mation, but had moved none of the resolutions, had seldom spoken, and except for his literary eminence was one of the least prominent members of the association. Nevertheless his name, together with those of Hardy, Thelwall, Horne Tooke, and eight others, appeared in the Bill presented to the Grand Jury at Hicks's Hall. Mr. Holcroft in some measure retaliated upon the Crown lawyers the surprise they had occasioned him, by unexpectedly presenting himself before Chief Justice Eyre, and surrendering himself to the Court without waiting for the execution of the warrant. The manliness and firmness of his conduct, accompanied by perfect respectfulness and self-command, obtained for him more civility than was shown to the other parties included in the indictment.

The issue is well known. Thomas Hardy, the first man put `into the dock, was acquitted, and the other prisoners were discharged without being brought to trial.

But the effect of this accusation did not terminate in the court of justice. The demon of party hatred was evoked. Even such a man as Mr. Windham, high-minded, large-hearted, chivalrous as he was, did not disdain to talk of "acquitted felons," and as a dramatic writer Mr. Holcroft was especially amenable to public opinion. Every fresh play was a fresh battle; and a battle, whatever be the issue, is in itself fatal to a great success; so that at last, comedies which had no more to do with politics than 'The Merry Wives of Windsor" were fain to be brought out under the name of a fictitious author.

It is not many years ago that I and another lover of the drama, an old and valued friend, were disputing as to the writer of "He's Much to Blame." Both possessed the play, and both were certain as to the name printed in the title-page. Neither were wrong. It was the story of the two knights and the shield. My friend's copy was the first edition with the feigned name; mine the seventh when the ordeal was past, and the true author restored to his rightful place. May Heaven avert from us the renewal of such prejudice and such injustice!

Wearied out with these conflicts Mr. Holcroft retired first to Hamburgh and then to France, where he resided many years, occasionally sending to England translations of popular foreign books. His last original work was one on France of great merit.

Few knew the people better or could describe them so well. His stories are pleasant and characteristic:

"My wife was one day buying some fish; while she was undetermined the girl said to her, ' Prenez cela, car votre mair est un brave homme?' My wife replied, 'Oui, cela, se peut bien: mais comment savez-vous qu'il est un brave homme?' C'est égal,' answered the girl, 'cela fait plaisir à entendre.' The girl's maxim is sound morality wherever I have been in France." This is characteristic too in the best sense: a charming mixture of goodness and grace.

"A poor musician who usually brought a small pianoforte in the afternoon to the Champs Elysées, and played that those who were pleased might reward him by a trifle, having played in vain one evening was sorrowfully returning home. He was seen by Elleviou (a famous actor), remarked, and questioned. The poverty and ill success of the wandering musician moved the pity of the actor, who desired the instrument might again be put down ; and stepping aside he said he would return instantly. His wife and friend had passed on, and he brought them back. It was nearly dark. Pradere, his friend, sat down to the pianoforte and accompanied Elleviou, who began to sing to the astonishment of numbers that were soon assembled. The men had drawn the hat over the brow, Madame Elleviou let down her vail, and went round to collect. The pleasingness of her manner, the little thankful courtesies she dropped to all who gave, the whiteness of her hand, and the extraordinary music they heard, rendered the audience so liberal, that she made several tours, and none ineffectually. Elleviou however could not long remain unknown, and finding themselves discovered, Madame Elleviou gave all, and it was supposed more than all, she had collected from the crowd to the poor musician. The sum amounted to thirty shillings, and among the pence and halfpence there were crown pieces which no doubt were given by the actors. The feelings of the man as the audience dispersed are not easily to be described. The unexpected relief afforded to him who was departing so disconsolate was great indeed; but it was forgotten in the charming behavior of those who relieved him; in their almost divine music and in the strangeness of the adventure. The surrounding people were scarcely less moved; so kind an act from a man in such high public estimation excited more than admiration; and the tears

of gratitude shed by the musician drew sympathizing drops from many of the spectators."

Mr. Holcroft wrote little verse, but had he chosen that medium of thought, would probably have excelled in it. The story of "Gaffer Gray" has, in common with many short poems of Southey written at the same period, the great fault of setting class against class, a fault which generally involves a want of truth; but it does its work admirably, and produces exactly the effect intended in the fewest possible words.

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,
Gaffer Gray,

And why doth thy nose look so blue ?"
""Tis the weather that's cold,

'Tis I'm grown very old,

And my doublet is not very new,
Well-a-day!"

Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
Gaffer Gray,

And warm thy old heart with a glass."

"Nay, but credit I've none,

And my money's all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!"

"Hie away to the house on the brow,
Gaffer Gray;

And knock at the jolly priest's door."
"The priest often preaches

Against worldly riches;

But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,
Well-a-day!"

"The lawyer lives under the hill,

Gaffer Gray,

Warmly fenced both in back and in front."
"He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks,

Should he ever more find me in want,
Well-a-day!"

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

And the season will welcome you there."

"His fat beeves and his beer

And his merry new year

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

My keg is but low, I confess,
Gaffer Gray:

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

"The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!"

This author, so gifted, so various, and so laborious, one of the most remarkable of self-educated men, died in London on the 3d of March, 1809, after a long and painful illness, at the age of sixty-three; I fear poor.

VIII.

AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

THERE are some places that seem formed by nature for doub ling and redoubling the delight of reading and dreaming over the greater poets. Living in the country, one falls into the habit of choosing out a fitting nest for that enjoyment, and with Beaumont and Fletcher especially, to whose dramatic fascinations I have the happy knack of abandoning myself, without troubling myself in the least about their dramatic faults (I do not speak here of graver sins, observe, gentle reader); their works never seem to me half so delightful as when I pore over them in the silence and solitude of a certain green lane, about half a mile from home; sometimes seated on the roots of an old fantastic beech, sometimes on the trunk of a felled oak, or sometimes on the ground itself, with my back propped lazily against a rugged elm.

In that very lane am I writing on this sultry June day, luxuriating in the shade, the verdure, the fragrance of hay-field and of bean-field, and the absence of all noise, except the song of birds, and that strange mingling of many sounds, the whir of a thousand forms of insect life, so often heard among the general hush of a summer noon.

Woodcock Lane is so called, not after the migratory bird so dear to sportsman and to epicure, but from the name of a family, who, three centuries ago, owned the old manor-house, a part of which still adjoins it, just as the neighboring eminence of Beech Hill is called after the ancient family of De la Beche, rather than from the three splendid beech-trees that still crown its summit; and this lane would probably be accounted beautiful by any one who loved the close recesses of English scenery, even though the person in question should happen not to have haunted it these fifty years as I have done.