Hie away to the house on the brow,

Gaffer Gray,

And knock at the jolly priest's door.
"The priest often preaches
Against worldly riches,
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,
Well-a-day."

The lawyer lives under the hill,
Gaffer Gray;

Warmly fenced both in back and in front.

"He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want,

Well-a-day!"

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray;

And the season will welcome you there. "His fat beeves and his beer,

And his merry new year,

Are all for the flush and the fair,
Well-a-day!"

My keg is but low, I confess,

Gaffer Gray;

What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.

"The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day!"

INTRODUCTION TO THE "CANTER

BURY TALES."

[SOPHIA and HARRIET LEE. These ladies, authoresses of "The Canterbury Tales," a series of striking and romantic fictions, were the daughters of Mr. Lee, a gentleman who had been articled to a solicitor, but who adopted the stage as a profession. Sophia was born in London in 1750. She was the elder of the sisters, and the early death of her mother devolved upon her the cares of the household. She secretly cultivated, however, a strong attachment to literature. Sophia's first appearance as an author was not made till her thirtieth year, when she produced her comedy, "The Chapter of Accidents," which was brought out at the Haymarket Theatre by the elder Colman, and received with great applause. The profits of this piece were devoted by Miss Lee towards establishing a Seminary for Young Ladies at Bath, which was rendered the more necessary by the death of her father in 1781. Thither, accordingly, the sisters repaired, and their talents and prudence were rewarded by rapid and permanent success. In 1784, Sophia published the first volume of The Recess, or a

Tale of Other Times; which was soon followed by the

remainder of the tale, the work having instantly become

popular. The time selected by Miss Lee as the subject of her story was that of Queen Elizabeth, and her production may be considered one of the earliest of our historical romances. The Recess is tinged with a melan

choly and contemplative spirit; and the same feeling is displayed in her next work, a tragedy entitled “Almeyda, Queen of Grenada," produced in 1796. In the succeeding year, Harriet Lee published the first volume of "The Canterbury Tales," which ultimately extended to five volumes. Two only of the stories were written by Sophia Lee-namely, "The Young Lady's Tale, or The Two Emilys," and "The Clergyman's Tale." They are characterised by great tenderness and feeling. But the more striking features of "The Canterbury Tales," and the great merit of the collection, belong to Harriet Lee. "Kruitzner, or The German's Tale," fell into the hands of Byron when he was about fourteen. "It made a deep impression upon me," he says, "and may indeed be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written." While residing at Pisa in 1821, Byron dramatised Miss Lee's romantic story, and published his version of it under the title of " Werner, or the Inheritance." The incidents, and Lauch of the language of the play, are directly copied from the novel, and the public were unanimous in considering Harriet Lee as more interesting, passionate, and even more poetical, than her Hlustrious imitator. "The story," says one of the critics to whom Byron's play recalled the merits of Harriet Lee "is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as we are to name Harriet Lee, we cannot allow the opportunity to pass without saying that we have always considered her works as standing upon the verge of the very first rank of excellence; that is to say, inferior to no English novels whatever, excepting those of Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edgeworth, and the author of "Waverley." It would not, perhaps, be going too far to say, that" The Canterbury Tales" exhibit more of that species of invention, which, as we have already remarked, was never common in English literature, than any of the works even of those first-rate novelists we have named, with the single exception of Fielding.

Miss Harriet Lee, besides "The Canterbury Tales," wrote two dramas, "The New Peerage," and "The Three Strangers." The plot of the latter is chiefly taken from her German tale. The play was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre in December, 1835, but was barely tolerated for one night.

A tablet is erected to the memory of these accomplished sisters in Clifton Church-where they are buried-from which it appears that Sophia Lee was born in May, 1750, and died March 13, 1824. Her sister, Harriet Lee-who long resided in the neighbourhood of Bristol, a valued and respected lady—was born April 11, 1766, and died August 1, 1851.]

their lives well employed in collecting shells: There are people in the world who think there are others not less satisfied to spend theirs in classing butterflies. For my own part, I always preferred animate to inani. mate nature; and would rather post to the

antipodes to mark a new character, or develop a singular incident, than become a Fellow of the Royal Society by enriching museums with nondescripts. From this account you, my gentle reader, may, without any extraordinary penetration, have discovered that I am among the eccentric part of mankind, by the courtesy of each other, and themselves, ycleped poets—a title which, however mean or contemptible it may sound to those not honoured with it, never yet was rejected by a single mortal on whom the suffrage of mankind conferred it; no, though the laurel-leaf of Apollo, barren in its nature, was twined by the frozen fingers of Poverty, and shed upon the brow it crowned her chilling influence. But when did it so? Too often destined to deprive its graced owner of every real good by an enchantment which we know not how to define, it comprehends in itself such a variety of pleasures and possessions, that well may one of us

cry

Thy lavish charter, Taste, appropriates all we see! Happily, too, we are not like virtuosi in general, encumbered with the treasures gathered in our peregrinations. Compact in their nature, they lie all in the small cavities of our brain, which are, indeed, often so small, as to render it doubtful whether we have any at all. The few discoveries I have made in that richest of mines, the human soul, I have not been churl enough to keep to myself; nor, to say truth, unless I can find out some other means of supporting my corporeal existence than animal food, do I think I shall ever be able to afford that sullen affectation of superiority.

Travelling, I have already said, is my taste; and, to make my journeys pay for themselves, my object. Much against my good liking, some troublesome fellows, a few months ago, took the liberty of making a little home of mine their own; nor, till I had coined a small portion of my brain in the mint of my worthy friend George Robinson, could I induce them to depart. I gave a proof of my politeness, however, in leaving my house to them, and retired to the coast of Kent, where I fell to work very busily. Gay with the hope of shutting my door on these unwelcome visitants, I walked in a severe frost from Deal to Dover, to secure a seat in the stage-coach to London. One only was vacant; and having engaged it, "maugre the freezing of the bitter sky," I wandered forth to note the memorabilia of

|

Dover, and was soon lost in one of my fits of exquisite abstraction.

With reverence I looked up to the cliff which our immortal bard has, with more fancy than truth, described; with toil mounted, by an almost endless staircase, to the top of a castle, which added nothing to my poor stock of ideas but the length of our Virgin Queen's pocket-pistol-that_truly Dutch present: cold and weary, I was pacing towards the inn, when a sharpvisaged barber popped his head over his shop-door to reconnoitre the inquisitive stranger. A brisk fire, which I suddenly cast my eye on, invited my frozen hands and feet to its precincts. A civil question to the honest man produced on his part a civil invitation; and having placed me in a snug seat, he readily gave me the benefit of all his oral tradition.

"Sir," he said, "it is mighty lucky you came across me. The vulgar people of this town have no genius, sir-no taste; they never shew the greatest curiosity in the place. Sir, we have here the tomb of a poet!"

"The tomb of a poet!" cried I, with a spring that electrified my informant no less than myself. "What poet lies here? and where is he buried?"

"Ay, that is the curiosity," returned he exultingly. I smiled; his distinction was so like a barber. While he had been speaking, I recollected he must allude to the grave of Churchill-that vigorous genius who, well calculated to stand forth the champion of freedom, has recorded himself the slave of party and the victim of spleen ! So, however, thought not the barber, who considered him as the first of human beings.

"This great man, sir," continued he, "who lived and died in the cause of liberty, is interred in a very remarkable spot, sir; if you were not so cold and so tired, sir, could shew it you in a moment." Curiosity is an excellent greatcoat: I forgot I had no other, and strode after the barber to a spot surrounded by ruined walls, in the midst of which stood the white marble tablet marked with Churchill's name-to appearance its only distinction.

"Cast your eyes on the walls," said the important barber; "they once inclosed a church, as you may see!"

On inspecting the crumbling ruins more narrowly, I did indeed discern the traces of Gothic architecture.

"Yes, sir," cried my friend the barber, with the conscious pride of an Englishman,

The idea was grand. In the eye of fancy, the slender pillars again lifted high the vaulted roof that rang with solemn chantings. I saw the insolent legate seated in scarlet pride; I saw the sneers of many a mitred abbot; I saw, bareheaded, the mean, the prostrate king; I saw, in short, everything but the barber, whom, in my flight and swell of soul, I had outwalked and lost. Some more curious traveller may again pick him up, perhaps, and learn more minutely

the fact.

Waking from my reverie, I found myself on the pier. The pale beams of a powerless sun gilt the fluctuating waves and the distant spires of Calais, which I now clearly surveyed. What a new train of images here sprung up in my mind, borne away by succeeding impressions with no less rapidity! From the monk of Sterne I travelled up in five minutes to the inflexible Edward III. sentencing the noble burghers; and having seen them saved by the eloquence of Philippa, I wanted no better seasoning for my mutton-chop, and pitied the empty-headed peer who was stamping over my little parfour in fury at the cook for having overroasted his pheasant.

The coachman now shewed his ruby face at the door, and I jumped into the stage, where were already seated two passengers of my own sex, and one of-would I could say the fairer! But, though truth may not be spoken at all times, even upon paper, one now and then may do her justice. Half a glance discovered that the good lady opposite to me had never been handsome, and now added the injuries of time to the severity of nature. Civil but cold compliments having passed, I closed my eyes to expand my soul; and, while fabricating a brief poetical history of England, to help short memories, was something astonished to find myself tugged violently by the sleeve; and not less so to see the coach empty, and hear an obstinate waiter insist upon it that we were at Canterbury, and the supper ready to be put on the table. It had snowed, I found, for some time; in consideration of which mine host had prudently suffered the fire nearly to go out. A dim candle was on the table, without snuffers, and a bell-string hanging over it, at which we pulled, but it

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his various course hath been,
Must sigh to think he still has found
His warmest welcome at an inn.

Had the gentle bard told us that, in this sad substitute for home, despite of all our impatience to be gone, we must stay not only till wind and weather, but landlords, postillions, and hostlers chose to permit, I should have thought he knew more of travelling; and stirring the fire, snuffing the candles, reconnoitring the company, and modifying my own humour, should at once have tried to make the best of my situation. After all, he is a wise man who does at first what he must do at last; and I was just breaking the ice on finding that I had nursed the fire to the general satisfaction, when the coach from London added three to our party; and common civility obliged those who came first to make way for the yet more frozen travellers. We supped together; and I was something surprised to find our two coachmen allowed us such ample time to enjoy our little bowl of punch; when lo! with dolorous countenances, they came to give us notice that the snow was so heavy, and already so deep, as to make our proceeding by either road dangerous, if not utterly im. practicable.

"If that is really the case," cried I mentally, "let us see what we may hope from the construction of the seven heads that constitute our company." Observe, gentle reader, that I do not mean the outward and visible form of those heads; for I am not among the new race of physiognomists who exhaust invention only to ally their own species to the animal creation, and would rather prove the skull of a man resembled an ass, than, looking within, find in the intellect a glorious similitude of the Deity. An elegant author more justly conveys my idea of physiognomy, when he says, that "different sensibilities gather into the countenance and become beauty there, as colours mount in a tulip and enrich it." It was my interest to be as happy as I could, and that can only be when we look around with a wish to be pleased: nor could I ever find a way of unlocking the human heart but by