It has been said that Gower as well as Chaucer studied in the Temple. This, however, Thynne doubts, on the ground that 'it is most certeyn to be gathered by cyrcumstances of recordes that the lawyers were not in the Temple until towardes the latter parte of the reygne of Kinge Edwarde the Thirde, at whiche tyme Chaucer was a grave manne, holden in greate credyt and employed in embassye;' and when, of course, Gower, being his senior, must have been 'graver' still.

There is scarcely anything more to relate of the personal career of our poet. In his elder days he became attached to the House of Lancaster, under Thomas of Woodstock, as Chaucer did under John of Gaunt. It is said that the two poets, who had been warm friends, at last quarrelled, but obscurity rests on the cause, the circumstances, the duration, and the consequences of the dispute. Gower, like some far greater bards, —Milton for instance, and those whom Milton has commemorated,

'Blind Thamyris and blind Moeonides, And Tiresiaa and Phineus, prophets old,'—

was sometime ere his death deprived of his sight, as we know on his own authority. It appears from his will that he was still living in 1408, having outlived Chaucer eight years. This will is a curious document. It is that of a very rich and very superstitious Catholic, who leaves bequests to churches, hospitals, to priors, sub-priors, and priests, with the significant request 'ut orent pro me'—a request which, for the sake of the poor soul of the 'moral Gower,' was we trust devoutly obeyed, although we are irresistibly reminded of the old rhyme,

'Pray for the soul of Gabriel John, Who died in the year one thousand and one; You may if you please, or let it alone, For it's all one To Gabriel John, Who died in the year one thousand and one.'

There is no mention of children in the will, and hence the assertion of Edmondson, who, in his genealogical table of the Statenham family, says that Thomas Gower, the governor of the castle of Mans in the times of the Fifth and Sixth Henrys, was the only son of the poet, and that of Glover, who, in his 'Visitation of Yorkshire,' describes Gower as married to a lady named Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edward Sadbowrughe, Baron of the Exchequer, by whom he had five sons and three daughters, must both fall to the ground. According to the will, Gower's wife's name was Agnes, and he leaves to her L100 in legacy, besides his valuable goods and the rents accruing from his aforesaid manors of Multon, in Suffolk, and Southwell, in Nottinghamshire. His body was, according to his own direction, buried in the monastery of St Mary Overies, in Southwark, (afterwards the church of St Saviour,) where a monument, and an effigies, too, were erected, with the roses of a knight girdling the brow of one who was unquestionably a true, if not a great poet.

In Warton's 'History of English Poetry,' and in the 'Illustrations of the Lives and Writings of Gower and Chaucer' by Mr Todd, there will be found ample and curious details about MS. poems by Gower, such as fifty sonnets in French; a 'Panegyrick on Henry IV.,' half in Latin and half in English, a short elegiac poem on the same subject, &c.; besides a large work, entitled 'Speculum Meditantis,' a poem in French of a moral cast; and 'Vox Clamantis,' consisting of seven books of Latin elegiacs, and chiefly filled with a metrical account of the insurrections of the Commons in the reign of Richard II. In the dedication of this latter work to Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, Gower speaks of his blindness and his age. He says, 'Hanc epistolam subscriptam corde devoto misit senex et cecus Johannes Gower reverendissimo in Christo patri ac domino suo precipuo domino Thome de Arundell, Cantuar. Archiepoe.' &c. Warton proves that the 'Vox Clamantis' was written in the year 1397, by a line in the Bodleian manuscript of the poem, 'Hos ego bis deno Ricardo regis in anno.' Richard II. began, it is well known, to reign in the year 1377, when ten years of age, and, of course, the year 1397 was the twentieth of his reign. It follows from this, that for eleven years at least before his death Gower had been senex et cecus, helpless through old age and blindness.

The 'Confessio Amantis' is the only work of Gower's which is printed and in English. The rest are still slumbering in MS.; and even although the 'Vox Clamantis' should put in a sleepy plea for the resurrection of print, on the whole we are disposed to say, better for all parties that it and the rest should slumber on. But the 'Confessio Amantis' is altogether a remarkable production. It is said to have been written at the command of Richard II., who, meeting our poet rowing on the Thames, near London, took him on board the royal barge, and requested him to book some new thing. It is an English poem, in eight books, and was first printed by Caxton in the year 1483. The 'Speculum Meditantis,' 'Vox Clamantis,' and 'Confessio Amantis,' are, properly speaking, parts of one great work, and are represented by three volumes upon Gower's curious tomb in the old conventual church of St Mary Overies already alluded to—a church, by the way, which the poet himself assisted in rebuilding in the elegant shape which it retains to this day.

The 'Confessio' is a large unwieldy collection of poetry and prose, superstition and science, love and religion, allegory and historical facts. It is crammed with all varieties of learning, and a perverse but infinite ingenuity is shewn in the arrangement of its heterogeneous materials. In one book the whole mysteries of the Hermetic philosophy are expounded, and the wonders of alchymy dazzle us in every page. In another, the poet scales the heights and sounds the depths of Aristotelianism. From this we have extracted in the 'Specimens' a glowing account of 'The Chariot of the Sun.' Throughout the work, tales and stories of every description and degree of merit are interspersed. These are principally derived from an old book called 'Pantheon; or, Memoriae Seculorum,'—a kind of universal history, more studious of effect than accuracy, in which the author ranges over the whole history of the world, from the creation down to the year 1186. This was a specimen of a kind of writing in which the Middle Ages abounded—namely, chronicles, which gradually superseded the monkish legends, and for a time eclipsed the classics themselves; a kind of writing hovering between history and fiction, embracing the widest sweep, written in a barbarous style, and swarming with falsehoods; but exciting, interesting, and often instructive, and tending to kindle curiosity, and create in the minds of their readers a love for literature.

Besides chronicles, Gower had read many romances, and alludes to them in various parts of his works. His 'Confessio Amantis' was apparently written after Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide,' and after 'The Flower and the Leaf,' inasmuch as he speaks of the one and imitates the other in that poem. That Chaucer had not, however, yet composed his 'Testament of Love,' appears from the epilogue to the 'Confessio,' where Gower is ordered by Venus, who expresses admiration of Chaucer for the early devotion of his muse to her service, to say to him at the close—

'Forthy, now in his daies old, Thou shalt him tell this message, That he upon his later age To set an end of all his work, As he which is mine owen clerk, Do make his Testament of Love, As thou hast done thy shrift above, So that my court it may record'—

the 'shrift' being of course the 'Confessio Amantis.' In 'The Canterbury Tales' there are several indications that Chaucer was indebted to Gower —'The Man of Law's Tale' being borrowed from Gower's 'Constantia,' and 'The Wife of Bath's Tale' being founded on Gower's 'Florent.'

After all, Gower cannot be classed with the greater bards. He sparkles brightly chiefly from the depth of the darkness through which he shines. He is more remarkable for extent than for depth, for solidity than for splendour, for fuel than for fire, for learning than for genius.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Of golde glist'ring spoke and wheel The Sun his cart hath fair and wele, In which he sitteth, and is croned[1] With bright stones environed: Of which if that I speake shall, There be before in special Set in the front of his corone Three stones, whiche no person Hath upon earth; and the first is By name cleped Leucachatis. That other two cleped thus Astroites and Ceraunus; In his corone, and also behind, By olde bookes as I find, There be of worthy stones three, Set each of them in his degree. Whereof a crystal is that one, Which that corone is set upon: The second is an adamant: The third is noble and evenant, Which cleped is Idriades. And over this yet natheless, Upon the sides of the werk, After the writing of the clerk, There sitten five stones mo.[2] The Smaragdine is one of tho,[3] Jaspis, and Eltropius, And Vendides, and Jacinctus. Lo thus the corone is beset, Whereof it shineth well the bet.[4] And in such wise his light to spread, Sits with his diadem on head, The Sunne shining in his cart: And for to lead him swith[5] and smart, After the bright daye's law, There be ordained for to draw, Four horse his chare, and him withal, Whereof the names tell I shall. Eritheus the first is hote,[6] The which is red, and shineth hot; The second Acteos the bright; Lampes the thirde courser hight; And Philogens is the ferth, That bringen light unto this earth, And go so swift upon the heaven, In four and twenty houres even, The carte with the brighte sun They drawen, so that over run They have under the circles high, All midde earth in such an hie.[7]

And thus the sun is over all The chief planet imperial, Above him and beneath him three. And thus between them runneth he, As he that hath the middle place Among the seven: and of his face Be glad all earthly creatures, And taken after the natures Their ease and recreation. And in his constellation Who that is born in special, Of good-will and of liberal He shall be found in alle place, And also stand in muchel grace Toward the lordes for to serve, And great profit and thank deserve.

And over that it causeth yet A man to be subtil of wit, To work in gold, and to be wise In everything, which is of prise.[8] But for to speaken in what coast Of all this earth he reigneth most, As for wisdom it is in Greece, Where is appropred thilk spece.[9]

[1] 'Croned:' crowned. [2] 'Mo:' more. [3] 'Tho:' those. [4] 'Bet:' better. [5] 'Swith:' swift. [6] 'Hot:' named. [7] 'Hie:' haste. [8] 'Prise:' value. [9] 'Thilk spece:' that kind.

THE TALE OF THE COFFERS OR CASKETS, &c.

In a chronique thus I read: About a kinge, as must need, There was of knightes and squiers Great rout, and eke officers: Some of long time him had served, And thoughten that they have deserved Advancement, and gone without: And some also been of the rout, That comen but a while agon, And they advanced were anon.

These olde men upon this thing, So as they durst, against the king Among themselves complainen oft: But there is nothing said so soft, That it ne cometh out at last: The king it wist, anon as fast, As he which was of high prudence: He shope[1] therefore an evidence Of them that 'plainen in the case To know in whose default it was: And all within his own intent, That none more wiste what it meant. Anon he let two coffers make, Of one semblance, and of one make, So like, that no life thilke throw,[2] The one may from that other know: They were into his chamber brought, But no man wot why they be wrought, And natheless the king hath bede That they be set in privy stede,[3] As he that was of wisdom sly; When he thereto his time sih,[4] All privily that none it wist, His owne handes that one chest Of fine gold, and of fine perrie,[5] The which out of his treasury Was take, anon he filled full; That other coffer of straw and mull,[6] With stones meynd[7] he fill'd also: Thus be they full bothe two. So that erliche[8] upon a day He bade within, where he lay, There should be before his bed A board up set and faire spread: And then he let the coffers fet[9] Upon the board, and did them set, He knew the names well of tho,[10] The which against him grutched[11] so, Both of his chamber, and of his hall, Anon and sent for them all; And saide to them in this wise:

'There shall no man his hap despise: I wot well ye have longe served, And God wot what ye have deserved; But if it is along[12] on me Of that ye unadvanced be, Or else if it be long on yow, The soothe shall be proved now: To stoppe with your evil word, Lo! here two coffers on the board; Choose which you list of bothe two; And witteth well that one of tho Is with treasure so full begon, That if he happe thereupon Ye shall be riche men for ever: Now choose and take which you is lever,[13] But be well 'ware ere that ye take, For of that one I undertake There is no manner good therein, Whereof ye mighten profit win. Now go together of one assent, And taketh your advisement; For but I you this day advance, It stands upon your owne chance, All only in default of grace; So shall be shewed in this place Upon you all well afine,[14] That no defaulte shall be mine.'

They kneelen all, and with one voice The king they thanken of this choice: And after that they up arise, And go aside and them advise, And at laste they accord (Whereof their tale to record To what issue they be fall) A knight shall speake for them all: He kneeleth down unto the king, And saith that they upon this thing, Or for to win, or for to lose, Be all advised for to choose.

Then took this knight a yard[15] in hand, And go'th there as the coffers stand, And with assent of every one He lay'th his yarde upon one, And saith the king[16] how thilke same They chose in reguerdon[17] by name, And pray'th him that they might it have.

The king, which would his honour save, When he had heard the common voice, Hath granted them their owne choice, And took them thereupon the key; But for he woulde it were see What good they have as they suppose, He bade anon the coffer unclose, Which was fulfill'd with straw and stones: Thus be they served all at ones.

This king then in the same stede, Anon that other coffer undede, Where as they sawen great riches, Well more than they couthen [18] guess.

'Lo!' saith the king, 'now may ye see That there is no default in me; Forthy[19] myself I will acquite, And beareth ye your owne wite[20] Of that fortune hath you refused.'

Thus was this wise king excused: And they left off their evil speech. And mercy of their king beseech.

[1] 'Shope:' contrived. [2] 'Thilke throw:' at that time. [3] 'Stede:' place. [4] 'Sih:' saw. [5] 'Perrie:' precious stones. [6] 'Mull:' rubbish. [7] 'Meynd:' mingled. [8] 'Erlich:' early. [9] 'Fet:' fetched. [10] 'Tho:' those. [11] 'Grutched:' murmured. [12] 'Along:' because of. [13] 'Lever:' preferable. [14] 'Afine:' at last. [15] 'Yard:' rod. [16] 'Saith the king:' saith to the king. [17] 'Reguerdon:' as their reward. [18] 'Couthen:' could. [19] 'Forthy:' therefore. [20] 'Wite:' blame.

OF THE GRATIFICATION WHICH THE LOVERS PASSION RECEIVES FROM THE SENSE OF HEARING.

Right as mine eye with his look Is to mine heart a lusty cook Of love's foode delicate; Right so mine ear in his estate, Where as mine eye may nought serve, Can well mine hearte's thank deserve; And feeden him, from day to day, With such dainties as he may.

For thus it is that, over all Where as I come in special, I may hear of my lady price:[1] I hear one say that she is wise; Another saith that she is good; And some men say of worthy blood That she is come; and is also So fair that nowhere is none so: And some men praise her goodly chere.[2] Thus everything that I may hear, Which soundeth to my lady good, Is to mine ear a lusty food. And eke mine ear hath, over this, A dainty feaste when so is That I may hear herselve speak; For then anon my fast I break On suche wordes as she saith, That full of truth and full of faith They be, and of so good disport, That to mine eare great comfort They do, as they that be delices For all the meats, and all the spices, That any Lombard couthe[3] make, Nor be so lusty for to take, Nor so far forth restoratif, (I say as for mine owne life,) As be the wordes of her mouth For as the windes of the south Be most of alle debonaire;[4] So, when her list to speake fair, The virtue of her goodly speech Is verily mine hearte's leech.

And if it so befall among, That she carol upon a song, When I it hear, I am so fed, That I am from myself so led As though I were in Paradise; For, certes, as to mine avis,[5] When I hear of her voice the steven,[6] Methink'th it is a bliss of heaven.

And eke in other wise also, Full ofte time it falleth so, Mine care with a good pitance[7] Is fed of reading of romance Of Ydoine and of Amadas, That whilom weren in my case; And eke of other many a score, That loveden long ere I was bore. For when I of their loves read, Mine eare with the tale I feed, And with the lust of their histoire Sometime I draw into memoire, How sorrow may not ever last; And so hope cometh in at last.

[1] 'Price:' praise. [2] 'Chere:' mien. [3] 'Couthe:' knows to. [4] 'Debonaire:' gentle. [5] 'Avis:' opinion. [6] 'Steven:' sound. [7] 'Pitance:' allowance.



JOHN BARBOUR.

The facts known about this Scottish poet are only the following. He seems to have been born about the year 1316, in, probably, the city of Aberdeen. This is stated by Hume of Godscroft, by Dr Mackenzie, and others, but is not thoroughly authenticated. Some think he was the son of one Andrew Barbour, who possessed a tenement in Castle Street, Aberdeen; and others, that he was related to one Robert Barbour, who, in 1309, received a charter of the lands of Craigie, in Forfarshire, from King Robert the Bruce. These, however, are mere conjectures, founded upon a similarity of name. It is clear, from Barbour's after rank in the Church, that he had received a learned education, but whether in Arbroath or Aberdeen is uncertain. We know, however, that a school of divinity and canon law had existed at Aberdeen since the reign of Alexander II., and it is conjectured that Barbour first studied there, and then at Oxford. In the year 1357, he was undoubtedly Archdeacon of Aberdeen, since we find him, under this title, nominated by the Bishop of that diocese, one of the Commissioners appointed to meet in Edinburgh to take measures to liberate King David, who had been captured at the battle of Nevil's Cross, and detained from that date in England. It seems evident, from the customs of the Roman Catholic Church, that he must have been at least forty when he was created Archdeacon, and this is a good reason for fixing his birth in the year 1316.

In the same year, Barbour obtained permission from Edward III., at the request of the Scottish King, to travel through England with three scholars who were to study at Oxford, probably at Balliol College, which had, a hundred years nearly before, been founded and endowed by the wife of the famous John Balliol of Scotland. Some years afterwards, in November 1364, he got permission to pass, accompanied by four horsemen, through England, to pursue his studies at the same renowned university. In the year 1365, we find another casual notice of our Scottish bard. A passport has been found giving him permission from the King of England to travel, in company with six horsemen, through that country on their way to St Denis', and other sacred places. It is evident that this was a religious pilgrimage on the part of Barbour and his companions.

A most peripatetic poet; verily, he must have been; for we find another safe-conduct, dated November 1368, granted by Edward to Barbour, permitting him, to pass through England, with two servants and their horses, on his way to France, for the purpose of pursuing his studies there. Dr Jamieson (see his 'Life of Barbour') discovers the poet's name in the list of Auditors of the Exchequer.

Barbour has himself told us that he commenced his poem in the 'yer of grace, a thousand thre hundyr sevynty and five,' when, of course, he was in his sixtieth year, or, as he says, 'off hys eld sexty.' It is supposed that David II.—who died in 1370—had urged Barbour to engage in the work, which was not, however, completed till the fifth year of his successor, Robert II., who gave our poet a pension on account of it. This consisted of a sum of ten pounds Scots from the revenues of the city of Aberdeen, and twenty shillings from the burgh mails. Mr James Bruce, to whose interesting Life of Barbour, in his 'Eminent Men of Aberdeen,' we are indebted for many of the facts in this narrative, says, 'The latter of these sums was granted to him, not merely during his own life, but to his assignees; and the Archdeacon bequeathed it to the dean, canons, the chapter, and other ministers of the Cathedral of Aberdeen, on condition that they should for ever celebrate a yearly mass for his soul. At the Reformation, when it came to be discovered that masses did no good to souls in the other world, it is probable that this endowment reverted to the Crown.'

Barbour also wrote a poem under what seems now the strange title, 'The Brute.' This was in reality a metrical history of Scotland, commencing with the fables concerning Brutus, or 'Brute,' who, according to ancient legends, was the great-grandson of Aeneas—came over from Italy, the land of his birth—landed at Totness, in Devonshire—destroyed the giants who then inhabited Albion—called the island 'Britain' from his own name, and became its first monarch. From this original fable, Barbour is supposed to have wandered on through a hundred succeeding stories of similar value, till he came down to his own day. There can be little regret felt, therefore, that the book is totally lost. Wynton, in his 'Chronicle,' refers to it in commendatory terms; but it cannot be ascertained from his notices whether it was composed in Scotch or in Latin.

Barbour died about the beginning of the year 1396, eighty years of age. Lord Hailes ascertained the time of his death from the Chartulary of Aberdeen, where, under the date of 10th August 1398, mention is made of 'quondam Joh. Barber, Archidiaconus, Aberd., and where it is said that he had died two years and a half before, namely, in 1396.'

His great work, 'The Bruce,' or more fully, 'The History of Robert Bruce, King of the Scots,' does not appear to have been printed till 1616 in Edinburgh. Between that date and the year 1790, when Pinkerton's edition appeared, no less than twenty impressions were published, (the principal being those of Edinburgh in 1620 and 1648; Glasgow, 1665; and Edinburgh, 1670—all in black letter,) so popular immediately became the poem. Pinkerton's edition is in three volumes, and has a preface, notes, and a glossary, all of considerable value. The MS. was copied from a volume in the Advocates' Library, of the date of 1489, which was in the handwriting of one John Ramsay, believed to have been the prior of a Carthusian monastery near Perth. Pinkerton first divided 'The Bruce' into books. It had previously, like the long works of Naerius and Ennius, the earliest Roman poets, consisted of one entire piece, woven 'from the top to the bottom without seam,' like the ancient simple garments in Jewry. The late respectable and very learned Dr Jamieson, of Nicolson Street United Secession Church, Edinburgh, well known as the author of the 'Scottish Dictionary,' 'Hermes Scythicus,' &c., published, in 1820, a more accurate edition of 'The Bruce,' along with Blind Harry's 'Wallace,' in two quarto volumes.

In strict chronology Barbour belongs to an earlier date than Chaucer, having been born and having died a few years before him. But as the first Scotch poet who has written anything of length, with the exception of the author of the 'Romance of Sir Tristrem,' he claims a conspicuous place in our 'Specimens.' He was singularly fortunate in the choice of a subject. With the exception of Wallace, there is no name in Scottish history that even yet calls up prouder associations than that of Robert Bruce. The incidents in his history,—the escape he made from English bondage to rescue his country from the same yoke; his rise refulgent from the stroke which, in the cloisters of the Gray Friars, Dumfries, laid the Red Comyn low; his daring to be crowned at Scone; his frequent defeats; his lion-like retreat to the Hebrides, accompanied by one or two friends, his wife meanwhile having been carried captive, three of his brothers hanged, and himself supposed to be dead; the romantic perils he survived, and the victories he gained amidst the mountains where the deep waters of the river Awe are still telling of his name, and the echoes of Ben Cruachan repeating the immortal sound; his sudden reappearance on the west coast of Scotland, where, as he 'shook his Carrick spear,' his country rose, kindling around him like heather on flame; the awful suspense of the hour when it was announced that Edward I., the tyrant of the Ragman's Roll, the murderer of Wallace, was approaching with a mighty army to crush the revolt; the electrifying news that he had died at Sark, as if struck by the breath of the fatal Border, which he had reached, but could not overpass; the bloody summer's day of Bannockburn, in which Edward II. was repelled, and the gallant army of his father annihilated; the energy and wisdom of the Bruce's civil administration after the victory; the less famous, but noble battle of Byland, nine years after Bannockburn, in which he again smote the foes of his country; and the recognition which at last he procured, on the accession of Edward III., of the independence of Scotland in 1329, himself dying the same year, his work done and his glory for ever secured,—not to speak of the beautiful legends which have clustered round his history like ivy round an ancestral tower—of the spider on the wall, teaching him the lesson of perseverance, as he lay in the barn sad and desponding in heart—of the strange signal-light upon the shore near his maternal castle of Turnberry, which led him to land, while

'Dark red the heaven above it glow'd, Dark red the sea beneath it flow'd, Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, In blood-red light her islets swim, Wild screams the dazzled sea-fowl gave, Dropp'd from their crags a plashing wave, The deer to distant covert drew, The blackcock deem'd it day, and crew;'

and last, not least, the adventures of his gallant, unquenchable heart, when, in the hand of Douglas,—meet casket for such a gem!—it marched onwards, as it was wont to do, in conquering power, toward the Holy Land;—all this has woven a garland round the brow of Bruce which every civilised nation has delighted to honour, and given him besides a share in the affections and the pride of his own land, with the joy of which 'no stranger can intermeddle.'

Bruce has been fortunate in his laureates, consisting of three of Scotland's greatest poets,—Barbour, Scott, and Burns. The last of these has given us a glimpse of the patriot-king, revealing him on the brow of Bannockburn as by a single flash of lightning. The second has, in 'The Lord of the Isles,' seized and sung a few of the more romantic passages of his history. But Barbour has, with unwearied fidelity and no small force, described the whole incidents of Bruce's career, and reared to his memory, not an insulated column, but a broad and deep-set temple of poetry.

Barbour's poem has always been admired for its strict accuracy of statement, to which Bower, Wynton, Hailes, Pinkerton, Jamieson, and Sir Walter Scott all bear testimony; for the picturesque force of its natural descriptions; for its insight into character, and the lifelike spirit of its individual sketches; for the martial vigour of its battle- pictures; for the enthusiasm which he feels, and makes his reader feel, for the valiant and wise, the sagacious and persevering, the bold, merciful, and religious character of its hero, and for the piety which pervades it, and proves that the author was not merely a churchman in profession, but a Christian at heart. Its defects of rude rhythm, irregular constructions, and obsolete phraseology, are those of its age; but its beauties, its unflagging interest, and its fine poetic spirit, are characteristic of the writer's own genius.

APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM.

Ah! freedom is a noble thing! Freedom makes man to have liking! Freedom all solace to man gives: He lives at ease that freely lives! A noble heart may have none ease, Nor nought else that may him please, If freedom fail; for free liking Is yearned o'er all other thing. Nay, he that aye has lived free, May not know well the property, The anger, nor the wretched doom, That is coupled to foul thirldom. But if he had assayed it, Then all perquier[1] he should it wit: And should think freedom more to prize Than all the gold in world that is.

[1] 'Perquier:' perfectly.

DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN.

And when the king wist that they were In hale[1] battle, coming so near, His battle gart[2] he well array. He rode upon a little palfrey, Laughed and jolly, arrayand His battle, with an axe in hand. And on his bassinet he bare A hat of tyre above aye where; And, thereupon, into tok'ning, An high crown, that he was king. And when Gloster and Hereford were With their battle approaching near, Before them all there came ridand, With helm on head and spear in hand, Sir Henry the Bohun, the worthy, That was a wight knight, and a hardy, And to the Earl of Hereford cousin; Armed in armis good and fine; Came on a steed a bowshot near, Before all other that there were: And knew the king, for that he saw Him so range his men on raw,[3] And by the crown that was set Also upon his bassinet. And toward him he went in hy.[4] And the king so apertly[5] Saw him come, forouth[6] all his feres,[7] In hy till him the horse he steers. And when Sir Henry saw the king Come on, forouten[8] abasing, To him he rode in full great hy. He thought that he should well lightly Win him, and have him at his will, Since he him horsed saw so ill. Sprent they samen into a lyng;[9] Sir Henry miss'd the noble king; And he that in his stirrups stood, With the axe, that was hard and good, With so great main, raucht[10] him a dint, That neither hat nor helm might stint The heavy dush that he him gave, The head near to the harns[11] he clave. The hand-axe shaft frushit[12] in two; And he down to the yird[13] 'gan go All flatlings, for him failed might. This was the first stroke of the fight, That was performed doughtily. And when the king's men so stoutly Saw him, right at the first meeting, Forouten doubt or abasing, Have slain a knight so at a straik, Such hardment thereat 'gan they take, That they come on right hardily. When Englishmen saw them so stoutly Come on, they had great abasing; And specially for that the king So smartly that good knight has slain, That they withdrew them everilk ane, And durst not one abide to fight: So dread they for the king his might. When that the king repaired was, That gart his men all leave the chase, The lordis of his company Blamed him, as they durst, greatumly, That be him put in aventure, To meet so stith[14] a knight, and stour, In such point as he then was seen. For they said, well it might have been Cause of their tynsal[15] everilk ane. The king answer has made them nane, But mainit[16] his hand-axe shaft so Was with the stroke broken in two.

[1] 'Hale:' whole. [2] 'Gart:' caused. [3] 'Haw:' row [4] 'Hy:' haste [5] 'Apertly:' openly, clearly. [6] 'Forouth:' beyond. [7] 'Feres:' companions. [8] 'Forouten:' without. [9] 'Sprent they samen into a lyng:' they sprang forward at once, against each other, in a line. [10] 'Raucht:' reached. [11] 'Harns:' brains. [12] 'Frushit:' broke. [13] 'Yird:' earth. [14] 'Stith:' strong. [15] 'Tynsal:' destruction. [16] 'Mainit:' lamented.



ANDREW WYNTOUN.

This author, who was prior of St Serf's monastery in Loch Leven, is the author of what he calls 'An Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland.' It appeared about the year 1420. It is much inferior to the work of Barbour in poetry, but is full of historical information, anecdote, and legend. The language is often sufficiently prosaic. Thus the poet begins to describe the return of King David II. from his captivity, referred to above.

'Yet in prison was king Davy, And when a lang time was gane bye, Frae prison and perplexitie To Berwick castle brought was he, With the Earl of Northamptoun, For to treat there of his ransoun; Some lords of Scotland come there, And als prelates that wisest were,' &c.

Contemporary, or nearly so, with Wyntoun were several other Scottish writers, such as one Hutcheon, of whom we know only that he is designated of the 'Awle Ryall,' or of the Royal Hall or Palace, and that he wrote a metrical romance, of which two cantos remain, called 'The Gest of Arthur;' and another, named Clerk of Tranent, the author of a romance, entitled 'The Adventures of Sir Gawain.' Of this latter also two cantos only are extant. Although not perhaps deserving to have even portions of them extracted, they contain a good deal of poetry. A person, too, of the name of Holland, about whose history we have no information, produced a satirical poem, called 'The Howlate,' written in the allegorical form, and bearing some resemblance to 'Pierce Plowman's Vision.'



BLIND HARRY.

Although there are diversities of opinion as to the exact time when this blind minstrel flourished, we prefer alluding to him at this point, where he stands in close proximity to Barbour, the author of a poem on a subject so cognate to 'Wallace' as 'Bruce.' Nothing is known of Harry but that he was blind from infancy, that he composed this poem, and gained a subsistence by reciting or singing portions of it through the country. Another Wandering Willie, (see 'Redgauntlet,') he 'passed like night from land to land,' led by his own instincts, and wherever he met with a congenial audience, he proceeded to chant portions of the noble knight's achievements, his eyes the while twinkling, through their sad setting of darkness, with enthusiasm, and often suffused with tears. In some minds the conception of this blind wandering bard may awaken ludicrous emotions, but to us it suggests a certain sublimity. Blind Harry has powerfully described Wallace standing in the light and shrinking from the ghost of Fawdoun, (see the 'Battle of Black- Earnside,' in the 'Specimens,') but Harry himself seems walking in the light of the ghost of Wallace, and it ministers to him, not terror, but inspiration. Entering a cot at night, and asked for a tale, he begins, in low tones, to recite that frightful apparition at Gaskhall, and the aged men and the crones vie with the children in drawing near the 'ingle bleeze,' as if in fire alone lay the refuge from

'Fawdoun, that ugly sire, That haill hall he had set into a fire, As to his sight, his OWN HEAD IN HIS HAND.'

Arriving in a village at the hour of morning rest and refreshment, he charms the swains by such words as

'The merry day sprang from the orient With beams bright illuminate the Occident, After Titan Phoebus upriseth fair, High in the sphere the signs he made declare. Zephyrus then began his morning course, The sweet vapour thus from the ground resourse,' &c.—

and the simple villagers wonder at hearing these images from one who is blind, not seeing the sun. As the leaves are rustling down from the ruddy trees of late autumn, he sings to a little circle of wayside wanderers—

'The dark region appearing wonder fast, In November, when October was past,

* * * * *

Good Wallace saw the night's messenger, Phoebus had lost his fiery beams so clear; Out of that wood they durst not turn that side For adversours that in their way would hide.'

And while on the verge of the December sky, the wintry sun is trembling and about to set as if for ever, then is the Minstrel's voice heard sobbing amidst the sobs of his hearers, as he tells how his hero's sun went down while it was yet day.

'On Wednesday the false Southron furth brocht To martyr him as they before had wrocht, Of men in arms led him a full great rout, With a bauld sprite guid Wallace blent about.'

There can be little doubt that Blind Harry, during his lifetime, became a favourite, nay, a power in the realm. Wherever he circulated, there circulated the fame of Wallace; there, his deeds were recounted; there, hatred of a foreign foe, and love to their native land, were inculcated as first principles; and long after the Homer of Scotland had breathed his last, and been consigned perhaps to some little kirkyard among the uplands, his lays continued to live; and we know that such a man as Burns (who read them in the modern paraphrase of William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, a book which was, till within a somewhat recent period, a household god in the libraries of the Scotch) derived from the old singer much of 'that national prejudice which boiled in his breast till the floodgates of life shut in eternal rest.' If Barbour, as we said, was fortunate in his subject, still more was Blind Harry in his. The interest felt in Wallace is of a deeper and warmer kind than that which we feel in Bruce. Bruce was of royal blood; Wallace was from an ancient but not wealthy family. Bruce stained his career by one great crime —great in itself, but greater from the peculiar notions of the age —the murder of Comyn in the sanctuary of Dumfries; on the character of Wallace no similar imputation rests. Wallace initiated that plan of guerilla warfare,—that fighting now on foot and now on the wing, now with beak and now with talons, now with horns and now with hoofs,—which Bruce had only to perfect. Wallace was unsuccessful, and was besides treated by the King of England with revolting barbarity; while Bruce became victorious: and, as we saw in our remarks on Chaucer, it is the unfortunate brave who stamp themselves most forcibly on a nation's heart, and it is the red letters, which tell of suffering and death, which are with most difficulty erased from a nation's tablets. On Bruce we look somewhat as we regard Washington,—a great, serene man, who, after long reverses, nobly sustained, gained a notable national triumph; to Wallace we feel, as the Italians do to Garibaldi, as a demon of warlike power,—blending courage and clemency, enthusiasm and skill, daring and determination, in proportions almost superhuman,—and we cry with the poet,

'The sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand.'

We have often regretted that Sir Walter Scott, who, after all, has not done full justice to Bruce in that very unequal and incondite poem 'The Lord of the Isles,' had not bent his strength upon the Ulysses bow of Wallace, and filled up that splendid sketch of a part of his history to be found near the beginning of 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' As it is, after all that a number of respectable writers, such as Miss Porter, Mrs Hemans, Findlay, the late Mr Macpherson of Glasgow, and others, have done—in prose or verse, in the novel, the poem, or the drama—to illustrate the character and career of the Scottish hero, Blind Harry remains his poet.

It is necessary to notice that Harry derived, by his own account, many of the facts of his narrative from a work by John Blair, a Benedictine monk from Dundee, who acted as Wallace's chaplain, and seems to have composed a life of him in Latin, which is lost. Besides these, he doubtless mingled in the story a number of traditions—some true, and some false—which he found floating through the country. His authority in reference to certain disputed matters, such as Wallace's journey to France, and his capture of the Red Rover, Thomas de Longueville, who became his fast friend and fellow-soldier, was not long ago entirely established by certain important documents brought to light by the Maitland Club. It is probable that some other of his supposed misstatements—always excepting his ghost-stories—may yet receive from future researches the confirmation they as yet want. Blind Harry, living about a century and a half after the era of Wallace, and at a time when tradition was the chief literature, was not likely to be able to test the evidence of many of the circumstances which he narrated; but he seems to speak in good faith: and, after all, what Paley says is unquestionably true as a general principle—'Men tell lies about minute circumstantials, but they rarely invent.'

BATTLE OF BLACK-EARNSIDE.

Kerlie beheld unto the bold Heroun, Upon Fawdoun as he was looking down, A subtil stroke upward him took that tide, Under the cheeks the grounden sword gart[1] glide, By the mail good, both halse[2] and his craig-bane[3] In sunder strake; thus ended that chieftain, To ground he fell, feil[4] folk about him throng, 'Treason,' they cried, 'traitors are us among.' Kerlie, with that, fled out soon at a side, His fellow Steven then thought no time to bide. The fray was great, and fast away they yeed,[5] Both toward Earn; thus 'scaped they that dread. Butler for woe of weeping might not stint. Thus recklessly this good knight have they tint.[6] They deemed all that it was Wallace' men, Or else himself, though they could not him ken; 'He is right near, we shall him have but[7] fail, This feeble wood may little him avail.' Forty there pass'd again to Saint Johnstoun, With this dead corpse, to burying made it boune.[8] Parted their men, syne[9] divers ways they rode, A great power at Dupplin still there 'bode. To Dalwryeth the Butler pass'd but let,[10] At sundry fords the gate[11] they unbeset,[12] To keep the wood while it was day they thought. As Wallace thus in the thick forest sought, For his two men in mind he had great pain, He wist not well if they were ta'en or slain, Or 'scaped haill[13] by any jeopardy. Thirteen were left with him, no more had he; In the Gaskhall their lodging have they ta'en. Fire got they soon, but meat then had they nane; Two sheep they took beside them of a fold, Ordain'd to sup into that seemly hold: Graithed[14] in haste some food for them to dight:[15] So heard they blow rude horns upon height. Two sent he forth to look what it might be; They 'bode right long, and no tidings heard he, But bousteous[16] noise so bryvely blowing fast; So other two into the wood forth pass'd. None came again, but bousteously can blaw, Into great ire he sent them forth on raw.[17] When that alone Wallace was leaved there, The awful blast abounded meikle mare;[18] Then trow'd he well they had his lodging seen; His sword he drew of noble metal keen, Syne forth he went whereat he heard the horn. Without the door Fawdoun was him beforn, As to his sight, his own head in his hand; A cross he made when he saw him so stand. At Wallace in the head he swakked[19] there, And he in haste soon hint[20] it by the hair, Syne out again at him he could it cast, Into his heart he greatly was aghast. Right well he trow'd that was no sprite of man, It was some devil, that sic[21] malice began. He wist no wale[22] there longer for to bide. Up through the hall thus wight Wallace can glide, To a close stair, the boards they rave[23] in twin,[24] Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. Up the water he suddenly could fare, Again he blink'd what 'pearance he saw there, He thought he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sire, That haill[25] hall he had set into a fire; A great rafter he had into his hand. Wallace as then no longer would he stand. Of his good men full great marvel had he, How they were tint through his feil[26] fantasy. Trust right well that all this was sooth indeed, Suppose that it no point be of the creed. Power they had with Lucifer that fell, The time when he parted from heaven to hell. By sic mischief if his men might be lost, Drowned or slain among the English host; Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun, Which brought his men to sudden confusion; Or if the man ended in ill intent, Some wicked sprite again for him present. I cannot speak of sic divinity, To clerks I will let all sic matters be: But of Wallace, now forth I will you tell. When he was won out of that peril fell, Right glad was he that he had 'scaped sa,[27] But for his men great mourning can he ma.[28] Flait[29] by himself to the Maker above Why he suffer'd he should sic paining prove. He wist not well if that it was God's will; Right or wrong his fortune to fulfil, Had he pleas'd God, he trow'd it might not bo He should him thole[30] in sic perplexity. But great courage in his mind ever drave, Of Englishmen thinking amends to have. As he was thus walking by him alone Upon Earnside, making a piteous moan, Sir John Butler, to watch the fords right, Out from his men of Wallace had a sight; The mist again to the mountains was gone, To him he rode, where that he made his moan. On loud he speir'd,[31] 'What art thou walks that gate?' 'A true man, Sir, though my voyage be late; Errands I pass from Down unto my lord, Sir John Stewart, the right for to record, In Down is now, newly come from the King.' Then Butler said, 'This is a selcouth[32] thing, You lied all out, you have been with Wallace, I shall thee know, ere you come off this place;' To him he start the courser wonder wight, Drew out a sword, so made him for to light. Above the knee good Wallace has him ta'en, Through thigh and brawn in sunder strake the bane.[33] Derfly[34] to dead the knight fell on the land. Wallace the horse soon seized in his hand, An ackward stroke syne took him in that stead, His craig in two; thus was the Butler dead. An Englishman saw their chieftain was slain, A spear in rest he cast with all his main, On Wallace drave, from the horse him to bear; Warily he wrought, as worthy man in weir.[35] The spear ho wan withouten more abode, On horse he lap,[36] and through a great rout rode; To Dalwryeth he knew the ford full well: Before him came feil[37] stuffed[38] in fine steel. He strake the first, but bade,[39] on the blasoun,[40] Till horse and man both fleet[41] the water down. Another soon down from his horse he bare, Stamped to ground, and drown'd withouten mair.[42] The third he hit in his harness of steel, Throughout the cost,[43] the spear it brake some deal. The great power then after him can ride. He saw no waill[44] there longer for to bide. His burnish'd brand braithly[45] in hand he bare, Whom he hit right they follow'd him na mair.[46] To stuff the chase feil freiks[47] follow'd fast, But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast. The muir he took, and through their power yede, The horse was good, but yet he had great dread For failing ere he wan unto a strength, The chase was great, skail'd[48] over breadth and length, Through strong danger they had him aye in sight. At the Blackford there Wallace down can light, His horse stuffed,[49] for way was deep and lang, A large great mile wightly on foot could gang.[50] Ere he was hors'd riders about him cast, He saw full well long so he might not last. Sad[51] men indeed upon him can renew, With returning that night twenty he slew, The fiercest aye rudely rebutted he, Keeped his horse, and right wisely can flee, Till that he came the mirkest[52] muir amang. His horse gave over, and would no further gang.

[1] 'Gart:' caused. [2] 'Halse:' throat. [3] 'Craig-bane:' neck-lone. [4] 'Feil:' many. [5] 'Yeed:' went. [6] 'Tint:' lost. [7] 'But:' without. [8] 'Boune:' ready. [9] 'Sync:' then. [10] 'But let:' without impediment. [11] 'Gate:' way. [12] 'Unbeset:' surround. [13] 'Haill:' wholly. [14] 'Graithed:' prepared. [15] 'Dight:' Make ready. [16] 'Bousteous:' boisterous. [17] 'On raw:' one after another. [18] 'Meikle mare:' much more. [19] 'Swakked:' pitched. [20] 'Hint:' took. [21] 'Sic:' such. [22] 'Wale:' advantage. [23] 'Rave:' split. [24] 'Twin:' twain. [25] 'Haill:'whole. [26] 'Feil:' great. [27] 'Sa:' so. [28] 'Ma:' make. [29] 'Flait:' chided. [30] 'Thole:' suffer. [31] 'Speir'd:' asked. [32] 'Selcouth:' strange. [33] 'Bane:' bone. [34] 'Derfly:' Quickly. [35] 'Weir:' war. [36] 'Lap:' leaped. [37] 'Feil:' many. [38] 'Stuffed:' armed. [39] 'But bade:' without delay. [40] 'Blasoun:' dress over armour. [41] 'Fleet:' float. [42] 'Mair:' more. [43] 'Cost:' side. [44] 'Waill:' advantage. [45] 'Braithly:' violently. [46] 'Na mair:' no more. [47] 'Feil freiks:' many fierce fellows. [48] 'Skail'd:' spread. [49] 'Stuffed:' blown. [50] 'Gang:' go. [51] 'Sad:' steady. [52] 'Mirkest:' darkest.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

On Wednesday the false Southron forth him brought To martyr him, as they before had wrought.[1] Of men in arms led him a full great rout. With a bold sprite good Wallace blink'd about: A priest he ask'd, for God that died on tree. King Edward then commanded his clergy, And said, 'I charge you, upon loss of life, None be so bold yon tyrant for to shrive. He has reign'd long in contrare my highness.' A blithe bishop soon, present in that place; Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord; Against the king he made this right record, And said, 'Myself shall hear his confessioun, If I have might, in contrare of thy crown. An[2] thou through force will stop me of this thing, I vow to God, who is my righteous king, That all England I shall her interdict, And make it known thou art a heretic. The sacrament of kirk I shall him give: Syne[3] take thy choice, to starve[4] or let him live. It were more 'vail, in worship of thy crown, To keep such one in life in thy bandoun,[5] Than all the land and good that thou hast reft, But cowardice thee aye from honour dreft.[6] Thou hast thy life rougin[7] in wrongous deed; That shall be seen on thee, or on thy seed.' The king gart[8] charge they should the bishop tae,[9] But sad[10] lords counselled to let him gae. All Englishmen said that his desire was right. To Wallace then he raiked[11] in their sight, And sadly heard his confession till an end: Humbly to God his sprite he there commend, Lowly him served with hearty devotion Upon his knees, and said an orison. A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever, From his childhood from it would not dissever; Better he trow'd in voyage[12] for to speed. But then he was despoiled of his weed.[13] This grace he ask'd at Lord Clifford, that knight, To let him have his psalter-book in sight. He gart a priest it open before him hold, While they till him had done all that they would. Steadfast he read for ought they did him there; Foil[14] Southrons said that Wallace felt no sair.[15] Good devotion so was his beginning, Continued therewith, and fair was his ending; Till speech and spirit at once all can fare To lasting bliss, we trow, for eveermair.

[1] 'Wrought:' contrived. [2] 'An:' if. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Starve:' perish. [5] 'Bandoun:' disposal. [6] 'Dreft:' drove. [7] 'Rougin:' spent. [8] 'Gart:' caused. [9] 'Tae:' take. [10] 'Sad:' grave. [11] 'Raiked:' walked. [12] 'Voyage:' journey to heaven. [13] 'Weed:' clothes. [14] 'Feil:' many. [15] 'Sair:' sore.



JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of biography—from Blind Harry to James I.—from a beggar to a king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are 'many mansions,' and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had almost added talents, have been welcome to inhabit there. For, even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong Honest and the bold Valiant-for-truth; so Poetry has inspired children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with the finest breath of her spirit. The 'Fable-tree' Fontaine is as immortal as Corneille; Christopher Smart's 'David' shall live as long as Milton's 'Paradise Lost;' and the rude epic of a blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce.

Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings of this 'Royal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washington Irving's 'Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert III. of Scotland,—a character familiar to all from the admirable 'Fair Maid of Perth,'—and of Annabella Stewart. He was created Earl of Carrick; and after the miserable death of the Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off Flamborough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to London, and committed to the Tower. As there was a truce between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, 'Had the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to me, for I understand French well.' Here for nineteen years,—during the remainder of the life of Henry IV., and the whole of the reign of Henry V.,—James continued. He was educated, however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, —instructed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, architecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accomplishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be passing his young life in prison, while without horses were stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that beautiful vision he has described in 'The King's Quhair,' (see 'Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard II., and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual attachment had by and by an important bearing upon his prospects.

In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Regent, the friends of James renewed negotiations—often attempted before in vain—for his return to his native land, where his father had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded L40,000 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as though a bill were handed in to a man who had been unjustly detained in prison on a false charge, ere he left its walls,) insisted on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with Scotland was concluded for seven years. All this was settled; and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, so often alluded to in the 'Life of Gower,' the happy pair were wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and temporary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been a sunshine in his shady place, and—least consideration—who brought him a dowry of L10,000, which was, in fact, a remission of the fourth part of his ransom.

Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were retained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty; and seldom have the Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of acclamation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers the 'Royal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he celebrated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his queen were solemnly crowned inthe Abbey Church at Scone. This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years; but the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious interlude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers and 'sorners' which abounded, founding instead the order of Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the character of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye to the French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed war against England, and in August commenced the siege of Roxburgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, probably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death which had already been formed against the King.

In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of Gibbon, applied to Timour) 'he was expected by the Angel of Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, 'My Lord the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Grahame, and Walter, Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King received, but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up his breast had been a wedding-robe.

It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremendous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland prophetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the Voidee, or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed- chamber and the outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her descendants—a family well known in Scotland—the name of Barlass ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed in the passage one Walter Straiton, a page, rush in, with naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, 'This is but a woman! Where is James?' Finding him not in the chamber, they leave it, and disperse through the neighbouring apartments in search.

James, who had become wearied of his immurement, and thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The cry, 'Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, first mangled, then run through the body, and then despatched with daggers. In vain he offers half his kingdom for his life; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, the ruffian replies, 'Thou shalt have no confessor but this sword.' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tortures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from conceiving, and history with a shudder records.

* * * * *

We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two will suffice. 'The King's Quhair' is a poem conceived very much in the spirit, and written in the style of Chaucer, whose works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy with nature, and the same perception of its relation to and unconscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian author of 'The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beaufort in the garden, particularly in the lines—

'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comen are ye to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand This garden full of flowers as they stand?'

Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries—

'And above all this there was, well I wot, Beauty enough to make a world to dote.'

Or where, describing a ruby on her bosom, he says—

'That as a spark of low[1] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat.'

[1] 'Low:' fire.

Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 'Christis Kirk on the Green,' 'Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, picturesque force.

Take the Miller—

'The Miller was of manly make, To meet him was no mowes.[1] There durst not tensome there him take, So cowed he their powes.[2] The bushment whole about him brake, And bicker'd him with bows. Then traitorously behind his back They hack'd him on the boughs Behind that day.'

Or look at the following ill-paired pair—

'Of all these maidens mild as mead, Was none so jimp as Gillie. As any rose her rude[3] was red— Her lire[4] like any lillie. But yellow, yellow was her head, And she of love so silly; Though all her kin had sworn her dead, She would have none but Willie, Alone that day.

'She scorn'd Jock, and scripped at him, And murgeon'd him with mocks— He would have loved her—she would not let him, For all his yellow locks. He cherisht her—she bade go chat him— She counted him not two clocks. So shamefully his short jack[5] set him, His legs were like two rocks, Or rungs that day.'

[1] 'Mowes:' joke. [2] 'Powes:' heads. [3] 'Rude:' complexion. [4] 'Lire:' flesh, skill. [5] 'Jack:' jacket.

Our readers will perceive the resemblance, both in spirit and in form of verse, between this old poem and the 'Holy Fair,' and other productions of Burns.

James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made important contributions to her literature as well as laws, and given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term 'genius,' in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James V. had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim to the songs—such as the 'Gaberlunzie Man'—which go under his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James VI. was a pedant, without being a scholar—a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest we need not speak. Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In our annals there has been one, and but one 'Royal Poet.'

THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR.

X.

The longe dayes and the nightes eke, I would bewail my fortune in this wise, For which, against distress comfort to seek, My custom was, on mornes, for to rise Early as day: O happy exercise! By thee came I to joy out of torment; But now to purpose of my first intent.

XI.

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe begone; And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,[1] To see the world and folk that went forby; As for the time (though I of mirthis food Might have no more) to look it did me good.

XII.

Now was there made fast by the toweris wall A garden fair; and in the corners set An herbere[2] green; with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That life was none [a] walking there forby That might within scarce any wight espy.

* * * * *

XIV.

And on the smalle greene twistis [3] sat The little sweete nightingale, and sung, So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate Of love's use, now soft, now loud among,[4] That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song; and on the couple next Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text.

XV.

Worship, O ye that lovers be, this May! For of your bliss the calends are begun; And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun; Awake for shame that have your heavens won; And amorously lift up your heades all, Thank love that list you to his mercy call.

* * * * *

XXI.

And therewith cast I down mine eye again, Where as I saw walking under the tower, Full secretly new comen to her pleyne,[5] The fairest and the freshest younge flower That e'er I saw (methought) before that hour For which sudden abate [6] anon astert [7] The blood of all my body to my heart.

* * * * *

XXVII.

Of her array the form if I shall write, Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, In fret-wise couched with pearlis white, And greate balas[8] lemyng[9] as the fire; With many an emerald and fair sapphire, And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, Of plumes parted red, and white, and blue.

* * * * *

XXIX.

About her neck, white as the fair amaille,[10] A goodly chain of small orfeverie,[11] Whereby there hang a ruby without fail Like to a heart yshapen verily, That as a spark of lowe[12] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat; Now if there was good, perdie God it wrote.

XXX.

And for to walk that freshe Maye's morrow, A hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,[13] As I suppose, and girt she, was a lite[14] Thus halfling[15] loose for haste; to such delight It was to see her youth in goodlihead, That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.

XXXI.

In her was youth, beauty with humble port, Bounty, richess, and womanly feature: (God better wot than my pen can report) Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning[16] sure,

* * * * *

In word, in deed, in shape and countenance, That nature might no more her child advance.

[1] 'Hye:' haste. [2] 'Herbere:' herbary, or garden of simples. [3] 'Twistis:' twigs. [4] 'Among:' promiscuously. [5] 'Pleyne:' sport. [6] 'Sudden abate:' unexpected accident. [7] 'Astert:' started back. [8] 'Balas:' rubies. [9] 'Lemyng:' burning. [10] 'Amaille:' enamel. [11] 'Orfeverie:' goldsmith's work. [12] 'Lowe:' fire. [13] 'Toforrow:' heretofore. [14] 'Lite:' a little. [15] 'Halfling:' half. [16] 'Cunning:' knowledge.



JOHN THE CHAPLAIN—THOMAS OCCLEVE.

The first of these is the only versifier that can be assigned to England in the reign of Henry IV. His name was John Walton, though he was generally known as Johannes Capellanus or 'John the Chaplain.' He was canon of Oseney, and died sub-dean of York. He, in the year 1410, translated Boethius' famous treatise, 'De Consolatione Philosophiae,' into English verse. He is not known to have written anything original. —Thomas Occleve appeared in the reign of Henry V., about 1420. Like Chaucer and Gower, he was a student of municipal law, having attended Chester's Inn, which stood on the site of the present Somerset House; but although he trod in the footsteps of his celebrated predecessors, it was with far feebler powers. His original pieces are contemptible, both in subject and in execution. His best production is a translation of 'Egidius De Regimine Principum.' Warton, alluding to the period at which these writers appeared, has the following oft-quoted observations: —'I consider Chaucer as a genial day in an English spring. A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an unusual lustre; the sudden appearance of cloudless skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmosphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer, and we fondly anticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and vernal serenity. But winter returns with redoubled horrors; the clouds condense more formidably than before, and those tender buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine, are nipped by frosts and torn by tempests.' These sentences are, after all, rather pompous, and express, in the most verbose style of the Rambler, the simple fact, that after Chaucer's death the ground lay fallow, and that for a while in England (in Scotland it was otherwise) there were few poets, and little poetry.



JOHN LYDGATE.

This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of Henry VI. Warton affirms that he reached his highest point of eminence in 1430, although some of his poems had appeared before. He was a monk of the Benedictine Abbey at Bury, in Suffolk. He received his education at Oxford; and when it was finished, he travelled through France and Italy, mastering the languages and literature of both countries, and studying their poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. When he returned, he opened a school in his monastery for teaching the sons of the nobility composition and the art of versification. His acquirements were, for the age, universal. He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer, a mathematician, a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in 1370, ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 1397. The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to whom he complains sometimes of necessitous circumstances, which were, perhaps, produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself to be 'a lover of wine.'

The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton has happily expressed in a few sentences, which we shall quote:—

'He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. His hymns and his ballads have the same degree of merit; and whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of the most serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces of popular entertainment. His muse was of universal access; and he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was intended by the Company of Goldsmiths, a mask before His Majesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the "Creation," for the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.'

Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who wrote for hire. At the request of Whethamstede, the Abbot of St Alban's, he translated a 'Life of St Alban' from Latin into English rhymes, and received for the whole work one hundred shillings. His principal poems, all founded on the works of other authors, are the 'Fall of Princes,' the 'Siege of Thebes,' and the 'Destruction of Troy.' They are written in a diffuse and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, and often very luxuriant in description. 'The London Lyckpenny' is a fugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up to town in search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some curious particulars of the condition of that city in the early part of the fifteenth century.

CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER AEOLUS, SENDS TO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY OF HER UNHAPPY PASSION.

Out of her swoone when she did abraid,[1] Knowing no mean but death in her distress, To her brother full piteously she said, 'Cause of my sorrow, root of my heaviness, That whilom were the source of my gladness, When both our joys by will were so disposed, Under one key our hearts to be enclosed.—

* * * * *

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2] O brother mine, there is no more to say; Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart For to remember specially, I pray, If it befall my little son to dey[3] That thou mayst after some mind on us have, Suffer us both be buried in one grave. I hold him strictly 'tween my armes twain, Thou and Nature laid on me this charge; He, guiltless, muste with me suffer pain, And, since thou art at freedom and at large, Let kindness oure love not so discharge, But have a mind, wherever that thou be, Once on a day upon my child and me. On thee and me dependeth the trespace Touching our guilt and our great offence, But, welaway! most angelic of face Our childe, young in his pure innocence, Shall against right suffer death's violence, Tender of limbs, God wot, full guilteless The goodly fair, that lieth here speechless.

A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none; Cannot complain, alas! for none outrage: Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone Still as a lamb, most meek of his visage. What heart of steel could do to him damage, Or suffer him die, beholding the mannere And look benign of his twain even clear.'—

* * * * *

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede, In her right hand her pen began to quake, And a sharp sword to make her hearte bleed, In her left hand her father hath her take, And most her sorrow was for her childe's sake, Upon whose face in her barme[6] sleeping Full many a tear she wept in complaining. After all this so as she stood and quoke, Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart, Without abode the sharpe sword she took, And rove herselfe even to the heart; Her child fell down, which mighte not astart, Having no help to succour him nor save, But in her blood theself began to bathe.

[1] 'Abraid:' awake. [2] 'Astart:' escape. [3] 'Dey:' die. [4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth. [5] 'Awhapped:' confounded. [6] 'Barme:' lap.

THE LONDON LYCKPENNY.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die: Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy? Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read? Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime: Cooks to me they took good intent,[2] And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread, But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price; 'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3] One bade me come near and buy some spice; Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4] But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand; One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!' I never was used to such things, indeed; And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street: Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;' One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5] One bade me buy a hood to cover my head; But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6] Where was much stolen gear among; I saw where hung mine owne hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: I knew it well, as I did my creed; But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay?' I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;' I drank a pint, and for it did pay; Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7] And, wanting money, I could not speed.

[1] 'Copen:' koopen(Flem.) to buy. [2] 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid attention. [3] 'In the rise:' on the branch. [4] 'Beed:' offer. [5] 'Greet:' cry. [6] 'Yode:' went. [7] 'Yede:' went.



HARDING, KAY, &c.

John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem entitled 'The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the world, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the case with some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in the court a personage, entitled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) to whom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the title was, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, i.e., Laurelled Poet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholars when they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poets to Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Reformation had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latin tongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost a pity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, entitled 'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 'The Compound of Alchemie,' are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and nobler singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store- house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the noblest romances in this or any language —'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen- dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold; nay, whose lips, like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over which they wielded their sorcery.

We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the history of English poetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERT HENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene and Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of which Campbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,' (he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' entitled 'The Testament of Cresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit and humour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

* * * Their harboury was ta'en Into a spence,[1] where victual was plenty, Both cheese and butter on long shelves right high, With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt, And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.

After, when they disposed were to dine, Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat, On every dish that cookmen can divine, Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3] A lorde's fare thus can they counterfeit, Except one thing—they drank the water clear Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.

With blithe upcast and merry countenance, The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest, If that she thought by reason difference Betwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest. 'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?' 'For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;' 'If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.

To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought, Abundantly about her for to deal. Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil, A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8] Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.

Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair, And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high; But after joy oftentimes comes care, And trouble after great prosperity. Thus as they sat in all their jollity, The spencer came with keyis in his hand, Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose, But on to go, who might the foremost win: The burgess had a hole, and in she goes, Her sister had no place to hide her in; To see that silly mouse it was great sin, So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10] For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.

Then as God would it fell in happy case, The spencer had no leisure for to bide, Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase, But on he went and cast the door up-wide. This burgess mouse his passage well has spied. Out of her hole she came and cried on high, 'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, And for the death she was full dreadand, For to her heart struck many woful stound, As in a fever trembling foot and hand; And when her sister in such plight her fand, For very pity she began to greet, Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.

'Why lie ye thus? Rise up, my sister dear, Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.' The other answer'd with a heavy cheer, 'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast. Lever[12] I had this forty dayis fast, With water kail, and green beans and peas, Than all your feast with this dread and disease.'

With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise; To board they went, and on together sat, But scantly had they drunken once or twice, When in came Gib Hunter, our jolly cat, And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat, And to her hole she fled as fire of flint; Bawdrons[13] the other by the back has hent.[14]

From foot to foot he cast her to and frae, Whiles up, whiles down, as cant[15] as any kid; Whiles would he let her run under the strae[16] Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;[17] Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did; Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap, Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.[18]

Syne up in haste behind the panelling, So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her, And by the cluiks[19] craftily can hing, Till he was gone, her cheer was all the better: Syne down she lap, when there was none to let her; Then on the burgess mouse loud could she cry, 'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy.

Thy mangery is minget[20] all with care, Thy guise is good, thy gane-full[21] sour as gall; The fashion of thy feris is but fair, So shall thou find hereafterward may fall. I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane[22] wall, Of my defence now from yon cruel beast; Almighty God, keep me from such a feast!

Were I into the place that I came frae, For weal nor woe I should ne'er come again.' With that she took her leave, and forth can gae, Till through the corn, till through the plain. When she was forth and free she was right fain, And merrily linkit unto the muir, I cannot tell how afterward she fure.[23]

But I heard syne she passed to her den, As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit, Full beinly[24] stuffed was both butt and ben, With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat; Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat, In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread, But to her sister's feast no more she gaed.

[FROM THE MORAL.]

Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid; Blessed be sober feast in quiete; Who has enough, of no more has he need, Though it be little into quantity. Great abundance, and blind prosperity, Ofttimes make an evil conclusion; The sweetest life, therefore, in this country, Is of sickerness,[25] with small possession.

[1] 'Spence:' pantry. [2] 'Wuish:' washed. [3] 'Telyies grit:' great pieces. [4] 'Spier'd;' asked. [5] 'Sairy:' sorry. [6] 'Wait:' expect. [7] 'Threif:' a set of twenty-four. [8] 'Staw:' stole. [9] 'Creish:' grease. [10] 'rede:' counsel. [11] 'Syne:' then. [12] 'Lever:' rather. [13] 'Bawdrons:' the cat. [14] 'Hent:' seized. [15] 'Cant:' lively. [16] 'Strae:' straw. [17] 'Buik-hid:' body. [18] 'Crap:' crept. [19] 'Cluiks:' claws. [20] 'Minget:' mixed. [21] 'Gane-full:' mouthful. [22] 'Parpane:' partition. [23] 'Fure:' went. [24] 'Beinly:' snugly. [25] 'Sickerness:' security.



THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES.

Would my good lady love me best, And work after my will, I should a garment goodliest Gar[1] make her body till.[2]

Of high honour should be her hood, Upon her head to wear, Garnish'd with governance, so good No deeming[3] should her deir,[4]

Her sark[5] should be her body next, Of chastity so white: With shame and dread together mixt, The same should be perfite.[6]

Her kirtle should be of clean constance, Laced with lesum[7] love; The mailies[8] of continuance, For never to remove.

Her gown should be of goodliness, Well ribbon'd with renown; Purfill'd[9] with pleasure in ilk[10] place, Furred with fine fashioun.

Her belt should be of benignity, About her middle meet; Her mantle of humility, To thole[11] both wind and weet.[12]

Her hat should be of fair having, And her tippet of truth; Her patelet of good pansing,[13] Her hals-ribbon of ruth.[14]

Her sleeves should be of esperance, To keep her from despair; Her gloves of good governance, To hide her fingers fair.

Her shoes should be of sickerness,[15] In sign that she not slide; Her hose of honesty, I guess, I should for her provide.

Would she put on this garment gay, I durst swear by my seill,[16] That she wore never green nor gray That set[17] her half so weel.

[1] 'Gar:' cause. [2] 'Till:' to. [3] 'Deeming:' opinion. [4] 'Deir:' injure. [5] 'Sark:' shift. [6] 'Perfite:' perfect. [7] 'Lesum:' lawful. [8] 'Mailies:' eyelet-holes. [9] 'Purfill'd:' fringed. [10] 'Ilk:' each. [11] 'Thole:' endure. [12] 'Weet:': wet. [13] 'Pansing:' thinking. [14] 'Her hals-ribbon of ruth:' her neck-ribbon of pity. [15] 'Sickerness:' firmness. [16] 'Seill:' salvation. [17] 'Set:' became.



WILLIAM DUNBAR

This was a man of the true and sovereign seed of genius. Sir Walter Scott calls Dunbar 'a poet unrivalled by any—that Scotland has ever produced.' We venture to call him the Dante of Scotland; nay, we question if any English poet has surpassed 'The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell' in its peculiarly Dantesque qualities of severe and purged grandeur; of deep sincerity, and in that air of moral disappointment and sorrow, approaching despair, which distinguished the sad-hearted lover of Beatrice, who might almost have exclaimed, with one yet mightier than he in his misery and more miserable in his might,

'Where'er I am is Hell—myself am Hell.'

Foster, in an entry in his journal, (we quote from memory,) says, 'I have just seen the moon rising, and wish the impression to be eternal. What a look she casts upon earth, like that of a celestial being who loves our planet still, but has given up all hope of ever doing her any good or seeing her become any better—so serene she seems in her settled and unutterable sadness.' Such, we have often fancied, was the feeling of the great Florentine toward the world, and which—pained, pitying, yearning enthusiast that he was!—escaped irresistibly from those deep- set eyes, that adamantine jaw, and that brow, wearing the laurel, proudly yet painfully, as if it were a crown of everlasting fire! Dunbar was not altogether a Dante, either in melancholy or in power, but his 'Dance' reveals kindred moods, operating at times on a kindred genius.

In Dante humour existed too, but ere it could come up from his deep nature to the surface, it must freeze and stiffen into monumental scorn —a laughter that seemed, while mocking at all things else, to mock at its own mockery most of all. Aird speaks in his 'Demoniac,' of a smile upon his hero's brow,