Then flew out in face of heaven, scarcely less than thirty swords There was pawing and curvetting, snatches at the helmet laces, In among the press and struggle rode Sir Robert on his sable, Tearing trumpet from a villain puffing out his swollen cheek, Bridle-cutting, firing, stabbing, rapiers flashing keen and deadly, When the melée broke and scatter'd, pages dragg'd away the dead; As night came down, a dreary pall, closing the hunting day. THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. [King William the Third's death was occasioned by the horse he was riding stumbling at a mole-hill. This mole became afterwards famous as a Jacobite toast, by the name of "The Little Gentleman in Black Velvet."] THE club had met, the cups stood full, The chairman stirr'd the bowl, The bottle as it circling flew, Gave wings to every soul; "Tis Orange Boven" that they cry, When a voice at the chairman's back Said, "I pray you drink with three times three The Gentleman in Black.'" The chairman filled his glass again, The fiddlers in the corner sat, Stopp'd half way in their tune; The Boven, and the Kentish fire, Then every eye was turned to see "An honest man, who digs as well As any sexton, sand or clay, He's not a friend to Dutch or Whigs, Sallow and grim the speaker stood, He had a muffler round his mouth, They drank the toast to humour him, "The Gentleman in Black." He coldly smiled as he passed out, But ne'ertheless, here's wishing well An hour had gone: a pale-faced man Said, "Friends, I bring but sorry news, The King at noon was thrown and hurt As Hampton Park he crossed, He is just dead."-" What dead!" they shriek"Our cause and England's lost!" "What lam'd the horse?" a dozen cry "A mole-hill in the way It stumbled, and the king was thrown- "A mole, I see !" the chairman foamed, And this is why he made us toast The Gentleman in Black." OLD SIR WALTER. A STORY OF 1734. STOUT Sir Walter was old but hearty: Such a beast as his jet black hunter, Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath. Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled See saw over the old park railing, Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew, A long black face the sour Whig huntsman Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come Why when he flung up his hat and shouted, "God save King George!" they bawling cried, As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment, Rode up grim to Sir Walter's side, "In King George's name, arrest him, lieges! Then out whipp'd blades: the horns they sounded, "A hundred guineas to seize the traitor!" Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage. Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging, Was never seen in the strangest age. The hunter whipped off, Spot and Fowler, And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling Loud on the wind came blast of bugle, All together the hounds gave tongue, They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet, Where the black rags still in the cold storm hung. The rain cut faces like long whip lashes, There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle, Three men stuck to the leading rebel; The first was a Whig lord fat and red, The next a yellow-faced lean attorney, And the last a Justice, as some one said. Slap at the fence went old Sir Walter, Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree, Crash through the hazels, over the water, And wherever he went, there went the three. Into the hill-fence broke Sir Walter, Right through the tangle of branch and thorns, Swish'd the rasper up by the windmill, In spite of the cries and the blowing of horns. Lines of flames trailed all the scarlet Over the timber flew old Sir Walter, Light as a swallow, sure and swift, Off went his gold-laced hat and bugle, There was many a sore on back and wither, But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter, Many a fetlock cut and wounded, Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns, Many a man that two years after Shuddered to hear the sound of horns. But o'er the fallow, the long clay fallow, Never such chase of stag or vermin, The first he shot with his long steel pistol, Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour, A white rose, stifled and very sickly, Pined for air at the window-sill, But the last fond look of the brave old rider All alone in the dusky garret, He turn'd to the flower with a father's pride, "God save King James !" the old man murmured, "God-save-the-King!"-he moaned and died. THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL. HE tripp'd up the steps with a bow and a smile, A rose at his button-hole that afternoon 'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.* Then shrugging his shoulders he look'd at the man *The Pretender's Birthday. 285 He look'd at the mob, as they pushed, with a stare, Then he look'd at the block, and with scented cravat "God save King James!" he cried bravely and shrill, When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock; NOVELS AND NOVELISTS. PREVIOUS to the sixteenth century clever women, as far as history tells us, were scarce. The English authoresses, prior to the year 1500, are so few that they might be enumerated in a very brief space. Juliana, the Anchoret of Norwich, wrote her book of revelations in the reign of Edward the Third. The delightful work of the "Prioress of Sopewell Nunnery," which is known to every sportsman of education under the title of "Julian Barnes, her Gentlemans Acadamie of Hawking, Hunting, Fishing, and Armorie, &c.," was printed in 1481, having been composed some years before. Then there were Margery Kempe of Lynn, and Margaret, the countess mother of Henry the Seventh, who, with two or three more, complete the list of talented English ladies who flourished before the year 1500. In the next century there was no such dearth of female wit. Margaret Roper, that first of blue-stockings, and the other daughters of Sir Thomas More, Lady Elizabeth Fane, the Ladies Anne, Margaret, and Jane Seymour, Queen Mary, Mary Queen of Scotland, the mother of Verulam, the wife of Sir Roger Ascham, Lady Russel, Queen Elizabeth, and Katherine Killigrew are amongst those who earned a new respect for their sex. There was a great run on the part of the ladies on literature. Monachi literas nesciunt, et fæminæ libris indulgent ;-the clergy cannot read Latin, the ladies can talk it was the observation of Erasmus. The justly celebrated William Wotton, a native of Suffolk, well versed in the history of this period, affirms, that the sixteenth century was more fruitful than any other in learned women. Every young lady of rank affected the jargon of the schools. Little Misses of sixteen years could not tear themselves away from their dear Eclogues, and sighed piteously over the mental abasement of their brothers who cared for hawks and horses more than hexameters. It was so very modish, that the fair sex seemed to believe that Greek and Latin added to their charms; and that Plato and Aristotle, untranslated, were frequent ornaments to their closet." The artful, roguish minxes: can you not picture to yourself the pains they were at to make the most of their little wealth? how they took care, for fear of false quantities, not to quote their authors in the presence of a man of learned repute; but rattled out line after line of Ovid to their untaught lovers who, poor fellows, listened with admiration and awe to the hard words? To us such a state of things is not so astonishing, as it was to the few observers of that era, and to the speculative historians of the next century. We know scores of young curates not such good scholars as their sisters, and we find no cause for bewonderment in the fact. But intelligent men in the |