gambling and extravagance forced him to leave England, and for a time he lived in America and in Paris. In the French capital he is said to have been so successful as a gamester that in two years he realised £25,000. For fear of a surgical operation he shot himself at Fontainebleau 28th April 1832. Besides Lacon, he published a satire on hypocrisy, a poem on Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, and one or two trifles. His somewhat pretentious moralising is exemplified in such shorter extracts from Lacon as 'Bigotry murders religion to frighten fools with her ghost;' 'Ignorance is a blank sheet on which we may write; but error is a scribbled one on which we must first erase ;' and these longer ones : Mystery and Intrigue. There are minds so habituated to intrigue and mystery in themselves, and so prone to expect it from others, that they will never accept of a plain reason for a plain fact, if it be possible to devise causes for it that are obscure, far-fetched, and usually not worth the carriage. Like the miser of Berkshire, who would ruin a good horse to escape a turnpike, so these gentlemen ride their high-bred theories to death, in order to come at truth, through by-paths, lanes, and alleys; while she herself is jogging quietly along upon the high and beaten road of common-sense. The consequence is, that those who take this mode of arriving at truth are sometimes before her, and sometimes behind her, but very seldom with her. Thus the great statesman who relates the conspiracy against Doria pauses to deliberate upon, and minutely to scrutinise into, divers and sundry errors committed and opportunities neglected whereby he would wish to account for the total failure of that spirited enterprise. But the plain fact was, that the scheme had been so well planned and digested that it was victorious in every point of its operation, both on the sea and on the shore, in the harbour of Genoa no less than in the city, until that most unlucky accident befell the Count de Fiesque, who was the very life and soul of the conspiracy. In stepping from one galley to another, the plank on which he stood upset, and he fell into the sea. His armour happened to be very heavy, the night to be very dark, the water to be very deep, and the bottom to be very muddy. And it is another plain fact that water, in all such cases, happens to make no distinction whatever between a conqueror and a cat. Magnanimity in a Cottage. In the obscurity of retirement, amid the squalid poverty and revolting privations of a cottage, it has often been my lot to witness scenes of magnanimity and self-denial as much beyond the belief as the prac tice of the great; a heroism borrowing no support either from the gaze of the many or the admiration of the few, yet flourishing amidst ruins and on the confines of the grave; a spectacle as stupendous in the moral world as the falls of the Missouri in the natural, and, like that mighty cataract, doomed to display its grandeur only where there are no eyes to appreciate its magnificence. Charles Waterton (1782-1865), born at Walton Hall, Wakefield, and educated at the Roman Catholic college of Stonyhurst, went out about 1804 to Demerara to manage some family estates, and determined in 1812 to wander 'through the wilds of Demerara and Essequibo, with the view to reach the inland frontier fort of Portuguese Guiana, to collect a quantity of the strongest Wourali (Curari) poison, and to catch and stuff the beautiful birds which abound in that part of South America.' He made two more journeys, amidst difficulties unspeakable, through Brazil and Guiana-in 1816 and 1820-and in 1825 published his most entertaining Wanderings in South America, the North-west of the United States, and the Antilles. 'In order to pick up matter for natural history, I have wandered through the wildest parts of South America's equinoctial regions. I have attacked and slain a modern python, and rode on the back of a cayman close to the water's edge; a very different situation from that of a Hyde-Park dandy on his Sunday prancer before the ladies. Alone and barefoot I have pulled poisonous snakes out of their lurkingplaces, climbed up trees to peep into holes for bats and vampires, and for days together hastened through sun and rain to the thickest parts of the forest to procure specimens I had never seen before.' The python and cayman made much noise and amusement at the time, and the conquest of the cayman was made the subject of a caricature. Waterton had long wished to obtain one of the huge (non-venomous) Coulacanara snakes, and at length he saw one coiled up in his den. He advanced towards him stealthily, and with his lance struck him behind the neck and fixed him to the ground. A Snake Story. That moment the negro next to me seized the lance and held it firm in its place, while I dashed head foremost into the den to grapple with the snake, and to get hold of his tail before he could do any mischief. On pinning him to the ground with the lance, he gave a tremendous loud hiss, and the little dog ran away, howling as he went. We had a sharp fray in the den, the rotten sticks flying on all sides, and each party struggling for the superiority. I called out to the second negro to throw himself upon me, as I found I was not heavy enough. He did so, and his additional weight was of great service. I had now got firm hold of his tail, and after a violent struggle or two he gave in, finding himself overpowered. This was the moment to secure him. So while the first negro continued to hold the lance firm to the ground, and the other was helping me, I contrived to unloose my braces, and with them tied up the snake's mouth. The snake, now finding himself in an unpleasant situation, tried to better himself, and set resolutely to work, but we overpowered him. We contrived to make him twist himself round the shaft of the lance, and then prepared to convey him out of the forest. I stood at his head and held it firm under my arm; one negro supported the belly, and the other the tail. In this order we began to move slowly towards home, and reached it after resting ten times. Next day Waterton killed the snake, which was fourteen feet long and enormously thick. The cayman or alligator was found on the Essequibo after three days' waiting and seeking, and caught with a shark-hook baited with a large fish. The difficulty was to pull him up. The Indians proposed shooting him with arrows; but this the 'Wanderer' resisted. 'I had come above three hundred miles on purpose to catch a cayman uninjured, and not to carry back a mutilated specimen.' The men pulled with a will, and out he came at last, the modern St George standing armed with the mast of the canoe, which he proposed to force down the dragon's throat. How to catch a Cayman. By the time the cayman was within two yards of me, I saw he was in a state of fear and perturbation; I instantly dropped the mast, sprang up, and jumped on his back, turning half round as I vaulted, so that I gained my seat with my face in a right position. I immediately seized his fore-legs, and by main force twisted them on his back; thus they served me for a bridle. He now seemed to have recovered from his surprise, and, probably fancying himself in hostile company, he began to plunge furiously, and lashed the sand with his long and powerful tail. I was out of reach of the strokes of it, by being near his head. He continued to plunge and strike, and made my seat very uncomfortable. It must have been a fine sight for an unoccupied spectator. The people roared out in triumph, and were so vociferous that it was some time before they heard me tell them to pull me and my beast of burden further inland. I was apprehensive the rope might break, and then there would have been every chance of going down to the regions under water with the cayman. That would have been more perilous than Arion's marine morning ride-'Delphini insidens, vada cærula sulcat Arion.' The people now dragged us above forty yards on the sand: it was the first and last time I was ever on a cayman's back. Should it be asked how I managed to keep my seat, I would answer, I hunted some years with Lord Darlington's fox-hounds. The cayman, killed and stuffed, was, like the python's skin, added to the curiosities of Walton Hall. Waterton's next work was Essays on Natural History, chiefly Ornithology, with an Autobiography of the Author (three series, 1838-57; ed. by J. G. Wood, 1878). His ac count of his family-an old Roman Catholic line that had suffered persecution from the days of Henry VIII. downwards-is a quaint, amusing chronicle; and the notes on the habits of birds show minute observation and vivid characterisation (sometimes after the manner of White of Selborne), as well as the kindly, genial spirit of the eccentric squire. The ancient wanderer died from a fall when carrying a log in his own grounds (as Abyssinian Bruce from a fall down his own staircase), and was buried with all the ceremony prescribed by himself between two favourite oaks beside a lake in his own park. There is a Life of him by Richard Hobson (1865). Ann and Jane Taylor were members of an English Nonconformist family so distinguished through five generations in literature and art as to have been made the subject of researches in heredity by Mr Gulton. Their father, Isaac Taylor (1759-1829), the second of four Isaacs, was, like his father before him, an engraver of some eminence. He had an uncle, Charles Taylor (1756-1821), who edited Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible, and another, Josiah, who became eminent as a publisher of architectural works. The father of Ann and Jane, besides his engraving business, took a warm interest in the affairs of the 'meeting-house,' and in 1796 became pastor of an Independent congregation at Colchester, in 1811 at Ongar-whence the famous kin became known as 'the Taylors of Ongar' (as distinguished from 'the Taylors of Norwich;' see Vol. II. p. 712). His wife (born Ann Martin) had literary impulses, and published Maternal Solicitude (1814), The Family Mansion (1819), and other tales, and a series of educational works. The daughters, Ann (17821866) and Jane (1783-1824), were born in London, but brought up from 1786 at Lavenham in Suffolk, where their father had, for the sake of economy, taken up his residence. His daughters assisted in the engraving, working steadily at their allotted tasks from their thirteenth or fourteenth year, and paying their share of the family expenses. They began their literary career in 1798 by contributing to a cheap annual, The Minor's Pocket-Book, the publishers of which induced them to undertake a volume of verses for children. Accordingly in 1804-5 there appeared Original Poems for Infant Minds, which were followed by Rhymes for the Nursery (1806), Hymns for Infant Minds (1810), Rural Scenes, City Scenes, &c. The hymns, somewhat analogous to Dr Watts's, were highly popular, were praised by men as eminent and as unlike one another as Dr Arnold and Archbishop Whately, and are still familiar- My Mother' and 'Twinkle, Twinkle, little Star,' can surely never become obsolete in the nursery. Jane Taylor was authoress of a tale, Display (1815), and of Essays in Rhyme (1816) and Contributions of Q. 2. Ann married in 1813 a Congregational minister, the Rev. Joseph Gilbert (1779-1852), who settled at Nottingham in 1825, and published The Christian Atonement, &c.; a memoir of him was written by his widow. When she also was removed, her son, Josiah Gilbert, an accomplished artist, and author of The Dolomite Mountains; Cadore, or Titian's Country, &c., published in 1874 Autobiography and other Memorials of Mrs Gilbert (Ann Taylor). Each of the accomplished sisters has bequeathed to the Christian Church at least one hymn of universal acceptation, Mrs Gilbert having written 'Great God, and wilt thou condescend;' Jane Taylor's best known is 'Lord, I would own thy tender care.' Their brother, Isaac Taylor (1787-1865), became still more distinguished as an author; a notice of him will be found at page 244. For a recent notice of Jane Taylor, see Mrs L. B. Walford's Twelve English Authoresses (1892). From 'The Song of the Tea-Kettle.' By ANN TAYLOR. Since first began my ominous song, ... Slowly have passed the ages long. Surly, apart the nations dwelt, Nor yet the magical impulse felt; On whom first fell the amazing dream? The viewless bonds of a mental sway, Hark! 'tis the din of a thousand wheels 'Tis the many-fingered, intricate, bright machine, With its flowery film of lace, I ween! And see where it rushes, with silvery wreath, And man, fitly crowned with brow sublime, Lone was the shore where the hero mused, And moon after moon, since its anchor weighed, She starts-wild winds at her bosom rage, A few bright suns, and at rest she lies, The Squire's Pew. By JANE TAYLOR. A slanting ray of evening light The window's Gothic framework falls And since those trappings first were new, How many a cloudless day, To rob the velvet of its hue, Has come and passed away! How many a setting sun hath made That curious lattice-work of shade? Crumbled beneath the hillock green The cunning hand must be That carved this fretted door, I weenAcorn and fleur-de-lis; And now the worm hath done her part In days of yore-that now we call- All seated round in order due, With broidered suit and buckled shoe. On damask-cushions, set in fringe, Prayer-book with brazen hasp and hinge, Responsive at the priest's command. Now streaming down the vaulted aisle, Of their inscription stone; Outstretched together are expressed He and my lady fair, The numerous offspring bend; Have filled the stately pew; And now the polished, modern squire A season every year And fill the seats with belle and beau, As 'twas so many years ago. Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread The hollow-sounding floor Of that dark house of kindred dead Which shall, as heretofore, The feathered hearse and sable train, Shall wind along the village lane, And stand before the gate; And when the race is swept away Mary Russell Mitford, the graphic and sympathetic portrayer of English country life in its happiest aspects, was born at Alresford, Hampshire, 16th December 1787. Her father, a selfish, extravagant physician (without practice), for her tenth birthday bought her a lottery-ticket, which drew a prize of £20,000; hereupon she was sent to a good school at Chelsea, and Dr Mitford built himself a big house near Reading. Hither Mary returned in 1802, and here in 1810 she, long an omnivorous reader, produced her first volume, Miscellaneous Poems. Christina, Blanche of Castile, and Poems on the Female Character followed, but attracted little notice. Meanwhile she and all about him were suffering for her handsome and accomplished father's reckless and selfish extravagance and high play. 'His wife's large fortune, his daughter's, his own patrimony all passed through his hands in an incredibly short space of time, but his wife and daughter were never heard to complain of his conduct, nor appeared to admire him less.' In 1820 the family had to move to a cottage at Three-Mile Cross, and Miss Mitford had now to write for its support; she was content to slave that her unconscionable father might have utterly useless luxuries-and he took them without scruple; she overtaxed her strength and literary gift by her perverse and blameworthy devotion to the reprobate, and her selfdenial was even misunderstood and misjudged as grasping and miserly. In 1823 was produced her tragedy of Julian, dedicated to Macready, 'for the zeal with which he befriended the production of a stranger, for the judicious alterations which he suggested, and for the energy, the pathos, and the skill with which he more than embodied its principal character.' But Julian ran only eight nights; Foscari ran fifteen; and Rienzi, her best and most successful play, was acted forty-five times, and was sold to the number of four thousand copies. Charles I. and other dramatic pieces had their vogue; but Miss Mitford's triumph was to be won on other fields. Her best work began as a serial in 1819 in a magazine, and in 1823 appeared in volume form as Our Village, Sketches of Rural Character and Scenery, to which four other volumes were added, the fifth and last in 1832. 'Every one,' said Henry Chorley, 'now knows Our Village, and every one knows that the nooks and corners, the haunts and the copses, so delightfully described in its pages will be found in the immediate neighbourhood of Reading, and more especially around Three-Mile Cross, a cluster of cottages on the Basingstoke Road, in one of which our authoress resided for many years. But so little were the peculiar and original excellence of her descriptions understood, in the first instance, that, after having gone the round of rejection through the more important periodicals, they at last saw the light in no worthier publication than the Lady's Magazine. But the series of rural pictures grew, and the venture of collecting them into a separate volume was tried. The public began to relish the style, so fresh, yet so finished -to enjoy the delicate humour and the simple pathos of the tales; and the result was that the popularity of these sketches outgrew that of the works of loftier order proceeding from the same pen; that young writers, English and American, began to imitate so artless and charming a manner of narration; and that an obscure Berkshire hamlet, by the magic of talent and kindly feeling, was converted into a place of resort and interest for not a few of the finest spirits of the age.' The book, as Chorley said, has become really a classic, has 'created a school of minute home-landscape painters in pen and ink analogous to that of the Cuyps and Holbeins of the Low Countries,' and founded a fashion in literature; Charles Lamb, Christopher North, and Harriet Martineau recognised in Our Village a new and delightful branch of art, and Mrs S. C. Hall took thence her impulse for the Sketches of Irish Character. Mrs Richmond Ritchie speaks of Our Village as one of the books that are part of everybody's life as a matter of course.' Miss Mitford's intimate friend, Miss Barrett, called her 'a sort of prose Crabbe in the sun.' Her keen observation and shrewdness, her generous and gentle wisdom, her humour, her original turns of thought and expression, the singular clearness and purity of her style, are all equally apparent in her work. Mrs Richmond Ritchie admires it less for 'its actual descriptions and pictures of intelligent villagers and greyhounds' than for 'the more imaginative things; the sense of space and nature and progress which she knows how to convey; the sweet and emotional chord she strikes with so true a touch.' Belford Regis (1835) is a novel with much work cognate to Our Village, and passed through three editions. In 1837 Miss Mitford received a pension of £100; in 1842 she was at last relieved of the burden (which, though she never said so, she must have felt was no light one) of her father. Though suffering from ill-health for many years, she continued her literary pursuits. In 1852 she published Recollections of a Literary Life, largely autobiographical, and full of delightful glimpses of her contemporaries, famous or unknown; in 1854 came her last book, Atherton and other Tales. A plainlooking little woman with a wonderful wall of forehead,' she knew nothing of the mysteries of dress and was wholly indifferent on the subject, so that it at times needed the charm of her dear and venerable face, her genial smile and lovable ways, to make her visitors forget the extraordinary simplicity of her attire. She died on the 10th of January 1855 in her little house at Swallowfield, whither she had moved in 1851. A Sunset. What a sunset! how golden! how beautiful! The sun just disappearing, and the narrow liny clouds which a few minutes ago lay like soft vapoury streaks along the horizon lighted up with a golden splendour that the eye can scarcely endure, and those still softer clouds which floated above them wreathing and curling into a thousand fantastic forms as thin and changeful as summer smoke, now defined and deepened into grandeur and edged with ineffable, insufferable light! Another minute and the brilliant orb totally disappears, and the sky above grows every moment more varied and more beautiful as the dazzling golden lines are mixed with glowing red and gorgeous purple, dappled with small dark specks and mingled with such a blue as the egg of the hedgesparrow. To look up at that glorious sky, and then to see that magnificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely Loddon water, is a pleasure never to be described and never forgotten. My heart swells and my eyes fill as I write of it, and think of the immeasurable majesty of nature, and the unspeakable goodness of God, who has spread an enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so intense before the meanest and the lowliest of His creatures. (From 'The Dell,' in the second volume of Our Village.) Tom Cordery the Poacher This human oak grew on the wild North-of-Hampshire country; a country of heath and hill and forest, partly reclaimed, enclosed, and planted by some of the greater proprietors, but for the most part uncultivated and uncivilised, a proper refuge for wild animals of every species. Of these the most notable was my friend Tom Cordery, who presented in his own person no unfit emblem of the district in which he lived-the gentlest of savages, the wildest of civilised men. He was by calling rat-catcher, hare-finder, and broom-maker; a triad of trades which he had substituted for the one grand profession of poaching, which he followed in his younger days with unrivalled talent and success, and would undoubtedly have pursued till his death had not the bursting of an overloaded gun unluckily shot off his left hand. As it was, he still contrived to mingle a little of his old unlawful occupation with his honest callings; was a reference of high authority amongst the young aspirants, an adviser of undoubted honour and secrecy-. suspected, and more than suspected, as being one 'who, though he played no more, o'erlooked the cards.' Yet he kept to windward of the law, and indeed contrived to be on such terms of social and even friendly intercourse with the guardians of the game on M- Common as may be said to prevail between reputed thieves and the myrmidons of justice at Bow Street. ... Never did any human being look more like that sort of sportsman commonly called a poacher. He was a tall, finely-built man, with a prodigious stride, that cleared the ground like a horse, and a power of con tinuing his slow and steady speed that seemed nothing less than miraculous. Neither man, nor horse, nor dog could out-tire him. He had a bold, undaunted presence, and an evident strength and power of bone and muscle. You might see, by looking at him, that he did not know what fear meant. In his youth he had fought more battles than any man in the forest. He was as if born without nerves, totally insensible to the recoils and disgusts of humanity. I have known him take up a huge adder, cut off its head, and then deposit the living and writhing body in his brimless hat, and walk with it coiling and wreathing about his head, like another Medusa, till the sport of the day was over, and he carried it home to secure the fat. With all this iron stubbornness of nature, he was of a most mild and gentle demeanour, had a fine placidity of countenance, and a quick blue eye beaming with good-humour. His face was sunburnt into one general pale vermilion hue that overspread all his features; his very hair was sunburnt too. . . . Everybody liked Tom Cordery. He had himself an aptness to like, which is certain to be repaid in kind; the very dogs knew him, and loved |