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for Drimin Doun Dilis stands almost alone; it is too homely, and the high-tragedy vein evidently carries the day. The Boys of Wexford is an extravagant glorification of those who took part in the rebellion of '98. The Gathering of the Nation, Stand together, The Recruiting Song of the Irish Brigade, are all vehement calls for vengeance on the Saxon oppressors; and then we come to the special favourite, Up with the Green. It is better adapted for singing than some of the others, and snatches of it may frequently be heard in the streets of some of the large towns.

That Irishmen should fight the battles of their tyrants is more than the Fenian poet can bear. In a song called The Saxon Shilling, an English recruiting-sergeant is supposed to visit a country village, and those who listen to his blandishments are denounced as

Fools without the brave man's faith,

All slaves and starvelings who are willing
To sell yourselves to shame and death,
Accept the fatal Saxon shilling.

Our bards are particularly fond of general assertions; but if these assertions are brought home, it is frequently found that they end in nothing, and cannot be distinctly proved. If the account of bloodshed during the last twenty years came to be settled, the balance would probably be on the side of the landlords. But what occasion is there for going into troublesome details? A great deal of imagination will always piece out a little bit of truth, and with our excited friends the proportion of truth to imagination is like Falstaff's pennyworth of bread to his intolerable deal of sack. There is always, too, something interesting in being miserable. It is so fine to be able to turn to one's countryman, and say:

Man of Ireland! heir of sorrow,

Wronged, insulted, and oppressed,
Wilt thou never see that morrow

When thy weary heart may rest?

We find, with our poets, a want of common sense that is almost inconceivable. Nothing is too wild for them. The age of Quixotism is not over, for here are men tilting at windmills, and all in the most desperate earnestness. When we read about 'marshalling brigades' and 'arming for the fight,' we ask in dismay how they can ever imagine that an untrained mob could possibly make head against such troops as would be brought against them. They would tell us that they intend to bide their time; that England's extremity will be Ireland's opportunity; and then they drop mysterious hints about France or America lending them a helping hand to gain their independence-France and Ireland together would be invincible-and there is always an eloquent allusion about Fontenoy ready to hand:

And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy, When we met him on the fields of France, at bloody Fontenoy.

There is actually a song called Ireland's future Fontenoy. Our friends the poets are busy forestalling the event, dreaming their extravagant dreams, and weaving brilliant pictures of the future before them. They see the Green flag triumphant; they see the Irish leaping at the tyrant's throat,' and driving the Saxon despots for ever out of their land; they see the clanking

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chains falling from their feet; they are slaves no more; and to be a slave, and know it not,' is, so we are told, the deepest depth of degradation. There are a great many songs in which we find a strange mixture of the history of the past with these dazzling visions of the future. In one called MacKenna's Dream, the future battle is described in all its minutiæ. There is a sort of poetic feeling about it, and it begins particularly well: One night of late I chanced to stray, When all the Green in slumber lay, The moon sunk in the deep;

I sat upon a ruined mound,

And while the wild wind whistled round,
The ocean with a solemn sound

Lulled me fast asleep.

He dreamed that he saw that hero true who did
the Danish force subdue,' and who said to him:
The harp with rapture yet shall sound,
My children's chains shall be unbound,
And they shall gather safe around
The blooming laurel tree.

Sarsfield next drew near, and St Ruth, who said:
I'll be your monarch crowned,
Encompassed by the French around,
All marching to the field.

Then came the brave O'Byrne, 'bright and fair,' and with him he brought Wicklow, Carlow, and Kildare, to march at his command:'

Westmeath and Cavan, too, did join;

The county Louth men crossed the Boyne;
Slane, Trim, and Navan, too, did join,
And Dublin to a man.

Then he thought the band played Patrick's Day:
To marshal all in grand array,

With cap and feather, white and gay,
They marched in war-like glow.
With drums and trumpets loud and shrill, and
cannon upon every hill, the battle now began:

The chieftains pitched their camp with skill,
Determined tyrants' blood to spill.

And then a Frenchman rose up, and said: 'Let
Erin's sons be not dismayed:

'Come, bravely draw your swords with me,
And let each tyrant bigot see
Dear Erin's daughters must be free
Before the sun goes down.'

Now comes on the battle in earnest :

The enemy made such a square
As drove our cavalry to despair,
Who were nigh routed rank and rear,

And yet not forced to yield;
The Wexford boys that ne'er were slack,
Came with the brave Tips at their back,
With Longford joined, who in a crack
Soon sent them off the field.

The whole ends with three cheers for liberty, as the enemy, all broken, is seen to flee in every direction. This is MacKenna's dream, and we have not the smallest doubt that he looks upon it as one that will some day be realised. The present age has sometimes been charged with being too matter-of-fact, too realistic; but here we see the most extravagant schemes cherished, and the most improbable visions held out as perfectly feasible, rational, and praiseworthy. Many more songs might be given, many more fierce odes about

slavery, chains, and oppression; but we have given quite enough to shew the temper of the Fenian poets. Their leading characteristics seem to be an intense combativeness, a fierce longing to be at their foes, together with a burning resentment-a resentment quite disproportioned to any injuries their country may have received-and lastly, a general flightiness. Nothing is too extravagant for them. So long as a thing sounds well, they do not care how they strain or misapply it. They talk of chains, when there are no chains -of slavery, when there is no slavery-of oppression, when there is nothing that deserves the name. They indulge in Utopian visions, and yet they are never practical enough to think what these Utopian visions would be if they were actually realised, and what a reign of anarchy and disorder would probably ensue. But if these visions, if these fierce denunciations and angry words serve as a mere vent for superfluous energy, who will forbid them? As the Herculean navvy said of the blows dealt by his diminutive and wrathful helpmate: "They amuse her, and they don't hurt me.' What a melancholy thing to find a people with many amiable qualities incorrigibly devoid of common sense!

and to leave, in my memory at least, an inefface-
able souvenir.

Before we are half-way to St Vincent, Our Coon
has become as integral and universally recognised a
portion of the day's amusements as our sweepstakes
on the ship's daily run, or our after-dinner concert
upon the lower deck. All the passengers, turn and
turn about, make pilgrimages to look at him.
Children shout and make faces at him; men cut
stale jokes upon him, or trace likenesses in his
long, lean, crafty face to various political celebri-
ties; old ladies wonder at him through their eye-
glasses; young ladies feed him with cake or sweet
biscuit, and pass their soft hands caressingly over
his bristly coat.* But he takes it all quite coolly

to all appearance not a whit flattered or uplifted by the homage paid to him. The cakes and oranges he receives with marked approval-the compliments and caresses with philosophic indifference. Self-sufficing as Diogenes, and living like him in a tub, he seems the very embodiment of that serene stoicism which is 'equal to either fortune.'

For the first two or three days he is a great favourite with the crew, and catered for as liberally by them as by the first-class saloon. Sailors are always prone to make a pet of something; and Our Coon's dry knowing look and imperturbable com

OUR COON: A SOUVENIR OF THE SOUTH posure win universal admiration from our blue

ATLANTIC.

jackets. But, like other popular favourites, his
reign is but a short one. The Cape Verd peaks
are not yet in sight, when, as I go forward as usual
to the forecastle for my morning blow,' I hear a
burst of stentorian malediction, and find a stalwart
tar exhibiting to his sympathising messmates the
poor remains of a gnawed and mangled tobacco-
pouch-torn,' as the boatswain poetically remarks,
small, that you couldn't see it if 'twarn't for
the smell o' the baccy.'

WE had many passengers beside those entered on
the purser's list, when the good ship Neva started
on her homeward voyage from Brazil. What with
the specimens already on board when we left Rio
de Janeiro, and those which we picked up at
Bahia and Pernambuco, we might have held
our own against any Zoological Garden existing.so
Peopled by five bullocks, twelve sheep, four hogs,
six parrots, three lion-monkeys' belonging to the
doctor, nine or ten paroquets brought by various
passengers, four or five toucans purchased by the
sailors for friends at home, several scores of ducks
and fowls, and two big brown apes from Bahia, our
packet was suggestive of Noah's first attempt at
an ark, overcrowded by a false alarm of the deluge.
But the gem of the whole menagerie, beyond all
question, was Our Coon.

It was a fine June morning, the day after leaving Pernambuco, when I first made the acquaintance of this fellow-passenger, who had come aboard the night before, unannounced, in a kind of modified kennel. I was standing on the forecastle, having a 'yarn' (according to custom) with my friend the boatswain, when a burst of laughter from a group just abaft the foremast attracted my attention.

'Blest if they ain't a-skylarkin' again with that 'ere coon!' remarks my companion with a broad grin.- Ain't yer seed him yet, sir?'

'No; I didn't even know there was one on board.'

'Jest you go and 'ave a look at him, then; he's the rummest customer as you've seed for a good spell, I'll bet!'

Aft go I accordingly, and join the crowd assembled round one of the hencoops, on the top of which, munching some biscuit out of the carpenter's brawny hand, crouches a nondescript mass, something between a pig and a porcupine-all snout and bristles, in the midst of which sparkles a small, bright, cunning eye. This is Our Coon-destined to become the most popular personage on board,

'Look 'ee there, now! I was just a-standin' by the coop yander, a-thinkin' no harm, when, all to once, what does that 'ere'- [here follow three or four lines of vigorous adjectives] 'go and do but whip my 'baccy-pouch out o' my hand, and tear it all to bits-and be hanged to him.'

'Never mind, my lad,' interpose I incautiously; we'll easily find you another pouch, somewhere; and, after all, it's not the poor beast's fault-he doesn't know any better.'

'Ah, it's all very well for you to talk!' growls the irate mariner, stung to double fury, as the aggrieved John Bull always is, by any attempt at consolation. Just wait till he collars summut o' yourn, and see if yer don't swear as loud as any on us!'

I turn away with a laugh, which is echoed by the entire circle; little dreaming, in my presumptuous self-confidence, how speedily or how fully honest Bill's blunt prediction is destined to be accomplished.

But from this day forth, Our Coon's organ of acquisitiveness develops itself suddenly and portentously-as if, having once tasted the pleasures of theft, he were determined to enjoy them to the full. Every day some fresh complaint is made of his depredations. A little girl comes to me weeping over the loss of the feather of her hat; a

small Brazilian racoon, who is naturally a quiet easy-
*It is to be remembered that I am speaking of the
going fellow enough. The big, truculent coon' of North
America is not to be touched with impunity.

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gentleman finds himself minus a cigar which he was just about to light; a lady bewails her pockethandkerchief, torn to ribbons by this omnivorous 'collector of extracts;' and the officer of the watch himself is seen one evening looking ruefully at his new forage-cap, which has a hole gnawed clean through the crown of it. Even the boatswain, man in authority though he be, is not exempt from taxation; a banana wherewith he is about to regale himself is carried off and devoured under his very eyes by the four-footed Bedouin, whose small cunning eye assumes a doubly knowing twinkle during the operation.

laughs the 'chief;' 'he's declined 'em without thanks, you see! Well, it's one comfort, they won't be dry reading where they are now!'

'Well, sir, you've got a taste o' him this time!' says Bill, grinning from ear to ear.

'I have, my lad; and now I am going to pay him out for it.'

'Be yer, sir? Well, it 'ud just sarve him right, I will say. But, bless yer! he's up to every trick as yer can try on him; and ye wouldn't go for to hurt the poor beast, sure-ly ?5

'Hurt him? No; but I'll make him remember it. Just wait a minute.' I go forward to a knot of tars who are washing their clothes on the forecastle, and return with a piece of soap, which I lay upon the coop (which is still wet from the washing of the decks), and then retire a few paces; while the conscript fathers of the forecastle, clustering around me, breathlessly await the result.

At

Several attempts at revenge are made by Our Coon's innumerable victims: one peculiarly vindictive individual going so far as to administer to him a pinch of snuff, which (as the operator emphatically remarks) would make any Christian quadruped sneeze his very eyes out!' But upon Our Coon-thanks, no doubt, to the astounding The coon pounces upon the new dainty, and, as length of his nose-the dose produces no effect usual, begins to rub it between his fore-feet prewhatever; and for the time being he escapes un-vious to devouring it. As a natural consequence, punished. But the retribution in store for him, if his paws disappear in a whirlpool of lather. tardy, is very complete. this novel phenomenon, he is palpably taken aback; it puzzles him; he does not like it. His glossy fur is wet and soiled, and the only thing to be done is to rub off the nasty stuff forthwith; so he goes to work upon it with his snout. Up flies the lather instanter, in double quantity, enveloping his whole head in a sort of huge frill, through which his small, deep-set eyes stare at us with a kind of frightened fury; while the sailors, clinging to each other for support, explode in yells of laughter that rend the very air. Driven frantic by the uproar, which seems to imply that he is being made a fool of, bewildered at finding himself blossoming into soap-froth at the rate of a hundred bubbles a minute, evidently wondering what on earth can have become of his nice brown coat, and whether he shall ever see it again, the poor beast scrubs away like a Dutch washerwoman, making matters worse at every stroke. At length, as a last resource, he rolls over and over in the midst of the froth, making an object of himself to which no description can do justice. When I leave the scene of action ten minutes later, he is still scrubbing away as hard as ever, with an expression of mingled horror and amazement in the little that remains visible of his features.

Up to this time, my own relations with this Ishmaelite of the forecastle had been friendly enough. I had been in the habit of feeding him with fruit and sponge-cake (which appeared to meet his views), and visiting him three or four times a day, till the sociable monster learned to climb upon my shoulder, burrow his long guttapercha snout into my pockets in search of food, and pass his claws through the curls of my beard -an amusement in which he occasionally indulged rather too energetically for my comfort. Thus it happened that (as has been seen) I was rather disposed to side with him against the current of public opinion; but it was fated that my views on this point should undergo a sudden and surprising change.

On the twelfth morning of our voyage, just as the huge gray bastions of volcanic rock that fence the Cape Verd Islands are melting into the southern sky, I come on deck after what my friend the boatswain would call 'a good spell o' quilldrivin',' cramming into my pocket a roll of papers (chiefly short magazine articles), which I propose carrying up to my favourite perch in the forerigging, in order to enjoy at my ease the greatest pleasure of all literary conscripts-that of reviewing my own works. But my evil star directs that I should halt on the way, to pay a visit to my friend the coon, who receives me as usual with gestures expressive of delight.' But alas! I forget his propensity to act the part of custom-house officer to my pockets; and before I can guess what he is about, the long flexible snout dives into my breastpocket, whips out the precious bundle, and-exit robber, O.P. I spring upon the coop like a possessed monkey, and clutch at him as he runs ; but in trying to escape me, he lets drop the packet, and away flutter my fugitive notes' over the weatherquarter into the sea. The chief officer, who is standing near in convulsions of laughter, contrives to seize two or three of them; but the returns of missing' are at least seventy-five per cent. of the whole. In one moment I am left desolate; and a deafening roar of laughter from behind warns me that my friend Bill and the boatswain are enjoying seeing me bereaved in my turn.

'No use applying to that editor again, Mr K

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Poor old coon! I wonder what has become of him now! As little did I dream, when we first met, that he was one day to make such a Saturday Review sweep of my works, as did he that he was fated to expiate the destruction of so many papers by furnishing material for one himself.

HISTORICAL GLEANINGS.

THE Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts has now been at work nearly four years, and their recently issued third Report tells us that the public interest in their proceedings is unabated. The ready and liberal manner with which noblemen, gentlemen, and various public authorities have thrown open their collections of manuscripts to the officers of the Commission, has only been equalled by the eagerness with which historical and literary students have availed themselves of the results of the investigations thus made. Many important and valuable materials for the history of this country, which have for so long remained unexplored, if not

altogether unknown, are now for the first time brought to light; and it is not too much to say that there is scarcely an important historical event, certainly no period of English history, which has not received some elucidation from the operations of the Commissioners. The bulk of this last Report, which extends to upwards of five hundred pages, is ample testimony to the activity of their labours, and a very cursory perusal of the contents shews the value of them. Upwards of a hundred collections have been examined during the past year, and the Appendix to the Report points out the most remarkable features of each. We have little space in which to discuss the many historical questions which the making known of some of these documents will give rise to, but must content ourselves with indicating revelations of a more social, literary, or domestic character. How many thousands of readers of Scott, young and old, would be delighted to know that there was in existence a letter written and signed by the hand of that Amy Robsart, of whom Sir Walter knew little more than the name, yet whom he has caused to so fascinate the world, that one might well fancy that he had at Abbotsford an autobiography by her own fair hand. The bare truth is that Amy Robsart was married to young Dudley long before he was Earl of Leicester, in the reign of Edward VI. (who was present at the wedding), with the full consent of her father, who, as well as the bridegroom's father, made a settlement on the young couple in contemplation of the marriage. The deed of settlement is yet preserved at Longleat, the seat of the Marquis of Bath, where also is the letter we allude to, which is simply a commonplace one to her tailor about a dress.

The same collection at Longleat is rich in the correspondence of celebrated men of letters of the last century. Many of them are addressed to the poet, Matthew Prior, and contain interesting allusions to his distinguished contemporaries. Thus one correspondent under the date July 14, 1698, gives the occasion of Dryden's writing his well-known caustic lines on Tonson; he writes: Mr Godfrey Kneller has drawn at length the picture of your friend Jacob Tonson, which he shewed Mr Dryden, who desired to give a touch of his pensill, and underneath it writ these 3 verses:

With leering look, bull faced and freckled fair, With frowsy pores poisoning the ambient air, With two left leggs and Judas-coloured hair.' The witty author of Paulo Purganti, we imagine, was hardly the man to lend grace to the clerical profession, but the following extract from a letter to him, written by Jonathan Trelawney, Bishop of Winchester, in 1707, has a quaint reference to the possibility of such a transformation. Trelawney writes: SIR-I had not written to you this post but to acquaint you that Dyer in his publiq letters into this country tells us you are going into Orders, which is much more surprising news than what you sent me of your finding Mr Trelawney at Study, and Ned boxing, for each of them was in his way. I don't doubt of your having your eye upon the Bishoprick of Winchester; but I beg you would not expect it these 20 years. After that, I wish you may have it at least as many more.'

Lastly, we have a characteristic letter from Dean Swift to Prior, dated from Dublin, April 28, 1719, which runs thus: 'SIR-I thought to have

had the happiness of seeing you before this time, because my health required a journey. But whether I fancy my Head is something better, or that little paultry impediments stop me, or the sang froid of fifty, I can not tell; but so it is that I have past the time, and can not be at Aix la Chapelle in May as I intended and writt to my friends in London that I would. But I am going to try a more lazy remedy of Irish Country air; and as my return is uncertain, I thought fit to let you know that your subscribers want their books, and that your bookseller is a blockeed for not sending them. I spoke to one Mr Hyde a bookseller here who has been employ'd that way. And they must be sent in quires consigned to Mr Hyde, bookseller, at his shop in Davies Street, Dublin. Pray order that they may be sent as soon as possible, and care shall be taken to have them delivered to the subscribers and receive the second guinee. I am just getting on horseback, and have only time to desire you will please to present my humble service to the Earl of Oxford, &c.'

Letters of a similar character are to be found in the possession of Mr Egerton Warburton. We have only space for one specimen of the poet Cowper. He writes to the Rev. John Newton, on March 19, 1784: 'I converse you say upon other subjects than that of despair, and may so write upon others. Indeed, my friend, I am a man of very little conversation upon any subject. From that of despair I abstain as much as possible for the sake of my company, but I will venture to say that it is never out of my mind one minute in the whole day.'. ... I have lately purchased 8 volumes of Johnson's prefaces on Lives of the Poets. In all that number I observe but one man, a poet of no great fame, of whom I did not know that he existed till I found him there, whose mind seems to have had the slightest tincture of religion, and he was hardly in his senses. His name was Collins. He sank into a state of melancholy, and died young.' (He mentions Johnson's finding him at Islington with the Bible.) 'But from the lives of all the rest there is but one inference to be drawn, that poets are a very worthless wicked set of people.'

Among the muniments of Downing College, Cambridge, is found what is described as a thin folio paper volume, in half-binding of the latter part of last century, labelled Newton Diary MS.: being the Diary of John Newton, of Cambridge, in the latter part of the seventeenth, and beginning of the eighteenth, century. This Diary appears to be written somewhat in the Pepysian style, and is well deserving of notice. The following are some extracts from it:

'On Fryday the 11th May 1660, King Charles the Second was proclaymed King by John Ewen, chandler, then Mayor of Cambridge. The Maior himself read the Proclamacion, the Towne Clerk more audibly spoke it after him. With the Maior was the Recorder in his gowne, and all the Aldermen in their scarlet gownes, on horsebacke, and all the freemen on horseback. They proclaymed twice (in 2 severall places) in the great Markett Place: once on the Pease Hill, and against St Buttolph's Church, and beyond the Great Bridge, against Jesus Lane, and against Trinity Church. In all these places was Hee proclaymed. At night many bonfires in towne, 4 on the Great Market

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Hill.

Great expressions and acclamations of joy from all sorts. On Thursday the 10th of May 1660, it was, the King was proclaymed by the University, about 3 of the clock in the afternoon, 1st on the Crosse at the Great Market Place, and then in the middle of the Market Place, against the Rose. On Saturday, the 12th May 1660, the King was proclaymed at King's College [Mr Fairbrother, the senior Fellow, as we learn from another source, giving a feast on the occasion]: all ye souldiers were placed round on the topp of their Chappell, from whence they gave a volley

of shott.'

The following is an allusion to the victory gained over the Dutch fleet off Harwich, when Admiral Opdam, with his ship, was blown up:

1665. June 3. Saturday. All day long was heard ye noyse of gunnes in ye ayre, and I myself heard ye noyse of them between 4 and 6 in the afternoone, and again between 9 and 10 the same night. It was generally thought here at Cambridge that the English and Dutch were at the same time engaged in fight.'

The pressing of soldiers in the town for the war with the Dutch is also mentioned, and there are several notices of the comet of 1665.-'September 1. Saturday. Was seen posted up in Cambridge the King's Proclamation that Sturbridge Fayre should not this yeare be kept, because of the great Plague at London, thereby prohibiting all Londoners from coming to the same. Great danger was also then heer in Cambridge, several dyeing then heer, etc.'

In August 1668, Mr Newton was elected alderman of Cambridge, and on the 18th of that month signified his acceptance of the office.

August 20. Thursday. I bought of Mrs Sarah Simpson, widdow, her husband's scarlett gowne, and a plush seated new saddle, with the bridle, foot cloath, and other riding furniture; for all which I paid her the day following L.9 in full; for which she gave mee an acquittance, which is upon the file.'-'August 25. I made my 24ty man's gowne serve for my Alderman's gowne, and paid Mr Legg for 17 yards of lace for it, at 1s. 6d. per yard, L.1, 5s. 6d.; for silk, 3s. 6d.; for facing the sleeves, 1s.; and for altering and setting on the tufts, 10s. I paid also to Mr Scott for 1 lb. and a halfe and 3 ounces of Naples throse silk for the tufts, and making the tufts, accounting the silk at L.1, 7s. per lb.-L.2, 9s. ; soe the whole charge of altering my gowne stood me in L.4, 98. Od.'

From a long account of the dinner given by him at his house, upon his election as alderman, the following is an extract:

'And there dyned all or the most in one room; the Mayor and Mr New Elect sat at the upper end, and Mr New Elect sat next his wife on the side. At dinner, wee had first 2 dishes of boyled chickens, then a leg of mutton boyled, then a peece of rost beafe, then a mutton pasty, then a glasse of clarrett round, then 2 couple of rabbetts, 2 couple of small wild foule, and 2 dishes of tarts, 3 in a dish. This was the entertainment; and by this time it was about 2 o'clock; soe the Aldermen putt off their scarlett gownes, and sent home for their black gownes, and went immediately to the Hall for the Common Day. First, the Aldermen went into the parlor, and then considering what was fitt to be expounded, all the Aldermen

went into the Hall, and there with them, according to my juniority, I took my place uppon the bench. When Common Day was over, Mr Addams and myself desired the Mayor, Aldermen, 24ty, and all other gownemen, to go into the parlor, and the freemen to tarry in the Hall, to take a glass of wine, which they did. We had between us 14 bottles of sack, from the Miter, and then 3 quarters of a pound of tobacco, with pipes, candles, and 3 flaggons of beere (for some desired to drinke beere).'

Among the manuscripts in the possession of Sir W. Throckmorton is:

A miscellaneous collection of letters written by various persons to members of the Throckmorton family, from about 1690 to 1750. Many anecdotes illustrative of the history, the politics, and the scandal of the times may be gleaned from these letters. Thus, in a letter dated Bullstrode' [Street], December 27, 1734, occurs the following passage: 'I don't pity Handell in the least, for I hope this mortification will make him a human creature; for I am sure before he was no better than a brute, when he could treat civilised people with so much brutality as I know he has done.' This letter bears no signature nor address, but the person to whom it was sent was apparently Catherine, daughter of George Collingwood, Esq. of Estlington, co. Northumberland, who became the second wife of Sir Robert Throckmorton; she died in 1761. In this series of letters she is frequently addressed as 'My dear Cauliflower.'

A letter from Mr Pennington to Mrs Catherine Collingwood, at the Bath, dated 19th February 1736-7, expresses a different sentiment respecting the great composer. 'Partys run high in musick, as when you shone among us. Mr Handel has not due honour done him, and I am excessively angry about it, which you know is of vast consequence.'

Those who are curious to know what kind of letters very young princes wrote in the seventeenth century will be gratified with the following specimen of such compositions. It is written by the eldest son of Elizabeth of Bohemia, the little Prince Frederick Henry, to King James I.; and is as follows: 1621, May 11.-'SIR, We are com to the Haag from Sewneden to see the King and the Queene, and my little brother Rupert, who is now a little sicke; but my brother Charles who is at Heydelberg is, God be thanked, very well, and my sister Elizabeth and shee is a little bigger and stronger than he. So I kisse your Majesties hand, and I pray God to blesse you. Your Majesties Grandchild, FRED. HENRY.'

Another letter from the same youthful_correspondent, not, however, contained in this Report, has been brought under our notice. It is equally worthy of preservation, and so may be appropriately introduced here. This second letter bears no date, but is addressed also to King James. Here it is: 'SIR-I kisse your hand. I would faine see your Majestie. I can say nominativo hic, hæc, hoc, and all five declensions, and a part of pronomen and part of verbum. I have two horses alive, that can goe up my staires, a black horse and a chesnut horse. I pray God to blesse your Majestie. Your Majesties Obedient Grandchild, FRIDERICK HENRY.' The unhappy end of this prince will be remembered by all readers of history. He was drowned near Amsterdam, in January 1629.

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