tain and inconvenient modes of passage from one shore to another.

Howel, amongst his enumeration of the attractions of the city, says, “What variety of bowlingalleys there are !” And when the idler was tired of this sport, and would turn his back even upon shuffle-board and cock-fighting, he had nothing to do but to step down to Queenhithe or the Temple, and have an afternoon of such recreation as can now only be found at a distance of five miles from London Bridge. “Go to the river," continues Howel ; “what a pleasure it is to go thereon in the summer-time, in boat or barge ! or to go a floundering among the fishermen !” Conceive an angler, stuck under one of the piers of Waterloo Bridge, patiently expecting to be rewarded with a salmon, or at least a barbel. Yet such things were a century ago. There are minute regulations of the “Company of Free Fishermen ” to be observed in the western parts of the Thames, which clearly show that the preservation of the fish, even in the highway between London and Westminster, was a matter of importance; and very stringent, therefore, are the restrictions against using eel-spears, and wheels, and “angle-rods with more than two hooks.” There is a distinct provision that fishermen were not to come nearer London Bridge than the Old Swan on the north bank, and St. Mary Overies on the south. Especially was enactment made that no person should“ bend over any net, * Stow's London, book v.



during the time of flood, whereby both salmons, and other kind of fish, may be hindered from swimming upwards.” Woe for the anglers ! The salmons and the swans have both quitted the bills of mortality; and they are gone where there are clear runnels, and pebbly bottoms, and quiet nooks under shadowing oziers, and where the water-lily spreads its broad leaf and its snowy flower, and the sewer empties not itself to pollute every tide, and the never-ceasing din of human life is heard not, and the paddle of the steam-boat dashes no wave upon the shore.


THE Lyffe of Sir Peter Carewe, late of Mohonese Otrey, in the countie of Devon, Knyghte, whoe dyed at Rosse, in Irelande, the 27th of November, 1575, was read to the Society of Antiquaries of London, November 29th, 1838. At that reading, the yawning must have been terrific—the sleep profound. This “ This “Lyffe" -"CO

“collected by John Vowell, al's Hoker, of the Cetie of Excester, Gent., partly upon the credyble reporte of others, and partly which he sawe and knewe hyme selffe"--occupies fifty-eight quarto pages of the twentyeighth volume of the 'Archæologia.' The world might have remained profoundly ignorant of the doings of Sir Peter Carewe, but for the exhumation of this MS. of John Vowell; and in truth this "Lyffe” might have shared the common fate of antiquarian discoveries--a digging-up, and a reinterment-had there not been some lasting and general interest in the narrative. The early history of Peter Carewe is a remarkable example of ancient educational discipline. His story comes unbidden before us, when we think that “wisdom doth live with children round her knees ”-loving, and beloved. What was the daily life of a child

in the days of Henry the Eighth? Shadow of Peter Carewe, instruct us!

About the year 1526, there is stir in the household of Thomas Hunte, draper, and Alderman of Exeter. Peter, a son of the worshipful Sir William Carewe, is expected to arrive, in charge of a faithful servant of the house, from Mohones Otrey. He is to lodge with Thomas Hunte, and daily to attend the grammar-school of the city. “Wife,” says the alderman, “this is a heavy charge; the boy, I am given to know, is pert and forward. He is the youngest son, and his father looks to his learning to bring him to some advancement. Sir William is a hard man. This is a heavy charge.”

The boy comes on horseback, the servant having a leading rein, greatly to Peter's annoyance. They stop at the draper's threshold. It is a mean wooden house; but well stocked with West of England stuffs. “Welcome, young sir,” quoth the draper's wife. “I am commanded by Sir William,” says the servant, “to require you to keep a close eye upon my young master. You are to stand in the place of his father, Master Hunte. He must have no rude companions: he must go straight from your house to the school, and from the school to your house. If he be truant, flog him 1" With this solace was Peter Carewe confided to the alderman. We see the shadow of poor Peter in the grammar-school. One Freer is master; he is counted to be a very hard and a cruel master. Daily is that unhappy boy lacerated ; no stripes can move him to learn. He sits doggedly with the open pages of “Syntaxis.” before him; but he will make no agreement between the nominative case and the verb. The noontide meal of Thomas Hunte is by him neglected; he is off to the pleasant fields that lie around the city. He hath a book of ballads in his vest, which tells of the “actes and faits” of chivalry—of the knight's prowess, and the lady's love. Hunte in vain lectures—Freer in vain flogs. At last “he would never keep his school, but is daily truant, and always ranging.” On a certain day good Thomas Hunte is seriously alarmed—the boy has been missing through a summer's morning, noon, and eve. The alderman hath sent abroad to seek him, and, as twilight approaches, goes forth himself. Behind a buttress of the city wallis Peter hiding. “Oh, varlet !” cries the furious draper, “have I caught you?” “Not yet,” replies the truant. The boy climbs the wall—he looks out from the top of the highest turret: “Let me be Keep down. If you press upon me, I will surely cast myself headlong over the wall, and then I shall break my neck; and thou shalt be hanged, because thou makest me to leap down.” In a few days after, there is a strange sight in the streets of Exeter. Sir William Carewe has once more sat in the draper's best room. The boy

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