'TIS not for thee, O man! to murmur at the will of the Almighty. When the thun­ders 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 ma­jestic as the nodding forests on the brow of Mi­chel-stow; who then commands the sheep to fol­low 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, with­out 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 [Page 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 sho­wers 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 devo­tions; 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 asto­nished, 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 [Page 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 [Page 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 po­wer; the apple perfumed the gale; and the juicy grape delighted the eye. Ethelgar and Egwi­na 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 roar­ed like the noise of a battle; the swift hail de­scended to the ground; the lightnings broke from the sable clouds, and gilded the dark brown cor­ners of the sky; the thunder shook the lofty moun­tains; the tall towers nodded to their foundations; the bending oaks divided the whistling wind; the broken flowers fled in confusion round the moun­tain's side. Ethelgar and Egwina sought the sa­cred 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 light­nings [Page 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 Main­dip; 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 spang­ling 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 [Page 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.

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 tem­pest, 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 fly­ing deer, strong as a young oak, fierce as an even­ing [Page 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 fol­lowed 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 gar­ments 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.

[Page 13] Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: pursue the black com­panies 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, swel­led 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. El­dulph 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.

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

Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursu­ers; 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.

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 war­riors 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 frag­ments 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.

[Page 16] Sons of war, descend, let the river be swelled with the smoaking streams of life, and the moun­tain 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 blast­ing the soul: his knees are encircled with life­warm 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 bo­dies 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.

[Page 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 Cer­dick.

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 war­riors: attention seals up their lips.

Why will ye sleep, ye Saxons, whilst the hang­ing 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.

[Page 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 ap­pearance 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 ap­proach, 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 [Page 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 ha­bitation; 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 scat­tered 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.

[Page 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.

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.

[Page 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 Ha­rald 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. [Page 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 an­lace 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.

[Page 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, gra­ced 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 [Page 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 Ha­rald 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 pas­sage of his rage: his shield was like the rising sun, [Page 29] his spear the tower of Mabyn: the spear of Sum­merled 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 un­known 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.

[Page 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 as­semble 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.

[Page 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 ap­proaches, 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, Dug­nal 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.

[Page 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 light­ning of the storm.

[Page 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 hel­met, 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 fur­clad Godard Syrric displays his starry shield, the [Page 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.

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 bor­ders; 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.

[Page 41] Bring here, O cupbearer, the carved Hirlas of mirth, which glows with livid gold: let the spark­ling 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 ser­vices. 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 atten­dants 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 [Page 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 [Page 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. Ma­doc and Meyler are in soul one; they are our castles. The warriors of the hill stood round their chief, [Page 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 fol­lowers 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.

THE loud winds whistled through the sacred grove of Thor; far over the plains of Dena­nia, 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 shud­dered 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.

[Page 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 Loca­bara? 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 em­braces; 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 [Page 47] the rumour of a coming host. He struck the gol­den cup, and the king of the flying warriors awakened from his dream of terror. Exmund­bert, 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 a­gain.

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, [Page 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 glim­mer 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 fall­ing leaves the waters of the brook. Rise, Gorth­mund, rise, the Saxons are burning thy tents: rise, for the Mercians are assembled together, and thy ar­mies 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 sa­crifice. Rise, Gorthmund, thy eyes shall be closed in peace no more.

[Page 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 Mer­cians are assembled together, the Saxons are burn­ing 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.

[Page 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 ha­bitation 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 ex­alted, 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 war­riors 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 [Page 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 war­riors. 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 [Page 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 re­treat.

[Page 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 in­circled 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 [Page 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 Alder­wold: 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.

[Page 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 inju­stice, 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 Crine­walch of the green hill. Think on Locabara, whom thy sword sent to the regions of death. Remember thy injustice and die.

SIR William Canynge, whom Rowley justly styles ‘"a grete and goode man, the favou­ryte of Godde, the friende of the chyrche, the companyonne of kynges, and the sadre of hys na­tyve 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 [Page 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 alms­house or hospital (which is yet in being) at Red­cliff-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. Ca­nynge, being then mayor, made great intercession [Page 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, [Page 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 set­tled lands to pay 44l. per annum to the sheriffs, [Page 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. Can­ynge 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 in­timacy with him, and received very extraordinary marks of his favour and generosity. On all occa­sions 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 [Page 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.

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 hospi­tality is long since deceased. Our modern play­things 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, un­known in the tumult of hurricanes.—The ancient Christmas gambols were, in my opinion, superior to our modern spectacles and amusements; wrest­ling, hurling the ball, and dancing in the wood­lands, were pleasures for men; it is true, the conversation of the hearth-fide was the tales of su­perstition: [Page 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, suffi­ciently 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 con­secrated 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 an­tiquary, in giving the preference to the amuse­ments of the days of old; but let the sentimental reader consider that the tales of superstition, when believed, affect the soul with a sensation plea­surably [Page 131] horrid; we may paint in more lively co­lours 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 Twelfth­day, 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 [Page 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 nobi­lity. 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 Tib­bet 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 Fu­neral monuments. None but the patrons of mo­nasteries had the service of the monks in perform­ing plays on holidays; provided the same con­tained nothing against God or the church. The public exhibitions were superior to the private; the plot, generally, the life of some pope, or the [Page 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 dra­matic 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. Min­strels, jesters, and mummers, was the next class of performers; every knight had two or thee min­strels and jesters, who were maintained in his house, to entertain his family in their hours of dissipation; these Chancer mentions in the follow­ing passages:

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 Wood­stock before the court. Chancer not a little nettled at the poignancy and popularity of the satire, meet­ing 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.

A Few months before the abdication of the da­stardly tyrant James II. lord chancellor Jef­fries, of detested memory, went to Arundel, in Sus­sex, 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 vio­late them. This is my court, and my jurisdic­tion 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 break­fast with him, which he accepted; but he had the courage to scorn to take a place, which the mer­ciless executioner offered him.

Taken from the Records of the Town of Arundel.

SCULPTURE is an art which, by design and solid matter, imitates the palpable objects of nature. It is difficult to ascertain the epocha of [Page 143] its origin; it is lost in the most remote antiquity. The arts of imitation in general, as painting, ar­chitecture, sculpture, &c. where the first invent­ed. 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.

[Page 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 De­dalus, 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, degene­rated 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 un­der 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 work­ed [Page 145] in Rome under the pontificate of Leo X. whilst John Goujon was admitted at Paris, under the pa­tronage 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 them­selves by their superior knowledge, their virtues, or some important services to the commonwealth, were erected at the public expence in statues of hu­man size.

The third species of statues was designed for kings and emperors: they were taller than men [Page 146] commonly are; and those which personated he­roes 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 horse­back; as the statue of Charles I. at Charing-cross; the statue of Henry IV. at Paris; and that of Cos­mo de Medicis, at Leghorn.

A Greek statue is naked and antique; thus called, because the Greeks displayed in that man­ner 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 [Page 147] magnificent tomb, which Queen Artemisa caused to be erected for Mausolus, king of Caria, her husband.

Heroes, patriots, and statesmen, are not only en­titled to the love and veneration of their cotempo­raries during their lives, but their virtues and ser­vices ought to be transmitted to the latest posterity. This vanity of surviving our dust by lasting mo­numents 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 hemi­sphered, exposed to public view in Vauxhall-gar­dens, 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 [Page 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 pu­rity.

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 ac­count 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 liv­ed 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 [Page 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 wo­man 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 rea­son 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. Span­gle."’ 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 slu­ently; 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 [Page 151] you pay so confounded dear for her? I make al­lowances; you are flesh and blood as well as my­self; 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 ser­vant, 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, stam­mered [Page 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 de­spair, 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 transmu­tation, 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 ele­gance [Page 153] in any thing but her chair, which had for­merly belonged to a lady of quality, having pur­chased it at her decease. Her sneaking pitiful countenance did not discover one grain of genero­sity or nobility: she appeared an absolute burlesque on the grandeur which surrounded her. The fol­lowing dialogue between Mr. Spangle and his good friend and neighbour Mr. Pickle let me into her whole history. ‘"Good morning to you, neigh­bour 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 some­times the better horse."’ This stroke, though in my opinion not very brilliant, brought a horse­laugh 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 dres­sed 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 [Page 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 be­hind 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 fal­len brightness, by exclaiming, ‘"Odzounds! what a woundy pretty thingamy!"’ Fortune at last began to smile, and my deliverance from dis­grace was effected in the following manner.

Father L'Andridella was at the time of the in­tended assassination of the king of Portugal treasu­rer 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 In­quisition [Page 155] condemned as heretical. He was also deep in the important secret; and when the con­spiracy 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 em­ployed 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 intelli­gence, 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 tinc­tures, for taking spots out of linen, recovering [Page 156] tarnished gold or silver, and other ingenious mi­nutiae. 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 tay­lor, 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 consider­ed, 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 compo­sition, [Page 157] I was enabled to look internally into the bo­soms which I adorned externally, and had no rea­son 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 reforma­tion. 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 hor­rid! 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 noble­man, my valet always writes my amorous epistles: [Page 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 honour­able 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 in­genuity 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 mean­nesses. His humble soul stooped to every thing when interest was in the way, and his tender con­science never gave him any trouble about the mat­ter. [Page 159] Though lord M—, and this conscientious knight of the post, were continually quarrelling every were else, they always agreed at the gaming­table, in a very capital point, viz. to bubble his grace. His grace was so easy, so superficially learn­ed in the art of gambling, and his antagonists so cunning and deep in the mystery, that B—n­house 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 [Page 160] the gaming table. Jack Hounslow was his lord­ship's understrapper; he had been an upholsterer, but having squandered his stock, and nothing be­ing left but a pair of pistols, he employed them to the most profitable advantage, by levying contri­butions 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 dis­covered his inventive genius and useful parts, and engaged him in his service.

Sir Kenelm Digby, who so religiously main­tained the doctrine of sympathy, would have attri­buted 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 con­siderations, I shall leave it entirely to the reader.

Father Andredilla having acquired a considerable sum by his tinctures, put himself into a magni­ficent dress, hired three servants, and assuming the title of marquis de Villa Garcia, completed the [Page 161] party who were continually preying upon the inex­perience 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 co­mical 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 se­cret, and could I confide in your retentive facul­ties, 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 in­estimable secrets?"’ ‘"Why then, D—e, it is absolutely determined, that when a divorce is ob­tained, C—d shall positively marry lady Har­riet: 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.

[Page 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 Monmouth­street, 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 Moor­fields, had made him the envy of all Hatton-Gar­den. Doctor Bialini, the original wearer, was quite an Esculapius in his way; he was unac­quainted with every principle in surgery: but hav­ing 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 dis­temper to the nobler parts, was an infalliable cure, for inconsiderable ailments. He couched for the [Page 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 ap­plying 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 mur­der, 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 medica­ments too well to chuse the first, he returned to Italy, to exercise his honester occupation of a tay­lor. 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 dis­temper 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 ruin­ing 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. [Page 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 lad­die, 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 pru­dent finery, stepped into a coach, as antiquated as hospitality, and rattled off to court. The recep­tion 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, bind­ing 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 [Page 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 nobi­lity 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 gen­tleman, 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 vexa­tion of the old duke; his pride, which had stooped to his avarice, in the purchase of his pru­dent bargain, began, though too late, to have the pre-eminence; he ordered his servant to bear me back to Monmouth-street, and desire the frippery­man to refund the money, which he did, after deducting a guinea for the use of his magni­ficence. [Page 166] I was now taken off the coat, and con­demned to the melting-pot; but whilst the exe­cutioner is preparing my siery grave, I have time to subscribe myself,

MR. Sladon, a merchant of Bristol, by in­dustry 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 ap­pearance; 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 con­nected in trade with Mr. Sladon, struck with the [Page 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 pro­posed 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, ne­ver 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.

[Page 237] Maria had by this time conceived the most ten­der passion for young Hinckley: it was allowable, as she had always considered him as her future husband. No words can describe Hinckley's ex­cess 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 infa­mous 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; [Page 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 recol­lected, 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 Soci­nian. This was the case with young Hinckley; his father endeavouring to qualify him for com­merce, neglected Christianity: to the most refined notions of honour and morality, he united an ab­solute contempt for religion; his passions were violent, but as he was continually on his guard, they seldom appeared. When he heard that Ma­ria 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.

[Page 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 co­ming in, recovered him.

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

This seeming philosophy was lost on old Hinck­ley; 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 con­tented amidst the chastisements of Providence.