ſide, he ſung ſweet as the birds of ſpring, he fought like the angry lion.

O Tatwallin! ſing the actions of Harold the Swift.

Tatwallin aroſe from his ſeat, the horn of mirth graced his right-hand.

Hear, ye ſons of blood, whilſt the horn of mirth is refreſhing your ſouls, the actions of Ha⯑rald the Swift.

Tatwallin ended his ſong, the chiefs aroſe from the green plain; they aſſemble their troops on the banks of Lexy.

Ceormond, with the green ſpear, martialled his band: he deduced his lineage from Woden, and diſplayed the ſhield of Penda. Strong as the tower of Pendragon on the hill, furious as the ſouls of the unburied warriors; his company were all chiefs. [26] Upon the high hills he encountered Moryon; like daſhing waves, they ruſhed to the war; their ſwords rained blood to the valley beneath. Moryon, wild as the winter's wind, raged in the fight; the pointed javelin quivered in his breaſt, he rolled down the high hill. Son of Woden, great was thy might, by thy hand the two ſons of Oſmor fell to the valley.

How are thy warriors ſtretched upon the bank of the Lexy, like willows!

Ealward, of the brown rock, who dyes his an⯑lace in the blood of the wolves of the hill, whoſe ſpear, like a ſtar, blaſts the ſouls of the foe; ſee he ſleeps with the chiefs upon the ſkin of the wolf; the battle is raging in his fancy; he graſps the bloody ſpear; his enemies fly before him; joy and rage dance on his brow: thus ſleeping, he is as the ſun ſlightly covered with a cloud.

Dugnal, who inhabits the iſles, whoſe barks are ſwifter than the wind, ſtands on the bank of the ſtream; his eyes are bent on the ſpangling wave; his hands preſs the ſilver-headed ſpear; he is a lion in the war, in the council wiſe as the ancient prieſts.

[27] Wilver ſtands on the right-hand of Godred; he is a rock, unmoved by the tempeſt of war.

Lagman is a young oak; he flouriſhes in the heat of the glory of his fire: the warriors are like the ſtars of the winter night.

The noiſe of a multitude is heard from the hills: Godred ſets his troops in order for war; they are ſeen on the brow of the hill. Many are the foes of Godred; great is the courage of his warriors.

Raignald of the iſles attends the chiefs of his foes; his arm is ſtrong as the flouriſhing oak; his wiſdom deep as the black lake; his ſwift ſhips ſlew over the waves; he defied to battle the prince of the mountains.

Bladdyn fell by his hand; he burnt the palace of the wood: the horn, emboſſed with gold, gra⯑ced his ſpoils; he returned to his caſtle over a ſea of blood.

Dunhelm bears the banner of the foe; he is the dragon of the moſſy plain; he kept the water of the ſeven ſprings. Wynfylt, and his warriors, ſought [28] to bear away the water in the horn of hoſpitality. Dunhelm aroſe from his ſtrong fort; his anlace glittered over his head.

Children of the hills, ſaid the ſon of Olave, reſtore the water to the gently-running ſtream.

The ſon of Meurig anſwered not: the anlace of Dunhelm divided his head; his blows fell like the ſtones of hail, when the loud winds ſhake the top of the lofty tree; the warriors fled like the clouds of night, at the approach of the ſun.

Elgar, from the borders of Northumberland, was among the enemies of Godred Crovan, ſon of Ha⯑rald the Black: he led his troop down the hill, and began the fight with Oſpray: like the raging of the lake of blood, when the loud winds whiſtle over the ſharp cliffs of the rock, was the noiſe of the battle.

Summerled roſe in the ſight like the rays of the morning; blood beamed about him; his helmet ſell from his head; his eyes were like the lights upon the billows.

Octha, who fought for Godred, oppoſed the paſ⯑ſage of his rage: his ſhield was like the riſing ſun, [29] his ſpear the tower of Mabyn: the ſpear of Sum⯑merled ſounded on the ſhield of Octha; he heard the ſhrill cry of joy, as the broken weapon fell to the ground: his ſword fell upon the ſhoulder of Summerled; he gnaſhed his teeth, and died.

Oſpray, like a lion, ravages the band of Elgar. Octha follows behind him, dying his long white robe in blood.

Elgar flies to the ſon of Vorti; his ſpear ſounds upon his helmet; the ſword of Octha divides the ſhield of Elgar: the Northumbrian warrior retires to his band. Dunhelm drives his long ſpear through the heart of Octha; he falls to the ground. Wilver ſets his foot upon his breathleſs corpſe, and buries him beneath the bodies of the foe.

Raignald, with his band, flies to the relief of Dunhelm: the troops of Wilver and Oſpray ſlowly retire. Dunhelm falls by the javelin of an un⯑known warrior; ſo falls the eagle by the arrow of the child.

Raignald rages like the fires of the mountain; the troops of Dugnal and Ceormond melt before him.

[30] Dugnal lifts high his broad ſhield againſt the breaſt of Raignald; his ſword hangs over his head: the troops of Raignald retire with their chief. Ealward, and the ſon of Harald the Black, fly to the war: the foe retire before them. Raignald encourages his men: like an eagle he rages in the fight.

The troops of Godred halt; the bands of Dugnal and Ceormond forſake their leaders.

Godred retires to the bank of the Lexy; the foe followed behind, but were driven back with ſhame. On the bank of the Lexy the warriors are ſcattered like broken oaks.

Godred ſounds the ſilver ſhield; the chiefs aſ⯑ſemble round his tent.

Let us again to the war, O chiefs, and drive the foe over the mountains.

They prepare for war; Dugnal leads the wolves of the iſle; with a loud voice they began the fight. Ealward falls by the ſword of Raignald. Cullifin ſcatters the javelins of fate. Fingal rages in the fight, but ſell by the ſword of Elgar.

[31] Cochlin heard the dying groans of his friend; his ſword pierced the heart of Elgar, he fell upon the body of Fingal.

Morvor and Eſſyr raged like ſons of blood, thouſands fell around them. Godwin ſcattered ſlaughter through the hoſt of the ſoe. Tatwallin ſweeps down the chief of the battle; like the noiſe of torrents rolling down the high mountains, is the noiſe of the fight; the feet of the warriors are wet with blood; the ſword of Cochlin is broken, his ſpear pierces through the foe like lightning through the oak: the chiefs of Godred fill the field with the bodies of the dead: the night ap⯑proaches, and victory is undecided: the black clouds bend to the earth, Raignald and Godred both retire.

The chiefs of Godred aſſembled at the tent of council: Tatwallin, aroſe and ſung,

Godred aroſe from his throne, he led Tatwallin to a ſeat at his right-hand.

Dugnal prepares his troop; ſing, O Tatwallin, the actions of Hengiſt and Horſa.

Tatwallin aroſe from his ſeat:

Tatwallin ended his ſong,

The morning crept from the mountains, Dug⯑nal with his troops retired to the foreſt on the mountain of Scoafull.

Godred Crovan, ſon of Harald the Black, the lion of Iceland, prepares for battle. Raignald came down to the plain: long was the fight and bloody.

[37] Godred Crovan beat his anlace on the ſhield; the warriors upon the mountain heard the ſound of the ſilver ſhield; ſwift as the hunted ſtag they fly to the war, they hear the noiſe of the battle, the ſhout of the onſet ſwells in the wind, the loud din of the war increaſes, as the thunder rolling from afar; they fly down the mountains, where the fragments of the ſharp rock are ſcattered around; they aſcend like the vapours, folding up the high hill, upon the borders of Oſloch; their helmets ſweep the dawn of the morning; the ſaffron light ſhines on the broad ſhield; through the dark dells they cut a paſſage, through the dells where the beams of the ſun are never ſeen.

On the ruſhy moor of Roſſin they aſtoniſh the foe, and join in the war.

There fought Godred Crovan, death ſat on his ſword, the yelling breath of the dying foe ſhook his banner; his ſhield, the ſtream of Lexy, which urrounds the dark-brown wood, and ſhines at the noon of day; his anlace dropped blood, and tore through the helmets of the foe like the red light⯑ning of the ſtorm.

[38] Dugnal, chief of the mountain warriors, who drove Rygwallon from his chariot of war, lifted his ſhield and ſpear through the heart of Morval; the weapon perſorated, he yelled like a wolf of the mountain, he died.

Weolmund, of the white rock, aroſe in the fight; like the fires of the earth he burnt up the ranks of the foe; his ſpear a blaſted oak, his ſhield the ſea when the winds are ſtill, he appeared a hill, on whoſe top the winter ſnow is ſeen, and the ſummer ſun melts it up: victory ſat on his hel⯑met, death on his anlace.

Wilver, who ſupports the tottering rocks, who flies like the bird of ſummer over the plain, ſhakes the crooked ſword as he rages upon the hills of the ſlain, and is red with living gore: the ſpears of the foe are gathered about him, the ſharp javelins ſound on his ſhield; he looks around the field, the ſavage Edwin flies to his aid; like two wolves they rage in the war, their ſhields are red with blood.

The bear of the north throws his lance: the fur⯑clad Godard Syrric diſplays his ſtarry ſhield, the [39] chiefs fall at his feet, he riſes on the breaſt of Rynon, ſtorms of blood ſurround his ſword, blood flows around him.

When the ſtorm rages in the ſky, the torrents roll to the plain, the trees of the wood are borne away, the caſtle falls to the ground, ſuch was the fury of the fight on the moor of Roſſin: the chiefs fell, our foes halt, they fly ſwift as the clouds of winter. Oſpray throws the ſpear of Chaſo; ſwift as their fear he flies to the purſuit; the ſoul of Godred melted, he rolled the blue banner, wrought with gold, round the crimſon ſtream: his warriors dance around him, they ſing the ſong of Harald the Black; they hail him king; the golden ſandal is thrown over his helmet. May the Gods grant this war for empire be his laſt.

THE HIRLAS, Tranſlated from the ancient Britiſh of OWEN CYFELIOG, Prince of Powys.

ERE the ſun was ſeen on the brow of the mountain, the clanging ſhields were heard in the valley: our enemies were apalled at the ſound. The red armour of our warriors glittered till the noon of day. The foe fled from the bor⯑ders; they fell in the chace like ſtones of hail; they panted like hunted wolves.

Let the Hirlas of Rhys overflow like the waters of the great river.

Where the golden banners declare the valour of Rhys, had the horn of hoſpitality long been uſed: it relieved the warriors, who fainted in the chace, and the traveller whoſe habitation is beyond the white mountains.

[41] Bring here, O cupbearer, the carved Hirlas of mirth, which glows with livid gold: let the ſpark⯑ling mead ſlow around it.

Gwgwyn, prince of my table, ſon of mighty men, thine are the firſt honours of the Hirlas; ſmall is the gift of gratitude; great were thy ſer⯑vices. When thy anceſtors ſtood in the fight, victory ſtood with them; loud were their voices in the battle, as the hygra of their charge.

Fill the golden Hirlas of mirth; attend to the merits of the warriors, leſt they revenge on thee the diſgrace of their honour.

See Gryffydh, with his uplifted crimſon ſpear, expects it; he is the bulwark of the borders: ſprung from Cynfyll and the dragons of the hill; his name ſhall ever live in the ſongs of the bards. As refreſhed with the drink of mirth, his atten⯑dants fought, furious as the battle of the champions of the valley. Whilſt the tomb of Pendragon ſhall ſtand on the hill, his ſame ſhall remain in the ſong.

Fill up the Hirlas to Eadnyfed, who ſits like a god upon his broken armour: like a tempeſt he [42] fell upon the ſhields of his foes: near Gyrthyn he ſlew an hoſt.

The diſtant nations heard the noiſe of the battle of Maelor; the ſound of the ſhields was heard in the mountains. Dreadful was the conflict as that of Bangor, when the warriors were trod to the ground. The princes fled: Morach beat the earth with his feet: Morvran fled over the mountain.

Fill up the golden Hirlas. Let the mead be borne to Sylliw, defender of our coaſt; to the lion of war, the ſon of Madoc; fierce as a wolf in the fight; ſoft as the moſſy bed in peace.

To the ſons of Eſſyner, bear it next: ſtrong as two rocks they raged in the fight; the braveſt champion falls before them; like ſtorms they pierce the targets of the foe, ſweeping down the multitude as the loud billows ſweep the ſand.

Fill up the badge of honour. To Tudor bear the golden Hirlas. Now to Moreiddeg, who, with his brother, aſſiſted our cauſe: valour ſet [43] upon their brows; like wolves they ſought for blood. Theſe are my chiefs.

Let the golden Hirlas go round to the ſeat of Morgan, whoſe name ſhall be heard in the ſongs of our children: the ſight of his uſeleſs ſword blaſted my ſoul.

Fill up the badge of honour, the golden Hirlas. To Gronwys bear it; aſtoniſhed I ſaw him ſtand like a rock on the ſpreading plain of Giveſhun; he ſuſtained the aſſault of an army. Upon the ſandy bank of the ſea his attendants did wonders. The chief of the foe was burnt in the fire of his rage, and the gleanings of the ſword were loſt in the ſtream.

In the heat of the battle, the ſon of Gryffydh burſt his chains; Menrig again raged in the war. When the ſun ſat on the hill, we ſung the ſong of victory.

Fill the Hirlas of mirth to all the chiefs of Oweyn, who are the wolves of the mountain. Ma⯑doc and Meyler are in ſoul one; they are our caſtles. The warriors of the hill ſtood round their chief, [44] ſtrong as the ſpear of Uther, ſwift in purſuit as the vapours of the night.

Fill the Hirlas with mead. Let us drink to the honour of the warriors, who fell in the war.

Bear it to Daniel, beauteous as the verdure of the foreſt, ſavage as the prowling wolf.

O cupbearer! great is thy ſervice, in diſplaying the merits of the warrior; if thou haſt not heard his fame, his ſpear flies to thy breaſt, and his fol⯑lowers drink thy blood.

Whilſt the lamps of joy are burning, let the Hirlas go round to the warriors who fought at Llydcomb; they fought with the rage of lions; the mead is their due: they defended Cwrys.

Let the Hirlas go round. May the Ruler of all ſend us liberty and life.

GORTHMUND, TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.

THE loud winds whiſtled through the ſacred grove of Thor; far over the plains of Dena⯑nia, were the cries of the ſpirits heard. The howl of Hubba's horrid voice ſwelled upon every blaſt, and the ſhrill ſhriek of the fair Locabara, ſhot through the midnight-ſky.

Gorthmund ſlept on his couch of purple; the blood of the ſlain was ſtill on his cruel hand: his helmet was ſtained with purple, and the banner of his father was no more white. His ſoul ſhud⯑dered at the howl of Hubba, and the ſhrill ſhriek of Locabara: he ſhook like the trembling reed, when the loud tempeſt rolls the foaming flood over the pointed rocks: pale was his face as the eglantine, which climbs the branches of the ſlowery bramble. He ſtarted from his couch: his black locks ſtood upright on his head, like the ſpears which ſtand round the tent of the warriors, when the ſilver moon ſpangles on the tranquil lake.

[46] Why wilt thou torment me, Hubba; it was not by my hand that the ſword drank thy blood. Who ſaw me plunge the dagger to the heart of Loca⯑bara? No! Nardin of the foreſt was far away. Ceaſe, ceaſe, thy ſhrieks; I cannot bear them. On thy own ſword thou haſt thy death; and the fair virgin of the hills fell beneath the rage of the mountains. Leave me, leave me: witneſs Hel,^* I knew not Locabara, I forced her not to my em⯑braces; no, I ſlew her not; ſhe fell by the mountaincers. Leave me, leave me, O ſoul of Hubba!

Exmundbert, who bore the ^† ſilver ſhield of Gorthmund, flew from his downy couch, ſwift as [47] the rumour of a coming hoſt. He ſtruck the gol⯑den cup, and the king of the flying warriors awakened from his dream of terror. Exmund⯑bert, is he gone? Strike the ſilver ſhield, call up the ſons of battle, who ſleep on the moſſy banks of Frome. But ſtay, 'tis all a viſion; 'tis over and gone as the image of Woden, in the evening of a ſummer-day. Hence to thy tent, I will ſleep a⯑gain.

Gorthmund doubled his purple robe, and ſlept again.

Loud as the noiſe of a broken rock breaking down the caverns of Seoggeſwaldſcyre^*, was the voice of Hubba heard: ſharp as the cry of the bird of death at the window of the wounded warrior, [48] when the red rays of the morning riſe breaking from the eaſt, and the ſoul of the ſick is flying away with the darkneſs, was the ſhriek of Locabara. Riſe from thy couch, Gorthmund, thou wolf of the evening. When the ſun ſhines in the glory of the day; when the labouring ſwain dances in the wood-land ſhade; when the ſparkling ſtars glim⯑mer in the azure of the night, and contentment ſleeps under the ruſtic roof, thou ſhalt have no reſt. Thine are the bitter herbs of affliction; for thee ſhall the wormwood ſhed its ſeed on the bloſſoms of the blooming flower, and imbitter with its fall⯑ing leaves the waters of the brook. Riſe, Gorth⯑mund, riſe, the Saxons are burning thy tents: riſe, for the Mercians are aſſembled together, and thy ar⯑mies will be ſlain with the ſword, or burnt in the image of ^*Tewiſk. The god of victory ſhall be red with thy blood, and they ſhall ſhout at the ſa⯑crifice. Riſe, Gorthmund, thy eyes ſhall be cloſed in peace no more.

[49] The king of the ſwift warriors ſtarted from his couch: he ſhook like an oak through which the lightnings have cut their rapid way; his eyes rolled like the lights on the Saxons barks, in the tempeſt of the dark and black night.

Exmundbert flew to his chief: he ſtruck the ſilver ſhield. Sueno of the dark lake, and the black haired Lecolwin, caught the lance and the ſhield, and preſt into the royal tent.

Warriors ſtrike the ſhields of alarm; the Mer⯑cians are aſſembled together, the Saxons are burn⯑ing our tents: give the cry of war, and iſſue to the battle: come upon them by the ſide of the thick wood, near the city of ^*Reggaceſter. Lift the banner Reafan; and he is a worſhipper of falſe gods who with-holds his ſword from blood. The ſilver ſhield reſounded to the wood of Sel, and the ^† great iſland trembled at the clamorous noiſe.

[50] Delward of the ſtrong arm, and Ax-bred of the foreſt of wolves, led the warriors to the thick wood: but quiet was the foreſt as the tranquil lake, when the winds ſleep on the tops of the lofty trees. The inhabitants of Reggaceſter ſlept in the ſtrength of their walls. The leaders returned.

There is no enemy near, O king: ſtill as the ha⯑bitation of the dead, are the kingdoms around us: they have felt the ſtrength of thy arm, and will no more riſe up to oppoſe us. As the graſs falls by the hand of the mower, ſo ſhall they fall before us, and be no more. The banner Reafan ſhall be ex⯑alted, and the ſeven gods of the Saxons be trampled in the duſt. Let the armies of the north rejoice, let them ſacrifice to the gods of war, and bring out the priſoners, for the ^* feaſt of blood. The war⯑riors threw down the lance, and the ſhield, and the axe of battle: the plates of braſs dropped from their ſhoulders; and they danced to the [51] ſound of the ^* inſtrument of ſacrifice. Confuſed as the cry of the fleet dogs when the white bear is purſued over the mountains of the north: confuſed as the reſolutions of terror was the noiſe of the war⯑riors. They danced till the mantle of midnight aſcended from the earth.

The morning ſhook the dew from her crown of roſes, on the yellow locks of the dancers; and the gleams of light ſhot through the dark grey ſky, like the reeking blood over the ſhield of ſteel. See, warriors, a dark cloud ſits on the mountain's brow, it will be a tempeſt at noon, and the heavy rains will fall upon us. Yes, ye ^† Danes, it will be a tempeſt, but a tempeſt of war: it will rain, but in ſhowers of blood. For the dark cloud is [52] the army of ^‡Segowald: he leads the flower of the warriors of Mercia, and on his right hand is the mighty ſon of battle, the great Sigebert, who leads the warriors of Weſſex.

The dance was ended; and the captives of ſacrifice bound to the ſacred tree: they panted in the pangs of death.

Sudden from the borders of the wood, was the alarm given: and the ſilver ſhield rouzed the ſun from behind the black clouds. The archers of the ſacrifice dropped the bow, and caught the lance and the ſhield. Confuſion ſpread from watch-tower to watch-tower, and the clamour rung to the diſtant hills.

Gorthmund raged like a wild boar, but he raged in vain: his whole army was diſordered, and the cry of war was mixed with the yell of re⯑treat.

[53] Segowald came near with his Mercians on the right-hand: and the great Sigebert led the Saxons round the thick wood.

The Danes rage like the tempeſt of winter, but the Mercians ſtand firm as the grove of oaks on the plains of ^§Ambroiſburgh: great is the ſtrength of the ſwift warriors of the north, but their troops are broken, and out of the order of battle.

The Saxons, with the great Sigebert, have in⯑circled the wood; they rage in the fight like wolves. The Danes are preſſed on all ſides; they fly like the leaves in autumn before the ſtrong wind.

Gorthmund ſcorns to fly; he is deſcended from the ſon of battle, L'achollan, whoſe ſword put to flight the armies of Moeric, when the ſun was covered with a mantle of blood, and darkneſs deſcended upon the earth at noon day. He bears upon his arm the ſhield of Lofgar, the keeper of the [54] caſtle of Teigne. Lofgar never fled, though the lances of the foe flew about him numerous as the winged ants in ſummer. Lofgar never fled, though the warriors of the mountains hurled the rocks upon him in the valley, when he fought for the ſhield of Penda: and ſhould Gorthmund fly, Gorthmund, whoſe ſword was his law, who held juſtice in his banner?

Segowald ſought Gorthmund: he found him ſingly encountering an army.

Turn to me, ſon of Lofgar; I am Segowald of the lake haſt thou not heard of my fame in battle? When the army of Hengiſt panted on the dark-brown heath, I cheared them to the war; and the banner of victory waved over my head. Turn thy arms upon me, Gorthmund, I am worthy thy ſtrength.

The ſon of Lofgar ruſhed to the ſon of Alder⯑wold: they fought like the children of deſtruction on the plain of Marocan. Gorthmund fell. He fell, like the mountain boar beneath the arrow of the hunter.

[55] As the ſhades of death danced before his eyes, he heard the yell of Hubba, and the ſhrill ſhriek of Locabara: Thou art fallen, thou ſon of inju⯑ſtice, thou art fallen; thy ſhield is degraded in the duſt; and thy banner will be honoured no more! Thy ſwift warriors are fled over the plain, as the driving ſheep before the wolf. Think, Gorthmund, think on Hubba, the ſon of Crine⯑walch of the green hill. Think on Locabara, whom thy ſword ſent to the regions of death. Remember thy injuſtice and die.

MEMOIRS OF SIR WILLIAM CANYNGE
Chiefly collected from ROWLEY's Poems.

SIR William Canynge, whom Rowley juſtly ſtyles ‘"a grete and goode man, the favou⯑ryte of Godde, the friende of the chyrche, the companyonne of kynges, and the ſadre of hys na⯑tyve cittie,"’ was a younger ſon of a citizen of Briſtol. In his youth he gave early dawnings of wiſdom and learning;

He was alſo of a comely perſon, but married, it ſeems, for love, without a fortune. Soon after, however, his father and elder brother, who both loved money as much as he deſpiſed it, died, and left him large eſtates in land and money, with his [118] brother John^* dependent upon him; on which he founded a chauntry for their ſouls,

in the year 1456. But ſoon this dawning was overcaſt by the death of his wife, his ſecond ſelf. Of his native city he was mayor five times; and beſide ſeveral other charities, founded an alms⯑houſe or hoſpital (which is yet in being) at Red⯑cliff-hill, and built a chapel, and that noble church of St. Mary Redcliff, the fineſt pariſh-church in England,

When Sir Baldwin Fulford was executed at Briſtol for treaſon in 1461, 1 Edward IV. Ca⯑nynge, being then mayor, made great interceſſion [119] for him to the King,^† who heard him graciouſly, having been much his friend, though he would not grant his requeſt. When he was knighted does not appear. Rowley has dedicated to him his tragedy of Aella, in two epiſtles. To that of Godwyn Canynge wrote the prologue, an [...] in it acted the part of King Edward the Confeſſor. Four poems of his are alſo printed with Rowley's. In 1467, a ſecond match being propoſed by the King between him and a lady of the Wi [...]eville (the Queen's) family, Sir William went into orders purpoſely to avoid it, being ordained acolythe, by his friend Biſhop Carpenter^‡ of Worceſter, 19th of September, and receiving the higher orders of ſub-deacon, deacon, and prieſt, [120] 12th of March, 1467, the 2d and 16th of April, 1468, reſpectively. Being then made dean of the collegiate church of Weſtbury, Wilts, with his uſual munificence he rebuilt that college. Soon after his taking orders, he gave, by a deed of truſt, dated 20th of October, 1467, in part of a benefaction of 500l. to St. Mary Redcliff church, ‘"certain jewels of Sir Theobald Gorges^‖ Knt."’ which had been pawned to him for 160l.

Full of good works, he died in the year 1474, and was buried in Redcliff church, where two monuments were erected to his memory, one with his effigies in the robes of a magiſtrate, the other in thoſe of a prieſt, cut in white marble. Beſides his many other charitable donations, he ſet⯑tled lands to pay 44l. per annum to the ſheriffs, [121] in lieu of toll demanded by them, at the city gates. For an account of the cheſts depoſited by him in Redcliff church, ſee pp. 272-3.

Sir W. Canynge had alſo a cabinet of curioſities, which he had collected with very great expence, and Rowley aſſiſted him in making the collection. The greateſt part of a large folio was filled with his compoſitions. This folio, Rowley ſays. ‘"was a preſente wordie of a grete kynge;"’ and the loſs of it will be ſincerely regretted by the friends of literature, as the writings might have thrown ſome light on the learning of thoſe times. Can⯑ynge was alſo a man of an extenſive genius, and a liberal turn of mind, the diſtinguiſhed patron of literature, and a lover of the fine arts. Rowley, it appears by his writings, lived in the greateſt in⯑timacy with him, and received very extraordinary marks of his favour and generoſity. On all occa⯑ſions he ſhews his gratitude to his illuſtrious friend, takes perpetual delight in dwelling on his many amiable virtues, and conſtanly manifeſts an earneſt deſire of tranſmitting his fame to poſterity. This appears not only in many of his poems, but alſo in the following proſe work, preſerved by [122] Chatterton, and printed in the Town and-Country Magazine for Nov. 1775, which, as a literary curioſity, our readers, we doubt not, will be glad to ſee re-publiſhed here, with ſeveral corrections. For other particulars of this Maecenas of the Briſtol Virgil, they muſt wait till Mr. Barrett favours the world with his hiſtory of that city.

ANTIQUITY OF CHRISTMAS GAMES.

IN the days of our anceſtors, Chriſtmas was a period ſacred to mirth and hoſpitality. Though not wholly neglected now, it cannot boaſt of the honours it once had; the veneration for religious ſeaſons fled with popery, and old Engliſh hoſpi⯑tality is long ſince deceaſed. Our modern play⯑things of fortune, who make the whole year a revolution of diſſipation and joyleſs feſtivity, cannot diſtinguiſh this ſeaſon; unleſs by reſting from their laborious pleaſures, and (if they can think) find a happy ſerenity in ſolitude and reflection, un⯑known in the tumult of hurricanes.—The ancient Chriſtmas gambols were, in my opinion, ſuperior to our modern ſpectacles and amuſements; wreſt⯑ling, hurling the ball, and dancing in the wood⯑lands, were pleaſures for men; it is true, the converſation of the hearth-fide was the tales of ſu⯑perſtition: [130] the fairies, Robin Goodfellow, and hobgoblins, never failed to make the trembling audience mutter an Ave Maria, and croſs their chins; but the laughable exerciſes of blindman's buff, riddling, and queſtion and command, ſuffi⯑ciently compenſated for the ſew ſudden ſtarts of terror. Add to theſe amuſements, the wretched voices of the chanters and ſub chanters; howling carols in Latin; the chiming of conſecrated bells; the burning conſecrated wax candles; curiouſly repreſenting the Virgin Mary; praying the ſaint whoſe monaſtery ſtood neareſt; the munching con⯑ſecrated croſs-loaves, ſold by the monks; all which effectually eradicated the ſpectres of their terrific ſtories. Nor were theſe the only charms againſt the foul fiends, and night-mare; ſleeping croſs-legged, like the effigies of Knights Templars, and warriors, and the holy buſh and church-yard yew, were certain antidotes againſt thoſe inviſible beings. After this repreſentation, I may be thought partial to my own hobby-horſe, as an an⯑tiquary, in giving the preference to the amuſe⯑ments of the days of old; but let the ſentimental reader conſider that the tales of ſuperſtition, when believed, affect the ſoul with a ſenſation plea⯑ſurably [131] horrid; we may paint in more lively co⯑lours to the eye, they ſpoke to the heart.

The great barons and knights uſually kept open houſe during this ſeaſon, when their villains, or vaſſals, were entertained with bread, beef, and beer, and a pudding, waſtol cake, or Chriſtmas kitchel, and a groat in ſilver at parting; being obliged, in return, to wave the full flaggon round their heads, in honour of the maſter of the houſe. Sometimes the feſtival continued, till Twelfth⯑day, when the baron, or his ſteward, took the deis, or upper ſeat of the table, and after dinner gave every man a new gown of his livery, and two Chriſtmas kitchels.—This kind of liberality, endeared the barons to the common people, and made them ever ready to take up arms under their banners.

A regiſter of the nunnery of Keynſham relates, that William, earl of Gloceſter, entertained two hundred knights with tilts and fortunys, at his great manor of Keynſham, provided thirty pies of the eels of Avon, as a curious dainty; and on the Twelfth-day began the plays for the knights [132] by the monks; with miracles and maumeries for the henchmen and ſervants, by minſtrels.

Here is plainly a diſtinction made between maumeries and miracles, and the more noble repreſentations comprehended under the name plays. The firſt were the holiday entertainments of the vulgar; the other of the barons and nobi⯑lity. The private exhibitions at the manors of the barons, were uſually family hiſtories, the monk, who repreſented the maſter of the family, being arrayed in a tabard (or herald's coat without ſleeves) painted with all the hatchments of the names. In theſe domeſtic performances abſurdities were unavoidable; and in a play wrote by Sir Tib⯑bet Gonges, Conſtance, counteſs of Bretagne and Richmond, marries and buries her three huſbands in the compaſs of an hour. Sometimes theſe pieces were merely relations, and had only two characters of this kind, as that in Weever's Fu⯑neral monuments. None but the patrons of mo⯑naſteries had the ſervice of the monks in perform⯑ing plays on holidays; provided the ſame con⯑tained nothing againſt God or the church. The public exhibitions were ſuperior to the private; the plot, generally, the life of ſome pope, or the [133] founder of the abbey the monks belonged to. I have ſeen ſeveral of theſe pieces, moſtly Latin, and cannot think our anceſtors ſo ignorant of dra⯑matic excellence as the generality of modern writers would repreſent: they had a good moral in view, and ſome of the maumeries abound with wit, which though low now was not ſo then. Min⯑ſtrels, jeſters, and mummers, was the next claſs of performers; every knight had two or thee min⯑ſtrels and jeſters, who were maintained in his houſe, to entertain his family in their hours of diſſipation; theſe Chancer mentions in the follow⯑ing paſſages:

ANECDOTE OF CHAUCER.

AFTER Chancer had diſtributed copies of the tale of Piers Plowman, a Franciſcan friar wrote a ſatiric maumery upon him; which was acted at the monaſteries in London, and at Wood⯑ſtock before the court. Chancer not a little nettled at the poignancy and popularity of the ſatire, meet⯑ing his antagoniſt in Fleet-ſtreet, beat him with his dagger; for which he was fined two ſhillings, as appears by a record of the Inner Temple, where Chancer was a ſtudent.

ANECDOTE CONCERNING LORD JEFFRIES.

A Few months before the abdication of the da⯑ſtardly tyrant James II. lord chancellor Jef⯑fries, of deteſted memory, went to Arundel, in Suſ⯑ſex, in order to influence an election. He took his reſidence at the caſtle, and went the day fixed for the election to the town-hall, where Mr. Peckam, who was then mayor of Arundel, held his court. Jeffries had the impudence to ſhew his bloody face there: the mayor ordered him to withdraw immediately; and in caſe of refuſal, threatened to have him committed. ‘"You,"’ ſaid he, ‘"who ought to be the guardian of our laws, and of our ſacred conſtitution, ſhall not ſo audaciouſly vio⯑late them. This is my court, and my juriſdic⯑tion here is above yours."’ Jeffries, who was not willing to perplex ſtill more the king's aſſairs, and to enrage the populace, retired immediately. The next morning he invited Peckham to break⯑faſt with him, which he accepted; but he had the courage to ſcorn to take a place, which the mer⯑cileſs executioner offered him.

Taken from the Records of the Town of Arundel.

ON THE ORIGIN, NATURE, AND DESIGN OF SCULPTURE.
Embelliſhed with a Sketch for the Statue ordered to be erected to the Memory of the late William Beck⯑ford, Eſq. by the Court of Common Council.

SCULPTURE is an art which, by deſign and ſolid matter, imitates the palpable objects of nature. It is difficult to aſcertain the epocha of [143] its origin; it is loſt in the moſt remote antiquity. The arts of imitation in general, as painting, ar⯑chitecture, ſculpture, &c. where the firſt invent⯑ed. Sculptors began to work upon clay and wax, which are more flexible, and more pliable than wood and ſtone. They ſoon made ſtatues of trees which were neither ſubject to corruption nor worms, as the lemon-tree, the cypreſs, the palm, the olive, the ebony, and the vine: at laſt they made uſe of metals, ivory, and the hardeſt ſtones; marble eſpecially became the moſt precious matter, and the moſt eſteemed for works of ſculpture.

The nations amongſt which this fine art was in the greateſt honour were the Aegyptians; thoſe people, ſo celebrated by the monuments of their gratitude towards the memory of the kings their benefactors. It was to perpetuate their names, that they erected, in the earlieſt ages, the two Coloſſean ſtatues of Mocrus, and the queen his ſpouſe.

The Aegyptian ſculptors excelled all others in exactneſs of proportion; the different parts of a ſtatue were often formed by divers artiſts; and theſe parts united made the whole perfect.

[144] The Greek hiſtorians boaſt of the invention of that art in their country, which they attribute to love: however, it is certain that the firſt eſſays of ſculpture in Greece were very unpoliſhed; but De⯑dalus, having travelled into Aegypt, improved himſelf in this art, and formed afterwards pupils who became the admiration of a people whoſe taſte was not yet refined by the elegant ſtatues of Phydias, Myron, Lyſippus, &c.

The Greeks, ſubdued by the Romans, degene⯑rated inſenſibly; and the arts vaniſhed with their freedom.

Sculpture was an exotic which never could thrive in victorious Rome; its tranſient glory was eclipſed by the other arts in the reign of Auguſtus; it declined under Tiberius, Caius, and Claudius; and re-appeared with an enormous magnitude un⯑der Nero.

The Gothic ſculpture ſprung afterwards from a wild imagination, unaſſiſted by nature.

The epocha of ſculpture is the ſame in France and Italy. The celebrated Michael Angelo work⯑ed [145] in Rome under the pontificate of Leo X. whilſt John Goujon was admitted at Paris, under the pa⯑tronage of Francis I.

The Engliſh advanced by ſlow degrees to the perfection of that art, in which they now rival their ancient maſters.

The ſculptors gave the name of ſtatue to a figure in emboſſed work, that ſtands by itſelf in wood, ſtone, marble, or metal, of perſons conſpicuous by their birth, their rank, or their merit.

The ancients often repreſented figures of men, kings, and even gods, under a ſpecies of ſtatues ſmaller than the natural ſize.

Thoſe of perſons who had diſtinguiſhed them⯑ſelves by their ſuperior knowledge, their virtues, or ſome important ſervices to the commonwealth, were erected at the public expence in ſtatues of hu⯑man ſize.

The third ſpecies of ſtatues was deſigned for kings and emperors: they were taller than men [146] commonly are; and thoſe which perſonated he⯑roes were larger in proportion.

As for the Coloſſean ſtatues, they repreſented gods; and often kings and emperors, deſirous to magnify themſelves by theſe ſtupendous works, reared at their own expence monuments of their vanity and folly.

An equeſtrian ſtatue exhibits a man on horſe⯑back; as the ſtatue of Charles I. at Charing-croſs; the ſtatue of Henry IV. at Paris; and that of Coſ⯑mo de Medicis, at Leghorn.

A Greek ſtatue is naked and antique; thus called, becauſe the Greeks diſplayed in that man⯑ner the gods, the heroes, and the athlets of the Olympic games.

The Roman ſtatues are all repreſented with a drapery.

A mauſoleum is a pompous funeral monument, decorated with ſculpture and architecture, with an epitaph ſacred to the memory of ſome conſiderable perſonage. It derives its etymology from the [147] magnificent tomb, which Queen Artemiſa cauſed to be erected for Mauſolus, king of Caria, her huſband.

Heroes, patriots, and ſtateſmen, are not only en⯑titled to the love and veneration of their cotempo⯑raries during their lives, but their virtues and ſer⯑vices ought to be tranſmitted to the lateſt poſterity. This vanity of ſurviving our duſt by laſting mo⯑numents of national gratitude, has prompted men to the moſt noble actions, and inſpired them with the emulation of being enrolled in the records of time, with thoſe great heroes whoſe ſtatues and inſcriptions they contemplate with a ſort of extacy. The tombs of Weſtminſter-abbey fill the mind with that awful reverence, which a magnificent and grateful nation teſtifies for its benefactors. The portraits of the illuſtrious warriors who have ſubdued our inveterate enemies in both hemi⯑ſphered, expoſed to public view in Vauxhall-gar⯑dens, create even in a diſſipated multitude a kind of admiration greatly ſuperior to that inſpired by the enchantment of the place. The ſpirit and magnamanity of the incorruptible Beckford, ſo becoming the firſt magiſtrate of the metropolis of a powerful empire; his noble and animated ſpeech [148] to the throne, which was the laſt public teſtimony of his unwearied zeal for his country's cauſe, will be echoed with applauſe at the ſight of his ſtatue by the ſucceeding generation, to whom he tried to tranſmit our conſtitution reſtored to its priſtine pu⯑rity.

ADVENTURES OF A STAR.

I Shall omit the minute paſſages of my life, which happened whilſt my members were in a ſtate of ſeparation, and begin my hiſtory where I began to ſee the polite world—in the laceman's ſhop. My poſſeſſor was a ſubſtantial man, and of ſome ac⯑count among the monied men at Jonathan's. He was accounted a wit at his club at the Robinhood, which was not then altogether as patriotic as it is now; no Cato being permitted to mount the table, and harangue himſelf into an aſthma. Here I liv⯑ed in a ſtate of inactivity for above a month, and heard nothing but the uſual diſcourſe of trade; when one day a couple of pretty ladies hurried into the ſhop, from a coach dignified with a coronet. ‘"Well, Mr. Spangle, we want to take a view of the neweſt patterns you have. Lord, my dear, and is the wretch really jealous?"’ ‘"Quite mad, 'pon honour. Don't you think this pattern very pretty? Why, he had the impudence to declare, that I [150] ſhould receive no more viſits from the colonel."’ ‘"An amazing pretty ſtomacher! pray what is the price? And I hope you anſwered him like a wo⯑man of quality and ſpirit."’ ‘"Certainly my dear."’ ‘"Fifty guineas, Mr. Spangle! Well, let me have it, and book it to lord G—r, I will never diſgrace my title."’ ‘"But, my dear Harriot, I have rea⯑ſon to fear his jealouſy will veer round to the right object."’ ‘"Reaſon to fear! my dear, what an expreſſion is that for a woman of quality! You have reaſon to fear nothing but his interrupting your happineſs."’ ‘"And that I defy him to do. Here, Harry, take the trifles. Yours, Mr. Span⯑gle."’ And away drove the titular honourables, whom I heard no more of till my exaltation among the quality. The next diſcourſe of any conſequence happened between Mr. Spangle and his ſon. Jack Spangle was as complete a city buck as any who ſrequent the Park when the ſun ſhines. He ſpoke an angliciſed French very ſlu⯑ently; and murdered an overture upon the violin to admiration. ‘"Jack (ſaid the old gentleman to him one day, when the ungracious ſpendthrift had made application for t'other bank bill) theſe wild courſes will never do. I hear you have a miſtreſs; I don't begrudge it, Jack; but why will [151] you pay ſo confounded dear for her? I make al⯑lowances; you are fleſh and blood as well as my⯑ſelf; would you had as much prudence as many years have taught me. I proteſt, when I was a young fellow, I cut as pretty a figure as you with half the expence. I uſed to take a trip into the country, hire a good handſome wench as my ſer⯑vant, put her into reputable lodgings, and buy every thing neceſſary for her myſelf; and by theſe means fix her my own at an eaſy rate. Here was the ſurgeon's bill ſaved, and my conſtitution kept whole and ſound for matrimony, if ever fate ſhould throw a wife, with ten thouſand pounds, in my way. I made every lady a compliment, but ſeldom accompanied it with any other preſent than a kiſs. Would you, Jack, purſue the ſame prudent method, you would find the benefit of it; but I am afraid you are reſolved to buy experience dear."’

Jack heard this admonition with a ſheepiſhneſs natural enough to the choice ſpirits of the city, when they are under the rod of correction: but the old gentleman producing a bill at the end of his harangue, Jack's countenance brightened up; he received it, and bowing reſpectfully, ſtam⯑mered [152] out, ‘"'Tis very true, Sir, as you ſay, Sir."’

After lying in the ſhop three months and four days, (I always endeavour to be preciſe in my chronology, as it gives the reader aſſurance, that the hiſtory is really and bona fide, true) one of my rays by an accident, began to be a little tarniſhed: this was a terrible misfortune, as in conſequence of it, I was degraded to the glaſs-caſe at the door. I now gave way to the moſt violent emotionsof de⯑ſpair, and thought my ſplendor irretrievable; ſaw all my hopes of riſing in the polite world vaniſhed; and expected never to be relieved, till the day of tranſmu⯑tation, from my diſgraceful ſituation. But fate had kinder days in ſtore for me. The firſt object that claimed my attention in the ſtreet, was the ſuperb chair of Mrs. Spermacety, the wax-chandler's wife. Her chairmen were loaded with ſilver lace; and the footman who cleared the way, had an enormous bag wig. I expected to have ſeen it filled with the dignity of a ducheſs; but how great was my aſtoniſhment, when I perceived a ſhort, fat woman, of the ſame complexion as the ſign of the Saracen's Head faſtened in it! She was dreſſed meanly rich, without the ſhadow of ele⯑gance [153] in any thing but her chair, which had for⯑merly belonged to a lady of quality, having pur⯑chaſed it at her deceaſe. Her ſneaking pitiful countenance did not diſcover one grain of genero⯑ſity or nobility: ſhe appeared an abſolute burleſque on the grandeur which ſurrounded her. The fol⯑lowing dialogue between Mr. Spangle and his good friend and neighbour Mr. Pickle let me into her whole hiſtory. ‘"Good morning to you, neigh⯑bour Spangle, as the man ſaid; methinks Mrs. Spermaceti ſhines to-day."’ ‘"She ſhines every day, at home and abroad, Mr. Pickle: but there may be reaſons for it; and the grey mare is ſome⯑times the better horſe."’ This ſtroke, though in my opinion not very brilliant, brought a horſe⯑laugh on both ſides for about ten minutes. ‘"You are a wit, neighbour, you are a wit; but they ſay, as how, that Mrs. Spermaceti was formerly her huſband's cook-maid; but lies and ſnow-balls gather in rolling; pray is there any truth in the matter?"’ ‘"Between ourſelves, there is a great deal of truth in it; and the firſt charm that Mr. Spermaceti found in his ſpouſe, was that ſhe dreſ⯑ſed ortolans to a miracle."’ Another loud laugh of applauſe echoed to the end of the ſtreet. ‘"And they ſay, Mr. Spangle, as how, that ſhe loſt three [154] thouſand pounds one night at the gaming table to lord what-ye-callum—lord Dillitanti; is that true?"’ ‘"Very true, upon my word; for Tom Shamwell, who now lives by his wit, ſtood be⯑hind her chair, to let him into her hand, as they call it."’ ‘"Well, the Lord help us all, it is a ſad thing to ha [...]e a ſpending wife, who conſumes all the money before we gets it."’

This edifying diſcourſe was terminated by a hearty ſhake of the hand, and an invitation from both parties to partake of a bottle of wine. I had now remained expoſed to public view for about three weeks, and had caught the eye of every ſtaring countryman, who did honour to my fal⯑len brightneſs, by exclaiming, ‘"Odzounds! what a woundy pretty thingamy!"’ Fortune at laſt began to ſmile, and my deliverance from diſ⯑grace was effected in the following manner.

Father L'Andridella was at the time of the in⯑tended aſſaſſination of the king of Portugal treaſu⯑rer to a principal college of the order of Jeſus, in the city of Liſbon. He was the intimate friend and conſidant of Malagrida; and aſſiſted him in compoſing thoſe ridiculous whimſies which the In⯑quiſition [155] condemned as heretical. He was alſo deep in the important ſecret; and when the con⯑ſpiracy began to unravel, was happy enough to eſcape the flames which Malagrida and the other conſpirators periſhed in. The inhumanity with which the innocent families of the only two noble conſpirators were treated, is too ſhocking to be dwelt upon.

Andridella went firſt to Paris, where he was em⯑ployed by St. Florentin to bear certain preſents to certain miniſters in England, on a pacific account: but he demanding more for his trouble than St. Florentin choſe to give, he was threatened with being confined for life in the Baſtile; which threat would have been actually carried into execution, had he not timely got away to England.

How a certain phyſician came by his intelli⯑gence, ſhall be known in due time.

Andridella, for reaſons beſt known to himſelf, ſhifted his habit, and equipped himſelf as a pedlar. Being a man of an extenſive genius, and great knowledge in chemiſtry, he prepared ſeveral tinc⯑tures, for taking ſpots out of linen, recovering [156] tarniſhed gold or ſilver, and other ingenious mi⯑nutiae. In one of his diurnal rotations, he called on Mr. Spangle, and imparted to him the virtues of his box. I was accordingly taken down to bear witneſs to the excellence of his tincture; and on the touch of his bruſh moiſtened by it ſhone forth with redoubled luſtre, which, by a natural ſympathy glittered alſo in the eyes of Mr. Spangle. Andridella was paid generouſly, and I was once more carefully laid up in the ſhop; but my ſtay there was very ſhort; for Mr. Buckram, the tay⯑lor, gave me the preference before twenty of my brethren, and fixed me to a magnificent ſuit of cloaths, which were conveyed to B—n houſe, for the uſe of a young d—, juſt ſtepped into his eſtate and title.

The duke of D—e was the nobleman upon whoſe breaſt I commanded reſpect. Paracelſus, and that ingenious aſtrologic phyſician, Culpeper, aſſert, that gold and ſilver have a magic virtue. The magic of this virtue, commercially conſider⯑ed, is intereſt; phyſically, it is chimerical; and metaphiſically, it is a fine ſubtle genius or ſpirit, as capable of reaſoning upon matter, as any deiſt ſince Bolingbroke. By the magic of my compo⯑ſition, [157] I was enabled to look internally into the bo⯑ſoms which I adorned externally, and had no rea⯑ſon to be diſſatisfied with my ſituation, as his grace's heart was no diſhonour to his ſtar. He was young, and had his foibles; the principal of which was a ſtrong paſſion for gaming. Reaſon in vain endeavoured to convince him of his error; had he been convinced, his reſolution would have been too feeble to bear him through in a reforma⯑tion. The firſt time I adorned him, I viſited the court; after the levee was over, he was accoſted by Lord Rattle, ‘"Ah, D—e, how the devil d'ye do to day? I was horridly dipp'd laſt night; thirteen bottles of champaigne, demme. Lord Shuffle was bit this morning of three thouſand; and has ſent to his ſteward to cut down a whole foreſt to have a better ſtock to proceed upon. Pray, have you ſeen C—d's Letters?"’ ‘"O hor⯑rid! don't mention the ſtuff; I ſicken at the idea. Lady Bab Blouzy has had the vapours theſe five days by peruſing as many lines. Nauſeous, 'pon 'onour: I always write my billets in French; a certain preſervative againſt vulgar criticiſm!"’ ‘"Gadſo, you're right, my lord: but as I always thought writing pedantic and beneath a noble⯑man, my valet always writes my amorous epiſtles: [158] and a fine fellow he is too! Trims a ſentiment like a bag-wig, and twiſts a meaning like a curl."’ I admired his lordſhips prudence, in making his valet a ſecretary, as it was more than probable he was better qualified for the office than his honour⯑able maſter.

In the evening, I accompanied the duke to the gaming-table; my luſtre ſickened, and my whole frame trembled, at beholding the knot of raſcals and villains, who ſurrounded him. Some he honoured with a nod; and others he condeſcended to enter into a converſation with; and then with an air of careleſs indifference, ſat down to play, and before he roſe, loſt above eight thouſand pounds. This loſs but very little affected him, and he went home with the ſame compoſure of mind he brought out with him. The ſharpers who ſhared the booty, were Sir Richard —, lord M—, Jack Hounſlow, and father Andredilla, whoſe in⯑genuity had raiſed me to my preſent exalted ſtation. Sir Richard had a legal claim to his title, but no man could diſgrace it with more villanies or mean⯑neſſes. His humble ſoul ſtooped to every thing when intereſt was in the way, and his tender con⯑ſcience never gave him any trouble about the mat⯑ter. [159] Though lord M—, and this conſcientious knight of the poſt, were continually quarrelling every were elſe, they always agreed at the gaming⯑table, in a very capital point, viz. to bubble his grace. His grace was ſo eaſy, ſo ſuperficially learn⯑ed in the art of gambling, and his antagoniſts ſo cunning and deep in the myſtery, that B—n⯑houſe was more than once on the verge of being ſold, to pay theſe inpoſtors what the world calls debts of honour. Lord M—, who though young, yet enervated with pleaſure, had ſtill a hankering deſire to be ſacrificing on the altar of the Cytherean goddeſs; and, by the infallibility of a bank-bill, had gained admittance into the chamber of Miſs R—rs, the baronet's miſtreſs. His lordſhip was making his addreſſes, when Sir Richard made his appearance: as the baronet was a man of prudence, and knew how to make uſe of an opportunity, he propoſed to his lordſhip, that if he ſhould be permitted to partake of the profits ariſing from his grace, and an eminent Eaſt-India bubble, his lordſhip ſhould partake in common with the baronet in the charms of Miſs R—rs. Lord M— ſtretched his gallantry to the utmoſt, and complied: and it was upon this conſideration that the baronet had admittance to [160] the gaming table. Jack Hounſlow was his lord⯑ſhip's underſtrapper; he had been an upholſterer, but having ſquandered his ſtock, and nothing be⯑ing left but a pair of piſtols, he employed them to the moſt profitable advantage, by levying contri⯑butions on the highway. The frequent executions of his fellow labourers ſtriking a damp upon his ſpirits, and having now pretty well recruited his pockets, he gave up his hazardous employment and commenced ſharper. Lord M— ſoon diſ⯑covered his inventive genius and uſeful parts, and engaged him in his ſervice.

Sir Kenelm Digby, who ſo religiouſly main⯑tained the doctrine of ſympathy, would have attri⯑buted his lordſhip's diſcovery to ſimilar feelings in his own breaſt. But as many tedious and learned arguments may be brought to maintain it, and to ſay but little in a caſe of importance, is worſe than nothing at all, and for other good cauſes and con⯑ſiderations, I ſhall leave it entirely to the reader.

Father Andredilla having acquired a conſiderable ſum by his tinctures, put himſelf into a magni⯑ficent dreſs, hired three ſervants, and aſſuming the title of marquis de Villa Garcia, completed the [161] party who were continually preying upon the inex⯑perience of the duke. One morning, lord Rattle came thundering in upon his grace, ‘"O, D—e, I ſhall die with riſibility. Never was ſuch a co⯑mical figure, demme; no maſquerade face can be half ſo laughable. There's C—d gone to his trial, with a countenance as dejected as lord B—e's when at Kingſton; and lady Harriet G—r, with a face as bronzed and as impudent as a naiad of Covent-Garden."’ ‘"Pretty work, Rattle, and what d'ye think will be the iſſue?"’ ‘"Between you and I, I have a very important ſe⯑cret, and could I confide in your retentive facul⯑ties, by the Lord, I have no friend upon earth I would rather reveal it to."’ ‘"You may depend upon my honour, Jack; did I ever betray your in⯑eſtimable ſecrets?"’ ‘"Why then, D—e, it is abſolutely determined, that when a divorce is ob⯑tained, C—d ſhall poſitively marry lady Har⯑riet: I may confide in your honour now, I hope?"’ ‘"Undoubtedly,"’ replied his grace, ſmothering a laugh, ‘"your ſecrets are of too much importance to be triſled with."’ Lord Rattle's whiſpers had generally as much truth, as thoſe of a coffee-houſe politician, who is happy in the acquaintance of a paragraph-maker.

[162] I had lived with his grace long enough to ſee him bubbled out of thirty thouſand pounds, and was then configned, as a cuſtomary fee, to his valet, who immediately carried me to Monmouth⯑ſtreet, to take my chance with an army of decayed gentry; ſome of whom I had been acquainted with in their days of proſperity. As I had lived my uſual time among the great, I ſubmitted to my fate without murmuring. A black velvet coat and waiſtcoat, my near neighbours, were taken down to give phyſical dignity to a young fellow who had newly commenced quack-doctor; and found out a noſtrum to cure diſtempers which never exiſted. This ſuit had once adorned a genius of the ſame profeſſion, whoſe extraordinary operations in Moor⯑fields, had made him the envy of all Hatton-Gar⯑den. Doctor Bialini, the original wearer, was quite an Eſculapius in his way; he was unac⯑quainted with every principle in ſurgery: but hav⯑ing as much courage and impudence, as ignorance, he boldly undertook the moſt difficult operations. When he happened to divide an artery in the cure of a ſcratch, it was all very well; and he had diſcovered by experience, that diverting the diſ⯑temper to the nobler parts, was an infalliable cure, for inconſiderable ailments. He couched for the [163] cataract, and where he cured one by chance, he made twenty totally blind, beyond all poſſibility of recovery. But ſucceſs did not always attend his adventure; a young lady of great family ap⯑plying to him to be eaſed of a troubleſome pain in the head, he gave her ſuch a doſe of his cathartic pills, that ſhe expired under their operation. The friends of the deceaſed accuſed the doctor of mur⯑der, and left it to his choice either to take a doſe of his own cathartics, or leave England to return no more. As he knew the merit of his medica⯑ments too well to chuſe the firſt, he returned to Italy, to exerciſe his honeſter occupation of a tay⯑lor. His ſolemn habiliments were now diſpoſed of to his ſucceſſor in fame, Mr. Perron, who had been educated a cobler, and on the merit of being twice ſalivated, advertiſed to cure a certain diſ⯑temper in all its extenſive branches. The regular ſurgeons have had no reaſon to complain of his ſucceſs; as he has greatly increaſed the buſineſs of the faculty, by confirming the diſeaſe, and ruin⯑ing the conſtitution in every patient he undertook to cure. The warehouſe I was laid up in was greatly frequented by ſecond-hand gentry, among whom I heard many entertaining diſcourſes, but too foreign from my purpoſe to be related here. [164] A ſervant enquiring for a rich ſuit with a ſtar, I was accordingly taken down, approved of, and carried off. I wondered what uſe I was going to be put to, when a meagre tall old man made his appearance. ‘"Well done, my bra' bonny lad⯑die, this is ſaving the ſiller, and laying up more for the bairn."’ Theſe words were uttered by the identical duke of A—, who putting on his pru⯑dent finery, ſtepped into a coach, as antiquated as hoſpitality, and rattled off to court. The recep⯑tion he met with from his M—, would have ſhamed virtue out of countenance: when we ſee villany and avarice careſſed, what ſhall we ſay, but that k—s are men. His only merit was in being born a Scot, and diſtantly related to lord B—. I had examined his breaſt, and found him nothing but a compoſition of pride, fraud and avarice. As he was deep in all his favoured countryman's ſecrets, the affair of the peace was not unknown to him, and he had no inconſiderable ſhare of the booty. Not contented with his ſhare, he revealed the tranſaction to a certain weſtern phyſician, bind⯑ing him by oath, not to diſcover from whom he had his intelligence; and articling to receive a moiety of whatever ſhould be given the doctor to [165] ſtop his mouth, or ſay nothing at all to the purpoſe. The whole juggle was tranſacted entirely to the duke's ſatisfaction: and he partook ſo gloriouſly of the huſh-money, that for a moment emerging from his uſual avarice; he gave his ſervants new liveries, and matched one of his horſes, having before paired a bay and a black one. The nobi⯑lity did not receive him ſo well as his M—; as he was univerſally looked upon as a ſcandal to his title, he was ſhunned by every polite company. Unfortunately, the too retentive memory of a gen⯑tleman, diſcovered his grace's cloaths to have been worn by a more honourable nobleman; and having whiſpered his diſcovery to lady Henrietta F—h. as a very great ſecret; it was known all over the town before the evening, that the duke of A— had been to court in the duke of D—'s caſt-off cloaths. Nothing can expreſs the vexa⯑tion of the old duke; his pride, which had ſtooped to his avarice, in the purchaſe of his pru⯑dent bargain, began, though too late, to have the pre-eminence; he ordered his ſervant to bear me back to Monmouth-ſtreet, and deſire the frippery⯑man to refund the money, which he did, after deducting a guinea for the uſe of his magni⯑ficence. [166] I was now taken off the coat, and con⯑demned to the melting-pot; but whilſt the exe⯑cutioner is preparing my ſiery grave, I have time to ſubſcribe myſelf,

THE UNFORTUNATE FATHERS.

MR. Sladon, a merchant of Briſtol, by in⯑duſtry and diligent application to buſineſs, acquired a conſiderable fortune. As he was an enemy to noiſe and pomp, he neither ſet up his carriage, nor endeavoured to make a ſplended ap⯑pearance; his only care centered in Maria, his beautiful daughter: he ſpared no coſts to complete her education; her genius requited his labour; no inſtructions were loſt on her, and ſhe excelled in every qualification, which dignify her ſex. At the age of ſeventeen ſhe was univerſally allowed to be a beauty. The reader will excuſe the writer from giving a deſcription of her perſon; let him cull from the volumes of poets and painters, all his imagination counts beautiful, and throw into it an inexpreſſible ſoftneſs, and he has Maria.

Mr. Hinckley, whoſe father was cloſely con⯑nected in trade with Mr. Sladon, ſtruck with the [236] uncommon luſtre of Maria's perſon and mind, intreated his father, to permit him to pay his addreſſes to her. ‘"George,"’ ſaid the prieſt of Mammon, ‘"I commend your choice, Miſs Sladon is a very good oeconomiſt, and will have little leſs than a plumb to her fortune: go, and proſper."’ Young Hinckley aſſured his father he had not the leaſt mercenary view. ‘"Away,"’ replied the old man ‘"when you have been as often upon 'Change as me, you'll know better."’

Young Hinckley had no cauſe to complain of his reception; Maria had never viewed him with eyes of indifference. Mr. Sladon rejoiced at the pro⯑poſed alliance; all was unity and love, and before the expiration of two months, George acquainted his father, that he intended to requeſt Mr. Sladon to fix the day; but was thunderſtruck with his command, that he ſhould not go ſuch lengths till he had further orders from him.

Mr. Sladon, who was himſelf above deceit, ne⯑ver ſuſpected it in another; his generous frankneſs laid him open to the vile arts of old Hinckley: after being connected together, the ſpace of a year, he broke, and ruined him.

[237] Maria had by this time conceived the moſt ten⯑der paſſion for young Hinckley: it was allowable, as ſhe had always conſidered him as her future huſband. No words can deſcribe Hinckley's ex⯑ceſs of love. Imagine what an effect this ſtroke muſt have upon both. Nothing but imagination can paint it.

Mr. Sladon was only affected for his daughter: his noble ſoul roſe ſuperior to this revolution; he triumphed in poverty, over the wealthy wretch who cauſed his misfortunes. Old Hinckley, whoſe fortune was increaſed, not dimiſhed by this infa⯑mous action, perceived with chagrin, his ſon's madneſs for Maria; he endeavoured to divert his attention to objects more rich, and therefore, in his opinion, more deſerving: but he laboured in vain; nothing could abate his love. Mr. Sladon ſaw his paſſion; he pitied him: but could not think of uniting his daughter to a man, whoſe ſuperiority of circumſtances, was derived from his own ruin.

Old Hinckley, finding all remonſtrances uſeleſs, by ſome mercenary agents, perſuaded Mr. Sladon that young Hinckley was privy to, and aſſiſting in his ruin. The circumſtances made it plauſible; [238] he believed it, and forbade him his houſe. Maria would have credited it of any other man; in this caſe it was dubious: her love for him was partial; but as ſhe had looked upon the father formerly in the beſt light, ſhe doubted whether ſhe might not be deceived in the ſon. She was in this wavering opinion, when the only ſervant Mr. Sladon had, brought her a letter from young Hinckley: ſhe knew the hand, ſhe eagerly caught it; ſhe recol⯑lected, and dropped it on the ground: after a long ſtruggle between duty and love, ſhe ſent it back unopened. When a perſon of good ſenſe and ſtrong natural parts, has not the happineſs of a religious education, he is generally a Deiſt or Soci⯑nian. This was the caſe with young Hinckley; his father endeavouring to qualify him for com⯑merce, neglected Chriſtianity: to the moſt refined notions of honour and morality, he united an ab⯑ſolute contempt for religion; his paſſions were violent, but as he was continually on his guard, they ſeldom appeared. When he heard that Ma⯑ria had returned his letter, he raved to the utmoſt extravagance of madneſs; then appearing calm, he ſat down, and writing a letter, ſealed it and left it on the table. Having done this, he went into his chamber, and immediately ſhot himſelf.

[239] Old Hinckley hearing the exploſion, ran from his compter, and aſcending the ſtairs, ſaw his ſon extended breathleſs. He fainted, and continued in that condition, till his ſervants, occaſionally co⯑ming in, recovered him.

The letter, which was directed to his father, contained what follows.

This ſeeming philoſophy was loſt on old Hinck⯑ley; he was really affected with the loſs of his ſon, and did not ſurvive him three months.

Maria! the beautious Maria, had a ſtill ſhorter date. She heard the fatal news; and expired within a week.—Mr. Sladon loved his daughter too well to live without her; he compleated the tragedy, and ſunk to the grave, reſigned and con⯑tented amidſt the chaſtiſements of Providence.