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Chaucer, Dunbar, and Burns compared . 

On the character of Ossian, as drawn by 
the Irish bards. Miss Brooke's Reliques 
of Irish poetry 

The Cliffords of Craven, continued 

The same, continued 

Biographical sketch of the Rev. Richard 
Hole, with critical remarks on his Ar- 
thur, a poetical romance 

The same, continued 

The same, concluded 

The Cliffords of Craven, continued 

The same, concluded 

Milton and Galileo— Their interview at 
Arcetri in Tuscany. — Vision of Galileo. 
—Sonnet. — Collins's fragment, entitled 
The Bell of Arragon," completed 







No. XIII. 

Call up Him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 


And sage Dunbab. The bard has run his race. 
But glitters still the Golden Terge on high. 


And Burks, whose happy style. 
Whose manner-painting strains 
Recall the days. 
When tender joys, with pleasing smiie. 
Blest our young ways. 


It has been beautifully observed by Warton, in 
his History of English Poetry, that Chaucee may 
be resembled to ** a genial day in an English Spring. 
A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an 
unusual lustre : the sudden appearance of cloudless 
skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmo- 
sphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a 



tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary 
prospect of a speedy summer ; and we fondly an- 
ticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and ver- 
nal serenity. But winter returns with redoubled 
horrors : the clouds condense more formidably than 
before ; and those tender buds and early blossoms 
which were called forth by the transient gleam of a 
temporary sunshine are nipped by frosts, and torn 
by tempests."" 

Thus, " most of the poets,'' he adds, " that im- 
mediately succeeded Chaucer, seem rather relapsing 
into barbarism, than availing themselves of those 
striking ornaments which his judgment and ima- 
gination had disclosed. They appear to have been 
insensible to his vigour of versification, and his 
flights of faocy. It was not, indeed, likely that a 
poet should soon arise equal to Chaucer : and it 
must be remembered that the national distractions 
which ensued had no small share in obstructing the 
exercise of those studies whidb delight in peaee md 
repose. His suceesscnrs, howev^, approach him in 
0(0 degree of proportion *." 

This e^quiadte iUuiStration is <m^ ani<mgst a series 
from the pen of the same critic^ which has con- 

• Vol. iL 4to. edit, p, 51. 


tributed to {dace the g^us and character of the 
writings of Chaucer in their proper point of view. 
It had previously been supposed, from a too partial 
nequaintance with the works oi our bard, that hu- 
mour and delineation of character were the depart- 
ments in which he could alone establish a claim to 
exccUence ; but it has been ampfy proved fay the 
nistorian of our poetry, that to these prcmnoes of 
hk art were .dd«d the more peculiarly poetical ones 
which originate in a display not only of inventive 
and descriptive powers, but. occasionally of those 
which unfold the emotions of pity and terror. 

It will, therefore, be barely sufficient in this place 
to remind the reader, that whilst a vast majority of 
the Canterbury Tales and their Prologues exhibit 
the richest vein of humorous characterization, an 
equal opulency is discoverable both in these and 
other parts of his works, in the serious and more 
elevated flights of fancy and ot feeling. Thus, as 
faithful delineations of the beauties of nature, what 
can be more fresh and distinct than many of the 
landscapes which he has given us in the Flower amd 
Leafy the Roma/unt of the Rose, and the Complaint 
of the Black Knight f How splendid, and, at the 
same time, how frequently terrific and sublime is 



the imagery, and even the incidents, in the wild 
but powerfully written tales of Palamon and Arcitey 
and Cambuscariy and with what deep and com- 
miserating sympathy do we hang over the pathetic 
narratives of Troilus and Creseda and Patient 

It is evident that a union of talents of this wide 
range must necessarily be of rare occurrence ; nor 
can we wonder that a century should elapse before 
a poet in any high degree approaching the geniu* 
of Chaucer made his appearance in our island *. 

* Amongst those who may be reckoned the immediate suc- 
cessors of Chaucer^ Lydgate is without doubt entitled^ on 
the score at least of descriptive aiid pathetic powers^ to more 
notice than he has yet obtained. In universality of genius^ 
and especially in the departments of humour and character- 
painting, he is immeasurably below his great predecessor ; 
but there is a perspicuity in his diction, and a circumstan- 
tiality in his narration^ which are sometimes truly pleasing^ 
and he has given us several proofs of the exquisite tenderness 
of his heart. He has experienced^ therefore^ hard measure 
from Warton^ when 'he declares him to have been '' seldom 
pathetic^" (Hist, of English Poetry^ vol. ii. p 58) ; and still 
harder from Percy^ Bitson^ and Pinker ton^ who have abso- 
lutely loaded him with contempt. It was reserved for Gray 
to do justice to this forgotten bard, who, though buried, as it 
were, beneath an immense mass of occasional, and therefore, 
in general, uninteresting verses, has every now and then a 


Not, indeed, until Dunbar arose in the sister king- 
dom, had we another instance of the combination 

passage of truly redeeming power. Two instances of this 
kind are quoted by our great lyric poet, of which the second 
is beyond all praise^ and shows how deeply the Monk of 
Bury could enter into the distresses of love and maternal 

" Canace^ condemned to death by (Eolusher father^ sends 
to her guilty brother Macareus the last testimony of her un-* 
happy passion : 

" Out of her swoone when she did abbraide, 
Knowing no mean but death in her distresse. 
To her brother full piteouslie she said^ 
^ Cause of my sorrowe^ roote of my heavinesses 
That whilom were the sourse of my gladnesse ; 
When both our joys by wiUe were so disposed. 
Under one key our hearts to be inclosed.— 

'' ' This is mine end, I may it not astarte ; 
O brother mine ! there is no more to saye ; 
Lowly beseeching with all mine whole hearte. 
For to remember specially, I praye ; 
If it befall my littel sonne to dye. 
That thou mayst after some mynd on us have. 
Suffer us both be buried in one grave. 

'^ 'I hold him strictly twene my army's twein. 
Thou and nature laide on me this charge ; 
He, guiltlesse, must^ with me suffer paihe ; 
And sith thou art at freedome, and at large. 
Let kindness oure love not so discharge. 


of first-rate abilities for humour and comic painting, 
with an equally powerful command over the higher 

But hare a mincle, wherever that thou be^ 
Once on a day upon my child and me. 



* On thee and me dependeth the trespace^ 
Touching our guilt and our great offence ; 
But^ welaway ! most angelik of face^ 
Oure child^^ young in his pure innocenoe^ 
Shall agayn right suffer death's violence. 
Tender of limbcs^ Crod wote^ full guilteless> 
The goodly faire, that lieth here speechless. 

' A mouth he has, but wordbs hath he none ; 
Cannot complaine, alas ! for none outrage. 
Nor grutcheth not, but lies here all alone. 
Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage. 
What heart of stele could do to him damage. 
Or suffer him dye, beholding the manere. 
And looke benigne of his twein eyen clere ?' 

" I stop here," says Gray, " not because there are not great 
beauties in the remainder of this epistle, but because Lydgate, 
in the three last stanzas of this extract, has touched the very 
heart-strings of compassion with so masterly a hand, as to 
merit a place among the greatest poets. The learned reader 
will see the resemblance they bear to one of the most admirable 
remnants of all antiquity, I mean the fragment of Simonides 
(unhappily it is but a fragment), preserved to us by Dionysius 
Halicarnassensis ; and yet, I believe that no one will imagine 
th^t Lydgate had ever seen or heard of it. As to Ovid, from 



regions of fiction and imagination. Than The 
Thistle and the Rase, and The Golden Terge of 
the Scottish bard, there cannot be two poems of 
similar length which exhibit greater warmth and 
luxuriancj of description, or greater skill in the in- 
vention and arrangement of the allegorical imagery r 
They certainly rival in opulence and strength of 
colouring the most highly finished allegorical pic- 
tures of his great master Chaucer, for such he ever 
acknowledged him to be ; whilst, at the same time, 
in all that regards preservation o^ character, felicity 
of incident, and richness of humour, where, even 
in the Canterbury Tales, shall we find two pieces 
superior to The Twa Married Women and tJie 
Widow, and the Freirs of Berwick ? The latter 
narrative, more especially, is conducted, both as to 
its fable and its characters, with a thorough know- 
ledge of human nature, with the most minute fidelity 
in point of description, and with a pungency and 
originality of humour which has seldom, if ever, 
been surpassed. 

whom Boccaccio might borrow many > of his ideas in this 
story^ it will be easily seen^ upon comparison^ how far our 
poet has surpassed him." Mathias's Works of Gray, 
Vol. ii. p. 66/etseq. 


To these four cajntal pieces, Dunbar has added 
a multitude of minor productions, chiefly of a lyrical 
cast, and which are not less remarkable for their 
ethic and satiric vigour, than for their frequent 
touches of moral sublimity and bold personification, 
blended too, as is often the case, with strokes of 
genuine pathos. Of this description, amongst many 
others, are the poems entitled " The Daunce^ 
** Lair is vain without Gavemamce^^ " On the 
Worlds Instabilities'" " On Content j"^ ** No Treasure 
without GUidnesse^ and the " Medita4ioun^ Written 
in Wynter!" In depicting the passions oi* fiends 
who form the Dramatis Personas in the Dauhce, 
the poet has introduced several features of mingled 
sublimity and terror, not unworthy even of the 
genius of Shakspeare ; as, for instance, in the pro- 
sopppoeia of Anger : 

Then Ire came in with sturt and strife^ 
His hand was ay upon his knife ; 

nor will the reader forbear to admire the sweet 

moral pathos which has given an undying charm to 

the beautiful stanzas on Winter. 

If we now take a retrospect of our British poetry 

from the period of Dunbar to the commencement 

of the nineteenth century, excluding, however, the 


drama as a separate and distinct province, and, of 
course, all consideration of the mighty and diversi- 
fied genius of Shakspeare, where, it may be asked, 
shall we find such another concentration of varied 
talent, such a blending of satire, and humour, and 
characteristic delineation, with the higher faculties 
subservient to passion, imagination, and lofty de- 
scription, as we have just pointed out in the in- 
stances of Chaucer and Dunbar ? 

Where, I will venture to reply, but in the person 
of Burns P who it may safely be asserted has rivalled 
these poets in humour, description, and moral satire, 
and even surpassed them in the pathetic, the ter- 
rible, and the subUme. 

Of the merits of a poet so well known, and so 
deservedly popular as is Robert Bums, it would, in 
the present day, be altogether superfluous to enter 
into any formal discussion ; and for the purpose 
which I have in view, that of a brief comparison 
of his character and powers as a writer, with those 
which have been ascribed to Chaucer and Dunbar, 
little more is required than a classification, under a 
few distinct heads-, of some of his best pieces, which, 
vividly recollected as they must be by nearly all, 


will, without any further criticism, establi^ the 
parallel intended. 

In the first place, then, as productions which ex- 
hibit a-great and equal portion of pathos and de« 
scriptive power, I may m^ition the poems entitled 
« J Winter Night,'' « Winter, a Dirge;' " 2>^. 
spondencyf"" " Man wcu made to mourn,'" " The La- 
ment,'^ " 7%^ Mountain Daisy ^^ and the major part 
of the songs. These latter, indeed, are, for their 
exquisite tenderness^ and the beauty of their local 
scenery, perfectly unrivalled. In the higher pro^ 
vince of the pathetic and sublime, who will refuse 
to award a very marked distinction to " TJie Cotter's 
Saturday NigJit,'" to " The Vision^' " Bruce to his 
Troops^' and " The Song of Death;' effusions 
warm from the heart, and instinct with all the 
energy, sublimity, and feeling, which patriotism, 
religion, and domestic affection could supply. 

Of that remarkable interunion of humour with 
the deeper emotions of the miiid and heart, which 
I have noticed as so strongly characterizing the 
muse of Burns, numerous instanpes might be se« 
lected ; but it will suffice, as examples of humour 
combined with tenderness, or moral satire, or vivid 


powers of description, to call to our recollection the 
poems entitled ^* Tlie Deaih and Dying Words of 
poor MaUlie^^ " The Aidd Farmer'^s Salutation^ 
" The Twa Dogs,'" " Halloween^'" " The Holy 
Fair,'" and ** The Brigs of Ayr C and of the still 
rarer combination of humorous delineation with the 
terrible and sublime, no more striking illustrations 
can be required than the ^^ Address to the DeU,*'* and 
« Tarn O'ShanUr."" Than the last, indeed, I know 
of no narrative which presents so masterly a display 
of contrasted talent ; a transition so complete from 
scenery that would do honour to the pencil of Ho- 
garth, to that which breathes the most awful and 
heart-harrowing terror. 

Having drawn this parallel, in relation to the ge- 
nius and talents of Chaucer, Dunbar, and Burns, 
in very general terms, I feel tefnpted, from its clos^ 
affinity with the title of these volumes, to enter 
upon one topic of resemblance amongst these poets 
more at large, and that is, their peculiar attachment 
to, and fondness for describing, the Mornings of 
Spring. Chaucer appears, indeed, at no time more 
at home than when painting this beautiful period of 
the day and year, and his landscapes seem glowing 
as it were with all the dewy freshness of nature. He 


tells US', in short, that nothing could withdraw him 
from^s studies, from his beloved books, but the 
pleasures of a morning in May : 

There is game none 

That from my bokis maketh me to goen. 
But it be seldom^ on the holy day ; 
Save certainly when that the month of May 
Is comen^ and I hear the fowlis sing ; 
And that the floweris 'ginnen for to springs 
Farewell my book and my devotion. 

Legend of Good Women. 

We cannot, therefore, wonder at the frequent and 
minute descriptions which he has given us as the 
result of his early morning rambles at this interest- 
ing season. One of these, a perfect transcript from 
the living scene, I have much pleasure in selecting 
as a specimen : 

I rose anon, and thought I woulde goen 
Into the wood, to hear the birdis sing, 
When that the misty vapour was agone. 
And cleare and faire was the morrowing ; 
The dew also, like silver in shining. 
Upon the leaves, as any baume sweet ; 
Till fiery Titan with his peccant heat 

Had dried up the lusty liquor new. 
Upon the herbis in the greene mead ; 
And that the flowers, of many diverse hue. 


Upon their stalkes gonin * for to spread, ^ 

And for to splay out their leavis tn bredef. 
Again the sun, gold-burned X in his sphere. 
That down to them y-cast his beamis clear. 

And by a river forth I gan costay § ^ 

Of water clear as beryl or chrystall. 
Till, at the last, I found a little way 
Toward a park, enclosed with a wall 
In compass round, and by a gale small. 
Whoso that would, he freely mighten gon 
Into this park, y-walled with green stone. 

And in I went to hear the birdis' Song, 
Which on the branches, both in plain and vale. 
So loud y-sang, that all the wood y-rang. 
Like as it should shiver in pieces smale ; 
And as me thoughten that the nightingale 
With so great might her voice began out- wrest 
Right as her~heart for love would all to-brest. 

The soil was plain and smooth, and wonder soft. 
All over-spread with tapets that nature 
Had made herself; covered eke aloft 
With boughis green, the flowers for to cure. 
That in their beauty they may long endure. 
From all assault of Phoebus' fervent/ere ||, 
Which in his sphere so hot y-shone and clear. 

The air attempre, and the smoothe wind 
Of Zephyrus among the blossoms white, 
So wholesome was, and nourishing by kind. 

Began. f Abroad. ' % Gold-burnished. 

§ To coast. II Fire. 


That smalle buddis^ and round blossoms lite. 
In manner gan of her breath to delight. 
To give us hope that there fruit shall y-take 
Against autumn, ready for to shi^e. 

There saw I growing eke the fresh haw-thorn 
In white motley, that so sweet doth y-smell ; 
Ash, fir, and oak, with many a young acorn. 
And many a tree mo than I now can tell ; 
And, me before, I saw a little well 
That had his course, as I could well behold. 
Under a hill, with quick streamis and cold. 

The gravel goldn ; the water pure as glass ; 
The bankis round the well environing, 
And soft as velvet was the younge grass 
That thereupon hastily came springing. 
The suit of trees, abouten compassing. 
Their shadow cast closing the well around. 
And all the herbis growing on the ground. 

Complaint of the Black Knight. 

Beautifully and minutely descriptive as these 
lines certainly are, they are surpassed in poetical 
spirit by the following address to May, from the 
Knight^s Tale. Than the three opening couplets, 
indeed, I know of no passage in any poet which, for 
harmony of versification and splendour of imagery, 
is entitled to superior praise. Considering the era 
at which they appeared, we cannot but be astonished 
at their production. 


The merry larke^ messenger of tbedaie, 
Saluteth in her song the morrow graie ; 
And firie Phoebus riseth up so bright^ 
That all the orient laugheth at the sight, 
Aod with his stremia dryeth in the greves * 
The silver droppis hanging in the le?es. 
And Arcite^ that in the court reall\ 
With Theseus, his squier principally 
Is risen^ and looketh on the mery daie^ 
And for to doen his observances to Male, 
Remembring on the poinct of his desire. 
He on his courser^ startlyng as the fire, 
Is ridden into the fieldes him to plaie 
Out of the court, were it a mile or tweie. 
And to the grove of whyche I you tolde 
By adventure, his way he gan holde ; 
To maken him a garlonde of the greves. 
Were it of wodbind or hauthom leves^ 
And loud he sung agenst the sonne shene, 
" MaiCf with all thy floures and thy grene^ 
Welcome be thou, faire freshe Maie" 

In paraphrasing this admirable description, Dry- 
den has very judiciously adhered almost to the very 
words and rhythm of thefirst two couplets of Chaucer, 
conscious that, great master as he was of rhyme, he 
could not improve them. The third couplet he has 
deviated ivom% and for the worse \ but the inimitable 

*. Groves or bushea. t Royal. 


spirit and freedom of Dryden's versification is nobly 
exemplified in his expansion of the elder poet^s ad- 
dress to May, where he has converted the two lines 
of his original into a picture of the most exquisite 
grace and beauty. I need not crave a pardon for 
the introduction of such a copy by such an artist : 

The morning-lark, the messenger of day^ 
Saluted with her song the morning gray ; 
And soon the sun arose with beams so bright^ 
That all the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight. 
He with his tepid rays the rose renews^ 
And licks the dropping leaves^ and dries the dews ; 
When Arcite left his bed, resolv'd to pay 
Observance to the month of merry May ; 
Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode. 
That scarcely prints the turf on which he trod : 
At ease he seemed, and prancing o'er the plains, 
Turn 'd only to the grove his horse's reins, 
The grove I uam'd before; and lighting there, 
A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair ; 
Then tum'd his face against the rising day. 
And rais'd his voice to welcome in the May, 

For thee, sweet month, the groves green liv'ries wear : 
If not the first, the fairest of the year : 
For thee the Graces lead the dancing Hours, 
And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers : 
When thy short reign is past, the fev'rish sun 
The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. 


So may thy tender blossoms fear no blite^ 
Nor goats with venom'd teeth thy tendrils bite. 
As thou shalt guide my wand'ring feet to find . 
The fragrant greens I seek^ my brows to bind. 

It would appear a difficult and a dangerous task 
to enter into competition with passages such as I 
have now given ; yet, rich and appropriate as these 
Chaucerian pictures must be esteemed^ they are ri- 
valled, if not surpassed, by the Mornings in Spring 
of Dunbar. Both the " Golden Terge,'' and the 
^' Thistle and the Rose," open with the most glow- 
ing and delicious representations of the dawning of 
a vernal day. In the first of these the poet is de- 
scribed as leaving his bed with the morning star, 
and watching for the rising of the sun, the effects 
of which on the landscape he has painted with a 
warmth and fidelity worthy of the pencil of Titian : 

Right as the starre of day b^an to shyne, 
When gone to bed was Vesper and Lucyne^ 

I raise^ and by a rosier* did me rest : 
Upsprang the golden candle matutine> 
With clear depuriif bemis chrystalline^ 

Gladding the mirry fowlis in their nest. 

Or Phoebus was in purple cape r&vest J. 
Upsprang the lark, the heaven's menstrel si^ne^, 

In May intill a morrow mirthfullest. 

• Rose tree. t Purified. J Dressed. § Then. 


Full angel-like* thir birdis sang their hours 
Within their curtains green, within their bowers^ 

Apparell'd^ white and red, with bloomis sweet : 
Enamel'd was the field with all colours : 
The pearled drops shook fts in silver showers^ 

While all in balm did branch and levis^etV * : 

Depart fra Phoebus did Aurora greite f : 
Her chrystal tears I saw hang on the flowers. 

Which he, for love, all drank up with his heit. 

For mirth of May, with skippis and with hoppis. 
The birdis sang upon the tender croppis % 

With curious notes, as Venus chapel-clarks : 
The roses red, now spreading of their knoppis §, 
Were powder 'd bright with heavenly beryl-droppis. 

Through bemis red lemyng \\ as ruby sparks ; 

The skyis rang with shouting of the larks ; 
The purple heaven owre skal'd in silver sloppis, 

Owre gilt the treis, branches, leaves, and barks. 

Dbwn through the rys IT ane river ran with stremis 
So lustily upon the lykand** lemis 

That all the lake as lamp did leme of light. 
Which shadowed all about with twinkling glemis ; 
The bewis f f baithit were in second bemis 

Through the reflex of Phoebus visage bright ; 

On every side the egeXX ^^<^ ^^ hicht; 
The bank was green, the sun was full of bemis. 

The streamers clear as starres in frosty night. 

• Float. t Weep. X Branches. § Buds. 

II Shining. <|f Trees. ♦• Pleasant. 

ft Boughs. X% High-raised edges or banks. 


The crystal air^ the saphke finnament^ 
The ruhy skyies of the red orient^ 

Kest * heryl beams on em'rald bewis green : 
The rosy garth t depaynt and redolent. 
With purple, azure, gold and gawUsX gent, 

Array'd was by Dame Flmra the Queen, 

So nobilly, that joy was for to sene ; 
The rock against the river resplendent 

As low illuminate all the levis schenef. 

What through the merry fowlis harmony. 
And through the river's sound that ran me by. 

On Flora's mantle I sleeped where I lay ; 
Where soon, unto my dreamis phantasy, 

I saw approach, against the orient sky, 
Ane sail, as blossom white upon the spray^ 
With mast of gold, bright as the star of day. 

Which tended to the land full lustily 
With swiftest motion through a crystal bay. 

After a vision of considerable length, and incom- 
parably rich in allegorical imagery^ the poet is thus 
awakened from his slumber : 

And as I did awake of this swowning ||, 
The joyful fowlis merrily did sing • 
For mirth of Phoebus tender bemis schene : 

* Cast, t Garden. % Gules, the heraldic term for red. 
§ The rock resplendent from the reflection of the river, 
illuminated, as with low or flame, all the bright leaves. 

II Dream. 

c 2 


Sweet was the vapours^ soft the morrowing, 
Wholesome the vale, depaint with flowers ying^ 

The air intemperate, sober and amene ; 

In white and red was all the earth besene. 
Through Nature's noble fresh enameling 

In mirthful May, of every moneth Queen. 

If we now turn to the initiatory stanzas of the 
Thistle and the Rose, in which the bard fancies 
himself addressed in a dream by May, who urges 
him to write something in her honour, and to wel- 
come the return of Spring, we shall find' a picture 
of not less consummate elegance and beauty, and 
perhaps of still greater animation r 

When March was with varying windis past. 
And April had with her silver showers 

Tane leave at Nature with ane orient blast. 
And lusty May, that mother is of flowers. 
Had made the birdis^to begin their hours *, 

Amang the tender odours red and white, 

Whose harmony to hear it was delight ; 

In bed at morrow sleeping as I la/, 
Methought Aurora with her crystal ene 

In at the window looked by the day. 
And halsitf me with visage pale and green ; 
On whose hand a lark sang, fro the spleen X^ 

" Awake, Lovers, out of your slumbering. 

See how the lusty morrow doth upspring !" 

» Orisons, f Hailed* I With good wilL 


Methought fresh May before my l)ed upstude. 
In weed depaint of mony diverse hue^ 

Sober^ benign^ and full of mansuetude^ 
In bright attire of flooris forged new^ 
Heavenly of color, white, red^ brown^ and Uue, 

Balmy in dew, and gilt with Phoebus' bemys ; 

Quhyl all the house illumynit of her lemys. 

Sluggard^ she said^ awake^ anon^ for shame. 
And in my honour something thou go wiite : 

The lark has done the merry day proclaim. 
To raise up lovers with comfort and delight; 
Yet nought increase thy courage to indite^ 

Whose heart sometime has glad and blissful been, 

Sangis to make under the leavis green. 

The poet and his conductress then enter a gar- 
den filled with flowers, and breathing odours re- 
dolent of paradise, when immediately 

The purple sun, with tender bemys red^ 
In orient bright as angel did appear. 

Through golden skyis putting up his head, 
Quhois gilt tresses shone so wonder clear. 
That all the world take comfort far and near. — 

And, as the blissful son of cherarchy *, 

The fowlis sung through comfort of the light; 

The birdis did with open voices cry, 
" O Lovers, fo away thow dully night. 
And welcome day that comforts every wight : 

Hail May, hail Flora, hail Aurora schene. 

Hail princess Nature, hail Venus, lovers queen !" 

*, Hierarchy.— Job, ch. xxxviii. v. 7, The morning stars 
singing together. 


Picturesque and faithful to nature as these de- 
scriptions of Spring most assuredly are, rich in 
imagery, and glowing with poetic inspiration, yet 
has Burns, by blending equal powers of delineation 
with emotions of the tenderest pathos, rendered his 
portraits of the same season, by this very charm of 
contrast, still more endearing and impressive. Fre- 
quent, indeed, as are his sketches of vernal scenery, 
there is scarcely one but what is thus commingled 
with the sweetest feelings of love and pity ; and it 
is this happy and almost constant intermixture of 
minute description with sentiment and passion which 
has given to the poetry of Burns such a wide and 
ever-during dominion over the human heart. I shall 
now select from our Scottish bard a few specimens 
of this delightful union of imagery and pathos whilst 
painting the Mornings of Spring. 

Now S|)riiig has dad the grove in green^ 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers : 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 
Glides swift, a silver dart, 


And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream. 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has soorch'd my fountains dry. — 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little redct I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. — 

z^ »» 

The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mair. 

What tongue his woes can tell : 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 

The features attendant on this the most beauti- 
ful season of the year are yet further marked and 
extended in the foUowing lines, which, like those 
that I have just quoted, make a powerful appeal to 
our sympathy. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze 

All freshly stcep'd in morning dews. 


In vain to me the cowslips blaw^ 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me^ in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry plough-boy cheers his team^ 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks^ 

But life to me 's a weary dream^ 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry^ 

The stately swan majestic swims^ 
And every thing is blest but I. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, 

^i' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

I conclude these instances with a quotation from 
the *^ Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Ap- 
proach of Spring,'' a poem equally estimable for 
the loveliness of its descriptive touches, and for the 
pensive strain and maternal tenderness which so 
weetly characterise its stanzas. 


Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every hlooming tree^ 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoehus cheers the chrystal streams^ 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry mom, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide how'r. 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild^ vn' mony a note^ 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi* care nor thrall opprest. 

Now hlooms the lily hy the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. — 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 



God keep thee frae thy mother^s faes^ 

Or turn their hearts to thee; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Rememher him for me ! 

O soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow com ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 

Burns, of whom I entertain a vivid and cherished 
recollection, from having met him more than once 
whilst resident in Edinburgh, during the years 
1786-7-8 and 9, is one of those few poets who, from 
the strength and originality with which they have 
painted the emotions of their own breasts, have built 
for themselves an ever-during mansion in the hu- 
man heart. Though alloyed, indeed, with many 
errors and frailties which cannot be too much re- 
gretted, there glowed in the bosom of the Scottish 
bard a spirit of the most generous and ardent phi- 
lanthropy, nor was ever man of genius, I believe, 
more thoroughly beloved by his relatives and 


Of a character of this description, every trait, 
however minute, is interesting ; nor can I well de- 
scribe the melancholy pleasure which I felt from 
reading the following recent account, written, I 
beUeve, by Allan Cunningham, of the indisposition, 
last moments, and death of this admirable poet. 
It is drawn up from personal knowledge and in- 
timacy, and in a tone of feeling and truth which 
leaves not a doubt of its fidelity. 

« The first time I ever saw Bums,'' says the ami- 
able writer, " was in Nithsdale. I was then a 
child, but his looks and his voice cannot well be 
forgotten ; and while I write this I behold him as 
distinctly as I did when I stood at my father's 
knee, and heard the bard repeat his Tam O' Shan- 
ter. He was tall, and of a manly make ; his brow 
broad and high ; and his voice varied with the cha- 
racter of his inimitable tale; yet through all its 
variations it was melody itself. He was of great 
personal strength, and proud too of displaying it ; 
and I have seen him lift a load with ease which few 
ordinary men would have willingly undertaken. — 

^^ The last time I saw Burns in life was on his 
return from the Brow-well of Solway, He had 
been mling all spring, and summer had come with- 



out bringing health with it ; he had gone away very 
ill, and he returned worse. He was brought back, 
I think, in a covered spring cart; and when he 
alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived 
he could scarce stand upright. He reached his 
own door with diflBculty. He stooped much, and 
there was a visible change in his looks. Some may 
think it not unimportant to know that he was at 
that time dressed in a blue coat, with the undress 
nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and that his 
neck, which was inclining to be short, caused his 
hat to turn up behind, in the manner of the shovel 
hats of the episcopal clergy. Truth obliges me to 
add that he was not fastidious about his dress ; and 
that an officer, curious in the personal appearance 
and equipments of his company, might have ques- 
tioned the military nicety of the poet's clothes and 
arms. But his colonel was a maker of rhyme, and 
the poet had to display more charity for his com- 
mander^s verse than the other had to exercise when 
he inspected the clothing and arms of the careless 

" From the day of his return home till the hour 
of his untimely death, Dumfries was like a besieged 
place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety. 


not of the rich and the learned only, but of the me- 
chanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Where- 
ever two or three people stood together, their talk 
was of Bums and of him alone ; they spoke of his 
history, of his person, of his works, of his family, of 
his fame, and of his untimely and approaching fate, 
with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever 
endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he 
said or was saying, the opinions of the physicians 
(and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one) were 
eagerly caught up, and reported from street to 
street, and from house to house. 

^^ His good humour was unruffled, and his wit 
never forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow 
volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bedside 
with his eyes wet, and said, * John, dotf t let the 
awkward squad fire over me.^ He was aware that 
death was dealing with him. He asked a lady who 
visited him, more in sincerity than in mirth, what 
comniands she had for the other world. He re- 
pressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and 
told them he had lived long enough. As his life 
drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude 
of his fellow townsmen increased. He was an 
exciseman, it is true — a name odious, from many 


associations, to his countrymen — but he did his duty 
meekly and kindly, and repressed rather than en* 
couraged the desire of some of his companions to 
push the law with severity ; he was therefore mudi 
beloved, and the passion of the Scots fer poetry 
made them regard him as little lower than a spirit 
inspired. It is the practice of the young men of 
Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of 
remission from labour, and by these means I had an 
opportunity of witnessing the general sohcitude of 
all ranks and of al; ages. His differences with them 
in some important parts of human speculation and 
reli^ous hope were forgotten and forgiven ; they 
thought only of his genius — of the delight his com- 
positions had diffused — and they talked of him with 
the same awe as of some departing spirit, whose voice 
was to gladden them no more. His last moments 
have never been described : he had laid his head 
quietly on the pillow awaiting dissolution, when his 
attendant reminded him of his medicine, and held 
the cup to his lip. He started suddenly up, drained 
the cup at a gulp, threw his hands before him like 
a man about to swim, and sprung from head to foot 
of the bed — ^fell with his face down, and expired with 
a groan. 


" When Burns died I was then young, but I was 
not insensible that a mind of no common strength 
had passed from among us. He had caught my 
fancy, and touched my heart with his scnga and 
his poems. I went to see him laid out for the grave ; 
several eldem people were with me. He lay in a 
plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn 
over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, 
herbs and flowers were thickly strewn according to 
the usage of the country. He was wasted some- 
what by long illness ; but death had not increased 
the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly 
dark and deeply marked : the dying pang was visible 
in the lower part, but his broad and open brow was 
pale and serene, and around it his sable hiur lay in 
masses, slightly touched with gray, and inclining 
more to a wave than a curl. The room where he 
lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the 
poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death 
more closely on the heart than if his bier had been 
embellished-by vanity and covered with the blazonry 
of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed 
on him in silence for the space of several minutes. 
We went, and others succeeded us : there was no 
jostling and crushing, though the crowd was great ; 



man followed man as patiently and orderly as if all 
had been a matter of mutual understanding ; not a 
question was asked, not a whisper was heard. This 
was several days after his death. It is the custom 
of Scotland to ^ wake^ the body^— not with wild 
howUngs and wilder songs, and much waste of 
strong drink, like our mercurial neighbours, but in 
silence or in prayer : superstition says it is unsonsie 
to leave a corpse alone, and it is never left. I know 
not who watched by the body of Burns — ^much it 
was my wish to share in the honour ; but my extreme 
youth would have made such a request seem foolish^ 
and its rejection would have been sure. 

" The multitude who accompanied Burns to the 
grave went step by step with the chief mourners ; 
they might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not 
a word was heard ; and though all could not be near, 
and many could not see, when the earth closed on 
their darling poet for ever, there was no rude impa« 
tience shown, no fierce disappointment expressed. It 
was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of 
all ranks and persuasions and opinions mingling as 
brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets 
of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sang 
of their loves and joys and domestic endearments, 


with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps 
have since equalled. I could indeed have wished 
the military part of the procession away — for he was 
buried with military honours — ^because I am one of 
those who love simplicity in all that regards genius. 
The scarlet and gold — the banners displayed;— the 
measured step and the military array, with the sound 
Df martial instruments of music, had no share in in. 
creasing the solemnity of the burial scene, and had 
no connexion with the poet. 

*' I found myself at the brink of the grave into 
which he was about to descend for ever : there was 
a pause among the mourners, as if loth to part with 
his remains ; and wjben he was at last lowered, and 
the first shovelful of earth sounded on his coffin-lid, 
I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where 
tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the 
fears of their comrade by three ragged and straggling 
volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod 
laid over him, and the multitude stood gazing on 
the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted 
silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun 
was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain 
fell from dawn to twilight. 

*^ I saw another sight — a weeping widow and four 



helpless sons; they came into the streets in their 
mournings, and public sympathy was awakened 
afresh ; I shall never forget the looks of his boys, 
and the compassion which they excited. The poet's 
life had not been without errors, and such errors, 
too, as a wife is slow in forgiving; but he^was ho- 
noured then, and is honoured now, by the unalien* 
able affection of his wife, and the world repays h^ 
prudence and her love by its regard and esteem ^.^^ 
To this truly touching narrative, the heartfelt 
tribute of one who is known to possess talents of a 
nature congenial with those of which he has thus 
affectionately deplored the loss, I feel great plea- 
sure in being able to subjoin some exquisite stanzas 
on the genius of Burns, ** written on occasion of 
the Anniversary of his Birth-dg,y being celebrated 
at SheffieU, March the 8th, 18^.'' When I add 
that they are from the pen of Montgomery, a poet 
endeared to us alike by th^ moral and devotional 
beauty, as by the pathos and originality of bis muse, 
and that they have not yet made th^ir appearance 
in any edition of his works, there can be few of my 
readers, I should imagine, who will not be grateful 

^ London Magazine for August 1824, p. 117^ et seq. 


for their insertion. Their principal object seems to 
have been, forcibly to illustrate that variety and 
versatility of talent which so remarkably distin- 
guished the Scottish bard : 

What bird in beauty^ ^ght^ or song 

Can withihe bard compart^ 
Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong. 

As ever child of air ? 

His plume, his note, his form, could Burns 

For whim or pleasure change : 
He was not one, but all by turns, 

With transamination strange :-^ 

The blackbird, oracle of Spring, 

When flow'd his moral lay ; 
The swallow, wheeling on the wing. 

Capriciously at play :— 

The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom. 

Inhaling heavenly balm ; 
The raven, in the tempestV gloom ; 

The halcyon, in the calm : — 

In ^' auld Rirk-Alloway>'' the owl. 

At witching time of night; 
By " bonnie Doon," the earliest fowl 

That caroVd to the light. 

He was the wren amidst the grove. 

When in his homely vein ; 
At Bannock-bum, the bird of Jove, 

^Vith thunder in his train:— 

D 9. 



The woodlark, in his mournful hours ; 

The goldfinch^ in his mirth ; 
The thrush^ a spendthrift of his powers^ 

Enrapturing heaven and earth : — 

The swan^ in majesty and grace^ 

Contemplative and still ; 
But roused. — ^no falcon in the chase 

Could Uke his satire kill. 

The linnet^ in simplicity ; 

In tenderness^ the dove ; 
But more than all heside, was he. 

The nightingale^ in love. 

Oh ! had he never stoop'd to shame^ 

Nor lent a charm to vice^ 
How had devotion loved to name 

That bird of paradise ! 

Peace to the dead ! — In Scotia's choir 

Of minstrels^ great and small. 
He sprang from hb spontaneous fire. 

The phoenix of them all • ! 

• From the Cambridge Quarterly Review, No. 3, pp. 107, 

No. XIV. 

The Muse ! whatever the Muse inspires. 
My soul the tuneful strain admires : — 
Nor Greece nor Rome delights me more 
Than Tagus' bank •, or Thames's shore t : 
From silver Avon's flowery side 
Though^ Shakspeare's numbers sweetly glide. 
As sweet, from Morven's desert hills. 
My ear the voice of Ossian fills. 

John Scott. 

It is a circumstance strongly corroborative of th^ 
genuineness and authenticity of the poems ascribed 
to Ossian by the Scottish antiquaries, and one 
which has hitherto not had its due consideration, 
that in the numerous Irish poems still extant in the 
Gaelic or Erse language, and attributed to Oisin or 
Ossian, whom the Irish are anxious to claim as a 
native of their island, the very peculiar, and I may 
say singular strain of sentiment and feeling which, 
considering the era and state of civilization in which 
the poems of Ossian are said to have been pro-r 
duced, so remarkably distinguishes both the per- 

* Camoens. t Milton, &c. 

// .^. 


sonal character and the works of the Scottish bard, 
should have been preserved with so much of its 
original raciness and vigour. 

These Irish poems, instead of assuming to them- 
selves the high antiquity which has been established 
for their Scottish brethren by Blair, and Graham, 
and Sinclair, not only make Oisin and St. Patrick, 
who flourished in the fifth century, contemporaries, 
but exhibit moreover very evident traces of having 
been composed not anterior to the ninth or tenth 
century. Now, as the literati of the sister island 
have altogether failed in their attempt to prove, 
either that Macpherson ever was in Ireland, or had 
any of his oral originals through an Irish channel ; 
and as the productions ascribed to the Caledonian 
Ossian claim not only a higher antiquity, but are 
entirely free from all the modern allusions and gross 
anachronisms which vitiate the pretensions of the 
Hibernian poet, it follows, as a result of the highest 
probability, that the minstrelsy of the Irish Oisin 
and his followers was founded on the prior inspira- 
tion of the bard of Morven ; for it should be re- 
collected, that at the period when Fingal and his 
son are recorded to have lived, the inhabitants of 
the northern parts of Ireland, and the western parts 


of Scotland, not only spoke the same language, but 
were frequently either at war with each other, or 
united against a common enemy. 

We find, indeed, both from the evidence arising 
from the Scottish poems themselves, and from the 
testimony of the Danish historian Suhm*, that 

* Speaking of Swaranti contest with a Norwegian prince 
of the name of Gram, the historian, whose work in Den- 
mark is esteemed as of the highest authority^ thus proceeds : 
" Swaran/was the son of Siarno; he had carried on many 
wars in Ireland, where he had vanquished most of the he- 
roes that opposed him^ except Cuchullin, who^ assisted hy 
the Gaelic or Caledonian king,. Fingal, not only defeated 
him^ but even took him prisoner, but had the generosity to 
send him back again to his country ;" a quotation which has 
drawn from sir John Sinclair the following inference and 
remark. ** The existence of Swaran, son of Starno, and his 
wars in Ireland, and his having been defeated by Fingal, as 
related by Ossian, are therefore authenticated by the hi- 
storians of Denmark ; and in their annals a number of par- 
ticulars are stated regarding the manners of those times, 
which confirm many of the particulars mentioned by Ossian." 
And he then adds, *' it is very satisfactory to have been the 
means of bringing forward a new, and at the same time so 
convincing a proof of the authenticity of these ancient poems ; 
and hence indeed it appears, that the more the subject is in- 
vestigated, the more clearly will that authenticity be esta- 
blished." — Dissertation on the Authenticity of the Poems of 
Ossian, pp. Ixiii.— Ixv. Ixvi. 


early in the third century Fingal had made several 
descents on the coast of Ulster for the protection of 
his kinsman Cormac, then a minor and monarch of 
Ireland, against the invasion of Swaran king of 
Norway. In these expeditions he was accompanied 
by his son and chief bard, Ossian, and also by i| 
native Irish bard of the name of UUin. 

It does not appear that Fingal had occasion to 
penetrate into the interior, or perhaps more than 
twenty miles from the shores of Ulster ; but here 
his exploits were great and numerous, and a not 
altogether unsuccessful effort has been lately made 
to ascertain the battle fields of Fingal in Ulster, by 
the analogy of names and places mentioned in Os- 
sian^s poems. " It is almost impossible," says the 
author of this attempt, whilst describing Connor 
(the ancient Temora) and its neighbourhood, " to 
walk twenty minutes without meeting some rude 
marks of the warfare of those times. Innumerable 
are the four grey stones, the graves of the illustrious 
dead, which one discovers while travelling among 
these hills *;^' an account which bears out Mr. 

* Campbell's Ossiano, 8vo., 1818, p. 20. * 


Phillips, when, in the fervor of poetical enthusiasm, 
^ exclaims, in allusion to this district, 


When tired at eve the pilgrim leans 

Upon some rocky pile. 
Of days long gone the rude remains^ 
Saved by their rudeness from the Vandal reigns 
Which red and ruthless swept the plains 

Of this ill-fated isle. 
He little thinks the mossy stones 

Beneath his feet 
Afford some hero's hallow'd bones 

Their cold retreat ; — 
Perhaps e'en there on Fingal's arm 

A thousand heroes hung. 
While Ossian, music of the storm. 

The battle anthem sung : 
Or there (Emania's palace rose 

In more than regal pride ; 
Ollam inhal'd a nation's woes. 
Conn's fiery sceptre crush'd her foes. 

Or noble Oscar died *. 

That the intercourse and connexion which these 
expeditions tended to establish between the two 
countries, prolonged as they were during the greater 
part of a century, should lead to a certain degree 
of similarity in their minstrelsy and poesy might 
naturally be expected, more especially when we 

* Canipbell's Ossiano, 8vo., 1818, pp. 31, 32. 



recollect that their language was the same, and that 
bards of both nations were assembled under the 
protection of the Scottish monarch. But that seven 
or eight centuries after Fingal had ceased to reign 
and Ossian to sing, legendary and heroic verses 
should be produced in Ireland, which, however 
wild and inconsistent in other respects^ paint the 
character of Ossian precisely as it is given in the 
Caledonian poems, must, after a slight considera- 
tion, be reckoned as one amongst the strongest cor- 
roborative proofs of the genuineness of the latter. 

It has been, in fact, the most startling, and ap- 
parently the most valid objection to the authenticity 
of these productions, that the characters of Fingal 
and of Ossian^ as uniformly represented in them, 
are by many degrees too sublime and pathetic, too 
humane and polished for the era to which their 
existence is ascribed. Yet, in these metrical ro- 
mances of the Irish bards, acknowledged by the 
Irish themselves to be written between the eighth 
and twelfth centuries, the same high-toned and ex- 
alted delineations of Fingal and his son are to be 
found. Can we, therefore, avoid inferring, that, 
as the internal as well as the external evidence of 
these compositions bears evident marks of a vast 


posteriority to the era of the Ossianic poetry of 
Scotland^ the impression made upon the Irish by 
these characters during their intercourse with them 
in the third century was such as to be indelible ; 
and that they are consequently, as oripnaily pre- 
sented to us in the Gaelic of North Britain, not 
only poetically but historically correct ? 

For the opportunity of forming this judgment 
from an inspection of the Irish poems we are in- 
debted to Miss Brooke, the daughter of the cele- 
brated author of Gustavus Vasa, who, about thirty- 
seven years ago, published in Dublin a 4tto. volume, 
now very scarce, entitled ^^Rdiques of Irish Poetry: 
Consisting t^ Heroic Poems^ Odes^ Elegies^ and 
Songs^ translated into English Verse: WiOi 
Notes Explanatory and Historical; And the Ori^ 
ginals in the Irish Character, * To which is svb- 
joinedy An Irish Tale.'^ 

With all the enthusiasm for the high antiquity 
and literary reputation of her country which has 
lately so sipgularly distinguished many of the most 
learned in Ireland, and with poetical talents fully 
adequate to the transfusion of the spirit of her 
originals, has the amiable translator entered upon 
her task ; and the result has been a series of poems 


of no ordinary interest, and though, with one ex- 
ception, professedly versions, yet stamped with the 
inspiration indeed 

Of that bright Power, whom Nature forms. 

And Nature's scenes inspire; 
\^lio mounts the winds, and rides the storms, 

And glows with Heaven's own fire • ! 

It is, however, only to those parts of MisslSrooke's 
** Reliques'*' which relate to the character of Ossian, 
that we are now to turn our attention, and these 
are chiefly confined to the introduction and close 
of two poems entitled " Magnus the Great^ and 
" The Chased Here, as in the greater number of 
pieces in which the Irish Oisin is introduced, the 
poet is represented not only as contemporary with 
St. Patrick, but as conversing with him familiarly, 
and recurring with conscious pride and pleasure, 
though mingled with feelings of deep regret, to 
that happy period of his life when he was the hero 
as well as the bard of his country. 

" In these poems,'*' observes Miss Brooke, very 
justly, " the character of Oisin is so inimitably 
well supported, that we lose the idea of any other 

• Introduction to Maon,an Irish Tale. Reliques, p. 325. 


bard^ and are for a time persuaded ijt is Ossian him. 
self who speaks. We do not seem to read a narra- 
tion of events, wherein the writer was neither a 
witness nor a party : — it is the son — the JiUher — 
the hero — the patriot who speaks ; who breathes 
his own passions and feelings on our hearts, and 
compels our sympathy to accompany all his griefs ; 
while in a strain of natural and'empassioned elo- 
quence, he descants on the fame and virtues of a 
parent whom he describes as at once so amiable and 
so great ; and bewails the loss of all his former 
friends, kindred, and companions, and laments his 
own forlorn and disconsolate state, in apostrophes 
that pierce the very soul of pity * !^ 

Thus, at the close of Magnus the Great y in which 
the character of Fingal is supported with all those 
traits of magnanimity and humanity which so beau- 
tifully particularise him in the Scottish poems, the 
aged bard reverts to his own forlorn and destitute 
situation in terms which, whilst they breathe the 
unextinguished spirit of the hero, paint at the same 
time his sufferings and feelings in a strain of impe- 
rishable sweetness and pathos. Thus, he says, ad- 

* Reliques^ p. 76. 


dresdng the saint who had requested of him a de- 
tail of the engagement in which Magnus had been 

Thus was the mighty battle won 

On £rin*8 sounding shore ; 
And thus^ O clerk ! great Comhars son % 

The palm of valour bore ! 

Alas ! far sweeter to mine ear 

The triumphs of that day 
Than all the psalming songs I hear. 

Where holy zealots pray. 

Thou hast my tale ;— though memory bleeds^ 

And sorrow wastes my frame> 
Still will t tell of former deeds, 

And live on former fame ! 

Now old, — the streams of life congeaFd, 

Bereft of all my joys ! 
No sword this withered hand can wield. 

No spear my arm employs. 

Among thy clerks, my last sad hour 

Its weary scene prolongs ; 
And psalms must now supply the pow'r 
Of victory's lofty songs. 

It is nevertheless to the opening of The Chase ^9^ 
legendary poem, which, from its mention of church 
bells, cannot be attributed to a period earlier than 

♦ Fingal. 


the middle ages, that we are indebted for the fullest 
developement of the character of Ossian as drawn 
by the Irish bards. This piece also, like the former, 
displays a glowing picture of the head and heart of 
the king of Morven, to whom, as the fair translator 
has remarked, every quality is attributed that is 
either interesting, amiable, or great *. 

The delineation, indeed, either of Ossian or his 
royal father, being precisely such as we find drawn 
in the poems translated by Macpherson, would 
answer the purpose which I have in view ; but as 
the character of the bard is, from the splendor of his 
genius, from his blindness, and his being the last of 
his race, perhaps still more endeared to us than that 
of the warrior, I shall confine myself principally to 
the picture which has been given us of the former. 
The saint and the poet are represented as usual, 
conversing familiarly together, when the latter ex- 
clmms with his customary courtesy, 

O son of Calphruin ! — sage divine ! 

Soft voice of heavenly song. 
Whose notes around the holy shrine 

Sweet melody prolong ; 

* Reliques, p. 99. 


Did e'er my tale tby curious ear 

And fond attention draw. 
The storj of that chase to hear. 

Which my famed father saw ? 

The chase, which singly o'er the plain. 

The hero's steps pursued ; 
Nor one of all his valiant train 

Its wond'rous progress yiew'd ? 

A query to which the holy anchorite replies, 

O royal bard ! to valour dear. 

Whom fame and wisdom grace. 
It never was my chance to hear 

That memorable chase. 

But let me now, O bard, prevail ! 

Now let the song ascend ; 
And through the wonders of the tale. 

May truth thy words attend ! 

The insinuation which the saint here throws out 
against the veracity of the bard very naturally and 
very deservedly calls forth a rebuke, but delivered 
in a tone of energy and moral dignity which has 
seldom been surpassed : 

O Patrick ! to the Finian race 

A falsehood was unknown ; 
No lie, no imputation base 

On our clear fame was thrown ; 


But by firm truth and manly might 

That fame established grew. 
Where oft, in honourable fight. 

Our foes before us flew. 

Not thy own clerks, whose holy feet 

The sacred pavement trod^ 
With thee to hymn^ in concert sweet. 

The praises of thy God ; 

Not thy own clerks in truth excell'd 
The heroes of our line, ^ • 

By honour train'd, by fame impell*d 
In glory's fields to shine ! 

O Patrick of the placid mien. 

And voice of sweetest sound ! 
Of all thy church's walls contain 

Within their hallowed round. 

Not one more faithful didst thou know 

Than Comhal*s noble son ; 
The chief who gloried to bestow 

The prize the bards had won ! 

Were Momi's * valiant son alive, 

(Now in the deedless grave) 
O could my wish from death revive 

The generous and the brave ! 

* The celebrated Gaul Mac Mevmi, well known to the 
reader of Ossian^s Poems. ^^ Great as is Oisin's partiality,'' 
remarks the translator, ^* in favour of the heroes of his own 
race, yet we find him, on all occasions, doing ample justice 



Or Mac-0*Dhuivne, graoefal form, 

Joy of the female sight ; 
The hero who would hreast the storm, 

And dare tlie unequal fight: 

Or he whose sword the ranks defy'd> 

Mac-Garra, conquest's hoast, 
Whose yalour would a war decide, 

His single arm an host. 

Or could Mac-Ronan now appear. 

In all his manly charms; 
Or, — Oh my Osgar • ! wert thou here, 

To fill my aged arms ! 

Not then, as now, should Calphruin's son 

His sermons here prolong ; 
With hells and psalms the land o'er-run. 

And hum his holy song ! 

If Fergus t lived, again to sing 

As erst, the Fennii's fame; 
Or Daire, who sweetly touch*d the string, 

^nd thrill'd the feeling frame ; 

to the character and valour of a chief,^ who was not allied to 
his family, and whose tri]l)e had even, at different times, heen 
their very bitterest enemies." — Reliques, p. 76, 77. 

* Oscar the son of Oisian, who is said by the Irish bards 
to have been killed at the battle of Gabhra. 

t Fergus, one of the brothen of Ossian, and equally 
celebrated in the poetical annals of Ireland for the gift of 
song. He is beautifully and characteristically distinguished 
in the poem of Magnmt the Great, to whom he had been s^t 


Tour bells, for me^ mi^t flound in Ytan, 

Did Hugh the little live ; 
Or Fallan's generous worth remain, 

The ceaseless boon to give ; 

Or Conan bald^ though oft his tongue 

To rage provoked my breast. 
Or Finn's small dwarf^ whose magic song 

Oft luU'd the ranks to rest. 

Sweeter to me their voice would seem 

Than thy psalm-singing train ; 
And nobler far their lofty theme. 

Than that thy derks maintain ! 

This recollection of his departed friends and com- 
patriots in arms is, if we except a few modem 
allusions^ precisely in the spirit *of almost innumer- 
able passages in the Scottish Ossian, and blended 
too with the same sense of conscious superiority on 
the part of the unhappy bard. The lofty cha- 
racter, however, of Oisin^s retort seems to have 

by Fingal, to inquire the motiv^e of bin landing with an hos- 
tile intention. Having replied to the insolent language of 
Magnus with great but dignified courtesy^ the poet tells us^ 

Mild Fergus then^ his errand done^ . 

Returned with wonted grace ; 
His mind^ like the unchanging sun. 

Still beaming in bis face. 

Rrliques, p. 47. 

*. o 


discomposed the temper and wounded the religious 
feelings of his companion, who aims to repress the 
cherished pride of the hero and the minstrel, and 
who exhibits, whilst making the attempt, sentiments 
of pecuh'ar sublimity and beauty : 

Cease thy yain thoughts, and fruitless boasts ; 

Can death thy chiefs restore ?— 
Son of the king of mighty hosts. 

Their glories are no more. 

Confide in him whose high decree 

O'er-rules all earthly power ; 
And bend to him thy humble knee. 

To him devote thy hour. 

And let thy contrite prayer be made 

To him who rules above ; 
Entreat for his almighty aid. 

For his protecting love ! 

Though (with thy will perverse at strife). 

Thou deem'st it strange to say, — 
He gave thy mighty father life. 

And took that life away. 

The allusion of the last two lines of this striking 
address brings to the memory of the bard, with all 
its bitterest aggravation, the irreparable loss which 
he has sustained. He cannot avoid contrasting his 
present forlorn and impotent state with the highly- 


honoured pre-eminence from which he has fallen ; 
and he replies to the admonitory zeal of his spiritual 
adviser in language of the most exquisite pathos. 

Alas ! thy words sad import bear^ 

And grating soi^nds impart ; 
They come with torture to mine ear. 

And anguish to my heart ! 

Not for thy God these torrents spring 

That drain their weeping source. 
But that my father, and my king. 

Now lies a lifeless corse ! 

Too much I have already done. 

Thy godhead's smile to gain ; 
That thus each wonted joy I shun. 

And with thy clerks remain ! 

The royal robe, the social board, 

Music and mirth are o'er ; 
And the dear art I once adored, 

I now enjoy no more. 

For now po bards from Oisin's hand 

The wonted gift receive ; 
Nor hounds nor horn I now command. 

Nor martial feats achieve * ! 

* Another and a similar picture of the lonely and fbrlorn 
state of the once highly-honoured bard is given by Miss 
Brooke in a literal version from a poem of the like age with 
that in the tcxt^ entitled " A Dialogue between Oisin and 
St. Patrick;" where the former, lamenting the loss of his 


O Iniafatl ! thy Obin goes 

To guard thy ports no more ; 
To pay with death the foreign foes 

Who dare insult thy shore ! 

We can scarcely, indeed, form a picture of more 
utter destitution than what is presented to us in the 
person of the Celtic Homer, whether it be drawn 
from Scottish or Irish sources. Nor can we avoid 
thinking, that when the poets of Erin chose to 
make their Oisin contemporary with St. Patrick, 
they would have given us a much more amiable 
idea of the saint, had they represented him as some- 
what more lenient, more ready to make allowance 
for impressions rendered indelible not only by length 
of time, but by the ties of consanguinity, love, and 
friendship, and the recollections of former fame 
and glory. How much, soever, therefore, we may 
acquiesce in the truth of the following reply, and 
however greiatly we may admire the imagery by 

kindred and friends, exclaims, '' To survive them is my depth 
of woe ! the banquet and the song have now no charms for 
me ! Wretched and old, — the poor solitary remnant of the 
Fenii ! Why,— O why am I yet alive ?— Alas, O Patrick ! 
grievous is my state !— *the last of all my race !-^My heroes 
are gone ! my strength is gone !— Bells I now hear, for the 
songs of my hards ; and age, blindness and woe, are all that 
remain of Oisin !"— Reliques, p. 76. 


which it is enforced, it is scarcely possible not to 
feel that the venerable apostle of the sister island 
has exhibited no very abundant stock of pity or 

O Oisin of the mighty deed ! 

Thy folly I deplore ; 
O ! cease thy frenzy thus to feed, 

And give the suhject o'er. 

Nor Finn, nor all the Finnian race^ 

Can with his power compare 
Who to yon orhs assigns their place. 
And rules the realms of air ! 

For man yon azure vault he spreads^ 

And clothes the.flow*ry plains ; 
On every tree soft fragrance sheds^ 

And blooming fruit ordains ! 


Tis he who gives the peopled stream^ 

Replete with life to'flow ; 
"Who gives the moon's resplendent beam^ 
And sun's meridian glow ! 

Would'st thou thy puny king compare 

To that Almighty hand 
Which form'd fair earthy and ambient air. 

And bade their powers expand ? 

The rejoinder which now falls from the lips of 
Oisin is, in the highest degree, animated and cha- 
racteristic : 



J t was not on a fruit or flower 
My king his care bestow'd ; 
. He better knew to show his power 
In honour's glorious road. 

To load with death the hostile fields 

In blood his might procliam ; 
Our land with wide protection shield, 

And wing to heaven his fame ! 

In peace his tranquil hours to bless^ 

Beneath soft beauty's eye. 
Or, on the chequer'd field of chess •, 

The mimic fight to try. 

• # 

* Dr. Hyde says, ^' the old Irish were so greatly addicted to 
chess, that amongst them the possession of good estates has 
been often decided by it ; and," adds he, " there are some 
estates, at this very time, the property whereof still depends 
upon the issue of a game at chess. For example, the heirs 
of two certain noble Irish families, whom we could name 
(to say nothing of others), hold their lands upon this tenure, 
viz. that one of them shall encounter the other at chess in 
this manner; that which ever of them conquered, should 
seize and possess the estate of the other. Therefore," says 
the doctor, " I am told they manage the afiair prudently 
among themselves : once a year they meet, by appointment, 
to play at chess ; one of them makes a move, and the other 
says, I will consider how to answer you next year. This 
being done, a public notary commits to'writing the situation 
of the game, by which method a game that neither has won 
has been, and will be, continued for some hundred of years.' 
— Vallancey^s Irish Grammar, Essay on the Celtic Langu^e, 
p. 85. 


Or sylvan sports, that well beseem 

The martial and the brave ; 
Or, plung'd amid the rapid stream^ 

His manly limbs to lave. 

But, when the rage of battle bled ! — 

Then— then his might appeared. 
And o'er red heaps of hostile dead 

His conquering standard reur'd ! 

Where was thy God on that sad day^ 

When on leme's wave 
Two heroes ploughed the wat'ry way. 

Their beauteous prize to save ? 

From Lochlin's king of ships, his bride. 

His lovely queen they bore. 
Through whom unnumber'd Warriors die. 

And bathed in blood our shore. 

Or on that day when Tailk's proud might 

Invaded Erin's coast. 
Where was thy Godhead in that fight. 

And where thy empty boast ? 

"WTiile round the bravest Fenii bled. 

No help did he bestow ; 
'Twas Osgur's arm avenged the deed. 

And gave the glorious blow ! 

Where was thy God when Magnus came ? 

Magnus the brave and great ; 
The man of might, the man of fame. 

Whose thrcat'ning voice was fate ! 


Thy Godhead did not aid us then^— 

If such a God there be, 
He should have favour'd gallant men. 
As great and good as he ! 

Fierce Anninir's wide wasting son, 

Allean of dreadful fame. 
Who Tamor's treasures oft had won. 

And wrapt her walls in flame. 

Not by thy God, in single fight. 

The deathfiil hero fell. 
But by Finn's arm, whose matchless might 

Ckmld ev'ry force repel ! 

In ev'ry mputh his fame we meet. 
Well known, and weU belieted ;— 

I have not heard of any feat 
Thy cloudy king achieved. 

The somewhat sarcastic insinuation with which 
these fine stanzas conclude has the effect of throw- 
ing the saint completely off his guard, and he bursts 
into a strain of invective which does not present us 
with a very favourable idea of his progress in Chris- 
tian charity. In fact, he tells the aged poet in 
plain terms, that he is a bald and senseless fool, 
and that as long as God shall rule in heaven, his 
race shall endure unremitting torment. ^^ It must 
be owned,'' says the fair translator, '* this railing 
is rather of the coarsest ; but our poet seems more 


partial to his heroes than to his saiDts, or he would 
hardly have put this language into the mouth of 
the good bishop.^ We can acaroelj, however, re- 
gret this want of equanimity on the part of St. 
Patrick, since it introduces the following wild but 
beautifully characteristic expostulation fiom the lips 
of his companion, who, shocked, as he well might 
be, by the anathema we have just reccnrded, ex- 
claims — 

If God then ruks^ why is die chief 

Of Omhal's gen'rous race 
To fiends ooii8ign*d, withoat relief 
From jnstiee or from grace? 

When, were thy God himself confined^ 

My king of mild renown 
Would quickly all his chains nnhind. 

And give him back his crown. 

For never did his generous breast 

Reject the feeling glow ; 
Refuse to succour the distrest^ 

Or slight the captive's woe. 

His ransom loosed the prisoner's chains. 

And broke the dire decree ; 
Or, with his hosts, on glory's plains, 

He fought to set them free ! 



Q Patrick ! were I senseless growQ^ 

Tby holy clerks should bleed. 
Nor one be spared to pour his moan 

O'ier the avenging deed ! 

Nor books nor crosiers should be found. 

Nor ever more a bell 
Within thy holy walls should sound, 

Where prayers and zealots dwell. 

Nothing can more admirably paint the character 
of Fingal, such as we have been accustomed to see 
it delineated in the Ossian of Macpherson, than the 
second, third, and fourth stanzas of this affecting 
appeal* Whether the noble picture which it con- 
tains of mercy and magnanimity touched the heart 
of the too zealous bishop, or the allusion in its close 
to the power which the bard and chieftain still pos- 
sessed alarmed his fears, it is not easy to ascer- 
tain ; but that a sudden revolution took place, if 
not in the sentiments-, yet in the language of the 
saint, is evident from the tenor of his reply : 

O Oisin, of the royal race ! 

The actions of thy sire. 
The king of smiles and courteous grace, 

I, with the vrorld, admire. 


Thj^ Story therefore I await. 

And thy late promise daim^ 
The chase's wonders to relate^ 

And give the tale to fatne. 

It must be obvious, I think, from the passages 
which have now been quoted from these Irish 
legends, that, though written in the middle ages, the 
character of Ossian has been sustained in them with 
all the beauty, amenity, and sublimity which sur- 
round it in the Caledonian poetry. And as the Irish 
histories themselves refer the existence of Fingal 
and Ossian to the third century, placing the death 
of the former in the year 283, and that of Oscar, 
the grandson of Fingal, in the year 296, though, 
out of compliment to St. Patrick, they have com- 
mitted the bold anachronism of representing the 
Celtic poet a disciple of the national apostle, does 
it not follow as a legitimate inference, xxinsidering 
this perfect consonancy of the Irish with the Scot- 
tish era, and the very early intercourse which sub- 
sisted between the two nations, that the poetry 
ascribed to Ossian by the Scottish antiquaries is, 
both as to its antiquity and character, altogether 
what authentic tradition has handed down to us ? 
For, be it remembered, that even should we re- 


move the origin of the Ossianic poems, from the 
third to the ninth or tenth, or eleventh century, the 
period to which the Irish originals* of the transla- 
tions before us are to be attributed, we should gain 
nothing by the exchange, as the purity imd refine- 
ment of sentiment, so remarkable in the Gaelic * 
• muse, and which has excited so much controvei'sy, 
surprise, and scepticism, would be as great a stum- 
Uing-block in the latter as in the former age. 

Indeed, at an era when the rest of Europe was 
involved in the grossest ignorance, it speaks highly 


in favour of the comparative state of Ireland, that 
her bards were aUe not only to relish and admire 
the disinterested patriotism, the tender and sublime 
enthusiasm of such characters as Fingal and Ossian^ 
but were found competent to transmit with so little 
alloy, with so much, indeed, of genuine simplicity 
and energy, the impressions which for many genera- 
iisms had been descending to them through the oral 
poetry and traditions of their Gaelic neighbours. 

** As yet,'' says Miss Brooke, in allusion to the 
lustre reflected upon her countrymen by their ^ui- 
cestors of the middle ages, and in a passage of ex- 
quisite beauty and feeling, which in the pesent day 
cannot be read without a sigh of deep regret for 


what has passed since it was written, ^^ as yet, we are 
too little known to our noble neighbour of Britain ; 
were we better acquainted, we should be better 
fri^ds. The British Muse is not yet informed 
that she has an elder aster in this isle; let us 
then introduce them to each other ! together let 
them walk abroad from their bowers, sweet am- 
bassadresses of cordial union between two coun- 
tries that seem formed by nature to be joined by 
every bond of interest and of amity. Let them 
entreat of Britain to cultivate a nearer acquaint- 
ance with her neighbouring isle. Let them con- 
ciliate for us her esteem, and her affection will 
follow of course. Let them tell her, that the por- 
tion of her blood which flows in our veins is rather 
ennobled than disgraced by the mingling tides 
that descended from our heroic ancestors. Let them 
come — ^but will they answer to a voice like mine ? 
Will they not rather depute some favoured pen, to 
chide me back to the shade whence I have been 
allured, and where, perhaps, I ought to have re- 
mained, in respect to the memory and superior 
genius of a father — it avails not to say how dear ! — 
But my feeble efforts presume not to emulate,— ^ 
andthey cannot injure his fame *.'' 

• Preface, pp. vii. viii. 



It can scarcely be necessary to remark, after the 
many beautiful and highly finished stanzas which 
I have had occasion to quote in this paper, that the 
amiable translator had little cause for the appre- 
hensions which she has avowed in the latter part of 
the above passage, either as they might refer to the 
tribe of critici^, of to the public^ at large ; for to 
•adopt her own emphatic language, 

Full oft the Muse, a gentle guest> 

Dwells in a female form ! 
And patriot fire a female breast 

May sure unquestion'd warm *• 

In fine, without flattery it may be added, that 
her versions, which exhibit many varied forms of 
metre, and include Heroic Poems, Odes, Elegies, 
and Songs, are throughout animated by the spirit of 
the most engaging enthusiasm ; and that, whether 
the Du'ge, the wild War-song, or the Lay of Love, 
be the theme on which her efforts are exerted, she 
is alike entitled to our gratitude and admiration. 

* Inlxoduction to Maon^ p. 327* 


No. XV. 

As dissolute^ as desperate : yet, through both« 
I see some sparkles of a better hope, 
Which elder days may happily bring forth. 


It is somewhat remarkable that almost the same 
degree of disparity which I have noticed to have 
existed between father and child at the opening of 
my last paper on the History of the Cliffords, may 
be found in relation to the early years of Henry 
lord Clifford^ the shepherd, and those of his son by 
his first wife ; for, whilst the childhood and youth 
of the former had been passed in the deepest se- 
clusion, and in the lowliest habits of pastoral life, 

those of the latter had been spent amid the extrava- 
gance and disi^pation of a gorgeous court. 

Heney, lord Clifford, eleventh lord ot 


Cumberland, was bom in 149B,and, unfortunately 
for himself and the peace of his father'^s mmd, was 
bred up the fellow-student and companion of prince 
vol. 1L f 


Henry, afterwards Henry the Eighth. From such 
an association, which necessarily plunged him into 

scenes of the most fascinating gaiety and dissipation, 
no other result could have been expected than what 
actually occurred, an addiction to wasteful expen- 
diture and thoughtless excess. 

Of this we have a melancholy proof in a letter 
from the old lord, still existing among the family 
papers, and addressed to a privy counsellor gf 
Henry the Vlllth, with the view of having the griev- 
ances which it enumerates placed before the eye 
of the young monarch. It appears to have been 
written, though without date, about 151^, when 
Henry Clifford was in his twentieth year, and 
paints in strong colours the disobedience and even 
violence which he, the father, experienced from the 
misconduct of his son, who, he tells us, scrupled 
not to spoil his houses and seize his goods for the 
maintenance of his ** inordinate pride and ryot, as 
speciallie dyd apere when coming into ye contrie, 
he apareUyd himself and hys horse in cloth of golde 
and goldsmy th's wark, more lyk a duke than a pore 
baron'^s sonne as hee ys ;'*'* and then, after recount- 
ing his many acts of personal disrespect to himself, 
he adds, " moreover he in his countree makyth de- 


batebetweene gentilmen, and trobleth divers housys 
of religioun, to bring from them ther tythes, sham- 
fully beting ther tenaunts^ and s'vants, in such 
wyse as* some whol townes are fayne to kepe the 
churches both nighte and daye, and dare not com 
at their own housys *.*" 

From the quarter, however, to which these com-t 
plaints were addressed there could be little pro- 
bability of interference ; for Henry Clifford was a 
great favourite with the new monarch, and this, a$ 
the countess of Pembroke has remarked in the Me- 
moirs of her family, ^^ made him more stout and 
less submitting to his old father, Henry, lord Clif- 
ford, tlian otherwise he would have been-f-.^ In 
short, presuming on the affection of his sovereign, 
so far as to believe that his Conduct in a remote 
part of the north of England, however dissolute, 
would be overlooked, he became, in fact, the leader 
of a troop of banditti, committing in the idle levity 
of his heart, or for the sake of plunder, all the 
wanton mischief and spoliation of which his father 
«o justly complains. 

• History of Craven, p. 255. 

t C^isura Literaria, Vol. vi. p. 404, from Harl. MSS. 



To this lawless and degrading career, there is 
reason however to conclude, that an early stop was 
put by the humanizing power of love ; for he must 
have married shortly after the letter which I have 
quoted was written, being a father by his second 
wife, lady Margaret Percy, daughter of the sixth 
earl of Northumberland, at the age of twenty- four ; 
and, as it is not likely that he would continue this 
irregular line of conduct after he had entered into 
the marriage state, we may flatter ourselves that his 
father's closing years were cheered by beholding 
him a wiser and a better man. 

The next view, indeed, which we have of this 
nobleman, presents him to us under a much more 
imposing aspect ; for scarcely had two years elapsed 
:after his accession to the lordship and honour of 
Skipton, when Henry the Eighth, who had not for- 
'gotten their former intimacy, ccHiferred upon him 
the dignity of earl of Cumberland.' 

Of his lord^ip^s expenses to London on this oc- 
casion, and during a residence there of five weeks 
and one day, a very curious account has been pre- 
served by Dodsworth, from an original in Skipton 
Gastle which has now perished; and from this 
document, and from Dr. Whitaker^s observations 


upon it, I shall present my readers with a few 
1 facts which will throw no uninteresting light upon 
the manners and modes of living whidi prevailed 
during the reign of Henry the Eighth. 

It was during the months of June and July, and 
in the seventeeth year of Henry's reign^ that this 
journey was undertaken ; a period of the year some- 
what difierent from that which a noblemiui would 
Qow select for a visit to the metropolis ; but^ at 
that time, die badness of the roads was such as to 
render an early spring or winter journey to town 
an achievement not only difScult but hazardous. 

It appears that the new earl was attended oa this 
expedition by thirty-three of his servants on horse- 
back. How many days were occupied in travelling 
is not mentioned, but his expenses on the road are 
put down at 7/. 15^. Id. On his arrival in the 
capital, he was lodged at Derby-place, now the 
Heralds^ College ; and we find, from the first list of 
charges, that his expenditure in house-keeping for 
himself and his whole retinue, including horses, did 
not amount to more than forty-six pounds, seven 
shillings, or about nine pounds per week ; a circum- 
stance which will the less surprise us, when we read, 
under the same head, that his wine for five weeks 



amounted to the sum of three shiUingSf and his 
desserts, consisting of cherries, to two-pence ! There 
is an article also for rushes, which, even in the 
apartments of the palace, had not yet given way to 
the much more cleanly and elegant accommodation 
of the carpet. 

Yet immediately afterwards, under the title of 
" Household Stuff bought,'* we discover that both 
napkins and table-cloths, a luxury which many 
might suppose of much later date, were purchased 
both for the parlour and hall of this earl in 1525. 

Then follows an account of the sums expended 
for new liveries, which, on such an occasion, it was 
thought necessary should be of the most sumptuous 
kind ; and they are accordingly described as con- 
sisting of coats laced with gold and silver, faced 
with satin, and embroidered with the cognizances 
of the Cliffords. But one of the most extraordinary 
items in this part of the expenditure is, " To the 
parson of Guisely for his livery, 13^. 4d. ;'' a strange 
t^m for the robes of one who appears to have acted 
as chaplain to the family. 

We have seen, from the complaints of his father, 
that this nobleman was in his earliest youth a great 
lover of dress ; nor did the partiality appear to desert 


him as he advanced in life ; for under the head of 
** My Lord'^s Robes and Apparell," which were 
purchased during this visit to town, there is an 
abundant supply of the most rich and costly articles. 
It should be recollected, however, that his robes as 
an earl, and which were, it seems, of crimson velvet 
and ermine, form part of the catalogue ; but, inde- 
pendent of these, there is a long list of velvets and 
sating, tawny, black, and russet, together with vel- 
vet dress-shoes, French caps, a sword whose ••chape^ 
was silver gilt, &c. &c« 

Somewhat anomalously placed under this head, 
are also to be found the complete equipment of a 
lover of the bow, as a bugle-horn tipped with rilver, 
a green sash, a pair of shooting gloves, and several 
dozens of arrows with differently formed heads ; 
and shortly afterwards we find his lordship pur- 
chasing a falcon for one pound, and obtaining a 
hound from my lord of Westmoreland ; articles 
which sufficiently prove how much attached this 
nobleman was to rural diversions ; for these were 
the only treasures, excepting dress, which he thought 
worthy of being carried from London into the north. 
He did not, however, absolutely forget his countess, 
l^hom he had left at Skipton, though, as Whitaker 


has observed, ^^ she might complain with some rea* 
tioD, that he had been sufficiently profuse in the 
decoraticm of his own person, and very^ economical 
with respect to hers ;^ tor there are but two articles 
df drdss put down for her lady^inp, *^ a white fronte- 
Idl brddered and wrought with gold for my lady, 
91. lOs.'^ and " Velvet to my lady, KsJ^ Lady 
Margaret, however, aj^ieais to have had a taste for 
sometlnng very independent of mere. personal oma- 
m^t, a penchant, 1 suspect, for some peculiar land 
of wine ; for the only other anide which relates to 
Iier runs thn^^ for hying wyne iatny ladiCf 1^ 

A considerable charge^ of course, is incurred for 
fees due to the heralds, in consequence of his lord- 
ship^s accession of title ; and it appears also by an 
item for boat-hire to Durham-place^ that the earl 
was ordered to wait upon the duke of Richmond, 
natural son of Henry the Eightti, who was warden 
of the western marches, and to whom the earl had 
been appointed as deputy. 

It is much to be wished, that whilst his lordship 
was feasting on venison^ and listening" to the min- 
strelsy of Derby-place, for we riead that S*. 4df. 
were paid " to a seirant 6t the abbot of Wdlham 
that brought a buk to my lord,^ and the sjtme sunfi 


^^ to my lord Derbies minstrells^*^ he had permitted 
the catalogue of his ^^ Almonses and Offerands^ to 
have been more, extensive, as the articles under these 
heads amount but to lis. Idi I 

There ar6 two items which more peculiarly relate 
to the eari^s family airangements. The first informs 
us, diat he had to pay half*yearly to lady Clifibrd *, 
widow of his fiather, Henry lord Clifibrd, the shep- 
herd, the sum of seventy-five pounds by way of 
jointure ; the second, that^ during his visit to town^ 
he obtained of the pope^s collector, for the sum of 
112. 13^. 4d., a licence for marriage between John 
Scrope, son and heir-apparent to the lord Scrope, 
and his own daughter, lady Katherine Clifibrd. 

Finally, we learn from this household book of the 
Cliffords, that, deducting the jointure paid to his 
stepmother, the earl expended on this expedition 
the sum of dOiL 19^., no trifling amount for those 


The honours which he received from the friend- 
ship of Henry the Eighth did not terminate with 
this promotion to an earldom; for, about seven 
years afterwards^he was-made a knight of tibe most 

« Now married tp lord Richard Gray. ^ 



noble order of the Garter, and in 1637, through 
the interest of his sovereign, he married his eldest 
son,' Henry Clifford, to the lady Ellenor Brandon, 
daughter of Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, by 
Mary, queen dowager of France, daughter of Henry 
the Seventh. For the accommodation of this high- 
bom lady, whom it was thought necessary to receive 
with all th& honours due to her royal descent, the 
earl, then resident at Skipton, completed, in the 
short period of four or five months previous to her 
nuptials, a very considerable addition to the castle, 
occupying on its eastern side a space of not less than 
one hundred and fifty feet, and including, in a single 
range of building, a long gallery, then deemed a 
requisite ornament to every princely residence, and 
terminated by an octagon tower. When the " main 
part of the castle^' was slighted by ordinance of 
parliament, in December, 1649, in consequence of 
its having been a garrison on both sides during the 
great rebellion, this addition by the first earl of 
Cumberland, being evidently calculated more for 
domestic splendour than defence, was left untouched, 
and is now, with the exception of the upper win- 
dows, which were altered by the countess of Pem- 
broke, nearly in its original state, exhibiting not 


only its carved and panelled wainscot in good pre- 
servation, but a part of its ancient furniture. 

It was, however, but the year preceding this ap- 
pendage of state apartments, that the earl was com- 
pelled to defend the strongest parts of his castle 
against the efforts of a formidable insurrection which 
had broken out in the northern counties, in con- 
sequence of the king's dissolution of the smaller 
monasteries. It was excited and headed by Robert 
Aske, a man of great courage and considerable mili- 
tary skill, and who dignified his undertaking by 
the captivating appeUation of The Pilgrimage of 
Grace. He was powerfully seconded by the zeal 
of the Roman cathohcs, and more particularly by 
the monks, friars, and nuns, who being expelled 
from their houses, and turned loose, as it were, 
upon the world, appealed with such effect to the 
superstitious feelings and compassion of the lower 
orders, that in a very little time not less than forty 
thousand individuals had assembled in support of 
the cause. They bound their adherents by a solemn 
oath, and, after publishing a specious declaration of 
their views, they advanced with arms in their hands, 
and with banners, on which were depicted the five 
wounds of Christ, whilst their priests, marching in 



front, exhibiting their crucifixes, kept alive and in« 
flamed their ardour. In this manner, restoring the: 
monks to their monasteries as they went on, mid 
compelling all whom they met to join them, they 
had the audacity to lay si^e to the castles of Pom^ 
fret, Skiptonj and Scarborough *. Fomfret, wa». 
surrendered to the insurgents by lord d^Arcy and: 
the archbishop of York ; but the earl of Cumbeiv 
land, with a resolution worthy of his ancestors^ sent 
to assure his sovereign^ that although five hundred 
gentlemen, whom he retained at his cost, had al-' 
ready deserted him, he would defend his castle of 
Skipton against them all f . And not only did he 
do this, but through his influence with the canons^ 
of Bolton, he prevented their joining the spreading 
defection of the neighbouring religious houses. 

Wealth and prosperity now set in with a full 
tide on the latter days of this first earl of Cumber- 
land ; for, in 1 538, by the death of Henry earl of 
Northumberland, brother of his second wife, lady 
Margaret Percy, without issue^ the whole Percy 
fee, which had been: settled by the earl of Northum?- 

♦ Vide Burnet, vol. i. p. 220. — Henry, vol. ii. p. 298. 
t Herbert's Life of Henry VIII. p. 483.— Whitakcr, 
p. 340. 


berland about four years before on hb nephew lord 
Henry Clifford, became vested in his, the earl of 
Cumberland's family ; an acquisition which, com- 
prehending all the western part, or nearly one-half 
of Craven, gave to the Cliffords, in conjunction 
with their own fee in the same district, and the 
estates which they shortly afterwards acquired by 
the dissolution of Bolton Abbey, an almost entire 
command over this division of Yorkshire. 

The surrender of Bolton Abbey into the hands 
of the king, which had been contemplated more 
than two years before, took place on January the 
S9th, 1540, Richard Moone, the prior, and fourteen 
canons being then resident ; and on April the 3d, 
154>2, his majesty granted to the earl of Cumber- 
land, as a reward of his loyalty, not only the dis^ 
solved house of Bolton, with its immediate site and 
grounds, but all the estates belonging to its endow- 
ment in Skipton and elsewhere, equalling altogether 
in'value the whole of the Clifibrds' fee. 

As it is probable that Bolton Abbey, like almost 
every other reli^ous house, fell into decay very 
speedily on its dissolution, it being customary to 
unroof immediately, and otherwise destroy, the ha- 
l)itable parts of such foundations ; and as there is 



reason to suppose, when after a desertion of more 
than two years, it became the property of the first 
earl of Cumberland, that it even then exhibited 
much of the picturesque effect of a ruin, it will in 
this place, without doubt, be gratifying to learn 
what are the peculiar beauties of its situation, and 
what is the state of its remmns ; a desideratum which 
cannot better be supplied than in the rich and glow- 
ing language of Dr. Whitaker. 

*' Bolton Priory,'^ says this eloquent topographer, 
** stands upon a beautiful curvature of the Wharf, 
on a level sufficiently elevated to protect it from 
inundations, and low enough for every purpose of 
picturesque effect. In the latter respect, it has no 
equal among the northern houses, perhaps not in 
the kingdom. 

** Opposite to the east window of the Priory 
Church, the river washes the foot of a rock nearly 
perpendicular, and of the richest purple, where 
several of the mineral beds, which break out, in- 
stead of maintaining iheir usual inclination to the 
horizon, are twisted, by some inconceivable pro- 
cess, into undulating and spiral lines. To the south, 
all is soft and delicious ; the eye reposes upon a 
few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river, suf- 


ficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and 
the bounding fells beyond, neither too near nor too 
lofty to exclude, even in winter, any considerable 
portion of his rays. 

'^ But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the 
north. For there, whatever the most fastidious 
taste could require to constitute a perfect landscape 
is not only found, but in its proper place. In 
front, and immediately under the eye, lies a smooth 
expanse of park-like enclosure, spotted with native 
elm,' ash, &c. of the finest growth ; on the right an 
oak wood, with jutting points of grey rock; on the 
left, a rising copse. Still forward, are seen the 
aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of cen- 
turies ; and farther yet, the barren and rocky di- 
stances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell, contrasted 
with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of 
the valley below. 

^* About- half a mile above Bolton the valley 
closes, and either side of the Wharf is overhung 
by solemn woods, from which huge perpendicular 
masses of grey rock jut out at intervals. 

^^ This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible 
till of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides 



of the riveri and the most interesting points laid, 
open by judicious thinnings in the woods. Her^ 
a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and 
bursts through a woody glen to mingle its waters 
with the Wharf: there theWharf itself is nearly lost 
in a deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a 
horned flood, enclosing a woody iedand — sometimes 
it reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native 
character, lively, regular, and impetuous. 

^^ The cleft mentioned above is the ta*emendous 
Strid. This chasm, being incapable of receivti]^ 
the winter floods, has formed, on either side, a broad 
strand of naked grit-stone full of rodsi-basons, or 
^ pots of the Linn,^ which bear witness to the restl^ 
impetuosity of so many northern torrents. But, if 
here the Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays 
another sense by its deep and solemn roar, like ^ the 
voice of the angry spirit of the waters,^ heard far 
above and beneath, amidst die silence of the sur- 
rounding woods. 

<^ The terminating object of the landscape is the 
remains of Barden Tower, interesting. from their 
form and situation, and still more so from the recol- 
lections which they excite. 


" On the whole, this is one of the few and pri- 
vileged spots, where, within the compasi^ of a walk, 
and ahnost of a single glance, the admiring visitant 
may exclaim, with a true painter and poet : 

; Some LaDcastrian baron bold. 

To awe his vassals, or to stem his foes. 
Yon massy bulwark built ; on yonder pile. 
In ruin beauteous, I distinctly mark 
The ruthless traces of stern Henry's hand. 


" Of Bolton Priory, the whole cloister quadrangle 
has been destroyed. In the centre of it is remem- 
bered the stump of a vast yew-tree, such as were 
usually planted in that situation; not merely for 
shade and ornament, but probably with a religious 

" The shell of the church is nearly entire. The 
nave, having been reserved at the dissolution for 
the use of the Saxon cure*, is still a parochial 
chapel -f*. 

• Embsay Kirk, where the priory itself was originally 

f " Here are a silver chalice and cover, which appear to 
have been given by the first* grantee immediately after the 
priory fell into his hands, as the former has, beneath an 
earl's coronet, the arms and quarterings of the family down 
only to his mother, a St. John." 


8% MO&NIKas IN 8PRIK6. 

<' The qevietery at Bolton is on the north side of 
the church ; and, as it has one tomb at least prior 
to the didsolution, I am confirmed in my opinion, 
that, during the existooce of the priory, the pa- 
rishioners of the Saxon cure had the right of burial 
at the Priory Churdi, as they certainly made their 
oblations at the altar. 

" The architecture of the church is of two di- 
stinct styles, llie translation took place in 1154, 
and, from many decisive marks in the stpne-work, 
as well as the necessity of the case, the canons must 
have begun with the choir, which they finished at 
one efibrt, and, most probably, before their removal 
from Embsay. This is proved by the Saxon capi- 
tals, which extend westward to the transept. The 
fine ramified east window, and .the spacious aper- 
tures on the north and south sides of the choir, 
afford no objection to this statement ; as the first 
has evidently been inserted in the place of the three 
round-headed lights which must ori^nally have 
occupied the east end, while the latter are enlarge- 
ments of single lights of the same shi^. Marks 
of insertion are evident in the masonry as well as 
the buttresses, which last have been plainly added to 
the perpendicular Norman proj^tionsin the original 


" The nave exactly resembles the Priory Church 
of Lanercost in Cumberland, belonging to the^ame 
order *, which was finished and consecrated A. D. 
1165. In both a south aile is wanting : the columns 
of each are alternately cylindrical and angular, and 
the hatched ornament of the capitals and windows 
is common to both. — ^What antiqumy, iemd what 
man of taste, can forbear to regret that the tombe 
of the Cliffords do not yet remain at Bolton, like 
those of the Dacc^ at Laneroost, which are scat- 
tered in the most beautiful disorder about the 
ruined choir, while elder, and other funereal plants, 
q>ire up amoi^ coronets and garters f P 

* St. Augustine. 

t <' At the enst end of the north aile of Bolton Priory 
Church/' relates Whitak«r, '' is a ehantry belonging to Beth- 
mesly Hall^ m the parish of Skipton^ and a yault, where, 
according to tradition, tlhe Clq^ms were interred upright." 
— They inherited the hall by the female line from ihe an- 
cient family of the MauliTiercis. ThoBiasine, eoheureas of sir 
Peter Manliverer, temp. £d. ill. married William de la Moore 
of Otterbume, and EUstabeth, tlw only daughter and heiress 
of this match, marryii^ Thomas Glaphsm, bnooght the 
manor of Betbmealy into ^at £nnily. 

'' The oldest con of tfaiafnatch/' resumes Wbiitaker, ^' was 
John Clapham, a ^ iimoua, esquire' in the wars between the 



^^ The original west front of Bolton, though un- 
hapfnly darkened, is extremely rich. It is broken 
into a great variety of surfaces, by small pointed 
arches, with single shaft columns, and originally 
gave light to the west end of the church by three 
tall and graceful lancet windows. 

". Over the transept was^ a tower .-^The want of 
this feature^ at present is the only defect of Bolton 
as an object. But instead of this appears a very 

houses of York and Lancaster^ who is said to bare beheaded, 
wi(h bis own bands, the earl of Pembroke, in the cburcb 
porcb of Banbury." Craven, pp. 365, 366. 

To this instance of savage ferocity, and to the singubir 
mode of interment of the Clapbam fiqnOy, Wordsworth thus 
refers in his beautiful poem of the IHiiie Doe ofRylstone : 

Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door. 

And, through the chink in the fractured floor 

Look down, and see a griesly sight ; 

A vault where the bodies are buried upright ! 

There face by face, and hand by hand. 

The Claphams and Mauleverers stand ; 

And, in his place, among son and sire. 

Is John de Clapbam, that fierce esquire, — 
'■■ A valiant man, uid a name. of dread, 
. In the ruthless wars of the white and red,-— 

Who dragged earl Pembroke from Banbury church. 

And smote off bis head on the stones of the porch ! 

Works, vol, iii. p. 20. 


angular and misplaced work at the west end — I 
mean the base of another tower of exquidte work- 
manship, — ^begun by the last prior, which partly 
hides, and partly darkens, the beautiful west front 
of the church. To compensate, however, for this 
injury, it is built of the finest masonry, and adorned 
with shields, statues, and one window of exqui-' 
site tracery. Amongst other ornaments on this 
part of the work is the statue of a pilgrim, with a 
staff in one hand and a broad flat round hat in the 
other, facing the south; and on the west, two sit- 
ting figures of dogs, resembling stout greyhounds, 
by which it may be doubted whether prior Moone 
did not mean to commemorate his uncanonical ofiice 
of master forester to his patron. 

*^ The design of this front shows great taste and 
originality of invention. The tabernacles, in par- 
ticular, instead of terminating according to the style 
of the age, in an oblong pointed arch, expand above 
the springers into diminutive castles of two towers 
each, with battlements and embrasures, carved with' 
all the delicacy of statuary in mezzo relievo. — 

" The roof of the nave appears to have been re- 
laid by prior Moone, about the time when he began 
the new tower. It is of flat oak-work, covered with 


lead ; and has been painted, like most of the roofs 
in Craven about that time, with broad lines of 
minium. The springers of the beams are adorned 
with rude figures of angels. On the south side is a 
triibrium running the whole lengtll of the tanve. 

^^ Bolton was the burial-place of such of the 
Cliffords as died in Yorkidure. It is ^fficult to 
say what became of tbei^ remains at the cKssokition. 
The earl of Cumberland would certianly be able to 
protect them from exposure and ihsull. Yet the 
vault at Bolton was empty when ejcplored about 
thirty years ago ; and they were certainly not re- 
moved into that at Skipton. On the whole, I am 
inclined to believe that the vault was left closed at 
the dissolution ; but that in the progress of sub- 
sequent decay, part of the arch may have fallen in, 
which would leave the lead a prey to sacrilegious 
hands, in consequence of which the bodies so ex- 
posed would gradually disappear. 

" The entire outline of the close at Bolton cannot 
now be traced ; but it certainly extended from the 
great gateway north and south, and touched upon 
the Wharf behind the churchyard at one point, and 
neat Prior^s Pool at another. Part of the wall, 
however, by the way-i^e, yet remains strong and 



well-constructed of ashler. WHbin ttils inelosure, 
as usual, were all the apartmeiits and oflBces of the 

*' The cloister-court, ccmtaaning the chapter- 
house, refectory, kitchen, dormitory, &e. with the 
exception of a few fragmeifts, is destroyed. The 
ehapter-house was an octagon, and perhaps the only 
specimen of a chapter-house of that form which was 
not placed northward from the ehoir. All these 
apartments aj^ar to have been coeval with the 
translation of the house, and to have been vaulted 
and groined with excellent maMnry, of which some 
of the grotesque carved key-Stones remain. To the 
south-east, but connected with these, stocxi the 
prior'^s lodgings, of which the otrtline is distinctly 
traceable by the foundatk)ns. On the ^^ of the 
kitchens stands the sthoolmastcf^s hous^ a fouiidar 
tion of the incomparable Robert Boylef. The pre- 
sent schocd was one of the offices of the priory, as 
old as the foundation. 

<^ At a small distance from this stands a most 
picturesque timber-building, in which tradition re^ 
ports that the last pi4or eiiiied his days. In the 
parlour has been a long oblique perforation through 
the wall, turhed to>Vards the kitchens, through 


which the inhabitants, whoever they were, might 
receive their commons. 

*^ All the modem additions in the inside of this 
building having lately been removed, an entire hall 
appeared in the centre open to the roof, and in the 
middle 'was the base of an ancient reredoss, re- 
sembling a millstone much smoked and burnt. Here 
the fire had evidently been kindled, and the smoke 
had found its way out at some aperture in the roof. 
Some chimneys had been added to the building at 
some later period. On the whole, from the situa- 
tion of this building near the gateway, and still 
nearer to the kitchens of the house, I am inclined 
to believe that it was the Aula Hospitum ! 

^^ Near this, and unconnected with any building, 
was the priory oven ; of such extent that the tenant 
of the demesne, missing sixty sheep, after some 
research found them sheltered under that ample 
arch. It was, in fact, an hemisphere eighteen feet 
in diameter. 

" In the general wreck of the oilipes at Bolton, 
the gateway alone escaped. Probably the earl of 
Cumberland thought it might be of use as a tem- 
porary retreat for himself, or a residence for his 
bailiffs. Here, too, the records of the priory were 


kept ; and in the same repository many of the evi-> 
dences of the Cliffords have been discovered. It is 
a strong square castellated building, of late gothic 
architecture, of which the outer and inner arch 
having been walled up, a handsome groined and 
vaulted apartment has been obtained within *.^ 

The earl of Cumberlakid survived this large ac- 
quisition of property but a very short time, being 
prematurely cut off at the age of forty-nine, on 
April S2d, 154S, only nineteen days after the grant 
of the estates and priory of Bolton. In his will 
occur two particulars which, as well from their 
juxta-piosition as from their own import, are worthy 
of notice, exhibiting not only a provident regard 
for his own spiritual welfare, but a laudable anxiety 
for the corporeal comfort and safety of those whom 
he had left behind. ^^ I will that c markes be 
bestowed on the highways in Craven, and c m''kes 
w^in Westmoreland. I^*» I will that evVy curate 
^thin Westmoreland and the deanery of Craven, 
and elsewhere wher I have any land in England, 
doe cause a masse of requiem and dirige to be songe 
or saide for my soul \s^Avl every y*" p'^ish church, 

♦ Whitoker's Craven, pp. 417, 418, 419, 420, 421, 423. 


and they to have for doing therof vi#. viiid. or soe 
much therof as my ex^ors shall think fitt, the re- 
maynder to be giten to the poore •.** 

His lordship, in consequence of the dissolution 
of Bolton Priory, and theaknost immediate desecra- 
tion of its choir, was not carried to the ancient vatuk 
of the Cliffords in that edifice, but buried in a vault 
beneath the altar of the church at Skipton, the future 
place of interment for the greater part of his family. 
Into this vault, after having been closed for maaiy 
years. Dr. Whitaker was permitted to enter in 
March 1803.. He found the lead coiBn of this 
first earl much corroded, and exhibiting the skeleton 
of a short and very stout man, with a long head of 
flaxen hair gathered in a knot behind the skuU. 
The coffin had been closely fitted to the body, an'cJ 
proved him to have been very corpulent as well 
as muscular. Next lay the remains of Margaret 
Percy, his second countess, whose coffin was stilt 
entire, and who appeared to have been a slender 
and diminutive woman -f*. 

To this nobleman, so singularly fortunate in the 
acquisition of titles and estates, succeeded his eldest 

* Whitaker's Craven, p. 262. 
t Ibid, p. 555. 


8cm *y HxKftY LORD Clifford, sbcovd barl of 


NOuR OF Skipton, c^ whom it may be said, that 
be iidierited the diepositioii and the virtues of his 
grandfirther, the shepherd lord ; happier, however, 
than his aneestor in biving £Edlen upon more peace- 
able and settled times. 

Owing to the influence of the father with Henry 
YIII., honours flowed upon the head of the son at 

* The younger sir Ingelram Clifford lies buried in the 
church of Cowthorp^ in Yorkshire^ with the following Tery 
quaint inscription on his totnb : 

Since growsome grave of force must have 

Sir Ingram Clifibrd^ knight ; 
And age by kind were out of mind 

Each worthy liying wight; 
And since man must return to dust 

By course of his creation. 
As doctors sage in every age. 

To us have made rektion : 

You Gentiles all, nq more let fall 

Your tears from blubbered eye. 
But praye the Lord, with one accord. 

That rules above the skye : 
For Christ hath wrought, and dearly bought, 

The price of his redemption ; 
And therefore we, no doubt, shall see 

His joyful resurrection. 


a very early age; for when but sixteen he was 
made a knight of the bath, and at twenty, as we 
have ahready seen, he married lady Eleanor Bran- 
don, the lunge's niece, a marriage which, I have now 
to add, was graced by Henry himself in person. 

There is much reason to suspect, however, that 
in a domestic point of view, this high-bom con- 
nexion was not altogether suited to the ideas and 
inclinations of the earl, though in the very flush 
and prime of youth. We know, at least, that it 
involved him so deeply in the dissipation and ex- 
penses of a court life, that he was compelled to 
alienate one of the oldest of his family estates ; and 
that when in his thirty-first year he was deprived of 
lady Eleanor by death, even then, in the vigour of 
his days, he withdrew to a life of almost unbroken 
retirement and study, and one too in which, pur- 
suing a system of laudable economy, he retrieved 
not .only what he had previously squandered, but 
added much to the landed property of the family, 
purchasing of the Greshams, about the commence- 
ment of the reign of Elizabeth, the large estates of 
Fountain''s Abbey in Litton and Longstrothdale, 
by which, in addition to the superiorities and forest 
rights he already held in the district, he became 


possessed, witli the exception of a few trifling free- 
holds, of the whole of the extensive parish of Am- 
clifle in Craven, a tract of not less than fifty square 
miles in extent *. 

Yet prudential as were the latter habits of this 
second earl, and secluded as to the world of gaiety 
and fashion, he was, nevertheless, singularly hos- 
pitable, charitable, and kind in his own immediate 
neighbourhood, and consequently highly valued by, 
and endeared to, his dependants and friends; of 
which a most striking instance occurred during 
the period which elapsed between the death of his 
first wife and his marriage with a second, an in- 
terval of about five years. 

He had been long suffering from a disease which, 
withput materially injuring the structure of any 
vital organ, had yet reduced him to such an ex- 
treme- degree of weakness, that, whilst lying in a 
state of more than usually protracted syncope, his 
physicians had pronounced him dead. He was ac« 
cordingly stripped and laid out, and was about to 
be covered with a herse-cloth of black velvet, when 

* Vide Hist, of Craven, p. 505. 


fortunateljhis attendants, who had loved him whilst 
living and nowde^ly lamented his supposed death, 
thought they perceived in him some faint symptoms 
of returning animation. He was instantly carried 
back to his bed, and by the assiduous application 
of warm cloths externally, and a cautious admi- 
nistration of cordials, he gradually recovered. It 
was still necessary, however, to pay him the utmost 
attenti<m, and for more than a month he was sup- 
ported by milk sucked from a woman's Inreasts, and 
by which alone he was restored to perfect health 
and strenc:th. - 

** To compare great things with small," observes 
Dr. Whittaker in a note, '< there is somethmg in 
this scene which reiriinds me of the apparent death 
and sudden revival of Tib^ius, as related by Taci- 
tus, ' xvii. cal. Apr. interclus& anim& creditus est 
mortalitatem explevisse. £t multo gratantumcon- 
cursu ad capienda imperii primordia C. Caesar 
egrediebatur : cum repentead fertur redire Tiberio . 
vocem ac visus, vocarique qui recreandse d^ectioni 
cibum adferreut. — Anal. vi. sub fin.** But there 
was a striking difference between the situation of a 
virtuous and beloved nobleman in the arms of faith- 


ful attendants, and a detested tyrant, surrounded 
by assassins. Accordingly the one was restored and 
the other suffocated *.'* 

In his second matnmonial connexion, whidi 
took place in 15S2, this nobleman was peculiarly 
fortunate, having in the person of Anne, dau^ter 
of William Lord Dacre, fixed upon a lady whose 
retired and domestic habits were perfectly con- 
genial with his own. She had in fact never visited, 
nor perhaps wished to visit, London in her life, nor 
was her lord, during the eighteen years they Uved 
together, himself more than thrice at court ; twice 
on the accession of the queens, Mary and Eliza- 
beth, and once on the marriage of his daught^ by 
his first wife to the earl of Derby. 

It appears, indeed, from the representation of the 
countess of Pembroke, that he was, like his grand- 
father, especially during the latter part of his life, 
deeply absorbed in the study and practice of che- 
mistry, and that he was fond also of applying this 
knowledge to the extraction and composition of 
medicines. She adds that ^^ he had an excellent 
library both of writtenhand books and printed books,, 
to which he was exceedingly addicted fJ" 

• Whitaker's Craven, p. t64. 

t Censura Literaria^ vol. vi. p. 406. from Harl. MSS. S17T. 


The ear], however, was destined to witness, in 
the closing year of his life, the tumults of rebellion, 
though fortunately but of transient duration ; for in 
the great northern insurrection headed by the potent 
earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, and 
which broke out in the ISth year of Elizabeth, 
1569, he was called upon to assist lord Scroop in 
fortifying Carlisle against the insurgents. 

It was from his share in this insurrection that 
Richard Norton, esq. of Rilston in Craven ^, a 
vassal of the lords of Skipton, but who had long 
set their authority at defiance, suffered, together 
with his eight sons, the extreme penalty of the law 
for treason ; an event which is thus recorded in an 
old ballad preserved in Percy^s Reliques, and en- 
titled " The Rising in the North.*** 

Thee^ Norton^ wi' thine eight good sonnes^ 
They doom'd to dye, alas ! for ruth ! 

Thy reverend lockes thee could not sare. 
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe. 

The Nortons had for more than forty years con- 

• It appears from the Townley MS. G. 16, that seventy- 
five ringleaders in this rebellion were indicted, and amongst 
them six of the Nortons are enumerated— Hist, of Craven, 
p. 447. 


tested the right of the Cliffords, though their su- 
perior lords, to hunt within the township of Bilston, 
under the plea that it was not included within the 
forest of Skipton ; and being lords of Rilston and 
their lands, consisting of more than one thousand 
acres, and situated in the very centre of the barony 
of Skipton, they had it in their power greatly to 
annoy the first and second earl of Cumberland, by 
disputing^ their boundaries, and impounding their 
deer. The Nortons also were rigid catholics, 
whilst the Cliffords were friendly to the Reforma- 
tion, and to the government as then established ; a 
difference which tended strongly to widen the breach 
between them« 

To such a length, indeed, had the animosity of 
Richard Norton arisen, that he built on his lord- 
ship of Rilston near Crookrise, on a point of ground 
commanding a most extensive prospect, and over- 
looking an immense pound for deer in the glen 
beneath, a strong square watch-tower, three stories 
high, with walls four feet thick, and protected by 
two deep ravines, the ruins of which, exhibiting 
breaches on every side which had been forcibly 
made by the opposite party, still remain to attest 



the vexatious warfare which fonnerly subsisted be* 
tween the two families. 

A few years after the ruin of the Nortons, and 
the attainder of their property, which ultimately 
fell into the hands of the Clifibrds, a circumstance 
is said to have occurred which throws an air of wild 
and tender romance over the fate of the lords of 

At this time a white doe, say the aged people 
of the neighbourhood, long continued to make 
a weekly pilgrimage from Rilston over the fells 
to Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey 
church-yard during divine service ; after the close 
of which she returned home as regularly as the rest 
of the oongr^ation. 

*' This incident,'* observes Dr. Whitako*^ 
*^ awakens the fancy. Shall we say that the soul of 
one of the Nortons had taken up its abode in that 
animal, and was condemned to do penance for his 
transgressions against ^ the lord'^s dere' among their 
ashes ? But for such a spirit the wild stag would 
have been a fitter vehicle. Was it not then some 
fair and injured female, whose name and history 
are forgotten P Had the milk-white doe performed 


her mysteriouB pilgrimage from Etterick forest to 
the predncts of Dryburgh or Melrose, the elegant 
and ingenious editor of the Border Minstrelsy 
would ha?e wrought it into a beautiful story *.■** 

It is scarcely neoessikry to add, Alrtl tUs hm he€n 
since done, and beautifully done, with all that palhos, 
mmp&Aijy and etithusia^c f4ervoar of descrij^Cion, 
for which his poetryhas been so jtistly distinguished^ 
by t¥iOiam Wordewoirih, iof his legend entitled 
The W%iie Doe (^ Rf^sUme. 

Henry, seomd earl of Cumberkad, did not long 
(^rriTe the fait i^ the Nortons. He had been ii^ 
there \& reasoii* to ^srup^oite, neia*ly a twelvdnlontli 
previous to his -deaths £^r'the preamble to his last 
win, dated May 8th, 1568) tuno tiiust ^ H<inry 
earl of CHimberlai^, theiA Hot hedthfial of bddy^r, 
gives his soul to Almighty God and adt ladlli fii 
Marie and all the heavenlie companye, and his body 
to be buried on the north side of the church of 
Skipton, in one plaee ther prepared for the same ;^ 
and on the 8th of the following January he ex- 
pired at Brougham castle. 

On the opening of the vault of the Cliffords at 

* Whitaker's Craven, pp. 449, 450. 



Skipton in 1808, it was found that the bodies had 
been deposited in chronological order, the third 
in the series being ^^ the lady Ellenor'^s grace, 
whose coffin was much decayed, and exhibited the 
skeleton (as might be expected in a daughter of 
Charles Brandon and the sister of Henry the 
Eighth) of a tall and large limbed female. At 
her right hand was Henry, the second earl, a very 
tall and slender man, whose thin envelope of lead 
really resembled a winding-sheet, and folded, like 
coarse drapery, over the limbs. The head was 
beaten to the left side ; something of the shape of 
the face might be distinguished, and a long pro- 
minent nose was very conspicuous *.'' 

Anne, the amiable second wife of the earl, sur*- 
vived him more than ten years, dying at Skipton 
Castle m 1581. 

Whitaker's Craven^ pp. S&6, 356. 
{To be continued.} 

No. XVI. 

A life of action and adventure ! 
" Now" to the wars to try his fortune there, 
" Now" to discover islands far away^ 
^' And now" to tilts and tournaments ! 


By his wife Anne, daughter of lord Dacre, 
Henry, second earl of Cumberland, had three chil- 
dren; two sons, George and Francis, and one 
daughter, Jane ; and of these George Lord Clif- 
ford, who was bom at Brougham Castle in West- 
moreland, on the 8th of August, 1658, succeeded 
his father as third earl of Cumberland, and 


at the early age of eleven years and five months. 

Having been betrothed by his father, when but 
seven years old, to a daughter of the earl of Bed- 
ford, this nobleman, anxious that the connexion 
should take place, petitioned and obtained from 
queen Elizabeth, only iSve days previous to the 
death of the earl of Cumberland, the wardship of 
his promised son-in-law. 


The young earl was educated at Peterhouse, 
Cambridge, under the tutorage of the famous John 
Whitgift, afterwards primate of England^ and soon 
exhibited a more than common attachment to the 
study of the mathematics. To his proficiency, in- 
deed, in this pursuit, w^ may attribi;}t& that fond- 
ness for navigation and nautical sdenee and ad- 
venture on which his subsequent celebrity was 

. On the 84th of June^ )£77, he married the lady 
to whoiA he had heeit affianced in Im childhood, 
the lady Margaret Russel, third daughter aai 
yomige$t ^ildof Francis seeood emtl of Bedford; 
a eomiexion whi«b» having been pixj^eetcd froni 
BMilivea of nn&e family conveoienee, and afterwards 
carried into effect without in any degree coasnltii^ 
theindinatiooft of the pai^es imnoediately concerned, 
was^ like hiosI burgainft of tl^ kind, productive of 
Mttle dae than, mutual indifference and disaj^xsnt- 

It was probably owing to thi» wani of domestie 
comfort, comjbined with his taste for maritime enter- 
prise, that induced him to commence that series of 
voyages which has giv^a immortality to his name. 
It was a taste also, which if not abscdutely, with 


regard to himself, generated, was, at least, fostered 
and inflamed by the spirit of the times; for the 
Spaniards were at this period fitting put that Armada 
which they fondly flattered themselves was destined 
for the conquest of England, and it became of 
course the policy of Elizabeth and her ministers to 
encourage every d9(H*t which might diminish the 
resources and impede the preparations of the enemy« 

There wi^ unfortunately, in the estimati(»i of the 
earl of Cumberland, another powerful motive for 
these daring expeditions ; for being in the habit of 
seeking all his gratifications from home, and in the 
eye of the public, he was almost necessarily led into 
habits of profusion and extravagance, and, as a 
usual result, into great pecuniary embarrassments, 
from which he trusted to be liberated by the pre- 
datory warfare he was about to commence against 

Thus instigated, at the age of twenty-eight, and 
in the year 1586, he equipped at his own expense 
a small fleet of three ships and a pinnace, with 
orders to cruise against and plunder the Spanish 
settlements in the South Sea. 'That he did not 
himself take the command of this first expedition 
may be attributed to the seductions of the court 


of Elizabeth ; for being a man of great personal 
accomplishments, and without a rival in all the 
chivalric exercises of the joust and tournament, he 
had attracted the notice and the admiration of the 
queen ; a triumph which was not hastily to be re- 
linquished, and which in the eye of a young man 
devoted to the romantic gallantry of the age ap- 
peared to be the summit of glory. 

He was, however, soon called to another and 
more serious field of action ; for in 1588 he was 
one of the first among the brave who flew to oppose 
the Sp^ish Armada, then advancing to invade 
England. He commanded on that memorable oc- 
casion the Elizabeth Bonaventure, and, it is said, 
greatly distinguished himself, especially in the last 
engagement with the Spaniards near Calais. 

Having been disappointed in the issue of the first 
voyage which he had projected, and which had 
failed in reaching according, to his directions, the 
South Sea, he determined on conducting a second 
himself; and the queen, grateful for his services, 
furnished him with a ship from the royal navy. 
He set sail in October, 1588, but this voyage proved 
much more disastrous than the former ; for he was 
in a very early stage of it disabled and driven back 


by a violent storm, and prevented reaching the 
Spanish coasts. Yet not discouraged, he under- 
took a third expedition the year following, still 
patronised by her majesty, who gave him the Vic- 
tory for his flag-ship, in addition to three vessels of 
his own. In this attempt he succeeded not only in 
enriching himself and his crews by many captures, 
but in greatly interrupting the intercourse of Spain 
with her colonies, and in taking the strong town of 
Fiall in the Azores. He had, however, after having 
been severely wounded in one of his actions with 
the Spaniards, very nearly suffered death from 
thirst in sight of his native coast, which, owing to 
violent storms and contrary winds, he vainly en- 
deavoured to reach. Of the great extremity to 
which he was reduced on this occasion by the want 
of fresh water, a melancholy and very interesting 
picture has been drawn by one of the sufferers, Ed- 
ward Wright, and who had accompanied the ex- 
pedition as a mathematician, of very superior skill. 
" Soon after,^ he relates, " the wind came about 
to the eastward, so that we coidd not fetch any 
part of England. And hereupon also our allow- 
ance of drink, which was scant enough before, was 
yet more scanted, because of the scarcity thereof in 


the ship. So that now a man was allowed but half 
a post at a meal, and that many times ocdd water, 
and scarce sweet. Notwithstanding, this was an 
happy estate in comparison of that which followed : 
tor from half a pint we came to a quarter, and that 
lasted not long neither; so that by reason of this 
great scarcity of drink, and contrariety of wind^ we 
thought to put into Ireland, there to relieve our 
wants. But when we came near thither, we were 
driven so far to lee-ward, that we could fetch no 
part of Ireland. In the meantime we were allowed 
every aoan three or four spoons full of vinegar to 
drink at a meal: for other drink we had none, 
saving only at two or three meals, when we had 
instead hereof as much wine, which was wringed 
out of wine-lees that remained. With this hard 
fare (for by reason of our great want of drink we 
dutBt eat but very little), we continued for the 
space of a fortnight or thereabouts : saving that 
now and then we feasted for it in the meantime; 
and that was when there fell any hail or rain : the 
hail-stones we gathered up and did eat them more 
pleasantly than if they had been the sweetest comfits 
in the world. The rain drops were so carefully 
saved, that so near as we could, not one was lost in 


allourfltiip. Some banged up sheets tied with oords 
by the four comers, and a weight in the midst^ that 
the water might run down tbitfaer, and so be received 
into some vessel set or hanged nndemeath : some 
that wanted sheets hanged up napkins and douts, 
and watched them till they were tbocoagfa wet, then 
wringing and sucking out the water. And that 
water which fell down and washed away the filth 
and soiling of the ship, trod under foo^ as bad as 
running down the kennd many times when it run- 
etfa, was not lost, but watched and attended care* 
fully, yea sometimes with strife and contention, at 
every scupper-hole, and other place where it ran 
down, with dishes, pots, cans, and jars, whereof 
some drank hearty draughts even as it was, mud 
and all, without tarrying to deanse or settle it: 
others cleansed it first, but not often, for it was so 
thidc, and went so i^lowly through, that they might 
ill aidure to tarry so long, and were loath to lose too 
nrach of such precious stuff: some licked with their 


tongues, like dogs, the boards imder feet, the sides^ 
rails, and masts of the ship : others that were more 
ingenious fastened girdles or ropes about the masts, 
daubing tallow betwixt them and the mast, that 
the rain might not run down between ; in such sort, 
that these rqpes or girdles hanging k)wer on the 


one side than on the other, a spout of leather was 
fastened to the lowest part of them, that all the 
rain-drops that came running down the mast might 
meet together at that place, and there be received. 
—Some also put bullets of lead into their mouths 
to slake their thirst. Now in every comer of the 
ship were heard the lamentable cries of sick and 
wounded men sounding woefully in our ears, cry- 
ing out and pitifully complaining for want of 
drink, being ready to die, yea many dying for lack 
thereof, so as by reason of this great extremity we 
lost many more men than we had done all the voyage 

At length, however, they reached Bantry Bay 
on the 2d of December, 1589, and Falmouth, after 
a tedious passage of nine days from Ireland, on 
the 29th of the same month. 

The queen received our enterprising navigator 
with peculiar distinction and encouragement ; and 
at an audience which she gave him very shortly 
afterwards, and whilst he was close to her person, 
she, intentionally no doubt, dropped her glove, 
which on the earl presenting to her, he was most 
graciously desired to retain as an especial proof of 

• Hackluyt^ vol 11. part 2, pp. 163, 164. 


her fevour. This was a mark of distinction which 
called forth all the romantic enthusiasm of his lord-" 
ship, and, encircling the glove with diamonds, he 
ever after, on days of tilt and tournament, wore it 
in the front of his high-crowned hat ; and in one 
of his pictures, and in the beautiful engraving from 
it by Robert White, this proud trophy makes a 
conspicuous figure. 

So acknowledged, indeed, was his superiority in 
the listed fields of combat, that when, in 1590, on 
the anniversary of her majesty'^s accession, the gal- 
lant old knight, sir Henry Leigh^ formally resigned 
his office of queen's champion, on account of his 
advancing years, the earl of Cumberland was im- 
mediately appointed his successor; and the investi- 
ture took place on the spot, with the following 
curious ceremonial. 

As soon as the tournament was over, sir Henry 
and the earl, who had been engaged in its perform- 
ance, advanced to the part of the gallery where the 
queen, encircled by her nobility and the beauties 
of her court, had placed herself to view the tilters. 
Music, soft and slow, stole upon the air as they 
approached, whilst a voice full of sweetness, but 


whose source was onperodved, sung to its notes 
these pleasing words : 

My golden locks tune hadi to silyer turn'd, 
(Oh time too vMt, and swiftneas never oesang) 
My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath q^orn'd ; 
But spurned in yain, youth waneth by increasing ; 
Beauty, strength^ and youths flowers fading been. 
Duty, fedth, and love, are roots and evergreen. 

My helmet now shall make a hive for bees. 
And lover's songs shall turn to holy psalms; 
A man at arms must now sit on his knees. 
And feed on pray'rs that axe old age's alms. 
And so from court to cottage I depart : 
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart. 

And when I sadly sit in homely cell, 
1 11 teach my swains this carrol for a song : 
'^ Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, ' 
Cvirs'd be the souls that think to do her wrong.'* 
> Groddess, vouchsafe this aged man liis right. 
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight. 

Whilst this was going foarward, a white paTilion, 
supported apparently on pillars of jparfhyrjy and 
resembling the temple of the vestal virgins, was 
seen to arise out of the earth, exhibiting in its centre 
an altar of beautiful workmanship, on which were 
deposited several splendid presents for the queen. 




At the portal of this edifice, on a pillar crowned 
and ^icircled with an eglantine, hung a votive 
tablet inscribed to Elizabeth. This, together with 
the gifts, were then off'a*ed to her majesty, and sir 
Henry, having disarmed himself, and placed his 
armour at the foot of the pillar, knelt before the 
queen, beseeching her to accept the earl of Cum* 
barland, whom he then presented, as her future 
knight and champion. 

To this prayer a very gracious assent was in- 
stantly given, and the interesting veteran having 
armed his successor, and assisted him to mount his 
horse, exchanged, though not without a sigh, his 
corslet for a velvet gown, and his helmet for a but- 
toned cap. 

The gorgeous armour which on this and every 
subsequent occasion of the kind the earl of Cum- 
berland was accustomed to wear, still remains at 
Appleby Castle : it is richly decorated with roses, 
and fleur de lis ; and the weight of the helmet is 
such as to be almost insupportable to mod^n shoul- 
ders, — a pretty decisive proof of the strength and 
agility of its former possessor. 

It was not, however, exclusively to chivalric 
pageantry and splendour that the earl devoted his 


time ; for the year following this inauguration, un- 
daunted by di£9culty and danger, he resumed his 
naval expeditions with all his wonted enthusiasm, 
and undertook a fourth voyage to tjie coast of 
Spain with five ships fitted out at his own charge, 
<« his return frc»n which he was created by his 
royal mistress a knight of the garter. 

From this period to the close of the year 1598, 
when he returned from his last and deventh voyage, 
did he unremittingly persevere in his attacks upon 
the Spanish settlements, and this too in spite of re- 
peated disaster and disappointment Nine of these 
expeditions he conducted in person, and hesitated 
at no expense in rendering them complete in their 
equipment ; for, in his eighth voyage, conceiving 
that his force had been previously too weak, he 
built at Deptford a vessel of his own, of not less 
than nine hundred tons, the best and largest ship 
that till then had ever been set afloat by an English 
subject, and which the queen, whose pcdicy it was 
to entourage all such private efibrts, honoured by 
her presence at the launching, and named The 
Scourge of Malice, 

Whatever might be the benefit accruing to his 
queen and country from these expeditions, and even 


of this the estimate cannot be great, to himself they 
vera productive of nothing but anxiety and distress* 
They were undertaken, indeed, too much in the 
spirit of gambling, and they had, unfortunately, a 
corresponding issue; for though captures, to an im- 
mense amount, occasionally rewarded his exertions, 
the sudden wealth which poured in upon him served 
but to feed his prodigality, which was so thought- 
less and profuse, that though he commenced life 
with a larger property than any of his ancestors 
had done, and possessed numerous means of aug- 
menting it, he had, in little more than twenty 
years, not only dissipated his casual acquisitions, 
but the greater part of his unentailed patrimony. 

It was thus that the great talents of this active 
and enterprising nobleman, his accomplishments as 
a courtier, his skill as a navigator, and his intre- 
pidity as a conmiander, were rendered fruitless to 
himself for want of the controlling and prudential 
virtues of temperance and economy. 

Discontent and disappointment, therefore, tracked 
his footsteps even in public life ; for Elizabeth, who 
was an excellent judge of character, though she 
admired the courtesy, the brilliant bearing, and 
chivalric prowess of the earl of Cumberland, had 

VOL. II. I • 



little opiiiion of bim in a dvil or l^idative capa- 
city ; and there is reason to conclude, from a letter 
and a speech of the earl's, preserved by Dr. WhitSr 
ker in his Craven, that she had refused him, what 
he had earnestly solicited, the government of the 
Isle of Wight. In the latter of these documents, 
which is dated November 17, 1600, and appears to 
have been addressed to the queen at one of her 
romantic pageants, under the character of a discon- 
solate and forgotten knight, he tells her majesty, 
whom he describes, though in her sixty-eighth year, 
as ^ the &irest of all ladies, Cinthia^s brightness, 
whose beames wrappes up cloudes as whirlewindes 
dust ;'^ that <^ he hath made ladders for others to 
dymbe, and his own feet nayled to the ^x)und 
not tz> stirr ;^ that ^< he is lyke to him that built 
the ancker to save others, and themselveis to be- 
drowned ;^ and^ in allusion to his improvident ex- 
penditure in fitting out ships, that ^^ he had throwne 
his land into the sea, and the sea had cast him: on 
the land for a wanderer.^ He was, however, in the 
foUomng year employed by her majesty on a mili- 
tary duty of conedderable importance to her, bemg 
one of the lords who were sent with forces to re- 
duce the earl of Essex to submission. 


it may justly be said that the part which Greoi^, 
earl of Cumberland, performed in publie, was 
splendid and imposing ; but, if we follow hhn into 
the recesses of priviite life, mto the bosom of his 
family, we shall find a sad rererse of the picture. 
As a hudband, he was indifferent and unfaithful ; 
as a parent, thoughtless and improvident. Lady 
Margaret, by whom he had two sons who died 
young, and a daughter (afterwards the celebrated 
countess of Pembroke), was a woman of exemplary 
virtue, with more than common mental endowments, 
and with a most amiable disposition ; and had she 
met with any the slightest return of confidence and 
affection on the part of her lord, would have ren- 
dered his home the seat of as much happiness as is 
compatible with the lot of humamty. 

There is still existing in the castle at Skipton, 
though in a very decayed state, a large picture of 
the earl and his family in the form of a screen, 
divided into three compartments^ and exhibiting a 
curious combination of family history and pc^trait 
painting on the same canvas ; for of each personage 
there is a pretty copious bic^raphical sketch drawn 
up by the countess of Pembroke, assisted, it is said^ 
by sir Matthew Hale. 



Jo the central oompartment appears a full length of 
the early in a suit of armour decorated with stars 
of gold, but the greater part of it concealed by a 
vest which fallsdown to his knees. His helmet, orna- 
mented in a similar way, is placed on his left, whilst, 
on his right, stands the countess in a purple robe 
and white petticoat, embroidered with gold. She it 
represented pointing to two beautiful children, her 
sons Francis and Robert, who both died soon after, 
at the age of five years and eight months, and whilst 
their father was at sea, as if in the act of appealing 
to his domestic feelings in their behalf, and with 
the view of inducing him to relinquish, for the sake 
of his poor boys, the distant and dangerous enter- 
prises in which he was so eager to engage. ^^ How 
must he have been affected,^ remarks Mr. Pennant, 
<^ by his refusal, when he found that he had lost 
both on his return from two expeditions, if the 
heart of a hero does not too often divest itself of 
the tender sensations * !" 

That the appeal in this and every other instance 
was without success, there is but too much reason 
to believe, from the letters of his injured lady which 

* Pennant's Tour in Scotland, Part ii. p. S66. • 


«re yet extant. In these, which are written with 
great simplicity, and in a very affecting manner, 
she laments not only the coolness of her lord, with 
r^rd to herself, but bitterly complains of his 
neglecting their only daughter, Anne Clifford. 

In fact, the affections of the earl for his lady, 
originally but too lukewarm, had been completely 
alienated by the indulgence of his own irregular 
and criminal passions; and in consequence of an 
intrigue with a lady of quality at court, he separated 
himself entirely from the countess, alleging as his 
reason for so doing, the incompatibility of their 
tempers. She was recompensed, however, by the 
peculiarly tender and enduring attachment of her 

The last honour which awaited the earl of Cum- 
berland was shortly after the accession of James 
the First, who made him one of his counsellors of 
state. His constitution, though originally vigorous, 
had suffered much from fatigue, wounds, and 
disease, during his many voyages ; and a return of 
dysentery, with which he had been afflicted in his 
last expedition at Porto-Rico, where he lost six 
hundred men by its attack, put an end to his life, 
at the duchy-house in the Savoy, London, on the 



80th of October, 1805, at the age of but forty- 

Happily a reoonciliation had been effected be- 
tween himself and his countess a short time previous 
to his illness ; and we are told by his daughter, who 
with her mother was present in his last moments, 
that he ccmducted himself, during this trying scene, 
in the most affectionate manner towards his wife, 
and that he died ^^ penitently, willingly, and chris- 
tianly * " 

His bowels and inward parts were buried in the 
church of the Savoy, and his body at Skiptoh, on the 
99th of December, where^ on the 18th day of thefal- 
lowing March, his funeral was publicly isolemnized. 
A magnificent tomb of black marble was shordy 
afterwards erected to his memory by the filial affec- 
tion of the countess of Pembroke. It stands on 
the south i^de of the communion-table in Skiptbn 
church, and eithibits on it& sides not less than 
seventeen shields — an assemblage of noble bearings, 
observes Dr. Whitaker, sudi as probably cannot 
be found on the tomb of any other £ngUshnian f. 

* Inscription on the family portrait in Skipton castle. 
t These shields are, Ist^ Clifibrd and Russel within the 
garter^ an earl'* coronet abote. 2dly^ CU0MI betwefen 


The death of this nobleman without male issue 
involved the family for many years in considerable 
dissension, for the earldom went to his only brother, 
Fbancis Cliffobd, foubth eabl of Cumbeb- 
LAKD, whilst the titles of baronage, together with 
the ancient family estates, descended to the lady 
Anne, his daughter, in ^nrtue of an entail, *^ set- 
ting forth the gift of the manor of Skipton to 
Robert de Clifford and the heirs of his body by 
king Edward II. and deriving the same down tb 
the lady Anne Clifford, as heir entail, the reversioh 
continuing in the crown***' 

For the discovery and establishment ol this 
claim, lady Anne was indebted to the sagacity and 
perseverance of her mother, who, as she truly sajrs, 

by industry and search of records, Urought td 


Brandon and Dacre. 3dly^ Cli£fbrd and Percy within the 
garter ; a coronet above. 4thly^ Veteripont and Buly. SMy, 
Veteripont and Ferrers. 6thly^ Veteripont and Fitz Peinu 
7thly^ Clifford and Veteripont Stbly, Clifford and Clare. 
9thly> Quarterly, Clifford and Veteripont. lOthly, Clifford 
and Beauchamp. llthly, Clifford and Roos. 12thly, Clif- 
ford and Percy within the garter. 13thly, Clifford and 
Dacre. 14thly, Clifford and Bromflet (de Vesci). 15thly, 
Clifford and St. John of Bletsho. 16thly, Clifford and Berke- 
ley. ITthly, Clifford and Nevill. 


Kght the then unknown title which her daughter 
had to the ancient baronies, honours, and lands of 
the Viponts, Cliffords, and Veseys ; so as what good 
shall accrue to her daughter's posterity by the said 
inheritance must, next under Crod, be attributed 
to her *." 

Earl Francis, as might naturaUy be expected, 
tried every means to set aside the entail, but in 
yain ; yet he and his son were permitted to enjoy 
the estates, both in Westmoreland and Craven, until 
their decease. 

This event with regard to earl Francis occurred 
on^the 28th of January, 1640, at Skipton castle, 
in the very room where more than eighty years 
before he had first seen the light. He mapied 
Grisold, daughter of Thomas Hughes, esq. of Ux- 
bridge, and widow of lord Abergavennie, by whom 
he had four children ; George, who died in his 
childhood, Henry, who succeeded him, and two 
daughters, the ladies Margaret and Frances. 

His countess died as early as 1613, at Londes- 
borough, where, after her husband^s accession to 
the title, she had altogether resided, " not enduring 

* Inscription on family portrait. 


to go to Skipton or Brougham, while in litigation 

with her niece *."" 

This fourth earl of Cumberland appears to have 
been of an amiable disposition, and free from any 
moral st^n ; he was hospitable and even magnificent 
in his habits, and uniformly charitable throughout 
his long life. In March, 161 7, he gave a splendid en- 
tertainment to his patron and sovereign king James, 
at Brougham castle ; and the airs which were sung 
and played on that occasion were thought worthy 
of publication the following year f . He established 
two exhibitions of j£15 each for scholars at the Uni- 
versity, and when he attended at Skipton church, 
which he never failed constantly to do, even in the 
severest weather and when fourscore years old, he 
had always a liberal dole distributed to the poor. 
Yet he was, unhappily for himself, possessed of but 
little energy of mind, and from the mere love of 

* Lady Pembroke's MS. 

t With ithis title : " The Ayres that were sung and played 
at Brougham Castle^ in Westmoreland, in the King's En- 
tertainment : given by the Right Honourable the £arle of 
Cumberland^ and his Right Noble Sonne the Lord Clifford. 
Composed by Mr. George Mason and Mr. John Earsden. 
London^ printed by Thomas Snodham : cum privil^io^ 
1618." fol. • 


ease, was negligent of his own interest, and ruinoudy 
improvident as to his domestic economy. He was 
fortunate, however, in the possession of a son highly 
intelligent and accomplished, and to his manage- 
ment he had latterly the good sense to submit the 
direction of his affairs. 

Of this nobleman, Henry, fifth and last 
EARL OF Cumberland, who was bom at LcHides- 
borough, Feb. 98^ 1591, lord Clarendon has spoken 
in high terms, describing him as a man, if not 
of a martial temper, yet of great honour and in- 
tegrity, and who had lived on his estates in the 
north *^ with very much acceptation and affection 
from the gentlemen and common people.^' He 
married, about the age of twenty, the daughter of 
the celebrated Cecil, earl of Salisbury, and soon 
after commenced his travels on the continent, visit- 
ing France, Italy, and Spain, with the language 
and literature of which latter country he seems to 
have been particularly conversant*. On his re- 
turn to England, he was associated with his father 
in the lieutenancy of the northern counties ; a charge 

• *' Several of the old Family Books of Account/' says 
Wbitaker^ ** have marginal notes by him in Spanish.*' 

Hist of Craven^ p. 886. 


wUdb, owing to the indolence and inattention of earl 
Francis, had been threatened to be placed in other 

It' was whilst he was yet abroad, that his sister, 
the lady Margaret Clifford, was united to Mr. 
Thomas Wentworth, afterwards the great but un- 
fortunate earl of Strafford. In a letter from his 
father, dated the 5th of October, 1611, the near 
aj^roach of this counexicna, which took place at 
Londesborough on the 22d of the same month, is 
thus affectionately mentioned. ^VMr. Wentworth 
is in earnest, and seaneth to be a very affecc^onate 
suiter to y'r sister : he hath been here altogether 
for these three weekes past, and remaines here still : 
your sister is lykewyse therewith well pleased and 
contented. His father and I are agreed of all the 
conditions ; we shall onely want and wish your com- 
panie at the marriage, which is, I thinke, not lyke 
to be long deferred. God blesse them *•'* 

The accession of lord Henry to the earldom 
could have been, on many accounts, attended with 
little that was satisfactory in possession, or exhila^ 
rating in prospect. He had lost, in the course of 

• Hist, of Craven, p. 284. 


the first twelve years after his tnarriage, three sons, 
who died in their infancy, being the whole of his 
male offspring; thus, as Whitaker has remarked, 
^^ by cutting off five heirs male in the compass of 
two generations. Providence would seem to have 
decreed the extinction of the name of Clifford *.^ 
The unhappy father expressed his deep sense of 
the irreparable loss by the following concise but 
impressive epitaph in the parish church of Skipton : 

Immensi Doloris Monumentum Angus turn 

Henricus Pater Deflet 





The state of the country too was such, at the 
period of his coming to the title, as to render all 
property and all dignity insecure ; for the great re- 
bellion had commenced, and the earl, as lord lieu- 
tenant of the West Riding, was necessarily and 
almost immediately implicated in the contest. It 
was in this capacity that, attempting to execute the 
commission of array, in June, 164S, he was resisted 
by sir Thomas Fairfax. He found it necessary, 

* Hist, of Craven^ p. 360. 


therefore, to garrison his castle of Skipton, which 
was very shortly afterwards besieged by Lambert, 
Poyntz, and Rossiter : for the first entry of a sol- 
dier slain within it, on this occasion, appears in the 
parish register of Skipton with the date of Decem- 
ber 23d, 1642. The defence was intrusted to, and 
ably conducted by, sir John Malloryof Studley, near 
Ripen, one of the oldest and most faithful friends of 
the family. Lord Henry, however, lived not to see 
the termination of the siege, which was protracted 
until December S^, 1645, when it surrendered upon 
articles ; for, being at York in 1643, he was seized 
with a burning fever, and died at one of the pre- 
bend'^s houses in that city, on the 11th of Decem- 
ber of the same year. 

From the memorcmda of lady CUfford, who sur- 
vived her lord little more than three months, and 
was interred in York cathedral, Dr. Whitaker 
has extracted the following very curious items of 
the expenses attending his lordship^s funeral. They 
are such as mark not only the affectionate care of 
her ladyship, but that attention to business and 
pecuniary economy, which was then thought not 
derogatory from the highest rank. 

^^ 1643. Disbursed since the 11th day of Dec. 


the yeare aforesaid, on which day it pleased Grod 
to take the soule of my most noble lorde out of 
this miserable, rebellious age, I trust, to his etemall 

" Dec. 12th. Imprimis, To the govr. of Yorke's 
clarke,for a pass for a trumpeter, and a servant of my 
lorde to go to Hull, Ss. 6d.—To George Middle- 
ton, on account of several things bought at Hull, 
towards the funerall of my lorde, the sum of 40/> 
— ^To the paynter, for making exchuchons, 2/. Is. 
*~To the coachmaker, for making the chariott for 
carrying the corps to Skipton, 4^. — Dec. ISth. For 
one of the vergers for ringing the minster bell, 
being double fees for a nobleman, 1/. S^.-^SS yards 
of black cloth for coachman and footman, 162.~ 
Dec. IS. Mr. Beomant of Yofrk, for 8 whole pieces 
of black, 24/. 15^. 6rf. — Mr. Squuyre, for fine 
cloth, 9/. and coarse, 6/. 3*., 14/. ^s. — Ditto, bought 
W Hull, cloath, 27/. 14^. 4r/. — Several sorts of rib- 
bon, 4*. — For royal paper, for eschuchons, 125. — 
Mr. Adgar Tayler, 27^ yards of velvet, at 265. 
per yard, for a black pall for covering the corpse, 
85/. 155. — J. Plaxton, on account of wine to be 
bought at Skipton, 16/. — Mr. Deane the surgeon, 
in part, for embalming the bodye, 10/. — J9 yards 


of searge for my lady Wotton's mourning, H. — 

Tor a mason, for mending and blacking the seeling 

in my lorde's chamber, Ss. — To my lorde Fairfax 

servants, for a safe conduct to London, 10s. — For 4 

stone of tow, to putt into the coffin, and between 

the coffin and the charriot, to keep it from shaking, 

1,0s. — To. Mr. Horseman, for escuchons, SI. lis. — 

To the poor at my lord^s gate when the body went 

from the house, 3/. — Dr. Vadguer for coming & 

dayes to his lordship in his sickness, 52. — ^Disbursed 

in the journeye between York and Skipton, for alt 

my lord^^s servants, horse-meat and man^s meat, and 

others, and poore of every parish, w* rewards to 

ye souldyers by the way, of foot and horse, w^h 

guarded the corpse, the sum of SSI. 2s. — ^To the 

souldyers and gunners of the garrison, at enterring 

my lord, lOZ.*'' 

This interment of lord Henry took place on the 
dlst of December, amidst the tumult and conflict 
of contending hosts ; for the castle of Skipton waa 
then in full siege by the parliamentary forces. 

It may justly be affirmed of this nobleman, that 
though not remarkable for political knowledge, or 
military genius, he was nevertheless possessed of 

• Hist of Craven, p. 279. 


considerable talents ; he was attached to poetry * 
and el^ant literature, and, as the countess of Pem- 
broke has recorded, was well skilled in architecture 
•and mathematics. He was also expert in all the 
athletic exercises, was an excellent horseman, hunts- 
man, &c. and so pleasing and accomplished a cour- 
tier, that he was a great favourite both with king 
James and king Charles. 

He left an only daughter, lady Elizabeth, who 
married Richard viscount Dungarvon, eldest bro- 
ther of that great and amiable philosopher Robert 
Boyle, and, subsequently, second earl of Cork. 
In the correspondence of the Cliffords is preserved 
a letter addressed to this earl of Cork from his 
sister, Katharine viscountess Ranelagh, the con- 
stant and beloved companion for many years of her 
illustrious brother Robert, who usually resided in 
her house, and whose grief for her loss was such 
that he did not survive her above a week. It is 
a letter which, from the value of the admonitions 
which it contains, and the devotional fervour which 
it breathes, is worthy of all praise, and affords us 

• " He turned into rhyme," remarks Whitaker, ** Solo- 
mon's Song, &c. &c. which were remaining at Londesborough 
long after his decease." Hist, of Craven, p. 278. 


a most delightful view of the bead and heart of 
her who shared the confidence and cheered the 
days of the first of christian philosophers. 

^' Far the Earle of Corke. 

" My D. D. Brother, 

<^ I can send you noe intelligence from hence 
but that which your own sence and experience must 
keepe you from receiving as news, which is, that 
quiet is a more pleasing enjdyment for the very 
present than a hurry, and is much more tending 
to everlasting rest than a toss in crouds of com- 
pany can be ; and therefore I have now for a while 
gott the advantage ground of you, for whom I have 
so. real and intyre an affection to be able to looke 
upon you in the noyse and confusion of London 
and. the court, which, are certidnly as great hin- 
drances to the converse that our soules are capable 
of with Grod, and without which they are uncapable 
of beinge happye, as such throngs are forbiding to 
thefreedome of discourse where friends doe acquaint 
one another with those thoughts of their harts 
which. they reserve as secrets from the rest of the 



world ; and, upon tliat aoooumpt, these things are 
to be avoyded as the great interrupters of our hap- 
pyness, of which there is much more to be tasted in 
this world, in spight of all its emptynes and uncer- 
tainties, than can be imagined by those who allow 
not themselves leasure to entertaine their owne 
thoughts upon these objects for which a power of 
thbiking was ^yen us by that God, who is seen^ 
and heard, and knowne by us onely by the exercis- 
ing of our thoughts upon and with him, who wil 
not leave us' alone, if we separate ourselves from 
other companyes, to wayte upon him without dis- 
traction, nor be with us without giving us cause 
to say that no company nor noe friendship can be; 
compared to his. 

'* This is, indeed, to entertaine you at a too un- 
courtly rate; but I as hartely wish you may be a 
great lord in the court of heaven as I little care 
tb have you have any imployment in earthly courts; 
ilnd therefore my stile is siiteable to my designe, 
though not to the fashion, which wil certainly never 
be fit for a Christian to conforme too ; let us coun- 
tenance an owneingof God in alour conversation, 
and make it as shameful in visits to talke of vanety 


as its now esteemed to speake of religion : and till the 

fashion be thus reformed, I wish I may keepe out 

of it. 

" Yours, K. R .♦'' 

It will be productive of no little interest and 
amusement, if, at this period of my detail, when 
the last male heir of the Cliffords closed his days, I 
Tenture upon. placing before my readers some par- 
ticulars of the househotd economy and modes of 
Ii?ing of himself and his ancestors. But as the sub- 
ject would occupy too much space for the present 
paper, I shall reserve it for a number preceding that 
which will be devoted to a consideration of the 
munificent heiress (oS the f airily, Anne, countess of 
Pemluroke and Montgomery. 

• Whitaker's CriBiven, p. 303. 

[To be continued,'] 


No. XVII. 

Songs of Uther's glorious son. 


Of the poem which forms the subject of this and 
the two following papers, the fate has been hitherto,' 
in my opinion, peculiarly hard and unmerited, and 
furnishes, indeed, a remarkable instance of that ca- 
price which occasionally infects the literary world. 
It is now thirty-seven years since the work to which 
I allude, the Arthur of Mr. JToJ^, issued from the 
press; dnd though it then attracted some notice, 
yet, as no second edition has since been called for, 
it cannot but be inferred that it has faded nearly, 
if not altogether, from the memory of the public. 

It has not however ceased to interest a few indi- 
viduals, amongst which I am happy to enrol my- 
self; for, though at the time when I first read it, 
which was that of its publication, a part of the plea« 
sure which I experienced might be supposed attri- 
butable to the susceptibility of youthful imagina- 
tion, yet, as on re-perusal, at very distant periods. 



the same gratification has been felt, and a great 
jK>rtion~ of the same admiration excited, I feel in- 
clined to think that no inconsiderable share of the 

J m 

neglect which this beautiful poem has so long en- 
dured inay'be placed to the account of casual in- 

Under this idea, and with the hope of in 8(»ne 
degree assisting to recall the lovers of poetry to cer- 
tainly a very rich and powerful product of imagina- 
tion, I have been induced to compose these essays. 
But before I enter upon my more peculiar and grate- 
ful task of laudatory criticism, it will doubtless be 
satisfactory to every reader to learn a few particu- 
lars of the life of the amiable author, who died in 
the vigour of his days, about the commencement of 
the present century*. 

The Rev. Richard Hole was bom at Exeter 
in the year 1746. After a sound classical education 
in his native city, he was, in 1764, sent to Oxford, 
and admitted of Exeter college, where, in 1771, he 
proceeded Bachdor of Laws. 

In 177S, the year in which he was ordained, he 

* To the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. 73, and to Black- 
wood*^ Edinburgh Magazine^ vol. 5» I am indebted for many 
of the facts recorded in this narrative. 

ISli MOftKivat m sr&mo. 

ventured on bb fint ptddkalioiiy a Tmmhikm €f 
the Fkigal qfOuian into Engliflh coupleta. Mr. 
Hole bad Toy earl j in life diowii a strong attadi- 
ment to poetry, and diis yetnon was begun not long 
after the appearanee ofMaqpherson'sOssian, inlTfilt 
and when an enthusiastic admiration of bis original, 
imdamped by any scepticism as to its authenddty 
and antiquity, was spreading rapidly tfarou^out die 

The execntion of this attempt is lughly creditidile 
to the taste and talents of Mr. Hole. The wikL 
and glowing imagery of the Seottiah bard is oft^ 
brought out with considerable strei^gth 9nd atiinia- 
tion, whilst the versifioation lA uniformly ccHreot, 
and, in general, spirited and harmonious, though 
not, perhaps, the system of metire best calculated 
for the task which he undertook. Doidits, how- 
ever, had by this time arisoi as to the fidelity and 
ev^ veracity of Macpberson as ftn editor, and tins 
little profduction by no means met with the circnla* 
tion and regard to whidi by its merits it was ea^ 
tided. Yet there was one piece annexed to it, of 
whose reception he had no reason to complain ; for, 
being shortly afterwards set to music by his friend, 
Mr. Jackson of Exeter, it immediately arrested the 


notice of the world, and was eageily and justly ap- 
plauded. It is entitled <^ An Ode to Imagination T' 
and very favoiiraUy l»x)ught iCbrward Mr. Holers 
dmm to the diaracter of an original poet. 

Four years after this publicaticHi he entered into 
a matrimonial union with Miss Wilhehnma Katen- 
camp, the daughter of a merchant at Exeter, — a 
oonnexicm which, as originating in mutual affection, 
continued to affinrd him, to the last moment of his 
exist^ioe, the purest happiness of whidi our frail 
and trcHisitory bemg here is susceptible. 

Not many months subsequ^it to this event he was 
presented to the vicarage of Buckerell, in the dean* 
ery (^Pljrmtree ; but there being no habitaUe par- 
sonage-house connected with it, he was induced to 
act as curate to Mr. Archdeacon Moore, at Sowton. 
It was wlnlst thus engaged that, owing to occasional 
visits in the vicinity of Southmolton, he became ac^ 
quainted with Mr. Badcock, the celebrated critic 
and coadjutor of professor White in the Bampton 
Lectures. By this gentleman, whose pen had been 
employed on the subject in the Monthly Review*, 

' Vol. 63, p. 481. Old Series. 


he wms persuaded to undertake a translation of the 
<^ Hymn to Ceres,^ attributed to Homer, and which 
had, only a few years before, been discovered by 
Christian Frederic Matthsei, in the library of the 
Holy Synod at Moscow, and had just made its ap- 
pearance at Ley den, 1780, under the editorship of 
his friend, the learned David Ruhnkenius. 

The version of Mr. Hole, with a preface almost 
entirely extracted horn Mr. Badcock^s critique, and 
with notes^ appeared in 1781, in 8vo. It is executed 
in a masterly manner, in rhymed heroic verse of 
high polish, and constructed with great dignity; 
and, though somewhat paraphrastic, gives the sense 
of the original, if not with all its peculiar terseness 
and simplicity, yet with much fidelity and beauty. 
. The connexion with Mr. Badoock led our young 
poet into other walks of literature. He assisted his 
learned friend, &r instance, in several of his ccmtri* 
butions to the Monthly Review, and especially in 
the articles relative to the Rowley controversy ; and 
when, in 1782, the London Magazine found it ne- 
cessary to call in additional- support, and Mr. Bad* 
cock's aid was solicited, he felt happy in being able 
to obtain Mr. Hole as one of his coadjutor^. It 


was in this work that they commenced, in conjunc- 
tion with Major Drewe, a fellow-collegian of Mr. 
Hole, a periodical paper under the title of " The 
Linkboy,'' which was carried on for some time with 
considerable spirit. Mr. Hole's chief contributions, 
however, to the magazine consisted of a series of 
dialogues between the ideal characters of popular 
fiction; as, for example, between Belcour and Ser- 
jeant Kite; Mr. Shandy, senior, and Matthew 
Bramble; Don Quixote, Sancbo Panza, and par- 
ison Adams ; a design happily imagined, and con- 
ducted, on the part of its projector, with no little 
sprightliness and vigour. There was, indeed, in 
the mental temperament of Mr. Hole, a large share 
of wit and humour and sportive irony ; and amongst 
the sallies of this kind, which he sprinkled over the 
pages of the Miscellany, I am tempted to extract 
one, which he is said to have written on the re- 
covery of a young attorney, who had little or no 
practice, from a disease which had threatened his 


On his sick bed as Simple lay^ 

A novice in the laws^ 
The hapless youth was heard to say^ 
How cruel to be snatch'd away, 

And die without a cause. 


Jove noBderiBg hem; Us gracioiis nod 

The youth from death reprieTes; 
Tet^ with sabmisdon to the god^ 
His cause is still extremdy odd^ 
Without a cmue he liTe&r 

For several years, indeed, about this period of 
his life, Mr. Hole seems to have been a frequent 
eontributor to the monthly literature of his country. 
Beside communicating with the works which I have 
just mentioned, he undertook the poetical departs 
ment in a review of considerable popularity, and 
became also an occasional writer, both in the British 
and Grentleman^s Magazines. 

At length, after having long withdrawn his name 
from the puUic eye, he affixed it to the work on 
which his future fame must rest, and which I have 
selected as the principal subject of these papers, 
his Arthur. It appeared in 1789, in an octavo 
volume, and with the following title: "Arthur, 
w the Norihem Enchantment, A Poetical Ro^ 
mancCi in Seven Books.^ By Richard Hole, L.L.B. 

In 1792, on the resignation of Mr. Massey,'he 
was presented, by the bishop of Exeter, to the rec- 
tory of Faringdon, in Devonshire, and obt^uned, at 
the same time, a dispensation to hold with it his 


Jormor Ticarage of Buckerdl, which be afterwards, 
howevar, exchanged for the rectory of Inwardldgfa, 
in the same county, thai m the patronage of the 
Rev. Mr. Moore. 

It has been remarked that the lyric powers of 
Mr. Hole were shown to great advantage in die 
Ode to tmaginaAouy first printed in the volume 
whidi contained his <^ FingaL^^ This beautiful 
piece agun met the eye in a collection of ^ Poems, 
by Gentlemen of Devonshire and Cornwall,^ pub- 
lished by Mr. Polwhele in 1794, and accompanied 
by several other communications from the same 
source, and in the same department of poetry. Of 
these it would be injustice not to particularize the 
Odes to Terror and to MtUmchdy^ and that named 
The Temb qf Gumwa-^ imitated from the Islandic, 
as entided to very distinguished praise, and to a 
rank, indeed, next, if not equal, to those oi Gray 
and Collins. 

In the year 1796 was published an octavo of 580 
pages, under the title of ^ Essays by a Society of 
Gentlemen at Exeter.^ To this volume Mr. Hole, 
who had been one of nine members with whom the 
society had originated in 1793, contributed several 
papers of great merit, especially one On Literary 


Famty and ike Hittorical Ciaractert ^Skakspeart, 
and two inxucal Jpoiogietjbr the CharacUrt ami 
Conduct ^lago and Shj^odc. So admirabljr, in- 
deed, was the grave inn; of these Tindiiations 
nuunlaiaed, that, as a writer in the Geotleiiuui's 
Magazine has obeerred, " Bereral attacks have been 
made on them, aa the 'supposition td their being 
serious ; as Swift's advice to the Iridi peasantry, to 
eat their own children, was, at first, from the grave 
manner in which it was proposed, mistaken in the 
same way." 

There is much reason to regret that the sequel 
to this volume of essays which, we were told, was 
soon to follow, has never made its appeoraace, since 
it is well known that Mr. Hole had made many 
other communications to the society of a very inte- 
resting nature. Two of these, however, have since 
been published in a separate form ; and the first, 
indeed, by the author himself, in a manner very 
much enlarged from that in which it was originally 
read to his fellow members. It is entitled *'.Hema}'£j 
on the AraiAan Nightt Entertainments; in which the 
Origin (^fSinbad'a Voyages, and other Oriental Fie- 
Hont, it particularly considered,*" and was printed in 
179Tt ^ ISmo. Few works of similar extent have 


exhibited a larger fund of curious, elaborate, and 
entertaining research ; for the author has success- 
fully traced the marvels of the East, which we have 
been accustomed to consider as the mere offspring 
of a rich but lawless imagination, either to descrip* 
tions drawn from nature, and incidents founded on 
fact, or to classic tales and popular legends ; to re- 
lations, events, and circumstances, in short, wluch 
were not only credited by the Indian and the Arab, 
but many of which have since been found not in- 
consistent with the discoveries of modem travellers, 
and the results of philosophical inquiry. 

Of a nature somewhat similar in principle and 
design would have been the second of these produc- 
tions, had the author lived to complete his plan ; 
for what we have was merely intended as an intro- 
duction to Remarks on the Voyages of Ulysses j as 
narrated m the Odyssey. It was fortunately found, 
however, after his death, aufficiently complete in it- 
self to admit of publication, and was given to the 
world in 1807, by a friend of the author, under the 
title of " An Essay on the Character of Ulysses^ as 
delineated by Horner.'^ The object of this highly- 
pleasing and ingenious little work is to prove, ^^ that 
no mental excellence, nor moral virtue, can easily 


be discovered) that is not exemplified, so far as Ho- 
mer's ideas extended, in the character of Ulysses* ^ 
and it must be allowed, I think, that the essayist 
has, in a very satisfactory manner, established his 

This amiable man and accomplished scholar died 
on the %th of May, 1808, after a painful illness, 
and in the fifty^ighth year of his age. Among his 
manuscripts have been found some original plays, 
and a poem of considerable humour, written in the 
dialect of his native county, and called ^^ Tlie Ex-^ 
moor Courtship^ of which a part has since been 
printed in the fourth volume of Blackwood's Edin- 
burgh Magazine. 

I shall now close this slight biography of Mr. 
Hole with a miniature description of his character 
from the pen of one of his most intimate friends, 
being the termination of a tribute to his manory 
which was read at one of the meetings of the Exeter 

** I need scarcely add in this place,'* says the 
writer, " what Mr. Hole was : — ^the ancere, the un- 
affected grief of the whole circle of his family and 

• Essay^ p. 143. 


friends demonstrates, more strikingly than words 
can paint, his worth, bis merits, and his talents* 
Friendly and affectionate in the more limited circle, 
he claimed, and obtained, in his turn, the warmest 
and most sincere attachment. The world in general 
saw in his character, honour, generosity, learning, 
and religion, and freely accorded their approbation 
and regard. His knowledge was solid and well 
founded ; his religion sincere and unaffected ; his 
benevolence warm and unconfined. Without the 
parade of superior learning, he gained the esteem 
and confidence of those with whom he conversed ; 
and nev^ in a single instance lost a friend by a 
fault of his own. Mr. Jackson, who soon followed 
Mr. Hole to the grave, remarked, that he had 
known Hole more than thirty years, without having 
discovered a single fault in his character. No one 
possessed a more acute and penetrating discern- 
ment ; no one was better acquainted with Mr, 

Having thus made my readers in some slight 
degree acquainted with the life and general charac- 
ter of Mr. Hole, I ^proceed with pleasure to the 

• Blackwood's £dmburgh Magazine, vol. v. p. 70. 

?44 :i}fia.v:t::.* rv ij^n:^ 


€» die Mifa^ect €£ kmg Ardnir, in wfaidi, firoiii his 
of fnricinn^ die design, diere is every 
to aumiu M diat be wmld hare adopted die 
le gendji ' j fidbles of Geaffrej €if Mnmnondi. Mr. 
Hole, hcmewer, vhilst be fidthfiilly adbetes to our 
geneial c o nception of tbe cfaancter of Aidiar, de- 
clioes pursuing this trade ; tdling us, in his pre- 
face, when ^leaking of tbe doubts which have been 
unreasonably entertained as to the very existence of 
his hero, diat ^* whether the extraordinary narrative 
of Geof&ey of Monmouth, and the more consistent 
testimony of graver historians^ outweighs or not the 
silence of Bede and Gildas, is of little oHisequence 
to the Arthur who now appears. He is merely an 
ideal personage ; his achievements groundless and 
imaginary ; not to be examined at the bar of hi- 
storic truth, but of poetic credibility. ^ 

He then proceeds to inform us that his poem 
is intended as an imitation of the old metrical 


romance, with some of its harsher features softened 
and modified, and that its heroes and its incidents 
are constructed rather on the plan of Ariosto than 
of Homer ; *« not," he says, " because the desul- 
tory wildness of the one is preferred to the correct 
fancy of the other — but because the old Gothic 
fables exhibit a peculiarity of manners and situation, 
which, if not from their intrinsic excellence, may, 
from their being less hackneyed, afford more ma- 
terials for the writer^s imagination, and contribute 
more to the reader's entertainment.'^ 

There can be no doubt that in forming his poem 
on this basis, our author has shown a very correct 
judgment ; for we may, in truth, go a step further 
than he has done, and affirm that not only are the 
Gothic fictions less hackneyed, but they are intrin- 
sically superior, for all the purposes of poetry, to the 
mythology of Greece and Rome. There is a wild- 
ness and gloomy grandeur in the religious faith of 
ancient Scandinavia which, mixed up as it is with 
a firm belief in, and bold display of, the rites of 
ma^c and enchantment, appals and harrows up the 
soul in a degree greatly beyond what classical 
superstition can effect. When we consider, more- 
over, as we are entitled to do from the best autho- 



ritiesy that chivalry sprang up and was nursed ip 
the very bosom of this tremaidous creed ; that it 
gradually blended, or contrasted with its terrific fea- 
tureSy what was tender, courteous, and gallant, and 
at length united to all these the fantastic wonders 
of the East ; we cannot be surprised that from such 
a combination should have arisen a system of fa- 
bling better calculated perhaps than any other 
which the world has yet seen, to excite the imagi- 
nation of the poet. 

Of the era which our author has fixed upon for 
his poem, when the Saxons and the Britons were 
contending for the sovereignty of this island, it 
may justly be said that he has exhibited a very 
profound knowledge ; and not only has he shown a 
perfect intimacy with Northern antiquities, both in 
his text and notes, but he has^ at the same time, 
very ably and correctly discriminated and opposed 
to each other the Grothic and Celtic costume, man- 
ners, and superstitions. 

In fact, the very business and action of the poem, 
and its whole machinery, are founded on the en- 
mity with which the Northern Parae, or Weird 
Sisters, ^are inflamed against Arthur, in conse- 
quence of his opposition to the designs of their 


favoured hero, Hengist, king of the Saxons ; whilst, 
on the other side, Merlin, the great prophet of the 
Celts, aids the British prince in defeating the ma- 
chinations of the demons of Scandinavia. 

With such materials, and with the avowed intention 
of taking the old metrical romance for his model, 
it might have been expected that the poet of Arthur 
would adopt, to a certain extent at least, the style 
as well as the mode of fabling of his prototypes. In 
this respect, however, he has deviated entirely, and 
perhaps somewhat injudiciously, from his originals ; 
for whilst he has preserved the body and spirit of 
their fiction, he has clothed both in a classical garb, 
in the dress indeed of Homer and of Virgil, and has, 
consequently, ^ven to his work a very anomalouis 
aspect, being neither entitled, from the desultory 
nature of its fabric, to be considered as a classical 
epic, nor from the polish, concatenation, and uni- 
form dignity of its style and versification, a gothic 

It is, however, notwithstanding this incongruity, 
a most valuable and interesting production, both in 
substance and in form ; and it has moreover the 
merit of being the first attempt, in modem times, to 
re-open that rich vein of wild narrative and fiction, 


'■""^f ftxmf^ 12^ wurax mtxtasfxra to ram 
CkiiT bj •■".jTi^ KS JoJ brare csp^Mts, tbe b 

» Ac fcrSng IwMt, 

Adinst, ami owded hdb vbt taagfat to ring 
With (he bold am of Brinin's y^ tfhV-«« kii^. 

Tboae da^ oc poM : tbe Tocal nnin no more 
la heanl, that dunD'd our &that' heutt of j<ve. 
Now,' irie noDOful of thor *'*^"e halls, 
ClMp'd b; rnde vrj, nod the monU'rii:^ waBs : 
In cmib'nKu heaps are smtch'd the statelj towers, 
While noKioui weeds usurp the Rweste bowers ; 
And, long enftrided in death's cold emhtace. 
Silent have slept tbe minstTel's gentle race. 

Yet Kill bis nime surrives ; nor deem it rain. 
That otte, the meanest of tbe tuneful train, 
Caugbtb)' the lofty theme, with feebler IB75 
Presumes t' unfold a tale of other days. 
Such, as of old to Fancy's ear addrest, 
Percbanoe had struck the lympathising breast ; 
When lovely were our maids, and brave our youth, 
Wlitn Tlrtue ratour crown'd, and beauty truth.— B. i. p. S, 


The fable then commences by describing Ivar, 
the son of Melaschlen, chief of the Ebudse, or 
Western Isles, as walking towards night by the 
sea-shore, and who, whilst watching the appearance 
of a fleet at a distance, is alarmed by the sound of 
horrible voices from the mountain Conagra. 

This circumstance introduces to us the Weird 
Sisters, who are beheld by Ivar performing their 
magic rites on the summit. With these person- 
ages, however, the Urda, Faldandi^ and Skulda of 
the Northern m3rthology, and who were supposed 
to preside over the past, the present, and the fu- 
ture, Mr. Hole has confessedly taken considerable 
liberties ; for he has neither delineated'^them as in 
the Edda, where they are drawn as beautiful vir- 
gins inhabiting Asgard, the city of the gods, nor 
painted them as Shakspeare has done in his Mac- 
beth, where, potent ministers though they be of 
evil, they are, in conformity with the system of 
witchcraft of his royal master, represented as de- 
formed and mischievous hags. But he has taken a 
middle path between these two descriptions, and 
has thereby rendered his personification of the Fatal 
Sisters more, perhaps, in consonancy with the na- 
ture and epic genius of his poem. 


This, their first presentation to us, is certainly 
wrought up with great spirit and poetical power. 
They are depicted calling upon the demons of re- 
venge to pour forth the thunders of the tempest, to 
awake, arise, destroy ! 

Of fearful mien, and more than mortal size. 
Three female forms appear'd ; in mystic rite 
Engaged, they traced the mountain's dizzy height 
In circling course : whilst wide behind them fiew 
Their sable locks, and robes of russet hue, 
As with demeanor wild and outstretched arms 
They roused th* infernal powers :— their direful charms 
At length prevail. Th* increasing shades of night 
Close dark around, and veil them from his sight. 

Now, by the potency of magic sound, 
Th' aspiring mountain to its base profound 
Convulsive shook : the birds that used to sweep 
In crowded flight around the dizzy steep, 
(As grey-robed vapours, driven before the storm. 
Float on the winds in many a varied form). 
Roused from their secret clefts, with piercing cry. 
Through the dun air in countless myriads fly. 
From ev'ry point of heaven red meteors glide 
In streaming radiance to the mountain's side, 
Thick and more thick ; then to its height aspire. 
And form a rampart of encircling fire. 

But though in splendor rose the mountain's head. 
The robe of darkness o'er the sky is spread : 
iPortentous darkness — ** Powers of earth and air !" 
£buda's youth thus raised the suppliant prayer. 


*' Ye*, who o'er nature's wide domains preside ! 
Ye^ who through houndlcss space benignly guide 
Heaven's cheering orbs ! who through th* ethereal plain 
Roll the deep thunder, or its rage restrain ! 
Whose power can check the lightnings darted ray. 
And bid the storm in whispers die away, 
Assist the race of man ! — behold, unbound. 
The Powers of evil urge their wasteful round !" — 

He ceased ; for echoing from the mountain's head. 
Again the sounds that struck his soul with dread 
More direful rose. — *' Seize, seize, the fated hour : 
On yonder fleet the storm of vengeance pour ! 
Descend ye clouds of death ! ye fiends arise ! 
Burst forth ye storms, and mingle seas and skies !" 

And now the splendor that endos'd the steep. 
In sparks of fire flew diverse o'er the deep. 
Kindling the nitrous clouds : with livid glare 
The lightning streamed along the troubled air ; 
Tremendous thunder through the vast profound 
In peals redoubled roU'd its awful sound : 
In darkness sailing through th' afirighted skies 
The demons pour'd their death-denouncing cries. 
At time, their forms of dread the lurid light 
Disclosed, and swell'd the horror of the night. 

B. i. p. 9. 

In the midst of this conflicting war of the ele- 
ments, a billow of prodigious size bursting on the 

* '^ The Celtic nations imagined that a number of Genii 
proceeded from one first great principle, and that each of 
them presided over his peculiar element.'' 


shore, and casting on the sands a youthful warrior, 
the storm instantly subsides. Ivar, struck with 
compassion, approaches the unhappy stranger, and 
invites him to the hall of his father. He assents 
in silence, though with deep emotion, and they 
proceed to the dwelling of Melaschlen, who is re- 
presented feasting with his chiefs around him. 

The description of this scene is the first of a series 
of pictures drawn from Celtic manners and super- 
stitions, and which are finely contrasted, throughout 
the whole poem, with the sterner features of the 
Gothic creed. The author, in fact, has frequently 
availed himself, and in many instances with great 
beauty and effect, of the wild imagery and pathos 
so characteristic of the harp of Ossian, of whose 
poems he observes in his preface, that " to bear 
testimony to their beauties, is a duty which justice 
demands in return for the pleasure their perusal has 
afforded him.^^ He appears, indeed, to have formed, 
at this period, a very just conception of the state in 
which the text of these celebrated poems has been 
given to the public. " He would,^ he says, " not 
venture to assert that they were absolutely and in 
every part genuine : yet he thinks he may safely 
affirm, that feeling and actual obser\ation gave birth 


to some'^ (perhaps he might have said to no incon- 
siderable portion) " of the sentiments and imagery, 
which would have eluded the notice, or struck in a 
different manner the writer's imagination, who lived 
in a refined period of society."" 

That the passage just alluded to, especially in its 
dose, is one of those which has been indebted to 
these singular compositions, whether original or not 
or only partly so is of little consequence here, must, 
I think, be admitted by every reader of Ossian. 

Soon the dome arose to sights 

Crowned with the silver moon's reflected light. 

Melaschlen there the splendid feast prepared^ 

And there the soul-delighting sound was heard 

Of harps^ symphonious to the vocal lay 

That gave the tale of times long past away ; 

Of conflicts fierce^ of heroes far renown'd^ 

And lovely maids whose smiles their prowess crown'd, 

Or tears their tomhs hedew'd^ while home on high 

Their spirits roam'd exulting through the sky. 

" All hail,- ye warriors 1" Thus the strain arose, 
^^ Released from mortal toils, from mortal woes, 
'Tis yours aloft on billowy clouds to ride. 
Point the red lightning, and the thunder guide : 
Or placid 'mid the blue expanse to stray. 
And sport along the liquid blaze of day !" 

B. i. p. 12. 


Melaschlen receives his unknown guest with the 
utmost hospitality ; but perceiving that neither the 
feast nor the bowl is able to allay his sorrows, he 
implores him to reveal the cause of his distress, 
promising in return, that from whatever nation he 
derives his birth, he shall experience all the aid and 
consolation to which his misfortunes may entitle 

Thus assured, the unhappy youth informs his 

host that he is Arthur, heir of the throne of Britain, 

but, at the same time, an object not of envy but of 

compassion ; for that 

■ if he has aught to claim, 

'Tis grief superior^ not superior fame : 

that he is, in fact, pursued by the enmity both of 
men and demons; and he closes his relation by 
preferring a charge against the justice of Provi- 
dence. Scarcely, however, had this accusation 
escaped his lips, when 

Lo ! in sudden gloom 

A rushing cloud involves the spacious room ; 

And^ quick dispersing^ by his side is seen 

A reverend sage, of awe-commanding mien ; 

Robes> whose pure whiteness matdi'd the new-fall'n snow^ 

Invest his fonn^ and on the pavement flow : 


The pur^ &tdle, that around his waist, 
Studded with sparkling gems^ the vesture braced. 
Shot mingled beams of light : his head was bare ; 
His brow imprinted with the tracks of care ; 
A few grey locks his temples crown'd — the wreath 
Of honoured age ; his ample chest beneath^ 
Wliite as the thistle's silv'ry down, that plays 
On Zephyr's wing amid the summer rays, 
His flowing beard descended : in his hand 
Appear'd^ with mystic figures graved^ a wand 
Of wond>ous power. 

B. i. p. 15. 

It was doubtless the aim of the poet, that Merlin , 
one of the principal agents in the plot of his fable, 
should be ushered to us in a manner worthy of 
his age and superhuman powers; and it will be 
allowed, I think, that the mode of his introduction, 
and the portrait given of him in these lines, are 
finely conceived, and boldly executed. The " few 
grey locks" of the prophet, " the wreath of honoured 
age,^ foim a striking contrast with the picture 
which had been just previously drawn of Arthur, 
of whom it is said, that 

mingled in his face 

The charms of youth^ and manhood's riper grace 
Vied for pre-eminence. 

The object of the sage in this unexpected visit 



was to reprove Arthur for mistrusting Heaven, and 
for neglecting the injunctions which had been given 
him. He had been forewarned, it seems, by Merlin, 
never to desert his host, and told, at the same time, 
and from the same authority, that the powers of 
hell were in league against him ; yet had he, se- 
duced by Urda, in the friendly form of Gawaine, 
yielded to the illu^ons of magic, and left his fleet, 
and but for the interposing arm of Merlin, had 
perished in the attempt. 

Arthur, repentant of his rashness and credulity, 
is consoled by Merlin, who assures him that his 
fleet is in safety, and, after inculcating the virtues 
of fortitude and resignation as the essentials of his 
future conduct, he recommends him to seek imme- 
diately the blessings of repose ; and with Arthur's 
submission to this advice and consequent retirement, 
the first book terminates. 

(To be continued. J 


Much of old romantic lore 
On the high theme he kept in store. 


The sudden appearance of Merlin having, as 
might naturally be supposed, struck the ruler of 
Ebuda and his chieftains not only with reverence 
but astonishment, he prepares to satisfy their cu- 
riosity, by informing them who he was, and what 
had given rise to the interference which they had 
just witnessed. He states, that, after a residence 
of many years at the court of Uther, he had been 
blessed in his latter days with a daughter, whom he 
bad named Inogen ; but that a prophecy concerning 
her, which bad escaped from the lips of the priest 
at the period of her baptism, had, by its ambiguity, 
involved his mind in a perpetual conflict of hope 
and fear. It had declared, that, unless she fled 
from the man whom she most approved, and was 
by him rejected who loved her best, she should 


pine through life in sorrow ; but that he who 
espoused her should from that hour not only reign 
supreme in Britain, but transcend all others in 
heroism and renown. 

To render her worthy of the high destiny thus 
singularly unfolded^ by adding to the beauties of 
her form the utmost cultivation of her mental 
powers, was now, he proceeds to relate, the object 
of his sole employ; and, with the view of more 
exclusively dedicating himself to this purpose, he 
had sought a retirement on the banks of the river 
Dee in Merionethshire. 

The description of this ^litude, and its moral 
uses ; the motives which he assigns for at length 
quitting it, and his regret in so doing ; the delight 
which Inogen experiences from the prospect of 
mingling with the world, and the estimate of human 
life with which the whole closes, contribute to form 
one of the most pleasing passages in the book. 

Tired of mankind, and grandeur's irksome weight. 

With her I sojourn'd in a lone retreat 

By Deva's stream, *mid vales and mountains rude. 

Sweet to the pensive mind is solitude ; 

Most sweet to study nature's secret laws. 

And trace her wonders to the primal cause. 


What deep instruction the reflecting mind, 
Benignant nature^ in thy works can find ! 
The leaf that quivers in th' autumnal gale. 
The flower of spring, that in the lonely vale 
Blooms unregarded, equally proclaim. 
With yonder orhs that deck th' ethereal frame. 
Their great Creator's wisdom. — Thus retired. 
To live and die was all my soul desired. 
But not to me was Heaven's high will unknown. 
That man n^as made not for himself alone. 
Shall I my Imogen, in beauty's bloom. 
Thus keep sequester'd in the forest-gloom ? 
And shall the fairest flower that decks the spring' 
Lavish its sweets on Zephyr's idle wing. 
That fans the desert ? — 

At length resolved, but with reluctant heart. 
From my sequester'd bower I slow depart : 
Bid to each scene, by time endear'd, adieu ! 
And often turn, and take a lingering view. 
Not so the maid ; her sparkling eyes confest 
The secret pleasure that inspired her breast. 

How sweet the world's delights at distance ey*d ! 
How bright to fancy's view each joy untried ! 
Alas ! when nearer placed, and duly weighed. 
They prove an idle dream — a vacant shade. 
Experienced age alone, sad privilege ! knows 
Our joys are fleeting, permanent our woes. 
But, to this mournful truth, the youthful mind 
Stilly as it wont, let sweet delusion blind ! 
For all the pleasures cruel fate denies, 
Hope can prevent, and fancy realise. 

B. ii. p. 30 



Merlin returns with Inogen to Carlisle*, and is 
welcomed by Uther in the most friendly manner, 
who tells Him that a double blessing is about to 
crown the day, for that he is in momentary ex- 
pectation of embracing his son, who has just re- 
gained his native shore, after a long and distant 
expedition to the East, in which, under the eye of 
the monarch of Byzantium, he had acquired un- 
rivalled glory against the infidels. Whilst he is 
yet speaking, the shouts of the populace and the 
voice of the clarions announce the approach of the 
youthful warrior, who is thus briefly but forcibly 
described : 

His martial mien with pleasure strikes our vlew^ 
The sculptured helm, the plume of snowy hue : 
The splendid mail, the purple- tinctured vest. 
And star-deck'd baldrick flaming on his breast. 
As nearer he advanced^ we mark'd his face 
Crown'd with each charra^ and soft attractive grace. 

* '' Carlisle is said to have taken its name from a king 
Leil, an imaginary descendant of Brutus, who reignal A. M. 
3021. He is supposed to have built it, and to have been 
buried there. Arthur is frequently represented, by our old 
minstrels, as holding his court in that city ; and in the neigh- 
bourhood of it many romantic adventures are related as per- 
formed by himself and his knights."— Hole, note. 


• ^ 

Smiles clothed his roseate cheeks ; hut in his eyes 
Dwelt valour's flame ; not like the heams that rise 
To gild the storm^ hut lovely as the ray 
Whose purple tints proclaim the dawning day. 

B. ii, p. 34. 

Arthur resigns himself to the counsel and in- 
struction of the sage Merlin, who, however, gratified 
by the deference which is paid him, soon perceives 
that a portion of it is to be attributed to another 
and very different cause — ^to a mutual attachment, 
in short, which had taken place between the prince 
and his daughter. 

It is soon after this discovery that Uthur holds 
a tournament in commemoration of the day of his 
son's return, inviting the brave of every nation to 
honour it with their presence. He and Arthur sit 
as judges of the field, whilst the beautiful Inogen 
is destined to bestow the conqueror's prize. For 
some days the British knights meet with no equal 
opponents ; but, at length, Valdemar and Hengist, 
the kings of Dacia and of Saxony, and the first 
amongst the warriors of the North, enter the lists ; 
and the latter, bearing down all before him, is pro- 
claimed by the marshals to have won the meed of 
victory. He accordingly receives from the hands 
of Inogen the reward due to his valour ; but pre- 


IGS MORXnCGS fX sprikg. 

smniiig tt the same moment to avow his love for 
her, and to claim a return, on the pretext of being 
unrivalled in the fidd, Arthur, unaUe to repress 
Us indignation, rushes forward to repel the boast, 
and a deadly combat between the two chiefs and 
thdr foUowers would immediately have ensued, had 
not the intervention of the kn^ts and marshals 
r^N-ested their fury ; when Uthar, rising from his 
seat, and exclaiming against the breach of hosp- 
tality, in assaulting the invited guest, banishes 
Arthur from his court. In fact^ astonished at the 
unequalled prowess of the Saxon king^ and trem- 
bling for his son, he was happy to avail himself of 
diis plea, in order, as his afl^tionate fears suggesled, 
to save the life of the latter. In the meanwhile he 
<^ers to Hengist, whilst the festival lasts^ the liberty 
of preferring his suit, declaring, at the same time, 
that should the maid contemn hib love, no force 
shall be put upon her inclinations. 

Inogen, as may be concluded^ is unable to con- 
ceal her aversion for the Saxon; and Hengist, in 
the spirit of his haughty character, not only avenges 
himself on Uther and the Britons, by behaving to- 
ivards them with insolence, but, by daily increasing 
around him the circle of his friends and foUowers, 


seems to menace a more serious aggression. Utber, 
alarmed, secretly issues his orders to recall bis son 
and absent knights, determined that if a mild inti- 
mation failed to induce Hengist to leave Carlisle, 
force should compel him to retire. 

It was in this state of afiairs that one evening, 
whilst Merlin sate in his bower, pensive and ab- 
«»*bed in thought, Cador, a kinsman and bosom 
Mend of Arthiur, suddenly enters and informs bin, 
that from motives of affecti(X), and in the hope of 
ligbteniog the anguish of the prince, he had foL 
lowed his st^ shortly after he had quitted his 
fath^^s court, and had found him, aft^ long search^ 
pa the fiik^res of the Humber, where, with ten of 
his bravest knights, he saw him embark for the de« 
sert isle of Ligon, at which place Hengist, to whom 
he had sent a defiance, had promised to meet him 
with a sunilar force, in order to decide their pi»# 
tenaioiis to Inogai by combat* He adds, that 
Arthur refuidng to allow his accompanying their 
expedition, he had returned, at his express desire, 
with a message of filial piety to his father, and with 
assura^cesof fidelity and protection to Inogen; but 
that on his way he had learnt, to his inexpressible 

grief, that Britain was already invaded in various 



parts by the Danes and Saxons ; that Hen^st, re- 
gardless of his honour, had forfeited his engagement 
to meet Arthur ; that he was, in fact, preparing to 
besiege Carlisle; and, to aggravate these misfor- 
tunes, that Uther, worn out with age and sorrow, 
was actually dying. 

Under these circumstances, he and Lancelot, who 
had been left by Arthur to aid and Support the 
venerable monarch, urge Merlin instantly to seek 
safety for himself and daughter in flight, leaving 
them to defend the walls of the city. • With this 
advice, conscious that age and beauty can be of no 
avail in such an emergency, he willingly complies, 
and he and Inogen regain, under the friendly shades 
of night, their former retreat. The sentiments, 
however, with which they re-enter this abode are 
widely different from those which they had once 
entertained beneath its shelter, and the effect of 
this change on the objects around them is most 
feelingly and beautifully expressed in the following 

Through various toils our calm retreat we founds 
Still, as of old^ with nature's blessings crowned. 
The gurgling rill as softly urged its way ; 
The birds as blithely warbled on the spray : 


As sweet the blushing flowers perfumed the air ; 
The hills as verdant^ and the meads as fair. 

But, ah ! our minds were changed — to them no more 
These scenes appear*d as in the tranquil hour. 
In murmurs harsh the rill was heard to flow ; 
The feathered songsters seem'd to mock our woe : 
£ach object rose unlovely to the view^ 
For all was tinged with sorrow's sable hue. — B. il. p. 47. 

The narrative now proceeds to inform us, that 
one morning, lost in deep reflection. Merlin wan- 
dered a considerable distance from his abode, when 
at length, the heat of the noontide sun having com- 
pelled him to seek for shade, he enters a forest ; an 
incident of which the poet has availed himself to 
introduce an admirable picture of the locality of a 
Druidical circle, and of the awful rites which were 
wont to accompany that sanguinary form of re- 
ligion : 

Before my view a gloomy forest rose : 
To quiench my thirsty and in the shades repose^ 
I thither jbent my way ; for thence the sound 
Of waters struck my ear : th' untrodden bound 
I slowly pierce^ and now their view obtain^ 
As from th' impending clifi^they pour'd amain. 
The cooling wave the pangs of thirst allays. 
And round my head the breeze refreshing plays. 
An aged oak beside the torrent stood. 
Of size immense-'the monarch of the wood. 


(fet the green ddl its boughs were wildly thrown^ 
And seem'd to make a forest all their own. 
The trees that round their leafy honours rear'd^ 
Like lowly shrubs on barren heaths appear'd 
When mated with its height — in the cool shade 
I lay reclined ; a mossy stone my head 
Supported; for around, in order placed. 
The lonely spot a rocky circle graced. 

Scarcely bad he yielded to repose, when he be- 
holds, in a vision, the trunk of this gigantic oak 
divide, whilst, rising fix>m its centre, appe^ms the 
genius of his native island, and thus addresses 

Twas thine, directed by the powers above. 
To pierce the precincts of my hallow'd grove* 
Where from the branch, at consecrated hour. 
Sage Druids pluck the plant* of mystic power; 
And daim^ kind influence from the host of night. 
While the pale crescent, tipt with borrow'd light, 

* '* The oak was considered as sacred in the earliest ages. 
The misleioe is a plant of the parasite kind, which some- 
times, but not frequently, grows on it. In gathering it the 
Druids used many ridiculous oexemonies, which are described 
by Pliny in his Natural History, I. xvL c. 44. He the^ says, 
that it was never gathered but on the sixth day of the moon, 
which was so highly esteemed by them, that all their reli« 
gious festivals were held on it ; and their months, yean» and 
ages, which consisted of the revolution of thfity years, took 
theur commencement from that day.'V-Hou. 


Sailed through heaven's azure vault — their temples crowu'd 
With garlands^ oft they traced this rocky round, 
And on their altar rude, yon central stone. 
The milk-white steer expired with hollow moan. 
And man himself^ a sacrifice abhorr'd. 
Beneath the axe life's sanguine current pour'd. 
W|iile ruthless priests, in robes of snowy hue. 
From gushing blood, and limbs convulsive, drew 
Preaages wild and vain.<^B. ii. p. 48^50. 

The genius then declares that the w^d sisters, 
dreading the downfall of the Pagan superstitions, 
and the consequent future glory of Arthur, had 
woven round his natal hour and that of Inogen a 
spell of such pernicious potency as could not be 
counteracted by any thing short of superhuman 
aid. To supply this assistance, he presents Merlin 
with a wand of hallowed power, telling him, that 
as the sisters had destined Inogen to the arms of 
Hengist, it must be his object to conceal her from 
his view. For this purpose he directs him to form, 
through the influence of the gift he had just re- 
ceived, an enchanted bower, placing Inogen within 
its deepest recess, and enjoining her not to quit it 
but with his consent. He is then told to fly in- 
stantly to the Isle of Ligon, which the elements^ 
now in subjection to the secret virtue of his wand. 


will enable him to do with ease, and instruct Ar- 
thur to collect succours from all the nations allied 
to Britain, conducting them to Menevia or Milford 
Haven, and on no account to leave them until they 
enter that bay. 

The genius then vanishes, and Merlin, awakened 
from his dream, beholds with astonishment and 
joy the wand at his feet. He immediately hastens 
to obey the mandates of his friendly visitant ; he 
encloses the willing Inogen and her companion El- 
lena in the magic bower, and Arthur, following his 
advice, collects his auxiliaries from every quarter, 
but, unhappily deluded by the machinations of the 
weird sisters, he deserts his forces ere they reach 
the bay of Menevia, and becomes, in consequence 
of that rash act, subjected to further persecution 
and dangen 

Merlin here closes his narrative, and the night 
]being far advanced he takes leave of Melaschlen 
and his chiefs, and retires to rest. 

The third book of Arthur, perhaps from the 
wild and romantic nature of its incidents the most 
interesting in the work, opens with the following 
description of morning, in which, whilst there is 
piuph to admire in the strength and selection of the 


imagery, it is impossible not to be struck with the 
animation given to the picture by the very beauti- 
ful and picturesque manner in which the hero of 
the poem is presented to our view. 

Faint streaks of light the purpled east illume^ 
And westward rolls the slow decreasing gloom. 
With various screams around Conagra's height 
The birds of ocean urge their eddying flight. 
Some o'er th' unruffled main disporting sweep 
On outstretch'd wings^ some mid the briny deep 
With pinions closed fall headlong ; and convey 
Exulting to their young the scaly prey. 
Soon brighter beams^ as o'er the hills is borne 
The vapour dim^ its curling sides adorn 
With golden tints : meanwhile th' enlivening gale 
With shadowy waves o'ercasts the grassy vale : 
And the rill bursting from the rocky height 
Winds through the narrow dell in floating light. 

Besides its bank^ where droops the willow green^ 
The stately form of Uther's son is seen. 
Qfttimes he plunges mid the liquid stream 
His pointed lance ; the parted waters gleam 
On either side. But^ ah ! though there his eyes 
Are fix'd^ his mind to diflbrent objects flies. 
His mind, with various scenes of sorrows fraught. 
By memory rack'd, and heart-corroding thought. 

B. iii. p. 63. 

Whilst thus immersed in painful reverie, Me- 
laschlen and Ivar, accompanied by Merlin, ap- 


prooch, and the latter telU Arthur, that as he had, 
though under the influence of delusion^ deserted 
his valiant host, he must now, if glory were in his 
eyes yet preferable to safety, traverse the coasts of 
Britain without a friend or even menial to attend 
him, and be prepared to encounter singly not only 
the enmity of man, but the force and fraud of de- 
moniacal agency. Arthur hesitates not a moment 
in undertaking the enterprise ; and though with all 
the enthusiasm of friendship and heroic ardour Ivar 
petitions to accompany him, the prince firmly but 
gratefully declines the offer, whilst Merlin, to put 
an end to the generous contest, again repeats that 
the task can cHily be achieved by the unassbted arm 
of the son of Uther. As he is yet speaking, a slaider 
bark appears distantly on the wa,ves, and being en- 
dued with self-directing power, rapidly bends its 
course to the shore. Merlin and Arthur imme- 
diately enter it, and, after taking a most affectionate 
leave of their kind friends, are, to the inconsolable 
disappointment of Ivar, wafted with almost me- 
teoric swiftness from their sight 

The poet here bursts forth into a valedictory and 
highly animated address to the Western Islands of 
Scotland, in which the prophetic allusion to the 


character of Columba, and his labours in planting 
Christianity, is given in the very spirit of bardic 
enthusiasm, and closes with a triplet, the last line 
of which is peculiarly sublime. 

But now the Muse awakes the vocal shell 
To themes sublimer — generous youths farewell ! 
Farewell^ ye lonely Isles ! where to the skies 
Enwrapt in tempests towering rocks arise : 
Where low-hung vapours chill the barren plain^ 
And round you raves th' inhospitable main. 
Tet soon shall climes^ whom suns more genial crown 
With purer lustre^ envy your renown. 
The desert coasts now scarcely knoivn to fame^ 
Shall bear to future times * Columba's name. 

* *' Columba was the first preacher of Chriatianity to the 
^lootft in the year S6S, about twenty years after the death of 
Artliur. The remains of several religious edifices^ either built 
by, or dedicated to hiro^ still exist in many of the western 
islands. He founded a monastery and built a church in 
that of Hy. This little isK which is but three miles long 
and one broad^ is celebrated by Buchanan for its fertility ; 
wlueh may naturally be supposed to have originated from a 
superior degree of cultivation bestowed upon it by its mo* 
nastic inhabitants and their dependanta. f)rom Columba it 
derived the nitme of I»coIm-kil^ or lona ; a word that is said 
to signify a dove in the Hebrew^ as Columba does in the 
Ladn language. The kings of Scotland and of the Isles 
embellished it with diverse buildings^ the remains of which 
are still visible. In the old monastery of I-Qolm-kil> the 
bishops of the Isles^ according to Buchanan^ erected their 


The lainted sage ! wiihin its hallow'd shore^ 
Life's chequer'd clream^ its toils, its pleasures o*er^ 
The sad recluse his wearied eyes shall close^ 
And scepter'd roonarchs in its dust repose. 
Where now the wild weed creeps shall roses bloom. 
The dark-brown dell a verdant tint assume : 

see. Many stately tombs, now defaced by time or over- 
grown with weeds, were in his days visible; particularly 
three of superior eminence, over which little shrines, look- 
ing towards the east, were placed. In the west part of each 
was an inscription: the first signified that beneath it were 
deposited forty-eight kings of Scotland, the last of whom 
was Macbeth. Malcolm possibly thought that the usurper's 
remains desecrated the spot, and decreed that Dumferline 
should in future be the place of royal sepulture. Eight 
Norwegian and four Irish kings were interred, according to 
tlie inscription, beneath the other tombs. The reason as^ 
signed why so many monarchs, chiefs, and prelates chose 
this island as their place of burial is, that they gave credit 
to an ancient prophecy, which declared, that * seven years 
before the end of the world a deluge should drown the na- 
tions; the sea at one tide cover Ireland and the green- 
headed Ilay; but that the isle of Columba should swim 
above .the flood.' Yet, however sacred it might have been 
deemed by Christian monarchs, we have reason to suppose 
from Boetius (I. vi. p. 00), that it was before their time con- 
sidered as the habitation of the weird sisters and evil spirits. 
A farther account of this island, the angularity of which 
has led me into, I hope, no unpardonable digression, may 
be seen in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, vol. iii. p. 241."— 


And the rough rock^ whose ribs of marble brave 
The loud-resounding storm^ the dashing wave. 
Shall then submit to man's successful toil. 
And rise a taper spire^ or massy pile. 
^Vliilst nature thus laborious art subdues, 
A task more arduous still the saint pursues. 
He tames the savage mind ; he bids the fire 
Of pure religion pagan breasts inspire ; 
And Sion's sacred songs burst from the Celtic lyre. 

B. iii. p. 70. 

The magic bark pursues its way to the northern 
coast of Britain, and having towards evening reached 
the bay of Huna, on the Solway Frith, no sooner 
does Arthur touch the shore, than the vessel, to- 
gether with Merlin, instantly disappear, and the 
youth is left to total solitude and silence. Night 
approaches, and seeking rest on the greensward be- 
neath the shelter of a spreading beech, his slum- 
bers are visited by a vision of his country's future 
glory. He awakes towards morning greatly cheered 
and refreshed, and not a little astonished at be- 
holding at his side a suit of splendid armour ; nor 
less so when, whilst engaged in putting it on, he 
hears the neighing of a courser, and almost imme- 
diately afterwards perceives his favourite steed, who 
had so often borne him triumphant through the 
ranks of battle. 


Elate io mind, and high in resolve, he vaults 
into the saddle, and directs his course towards the 
heights of Cambria. As he passes he views with 
deep regret and indignation the ravages of the 
Saxon foe, and at length, after having wandered 
over many a hill and solitary wild, his further pro- 
gress seems arrested by the mazes of an interminable 
wood, through which, whilst endeavouring to force 
his way, h€ unexpectedly arrives at the foot of a 
pillar of black marble of immense height, and in- 
scribed with golden characters, purporting, that if 
he entertain any fear, or any distrust of Heaven, he 
may now retire in peace and safety; but* should 
he, notwithstanding the manifest danger and un- 
certain issue of the enterprise, persevere, be must 
be circumspect and brave. 

Having thrice read the inscription, he hesitates 
not to proceed, and, rushing through the wood, 
enters on an open lawn, where he percdves a shep- 
herd feeding his flock, and beyond, in the distance, 
a mountain crowned with the turrets of a stately 
castle. The shepherd approaching informs him, 
with every mark of fear and horror in his coimte- 
nance, that the castle to which he was directing his 
course was the work of enchantment ; that neither 


force nor art coiild ensure his admission, and that 
all who had essayed to enter it had perished. He 
then points out a path which would lead him, he 
asserts, in safety to where the British powers, after 
their escape from the Saxon fury at Carlisle, were 
assembled under the command of Lancelot and 
Cad<Nr, declaring that should he follow this direc^ 
tion, victory and fame would attend his steps, whilst 
any attempt to force the castle would assuredly ter- 
minate in disgrace and death. 

Arthur, indignant at this recommendation to fly 
from danger, and suspecting fraud and falsehood, 
as no peasant was likely in such a situation to be 
tending his sheep, or to be acquainted with the 
circumstances which he relates, after meditating 
awhile, attacks his informant, who instantly assum- 
ing the form of Urda, defies both him and Mer- 
lin, prophesying, at the same time, that Hengist, 
who defended the enchanted castle, and whom she 
had secured by spells of mighty power, should 
never fall by the arm of a Briton. Having said 
this ^e vanishes, and the late smiling lawn now 
puts on its native horrors, presenting hideous chasms 
and rocks, over which, had Arthur pursued the 
path she pointed out, he would instantly have been 


precipitatecL He returns thanks to Heaven for his 
presenratioo, and rushes towards the castle, deter- 
mined to conquer or to die. 

We have now a very bold and picturesque in- 
troduction of Hengist, the great Saxon chieftain, 
on the scene of action. Arthur, having crossed 
the draw4)ridge, reads on the portal, inscribed in 
characters of fire, that as long as this castle stands, 
Britain must bow beneath the Saxon yoke. In- 
furiated by this menace, 

A horn that hong beneath he seized^ and blew 
A dreadful note ; then o'er the bridge withdrew^ 
To meet whatever foe should tempt his might. 

Dread silence reigns awhile ; then backward bound 
The brazen gates^ with harsh and jarring sounds 
And wide-unfolded^ to his view display'd 
Hengist's dread form in sable mail array'd. 
A raven * sculptured on his helmet stood^ 
With fiery eyes^ and beak distain'd with blood : 

* *' The superstitious reverence in which this bird has 
been held by nations^ in language, manners, and situation 
widely difibrent^ is somewhat remarkable. The celebrated 
Spanish reviver of knight-errantry, to whom the hero of this 
poem was not unknown, informs Sancho that ' he was changed 
into a raven by enchantment, which the Britons expect will 
some day or other be dissolved, when he will return and re- 
possess his kingdom ; on which account no one in that coun- 
try will kill a raven.* The British bards, however, sop- 


Omen of death and havock : his huge shield 
Was blacky but studs of gold emblazed the shield. 

pose^ that after the battle of Camlan^ in which Mordreil was 
slain^ and Arthur grievously wounded, a fairy conveyed his 
body to Glastonbury to be cured ; whence he was, in process 
of tinie^ to return^ and be restored to his former regal autho- 
rity. Of his body's having been really found there^ in Henry 
the Second's time^ we have the testimony of Giraldus Cam- 
brensis^ who affirms that he saw his bones in an oaken coffin, 
which contained a leaden cross with this inscription : — 

' Hie j ace t sepultus inclitus rex Arturius in insult AvaloniS.' 

'< Radulphus Dicetus, in his History of the British Kings, 
says : ' Quia Britannica historia de ejus morte nil certum 
tradidit^ Britones adhuc eum vivere delirant' Fordun^ like- 
wise^ in his history of Scotland, mentions his having heard 
the same report, and that the foUoiving inscription was 
placed on his tomb : 

' Hie jacet Arturus rex quondam, rexque futurus.'' 

** In Selden's Illustrations on the third book of Drayton's 
Poly-olbion, a translation is given of a passage in Taliessen 
(Arthur's cotemporary) to the same purpose. Lydgate, ac- 
cording to the fictions of the Welsh bards, declares— 

' He is a king crowned in Faerie, 

With sceptre and sword, and with his roydUy 

Shall resort as lord and sovereigne 

Out of Faerie, and reigne in Brytaine' 

" Milton,-I suppose, must allude to this strange legend, 


(Heftven's pendant spangles thus with mingkd light 
Adorn th' expanded canopy of night.) 
And the hright hoss appear'd a splendid sun ; 
The proud device — '^ Uneqnall'd and alone." 

where he says, though I know not with what authority as 
to the geographical situation of the land of Faerie^ 

* Arthurumque etiam 9uh terru befia moventem.' 

" The credulity of the old Britons^ in this respect^ was at 
last so much the object of ridicule among other nations^ that 
it became proverbial : 

Quibus si credlderis 
Expectare poteris 
Artburum cum Britonibus. 

" In regard to the idea^ therefore, of Arthur s reviving 
and repossessing his throne, the knight appears to have had 
sufficient historical evidence in his peculiar line ; but it is 
not 80 easy to ascertain wh^ice he derived the intelligence 
of his having been metamorphosed into a raven. Certain, 
however, it is, to whatever cause we may ascribe it, that our 
country people in most parts of England scrupulously ah- 
stain from killing that bird. As we have no account of their 
being consitlered as ominous by the Druids, we may presume 
that the reverence in which the vulgar now hold them is 
derived from our Gothic ancestors. It is well known that 
the Danes attributed many marvellous qualities to their 
standard reqfan. The Swedes, Mr. Pennant informs us, 
and possibly the other northern nations, now pay a super- 
stitious kind of rei^ci to this bird> Which was considered by 
their ancestors as peculiarly sacred to Odin, who is styled 
in the Edda, corw)rM7»-(f«<*,"— Hole. 


Vast as the pine on Norway's storm-beat shore. 
By lightning blasted^ was the lance he bore. 
High mounted on a coal-black steed he rode. 
And the bridge shook beneath the mighty load. 

B. iii. p. 89. 

An animated description of the combat ensues, 
which is long contested, until Arthur, perceiving 
that the mail of his antagonist is impassive both to 
sword and spear, impels his shield against him with 
prodigious strength, and hurls him senseless to the 
ground. At this moment, and whilst he is pre- 
paring to follow up the blow, Hengist is involved 
in a cloud by the intervention of Urda, and snatched 
from his vengeance. The disappointed hero vents 
his anger on the unhallowed agents by whom this 
rescue has been effected, taunting them, and ex- 
claiming, that they must find a mightier champion 
for their cause, or he will soon lay yon lofty turrets 
low. Their reply, the description of their hideous 
forms, and of the mode by which they strive to 
deter him from attempting to enter the castle, are 
finely and graphically given in the following very 
powerful lines : 

" Long, Arthur, long these towers shall brave the sky !" 
Ten thousand voices suddenly reply, 


L/vui vTxaxmiur frnm 3t± sannm <! itstcm . uMsasi^ 

If jjpiM obaeene their direfcl Insnas Bsfo&i ; 
AT»d dragMtt, snn'd in sales of liizrai«h*d cv^U, 
Beat the mounding air with oatstretch*d vii^Sy 
Like ntthing ttonns, and shake their pointed sdngs. 
Sulphareous torraits roll the moat around 
Jn liquid flame ; the hoilii^ wares resooDd, 
And lash the m^ed walls : before Ifis eyes 
The bridge^ the portal fades ; Uad: T^pours rise^ 
And fiery flakes shoot through the dusky skies. 

Infernal spirits on the walls appear ; 
Here the sword blazes^ there the threat'ning spear ; 
Here, like a meteor^ levell'd at his hearty 
Gleams on the bending string the flame-tipp'd dart ; 
From each red eye-ball glanced the sparks of ire ; 
Kttch dismal front seem'd scathed with livid fire. 
With wrath o'crcast, and horror's blackest hue ; 
While wreathing on the winds their snaky tresses flew. 

B. iii. p. 87. 

Unnppalled by this tremendous array against 
him, Arthur hurls a bold defiance to the fiends, 
«nd| stretching out his shield and spear before him, 
clcnra the moat at one bound, when instantly, whilst 
thunders rock the ground, the infernal spell is 
bix>kon, and the castle, with all its demoa defendars, 
uieltA into thin air. 


Of this piece of machinery Mr. Hole has inge- 
niously availed himself to account^ in a manner 
highly poetical, for the mysterious structures on 
Salisbury plain ; as satisfactory an hypothesis^ per- 
haps, as any which has yet arisen from the con- 
flicting dreams of antiquarian enthusiasm. 

Destructive time^ with unresisted sway^ 

Mankind^ and all their labours^ sweeps away ; 

Exalts the valley, sinks the mountain low^ 

And bids the rapid torrent cease to flow : 

Thro' him^ where once enchanted structures graced 

The cloud-topp'd hill^ now glooms a lonely waste. 

Yet stilly memorial of their site^ remain 

The circling stones that rise on Sanun's plain ; 

The wondrous rocks, by power of magic laid 

To form its deep foundation^ undecay'd 

By him who all consumes^ are known to fame. 

And still retain the mighty Hengbt's * name. 

B. iii. p. 90. 

One of the first results of Arthur's courage and 
perseverance is the liberation of two of his friends, 
Lionel and Cradoc, from a loathsome dungeon, into 
which they had been thrown by the command of 
Hengist, and where they had endured the horrors 
of famine, and the apprehensions of a lingering 

♦ Stone-henge. 

fa-aci- if s d!^c.■.■vtf-^ IE lust: n 

T«i> Iui^Vm w ai TM o f^Efxi « :^ pvond 

tMOoffk j0mr wnetdKd Anib ! a aoUe ftc 
H'Miiid MMV !• aggravate the aptfrt't woe.' 

Tlieir *vkh vtD die Brindi boo karv. 
And in fm eyes cwdrd piiy'i pearij dew. 
TlMJr ttuhM mhoaad, be led tfaeni t'wxid the l^bt, 
Kut ah ! what horrid otijecn met hii ^ht ! 
'rlidr liBir, like cIMeclu, nmnd thor dKnLbi dni% '■ 
Kadi liiob wan trtalKii'd, vraj nerre imstnii^. 
rufir, meagre famine «Ue in dtfaer face— 
tCvtirict the manly form, and martial gnte. 
In bullow MKkeu dimly roU'd their tjm ; 
TUelt lab'rlng boMou heaved with frequent sighs. 
With (taggcrfng lUpt they totter o'er the ground, 
Aim) Halh at length their priMm'tulmoet hound; 
Thf PI ilrojiiiliig on the rerclant turf, inhale 
'I'lin jgng'kHit •weoinsH of the f^h'ning gale. 

B. iii. p. 91. 

KKrlimiilt'Iy for the Buffcrern, Arthur had with 


him a phial of sanative juice, the gift of Merlin, of 
power so potent, that no sooner had they partaken 
of its contents, than health and strength returned, 
and, with these blessings, the conscious happiness 
of being restored to freedom by their honoured 
prince. Lionel then relates, that, desirous of proving 
himself worthy of the love of his beautiful mistress, 
the fair Guendolen, he had sought for fame in di- 
stant lands, and at a tournament given by the king 
of Galicia, had most unexpectedly, in one of his 
opponents, recognized the voice of his beloved 
friend Cradoc. They challenge all competitors in 
honour of their native island, and are successful ; 
but their joy is overcast by learning the unhappy 
state of Britain. They determine to hasten to 
the assistance of their prince; and the Spanish 
monarch, whose friendship they had gained by their 
prowess and mutual attachment, aids them with a 
band of Galician warriors. On landing at South- 
ampton, they speedily become acquainted with the 
rumour that Hengist, through the ag^icy of infernal 
power, had constructed a magic castle, in which he 
laughed at his enemies, being assured by th^ de- 
mons, that, whilst it stood, his arms and influence 


would prevail. Lionel adds, that, eager to signalize 
their valour in behalf of their country, they resolve 
to attack Hengist in his enchanted hold ; but, as 
their situation has already too plainly told, fail in 
the attempt. 

An account is then given of the cruel treatment 
which they had experienced from the Saxon chief- 
tiun since their capture, a picture which possesses 
much of the strength and peculiar colouring of 

Our mighty but ungenerous foe 

Within yon gloomy cavern plunged us low. 

Dank was the floor ; our limbs strong fetters bound ; 

And toads and loathsome reptiles crawrd around. 

'* Here meet your doom !" the furious Hengist cried— 
*' Here pay the forfeit of presumptuous pride !" 
When the gate closed, and the last struggling ray 
Of light was vanished ; when we heard the key 
Turn on the grating ward, what wild despair 
Possest our souls ? we wildly rave, our hair. 
Our flesh we strive to rend : our chains deny 
Th' attempt : then still in silent grief we lie ; 
Wishing that fate our heavy eyes would close. 
And weight of sorrows dink us to repose. 
Repose not such, alas ! our soids desired, 
We find; with strong conflicting passions tired. 
Sleep seals our eyes : but ah ! though seal'd our eyes. 
Terrific objects to our sight arise : 


Th' unquiet mind's perturbed brood : a train 
Of nameless horror^ and chimsras vain ! 

We wake, and rage again our bosom rends^ 
And frenzy reigns ; but soon the tear descends 
In silent anguish. Though our wish was deaths 
Yet nature taught us to prolong our breathy 
E'en in our own despite: but nought t' assuage 
Thirst's burning pangs we found, and hunger's rage, 
S%ve noisome weeds, nursed by a scanty tide, 
Out-welUng from the cavern's rocky side 
That laved the muddy soil — thus, many a day. 
Though time we mark'd not, in despair we lay ; 
And surely, but for thy protecting might, 
A few short hours in everlasting night 
Had closed our eyes. May ne'er my deadliest foe 
Such horrors feel — such bitterness of woe ! 

B. iii. p. 97. 

The poet goes on to narrate, that Lionel having 
informed the prince that he had seen, on coming to 
this accursed place, a castle not far distant, em- 
bosomed in a wood, Arthur and his friends pro- 
ceed thither, and find it the habitation of the 
aged Ebrank, the father of Guendolen, who receives 
them with open arms. He and his daughter had 
beheld their approach from the battlements, and the 
fears of the former, lest they should be enemies, 
had been allayed by the latter declaring that she 
knew the foremost knight to be her long-lost Lionel. 


The meeting of the lovers is beautifully described, 
and Arthur, having spent the succeeding day with 
his hospitable host, takes his departure, directing 
Lionel and Cradoc to rejoin the Galician forces, 
whilst he, in obedience to the decrees of Heaven, 
pursues his way alone towards the mountains of 

The fourth booky at its commencement, reverts to 
some events which had taken place during Arthur's 
voyage to collect succours, and introduces us to 
Lancelot, the bosom friend of the prince, and one 
of the most intrepid defenders of the British crown. 
He is represented as walking in deep abstraction on 
the cliffs near Milford Haven, having escaped from 
Carlisle, after cutting his way, with great havoc, 
through the camp of Hengist, who, despising a con- 
test with warriors pent up in walls, was then in- 
vading Scotland; and who, on his retum, hearing 
of this achievement of Lancelot, is preparing to 
take revenge, when he is ordered by the Weird 
Sisters to retire into and defend the enchanted 
castle, whose destruction by Arthur we have wit- 
nessed in the preceding book. 

Lancelot who, ignorant of what had occurred to 
Arthur, had been for some time anxiously expect- 


ing the arrival of the prince in the bay with his 
auxiliary fcnrces, now rushes impatiently to the sea- 
side, when, to his great joy, he beholds the wished- 
for sails emerging from the horizon ; but, alas ! no 
sooner are the chiefs landed than he hears from 
them a relation of the supposed death of Arthur, 
whom they believe to have perished, when, deceived 
by Urda, they saw him plunge into the sea. Grief 
at these tidings spreads through the ranks of the 
British, whilst their allies, not only sorrow-struck, 
but desponding, talk of re-embarking for their na- 
tive soils, an intimation which calls forth from the 
indignant Lancelot the following strain of impas- 
sioned eloquence : 

Can cold dismay^ thus Britain's knight addrest 
The warriors, quench the fire in valour's breast ! 
Leaders of battle^ low the mighty lies ! 
But bloody not tears^ must grace his obsequies. 
Like wave on wave impelled in yonder bay. 
The race of man successive rolls away : 
Unnoted pass the feeble^ but the brave 
Survive to glory, and defy the grave. 
If such was Arthur, such your generous aim. 
Avenge him^ warriors ! emulate bis fame ! 
But if through terror vain those tears are shed, 
Disgraceful to yourselves, and of the dead 
Unworthy : — know, though you your aid deny, 
The sons of Britain shall the combat try. 

Thesr eoanary s wnmgst their Artfanr's sHoed shade. 
WlU nerve each arm, xad ed^ ch' svengxng blade- 
And when <mr death or compiot reach jonr tiar 
V(vr only death or conquer now is (fenr — 
Then, warriors, fiooch'd with generaiB dttOBe tw latr. 
Our iame yoa H envy, or hancnt omr fate, 

K XT. PL 114. 

T}»e appeal is not made in Tain; for the re- 
<ipC'CtiTe leaders now Tie with each other in second- 
ing the enthusiasm cf the Britisfa diirf; and, eager 
to avenge the apprehended death <^ Arthur, march 
instantly in seardi of the enemy. 

Meanwhile, Valdemar, king of Denmark, who, 
greatly to the umbrage of Hacon, the Ncnrw^an 
monarchy had been appointed by Hengist, during 
his absence, chief in command, holds a feast at Car- 
lisle; and, whilst all is revelry and mirth, some 
Hinging to the lyre their country's fame, or boasting 
of their own exploits, but by far the greater part 
immersed in dissonance and riot, their orgies are 
most appallingly broken in upon by the appearance 
of Odin, the Scandinavian god of war, whose form 
Urda had assumed for the purpose of inciting them 
to march instantly against the British chieftains, 
now rapidly appixxiching. 

The picture which Mn Hole has, in this place. 


given of the northern deity, and the address which 
he attributes to him, are at once splendid and 
characteristic, whilst the description of the joys of 
Valhalla^ the paradise of the Scandinavians, will be 
found in strict conformity with the representations 
of the Edda. 

Sudden, dark clouds tbe rafter'd dome overcast : 
Upwards they turn their anxious eyes aghast; 
And through the quick disparting shades behold 
Dread Odin^ seated on his throne of gold. 
Black vapours, such as clothe the wintry night, 
His footstool form'd ; a meteor's vivid light 
His brows encircled ; radiant arms he wore. 
And shook his flaming lance distain'd with gore. 
Loud^ as when thunder roars, he silence broke — 
The vast dome trembled as the phantom spoke. 

'^ Offspring of heroes ! famed in fields of fight. 
Who sport in danger, and in death delight. 
Does this become you, sons of battle ! say. 
To wear in shameful sloth the hours away ? 
Is this a time to feast in bower or hall. 
When foes, advancing, to the combat call ? 
The host you deem'd beneath the roaring main 
Overwhelmed defies you to the listed plain. 
The cloud of war on Cambrians height impends 
No more, but darkly-lowering hither bends. 
Awake, arise, and in your might confide ! 
Rush on, and let destruction be your guide ! 


Think on jcmr fadier's fame, your own renown, 
My fayoiir, who with joys perpetual crown 
The chiefs who boldly in the combat fall. 
And guide their spirits to my lofty hall^ 

* 0'er-arch*d with gdden shields, whose dazzling blaze 
Exoeeds the mid-day sun's unclouded rays. 

There shall each hero share, a welcome guest. 

The foaming goblet, and perpetual feast. 

Again their souls with martial fire shall bum. 

And host eonfiicting adverse host o'erturn : 

^Vhile bright Valkeries, bliM-eyed nymphs, shall crown 

With plausive smiles their actions of renown. 

Be conquest yours, and fame's unlading wreath. 

Or, more than victory, a glorious death !" — ^B. iv. p. 118. 

With this animated representation of Odin may 
I be permitted to compare two descriptions of the 
same deity from the unpublished Epic of Alfred, 
by Mr. Fitchett, a poem to which I have ah^ady 

* '^ The Scandinavian Valhalla, like the Mahometan para- 
dise, was supposed to have been roofed with shields. The 
Valkeries were employed by Odin to choobe in battie those 
who were to perish, and, like l3ie Houries, to wait on the 
selected heroes. These ' Posters of the sea and land' have 
been confounded by other writers, as well as Shakspeare, 
with the northern Parc« or Destinies : but the latter, ac- 
cording to Scandinavian mythology, had thdr abode near 
the great ash Ydrasil in A^ard, or ciit/ of the gods» Skulda 
only, the youngest <^ them, is mentioned in the Edda, as 


alluded in another work*, and which may be said 
to have incoiporated, with great vigour of ima^na- 
tion, the entire system of Scandinavian mythology. 

accompanying the Valkeries^ when engaged in fulfilling the 
commands of Odin. 

'^ From these beautiful divinities^ so they were once 
esteemed^ who bestrode the ' sightless coursers of the air,* was 
most probacy derived in subsequent times (with grief be it 
spoken) the degrading idea of witches riding upon broom- 
sticks. At least,' so soon as Christianity began to prevail, 
(vide Mallet's Northern Antiq. v. ii. p. 101, Transl.) severe 
edicts were promulgated in different kingdoms against those 
who travelled through the air in the night-time. The belief 
in such nocturnal flights, scarcely yet exploded among our 
country people, was the fashionable creed in the days of 
James the First. Had our aerial navigators started into 
existence a century or two sooner, they might possibly have 
exercised that monarch's sagacity how to bring them within 
the letter of the law. 

" A wild boar, whose flesh was daily renewed, supplied 
the heroes in Valhalla with food, after their revival from 
having cut each other in pieces. We are not, however, to 
suppose that this peculiar mode of diversion was instituted 
for their amusement only. These heroes were selected, on 
account of their distinguished valour, as assistants to the 
gods at that future period of time predicted^ in the £dda, 
when the evil genii should burst from their different confine- 
ments to wage war against them, and the destruction of all 
things ensue. On this account, it is said, their arms were 
buried with them." — Hole. 

* Shakspeare and his Times, vol. ii. p. 6i9, note. 


Of these portraitures, the first presents the god 
to his worshippers under the attitude of caknand 
majestic sublimity. 

Behold! amid 

Th* irradiate sky, by swift d^;ree8 display'd. 
Glory and light, as of a thousand suns. 
Burst through the blue meridian vault, and soou 
Aloft, in sight of all, through brilliant clouds 
On each hand parting from ^e splendid 'frame. 
Descended smooth a mighty chariot, rolled' 
Magnific, as of gold or hving fire. 
Its gorgeous wheeb, flashing purpureal rays. 
Upraised on high a concave blazing dome. 
Within whose vast recess, sublime enthroned. 
Sat a majestic shape, conspicuous ; clothed 
As in empyreal armour, and his brows 
Girt with a tow'ring crown, celestial bright. 
Awful he sat, nor seem'd in power and state 
Less than a god ; as with almighty arm 
He rein*d the furious tigers, whose huge forms. 
Floating terrific through the radiant air. 
Drew his resplendent pomp. Beside him hung 
His dazzling shield stupendous, and in range 
Of trophied grandeur countless lances shone. 
While his right arm upheld a flamy sp6ar 
High-eminent, which as a signal beam'd 
To thousand shapes of lineament divine. 
Who in refulgent train attendant moved 
After th' imperial car. — B. v. 

A still more striking delineation of Odin is given 



IQ the following lines, where he is brought before 
Us in the exercise of his most terrific functions : 

From Valhalla's courts. 

Conspicuous, arm'd in steel, with clashing noise. 
The god of war came striding over clouds, 
A pillar huge of fire ; likest a storm 
O'ershadowing heaven, pregnant with sulphurous flame. 
His golden shield beam'd like the setting sun ; 
His dreadfi^word was in his hand ; his look 
Might wither armies ; and upon his crest 
Death syf too terrible to view. — B. ix. • 

• As af specimen of the calm beauty, philosophic dignity, 
and tenfiemess of thought, which pervade a large portion of 
this exWiisive and elaborate poem, I must b^ leave to quote 
the following lines, being a part of the meditations of Alfired, 
in his seclusion beneath the cottage roof of the neat-herd, 
and under the persuasion that his queen had fallen a sacri- 
fice to the savage fury of his enemies. 

Ye stars, or beamy worlds, that hang on high 
Amid blue fields of air, shining in scenes 
Confineless in extent, before whose dome 
The roofs of earthly kings are mockeries. 
Ye speak with full and unconfuted voice 
Some pre-existent Sire, some vital soul, 
Wliose power first made, and still unceasing rules 
The structure of these heavens, and all the worlds 
That beam afar throughout unbounded &|paoe. 
^ These, Reason tells, no mortal hand could frame, 
In compass like, in order such, so fair. 
In grandeur so sublime :— the Power who these 

VOL. II. o 


Reverting, however, to the poem of Mr. Hole, 
we find Valdemari animated to enthusiasm by the 

First fonn'd, must needs surpass in wisdom^ mighty 
And goodness, sense of creature's intellect ; 
Infinite as unspeakable ; that made 
All we behold around, systems of worlds 
Stretching beyond weak fancy's utmost flight. 
Of which this earth is but a humble part. 


The good man's life connects this earth with heaven. 

And from this troubled scene he slides with ease 

Into a happier and more perfect state. 

Death has thus lost his terrors : and the good 

Sees here the dawn of being and new life. 

The soul divine, exercised and prepared 

In goodness, and whose native seat is heaven. 

Will there assume its own untainted bliss. 

Immortal and unchangeable of ill. 

Winging its way; free from material check. 

To share unfading happiness in scenes 

Of endless beauty and variety, 

Among angelic shapes and blessed spirits 

More various than men's minds, or stars, or flowers, 

Delights unspeakable as unconceived. 

Around the present thrdne of the Supreme, 

In still aseendiftg scale, progressive joys, 

Moi^, And more happy, through eternal time. 

As such gpoA spirit shall permitted know 

Diviflity, and of his gif^ partake. 

Oh ! there, thoii dearest partner of my soul, 

Imag^ of goodnless, lost, departed saiiit. 


appearance of Odin, summohing his waitior^ to be 
teisidy td take the field by dawn of day; whili^ 
Hacon, jealous of his authority, refuses to acknow^ 
ledge him as superior in command, and declares 
that he will march beneath no other banner than 
his own. Valdemar, anxious .to preserve unanimity, 
yields up his claim, and admits Hacon to an equa- 
lity of power, and to a perfect independence as to 
the marshalling and regulation of his own forces. 
The priests of Odin are then described as oflering, 
during the night, sacrifices to that deity, whilst one 
of them, instigated to prophetic ecstasy by the sug- 
gestions of Urda, declares that Arthur shall never 

Thou livest still ; thy pure angelic mind^ 

Clothed in a form of beauty ev'n on earthy 

From this low world's impure and sufi^ring strife^ 

Has been removed to meet society 

Of beings like thyself^ fair^ kind^ and good^ 

To dwell in happy realms^ where never tears^ 

Nor pain, nor fear^ can enter, but where all 

Is perfect peace : — — 

Oh ! if, through favour of the good Supreme, 

I where thou art may e*er aspire to be. 

In thy immortal purity ev'n thou 

Again wilt own me : there our sacred love 

We wiU retain ; and heaven itself to me 

Shall be more happy from thy presence there. 

Book xiv 



sway the British sceptre, until, violating every tie 
of concord, the most renowned of the northern 

PUnt in each other's breast the deadly woond, 

an announcement which seeming to afford them a 
sure presage of victory, they rush forward in two 
columns to meet the British army. 

Towards night, Lancelot and his forces are be- 
held approaching in the distant horizon, andHaoon, 
infuriated by the sight, advances instantly to a1>- 
tack them; but Valdemar, well acquainted with 
the bravery and determination of the British war- 
riors, arrests his course, and advises postponing the 
engagement until the morning, when the sun may be 
a witness of their might ; and Hacon^s reluctant 
assent to this proposition, the suggestion of pru- 
dence and experience, closes the fourth book. 

[To be continued.] 

No. XIX. 

Be it thine to save 
From dark oblivion Arthur's grave ! 


An apostrophe to Ambition, in which the poet 
laments the misery and the mischief which she and 
^er attendants, Terror and Danger, Pride and 
Contention, have entailed upon mankind under the 
qpecious name of glory, opens the ffik book of 
Arthur. Lancelot is then described, as morning 
beams, marshalling his troops, and after addressing 
them in the most animating language, he assigns 
to Fiacha, an Irish king, the conduct of that part 
of the army which he destines for the attack of the 
Norw^ians assembled under the command of Ha- 
con, whQst he himself, assisted by Hoel, confronts 
the Danes and Saxons led on by Valdemar. 

The Britbh and their allies commence the en- 
gagement by Fiacha^s march against the division 
of jEIaoon, who, kindling at the view, rushes for-^ 


wards to the head of his warriors^ and orders his 
bards to ang the song of battle, including a descrip- 
tion of Odin, and of his punishment of the coward, 
and reward of the brave, which inspires his wor- 
shippers with the most enthusiastic military ardour. 
The action now becomes general, and Hacon and 
his son Sweno particularly distinguish themselves. 
The latter, a youth of great promise, brave and 
generous beyond his compeers, and the grace and 
pride of his country, seems deservedly a favourite 
with the poet, and his deeds of heroism are minutely 

One (sf the most pleasing feature3 of epic poetry, 
fpom Homer to the present day, has consisted pf 
those little sketches which are so frequently given 
df the fallen heroes, when expiring beneath the 
might of their opponents, and which, from their 
usufdly mournful and pathetic strain, form a conr 
trast so delightful with the surrounding scenes of 
fi^ocity and carnage. 

Mr. Hole has been often singularly fortunate i^ 
the introduction of these touches of valedictory tmr 
demess, <nr domestic affection ; and in no case has 
he been more so, than where describing the death of 
<}otial, as he sinks beneath the arm of Sweno, he 

MORNINGS In spring. 199 

beautifully adds, in the very tone and spirit of 

Unconscious of her much-loved hero's fall, 
Ithona sits in Thomond's lofty hall. 
And bids the bards to him awake their lays— 
For who like Conal claimed the mead of praise ? 
Sudden, ere yet they touch'd the warbling wire. 
Burst mournful sounds instinctive from the lyre : 
And lo ! the dogs, companions of the chase. 
In shuddering terror gaze on vacant space. 
Their lord's sad image rises to their view ; 
Faint gleam his arms, and pallid is his hue. 
His dimly-rolling eyes on Thomond's fair 
In grief be bends ; then borne aloft in air. 
And wrapt in darkness on the gale he flies ; 
Deep mourn the faithful train, and bowlings wild arise. 
She marks the signs that speak her hero low ; 
Rends her dark tresses, beats her breast of snow, 
And gives her days to solitary woe *. 

B. V. p. 143. 

* ^' The images in this passage are borrowed frpm Ossiaq. 
^ I^ was formerly the opinion,' says Mr. J^acpbersoQj 
^ that the couls of heroes went immediately after tbeir 
death to the bills of their country, and the scenes they fre- 
qiiented the most happy times of their life. It was thought 
IQO, ,that dogs and horses saw the ghos^ of the deceasedf' 
Tbo (pinion that dogs perceived the appearance of any sUf 
pernatural being prevailed likewise in ancient Greeof . Those 
of Eumsus (Odyss. B. xvi. 1. 62.) are de^ribcd as being 


Hacon in the mean time singles out the Irish 
monarch, who is performing prodigies of yalour, 
as the object most worthy of his sword. He fails, 
howeyer, in his attack, for his courser being struck 
dead by the ponderous mace of Fiacha, he is 
thrown prostrate at the feet of his enemy, and the 
same weapon is about to extinguish his own ex- 
istence, when Sweno rushes to his aid, and directing 
his spear beneath the uplifted arm of Fiacha, 
pierces through his chest, and the brave Hibernian 
falls bathed in gore. 

• Panic-struck at this disastrous event, the Irish 
give way in every direction, and it is probable that 
the British would have shared the calamity, had 
not Arthur at this critical moment appeared on the 

terrified at the sight of Minerra^ though at the same time 
she was invisihle to Telemachus. It is remarkable that a 
similar kind of superstition should still prevail among our 
country people ; but Addison drew from real life when he 
represents a servant terrified at ' the candle's burning blue^ 
and the spayed bitch's looking as if 9he saw something* To 
which the others answer very characteristically : ' Ay, poor 
cur, she is ahnost frightened out of her wits; — I warrant 
ye she hears him (the supposed ghost) many a time, and 
often when we don't. ' "—Hole. 


Lo ! darting through the plain, in anns whose blaze 
Riyall'd the Bummer sun's meridian rays, 
A stately knight, on his hot courser borne. 
That champ'd the golden bit he seem'd to scorn, 
Appear'd, and loudly thus : '' To pale a£Eright 
Shall Arthur's friends submit in Arthur's sight? 
The dastard meets the fate he shuns ; the brave. 
By generous contest triumphs o'er the grave." 

B. V. p. 147' 

In short, the presence and invincible ardour of 
the British prince turn the fortune of the day; all 
rally around him, and rushing on the hitherto vic- 
torious Norwegians, he encounters Sweno, who had 
as yet found no equal. The result of the contest 
is the fall of this noble youth, whose death, and the 
consequent anguish of his father, are painted by the 
poet in strains worthy of the tenderness of Virgil. 

Hurl'd from his seat, beside the stream he lies ; 
Life's fading taper in his swimming eyes 
Dim-twinkling gleams: his golden locks bestrew 
The plain ; while struck with sorrow at the view. 
His faithful steed the languid head declines ; 
On the green bank his shatter'd helmet shines; 
O'er his broad buckler rolls the torrent grey. 
And tinged with blood pursues its mazy way. 

B. V. p. 149. 



Grief sweUs swells the breast of Arthur as he 
contemplates his fallen foe : 

Perchance, he cries, not mortal is the hlow : 
Few are thy years, yet mighty were thy deeds ; 
And sorrow melts my soul when valour bleeds. 

Sweno, however, meets death not only with calm 
and heroic firmness, but, acting up to the stem 
creed of his country, with welcome, rejoicing that 
instead of living vanquished, he had fallen beneath 
the arm of the valiant ; and his only suit is, that 
his arms and his body may be given to his father, 
a request which still further excites the oommisera- 
tioi^ of his conqueror : 

Farewell, brave youth ! thus Uther's generous mm 
Mournful exclaim'd, what glory hadst thou won 
If fate vouchsafed thee but a longer day ! 
Sweno, farewell ! thou bright, but transient ray— - 
Approach, ye sacred bards, to whom belong 
The warbling lyre, and joy-diffusing song. 
Not against you the vengeful blade we raise. 
Who bid the hero live to future days — 
Approach in safety, and dismiss your fear : 
To his sad sire the breathless warrior bear ; 
And (may it soothe his troubled breast), relate 
He fell by Arthur, who bewail'd his fate. — B. v. p. 154. 

The distress of Hacon on learning the event is | 


poignant in the extreme ; he views the dead body 
of his son in speechless agony, and, at length, throw*- 
ing himself on the corpse, refuses to rise or to be 
oomforted. His friends are alarmed, and Oswald, 
one of his bards, indignantly exclwns 

Is this the haughty chiefs 

Who wades to fame through war's empurpled tide^ 
Terror his loved compeer^ and Death his guide ! 
Cm he lament the warrior's envied state. 
By valour placed beyond the reach of fate ? 
His destined course thy son with honour ran> 
And fell a hero ere he lived a man. 
That be his praise^ to glory in it thine; 
'Tis Hacon's right to triumph, not repine ! 

The voice of Nature, however, cannot be sup- 
pressed, and the reply of the bereaved parent is 
full of truth and tenderness : 

Cease, cease, he cried : can words relief impart. 
And pluck the shaft of anguish from my heart ? 
Behold yon blasted oak ! canst thou array 
Its wither'd branches in the pomp of May? 
Bid it again exalt its towering head. 
And to the winds its leafy honours spread? 
Spring will return — but ne'er returning spring 
Around its trunk the verdant wreath shall fling : 
N<MP time revolving to my view restore 
My hero's budding honours . . . .— B* v. p. 16S, 


Reoova^ in some degree from the paroxysm of 
his grief, his first thought is to rush upoo the 
enemy and avenge the death oi his son ; but his 
bards reminding him that unless sepuldual ho- 
nours are now paid to Sweno, his body, firom the 
chance oi war, may be left a prey to wolves, he 
alters his resolution, and retires with them in order 
to celebrate the funeral rites. 

Whilst these things are passing in one part of 
the field, the forces under Lancelot and Valdemar 
are contending in the other with as yet undecided 
fortune. The two leaders, however, at length meet, 
and every eye is fixed upon them in silent expects^ 
tion. The combat is long and obstinately main- 
tained; but, at last, Valdemar^s horse, trampling 
on a splintered spear, is wounded in the hoof and 
falls, whilst Lancelot, disdaining to take advantage 
of the accident, dismounts and continues the con- 
test on foot. At this moment the Danes, trembling 
for the life of their monarch, assail the British chief- 
tain from a distance with missile weapons, and he 
is wounded severely though not fatally. The out- 
rage is instantly retaliated by the friends of Lan- 
celot, who sweep all before them, and the engage- 
ment again becomes general. Valdemar meantime 


having obtained another war-steed, flies to the aid 
of his warriors, and turas the tide of victory. He 
slays Urien; and Hoel, the Armorican king, is 
about to experience a similar fate, when loud groans 
and shrieks are heard from the other divi^on of the 
Saxon army, and Ida, one of its leaders, bleeding 
and desperately wounded, is seen crossing the plain 
and rushing into the presence of Valdemar : he im^ 
plores him to hasten to their assistance, for that 
Arthur had slain their noblest knights, and that 
his friend, the brave Biomo, was no more. Having 
sud this, and again urged immediate vengeance^ 
he drops down dead, exhausted from fatigue and 
loss of blood. 

Valdemar, who, whilst the Saxon was yet speak- 
ing, had beheld the shameful rout, now hastens to 
the support of his friends, trusting to arrest the arm 
of Arthur, and calling upon him in defiance as he 
advances. Arthur hears and instantly confronts 
him ; but the weird sisters, fearful of the issue of 
the combat, strike the horse of Valdemar with 
frenzy, and immediately, impelled by rage and ter- 
ror, he rushes with irresistible impetuosity through 
the ranks, bearing his enraged and reluctant masiter 
from the field, in spite of every effort to impede his 


course. Arthur pursues, tautiting and defying the 
unhappy Saxon, who had rather have met the dead-^ 
liest wounds which his enemy could inflict, than 
the threats and reproaches he was now condemned 
to hear. The pretematttral speed of his courser^ 
however, soon releases him from this vexation ; the 
voice of Arthur and the roar of the distant battle 
die upon his ear, and, as evening closes in, he enters 
the remote forest of Celidon, where his horse, re- 
leased from the maddening pest, sinks beneath him, 
and expires without a groan. 

Harassed 'in mind, and fatigued in body, the 
disappointed chieftain rests for a while on the bank 
of a gushing streamlet. Then starting with anguish 
from the spot, he lifts his eyes to heaven, and 
whilst the recollection of this compulsory flight 
presses heavy on his heart, bursts forth into the fol- 
lowing pathetic appeal, which, with the reflection 
naturally arising from it, furnishes us with a grace- 
ful and very interesting close of this division of the 

O sun ! who, sinking from thy towering height^ 
Hast seen me borne reluctant from the fight ! 
Thou conscious moon ! ye glittering orbs on high^ 
That grace her course and gild the glowing sky ; 


Witness this bosom^ though to flight oompell'd^ 

With rage indignant^ not with terror swell'd. 

And you^ my friends^ whom I behold no more^ 

My tried associates in the battle's roar^ 

Witiiess^ from danger's front I never fled ; 

Where raged the conflict^ where the mighty bled^ 

Your monarch strove. Your rampart was his shield^ 

His sword your beacon shone in glory's field. 

Ahj friends beloved ! for whom I mourn in vain^ 

Whose spirits wander o'er the fatal plain ; 

Or hovering on the breeze around your chief, 

Mark his wild anguish^ and partake his grief! 

A while your flight to Odin's hall delay ; 

To Thora's ear the mournful tale convey. 

Tell her^ by fraud betray'd^ hot force o'erthrown^ 

I fled — that conscious honour is ray own. 

That Valdemar^ resolved his fatd to brave^ 

Will never sink a coward to the grave : 

But on the Briton^ — Vengeance bend thine ear ! 

Requite his wrongs^ or cease those wrongs to bear. 

Should I no more to Denmark's coast return^ 

Forbid the fair with bootless tears to mourn 

My fate— to her belongs a nobler care; 

Hialmar lives to pour the storm of war 

On Britain's coast ; t* avenge his sire's disgrace^ 

And guard the honours of a marti^ race. 

Thus as he spoke^ in spite of manly pride^ 
From his swoll'n eyes forth gush'd the genial tide. 
Tb' endearing joys that crown domestic llfe> 
The smiling ofispring and the fdthful wife 
Rise on his soul. Ye haughty sons of fame ! 
Whose generous spirits high resolves inflame^ 


When uig'd to armt you quit your dwrUng fair. 
Or tender babet, soft objects of your care. 
Can stubborn honour then your bosoms steely 
Or martial pride subdue the pangs ye feel ? 
Ah no ! the sigh supprest, the heart-wrung groan> 
Rereala the anguish that you dare not own. 

B. y. p. 168. 

In the sixth book the poet transports us to a 
winter scene in Lapland, which he describes with 
great strength and minuteness. Here, as to a 
place oongemal with the malignancy of their nature, 
which loves to contemplate the features of wreck 
and desolation, the weird sisters are accustomed at 
times to resort ; and two of them are now drawn 
as performing their direful incantations in a tre- 
mendous cavern on this savage coast. The picture, 
notwithstanding the anticipations of our great dra- 
matist, is a very fine one, and merits reproduction 
alike for the vigour of its tone and the grandeur of 
its conception. 

There, a vast cave, unknown to mortal eyes, 
Deep^buried in a pathless forest lies : 
Huge icicles, impending from the height 
Of beetling clifis, tinged with transparent light, 
Like polish'd spears reversed, its jaws surround. 
And shoot their many-colour'd rays around. 


But darkness reign Id within ; save when retired. 
With quenchless hatred to mankind inspired. 
The sisters meet ; then mix'd with vap'rous gloom. 
Flames bursting through the central point illume 
The dismal cavern ; while from realms profound 
Spirits unblest arise, and wheel around 
In mystic dance. There now in orgies dire, 
'Gainst Britain's prince to wreak their ruthless ire, 
Valdandi, Skulda join — can man proclaim 
Th' imhallow'd rite-^" the deed without a name !" 
The deed, which startles e'en the fiends of night. 
At which, if acted in day's sacred light. 
The sun, with horror struck, had backward fled. 
Or veil'd in darkening clouds his blazing head. 

B. vi. p. 1 75. 

The responses of the demons being of doubtful 
import, and not such as the sisters require, their 
invocations are repeated with still more dreadful 
potency, when Urda, dimly descried through the 
lurid gloom, approaches with the body of Hengist, 
yet insensate from the blow which he had received 
from the arm of Arthur. She joins in the invocation, 
reproaching the fiends for their tardy vengeance, 
and commits her fallen hero to the protection of 
the sister Fates, in language which breathes all the 
deep fervour of prophetic enthusiasm : 

" Spirits of night ! reception due prepare : 
Take him, my sisters, to your guardian care. 



His former Strength renew; and thraogh bis soul 
Bid the swoll'n tides of rage and yengeance roll. 
Whatever the impoke of his mind inspires^ 
Regard, nor counteract his wfld desires ; 
But whilst Ids breast with high-wrought fury gl6ws> 
Hurl him, like heaven's red bolt, to blast our foes, 
I breathe the scent of cumage ! death pursues 
His course, and royal blood his sted embrues ! 
Visions of keen delight ! why interpose 
These hated clouds, and on the prospect close ? 
Sisters, rejoice ! behold, enough is known — 
Fate aids our will— destruction is our own ! — 
Receive your charge." This said, she swift enshrouds 
Her form of terror 'raid encircling clouds. 
And rushing forward on the howling blast. 
The groaning forest trembled as she past. 

B. vi. p. 177. 

Hengist, awakening from his death-like swoon, 
beholds far other objects than the scenes of terror 
just described; for the cavern and its faell-bom 
dhapes have vani^ed, and a hall of exquisite beauty 
and symmetry me^ts his view. It is supported by a 
central pillar of white marble, whote ramifications 
diverge over the ceiling, and illumined by pendant 
lamps and reflecting gems, whilst ministering spirits, 
under the form of beautiful youths, stand found 
his couch, and endeavour to soothe his ear with the 
most delightful melody. 


Nolhing, however, ^n lidl to rest tlie tix>QUied 
and indignant apirit of Hen^t. His late disgrace 
{M-esses heavy on his n^ind, and he t^xMttophiaes 
the weird sisters ia to angry imd tauntitig stram, 
charging th^m with having not only deceived him 
as to their promised aid iti obtaining Inogen and 
the British kingdpm, but having been, in fiict, thk 
cause of his incurring the reproach of recreancy, in' 
ahunning the proffered combat ndth Arihiir inttfae 
isle of Ligon. 

Scarcely had the accusation escaped his fips, 
whto Valdandi and Skulda, rising, through the 
yawning earth, appear before him, and, bidding 
him to declare his wishes, proinise a compliance 
with them. He expresses a dei»re to resemble Ar« 
thur in person, fame, and interest with Inogen ; a 
desre no sooner formed than partly granted ; for 
through thdr potent agency he assumes the fomi, 
and voice, and arms of the British prince, and U 
told, that having effected these changes, and con- 
ducted him to the residence of Inogen, they haVe 
accomplished all within their power, for that his 
further influence vnih the maid must rest with him- 
self ; adding, as the strongest motive to his perse- 
verance, that, should. he succeed in obtaining the 



kfve of Inogen, the sons of Odin would for ever fill 
the throne of Britain. Yet they reluctantly con- 
fefls, at the same time, the danger to be great, and 
the ev^t to them unknown. This latter intimation, 
however, shakes not the resolution of Hengist, and 
he is instantly conveyed by Valdandi, in a chariot of 
clouds, to the summit of Rawran, a mountain from 
which they have a view of the spot in which Inogen 
is concealed. Valdandi then presents the Saxon with 
a milk-white steed, and vanishes. 

We have now a very beautiful description of the 
bower of Inogen, as raised by the protecting skill 
of Merlin, and in which Mr. Hole appears to have 
put forth no inconsiderable portion of his strength. 
The following lines, a part of this pleasing picture, 
form a striking contrast with the Lapland sketch 
just given. The poet, after mentioning the grateful 
gloom which the intermingling branches of several 
aged oaks fling over the boundaries of this retreat, 
adds — 

Oft as beneath their shade deep-musing stray'd^ 

At nighty or dewy eve^ the British maid, 

When the bright moon adom'd heaven's spangled plain^ 

Before her sight arose the fairy train, 

In white-plumed helms^ and vests of splendid hue, 

Cloud-fonn*d> and deck'd with quivering gems of dew. 


And while^ to crown the revels of the nighty 
Obedient glow-worms lend their living light. 
Their sweet-toned lyres the little minstrels sweep. 
And the charm'd winds in placid silence sleep. 
A sprightly band, accordant to the sound, 
With measured steps in circles print the ground. 
At blush of mom they vanish from the view. 
And night's pale empress wrapt in shades pursue. 

E'en in these latter days, by forest green. 
The swain, benighted, oft their sports has seen. 
Thus potent fancy can the sense enchain, 
Form, and embody forth her airy train 
In simplest minds, and give to vacant eyes 
What sterner Wisdom to her sons denies. 
Impressions sweet and strange ! Alike her sway 
Th* inventive bard and humble swain obey. 
Yet we in one, their lot so difibrent, find 
The daring effbrts of the glowing mind. 
That *' scales invention's heaven/' While censure vain 
And keen derision mock th' unletter'd swain ; 
Though to his view ideal forms arise. 
And Fancy gilds them with her brightest dyes. 

B. vi. p. 184. 

Lovely, however, as is this sequestered abode, 
the seat of eternal spring, diversified with all the 
charms of hill and dale, of wood and water, re- 
sounding with the melody of birds, and adorned 
with fruits and flowers of every varied hue and 
odour, it is still to Inogen a place of confinement ; 
and she cannot contemplate the distant mountains 


without a longing deidre to be amidst them, free 
and mifettered as the breeze that sports upon their 
sides and passes on. This feding, so natural to 
the mind under restriction, has drawn from our 
bard a truly eloquent and heartfelt eulogium on 
the blessings of liberty, one, indeed, of the most 
animated and impressiTe passages in the poem : 

Oh, Liberty ! thy precious smiles can cheer 
The banen heaib, apd howling wild endear. ' 
The wretch, cm whom thy beam no longer shines^ 
'Mid pleasure sickeoi^ and in plenty pines. 
No joys luxurious the wild Arabs need ; 
Their wealth the missiye lance and bounding steed. 
Fearless they sogor along the dreary waste^ 
Nor heed the whirling sands and sultry blast. 
Would tbey, who 'mid the scenes of danger sporty 
IVefer the tasteless pleasures of a court ? 
Exchange the hide-f<Min'd couch for beds of down. 
And 0¥m the terms of a monarch's frown. 
To share his grandeur ? No^ they higher prize 
Those heartfelt blessings Liberty supplies. 
To think, speak^ act, by no harsh laws confined. 
Is thehns^the charter of the firee-bom mind ! 
Thirst giv^ a flfrour to the crystal s]^ng. 
More sweet than crowns the nectar of a king ; 
And toil adds relish to the frugal meal, 
A reliidi pamper'd pomp can never feel. 

B^ yj. p. 18S. 

Whilst Inogen, absorbed in thought^ sighs as 


she muses on the past, and looks forward to the 
future with apprehension, she is awakened from her 
reverie by the distant sound of arms, and ahnost 
immediately afterwards perceives a knight approach- 
ing through the glade. It is Hengist, under the 
form of Arthur, and, deceived by the closeness of 
the resemblance, she receives him with joy. To her 
eager inquiries after her friends and the state of her 
country, the treacherous Saxon replies, that her 
father, no longer wishing to protract their union, 
bad sent him to conduct her where the Britons, as* 
sembled in arms, weiie waiting impatiently to receive 
their prince and the fair object of his vows, having 
sworn that her approving smile should lead them 
on to conquest and to glory. She reluctantly rer 
fuses to accompany him, urging her father^s com- 
mands not to leave the bower until dhe has per- 
mission to do so from his own lips. On this, the 
supposed Arthur bitterly complains of her un- 
kind mistrust of his words, and exclaiming, in well- 
fdgned agony, that he is loved no more ; the doubt, 
the anguish, and the terror, which in turns distract 
her bosom, receive a delicate yet vivid illustration 
from the following beautiful simile, which strikes 
me as possessing merit of no common kind : 


Ai tome pelladd current that divider 

The flower-embroider'd valley^ while it glides 

By the pale lily, or the blushing rose^ 

Now shines in whiteness, now with crimson glows : 

Thus varying colours clothe the virgin's cheeky 

And the strong conflict of her soul bespeak. 

Can she to Arthur's suit regardless prove ? 

Can she suspect the tender voice of love ? 

But then the promise to her awful sire — 

Noj death 's less dreadful than a father's ire. 

B. vi. p. 192. 

As she is thus wavering between the conflicting 
emotions of love aiid duty, the knight, aware of the 
advantage he has already obtained, continues to 
press her with yet greater urgency, finally affirming, 
that Merlin had warned him of immediate danger ; 
and that, in fact, if she does but look around her, 
she may see her foes approaching. She gazes with 
astonishment as she beholds the distant mountains 
crowned with armed men, and the Saxon banners 
floating in the breeze ; and alarmed not only for 
her own fate, but for that of her lover, and hurt, at 
the same time^ by his injurious suspicions, she re-^ 
signs herself at length to his direction, and they 
hasten from the bower. 

Fully confiding iii him whom she deemed to he 
her faithful Arthur, they jouniey on together, be- 


^uiling the way with interesting converse, when, as 
the evening approaches, they are met by Cador, a 
jouth of great promise, and one of the confidential 
friends of the British prince ; who, on first per- 
ceiving them at a distance, had assumed an attitude 
of defiance ; but, as soon as he descries the well- 
known armour of his beloved lord, he drops his 
spear^ and hails him with rapture* He states, that 
having only lately heard, whilst on the farthest coast 
of North Wales, that Lancelot was preparing to 
lead the British forces against the enemy, he had 
resolved instantly to join them, and was, for this 
purpose, pressing forward, when, not many hours 
ago, as the morning dawned, he had encountered a 
Skxon knight who defied him to combat, and that^ 
after a sharp contest, he had slain him. Hengist 
impatiently inquires the name of the warrior who 
had fallen, and being shown his buckler, imme^ 
diately recognizes it as that of his brother. Filled 
with grief and fury, and forgetting the character 
which he had assumed, he bids Cador take the re- 
ward of his valour, and plunges his sword to the 
hilt in his bosom. Inogen, shocked and astonished 
at the deed, attempts to fly, but Hengist restrains 
her, and pushing forward his steed, they enter, as 


night comes on, a dark and dismal foresty where 
nothing is heard save the screech of the mght- 
owl^ the croak of the toad, and the howl of the 
wdf. Overcome with tenor, the unhappy maiden 
finnts, and her stem companion, apprdiensive that 
he is about to lose his prey when just within his 
grasps tries every means to recover her. She re- 
vives, and makes another effort to escape; but, 
again detaining her, he endeavours to induce the 
belief that Cador had become a traitor to the 
British cause, that the buckler had belcHiged to a 
noble Briton, and diat he had consjnred to yield 
her charms a prey to the Saxon. She treats the 
tale with the utmost contempt ; and on beholding 
himsdf, notwithstanding the form he bears, and all 
his wiles to excite compassion, an object of aversion 
and horror, he determines no longer to postpone the 
gratification of his purpose, and, throwing aside his 
armour, he attempts to get possession of her person 
by force. Fortunately the piercing dirieks which 
she now utters are heard by one ever ready to suc- 
cour the distressed ; for the {orest happens to be 
that into which Valdemar had been carried from 
the pursuit erf Arthur by the frenzy of his horse. 
The Dane, awakened by her cries, starts from his 


sleep, and perceiving, by the glimpete of the moon, 
which had by this time risen^ the gleam of arms, 
and the well known lineaments of Arthur^s face, he 
rushes on him with indignant fury, branding him, 
as \e imsheaths his weapon, as a stain to knight- 
hood and a dishonour to his country. 

Instantly a murky darkness shrouds the moon, 
the thunder rolls in drieadful peals, and the most 
vivid lightning traverses the gloom, whilst the spi- 
rits of the night, shrieking through the storm, en- 
deavour to prevent the deadly feud, calling on them 
to-forbear imbruing their hands in kindred blood, 
nor suffer the fates to forewarn them in vain. Heed- 
less, however, of every thing but the gratification 
of th^r own mutual rage, they pierce each other, 
stript as they are of their defensive armour, with 
innumerable wounds; and the result, forming the 
hinge on which the destiny of the British hero turns, 
it would be injustice not to give in the animated 
language of the poet himself: 

The combat 'b q'er—ihe shrieks of death resound j 
The tempest rolls away ; and on the ground 
Brave Valdemar lies breathjess : by his side 
Stem Hengist sinking, thus in fury eried : 

^' Such agonizing pangs as these I fSsel^ 
Keen as the searcbings of this deadly 8teel> 


Ye hagi of darkneM, be it yofara to know 
In Nifleim*8 gloomy depth, th' abode of woe !— 
Ha ! ia it thou, whose erring hand destroys 
My life, and blasts my hope of promised joys ?** 
(For now the moon her sfdendid coarse resumed. 
And her bright train th* ethereal arch illumed.) 
** But 'tis enough ! thy death 's thy folly's meed ; 
Not meanly foil'd, nor unrevenged, I bleed. 
High be my seat in Odin's lofty hall ! 
No warrior lives to boast of Hengist's falL'* 
On Valdemar's deep wounds he bends his eyes 
With joy malignant — grimly smiles and dies*. 

B. vL p. 204. 

* " Olaus Magnus concludes his account of the military 
exercises of the old Scandinavians in the following manner : 
' Tales erant, ut eis nullus labor insolitus, nullus locus as- 
per, aut arduus erat, non armatus hostis formidolosus, non 
mors ipsa errorem eis incutere valuit; adeo ut quandoque in 
duello morientes soluto i9 risum ore per summam doloris 
dissimulationem spiritum reddiderint.' L. 15. c. 16.— 
Quintus Curtius relates (1. 7. c. 10.) that Alexander, having 
condemned to death some Sogdian prisoners, the inhabitants 
of a country adjacent to ancient Scythia, was surprised at 
their testifying great joy by dancing and singing, and de- 
manded the reason of it. They informed him, that to perish 
by the ignoble (the same sentiment prevailed among the 
Goths) was disgraceful ; but to be restored to their forefa- 
thers by so illustrious a conqueror caused them to celebrate 
their fate by dancing, and singing their customartf songs. 
This peculiar mode of defying or welcoming death strongly 
resembles the ferocious contempt which the North American 



It is only necessary to add, as the concluding 
event of this book, that Inogen, the instant she is 

Indians display at its approach. Many instances of the 
kind are given by Bartholine. He mentions (1. 1. c. 5.) a 
Danish princess, who> though her husband was slain before 
her face, and her son transfixed with spears, neither grew 
pale at the approach of death, nor changed the serenity 
of her countenance; but with her last breath resolutely 
declared that the shedding her blood should cause the 
destruction of her enemies. A warrior being taken prisoner, 
and offered his liberty, rejected it; but gratefully acknow« 
ledged his enemy^s generous indulgence, in permitting him^ 
according to his request, to be burnt alive with some of his 
particular friends. Another endures unmoved the sharpest 
torments; answers with great composure his enemies' in« 
terrogatories, and talks with the same cheerfulness as if 
sitting at a banquet. Another, while his intestines were 
pulling out, is said not to have uttered a single groan. Bar<» 
tholine quotes in a different chapter (1. 1. c. 10.) the epice-^ 
diuro, which he sung while suffering the most grievous tor- 
ments It is much in the same style with Lodbroc's well 
known ode, and like that, in several places, greatly resembles 
the death-song of a Canadian savage. It appears probable, 
that the Norwegians, (vide Mallet's- Hist, of Denmark, v. 1. 
c. 11.) in the tenth and eleventh centuries, discovered that 
part of America, and made frequent voyages to it. To sup- 
pose that so peculiar a mode of setting death and their ene-> 
mies' cruelty at defiance originated from those adventurers 
who settled there, and in process of time might have been 
incorporated with the original inhabitants, would be tod 



fireed from the embrace of Hengist, by the appear- 
ance of the Danish monarch, bounds away through 
•the forest, terror giving wings to her speed. 

We now return, at the opening of the seventh 
and last book, to the hero of the poem, whom w6 
had left at the close of the fifth eagerly pursuing 
the unfortunate Valdemar, until that chieftain and 
his infuriated steed w^re lost, as night came on, in 
the shades of Celidon. Arthur, now finding every 
effort to overtake his enemy for the present unavjdl- 
ing, gives up the pursuit, determined that^ wlien 
morning dawns, the forest shall no longer conceal 

hasardous a conjecture. A similarity between the customs of 
barbarous nations is no proof of their being descended from 
the same race of people; yet where the resemblance is sin"- 
gular and striking, as in die above and following instance, 
it may not appear unworthy notioe, though no particular in- 
ference can be drawn from it. The old Scy thians^ according 
to Herodotus (1* 4-) niade cups of their enemies' skidls, and 
carried their scalps about them, as marks itf thdr valour and 
emblems of victory. It is well known that the Indians in 
North America consider the latter in the same light. The 
Godis, who are generally allowed to be descended from the 
ancient Scythians^ being no less polished than they were, and 
somewhat more so than the Canadian nations now are^ neg- 
lected the scalps of their enemies^ but fashioned^ like &dr 
ancestors^ their skulls into cups, as more durable and elegant 
troiphies of their military renown."— Hole. 


him fiom hist vengeance. In the mean time, himself 
and his courser being nearly exhausted by their 
exertions, he anxiously looks round for a place of 
shelter and repose, and, at length, meets both be- 
neath the friendly thatch of a shepherd. 

Deep in a yale^ adjacent to the wood^ 
A humble dome^ a straw-roofed cottage istood ; 
There dwelt a peasant and his gentle wife — 
Unknown to sorrow flow'd their peaceftd ISe ; 
In rural cares their fleeting hours were spent ; 
Their labour pleasure^ and their wealth content. 

He is received by this lowly but honest couple, 
as soon as their first fears and astonishment are 
subdued, with the utmost simplicity and kindness. 
They are sitting at their evening meal, and invite 
their guest, whom they yet view with mingled awe 
and admiration, to partake of it. The scene is one 
on which the poet seems to dwell with complacent 
delight; and he has brought before us a picture 
that, in point of domestic sweetness and natural 
beJEiuty, has seldom been excelled, and which, in 
some of its features, reminds us of that exquisitely 
tender passage at the close of the sixth Iliad, where 
the child of Hector is represented as shrinking with 


terror from his dazzling armour and nodding crest. 
Of Arthur, who had just succeeded in allaying the 
apprehensions of his new friends, it is said — 

His helm unbraced, how mild his features shone ! 
Soft as the radiance of the setting sun. 
The children, frighten'd at the armour's blaze. 
Cling round the mother, and in terror gaze. 

While smiles benignant brig^ten'd o'er his face. 
He dasp'd their tender hands with gentle grace. 
And thus address'd them : '^ Every fear remove. 
Ye lovely objects of connubial love I 
Curst be the wretch who wrongs your tender years. 
And fills the harmless shepherd's eye with tears.'* — 

Embolden'd by the hero's words advance 
The infant pair ; ofttimes his weighty lance 
They vainly strive to lift, and, half afraid. 
Touch the keen edge of his destructive blade. 
Now mid the helm's white plumes their fingers stray. 
And with its sculptured forms delighted play. 
The mother frowns and chides ; whilst in her eyes 
Joy conscious springs, and her feign'd wrath belies. 

And now the cheerful fire is raised; the board 
With choicer viands spread ; while Britain's lord 
To each fond child beside him placed imparts 
The grateful cates, and wins their little hearts. 

With added joy the parents' bosoms glow. 
And blessings on their noble guest bestow ; 
And form the wish they never felt before, 
That fate had granted them an ampler store 


Of Fortune's fovours ; but the wish how vain ! 
Souls fraught with honour idle pomp disdain. 
They mark the e£S>rts of the heart alone ; 
And willing minds all other wants atone. 

Oh Hospitality^ thou power benign ! 
Though others bow not at thy sacred shrine^ 
Yet may'st thou never from this realm depart^ 
But find a temple in each British heart ! — ^B. viL p. SIS. 

Invigorated by repose,, the prince rises eariy in 
the morning, and after taking leave of the kind cot- 
tagers, who follow him with their blessings and 
prayers, he enters the wood in pursuit of V^ldemar, 
calling upon his name, and defying him to combat. 
At length, wearied by fruitless search, he is about 
to quit it, when he is met by a knight wearing on 
his helmet a wreath of laurel mixed with cypress, 
and whom, to his surprise, he immediately discovers 
to be Cradoc. The chief informs him that he and 
Lionel had lately encountered and defeated the 
Saxons, led on by Ulfin, on the banks of the Avon, 
but that Guendolen, the faithful and beloved mis- 
tress of his friend, had perished during the action. 
She had followed him to the battle disguised as a 
youthful warrior, and perceiving him, owing to the 
fall of his horse, exposed to the sword of the exult- 
ing Ulfin, she rushed forward to intercept the blow, 



and was slain by that mercikss Gfaieftain. Arthur 
asks, though with much anxiety and apprehension, 
if his friend be yet living; an inquiry which calls 
forth from the affectionate Cradoc the following 
tender and sympathising tribute : 

If thai may life be caU'd, the knight refdiesy 
Id tileut aogaiib, tean, and broken ag^ 
To shun the tight of man^ the fiioe of day. 
And wear in lonely shades the hours away. 
He lives ; bat, ah ! with me his fate deplore. 
He lives to friendship and to fame no more. 
To roam the wild, to stem the surging main. 
And mix with warriors in th' embattled plain. 
Be henceforth mine alone : the rage of fight. 
And shoats of heroes give severe delight. 
Then, though they fall, they fall as snits the brave. 
And sweet the sorrow that bedews their grave. 
Of them we think with joy — their acts of fame 
Rise grateful on the soul that glows with kindred flame. 
But may I ne'er agaip the witness prove 
To the deep sorrows of despairing love : 
To beauty blasted in its opening bloom. 
And valour pining o*er the silent tomb.— B. vii. p. 224. 

Arthur compassionately declares, that as soon as 
he is blessed with the hand of Inogen, who never 
saw distress without striving to relieve it^ it shall be 
their joint endeavour to share and to soothe the 



sorrows of the unhappy Lionel ; and saying this, 
whilst the tear started to his eyes, they issue from 
the wood together, but had scarcely left its pre- 
cincts, when they behold on the adjoining heath a 
female who, from her attitude and manner, appears 
to be suffering from some sudden calamity. She 
starts as they approach, and the prince immediately 
recollecting with joy the features of EUena, the 
dear companion of his Inogen, is about tp ask her 
a thousand questions, when she tells him with an- 
guish depicted on her countenance, that she has a 
dreadful tale to unfold; for that not longer ago 
than yesterday morning, his Inogen had quitted the 
enchanted bower in which she had been placed by her 
father, never to return ! She had walked, it seems, 
as was her custom, to the boundary which encircles 
her abode, but not returning as the day advanced^ 
her friend had gone in search of her, and ascending 
the mound which forms a lofty barrier to the magic 
landscape, she had beheld her at a distance borne 
off on the courser of a stately knight, whilst at the 
same moment a storm agitated the air, and, to her 
inexpressible terror, she heard the demons rejoicing 
that they had foiled the power of Merlin, and that 
Inogen was the Saxon's prize. EUena declares that, 

. q2 


on hearing these exultations, she sunk to the earth 
senseless, and only recovered her faculties through 
the humane care of an old shepherd, whom she 
points out as approaching, and who, she adds, can 
communicate further particulars, though such as 
she is apprehensive will rather increase than allay 
his grief. 

The consternation and agony of the prince, 
which, during this recital, had been in some degree 
soothed by the hope that Inogen^s flight was in- 
voluntary, the result of force or fraud, are much 
augmented by the peasants tale, who relates that 
on the preceding evening he had seen a knight and 
lady on a milk-white courser, crossing the valley 
with the utmost rapidity ; that they were met mid- 
way by a young warrior, who appeared to address 
them in a very friendly manner, when presently 
the knight plunged his sword into the body of the 
youth, who instantly fell, whilst loud shrieks were 
heard. He adds, that the knight and lady were 
soon afterwards lost to his sight by the intervening 
wood, and .that this morning he had conducted the 
damsel, whom he had found last night apparently 
lifeless on the heath, to the spot where the youth 
had fallen, and that she exclaimed on seeing him, 


that his death would prove an additional source of 
grief to Britain's lord. 

Arthur now demands to be led to the fatal scene, 
and on his way discovers a golden bracelet on the 
ground which he had formerly given to Inogen. 
He at first presses it to his lips — then starting from 
it as if a scorpion had stung him, he flings it away, 
declaring that it is but too sure a sign of her in- 
fidelity. As he says tins, he comes within sight of 
the body of his friend, an object which the poet 
has, with great skill, connected with a very tender 
and romantic circumstance of legendary lore : 

r Now Cac1or*s corse he view'd, ' 

With hoary moss^ and faded leaves bestrewed. 

In days of old, not yet did we invade 
The harmless tenants of the woodland shade, 
The crimson-breasted warbler o'er the slain^ j 
While frequent rose his melancholy stridn^ 
With pious care> 'twas all he could^ supplied 
The funeral riteTby ruthless man denied. 

B. vii. p. 232. 

Kneeling by the clay-cold relics of his friend, he 
deplores with loud lamentations his untimely fate, 
and accuses Inpgen of being accessary to it ; the 
thought drives him almost to distraction, and he 


throws himself in despair aa the ground. Cradoc, 
though sympathising deeply in his distress^ endea- 
vours to rouse him, by declaring that he will him- 
self track the destroyer of Cador, and inflict that 
vengeanoe which ought properly to flow from the 
arm of Arthur. The prince starts from the earth 
at this intimation, and hastily expressing his dis- 
pleasure^ vaults on his steed, and pursues the path 
which he supposes Inogen to have taken, whilst 
Cradoc, recommending Ellena to the furtlier pro- 
tecticm of the sheplierd, follows his unhappy friend. 
Inogien in the mean time, on her release from 
Hengist, having passed through tiie forest, though 
not without much suffering and hazard, enters, as 
the morning dawns, on a champaign country, and, 
exhausted with fatigue, rests herself beneath a little 
grove of pines on the brow of a gentle ascent. 
Hither, very shortly afterwards, arrive Hacon and 
his warrior minstrels, Oswald and Eric, bearing the 
body of S werio, whom they are about to inter. They 
had just committed the gallant youth, to the ground, 
and were chanting the funeral dirge, when their at- 
tention is attracted by a rustling noise, and presently 
they behold the Unhappy Inogen timidly and slowly 


advancing from her covert. Hacon demands who 
she is who has thus dared to intrude on the sepul- 
chral rites, and no sooner is he informed, thto 
exulting at the circumstance, he instantly orders 
Eric, out of revenge to Arthur, and as an atone- 
ment to the manes of his son, to immolate the 
maiden on the grave of Sweno. ITie bard, how- 
ever, whilst in the act of raising his arm to execute 
the mandate of his sovereign, is suddenly arrested 
by the voice of a youthful warrior, who is seen 
rushing towards the spot, and who commands him 
to refrain from the atrocious deed. Hacon, me- 
nacing the youth away, and threatening death in 
case of refusal, again commissions Eric to deal the 
fatal blow, who, as he once more rears his weapon 
for that purpose, is pierced by the spear of the 
knight, and sinks breathless on the ground. Hacon 
and Oswald now advance against this protector of 
injured innocence, who, notwithstanding the death 
of his courser, and the inequality of the contest, 
ultimately proves successful. Oswald is first slain, 
and Hacon, blinded with rage, and reckless of 
danger, rushes on the knight with redoubled fury, 
but soon shares the fate of his dependant ; an event 
which, in relation to its immediate consequences. 


has drawn from the poet the following very striking 

Where now are all thy glories, haughty king ! 
Thy stately towers, thy halls that wont to ring 
With festive joy, or music's lofty strain. 
Thy stem-hrow'd warriors, and thy wide domain ^ 
Thy days are with the past— the fleeting scene 
Shall change, and be as thou hadst never been ! 
Through thy lone halls shall sigh the breeze of night. 
And rust consume the trophies of thy might : 
Thy friends shall sink beneath the ruthless sword ; 
Or yield reluctant to a foreign lord : 
On Norway's coast thy deeds be heard no more. 
And thy fame wither on a distant shore ! 

B. vii. p. 243. 

The gratitude of Inogen for this timely rescue 
ascends to heaven in a prayer for the prosperity 
and happiness of her brave deliverer, who, severely 
wounded and sinking from loss of blood, has only 
strength to utter that the joy of saving her is the 
last happiness which he shall ever know, and faints 
^way. Inogen flies to his assistance, and unbinding 
his breastplate, is intently endeavouring to stanch 
the flow of blood, when Arthur unperceived ap- 
proaches on his panting steed ; nor is she conscious 
of his presence, until, alighting and standing by 
h^r side^ he pronounces her name in an accent of 


reproach. She turns from him with a look of 
mingled wonder and displeasure, whilst he upbraids 
her for her falsehood, in thus mourning over a 
stranger knight, and in having by her causeless 
hate occasioned the death of his lamented Cador. 
Aroused by this unmerited accusation, she charges 
him with cruelty and dissimulation, tells him 
that the love she once cherished for him she 
dismisses for ever, and, seizing one of the wea- 
pons which lay scattered on the ground, declares 
that should he dare to approach her, she will in- 
stantly turn it against herself. Horror-struck, he 
stands gazing upon her for some time in speech- 
less agony, and at length, the power of utterance 
returning, he takes an everlasting farewell, when 
the thunder rolls over their heads, and, through a 
sky more than usually bright and serene, a dark 
cloud is seen advancing, and the form of Merlin, 
as it dissolves at their feet, rises gradually before 
them. He bids them return thanks to Heaven, ex- 
plains the mistakes under which they had alter- 
nately laboured, and pronounces that Valdemar and 
Hengist having perished by mutual wounds, the 
deep-laid schemes of hell had been completely 
baffled ; that, in fact, as he informs them, the ob- 


ject of the weird sbters had been oyerthrowuby 
the very sorcery which they had exercised to secure 
it ; that had not Arthur^s mind been estranged by 
delusion, had not Inogen scorned his passion, and 
he resigned his suit, with such skill had the sisters 
constructed thdr enchantments, neither his valour, 
nor her fidelity, could have saved them from their 
power. But that power, he adds, is now lost, far, 
driven to the central caves of Hecla, and there con- 
demned to darkness and to chains, no further will 
they be allowed to molest either him or Inogen. 
Th^ perceiving how much the latter was distressed 
by the fate of the generous youth who, to all ap- 
pearance, perished in protecting her, he unbinds 
his casque, and shows them the features of young 
Ivar, .announcing at the same time that his wounds 
are not mortal, and following up^ the declaration 
by instantly restoring him to health and vigour. 
The mutual joy of the parties is then beautifully 
described, and with the union of Arthur and Ino- 
gen, and an admirable exhortation from the lips 
of Merlin, the poem concludes. 

The critical analysis which has now been given 
of Mr. Hole's * Arthur,^ and the numerous passages 
which have been quoted from it, will, I should 


imagine, have enabled the reader to form a pretty 
accurate judgment as to the plan and execution 
of the work. It will, L think, be found, if I have 
not greatly deceived myself, to have exhibited in 
the coiistruction of its fable no common share of 
skill and ingenuity ; in the formation of its cha- 
racters, a bold and discriminating pencil; and in 
the departments of scenery and mythology, where 
the tact and talents of the poet are not less impor- 
tunately demanded, a rich and excursive imagina- 

That it has, however, failed to attain a similar 
degree of excellency in a few other particulars of 
considerableif not of equal importance, is not meant 
to be denied. It must, for instance, be allowed, 
that the range of incident and adventure, taking the 
fertility of the subject into view, is too confined, 
and that the versification is frequently of a charac- 
ter not calculated to win upon the general ear. It 
is to this latter circumstance, perhaps, that we may, 
in a great measure, attribute the neglect into which 
this otherwise beautiful poem has fallen ; for in the 
laudable effort to give greater freedom and con- 
tinuity of harmony to the structure of rhymed 
verse, Mr. Hole has been induced to run one line 


into another so often, and to such a length in sue- 
cession, as materiaUy to weaken the peculiar though 
limited music of the couplet, whilst at the same 
time, it fails to impart, what he has so anxiously 
wished to obtain, the eneigy and unshackled march 
of blank verse. 

There are not wanting, however, as the quota- 
tions I have selected will sufficiently prove, nu- 
merous passages uninjured by this attempt, and of 
singular sweetness and melody; and which, ex- 
hibiting at the same time those qualities of a still 
higher nature that I have just pointed out, cannot 
fail, I trust, to attract attention, and to acquire for 
this almost forgotten poem that permanent station 
among the classical productions of our country 
which it so justly merits. 

No. XX. 

*^ Go/* proudly pace the historic hall that rung 
To social mirth when deeds of hardihood were sung. 
— — '* And lo !" the veteran fame 

Of armour that superior pannels claim : 
Vizors high hurnish*d once, as glory play'd 
Around the leaders of the wild crusade ; 
The rusted cuirass, and the dented shield ; 
Bows that perhaps were bent on Cressy's field ; 
Hauberks that dasp'd^ where furies urg*d their work, 
LanccLstrian heroes, or the chiefs of York ; 
And targets, crusted deep with sanguine scales ; 
And sable casques, that sigh to rifted mails ; 
While, colourless, above the dusky door, 
. A banner sheds its argent rays no more. 

And not the hall alone, array*d with arms. 
Of other times renew'd the heroic charms. 
Glimmer'd above the hall, the golden room, 
Where mantled in the dance the virgin's bloom ; 
While a long gallery, on its eastern side. 
Projected picture-shadows, far and wide,-— 
''And the huge" court, with relics of the chase, 
*' Still" shows in genuine light the ** far-famed** race. 


There are few details more gratifying than those 
which relate to the manners, customs, and economy 



of domestic life in days loog gone by, and fortu- 
nately the annals of the Cliffords of Craven abound 
in documents of this kind, more especially during 
the last century of their existence in that district 

From three inventories of family effects, dated 
1572, 1591, and 1643, and from various account 
and household books, accurately copied, and often 
curiously commented upon, by the historian of 
Craven, I shall, therefore, now proceed to cull 
such articles, and offer such remarks, dther ori- 
^al or selected, as may seem best calculated to 
throw light, either upon the characters of the lords 
of Skipton as individuals, or upon the habits and 
usages of their times, dividing the subject, with a 
view to perspicuity, into the departments of do- 
mestic ECONOMY, and inn-door and out-door 


Under the first of these heads, that of Domestic 
Economy, it may be remarked, that the earliest of 
the inventories relating to this subject, though dated 
only 157^, and taken immediately after the death 
of the second earl of Cumberland, may be con- 
sidered, from the greater part of the articles being 
mentioned as old and much worn, as representing 
very accurately what was the interior of Skipton 


castle at a much higher period. " There were,^ 
says Whitaker, speaking of the evidently decayed 
state of the furniture in ISTS, " not improbably 
figures in the arras which had frowned on Richard 
the Third, and even on black-faced Cliflfbrd, two 
tyrants themselves, as savage as ever grinned in old 
tapestry *J* 

The inventory of 1572 opens with an enumera- 
tion of the wardrobe of the earl, in which, as the 
usual dress of a nobleman of that age consisted of 
a doublet and hose, with a cloak, or sometimes a 
long or short gown with sleeves, we find an abun- 
dance of articles of this description, and formed of 
the most costly materials, such as velvety satin, and 
sarcenet, of various colours, and richly covered with 
furs and gold and silver lace. Show and splendour, 
indeed, appear to have been the objects almost 
uniformly aimed at, at this time, in the decoraticm 
of the person; but by dividing this catalogue of 
male attire into the heads of ordinary habit^ dress 
habit, and garter robes, we shall best be able to 
appreciate that luxury of apparel in which the lords 
of Skipton delighted to indulge. 

• History of Craven, p. 330. 


It appears, then, that their ordinary habit con- 
sisted of the gown and jacket or jerkin, made of 
black or tawny chequered velvet, or black satin. 
Of the items, however, constituting this part of the 
inventcMj, several are mentioned as bdng very old, 
or decayed, evidently indicating that the wardrobes 
of this age descended from father to son ; and, in- 
deed, such was the richness of the material of which 
even the common garb of a nobleman of these days 
was composed, and so hereditary was it as to form 
and decoration, that it suited neither the pride nor 
the economy of the age to suffer such habiliments 
to pass into inferior hands. 

The drcBB habit, in fact, though more showy in 
appearance, was not in reality much more expensive. 
It consisted generally of white or richly-coloured 
velvets, and the five following articles from this 
part of the catalogue will sufficiently point out its 
usual style. 

'' Item, one cremesyn sattan gowne, garded with 
cremesyne vellvett, and laid with fayre lace of 
golde, C5. 

" Item, one shorte gowne of purple vellvett, with 
pomell lace of silver, xlvi^. viiic?. 

" Item, one sleveless jackett of clothe of golde, 


-edged with p^chment lace of gold enamelled blewe, 
xlvi^. viiirf. 

" Item, one doublet of cremesyn velvett, embro^ 
thered with golde, and lyned with lynnynge cloth, 
with a p'r of hosen of crem' vellvett of the same, 
^mbrothered, 1x5. 

" Item, one dublet of whit sattan, embr'd with sylv^ 
and lyned with very^ne lynnyne, and a p*r of hose 
of whit velvet suitable to the same, xlvi^. ymd *.*' 

The taste for expenditure in dress appears, in^- 
deed, to have gone on increasing with the Clifford 
family ; for in 1632, sixty years after this inven- 
tory of the second earl was taken, we have the fal- 
lowing description of a single suit made for lord 
Clifford, which, as there is reason to suppose it dif- 
fered little from the luxury of his brother peers, pre- 
sents us with a striking idea of the magnificent man- 
ner in which the nobility of the age of Charles th^ 
First were accustomed to clothe themselves. 

" For 13 yards of bezar-cuUer broade taKe, ai 
22.?. the yard, 14t lis. — For ayardand^of tafety, 
for lyning the doublett, 1/. 4*. — For 896 oz. ^ of 
gould and silver lace, plated, clouded, and whipt, 
in compass, rouning by measure to 38 dozen, at 5^. 

* Hist, of Craven, p. 327. 

VOL. II. * 


6iL the oz. 1082. 17«. 4ci — For 6 dozen of buttotiSy 
gould and diver, 1/. 6^. — For 6 yards of gallon 
laee, and 1 of collers, ds. 5d-*For 18 oz. and ^ of 
ccdlered silk, 1/. Vis. — To Macalla, for canvas and 
stiffening calliooe to interljrne the cloake, hoUand 
for the hose, fustian for popketts ; hookes and eyes, 
ire. 1/. 9»-— For making suite and cloak^ 9/. lOs. 
—For a pV of perle-cuUer stockings, 1/. 169.-^For 
a paire of garters and rose% and 8 dozen of pointes 
suitable, all of rich gold and silver thrid, without 
mixture ; one pair of gloves trim'd suitable, and a 
hatband stringed suitable, all of rich gold and silver 
thrid, without mixture, IS/. — For 1 long button, a 
Idope for the cloake, with gold and silver head, 2^. 
—The whole charge of this suite, and the furniture, 

Reverting, however, to the inventory of 1678, 
we next meet with a group of articles descriptive 
of the Garter robes of the first earl of Cumberland, 
and which, as^ Whitaker has observed, cannot but 
lay strong hold on the imagination, and carry it 
back to the scenes 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold. 


• Hist, of Craven, p. 279. 



Item, one kyrde of cremesyn velvett, lyned 
with whyte sarsenet, and a hode for knyght of gar- 
ter to weare at Seynt George fea^t, vi/. 

** Item, one robe of blewe velvet, lyned with 
sarcenet, llie garter imbrothered thereon, and a 
yard of blewe silke and golde tyed at sholders, for 
the seide S. George^s feast, viZ. 

<^ Item, one hole horae-hamess for a trapper, sett 
with whit and blew, and enameled, and one cover- 
ing of black vellvett, with a garde of gold, and ea* 
ameled whjrt and blew^ sutable for the same, 
xiii^. iv^. 

<< Item, one oth^ harnesse of red vellvett, omt'g 
vi. pieces ; and one other hamesae of black velvett, 
imbrothered with silver gilted, cont^g vii. piece, 
xiii^. ivd. 

<^ Item, iiii peice of clothe of tussaye, for covering 
of a courser at a tryumphey edged with a frynge of 
red sylke and gold, liii$. iv(f." 

I have added the last item^ as the word triumph 

is used precisely in the manner of Milton in the 

quotation just given from KAllegro, that is, in the 

sense of show, or mask, or revel, and as Shakspeare 

has explained it in the following passage : 

R 2 


And now what resU, but that we spend the time 
With stately triumphs, mirtl^ul ghows. 
Such as befit the pleaiures of the court *. 

It is probable that these trappings may have 
contributed, as the topographer of Craven suggests^ 
to the magnificence of the Champ de Drap d^Or. 

Of female apparel, the notices which this inven- 
tory affords us are somewhat scanty, being con- 
fined to a short account of the wardrobe of the lady 
£^eanor Brandon, the first wife of the second earl 
of Cumberland, and which is described as being in 
a chest in the great chamber in the high lodgings 
evidently meaning that at 'the upper end of the 
long gallery which had been built for hei: reception 
on her marriage. It consists of six goumsy two of 
which, from the value annexed to them, must have 
been dresses of great richness, namely. 

One gown of black velvett, layed with powmet 
laice, vi/. and 

One gowne of cloth of tynseU, garded with blacke 
velvet, xiii/. vi^. vind. ; two others were t)f black 
and purple satin, and two of black damask, of 
which last, one, made to open at the breasts, is 
called a nurse's gown, and was probably that used 

* Hen. VI. p. 3. act r. sc. vii. 


by lady Eleanor when she nursed her only daugh- 
ter, afterwards countess of Derby. There are also 
five Tcirtks of cloth of gold, crimson damask, and 
purple tissue ; two pair of sleeves of black velvet 
and cloth of gold, two girdles of cloth of gold and 
crimson, two pair of velvet shoes, green, and red 
and white, and a border of cloth of gold, ornamented 
with pictures. This attire, probably, remained un- 
touched after the decease of ^^ the lady Eleanor's 
grace ;^' for her husband^s second wife, being alto- 
gether of a domestic and unostentatious character, 
was' not likely to imitate the costume or covet the 
robes of her royally-allied predecesscn:. 

Our subject now conducting us from the dress of 
the proprietors of Skipton Castle to that of their 
mansion, we are next treated with a Ibt of the fur- 
niture of their bed-chambers, which though suf- 
ficiently magnificent as far as it goes, is yet mate^ 
rially wanting in many of the accommodations of 
modem days ; for we find neither glasses, carpets, 
nor chairs, but the beds are of down, the testers 
of black, purple, and tawny velvet, pinked with 
gold, and decorated with the family arms, and the 
curtains of silk, with rich fringes of the same. 

S46 1C0BMIKG8 IN 8PR1K6. 

mingled with gold. We have also cushi(»is, stools, 
and cupboards, the latter, in all probability, for the 
purpose both oi wardrobe and toilet, together with 
an enumeration of counterpanes, blankets, bolsters, 
and pillows, and, lastly, the mention but of eight 
mattresses for the household servants, a proof that, 
as the menials of every description amounted to 
nearly forty in number, those of an inferior cast must 
have slept on straw. 

In the days of the Cliffords of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, orro^ was the usual covering for the walls of the 
apartments in the castles and castellated mansions 
of our nobility. This, which was often extremely 
rich and gorgeous, was moveable, and only hung 
up when the apartments were inhabited. Of such 
a piece of furniture, and of carpets^ which were 
then used, not to cover floors, but tables and cup- 
boards, we might expect a somewhat copious notice 
in the inventory of Skipton Castle ; and accordingly 
we meet with a pretty long list of them, in which 
the opening article, 

" A vi peice hanginge of ladies of Femynye,*' 
strongly reminds us, as Whitaker remarks, of th^ 
language of our elder poetry, the term Femynye 


being used, both by Gower and Chaucer, as syno- 
nymous with the couptry of the Amazatks : thus the 
latter says in his Knyht'^s Tale, 

He conquer'd all the regne of Feminee 
That whileom was ydeped Scytbia. 

** Ladies of Femynye, therefore,'' the Doctor 
adds, ^^ are the Amazons. Nymphs, in the language 
of this age, were ladies ; as * The Lady of the 
Lake,' in the Princely Pleasures of Kenelworth. 
Perhaps Milton is the last who used the word in 
this sense : 

And ladies of the Hesperides *•" 

The subjects of a few other suits of tapestry 
are thus mentioned, 

A vi peice hangynge of distruc'un of Troye. 

A tenth peice hangynge of the storie of David. 

A one peice hangynge of Adam and Eve. 

The hall, which I shall notice more fully in a sub- 
sequent inventory, appears to have been hung with 
an arras of sixteen pieces, and amongst the carpets 
are mentioned four long ones for tables of oversee, 
that is, of foreign work. It may be added, that there 
was a sumptuousness and picturesque grandeur in 

* Hist, of Craven, p. 329, note. 


the tapestry of old times, which nothing connected 
with wainscoting, or modem papering, or staining, 
can supply. 

After a detail of the furniture of the kitchen, 
larder, pantry, buttery, and out-houses, such as 
may be said to differ little from that in. present 
use, there is mention made in the cellar of a small 
portion of wine remaining after the burial of the 
lately deceased earl, amounting in value to only 
thirtyndx shillings and eight-pence ; nor need we 
wonder at this, for we are told that ^< five hoggs- 
heads of red, whyt, and claret wyne,^' were con- 
sumed at his lordship^s funeral, a striking instance 
of the extraordinary efforts which our ancestors 
made on these melancholy occasions to banish and 
to drown their grief. 

Of the plate included in this inventory, which 
is estimated at the rate of about five shillings per 
ounce, being equal to one pound of the present 
currency, the articles are not numerous. The table- 
service appears to have consisted of twenty-four 
silver plates, the dishes being of pewter, then con- 
sidered of such value as to be hired by the year, 
even in noble families. " Two great salts" are 
also mentioned, ^^ with one cover, havynge knop- 


pes, duble gilt,^ and weighing twenty-six ounces 
each* One of these was placed in the centre of 
the table, and gave rise to a somewhat invidious 
distinction; for as I have elsewhere remarked, 
'* the rank and consequence of the visitors were 
marked by the situation of their seats above, and 
below, the salt-cellar ; a custom which not only di* 
stinguished the relative dignity of the guests, but 
extended likewise to the nature of the provision, 
the wine frequently circulating only above the salt« 
cellar, and the dishes below it being of a coarser 
kind than those near the head of the table ^.'^ 

For a purpose less objectionable, but peculiar 
also to the times, we find catalogued under this head 
a silver bcmn and ewer : these were handed round 
to the guests with napkins and water, in orde? 
that they might wash their hands before dinner ; a 
custom which is now with more propriety trans- 
ferred to the close of the same meal. 

Wine, before glass came into general use, which 

did not take place until half a century aftef* this 

• » «■ 

» Shakspeare and his Times, vol. i. p. 74 and 75; where in 
proof of this uncourteous custom^ I have quoted instances 
from Shakspeare^ Dekkar^ Hall^ Jonson, Massinger^ and 


period, was usually drank out of bowls ; and we 
have here enumerated two nests of silver bowls, 
double gilt and embossed, with covers, and accom- 
panied by two standing cups, on the covers of 
which stood the figures of boys, one with a shield, 
and the other treading on three eagles. This list 
of plate, somewhat scanty for such an establisb- 
ment, closes with the mention of three round silver 
candlesticks — certainly a remarkably small numba* ; 
*^ but our ancestors,'^ observes Whitaker, ** were 
not profuse of light : three silver candlesticks in the 
hall, or great gallery, at Skipton, must have spread 
darkness visible *.*^ 

Passing by the account of com and grain in the 
gamers at Skipton, and of cattle and sheep on the 
domains, as offering nothing worthy of particular 
notice, we next reach a part of the inventory which 
throws a strong light on the manners of the age. 
It is a detail of the 

" Ord'nance and munyc'ons at Skipton, with 
other furniture for the warrs.*" 

The number and distributions of this formidable 
apparatus throughout almost every part of the castle 

• Hist, of Craven^ p. 331, note. 


of Skipton is singularly great and curious, and re- 
minds us of the de^mption which the chief chro- 
nicler of this period has given us of ^milar stores. 
" As fcwp the armories of sundrie of the nobilirie,* 
he says, <^ they are soe well furnished within some 
one baron^s castle, that I have scene iii score corslets 
at once, beside culverynes, hand gunnes, bowes, and 
sheaves of arrowes, the verie si^t whereof appalled 
my corage ♦.^ 

It would seem, however that the lords of Skip- 
ton, not content with appropriating one or more 
apartments to these weapons of warfare, considered 
th^r castle, in fact, as but one vast armorie ; for 
not even the chambers of the females, as we shall 
perceive, were exempt from this unlady-like furni- 

In the portJodgCf in the jport-wardy and on the 
leeids of the castle, we might expect to meet with, 
and we find, cannon, arquebusses, culverines, &c.; 
but why they should have a place in the cellar, 
in the larder, in the ewrie, and, above all, in the 
nursery and Mrs. Conyer's chamber where " three 
brasses with three chambres^ are noted down, it 
would be difficult to conjecture. ^* A modem fine 

* Holinshed^ v« i. p. 85. ed. 1577. 


lady,*^ as the historian of Craven very appositely 
expresses himself on this occasion, ^< would think 
cannon in her chamber something like Slender^s 
hears,^ which as he said, ** women could not abide, 
for they were very ill-favoured, rough things*.'* 

It is in the gaUery, however, and the apartments 
immediately connected with it, that the principal 
armorie seems to have been established ; and if we 
recollect the tumultuary times in which many of the 
Cliffords lived, their border wars with Scotland, and 
their deep concern in the bloody conflicts between 
the two houses of York and Liancaster, it will not be 
surprising to learn, that they found it necessary to 
accumulate a large stock of the materials and imple- 
ments of warfare. They appear, indeed, from the 
quantity of saltpetre preserved in their store-house, 
arid the number of pairs of iron-moulds maiked in 
the inventory, to have manufactured their own gun- 
powder, and cast their own balls ; and the follow- 
ing brief a^d classed enumeration of some of the 
armour and weapons coUiected in the gallery, in the 
low tower at the end of it, in the middle chamber of 
the gallery, and in what was called the New Work, 
will, with a few incidental observations, afford us a 

* Hist, of Craven^ p. 334^ note. 


striking picture of the warlike attitude which they 
were <;ompelled to maintain. 

In the first place then, we have a list of seventy* 
eight CORSLETS, furnished with caps, gorgets, and 
vomebraces; next follow sixty-two spears and 
XANCES with the accompaniment of greaves and 
gauntlets, sixty backs and breasts of annour; 
forty-four lead mallets, a deadly weapon which 
had probably been used by Henry lord Clifford, the 
shepherd, on the Field of Flodden, for in the old 
metrical narrative of this battle, it is said 

The Morrish pikes, and melh of had. 
Did deal there many a dreadful thwack. 

Tliirty-iwo battle-axes, many of which had, 
jdoubtless, been wielded with unsparing havoc 
during the contention of the rival roses. Thirty^ 
two ARQUEBUSSES, a spccics of musket, often made 
of cast-iron> and so heavy that it was usually dis«> 
charged on a portable rest. Twenty-five pieces of 
CANNON of various kinds, such Q&Jacons^ dicuU 
*verons^ &c. Twelve racks for stringing cross-* 
BOWS.. Three iron slings with chambers, an iiv- 
strument somewhat similar to the balista of the 
ancients, and which, as Whitaker conjectures, had 

■i aE pniUbiEtT bcca wed bf tibe 
d Gimtt. Tkmal Ae %KTmm 


to flippoK, had £dka iittD the luBdb of HcBKjy llie 
dbcpiKra lofOy as a F"^ ^ '^ ipofl w HoadcB 
FMd; for HoGnAed tdb OS M 1» deacz^itiaB of 
dot cng igc g Ma it, diat ^ all die Seottidi eosagns 
were taken, and a two and tvcntie peiees of great 
ofCEnanceiy among tlie wincii were a c at e n culTcriiies 
of alarge aadze, and Ycrjfidr peiee& KingJanes 
named them, fat that they were in malring one 
rerie like to another, < the SeayenSistorsV* Two 
BRiaAvnvES ; these are mentioned as being ooiYered 
with Uiack vdvet, one having a cap covered with 
the same material, and the other a helmet or mo- 
rion with white nails. ** They seem,'' observes 
Whitaker, ^ to have been for the use of the lords 
themselves;'^ and he then adds a remark which 
brings to our recollection much of what has been 
recorded of the character and habits of this great 
and chivalric family : '^ How frequent with the old 
writers of romance,** says he, '* is the figure of a 

* Holinshed^ vol. ii. p. H93^ as quoted by Whitaker. 


black knight traversing a forest; and how com- 
pletely must it have been realized by the Cliffords 
within their own domains ^!^ 

The inventories which follow this of 157S are 
comparatively scanty. That of I59I9 taken towards 
the latter ead of the life of earl George, the cele- 
brated navigator, cannot be expected, from the 
diort period which had elapsed, to add much of 
what is noveL' In the drawtng-chambetf however, 
are mentioned a few fresh articles which con- 
venience or fashion had introduced ; such as iablC'- 
doihs of green cloth fringed with silk, eleven buf- 
JetSj five covered with crimson velvet, five with 
green velvet, and one with cloth of gold ; cushions 
of Twrkey work^ and andirons of copper. In the 
best chamber, or chamber of estate^ we find enu- 
merated for the first time, a large carpet for a 
j^ot-^lothf and " one gret glass gilt, with litel cur- 
tain of 8arc^:iet for same.^ Pictures also had come 
into vogue^ for thirty-six are noticed as being in 
the wardrobe. It would appear, however, that the 
literary taste of the family had greatly degenerated, 
for the library of the Cliffords is described as occu- 

• Hist, of Craven, p. 834, note. 


pying the *^ high closet,'^ and consisting but of 
^^ 1 bowke of bocas. 1 greatt owld bowck. 1 great 
bowke or grele for nnging, and 1 trunk of wickers 
covert with letter with bowcks and scrowles in.^ 

To the inventory of 1643, drawn up during tbfe 
siege of the castle in the great rebellion, we are in- 
debted for a very interesting description of the far- 
niture of the hall, which had been dismissed in 
that of 1572 with but a single line, namely, 

*< V boards furnished with formes and one cub- 
bord to remain.^ 

We are now told that " in the great hall," wert, 
'^ Imprimis, 7 large peices of hangings, with the 
carle's armes at large in every one of them, and 
poudered with the severall coates of the house.^ 
^' Five long great tables on standard frames, 6 long 
forms, 1 short one, 1 court cupbard, 1 fayre bras^ 
lantern, 1 iron cradle with wheeles for charcoale, 
1 almes tub, 1 great auncyait clock, with the bell, 
weights, &c. 20 long pikes^ 1 great church Bible, 
1 booke of Common Prayer, 2 laced cloth cushons 
for the steward." 

On this truly graphical catalogue, such ati 
amusing commentary has been given by the learned 
and accomplished vicar of Whalley, that it would 


be almost injustice to attempt any disquisition on 
the subject in any other words than his own. 

It '^ holds up,^' as he justly declares, " a very 
complete and vivid representation ; so that a good 
painter, with some help from fancy, might give an 
interior view of the old hall at Skipton. But let 
us examine the particulars. The court cupboard *, 
I am persuaded, is the same which has been al- 
ready noticed, as ordered to remain in the great 
hall, in 1572. The fayre brass lantern was proba- 
bly suspended at the upper end, to give light to the 

* " One of this description yet remsdns. It is about five 
feet high^ rather more than four in width and two in depth. 
The sides are fluted pannels of Henry Sth's time. In front 
are three doors and two drawers ; on one of the uppermost 
doors are the arms and supporters of the family^ on the other 
the garter: between them a beautiful gothic tabernacle. 
It was evidently made in the interval between 1527, when 
the first earl was installed knight of the garter, and 164^, 
when he died. Court cupboards, the side-boards of our 
ancient nobility, were constant appendages to the high table 
in the hall. See Shakspeare's Romeo and Juliet, act i. 
scene v. * Away with the joint-stools, remove the court 
cupboard.' Capulet's hall was on this occasion to be con^ 
verted into a ball-room, and the court cupboard stood in the 

VOL. n. s 


high table. The iron cradle for charcoal proves 
that this hall had no flre-place, but was warmed, 
like some college halls at present, by a central fire 
in a moveable grate, the vapour of which escaped 
through a cupola above. The almes tub was 
probably in or near the screen below, where the 
poor received a stated dole of oatmeal ; a primitive 
and laudable practice, continued in some old fami- 
lies within my recollection. The great auncient 
clock with the bell was probably over the screen, 
where the hall bells of colleges are generally found 
at present. 

" The Bible and Book of Common Prayer might 
probably be removed out of the chapel, which was 
much exposed to the enemy'*s fire, that the garri- 
son might at least perform their devotions without 

" With respect to * the laced cushons,' for the 
steward, the great hall seems to have been the 
place where he presided on court-days, and where 
I suppose he was seated, like Mr. Vellum, when he 
held his courts, in the largest elbow-chair in the 
house *. 

• See Addiison's Drummer^ act v. scene i. 


" The outline of the old hall was the same with 
the present, and something less than sixty feet 
long *.'' 

In the residue of the inventory of 1643 occur a 
few articles which mark the progress of luxury and 
household accommodation. Chairs and^floor-carpets 
are no longer rarities, and we have now both a bil- 
liard and a music-room, the former containing not 
only a board for the game, but ifumerous pictures 
and engravings and sixteen maps, and the latter 
a portrait of the countess of Cumberland, and 
a statue of her grandfather Burleigh, by Stone ; 
whilst dispersed through the apartments may be 
remarked a variety of musical instruments, such as 
lutes and theorboes^ a gettome^ a payre of organs, 
and a harpsicon, pretty clearly indicating what the 
account books confirm, that the lady of the last 
earl had both a taste for, and a practical skill in 

From these account books, of which the hi- 
storian of Craven inspected four for the years 1606, 
1684, 1687, and 1638, we learn many curious par- 

♦ Hist, of Craven, p. 34^. 

s 2 


ticulars relative to the provisions and house-keep- 
ing expenses of the family. The Cliffords were, it 
seems, by no means adepts in proportioning their 
expenditure to their income; the former almost 
constantly exceeding, and that to a considerable 
amount, the produce of the latter; a disparity 
which compelled them to have a regular title in 
these books for the receipt of money from Ixinds 

Yet this excess was certainly not owing to the 
deamess of the necessaries of life, for butcher's 
meat and fuel were cheap ; venison was furnished 
in profusion from their own parks, and of fish they 
had an ample supply either from their own sources, 
for the earls of Cumberland had, at this time, as 
chief lords of the Percy fee, a share in the fishery of 
Malham Water, or in presents from the neighbour- 
ing gentry. Such, however, was the Iiospitality of 
the lords of Skipton, and such their great expenses 
in dress, in journeys to their various castles, and in 
viats to London, that we cannot be much surprised 
at the result. How chargeable was travelling at 
, this period will be evident from the two following 
items, of which the first is also a curious proof of 


the then great imperfection of roads, for the 
countess of Cumberland, we find, was eleven days 
in going from London to Londesborough ! 

" 1640* Disbursed in my lady^s journey from 
London to Londesbro', being eleven days with 32 
horses, IxviiiZ. xviii^. ix(/. 

- « 1642, May 9. Delivered to his lordship for 
his journey from London to the court at York 50/.''\ 

Of the gigantic scale on which cookery was car- 
ried on at Skipton, a pretty adequate idea may be 
formed from the statement, that though coals and 
much peat were consumed at the castle, yet, in 
addition to these, 1600 loads of ling per annum j 
pulled upon the neighbouring moors, were used for 
heating the ovens. " These," we are further told, 
" were not like the diminutive ovens of the present 
day; but vaults of stone, capable of holding a 
flock of sheep, before they baked them ; and they 
were seldom unemploy^ed.'' It is added, that, 
*' when a part of the Cliflbrd family resided at 
Grafton in Northamptonshire, not only pasties of 
red deer venison were sent thither by express from 
Skipton ; but carcasses of stags, two, four, or more, 
at once, were baked whole, and despatched to the 


game place *.'' We subsequently learn, that three 
bushels of wheat and twelve pounds of pepper were 
used for baking two stags, and that the making of 
venison pasties, which were structures of such an 
enormous size as to look like castles in pastry, re- 
quired so much time and skill, that " the office of 
pasty-buker was distinct from that of the cook or 
baker of the family.''^ 

The articles of winey sugar^ and tobacco^ must 
have been attended with a prodigious expense ; for 
though wine was cheap, yet such was the vast 
consumption of claret, sack, and muscadine, that 
Whitaker concludes the upper servants must have 
shared with their masters in the first at least f. 
Of the union of white wine and sugar^ we meet 
with several items which would seem to indicate 
that the visitors at Skipton castle had as great a 
partiality for this composition as the celebrated 
sir John FalstafF himself; and when we discover 
that this production of the western world was 
then so dear that a fat wether would not have pur- 
chased two pounds of it, we may readily conceive 

• Hist* of Craven, p. 3l0, note, t Ibid. p» 309. 


that the general use of such a delicacy would ma- 
terially swell the annual account. Nor was tobacco^ 
vi^hich seems to have been lavishly used at Skipton, 
less costly^ for the finest sort was then 18«. per 
pound, and a single bill for tjiis article Was foun4 
among the family papers, amounting to 36/. 7*9. Sd. 
a sum equal in value to abouj; 150Z. of our present 
currency ! 

Another sou|*ce of considerable expense must 
have arisen from the circumstance, that nearly all 
their garden vegetables, even those which we now 
esteem of the most common kind, were imported at 
a very extravagant price from Holland ; thus by 
an item in 1595, we are informed that two shillings 
were " paid for vi cabishes, and some caret rootts 
bought at Hull,'' and by another in the same year, 
that a messenger was sent to the above seaport for 
two ropes of onions. 

It is somewhat lingular that whilst among the 
evidences of the Cliffords no account is given of 
any of ihefestwah occurring in their own imrtie- 
diate family, there shpuld yet be found treasured 
up in these same evidences a minute detail of 
the marriage feasts of some of their distant re^ 


latives or intimate friends, such as the Cliftons, and 
the Neviles of Chevet ♦. 

As these, however, of which Dr. Whitaker has 
preserved several full-length portraits, were un- 
doubtedly similar to what had often been set forth 
in the castles of Skipton and Brougham, I shall 
select a part of one of them, with the corresponding 
commentary of the historian, as affording some very 
curious illustrations ofthe hospitality and domestic 
arrangements of the day. 

This fete, at which the Cliffords were present, 
was given on the marriage of Elizabeth, daughter 
of sir John Nevile, with Roger Rockley, Esq. on 
the 14th of January, 1526, being the 17th year of 
Henry the Eighth ; and the memorial of it opens 
with an enumeration of the dress of the bride and 
bridegroom, which, it is remarkable, was nearly 
if not altogether black, the former being clad in 
black satin^ and the latter in a gown of black 


• " Sir John Nevile, of Chevet, high sheriff of Yorkshire^ 

19 Hen. Vlllr married Elizabeth, daughter of , a 

widow of sir Thos. Tempest ; and had issue Elizabeth, mar- 
ried to Roger Rockley, Esq. and Mary, married to sir Gcr. 
vtoe Clifton. ' Vide Thoresby's Ducatus Leodicncis, p. 183. 


velvet, richly trimmed with skins, and with a jacket 
and doublet of black satin. 

Then follows a detail of the expenses of the 
week for wine, malt, wheat, flesh, and fish, amount- 
ing to 861. ; the wine, of which three hogsheads 
are put down, costing not more than sixpence per 
gallon, about double the price of strong malt liquor 
in the same year : a circumstance, observes Whita- 
ker, " not accounted for by the absence of taxation, 
but by the perfection of the French vineyards, and 
the extreme imperfection of English husbandry at 
this time.**' The arrangement for the dinners, both 
on flesh and fish-days, I shall give verbatim. . 

" For the first course at dinner. 

" First, brawn with mustard, served alone, with 
malmesey ; Item, frumetty to pottage ; Item, a roe 
roasted for standart ; Item, peacocks, two of {i. e. 
upon) a dish ; Item, swans, two of a dish ; Item, a 
great pike on a dish ; Item, conies roasted, 4 of a 
dish ; Item, venison roasted ; Item, capon of grease, 
3 of a dish ; Item, mallards, 4 of a dish ; Item, 
teals, 7 of a dish ; Item, pyes, baken with rabits 
in them ; Item, baken oringe ; Item, a flampett ; 
Item, stoke fritters ; Item, dulcetts, 10 of a dish ; 
Item, a tart. 


" Second course, 
" First, martens to pottage; Item, for a standart, 
cranes, 2 of a dish ; I tern, young lamb, whole roasted ; 
Item, great fresh sammon gollis ; Item, heron sewes, 
3 of a dish ; Item, bytters, 3 of a dish ; Item, phea- 
sants, 4 of a dish ; Item, a great sturgeon goil ; 
Item, partridges, 8 of a dish ; Item, stints, 8 of a 
dish ; Item, plovers, 8 of a dish ; Item, curlews, 8 
of a dish ; Item, a whole roe baken ; Item, venison 
baken, red and fallow ; Item, a tart ; Item, a march- 
pane ; Item, gingerbread ; Item, apples and cheese, 
stewed with sugar and sage. 

" For night 
" First, a play, and streight after the play a 
mask ; and when the mask was done, then the ban- 
kett, which was 110 dishes, and all of meat; and 
then all the gentlemen and ladyes danced ; and this 
continued from Sunday to the, Saturday after. 

« Pqp Fridays and Saturdays. 

" First, leich brayne ; Item, fromety to pottage; 
Item, whole ling and haberdine ; Item, great guils 
of salt salmon ; Item, great salt eels ; Item, great 
salt sturgeon guils ; Item, fresh ling ; Item, fresh 


turbut ; Item, great pike ; Item, great guUs fresh 
salmon ; Item, great ruddo ; Item, baken turbuts ; 
Item, tarts of 8 several meats. 

" Second course. 

" First, martens to pqttage ; Item, a great fresh 
sturgeon goil ; Item, fresh eel roasted ; Item, gteat 
brett ; Item, salmon chins broiled ; Item, roasted 
eels ; Item, roasted lampreys ; Item, roasted 1am- 
prons ; Item, great burbuts ; Item, salmon baken ; 
Item, fresh eel Jbaken ; Item, fresh lampreys baken; 
Item, clear gilley ; Item, gingerbread."" 

To this list of fish, is to be added as mentioned 
in the bill of provisions for the week, one seal^ and 
one porpoise. Sewers, seneshalls, marshals, carvers 
and cup-bearers, attended in magnificent profusion, 
whilst a knight, sir John Burton, acted as steward, 
and sir John Nevile's brother, Mr. Stapylton, with 
a servant, and the bridegroom himself with his ser- 
vant, waited in the hall. 

" Of wild-fowl,'' observes the commentator, " the 
catalogue is curious. The crane, the heron sewe, 
the bittern, the curlew, and the stint, or tringa cin- 
clus. Of tame fowl, beside the swan, of which five 
would have bought an ox, wc have the peacock, 


and the capoo of grease, that is, fat capon, as hart 
of grease is called cerru4 de cra[Mtudiiie. The goose 
and tame duck are not mentioiied ; neither is the 
woodcock. — The same is to be observed of the 
grouse, which in the immense extent of the York- 
shire moors must have abounded. The catalogue 
of fish is equally curious; for beside the kinds gene- 
rally in use at modem tables, which are m^itioned, 
and the trout, which is not, we have the royal 
sturgeon, then, apparently very common. The 
silence of the bill of fare as to the carp favours 
the opinion, that it was introduced into Cngland 
rather later than this time. Then there appear 
haberdines, of which I know not what they 
were ; the rudd, i. e. the cyprinus orfus, yet 
found in the pools of Holdemess ; and above 
all, the seal and porpoise. Eels were sometimes 
roasted ; a mode of cookery prescribed long after 
by Isaac Walton, I have also to learn what were 
* martens to pottage,' whether the bird or the qua- 
druped ; for those who could eat porpoises might 
have endured the sweet mart, if not its stinking 
relative the pole-cat. Tarts were plainly meat pies. 
What flampets and leich brayne may have been 
I leave to the skilful in old cookery to discover. 


* Marchpayne,' which the fair Dowsabell was skilled 
in preparing, was a kind of biscuit (here it was made 
in part of gingerbread) much used in old desserts. 

* Save me a piece of Marchpane,' says the servant, 
(Romeo and Juliet, Act i. Sc. v.) when the tables 
were taken away. Their merriment was persevering 
enough to have subdued modern constitutions, for 
the dancing continued a whole week : on the wed- 
ding-night was first a play, and next a mask ; after 
which followed a * banket' of 110 dishes. This was 
in order. In the passage above referred to is a 
curious scene of bustle and confusion in clearing the 
hall after dinner for the maskers. * Away with the 
joint-stools — remove the court cupboard — look to 
the plate, Antony and Potpan !** And when the 
mask is over, old Capulet says, * Nay, gentlemen, 
prepare not to be gone ; we have a trifling foolish 
banket toward.' 

" After such dinners as had preceded these en- 
tertainments, we may presume that the 110 dishes 
of the * banket' might be called comparatively tri- 
fling, and would somewhat resemble a modern table 
in lightness. Pike was the only fish served up with 
the flesh dinners. The arrangement of the first and 
second course, with respect to fish, &c., seems to 


have been indiscriminate. Not a vegetable appears. 
Apples were introduced with the cheese, and stewed 
with sugar and sage *.'' 

The last item which I shall mention, relative to 
the domestic economy of the Cliffords, will place 
one of the familiar accommodations of modem life 
in a very interesting point of view : 

" 1638-4. To eaptayne Robinson, by my lord's 
commands, for writing letters of news to his lord- 
ship for a half year, 51^ 

It would appear from this intimation, that, pre- 
vious to the invention of printed newspapers, the 
nobility and opulent gentry were in the habit of 
pensioning persons in London, for the purpose of 
collecting and sending to them, in written letters, 
the news of the day. I know, indeed, scarcely any 
privation which vi^ould occasion such a blank in 
modem society as the sudden and total suppression 
of newspapers. 

It now only remains to take some notice of 
the amusements which beguiled the hours of the 
lords of Skipton ; and of these, which may properly 
enough be arranged under the heads of Indoob and 

* Hist, of Craven, pp. 306-7-8-9. 


OcTDOOR Diversion, I shall commence with that 
branch of the former which, from the talent or ap- 
paratus required for its exhibition, may be -consi- 
dered as the most important, namely, the dramatic 
entertainments and minstrelsy that so often cheered 
the halls, or awakened the echoes, of Brougham, 
Londesborough, and Skipton. 

Fortunately a few of the memoranda which al- 
lude to these festivities have been collected from the 
papers of the family, and brought before us in the 
following order : 

" 1521. Payd to the French Wheyn mynstrell, 
iiis. ivd. ; mynstrell of Newer Daye, vi^. viiid. 

** 1595. To lord Willowby's men playing at this- 
hows twice, xxx5. 

" 1609* Payd to the musitioners which were 
appointed to play at Londesbr. at the play the 1^ 

Marche, sir Hutton and divers others being 

there, mis, 

" 1609, 27 April. Given to the waites of Hali- 
faxe, who plaied in the court, sir Step. Tempest 
being there, iis. 

" Given to a company of players, my lord Vawses 
men, in reward not playing, because it was Lenty 
and therefore not fitting, X5. 


<^ 1614. Given to my lord Wharton his players, 
who played one fdaye before my lord and the 
ladies .... 

" 1619. Given to 15 men that were players, who 
belonged to the late queene, xiii«. iv^. 

^ Sept. 28. Given to a companie of players, being 
prince Charleses servants, who came to Ixyndesbro' 
and played a play, xi-^. 

" 1624. Gave to a set of players, going by the 
name of the kings players, who played S times, iii/. 

^^ 1633. To certain players itinerants, il. 

" 1635. To a certeyne company of rogfdsh 
players, who represented * A New Way to pay 
Old Debts,' il. 

" To Adam Gerdler, whom my lord sent for 
from York to act a part in * The Knight of the 
Burning Pestell,' v^.'^ 

On these articles, which throw a strong light on 
a very prominent part of the domestic amusements 
of the age, Dr. Whitaker has given us a comment 
so rich in just remark with regard to the dramatic 
and histrionic merit of past and present times, that 
it would be an injury to my readers not to insert it. 

" There is no proof,'* he observes, " to be drawn 
from tlieir papers, that the Cliffords maintained a 

HOKKlNas IK spHixa. 273 

company of minstrels or players as a part of their 
establishment. Yet, why they did not, as well as 
lord Willoughby, lord Wharton, and lord Vaux, 
all their inferiors, it would not be easy to discover. 
Of the dramatic power of these vagrants, who 
strolled about the country from one nobleman^s 
house to another, and were rewarded for each en- 
tertainment with a few shillings, it is impossible to 
form any high idea. They were probably of no 
higher rank, or greater talents, than those who are 
now content to amuse a country village in a bam. 
Dramatic composition was at its height before dra-^ 
maiic representation had emerged far above bar- 
barism. That elegant but too often licentious 
amusement will never attain to any very high de- 
gree of excellence, till a wealthy and luxurious age 
has made the rewards of it a national object, which 
again will often not take place till the powers of dra- 
matic composition, which usually reaches its acme 
a little before that period of society, are on the de- 
cline. It follows, that the highest gratification in 
this walk will be obtained by a judicious combina- 
tion of the dramas of one period with the perform- 
ance of another, from want of which, Jonson, Beau- 
mont, Fletcher, and Shakspeare, it is more than 



probdde, never ccmceived the full farce of some^f 
their own greatest chturacters. Meanwhile, the rant 
or the buffoonery of strollers woidd pass for fine 
acting in the halls of Londesborough andSkipton; 
«nd inteUectual gmtification, though very imper- 
feet, might ocHitribute to suspend the orgies of in^ 
temperance, to awaken the latent sparks of feeling 
or sentiment, and to soften the general ferocity of 

Qf those diversions which, as requiring only a 
few members of a family for their performance, are 
still more strictly entitled to the appellation of it&- 
door OT fireside amusements, there are only three or 
four notices to be found in the furinted inventories 
of the Cliffords. The first and second of these are 
dated 1619, and, consequently, relate to Francis the 
fourth earl ; they run as follows : 

^^ Given to my lord to play at tables in the great 
chamber, v^« 

'* Paid to his lordship^s losses at shovelboard, tls^ 

Tables^ so named from the French and Latin, 
differed little, if at aU, from the modem game of 
backgammon; but sJiovelioard, now superseded 

• Hist, of Craven^ p. 318, noie. 



by the use of billiards, was :the pastime and chief 


ornameaQt of every old hall, and doubtless of that 
Bt SkiptoQ castle. As it consisted in pushing or 
shoving pieces of smooth money along a very po- 
lished surface to certain fixed marks, the currency 
of the day so employed was often distinguish^ by 
an epithet corresponding with this occasional ap- 
plication of it; thus, in the reign of Henry the 
Eighth, the era pf the invention of shovel-board, 
the ^ver groats of that monarch were called shove^ 
groats; and when the smooth broad shillings of 
Edward the Sixth came into being, they, from a 
like cause, were denominated shovel-board shillings. 
That this board was sometimes a piece of furniture 
of magnificent dimensions, and worthy of the most 
splendid baronial hall, is evident from what Dn 
Plot has told us of that at Chartley in Staffordshire, 
which was more than thirty feet in length, and con- 
sisted of two hundred and sdxty pieces *. 

Whether the ladies at Skipton castle ever par- 
took of this diversion cannot now be ascertained ; 

» Natural History of Staffordshire, p. 383. For a copious 
and minute description of this board, and the mode of play- 
ing at it, see my " Shakspeare and his Times," voL i. pp. 306, 
307. 308. 


but as they had a somewhat similar amusement of 
their own, though under a different name, it is pro- 
bable they did not. This was called trol-mt/'dames 
or pigeon-hoks, two of the boards for which are 
mentioned, in the Skipton inventory of 1648, as 
being in lady Frances' closet. 

This game, which consisted in rolling small ivory 
balls through arches resembling pigeon holes, and 
placed at one end of the machine, has been thus 
recommended by a physician of some celebrity in 
his day, as a proper in-door diversion for his fe-^ 
male patients : " The ladyes, gentle woomen, wyves, 
maydes, if the weather be not agreeable,^ says the 
doctor, <^ may have in the ende of a benche, eleven 
holes made, intoo the which to troule pummits, 
either wyolent or softe, after their own discretion: 
the pastyme troule in madame is termed *.^ 

It appears from the Winter'^s Tale of Shakspeare, 
that, in his day, the boards for this game were car- 
ried round the country for sale ; for Autolycus, in 
answer to the query of the clown as to who had 
robbed him, replies, " A fellow, sir, that I have 

• Dr. Jones on Buckstone Bathes^ as cited by Farmer. 
Vide Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ix. p. 336. 


known to go about with trol-my-dcmes!* Act iv. 
Sc. ^. ' ' 

The time, however, which these domestic amus^ 
ments consumed at Skipton was trifling, when com- 
pared with that which was given to the out-door 
diversions, or sports ofthejield. That the pleasures 
of himting formed a great part of the serious occu- 
pation of the Cliffords of Craven there can be no 
doubt. They seem, indeed, to have pursued this 
diversion with more than common enthusiasm, to. 
have been extremely jealous of their rights and pri- 
vileges concerning it, and to have carried it on with 
9 preparation, state,' and train of attendants truly 
imposing. "Their vast domains,'* remarks sir 
Egerton Brydges, speaking of this family, " and 
all -the wild splendour of the feudal habits, which 
they exhibited, fill the imagination with, the senti- 
ments and the figures of a rich romance. I see 
them still pursuing their manly sports over the pic- 
turesque and magnificent solitudes of Craven ; I 
see them afterwards presiding with courteous state . 
at the hall of hospitality, un weakened by effeminate 
luxuries, and unsophisticated by the rivalry or arti- . 
fices of commerce and manufactures*.'^ 

* Censura Literaria^ vol vi. p. 395. 

S78 MORNINGS IN spring; 

• It is scarcely possible, indeed, after such a de- 
scription, to look upon these great huntings in 
Arc md Wharfdale, upon the immense porks and 
forests through which they ranged, and whidi have 
since disappeared, without experiencing som« ^bt 
feelings of sorrow that they no longer exist. 

Of the vast extent of Craven, which was then 
tenanted by the deer .of the lords of Sldpton, some 
estimate may be formed from the ntmiber of keeper- 
ships belonging to the family, and which amounted, 
in 1609} to thirteen; namely, to those of BirkSf 
Gromngtm, Old Patke^ The HawCj ThreshJUUj 
where mention is made of a buck famous in its day, 
called •* the Great Buck of Threshfield,'' Brod^ 
sJunffCi CracO' Felly Thorpe- FeUy CarUon Park, 
Sdrden, LongstrcAihery LiUonddlef and Skipton. 

As to the apparatus required for thiB manly di- 
version, it is worthy of remark j that of the stud 
belonging to the second earl, and which consisted 
of about ^ty horses, geldings, and mares, a few are 
designated, in the inventory of 157S, by the names 
of itidividuals of tlie family, or by those of its 
fnends, sufch as^ Grey Clifford^ White Dacre, SareU 
Tempest, Bay Middleicfij &c. ; a castovn, observes 
Whitaker, much mcH^ noble than the contemptible 

and nonsensical mdntii^ of dbocnninating racehorse 
at present It brings to the recollection ^^ saddle 
White Surrey for the field to-morrow ♦.'* 

We have also, in the same inventory, a very 
eimotts enumeration of what extra^uipage waiEl 
then thought necessary for a long and distant chase 
in Graven. Thus, after a list of some items of horse 
furniture, and of various riduig hats, with a moricm 
covered with crimson velvet, and intended as a li^t 
skull-cap for the defence ot the head in huntings 
follows the mention of one trussing' bedd Jhr the 
JkM^ m two iromka of rede clothe mth my hrdPs 
armes en^frynged with rede siOee^ and hfnedwith 
rede sarcffnet; one bedd qfdowney and a Meter 
theretobeloMgynge, andotie matteress; articles^which 
being placed under the head of my lord^s apparel, 
and net classed with the munition of the castle, were 
evidently meant for the accommodation of hunting 
parties, and whidh, it has been justly remarked, 
might bemused in an ordinary. house where it might 
be necessary to spend the night, and where everjr 
convenience might be wantmg. After a hard day^s 
chase m liongstroth-dale^ ic»r instance, it would be 
too much for a wearied train of men and horses to 
^ * King Richard III. Act 5, Sc. 3. * 


return to Skipton, In this case^ my lord would be* 
take himself to his trussing bed. and his servants 
to the haymow ♦. 

Of the other out-door diversimis, with the excep- 
tion of a few intimations relative to hawking and 
fishings there is no mention. In reference to the 
first it is stated, that in 1614, a leash of hawks cost 
sixteen pounds, and that sixty dozen of pigeons 
were killed at a time for hawksmeat ; and with re. 
gard to the second, that Malham water and the 
fish-ponds at Skipton furnished the chief oppor- 
tunities for its exercise. These latter were situate in 
a deep and; very beautiful glen at the foot of the 
northern wall of Skipton Castle, which from its 
battlements to the torrent which washes its base 
measured not less than two hundred feet. They 
formed a part, indeed, of the pleasure-grounds of 
the Cliffords, to which this romantic dell, somewhat 
intruded upon perhaps by the topiary works of the 
days of Henry the Eighth, was exclusively appro- 

i The account which has now been given of the 
manners, habits, and domestic economy of the Clif- 
fords of Craven will have presented us with majiy 

• Whitaker's Hist, of Craven, p. 387, note* 


iking and interesting vi^ws of their magnificence 
i hospitality ; features which did not perish with 
3 male branches of the family, but, as we shall 
^ in the following number, were maintained with 
en additional splendour and utility, by the cele- 
ated heiress of their property. 

[^To be conlinued^l 


No. XXL 

The Ladfe wm^ Wr Ifll^ halls, 

Whoe mao J a hold reCaiiier k j : — 
Courteoos as mooardi the mom he is ciown*d^ 
Generous as ipcii^-dews that Mess the g^ad ground ; 
Noble her blood as the cmrenti that met 
In the Tcuis of the noblest Flantagenet— 
Sndi wete her mood and her strain. 

Sim Walter Scott. 

The death of Heniy, fifth earl of Cumberland, 
without nude issue, terminated a series of family 
litigation which had, with all its customary effects 
of alienated affection and ill-will, existed for eight- 
and-thirty years ; and at length, in her fifty-fourth 
year, the daughter and sole-suryiving child of Greorge 
earl of Cumberland succeeded to the estates of her 
forefathers, under the title of 
Anne, Baroness Cliffosd, Fousteenth Lord 
OF THE Honour of Skifton. 

This accomplished, munificent, and virtuous 
heiress of the Cliffords was born at Skipton Castle 
on the 80th of January, 1589. Under the eye of 

her good and ainiable mother, Margaret, countes(is 
of Cmnberhuid, she enjoyed 6yery advantage which 
precept and example could afibrd, and no doubter, 
perhaps, was ever more senrible of the obligatioml 
which, she owed to maternal care. She never, in- 
deed, throoghout her long life spoke of this par^it 
but in terms of enthusiastic veneration ior her vir« 
tnes and talents, and usually with the epithet of 
my blessed mother. 

It appears that at the age of eleven years she 
was imder the tutorage of Samuel Daniel, the cele- 
brated poet4aid successor of Spenser in the laureat-^ 
ship ; for, in an original book of iK^^builts discbveried 
by Dr. Whdtaker among the ClifiPord papers at 
Skipton Castle, and filled with memcM'mKla tehiive 
to h^ education from 1600 to 160^, ocetdr, under 
fhe first of these dates, and in the hand-writing 
of the bard, four metricid lines, imjdoring for his 
pupi} the years of Nestor, and hafppiness at h^ UfeV 
end, a prayer which, aa we shall hereafter see, was 
almost literally fulfilled. 

The$e two years were spent by lady Anne in 
London, undier the immediate care of her govi^iiiesii^ 
Mrs. Tayler, a woman of polii^ied mannersr and 
high attaitnmenta; and -here, whibt she 'krtbibed a 


lave of literature^ poetry, and history^ fix>m her 
able tutor, she acquired also a knowledge of French,. 
and was taught the accomplishments of music and 

We discover, likewise, from this interesting col- 
lection of memoranda, what is of yet greater im- 
portance, that, during her sojourn in the capital, 
she continued to cultivate those habits of benevo- 
lence and piety which she had learnt from her mo- 
therm's example; for though her income, owing to 
the narrow circumstances in which lady Margaret 
had been placed by the neglect of her lord, was so 
small that she was frequently obliged to boi^ow, 
yet we find, notwithstanding, that nearly one-fourth 
of the numerous articles of expenditure contained 
in this account book was devoted to purposes of 

It is highly gratifying to be informed, from the 
same authority, that conduct such as this procured 
her many friends. Her aunt, lady Warwick, often 
sent her small sums of money packed up in little 
silver barrels, and, being greatly attached to her, 
bad introduced her to queen Elizabeth, by whom 
she had been admired as a child of great promise. 
$he visited also her and the countesses of Northum- 


berland and Derby, and lady Scroope, in their own 
coaches, and not unfrequently received from them, 
and others, presents of gold trinkets, besides venison, 
once a whole stag at a time, and fish and fruit. 

It was at the close of this early residence in 
London, when she was but thirteen years old, that 
Daniel addressed to her a poetical epistle, from 
which, as possessing considerable merit in a moral 
and admonitory point of view, I shall beg leave to 
extract a few lines. 


With SO great care doth she that hath brought forth 

That comely body^ labour to adorn 

That better part^ the niansion of your mind^ 

With all the richest furniture of worth 

To make ye as highly good as highly bom. 

And set your virtues equal to your kind. 

She tells you how that honour only is 
A goodly garment put on fair deserts, 
Wlierein the smallest stain is greatest seen. 
And that it cannot grace unworthiness ; 
But more apparent shews defective parts. 
How gay soever they are deck'd therein. 

She tells you, too, how that it bounded is 
And kept enclosed with so many eyes. 
As that it cannot stray and break abroad 
Into the private ways of carelessness ; 
Nor ever may descend to vulgarise 


Or be below tbe fphere of her abode : 

But, like to these supernal bodies set 
Within their orbs, must keep the certain course 
Of ordor, destin'd to their pn^er place ; — 

Such are your hoty bounds, who must con?ey 
(If God so please) the honourable blood 
Of Clifford, and of Russel, led aright 
To many worthy stems, whose offspring may 
Look back with comfort, to have had that good. 
To spring from such a branch that grew s' upright : 
Since nothing cheers the heart of greatness more 
Than the ancestor's fair glory gone before." 

One of the most pleasing features in the cha- 
racter of this justly celebrated woman, both in her 
youth and old age, was her gratitude to, and af- 
fection for, her preceptors. She ever delighted to 
recal them to her recollection, and to associate their 
existence, as it were, with her own. Thus, in a 
whole-length picture of Ker at Appleby castle, we 
behold a small portrait of her tutor Daniel ; and in 
the side leaves of the great family picture at Skip- 
ton castle, where she is likewise drawn at full-length, 
one compartment exhibiting her at the age of thir- 
teen, and the other in middle life, over the first of 
these we again perceive the head of Daniel, and^ 
accompanied by that of her governess, Mrs. Anne 
Tayler, In the same leaf, also, she has contrived, 


bjT a ^qpreflentataoQ of lier library, to aoquaint us 
with tibe £iyourite dutlumt of h^ c^ly days, lUDaQ&g 
whkik we find Eusdbius, St.. Augustinei .sir PhiUp 
Sidney^ Arcadia, Godfrey o[ Boulqgne, the French 
Academy, Camden, Qrtetlius, and Agoppa an the 
Vanity of Occult Sciences ; whilst in the second of 
these leaves we as distinctly leacn what were the 
chief studies of her jnaturer age, by the books which 
are there depicted being wholly confined, with the 
exception of one on distillations and excellent jne- 
didnes, to.the Bible, Charron on Wisdom, and scnne 
pious tracts. 

She was, indeed, throughout life a great and 
persereadng reader, deriving from this source some 
of her dearest consolations ; for ** whenever her 
eyes began to fail,'' relates Dn Whitaker, " she 
employed a reader, who marked on every volume 
or pamphlet the day when he began and ended his 
task ; many books so noted yet remain in the evi- 
dence room at Skipton ♦." 

Whilst on this subject, I may add that her af- 
fectionate recollection of him who had been a chief 
' instrument in inspiring her with a love of reading 

♦ Hist, of Craven, p. SIS. 


mU liirdier erinoed <m her ooming into po6- 
of her km^-dispated [mifie r ty ; fix* shortl j 
flftcrrads die placed over die lemdais of the bard, 
who had slept unhGOoared fer half a century in the 
paridi cfauich of BeAington in Somersetahiie, a 
■KMumcnt at her sole expense, and ncoompanied 
bj the SdDomiag in a uipliu n : 

**' Here Bes, exj i frtii ig die second ccwning of our 
liOtd and Savkmr Jesus Christ, die dead body of 
Samuki. Daxiei^ Esq.; that exodlent Poet and 
BSslofian, who was Tutor to the Lady Anns Clif- 
FOKo in her youth, she that was daughter and heir 
to George CuFFomn, Earl of Cumbeeland ; who 
in gratitude to him erected this monument to his 
memory, a long time after, when she was Countess 
Dowager of Pembroke, Dorset, and Mokt- 
gomert. He died in Octob. an. 161 Q.*^ 

It would appear, notwithstanding, that the early 
years of lady Anne \irere, from her own account, 
not passed without incurring numerous perils both 
from accident and disease, for, whilst enumerating 
in her Memoirs the mercies which had been vouch- 
safed to her, she adds, ^^ I must not forget to a(v 
knowledge^ that in my infancy and youth I have 
escaped many dangers, both by fire and water, by 


passage in coaches and falls from horses, by burning 
fevers and excessive extremity of bleeding, many 
times to the great hazard of my life ; all which, 
and many cunning and wicked devices of my ene- 
mies, I have escaped and passed through mira- 
culously ; and much the better by the help of the 
prayers of my devout mother, who incessantly 
begged of God for my safety and protection.'* 

It was, however, only to her maiden state, and 
to her last but long widowhood, that this munificent 
heiress of the Cliffords could, in her closing days, 
look back with perfect satisfaction and thankfulness ; 
for her married life was one of almost continued 
vexation and disappointment. Her first lord, Richard 
Sackville earl of Dorset, was indeed a man of cul- 
tivated talents and splendid habits, a competent 
judge and liberal rewarder of literary merit, but he 
was, at the same time, extremely licentious in his 
morals, and inordinately profuse in his expenses. 
By this nobleman, to whom, with all his faults, she 
appears to have been strongly attached, the countess 
had three sons, who died young, and two daughters, 
Margaret and Isabel, who married the earls of 
Tbanet and Northampton. 

VOL. II. u 


She lost thb husband of her youth on the 28th 
of March, 16S4, and it tells highly to her honour, 
and affords, likewise, a strong proof of her unshaken 
r^;ard for his memory, that she educated and por- 
tioned all his illegitimate children. The character, 
indeed, which she has left of him in her MS. must 
be considered as touched with the pencil of tender- 
ness itself ; for it appears from the sam^ authentic 
source, that she had had considerable dissensions 
with him, in consequence of refusing to abide by 
the award of king James, and sell her claims of in- 
heritance for a sum of money. ^' This first lord of 
mine,^ she says, in a spirit of affectionate retro- 
spection, ^^ Was, in his own nature, of a just mind, 
of a sweet disposition, and very valiant in his own 
person. He had a great advantage in his breeding 
by the wisdom and devotion of his grandfather, 
Thomas Sackville, earl of Dorset, and lord high 
treasurer of England, who was then held one of the 
wisest men of that time ; by which means he was 
so good a scholar in all manner of learning, that, in 
his youth, when he lived in the university of Oxford, 
(his said grandfather being at that time chancellor 
of that university), there was none of the young 


nobility, then -students there, that excelled him. 
He was also a good patriot to his country, and 
generally well beloved in it ; much esteemed of by 
all the parliaments that sate in his time, and so 
great a lover of scholars and soldiers, as that with 
an excessive bounty towards them, or indeed any 
of worth that were in distress, he did much diminish 
his estate, as also with excessive prodigality in house- 
keeping, and other noble ways at court, as tilting, 
masquing, and the like ; prince Henry being then 
alive, who was much addicted to those noble exer- 
cises, and of whom he was much beloved *.''* 

About eight years previous to the death of her 
first lord, and not long after her marriage with him, 
she was, on the 24th of May, 1616, deprived of her 
good, and, on her own part, almost idolized mother. 
She had parted with her only seven weeks before, 
on the road between Penrith and Appleby, and this 
last interview was cherished by her through life 
with such fond and regretful remembrance, that very 
soon after the means were in her power, and when 
she was countess dowager of Pembroke, she erected 
a pillar on the spot, with the following inscription, 

* Lady Pembrokei's Summary. 



commemorative of the circumstance, and connected, 
in the pious spirit of her lamented parent, with an 

annual benefaction to the poor. 

" This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by 
Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a 
memorial of her last part'mg, in this place, with 
her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess 
Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616 ; 
in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 
of 4 to be distributed to the poor of the parish of 
Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon 
the stone-table placed hard by. Laus Deo !" 

There is something, it must be owned, peculiarly 
pleasing in this act of filial piety, and it has drawn 
forth from a deservedly popular poet of the present 
day a few lines remarkable for the pensive sweet- 
ness of their expression, and worthy indeed of the 

Hast thou through £den'« wild-wood vales pursued * 
. Each raountain-scene^ majestically rude; 
To note the sweet simplicity of life, 
Far from the din of Folly's idle strife : 
Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered 
That modest stone which pious Pei^broke rear'd ; 

» The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland^ and 
rises in the wild^t part of Westmoreland. 


Which still records, beyond the pencil's power. 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; 
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place. 
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace * ? 

Very soon after the decease of her first lord, the 
countess had the misfortune to catch the small-pox, 
by which her life was endangered, and her face so 
scarred, that she is said to have declared her deter- 
mination, in consequence of this loss of personal at- 
traction, never to marry again. It had been for- 
tuniite for her had she adhered to this resolution ; 
but, with a frailty of purpose of which she had 
soon reason to repent, she was induced, in the year 
1630, to re-enter the pale of matrimony with Philip, 
earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, a connexion by 
which her existence was embittered for many years. 

It is scarcely possible indeed to assign any other 
motive for this step than what may be inferred from 
a passage in her own Memoirs, where, speaking of 
this second marriage, she says, it " was wonderfully 
brought to pass by the providence of God, for the 
crossing and disappointage of the envy, malice, and 
sinister practices of her enemies ;'* a declaration 
which, as leading us to conclude that she had sought 

* Rogers's Pleasures of Memory, Part 2d. 


protection from her union with this nobleman, would 
place him in a very different light from that in 
which he has been represented by lord Orford and 
Mr. Pennant, the former terming him a fnemorable, 
and the latter a bruial simpleton. 

The picture also which the countess, herself an 
excellent judge, has given of the intellectual cha- 
racter of the earl of Pembroke, must be considered 
as perfectly incompatible with these appellations ; 
for though she acknowledges his want of education, 
she speaks in the most decided terms of the mental 
activity with which nature had endowed him. ** He 
was no scholar at all to speak of,'' she says, " for 
he was not past three or four months at the uni- 
versity of Oxford, being taken away thence by his 
friends presently after his father's death, in queen 
Elizabeth's time, at the latter end of her reign, to 
follow the court, as judging himself fit for that 
kind of life when he was not passing fifteen or six- 
teen years old : yet he was of a very quick appre- 
hension^ a sharp understandings very crafty withal, 
and of a discerning spirit y but extremely choleric 
by nature, which, was increased the more by the 
office of chamberlajn to the king, which he held 
many years. He was never out of England but 


some two months, when he went into France with 
other lords, in the year 16^, to attend queen Mary 
at her first coming over into England to be married 
to king Charles, her husband. He was one of the 
greatest noblemen of his time in England in all 
respects, and was throughout the realm very well 
beloved ♦.'' 

It unfortunately happens, that whatever differ- 
ence of opinion may be entertained with regard to 
the meptal, there can be none as to the moral cha- 
racter of lord Pembroke, for he appears, from every 
account, to have been profligate in his private habits, 
and unprincipled in his public life. His treatment 
of lady Anne was such as certainly to merit one of 
the epithets by which he has been described, that 
of brutal ; and the result was, that after enduring 
nineteen years of domestic misery and dissension, 
she was obliged to separate from him. Of the 
tyranny to which she was subjected by this arbi- 
trary peer, a striking proof has been brought for- 
ward by Mr. Park from the Harleian MS., where, 
in a letter to her uncle, the earl of Bedford^ dated 
Ramosbury, January 14, 1638, she implores him 

* Lady Pembroke's Summary. 



to speak eamebtly to her lord that she may be al- 
lowed to go up to town for a few days, promising 
to return thither again whensoever her lord appoints 
it ; and she adds in a postcript : " IfF my lorde 
sholld denie my comming, then I desire your lord- 
ship I may understand itt as sone as may bee, that 
so I may order my poore businesses as well as I 
can, withe outt my once comming to the towne ; 
for I dare not ventter to come upe withe outt his 
leve ; let he sholld take thatt occasion to turne mee 
outt of this howse, as hee did outt of Whitthall, 
and then I shall nott know wher to put my hede* 
I desire nott to staye in the towne above 10 dayes, 
or a forttnight att the most *.*" 

We learn, in fact, from another letter in the same 
collection, addressed to the countess dowager of 
Kent, and dated Appleby Castle, January 10, 1649, 
that she was so restricted in her pecuniary allow- 
ance as to be obliged to pawn some of the most 
favourite and valuable articles in her possession ; 
for, after acknowledging a loan from the countess, 
and returning the sum, she beseeches her ladyship 
to deliver up " a little cabinett and Helletropian 

• Harl. MS. 7001.— Park's Royal and Noble Authors, 
vol. iii. p. 173. 


cupe/** The letter closes in a manner which strongly 
paints her love of books, and how soothing and per- 
manent was the consolation which she derived from 
their aid. She sends her love and service to worthy 
Mr. Selden, and adds, " she should be in a pitiful 
case if she had not exelentt Chacer s booke to com- 
fort her ; but when she read in that, she scorned 
and made light of her troubles */' 

From these troubles she was delivered very shortly 
afterwards by the death of the earl of Pembroke 
and Montgomery in January, 1649. Her married 
years had been, with few intervals, a state of morti- 
fication and sorrow ; for though both her husbands 
had led a life of gaiety and even splendour, it was 
gaiety such as she could not partake, and splendour 
such as she could not but despise. In the first of 
these connexions, formed in the fervor of youthful 
fancy and affection, love for a time might sweeten 
the cup of disappointment ; but in the second, there 
was nothing to relax the fetters of domestic co- 
ercion. " It was my misfortune,'' she says, speak- 
ing of these partners of her days, " to have contra- 

* Royal and Noble Authors, apud Park, v. iii. j). 174. 

99S Mosnxcs is spusg. 

dktkiof JBftd crosses with thoB badi ; with my first 
lord, mbout the desire he had to make me sdl ray 
rights ID the lands of ray anciait mheritamoe for a 
sum of mooey, vhkh I nerer did, nor nerer would 
c ooMnt unto, iimmudi as diis matter was the cause 
of a long oontentiao betwixt us, as ako for his pn>- 
fbseoess in consuming his estate, and some other 
extraragances of his; and with my seocod lord, 
because my youngest daughter, the lady Isabdla 
SadLTil, would not be brought to marry one of his 
younger sons, and that I would not relinquish 
my interest I had in five thousand pounds, being 
part of her portion, out of my lands in Craven : 
nor did there want divas malicious illwillers to 
blow and foment the coals of dissension betwixt us ; 
so as in both their life times, the marble pillars of 
Knowle in Kent, and Wilton in Wiltshire, were to 
me oft-times but the gay arbour of anguish, inso- 
much as a wise man that knew the insides of my 
fortune, would often say that I lived in both these 
my lord^s great families, as the river of Roan or 
Rodanus runs through the lake of Greneva, without 
mingling any part of its streams with that lake ; for 
I gave myself wholly to retiredness as much as I 


could in both these great families, and made good 
books and virtuous thoughts my companions, which 
can never discern affliction, nor be daunted when it 
unjustly happens : and by a happy genius I over- 
came all these troubles, the prayers of my blessed 
mother helping me therein *." 

It was in her second widowhood, and very shortly 
after the death of her lord, that she began that 
career of munificence, hospitality and utility, which 
has not undeservedly thrown so much splendour and 
' veneration round her memory. She had now, in- 
deed, the means of adequately carrying her plans 
into execution, for to an income already great 
were added the product of two large jointures ; and, 
taking up her abode in the North, she set about 
the work of repairing the castles of her ancestors 
with an enthusiasm which nothing could repress. 
Her friends, indeed, cautioned her against rebuild- 
ing her castles whilst Cromwell remained in power, 
under an apprehension, that as soon as they were 
completed, he would issue orders for their demoli- 
tion. " Let him,"' she replied, " destroy them if 
he will ; he shall surely find, as often as he does so, 

* Lady Pembroke's Summary. 


I will rebuild them, while he leaves me a shilling in 
my pocket *.^ 

As early as July, 1649, she visited Skipton and 
Barden for a few days, and, returning to the former 
place in the February following, continued there 
for nearly a twelvemonth, occupying the only parts 
of the castle which had not been rendered unin- 
habitable ; namely, the long gallery and adjoining 
apartments. Here, in holding courts, fixing bounda- 
ries, and giving orders for immediately necessary 
repairs, she passed her time ; but it was not until 
October, 1655, that she commenced the restoration 
of the old castle, which had been little better than 
a mass of half demolished walls and rubbish since 
the year 1648. Her task was completed in about 
three years, and the following inscription over the 
entrance into the modern fabric, remains as the 
record of her labours. 

" This Skipton Castle Was Repay red Br 
The Lady Anne Clifford, Countess Dowager 
of Pempuoke, Dorsett And Montgomerie, 
Baroness Clifford, Westmorland, And Ves«- 
cie, Ladye Of The Honour Of Skipton, In 

* Royal and Noble Authors, apud Park, v. iii. p. 166. 

mornings in spring. 801 

Craven, And Sheriff£ss£ By Inheritance 
Of the County Of Westmoreland, In The 
Yeares 1657 And 1658, After This Maine 
Part Of Itt Had Layne Ruinous Ever Since 
December 1648, And The January Follow- 
iNGE, When Itt Was Then Pulled Downe 
And Demolished, Almost To The Founda- 
tion, By The Command Of The Parliament, 
Then Sitting At Westminster, Because Itt 

Had Been A Garrison In The Then Civil 
Warres In England. 

" Isaiah^ chap. Iviii. v. 12. God's Name Be Praised." 

The verse to which we are referred at the close 
of this inscription runs thus : " Thou bhalt raise 
up the Jbundations of many generations^ and thou 
shah he called the repairer of the breach^ the re- 
storer of paths to dwell in ;" and certainly no one 
was ever better entitled to the application of this 
text than her whom we are now commemorating. 
In fact, the restoration of Skipton castle was but 
the commencement of her exertions in this way; 
for, in the very year of its completion, she began 
the repair of Harden Tower, which having been 
neglected by the last two earls had fallen into ruin ; 
and here likewise, as upon almost every other edi- 


ficc which she rebuilt, she left an inscription com* 
memorative of her title and her labours, and con- 
cluding with the same verse from Isaiah ; so that, 
as hath been appositely remarked, there is scarcely 
any English character which has been so frequently 
and so copiously recorded in stone and marble as 
the countess of Pembroke * 

This queen of the North, as she was often termed, 
now passing from Yorkshire into Westmoreland, 
her castles of Brougham, Appleby, Brough, and 
Pendragon^ three of which had long lain in a dila- 
pidated state, again reared their dismantled heads. 
Pendragon celebrated for the romantic origin of its 
name, and not less so for the wild grandeur of the 
scene around it, and which, at the command of 
Roger de Clifford, had opened its gates in 1337 to 
receive Edward Baliol on his expulsion from Scot- 
land, was completely restored by her in 1661, after 
having been unroofed for a hundred and twenty 
years ; but the walls, being twelve feet thick, had 
resisted the assaults of time and weather, and only 
required once more to be covered in, in order to 
last for centuries. But, alas! such is the insta- 

* Whitaker's Craven, p. 312. 


bility of all human projects, scarcely ten years had 
elapsed from the death' of lady Pembroke, when in 
Westmoreland three of these castles were destroyed 
by her grandson, Thomas earl of Thanet, Appleby 
alone being preserved ! 

The liberal and munificent spirit of the countess, 
however, was not confined to the restoration of her 
castles ; she, who had frequently declared that she 
would not ^^ dwelt- in ceiled houses whilst the house 
of God laid waste,^' was as diligent in repairing the 
churches as the fortified mansions of her ancestors. 
It is said that not less than seven of these eccle- 
siastical structures rose from their ruins under 
her care and direction, and among them Skipton 
church, whose steeple, which had been nearly 
beaten down during the siege of the neighbouring 
castle, was rebuilt by her in 1655. She also en- 
dowed two hospitals, and might be considered, in- 
deed, as through life, the constant friend and bene- 
factress of the industrious poor. 

With these pleasing features of charity^ philan- 
thropy and beneficence, was mingled in the dis- 
position of lady Anne an uncommon share of oc- 
casional dignity and firmness of spirit ; for whilst 
she was singularly kind and condescending to her 


inferiors, whilst she conversed with her alms>woinen 
as her sisters, and with her servants as her humble 
friends, no one knew better how, in the circle of a 
court or the splendour of a drawing-room, to sup- 
port their due consequence and state; and with 
what dauntless independency of mind she could re- 
pel the encroachments of corrupt power, the fol- 
lowing memorable reply, addressed to sir Joseph 
Williamson, secretary of state to Charles the Second, 
and who had written to nominate to her a mem- 
ber for the borough of Appjeby, will sufficiently 

" I have been bullied by an usurper; I have 
been neglected by a court ; but I will not be dic- 
tated to by a subject : your man shanH stand. 

" Anne, Dorset, Pembroke, and 
Montgomery V 

Dr. Campbell, in his " Philosophy of Rhetoric,^ 
speaking of the spirit to be derived to compo^tion 
from concinnity of expression, adduces this brief 
but energetic answer of lady Anne, as one of the 

* This anecdote was first introduced by lord Orford into 
the periodical paper entitled " The Worlds" No. 14, April 6, 
17 S3, and afterwards repeated in his Royal and Noble 


strongest illustrations of the precept. *^ If we con- 
sider the meaning,^' he remarks, " there is mention 
made of two facts^ which it was impossible that any 
body of common sense, in this lady^s circumstances, 
should not have observed, and of a resolution, in 
consequence of these, which it was natural for every 
person who had a resentment of bad usage to make. 
Whence then results the vivacity, the fire which is 
so manifest in the letter? Not from any thing ex- 
traordinary in the matter, but purely from the 
laconism of the manner. An ordinary spirit would 
have employed as many pages to express the same 
thing, as there are affirmations in this short letter. 
The epistle might in that case have been very sensi- 
ble, and withal very dull ; but would never have 
been thought worthy of being recorded as contain- 
ing any thing uncommon or deserving a reader's 

Nothing, indeed, can more strikingly prove to 
what compressed and high-toned eloquence indig- 
nation of mind may give rise than this famous 
epistle; for the general style of lady Pembroke 
was minute, diffuse, and often languid ; of which 

♦ Philosophy of Rhetoric, vol. ii. pp. 263, 264. 


we have a curious specimen in the manuscript folio 
of her writing preserved in the Harleian Ccdlection, 
No. 6117, and from which, under the title of ** A 
Summary of the Records, and a true Memorial ci 
the Life of me the Lady Anne Cltford,^^ &c. I 
have more than once had occasion to quote. 

Long life, a gift only valuable when oonnected 
with mental peace and enjoyment, and the cor« 
sciousness of utility to others, was granted to the 
countess of Pemlnroke, who for twenty-six years 
after the death dfher last husband undeviatingly 
pursued a course wludi, wUkt it ministered to her 
own happiness, showered blessings on all around 
her. She died on the SSd of March, 1676, in the 
eighty-eighth year of her age, and was buried, at 
her express desire, by the side of her beloved mo- 
ther in the church of AppkJby, 

On the 14th of the following month her fim^al 
sermon was preached within die same edKifice by 
Ih*. Edward Rainbow, bifiliop of Carliri^, from la 
text in the Proverbs of Solomon vety appositely 
alluding to one of the chief empk^mients of her 
latter days, her architectural restorations: ** Every 
wise woman buildeth her house."" To this worthy 
dignitary, indeed, who has executed his task con 


amove J and at great length, we are indebted, amongst 
other things, for a striking picture not only of the 
natural powers of her understanding, but of the 
exU'aordinary extent and versatility of her know- 
ledge. After commenting on the former, and tell- 
ing us that she had ^^ a clear soul, sprightful, of 
great understanding and judgment, faithful me- 
mory and ready wit,'' he adds, " she had early 
gained a knowledge, as of the best things, so an 
ability to discourse in all commendable arts and 
sciences, as well as in those things which belcxig to 
persons of her birth and sex to know. She could 
discourse with virtuosos, traveUers, scholars, mer- 
chants, divines, dtatesm^i, and with good house- 
vdves in any kind ; insomuch, that a prime and 
elegant wit, I^. Donne, well seen in all humane 
learning, is T^xyrted to have said of this lady, ' that 
she knew well how to discourse of all things from 
predestination to slea-silk :' snetmiog, that although 
she Was skilful in housewifery, and in such thiis^s 
in which wcknen are conversant, yet her penetrat- 
ing wit soared up to pry into tte highest mysteries. 
Although she knew wool and flax, fine Hnen jand 
silk, things appertaining to the spindle and the 
distaff, yet * she could open her mouth witfiwis- 



dom/ and had knowledge of the best and highest 
things, such as ^ make wise unto salvation.' If she 
had sought fame rather than wisdom, possibly she 
might have been ranked among those wits and 
learned of that sex of whom Pythagoras or Plu- 
tarch, or any of the ancients, have made such ho- 
nourable mention. But she affected rather to study 
with those noble Bereans, and those honourable 
women, who searched the scriptures daily; with 
Mary, she chose the better part, of learning the 
doctrine of Christ •.'" 

Educated during one of the most magnanimous 
periods of the English monarchy, under the eye of 
a pious and sensible mother, and early accustomed 
to privations, disappointments, and self-denial, lady 
Pembroke preserved an almost heroic firmness and 
purity of conduct ; and when, under thie dissolute 
reign of Charles the Second, it was her lot to fall 
on degenerate days and godless tongues, she stood 
uncontaminated by the scene around her, and was, 
perhaps, the most exemplary female character of 
that age. Repeatedly had she been solicited, we 
are told, to go to Whitehall after the Restoration, 

♦Vide Royal and Noble Authors, apud Park, vol. iii. 
p. 169. 


but she constantly declined it, saying, ^^ that if she 
went thither she must have a pair of blinkers, lest 
she should see such things as would ofPend her ia 
that licentious court *.'' It was on her own estates, 
in the halls of her ancestors, that, at such a 
tioie, she could alone hope to preserve her dignity 
and independency, could alone hope, through the 
medium of charity, hospitality, and personal in- 
fluence, to be useful to her country and her kind. 
And here, as the historian of Craven in very forcible 
language has remarked, " equally remote -from the 
undistinguishing profusion of ancient times, and the 
parsimonious elegance of modern habits, her house 
was a school for the young, and a retreat for the 
aged ; an asylum for the persecuted, a college for 
the learned, and a pattern for all-f-.'*' 

Her love of literature, indeed, and especially of 
poetry, was one of the most pleasing features in 
her character. We have seen that she erected a 
tomb and wrote an epitaph in honour of the poet 
Daniel, her friend and tutor, and she paid a fur- 
ther and still more disinterested tribute to genius 

* Granger's Biographical History of England, vpl. ii. 
p. 54.. Ed. 1775. 

t Hist. Craven, p. 313. 


by a similar mark of respect to the memory of our 
admirable Spenser^ over whose grave in Westmin- 
ster AUbey, when more than thirty years had passed 
without any record of the kind, she placed a hand- 
some monument with a suitable inscription. 

Ancestrdi and filial affection, too, which laUer 
never burnt brighter in any bosom than in that of 
lady Anne, drew from her several other comme- 
morative tributes ci regard : she repaired, for in- 
stance, and re-inscribed the tombs of her ancestors 
at Skipton ; she built a monument over the ashes 
of her father at the same place, and beside the pSlar 
I have already mentioned on last parting with her 
mother, she erected a statue of that bdoved parent 
at Appleby. Few individuals, indeed^ have ever 
shown stronger marks of gratitude for past love 
and services than the countess of Pembroke ; and, 
' as a striking proof of the asser&»n, it merits to be 
told, that when age had broken down her faithful 
servants, she suffered them not to fed its too fire^ 
quent a^ndants, poverty and neglect^ buf gate 
them wherewith to ck>se their days in ease and in-^ 

Of a character thus firmly good, and often great, 
yet at the same time highly original; and frequently 


eceeatric, it might naturally be expected that the 
personal manners and appearance would offer some 
indications; and, accordingly, the few particulars 
of the kind which have been handed down to us 
by tradition, or which may be deduced from her 
portrait, are of this description. In her person she 
was tall, upright, and dignified, and, if we may 
judge from her picture at Knowle, with features 
more indicative of decision and intellectual acute« 
ness than of feminine sweetness and reserve. In 
her manners and dress itis prob^lethat sbe rather 
cherished than shunned peculiarity, for bishop Rain* 
bow has told us, that she was ^^ of a humoiu* pleas^ 
ing to all, yet like to none ; her dress not disliked 
by any, yet imitated by none.'' This latter ap- 
pears to have been after her second widowhood, 
and when she resided in the North, generally of 
black serge. Yet these singularities, though some- 
what affected, perhaps, are but as dust in the ba- 
lance, when weighed against what has been uni- 
formly affirmed of this excellent woman, that her 
charities were almost boundless. 

I have thus closed a biographical and historical 
sketch of the House of Clifford from its first esta- 
blishment in Craven to it9 extinction in the same 


diRtrict, a period of four hundred years, during 
which we have seen it not only implicated in events 
of the first national importance, but presenting us, 
in the history of its own members, with traits of 
character and vicissitudes of fortune of the most 
interesting and singular description. It has fur- 
nished us, in fact, with many striking features of 
the manners and customs of our forefathers, and 
with many extraordinary details of incident and 
adventure; and, above all, with many moral and 
prudential lessons, forming altogether a picture 
alike calculated to gratify the imagination and to 
improve the heart 

No. XXII. 

Immortal friends ! well pleased on high 

The Father has heheld you, while the might 

Of adverse Fate with bitter trial proved 

Your equal doings. A ken side ♦. 

One of the most pleasing, and, at the same time, 
most interesting circumstances in the early life of 
Milton, and during the period of his travels on the 
continent, is his interview with the celebrated Ga- 
lileo. ** There it was," he says, speaking of Italy 
in his speech for unlicensed printing, « that I found 
and visited the famous Galileo, grown old, a pri- 
soner to the inquisition, for thinking in astronomy 
otherwise than the Franciscan and Dominican li- 
censers thought •f.'*' 

It is probable that the attention of our immortal 
countryman had been peculiarly directed to this 
illustrious victim of bigotry and superstition, by the 
compassionate sympathy of Hugo Grotius, who, 

* With slight alteration. 

t Piosc Works, vol. i. p. 3VS. 


during the very month in which the poet was intro- 
duced to him by lord Scudamore, then our ambas- 
sador at the court of Paris, thus mentions Galileo 
in a letter to his friend Vos»us. " Senex is,^ says 
he, ^* optime de universo meritus, morbo fractus, 
insuper et animi segritudine, baud multum nobis 
vitse suae promittit ; quare prudentise erit arripere 
tempus, dum tanto doctore uti licet ^.^ *^ This 
old man, to whom the universe is so deeply indebted, 
worn out with maladies, and still more with anguish 
of mind, gives us little reason to hope, that his life 
can be long ; common prudence, therefore, suggests 
to us to make the utmost of the time, while we can 
yet avail ourselves of such an instructor •f*.'*' 

Little could be wanting to induce Milton to visit, 
and, with reverential awe, to offer an unfeigned 
homage to this truly memorable sufferer in the 
cause of science. Shortly, therefore, after reaching 
Florence, he sought out his abode, and found him 
at his seat near Arcetri, in Tuscany. Galileo in 
1639, the period of Miltorfs visit, was seventy-five 
years of age ; he had been twice imprisoned by the 
Inquisition at Rome, for the supposed heresy of his 

* Grotii Epist. 964. 

t Hayley's Life of Milton, 4to. p. 37. 


philosophical opinions in defending the system of 
Copernicus, and his last liberation in December 
1633, after a confinement of nearly two years, was 
on the express condition of not departing, for the 
residue of his life, from the duchy of Tuscany. 

Let us now plaoe before our eyes die picture 
which tradition has left us of this great and muclt- 
iiijured character, when, at the close of a life of 
persecution, when ^^ fallen on evil days and evil 
tongues,^^ the youthful Milton stood before him.— - 
Not only was he suffering from the natural pres» 
sure of advancing years, but he was infirm from 
sickness, and had, a very short time before Milton 
was admitted to his presence, become totally blind, 
from a too intense application to his telescope, and 
consequent exposure to the night air. Yet this, 
the greatest calamity which could Jiave befallen a 
person thus engaged, he bore with christian forti- 
tude, with the piety, indeed, of a saint, and the re- 
signation of a philosopher. He permitted it not, 
in fact, either to break the vigour of his spirit^ or 
to interrupt the course of hk studies, supplying, in 
a great measure, the defect by constant meditation, 
and the use of an amanuensis. Nor, though the 
first astronomer and mathematician of any age or 


country, had he confined himself to these pursuits ; 
his learning was general and extensive ; both theo- 
retically and practically he was an architect and 
designer * ; his fondness for poetry was enthusi- 
astic -|-, and he played upon the lute with the most 
exquisite skill and taste. To these varied acquisi- 
tions in science, literature, and art, were added the 
blessings of an amiable disposition; for though 
keenly sensible of the injustice of his enemies, whose 
malevolence and oppression, indeed, have scarcely 
had a parallel, he was yet cheerful, afiable, and 
open in his temper, and his aspect, we are told, was 
singularly venerable, mild, and intelligent. 

That such a man, though living in an age of ex- 
treme bigotry, should be an object of ardent attach- 
ment to those who best knew him, may be readily 
conceived. We shall not be surprised, therefore, 
to learn that he was enthusiastically beloved by his 

* A manuscript treatise by Gralileo on Military Archi- 
tecture> in twenty- three chapters^ is still existing in the 
library at Milan. 

t Galileo wrote^ when youngs Considerations on the com- 
parative merits of Tasso and Ariosto ; an essay which^ not 
having been printed in any edition of his works^ was thought 
to have been lost,, until lately discovered by Serassi. — See 
Black's Life of Tasso^ ito. vol. i. p. 375. 


pupils, and that when visited by Milton, VincenXo 
Viviani, his last and favourite disciple, then a youth 
of seventeen, was attending upon him with all the 
zeal of the most affectionate son. So great, indeed, 
was the veneration entertained for him by this 
young man, who subsequently became his bio- 
grapher, and a mathematician of great celebrity, 
that he never during the remainder of his life, and 
he reached the age of eighty-one, subscribed his 
name without the addition of the ^^ scholar of Ga- 
lileo;"^ and had constantly before him, in the room 
in which he studied, a bust of his revered master, 
with several inscriptions in his praise *. 

How must Milton have been interested and af- 
fected by the spectacle which opened to his view 
on entering beneath the roof of Galileo ; how deeply 
must he have felt and penetrated into the feelings 
of the characters then placed before him; the 
sublime fortitude and resignation of the dged but 
persecuted astronomer, and the delighted love and 
admiration of his youthful companion ! It is, in- 
deed, highly probable, that the poef s deep-rooted 
abhorrence of bigotry and oppression was first im- 

* Fabroni Vitae Italorum. 


bibed on beholding this illustrious martyr of in- 
tolarance. There can also be little doubt but that 
the conference which, on this occasion, took place 
between the philosopher and the bard, led, as the 
Italian biographer of Milton has remarked *, to 
those ideas in the Paradise Lost which approxi- 
mate to the Newtonian doctrine of the planetary 
system. It can also admit of less, that, when 
Milton, old and deprived of sight, was composing 
his immortal poem, he must often have recalled 
to memory this interview with the blind and suffer- 
ing Galileo, under feelings of peculiar sympathy 
and commiseration ; and with the same christian 
patience and firmness which so remarkably distin- 
guished the great Florentine, he could truly say, 

I argue not 

Against Heaven's hand or will^ nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 
Right onward t . 

* ^' In Firenze certamente egli apprese dagH Scritti e da^ 
Masttme del Galileo invalorite gia n^ di lui Seguaci^ qu^e 
Nozioni filosofiche sparse poi nel Poema^ che tanto si unifor- 
manoal Sistema del cavalier Newton." Rolli^ Vita di Mil- 
ton, 1785. 

t Sonnet to Cyriack Skinner. 


Independent of a succinct annunciation, in the 
eighth book of his poem, of the system of the uni- 
verse as taught by Galileo, he has twice by name 
distinctly alluded to him : thus in the first book, 
when describing the shield of Satan, he says, its 

Inroad circumference 

Hung on his shoulders like the moon^ whose orb 
Through optic glass the 7Wca« artist views 
At evening from the top of Fesol^, 
Or in Valdamo^ to descry new lands> 
Rivers^ or mountains in her spotty globe. 

And again in his fifth book : 

' As when by night the glass 

Of Galileo, less assured, observes 
Imagined lands and regions in the moon. 

It is somewhat remarkable that Milton, who 
appears to have been well acquainted with the Co- 
p^*nican theory of the world as taught, and, I may 
say, indeed, demonstrated by Galileo, should have , 
hesitated a moment in his choice between the sys- 
tem of his great contemporary and that of Ptol«iay ; 
^ — yet this dubiety, this trimming, as it w^e, be- 
tween the ancient and modern doctrines, is but too 
apparent in his sublime account of the creation, and 
interrupts in some measure the satisfaction of the 


philosophical reader. '< If Pliny in regard to 
Hipparchus,^ says a pleasing and popular writer, 
*^ could extravagantly say, * Atuus rem Deo tm- 
probam annumerare potterii Hellas^* what would 
that historian of nature have said, had it been fcnre- 
told him, that in the latter days a man would arise 
who should enable posterity to enumerate more new 
stars than Hipparchus had counted of the old ; 
who should assign four moons to Jupiter, and in 
our moon point out higher mountains than any 
here below ; who should in the sun, the fountain 
of light, discover dark spots as broad as two quar- 
ters of the earth, and by these spots ascertain his 
motion round his axis ; who, by the varying phases 
of the planets, should compose the shortest and 
plainest demonstration of the solar system ? Yet 
these were but part of the annunciations to the 
world of a single person, of Galileo, of unperishing 
memory * V* 

This great and good man died at Arcetri, near 
Florence, in 1642, three years after Milton's visit, 
and in the same year which gave birth to sir Isaac 

* Adams's Lectures on Natural and Experimental Philo- 
sophy, V. ii. p 477. 

Mornings in spRiNa. 321 

Newton, who, as hath been well observed, took up 
from Galileo the thread of astronomical science, and 
cairied it from world to world, through regions as 
yet unexplored and unknown *. 

I have been drawn into these notices of Galileo 
by reading a Tery interesting little effort of imagi- 
nation, entitled " The Dream of Galileo, or the 
Pleasures of Knowledge," professedly a translation 
from the German, and which having been origihally 
published in a voluminous periodical paper now 
very scarce, I have much pleasure in again bringing 
before the public eye. It would appear from the 
moral of thi^ ingenious contribution, which is writ- 
teii with much pathos, and includes the mention of 
some of the most important astronomical discoveries 
of the Florentine sage, that the usual equanimity of 
his temper had occasionally been broken in upon, 
by the ignorance and persecuting spirit of his op- 
ponents ; a result not to be wondered at, when we 
recollect the history of his life, and which, indeed, 
he must have been more than mortal altogether to 
have escaped. 

! r • 

* Eulogy of Galileo, by father Frisi. See Monthly Re- 
view, old Series, v. liv. p. S5^. '• -r 



^ Galileo^ whose labours in the cause of science 
had given him so fair a claim to immortality, was 
now living at Aroetri in Tuscany, and enjoying a 
peaceful and honourable old age. He was already 
deprived of the noblest of his senses, but he still 
rejoiced at the appearance of the spring ; partly on 
account of the nightingale, and the sweet fragrance 
of the reviving blossoms ; and {Nurtly on account of 
the lively recollection which he still retained of the 
pleasures that were past. 

'^ It was in the last of these seasons which he lived 
to enjoy, that Viviani, the youngest and most affec- 
tionate of his scholars, carried him out to the fields 
at Arcetri. He perceived that he was advancing 
too far for his strength, and therefore entreated his 
conductor, with a smile, that he would not, in de- 
fiance of the prohibition, carry him beyond the 
boundaries of Florence; for you know, added he, 
the solemn engagement which I was obliged to come 
iinder to the Holy Inquisition. Viviani set him 
down immediately, to recover his fatigue, upon a 
little mount, where being still nearer to the plants 
and flowers, and sitting as it were amidst a cloud 
of fragrance, he recollected that ardent desire for 


liberty, which had seized him once at Borne, upon 
the approach of the spring ; and he was about to 
discharge upon his barbarous persecutors the last 
drop of bitterness which he had in his heart, when 
he checked himself suddenly with this expression : 
* the spirit of Copernicus must not be provoked.' 

" Viviani, who was totally ignorant of the dream 
to which Galileo here alluded, begged for an ex- 
planation of these words ; but the old man, who 
felt that the evening was too cool and mcHst for his 
weak nerves, insisted upon first being carried back 
to the house. 

^^ You know, he began when he had refreshed 
himself a little, with what severity I wa3 treated at 
Rome, and how long my deliverance was ddayed. 
When I found that all the powerful inta'c^sions of 
my illustnous protectors, the Medicean princes^ 
and even the recantation to which I had descended, 
remained wholly without effect^ I threw myself 
down in despair upon my bed> full of the most 
mdancholy reflections upon my fate, and of secret 
indignation against Providence il^elf. So £ir, I 
exclaimed, as thy rec(dlection extends, how blame- 
ess has been thy course of life ! With what im- 
weaHed labour and zeal for thy employment hast 



thou explored the labyrinths of a false philosophy, 
in search of that light which thou canst not find i 
Hast thou not exerted every faculty of thy soul to 
establish the glorious tein{de of truth, upon the ruins 
of those fabrics of prejudice and error which were 
reared by ignorance, and sanctified by time ? Didst 
thou not, as soon as nature was satisfied^ retire with 
reluctance from the social board, and deny thyself 
even the slightest indulgence which could interfere 
for a moment with intellectual pursuits? How 
many hours hast thou stolen from sleep, in order to 
devote them entirely to wisdom ? How often, when 
all around thee lay sunk in careless and profound 
repose, hast thou stood shivering with frost, while 
employed in contemplating the .'wonders of the 
firmament ? or when clouds and darkness cdhcealed 
them from thy view, hung over the midnight lamp, 
anxious to contribute by thy discoveries to the 
glory of the Deity, and theinstruction of mankind? 
Poor wretch I and what is now the fruit of thy 
labours ? What recompense hast thou obtained for 
all thy efforts to glorify thy Creator; and all thy 
endeavours to illuminate mankind? only that the 
anguish occasioned by thy sufferings should gra* 
dually exhaust all moisture from thine eyes ;- — only 


that those faithful allies of the soul should be more 
enfeebled every day;— ^and that now these tears, 
which thou canst not restrain, should extinguish 
their scanty light for ever ! 

" ITius, Vivianijdid I speak to myself; and then 
threw an envious glance upon my persecutors. These 
wretches, exclaimed I, who hide their ignorance 
und^r mysterious forms, and conceal their vices in 
a venerable garb ; who sanctify their indolence, by 
imposing on the world the inventions of men for the 
oracles of God, and join to pursue, with unrelenting 
fury, the sage who raises the torch of truth, lest 
their luxurious slumber should be broken by its 
splendor ; these vile ones, who are only active for 
their own pleasures, and the corruption of the 
world ; who laugh at misery in their gilded palaces ; 
whose life is only one round of dissipation ; how 
have they robbed merit of all, even of glory, the 
most precious of its rewards ! With what blind de-; 
votion do the people bow to them, whom they 
cozen so shamefully of the fruits of their possessions, 
and provide for themselves the most luxurious 
entertainments from the fat of their herds, and the 
produce of their vineyards ! And thou, poor wretch ! 
who hast hitherto lived only to God and thy own 


vocation, who hast never pennitted a single passion 
to spring up in thy soul, but the pure and holy 
passion for truth ; who hast proved thyself a priest 
more worthy of the Deity by discovering the various 
wonders of his works from the fabric of an universe^, 
to the structure of a worm ; must thou be deprived 
of the only comfort for which thou hast pined and 
languished so long? of that comfort whi<^ is iK^t 
withheld from the beast of the f(»*e8t, and the 
fowls of heaven ?— of liberty ? What righteous and 
impartial hand deals out the blessings of life! thus 
to suflTer those who are unworthy to plunder their 
betters, and engross every thing to themselves. 

*^ I continued to complain till I fell asleep ; and< 
immediately a venerable old mm seemed to approach, 
my bedside. He stood and beheld me with sil^t 
satisfaction, while my eye was fixed ifi admiration, 
upon his contemplative forehead and his silver lock«. 
* GaKleo,' said he, at last, ' what you now suffer, 
you suffer on account of the truths which I taught 
you ; and the same superstition by which you are 
persecuted would also have persecuted me, had not 
death procured my eternal freedom.* 'Thou art 
Copernicus/ exclaimed I ; and before he could an- 
swer, caught him in my arms. How sweet, Viviani,. 


Sire those bonds of alfiaaee established among us 
by nature herself ! but how much sweeter are the 
alliances of the soul ! How much dearer and nearer 
to the heart, than even the bonds of brotherly af- 
fection, are the eternal ties of truth t With what 
a charming presentiment oi that glorious mcmient 
when the sphere of our activity shall be infinitely en- 
larged, and our faculties exalted and rendered equal 
to a free participation of all the treasures of know- 
ledge, do we hasten to meet a friend, who is intro- 
duced to us by wisdom ! 

^^ ^ See,** said the <dd man, after returning my 
embrace, * I have resumed the garb of flesh 
which I formerly wore, and will now be to thee, 
what I shall be hereafter — thy guide. For in that 
world where the unfettered spirit labours continually 
with unweared ardour, rest is only a change of em- 
ployment : our own investigation into the mysteries 
of the Godhead is interrupted only^by that in-^ 
struction which we give to those newly arrived from 
the earth ; and I am to be the first instructor of 
thy soul in the exalted knowledge of the eternal 
power.^ He led me by the hand to a descending 
cloud, and we took our flight into the immeasurable 
extent of heaven. I saw here the moon, Viviani> 



with her mountains and valleys ; I saw the stars ot 
the Milky Way, those of the Pldades, and that of 
Orion ; I saw the spots of the sun, and the moons 
of Jupiter : all that I first saw here below I there 
saw more clearly with unaslusted eyes, and wandered 
in heaven among my discoveries, full of the sweetest 
self-congratulation, like some friend of the human 
race, who wanders upon earth among the fruits of 
his beneficence. Every hour of my labours here 
was there fruitful of the highest hajppiness ; of a 
happiness which never can be felt by him who enters 
futurity destitute of knowledge. And therefore, 
Viviani, old and feeble as I am, will I never give 
over my search after truth ; for he who spends his 
life in the godlike employment will find my joy 
spring up for him hereafter, from every object on 
which he turns his eyes, — from every conjecture 
which he had laboured to confirm, — from every 
doubt which be had endeavoured to remove, — ^from 
•every mystery he had attempted to discover,-— and 
from every error be had assisted to dispel. All 
this I felt in those moments of exultation ; but the 
recollection that I felt it is all that remains ; for my 
soul, too much oppressed with happiness, lost every 
single pleasure in the ocean of them all» 



While I thus gazed and wondered, and lost 
myself in his greatness whose omnipotence and wis- 
dom created the whole, and whose love, ever active, 
upholds and supports it, I was raised by the con- 
versatioh of my guide to still higher and more 
exalted conceptions. * Not the limits of thy senses,' 
said he, * are also the limits of the universe. Nu- 
merous, indeed, is the host of suns whose lustre is 
apparent even to thy view, although from such an 
inconceivable distance ; but there are many thou- 
sands more which you cannot discern^ shining 
through the endless expanse of ether ; and each of 
these suns is peopled as well as each of the spheres 
which surround them, with sensible beings and with 
thinking souls ; wherever there was space sufficient 
for their motions, there worlds were commanded 
to roll ; and wherever intelligent beings could be 
happy, there intelligent beings were produced. In 
the whole immensity of the Eternal's existence, 
there is not a single span to be found which the pro- 
vident Creator has not furnished with life, or at least 
with matter serviceable to life ; and through all this 
countless multiplicity of beings, down even to the 
smallest atom, reigns the- most inviolable regularity 
and order ; all is maintained by eternal laws, in 


ravishing haimooj, from earth to earth, from heaven 
to heaven, and from sun to sun; the matter for 
contemplation to an immortal sage is as unfathom- 
able as eternity itself, and as inexhaustible the spring 
of his enjoyments. But why, 6alileo> should I 
thus speak to you at present? Such enjoyments 
cannot be comprehended by a spirit still fettered 
to a sluggish companion, which can proceed no 
farther in its labours than that Gompuiion is able 
to go along, and scarcely b^^ to carry itself 
aloft, before it is forcibly dragged back to the 

*^ ^ It may not be able to comprehend these en- 
joyments in all their godlike fulness and perfection ; 
but surely, Copernicus,* exclaimed I, ^ it knows them 
in their nature, and in their essence. For what 
joys does not w&dom procure us, even in this sub- 
lunary life ? What rapture is not felt by the soul, 
even in this frame of mortality, when the dark and 
doubtful twilight of its understanding begins to 
give place to the dawn of science, and the secret 
splendour extends wider and wider, till the full 
light of knowledge at last arises and displays 
before the enraptured eye regions full of eternal 
beauty P Call to mind, thou who hast penetrated 


80 far into the mysteries ot God, and the plan of 
bis creation,-— call to mind that glorious. mom^it 
when the first bold conception arose within thee, 
and sumnumed together all the faculties of thy 
soul to comprehend, to fashion, and to anrange it ; 
but when all the noble harmony was completed, 
with what intoxicating feelings of love didst thou 
not review the labour of thy soul, and feel thy re- 
semblance to that eternal Being whose sublimest 
conceptions had been copied by thee. Yes, my 
guide, even here below wisdcHU is rich in celestial 
joys; had she not been so, could we, from her 
bosom, have looked with such indifference on all 
the vanities of the world ?' 

" The cloud which suj^x^ed us had sunk again 
to earth, and now it rested, as I thought, upon one 
of the hills in the neighbourhood of Rome. The 
great metropolis of the world lay before us; but, 
full of the deepest contempt for its glories^ I stretched 
out my hand from my elevation and said. Let the 
proud inhabitants of these palaces think as they 
will of their own importance, because their limba 
are robed in purple, and their table loaded with 
gold and silver, and heaped with the luxuries of 


Europe and the Indies; but the sage looks down 
upon these wretches as the eagle upon 'the silk- 
worm enclosed within its web; for in their souls 
they are only prisoners who cannot abandon the 
leaf to which they cling ; while the sage wanders 
on the mountains of liberty, and sees the world 
under his feet, or soars aloft upon the wings of 
contemplation, converses with the Deity, and walks 
amongst the stars; 

^^ While I was thus speaking, a serious solemnity 
over-clouded the countenance of my guide ; his fra- 
ternal arm dropped from my shoulder, and his eye 
darted a threatening glance, even to the inmost re- 
cesses of my soul . * Wretch I** cried he, * is it then for 
this end that you have tasted upon earth of these 
pleasures of heaven ? That your name has been 
rendered great among the nations? That every 
faculty of your soul has been exalted, in order to 
be exercised with more freedom and perseverance 
in the knowledge of truth through the ages of 
eternity ? And now that you are thought worthy 
to suffer persecution ;-^now that your wisdom should 
turn to your advantage, — and your heart be as richly 
adorned with virtue as your spirit has hitherto been 


with knowledge, — now is every spark of gratitude 
extinguished, and your soul murmurs agsdnst your 

** Here I awakened from my delightful dream, 
saw myself cast, from all the glories of Heaven, 
down to my dark and solitary dungeon, and watered 
my couch with a flood of tears. Then through all 
the darkness: which surrounded me, I raised my 
eye, and spoke thus : Oh God full of love ! has the 
Nothing which owes its existence to thee presumed 
to censure thy holy ways? Has the dust which 
received a soul from thee ascribed to the account of 
its own deservings what was only the gift of thy 
mercy ? Has the wretch whom thou hast nourished 
in thy bosom, and to whom thou hast ^ven from 
thy own cup so many cordial drops of happiness, 
has he forgotten his obligations to thee ? Strike 
immediately his eyes with blindness ; let him never 
again hear the voice of friendship ; let him grow 
gray in this dismal dungeon. With a willing spirit 
will he submit to it, thankful for the remembrance 
of the pleasures that are past, and happy in the 
expectation of futurity. 

" It was my whole soul, Viviani, which I poured 
forth in this prayer ; but it was not the murmur of 


diaooateDt, but the Toluntary resigiMitioii of gnti- 
tude, which was heard and attended to by that 
God who still reserved me for so much happmess ; 
for do I not live here in freedom ? And has not my 
friend, this very day, carried me forth among the 
flowers of the spring ? 

<< Here he felt for the hand of his scholar, in 
order to give it a grateful pressure ; but Viviani 
sdzed upon his, and carried it with veneration to 
his lips*;' 

After this well imagined scene, which paints in 
such affecting colours the genius and character of 
the great Tuscan astronomer, I must beg once more 
to call the attention of my readers to the interview 
which I have described in the prior part of this 
paper, as having taken place between the sage of 
Arcetri and our immortal Milton, and to request 
their indulgence for the following slight attempt 
to commemorate it under another, and, perhaps, a 
more acceptable form. 

• The Bee, or Literary Weekly Intelligencer, conducted 
by James Anderson, LL.D. vol. ix. p. 179, et seq. 



The west'ring sun had shed his farewell ray 

On Arcetri, as Milton with deep awe^ 

Ent'ring th' ahode of Galileo^ saw 

That great and god-like man in act to pray ; — 

The beams of heaven glowed on his tresses gray, 

But his shrank eye-balls sought their light in v^in : — 

*' Father," he cried, " thy son shall not complain. 

But spare, he prays thee, spare his mental day !'' — 

O, be it mine ! exclaim'd the youthful bard. 

When fallen on evil days, to copy thee, 

And, whilst contending for truth's fond regard. 

Ask light from heaven, nor heed what men decree !-— 

It shall be thine, a seraph-voice replied. 

Pass but a few short years, and be your fates allied ! 

I shall close this paper, and with it the Mornings 
m SpHng, by an attempt to complete a poem from 
the pen of Collins, of which only a small fragment 
has descended to us. The task is undoubtedly an 
arduous one, and in some degree a presumptuous 
one ; but I have been so much struck with the only 
four lines of this poem which time hath spared, as 
to disregard the hazard which must necessarily ac- 
company the effort to finish a design from so great 
a master. 

In a letter from the late laureat, Thomas War- 


ton, to Wm. Hymers, A. B. of Queens's CoU^e, 
Oxford, that accomplished scholar relates, that on 
a visit to CoUins at Chichester, with his brother, 
Dr. Joseph Warton, in Sept. 1754, the lamented 
poet, after showing them his '^ published Ode on 
the Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, 
produced another " of two or three four-lined 
stanzas, called the Bell of Arragon ; on a tradition 
that, anciently, just before a king of Spain died, 
the great bell of the cathedral of Sarragossa, in 
Arragon, tolled spontaneously. It b^an thus : 

The bell of Arragon^ they say. 
Spontaneous speaks the fatal day, &c. 

" Soon afterwards were these lines ; — 

Whatever dark aerial power. 
Commissioned, haunts the gloomy tower. 

<^ The last stanza consisted of a moral transition 
to his own death and knell, which he called ^ some 
simpler bell.' ^* 

This letter, which was originally published in a 
periodical work entitled " The Reaper,'^ I have re- 
printed in the last number of the selection which 
I gave to the public in 1811, under the appellation 
of " The Gleaner,^ adding, as a note at the close of 
that paper, the following remarks : - - 


" Of this exquisite poet, who, in his genius, and 
in his personal fate, bears a strong resemblance to 
the celebrated Tasso, it is greatly to be regretted 
that the reliques are so few. I must particularly 
lament the loss of the ode entitled The Bell of Ar- 
ragon, which, from the four lines preserved in this 
paper, seems to have been written with the poet's 
wonted power of imagination, and to have closed in 
a manner strikingly moral and pathetic. I rather 
wonder that Mr. Warton, who partook much of the 
romantic bias of Collins, was not induced to fill up 
the impressive outline *.'' 

I have only to express a hope that what is now 
offered, with a view of supplying the defect, may 
be deemed not altogether unaccordant with the cha- 
racter of the poetry which it aims to emulate. 



The bell of Arragon^ they say. 
Spontaneous speaks the fatal day 
When, as its tones peal wild and high, 
Iberia's kinga are doom'd to die. 

♦ The Gleaner, No. 187, vol. iv. p. 485. 

VOL. II. z 


Whatercr dark aeml poi 
OmminoDfd, haimts the g^ooiny tower, 
Sodeeptbe qidl, each starts whli fear 
That stnnge mieanhlj aoand lo hear. 

O'er me, when death his arm hath flung. 
May DO sudi awliil kndl be mi^; 
Bat, breathing mild a last faiewdl. 
Toll sad. yet sweet, some simpler bell ! 



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