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Then flew out in face of heaven, scarcely less than thirty swords
In a circle round Sir Robert, who grew angry at these frauds.
Horns blowing, drums beating, horsemen hurried in and cut,
Calm hands were laid on hasty weapons, as the murmur grew a shout,

There was pawing and curvetting, snatches at the helmet laces,
There was flashing off of feathers, long gloves flung in troopers' faces.
Pulling strong men from their saddles, gashes bleeding at their breast-
Groans and screaming, cries and clamours, running east and running west

In among the press and struggle rode Sir Robert on his sable,
He had hand on every gullet, and he swore down all the babel.
When he struck, flew out the crimson, on the satin and the lace;
When he frown'd, a coward pallor spread on every brawler's face.

Tearing trumpet from a villain puffing out his swollen cheek,
Striking down a dozen weapons, stopping one who fain would speak,
Spurring, pushing, till curvettings bore him to Sir William's side:
Then he smote him on the jaw-bone in his anger and his pride.

Bridle-cutting, firing, stabbing, rapiers flashing keen and deadly,
Arrows flying, bullets ringing, swords dripping, bright and redly,
Beaver-chopping, wound-making, steel-crossing, clishing, clashing,
Gun-loading, match-lighting, yellow light of sulphur flashing.

When the melée broke and scatter'd, pages dragg'd away the dead;
There were feathers wet and crimson, there were trappings burnt and red.
On a bier of boughs and hurdles they bore Sir Robert Grey,
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,

And each one chinked his spoon;
The fiddlers in the corner sat,

Stopp'd half way in their tune;
The Boven, and the Kentish fire,

The wainscoat echoed back ;
When silence came, the voice replied,

“ The Gentleman in black.”

Then every eye was turned to see

What the intruder meant.
He was a man with sbaggy brows,

And long nose hook'd, and bent,
“ Death, Devil, or a Doctor!"cried

The shrewdest of the pack,
The stranger merely smild, and said

“The Gentleman in Black"

"An honest man, who digs as well

As any sexton, sand or clay,
And throws up heaps-a mi ner good

By night as well as day;
He's not a friend to Dutch or Whigs,

And Holland would let pack :
Still, drink a glass, my gallant Sirs,

To “the Little Man in Black.

Sallow and grim the speaker stood,

A stranger to them all,
He had a muffler round his mouth,

And never let it fall.
They drank the toast to humour him,

He laugh'd at the chairman's back,
Then glided out, as all repeat

“The Gentleman in Black,"

He coldly smiled as he passed out,

His lips moved with a sneer ;
The wrinkles crept about his brow,

When they began to cheer.
The chairman said, " A riddle this,

I'm not upon the track,
But ne'ertheless, here's wishing well

To the Gentleman in Black."

An hour had gone : a pale-faced man

Ran in, not greeting any,
Said, “ Friends, I bring but sorry news,

And what will stagger many ;
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-

He's now five foot of clay.”
“A mole, I see !" the chairman foamed,

"I'm on the villain's track ; 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:

A velvet cap on his long grey hair,
A full white rose at his gold-laced button :

Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.

Such a beast as his jet black hunter,

Silver-spotted with foam and froth, Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,

Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath.

Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled

Over the stone wall four feet two; 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 Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.

Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb ?

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 !

This is the villain who fought at Boyne : He sliced the feather from off my beaver,

And ran his sword twice into my groin.”

Then out whipp'd blades : the horns they sounded,

The field came flocking in thick and fast, But Sir Walter flogged the barking rabble,

And through them all like a whirlwind pass'd.

"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,

Viper and Fury, and all the pack,
And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling

And white teeth fix'd, on Sir Walter's track.

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,

The wind blew strong in its wayward will, And powdering fast, the men and horses

Thundering swept dowr Frampton Hill.

There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle,

Swearing 'twould ruin their bits of blood; Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,

And two were plumped in the river mud.

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 bill-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

Streaming, the dogs half a mile before, Whoop! with a cry all after Sir Walter,

Driving wildly along the shore.

Over the timber flew old Sir Walter,

Light as a swallow, sure and swift,
For his sturdy arm and his “pull and hustle'

Could help a nag at the deadest lift.

Off went his gold-laced hat and bugle,

His scarlet cloak he then let fall,
And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,

Boldly there, in the sight of all.

There was many a sore on back and wither,

Many a spur that ran with red,
But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,

Though they counted of horses sixty head.

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,

Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee, And Sir Walter sat on the tough old saddle,

Waiting the coming of all the three.

Never such chase of stag or vermin,

Along the park pale, in and out; On they thunder, fast over the railing,

Driving the fence in splints about.

The first he shot with his long steel pistol,

The second he slew with his Irish sword,
The third he threw in the brook, and mounted

Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord.

Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour,

Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet.
He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret,

But his heart went true to the latest beat.

A white rose, stifled and very sickly,

Pined for air at the window-sill,
But the last fond look of the brave old rider

Was fixed on the dying emblem--still,

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,
Offering snuff to the Chaplain the while,
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 With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee,

* The Pretender's Birthday.

He look'd at the mob, as they pushed, with a stare,
And took spuff again with a cynical air.
" I'm happy to give but a moment's delight
To the flower of my country agog for a sight."

Then he look'd at the block, and with scented cravat
Dusted room for his neck, and then, doffing his hat,
Kiss'd his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd,
Then smiling, turn'd round to the headsman and bow'd.

“ God save King James !" he cried bravely and sbrill,
And the cry reach'd the houses at foot of the hill,
My friend, with the axe, à votre service," he said ;
And ran his white thumb 'long the edge of the blade.

When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock ;
Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block,
And kiss'd a white rose, in a moment 'twas red
With the life of the bravest of any that bled.

NOVELS AND NOVELISTS.

PREVIOUS to the sixteenth century clever women, as far as history tells us, were scarce. The English au. thoresses, 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

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