person to that generally entertained; but history, before the invention of printing, was for the most part little else than the flatterer of the reigning monarch at the expense of all who went before him.

WALWORTH, AND WAT TYLER.

In a very curious early MS. in the British Museum, is an account of Wat Tyler's rebellion, and the writer insinuates that it was more owing to revenge than loyalty that Walworth stabbed "the arche rebell." He says, "that on the firste rysing of Tyler, he commenced by destroying and burnyng several stores or houses of famouse (infamous) notorietie for colapsed women, belonging to Walworth, the citizen, in the rentes of the Bishoppe of Winchester." If the writer is to be credited, it would appear from this statement that the "worthie citizen, on finding that Wat Tyler had destroyed his property, sought an opportunity for revenge, which he soon afterwards found to his heart's content, as well as for displaying his loyalty in the presence of his sovereign."

DEATH OF PETER THE GREAT.

The circumstances attending the death of this great prince are but little known, but they reflect the greatest honour on 'his memory, and hold forth to mankind an example of intrepidity and humanity seldom witnessed. The Czar had just recovered from a very dangerous indisposition, when he undertook a voyage down the Neva, in order to inspect the progress of a new canal. A cutter with several soldiers on board struck on the sands at some distance, and the vessel which he immediately dispatched to their relief grounding also, the Czar, impatient of delay, jumped into the sea up to his knees, notwithstanding the waves were very boisterous, and by his own exertions and example, extricated the soldiers from their very perilous situation. He had them taken to the houses of some peasants on the shore, where they were treated with all the tenderness of humanity. The next day the Czar was seized with a violent fever, attended with inflammation in the bowels. He was immediately conveyed to St. Petersburg, where, after a painful illness of two months, he expired on the 25th of January, 1725.

CHARLES EDWARD.

This unfortunate prince, so long the terror of England, latterly gave himself up to wine, and this failing it appears

preserved our country from a third attempt to restore the Stuarts to the throne of their ancestors. "I know, from high authority," says Sir N. W. Wraxall, in his Historical Memoirs, "that as late as the year 1770, the Duke de Choiseul, then first minister of France, not deterred by the ill success of the attempts made in 1715 and 1745, meditated to undertake a third effort for restoring the house of Stuart. His enterprising spirit led him to profit of, (by) the dispute which arose between the English and Spanish crowns respecting the possession of Falkland Island, in order to accomplish the object. first step necessary towards it, he dispatched a private emissary to Rome, who signified to Charles Edward, the Duke's desire of seeing him immediately at Paris. He complied, and arrived in that city with the utmost privacy. Having announced it to Choiseul, the minister fixed the same night at twelve o'clock, when he and the Marshal de Broglio would be ready to receive the Pretender, and to lay before him their plan for an invasion of England.

As the

The

Hotel de Choiseul was named for the

interview, to which place he was enjoined to repair in a hackney coach, disguised, and without any attendant. At the appointed time the Duke and the Marshal, furnished with the requisite papers and instructions drawn up for his conduct on the expedition, were ready; his appearance every instant, when the but, after waiting a full hour expecting clock struck one, they concluded that some unforeseen accident must have intervened to prevent his arrival. Under this impression, they were preparing to separate, when the noise of wheels was heard in the court-yard; and a few moments afterwards, the Pretender entered the room in a state of such intoxication as to be utterly incapable even of ordinary conversation. gusted, as well as indignant at this disgraceful conduct, and well convinced that no expedition undertaken for the restoration of a man so lost to every sense of decency or self-interest, could be crowned with success, Choiseul without hesitation, sent him the next morning a peremptory order to quit the French dominions." The Pretender returned to Italy, where he experienced every mortification, and ended his inglorious career in January 1788 at Florence, as his grandfather James II. had done in 1701, at the palace of St. Germains, near Paris.

Dis

G. M. J.

AN ILL-USED GENTLEMAN.

(For the Parterre.)

CHAP. I.

Ir was a bright, beautiful, breezy morning in the laughing, loving, and “leafy month of June," when, on opening the door that leads into my little spot of ground, (dignified by the name of garden), I became at once aware that I was labouring under a very decided attack of that pleasant but profitless distemper termed idlesse. I looked towards the town; there it stood, the image of puffy importance, fuming and smoking away in its usual busy and petulant manner, and I bethought myself of the dust and the dirt, and the glare and the heat the bartering and the bargaining, the buying and the selling, and the rest of the multifarious bustle going on within its walls, and the agreeable tranquillity of my spirit became disturbed. I turned towards the country, and there it layhill and dale, tillage and pasturage, wood, water, and greensward, basking and rejoicing in the beneficent and procreant sunshine. Suddenly that portion of the Scriptures which saith, "there is a time for all things, a time for work and a time for play," became forcibly impressed upon me. Certes, quoth I, the latter part of that injunction has been too long neglected; and away I strode towards the conscientious discharge of my duty.

How pleasant and quiet are the works of nature to those of man,-how serene and noiseless her magnificent operations! Here was no clanking of hammers, or hacking of saws, or puffing of steam, or villanous gases and exhalations, yet was her ladyship labouring on the most extensive scale. How delicious too, were the accompaniments of her handicraft! the young corn springing, and the merry birds singing in the blue sky above it; the green grass growing, and the fresh breeze blowing far and wide. Here and there, in the nooks and corners of the winding lanes, was the bee humming over some clump of natural poetry-I mean wildflowers-gratifying eye and ear with its cheerful and luxurious industry, while, on every side, the beautiful blossoming hawthorn impregnated the cool air with its pure and healthful fragrance. "God made the country, and man made the

town."

A glorious line that, thought I, as I sauntered dreamily on my pleasant and purposeless path.

Ah! a patch of moorland, skirting and relieving the rich fertility of the district, its dark heathery surface irregularly dotted with adult and incipient sheep (oh, the delicious flavour of moorland mutton! rich, yet not cloying; so specially different from the greasy lusciousness of the plain!), with here and there a four-footed ass, standing considering whether to eat or sleep. Blessed state of animal and assinine existence! Through this moor a tiny brook went "singing a quiet tune," as it wended its solitary and uncared-for way towards some more pompous and important geographical stream. I followed it of course-for an idle man as naturally and unconsciously followeth the course of running water as he followeth that of his own nose-quite busily employed in fashioning the most filmy and fantastic projects, and erecting aerial castles of a very gorgeous and imposing description, when, on rounding a small knoll on which grew a patch of furze, I came suddenly upon a gentleman much more usefully and practically employed. He was washing a pocket handkerchief in the limpid waters of the brook, and humming "Love's Young Dream." It was a singular employment for a person of that gender, yet did he not seem altogether unskilled in the exercise of it, and evermore he washed and sung, "Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life As young love's dream !"

On the aforesaid furze bush lay outspread that refuge for the shirtless surnamed "a dickey," and alongside of it, that other piece of assumption, that goeth by the name of collar, both of which had evidently undergone a recent partial purification. On becoming aware of my presence he attempted a hasty concealment, but immediately perceived the futility of such a procedure. I had become so fully, yet so simply and unobtrusively aware of the state of his linen and cotton garments, and the manner in which they were restored to their original complexion, that subterfuge or ill-feeling were equally out of the question. He therefore, with a pleasant, yet rueful smile bade me "good morning," and jocosely added, that it was "fine drying weather!"

"Very," responded I.

"Ah! sir," continued the primitive washerman with a sigh, as he spread the handkerchief alongside of the dickey and collar, "misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows !"

At once I knew him to be a player,

by the inappropriateness of his quotation.

"Tut!" said I, "'t is nothing. The daughters of kings did the same thing in the classical times, before the world knew anything of soap. I like to see a man independent of the fashions of his day."

“And then,” said he, evidently relieved by the way in which I treated the subject, and disposed to carry on the conversation in the same strain-" washerwomen are so careless! now when a gentleman officiates as his own laundress, he is at least sure-(with a serio-comic glance at the furze bush), that he can lose nothing!"

"Most veritable! therefore take heed," quoth I, "how you depart from your present practice."

In five minutes we were the best friends in the world, and an infinity of words ensued. In fact we talked ourselves hungry; and as it was now about the hour for refreshing and replenishing the stomach, I ventured to propose to my new friend that he should dine with me at a small hostel situated on the outskirts of the moor, and this proposal he accepted with a frankness and alacrity, which shewed him to be a person who despised ceremonious observances as much as he did new and gaudy apparel. But I must endeavour to give some idea of my companion's rather singular appearance. He seemed to me a man about five and thirty, with a somewhat long and cadaverous physiognomy, yet pleasant withal. His person had a lean, lank, dinnerless-like look, as if he had not sat at "good men's feasts," or what is much more to the purpose- men's good feasts, for some time past, and his vestments were in a state of exceeding dilapidation. He wore a snuff coloured surtout, from which most of the buttons had departed, and a pair of contumacious pepper-and-salt coloured pantaloons, which obstinately refused to proceed farther than half-way down his legs; they could never have been made for him, but must have been the gift or bequest of some dear and much shorter friend. An attempt had been made to forcibly compel them to approach nearer to the ankle by the wearing of straps, but like all coercive measures in a free country, it had failed of success, for though the left leg was still in equivocal subjection, the right, scorning to submit to the dominion of the strap, had resolutely broken loose, leaving, however, a few fragmentary trophies in possession of the

enemy. As regarded the other appurtenances of my friend, his waistcoat was not exactly "worn i'the newest gloss," it had evidently seen better days-his shoes wanted mending very much, and the verdure had departed from his hat.

"Stop a moment till I dress," said he, as I prepared to set forward; and he vanished with his linen behind the furze. In a few minutes he re-appeared, arrayed in a clean shirt (at least as far as public display was concerned), and a starchless collar. He then gave his hands and face a partial ablution in the brook, and which he said the sun would dry as we walked along; (what a greatness of idea to use the sun for a towel!) drained a little hair-oil from a bottle which he produced from his pocket, rubbed it on his hair, adjusted his hat on one side, buttoned his coat, as far as such a feat was practicable, and exclaiming, "now then all's right!" started off by my side.

I could not help admiring my new acquaintance as we walked along. Notwithstanding his apparently forlorn condition, his confident air, brisk step, and lordly swagger, plainly declared that he was on exceedingly good terms with himself. He was a man that had evidently made up his mind to have nothing to do with misfortune; others might grapple with her, but he would slip aside and let her pass. He was, to use his own expression, "a gentleman out of luck!" but his sky was still clearly filled with rainbows of the most brilliant character; and I could not help contrasting to his advantage, the happy buoyancy of his temperament, which stood him in place of the most refined or stoical philosophy, with that of others, who revert regretfully and mournfully to the past, dwell despondingly on the present, and look anxiously and doubtfully towards the future. Yet for all this, he informed me in confidence as we proceeded, that he considered himself by far the most ill-used gentleman on the face of this green and good-looking earth.

After the third plate of our country cheer (fried ham and new-laid eggs) had disappeared, and the fourth bottle of ale had gone to attend upon it, my friend began to stretch himself in a luxurious picktooth fashion, and wonder if there were any filberts in that part of the country. Mine host professed his ignorance of such a vegetable, but said he had some capital milk-cheese. In the absence of filberts, milk-cheese was not

to be despised, and after about another quarter of an hour's labour at the cheese, and the evanishment of two more bottles of ale, the "gentleman out of luck," began to manifest decided symptoms of communicativeness. Like a vast of good-tempered fellows, the more he drank the stronger became the infusion of the pensive and sentimental in his discourse. The conversation assumed

a mixed character.

"'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild," and like that of most theatrical people, it was simply, solely, and entirely about himself and his concerns; the losses, crosses, trials, and 'tribulations he had endured-the neglect and contumely he had put up with from mercenary managers and misjudging audiences; and this, together with a goodly list of broken engagements, unpaid salaries, and profitless benefits, united to a fondness for good living, a social glass, and "genteel" company, had reduced him to his present circumstances, which he assured me were crazy and unmanageable enough, in consequence of the paltry and contracted notions of tradespeople in provincial towns, who scrupled-he could not for the life of him surmise why to give gentlemen in his line credit. His prospects, however, he said were capital-if he only had 51.; but the want of this insignificant sum prevented his reaching the metropolis and realizing a handsome fortune. Of this he did not entertain the slightest doubt. In fact, he assured me, that if he only had fair-play, he would have been at the top of his profession, and wallowing in wealth long ago; because, as he pretty plainly hinted, there not being at present a man on the British stage (with the exception of himself), that could render full and complete justice to Shakspeare, there was little or nothing to prevent such a desirable consummation.

"Of course you have seen my Macbeth?" said he.

I confessed that I had not had that pleasure. Indeed, I was obliged to own that I was ignorant of even the name of the distinguished tragedian in whose company I had the honour to find myself.

"Professional name," quoth I, taken rather aback.

"O true! my real name-that is, the name my ancestors were contented to put up with, and obliging enough to transmit to me, was Wiggins! - actually Wiggins! Think of that!-to which they had the excellent taste to prefix Timothy, in compliment to my uncle, the barber-Timothy Wiggins !-Hamlet by Timothy Wiggins! Good heavens, sir, it was not to be endured. Could the great Garrick himself be resuscitated, and play Hamlet under the name of Wiggins, the critics would sneer, and the audience laugh at him.”

I cordially admitted that as far as euphony was concerned, Wiggins was not exactly the thing, and wishing to take at least a seeming interest in the fate of the said Wiggins alias Stanley, inquired if he had any existing engagement.

"Why yes,' ," said he, drawing up his collar, which being starchless, required some management to keep it in an upright position. "I at present lead in Weazle's company-little Nic Weazle's -a gentleman well known in these districts-and now performing at the temporary theatre in the neighbouring village of B

"But Weazle, I presume, is like the rest of the managerial tribe-blind to merit, eh?"

"Why not exactly. I must do him the justice to say, that he does appreciate me, and stands my friend as far as lies in his power."

"His power!-why is he not manager autocrat-supreme dictator!"

Mr. Stanley laid his hand impressively on my shoulder.

"Sir," said he, in a troublous voice, and with a peculiar expression of countenance, which induced me to surmise that he must himself have been entrapped sometime or other in the snare of matrimony; "sir, Weazle is a married man!"