he had before the world a history of the Devil, ancient and modern. In 1727, "Magic, or a History of the Black Art." In the same year, an Essay on Apparitions was published, followed by pamphlets, and a third volume of the "Family Instructor," in 384 pages, and this preceded a volume on Matrimony, in 406 pages. We hear little of De Foe's experiences in matrimony, but we suspect that, like many other literary persons in modern times, he had met "incompatibility of temper." Mrs. De Foe preferred probably the Pantile works at Tilbury Fort, to all book-writing. He often speaks of separation from his family by business, and, finally, by straitened circumstances, which could not justify that mode of life; but the latter years of the author were passed in terror of writs, from the misconduct of one son, who appropriated his father's property. He was facile in his temper, and trusting. It was, perhaps, the fault attaching necessarily to other characteristics of the man. He believed readily in the goodness of others, and if he had lived to many more years, he might have believed to their end. The last large work of which we have any record as written by De Foe, is "The Complete Tradesman," in which he gathers up the experiences of these many years passed in difficulties and labours,—to him, unproductive of that peace and rest required in the evening of a hard-working life. "The Complete Tradesman," according to Mr. Chadwick, was afterwards made up by Benjamin Franklin in another form. De Foe's ideas are certainly like the roots of Franklin's teachings. "Ove-rtrading," he says, "is like over-lifting among strong men." My laddie's so muckle in loo' wi' th' siller, He canna hae' love to spare for me. However, at last Mr. De Foe gave a bond to Mr. Baker, on his house at Newington, dated 5th of April, 1729, for £500. The bond was payable at his death. In consideration of this bond, Mr. Baker became Mr. De Foe's son-in-law. He must have been a cruelly dear bargain at the money, or at any price. Little more than two years thereafter, on the 24th April, 1731, the bond became due. In the interval of two years, a letter, without date, was written by De Foe to Mr. Baker. The address is, "About two miles from Greenwich, Kent." The postscript is sad. We copy it : P.S.-I wrote you a letter some months ago about selling ye house; but you never signified to me whether you received it or not. I have not the policy of assurance. I suppose my wife or Hannah may have it. Hannah was one of his daughters, and his wife was alive still; but he says in his letter I have not seen son or daughter, wife or child, many weeks, and kno' not which way to see them. They dare not come by water, and by land here is no coach, and I kno' not what to do. He he tells them, "have left me very low." between "the now" and "the then" is worthy of The difference in the metropolitan suburbs notice. Mr. Baker resided at Enfield. There A letter was ten days in circumambulating a few was no coach between the city and Greenwich! Over-trading is to a shop-miles! And notwithstanding "the very kind and keeper, as ambition is to a prince." "For a young tradesman to over-trade himself, is like a young swimmer going out of his depth." These sentences are specimens of the work, and its applicability to any time is the proof of the genius of the writer. In his declining years De Foe was attacked by the gout and the stone, and reduced in strength, until, we presume, he could write no more. Then, by the dishonesty of his son, he was banished from his house and pleasant garden at Newington; and separated from his family. Mr. Baker, a naturalist, had married one of his daughters, Sophia. The match had little of the romance of love in it, on Mr. Baker's part. He negotiated not only for the lady's hand and heart, but for the father's money. He was not ashamed to write that he believed, from the pleasant residence of the family, that Mr. De Foe could afford "to give his daughter a decent portion." These pecuniary problems delayed the marriage for some time. They even produced "a breach and coolness," according to Mr. Chadwick. They may have produced "a breach," but we do not believe them capable of producing any "coolness," in Mr. Baker. Miss Sophia De Foe might have sung like another affectionate nature of Mr. and Mrs. Baker's letter," It has been the injustice, unkindness, and I must say inhuman dealing of my own son which has both ruined my family, and, in a word, has broken my heart. He added I depended upon him; I trusted him; I gave up my two dear unprotected children into his hands; but he has no compassion, and suffers them and their poor dying mother to beg their bread at his door, and to crave, as if it were an alms, what he is bound, under hand and seal, besides the most sacred promises, to supply them with-himself, at the same time, living in a profusion of plenty. One comfort remained to De Foe, and remains to those who, in these subsequent days, feel sorrow for the darkness of his closing years. In these distresses, which to a man of his affectionate nature must have been poignant, he could still write, "It is well." I would say (I hope) with comfort, that 'tis yet well; I am sooner my journey's end, and am hastening to the place where ye weary are at rest, and where the wicked cease to trouble; be it that the passage is rough, and the day stormy, by what way soever He pleases to bring me to the end of it, I desire to finish life with this temper of soul in all cases, "Te Deum Laudamus." We do not know how or why he left Greenwich for London, but he died in Cripplegate, and was buried in Bunhill Fields Cemetery. His life illustrates the fact, too apparent in other cases, that a man may be useful to the world, yet gain little for himself in his passage through its mazes. De Foe was a writer of great ability, extensive information, and ceaseless industry. He does not appear at any period to have been a very extravagant man, according to the fashion of his time. There was, indeed, a coach at Tilbury Fort, but we hear little of its character and uses. His works, published after the death of Queen Anne, should have secured an ample fortune. It seems to have been lost by his good nature, and he was involved among a cloud of responsibilities. His previous career, as a political journalist, would have secured "place and pension" for him, as it did for others, if he could have been dishonest politically. He served the people, and although factions are grateful, there is no public gratitude. We know not that he complained of, or even noticed this truth, but it is both old and new, and likely to live for a long period. The political journalist, who expects fortune by avoiding the service of parties, has mistaken his trade. He must look for his reward in the conviction that he has opposed evil and promoted good. Thus, we have few public journals independent of party. These few are found rather in the country than in the metropolis. The journalists are not all or many of them dishonest necessarily. Some men may be attached deeply to their party, and believe that their friends can never do wrong. These cases are not so common as others of a more rational character, where intelligent men support the party, who, in their opiniont, have the lesser inclination to mischief, upon the plea that Government, without party, is impossible, and, according to Lord Stanley, "not to be desired." We cannot agree with his Lordship. The end may be desirable and Utopian. Against the former opinion, we have no experience, and no facts to present. So, if a journalist wishes to grow rich by his trade, we can scarcely advise him to follow the example of De Foe, although it is the example of a good and great man. Ilis labours in general literature should have amply provided for the comfort of his declining but at that period, copyrights were years; cheap, even although books were often successful. It must also be admitted that no success, now or then, would bear a man up against a continuous series of losses, originating obviously in a facile. nature. Still, the century and a fourth passed since the death of De Foe has done good to popular authors. They have secured more independence than was enjoyed by their predecessors. We have such delicious recollections of " Robinson Crusoe," now old, too painfully old, that we sorrows of Robinson Crusoc's" regret the author-sorrows that separated him in age from his daughters and his wife-leaving him on the desolate isle of poverty; although they passed away on the 24th of April, 1731, when the Te Deum Laudamus was no longer the desire of his life, but became the fulfilling thought of eternity -even of life-the life. Mr. Chadwick has brought together many materials in his work, and thus the volume has a value to the student of these times; but he seems rather severe occasionally as a biographer on his subject, and must chiefly hereafter write the histories of "very prudent men ;" and yet he has good strong views in politics of his own, and expresses them, with great industry, and a little literary indigestion. THE COUNTIES OF ENGLAND, AND THEIR QUAINT OLD LAYS AND EPITAPHS. IN "Ye New and Complete British Traveller," a huge tome of ancient appearance, and nearly a hundred years old, are the following random lays and epitaphs, peculiarising various districts and towns. Maidstone, on the Medway, seems to have been the parent of, amongst other things, beer and ale, Hops, reformation, bags and beer, Came into England all in a year. Passing from Kent into Surrey, we are brought up opposite the tombstone of a penurious old carpenter, named Spong, of Ockham, Who many a sturdy oak had laid along, Fell'd by death's surer hatchet here lies "Spong," So much for the nuse of Surrey. Pass we on to Essex. The first that attrac s our attention is pathetic, commemorating the many virtues of Earl Nugent : O fairest pattern to a falling age, Whose public virtues knew no party rage, Good without show, and without weakness kind, In death by friendship, honour, virtue, mourned. Our next gives the origin of the celebrated Dunmow flitch of bacon, instituted by Robert Fitzwalter, Earl of Clare, and this is the oath taken by the happy couple whose connubial bliss has been uninterrupted for a twelvemonth: THE OATH. You shall swear by custom of confession, Then our author proceeds to inform us "while the oath was administered the man and his wife were surrounded by all the people, not only in the village, but also in the neighbourhood, who with the prior and monks walked in procession round the churchyard, after which the steward repeated the following words to them : : If to these conditions without all fear, Happy Benedicts! your love has literally saved your bacon, gammon though (perhaps) it be. Our author then proceeds to enumerate several actual instances of worthy couples carrying off the prize, the most marvellous amongst which is the case of one John Reynolds, of Hatfield Regis, and Aunie his wife, who actually during ten long years subsisted in undisturbed and perfect harmony. Ob, shade of Mrs. Caudle, hear this! Perhaps this virtuous and unruffled pair had a warning word to suppress any rising ebullitions of temper-such, for instance, as-" Mind your bacon," or "Come now, no gammon," or the fortuitous grunt of a porker being driven to market. Passing into Suffolk our author glances at the notorieties that county has given birth to, amongst others Wolsey, the butcher's son of Ipswich. Then comes that splendid soliloquy from Henry VIII., Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness. and, O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal But we have no extracts from native muses-no original poetry quoted from Suffolk. To make amends for this omission our author culls plenteously from Derby and Stafford. Iuspecting the Bowling green house at Chatsworth he finds upon the walls a inemento of Colley Cibber's visit there : When Scotland's queen her native realm expelled, Of Wolverhampton A thriving town, for arts Vulcanian fam'd, "Ye New and Complete English Traveller" has much to say, but the next descriptive poetry carries us to Leek, where- Fields, lawns, hills, valleys, pastures, all appear Clad in the varied beauties of the year. Meandering waters, waving woods, are seen, And cattle scattered in each distant green; Here curling smoke from cottages ascendsThere towers the hill, and there the valley bends. Who would not visit Leek after such a description as that? In the biographical history of Stafford we pause to peruse the epitaph to Elijah Fenton, of New castle-under Line-"a pleasing but not popular poet." This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, Whom heaven kept sacred from the rich and great; Nature:" All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. The latter, an eminent Divine, sermons it is said that they With beams of piety refulgent shine, of whose Glow with true zeal, and breathe an air divine. The last notoriety in Stafford is William Vernon, once apprentice to a bucklemaker, then a contributor to the "Gentleman's Magazine," yet destitute of a regular education. Of this fact, and how deeply he regretted it, the following testifies, being an address to a neighbour's daughter of whom he became enamoured : A, humble youth, to vulgar labors bred, Unskilled in verse, in classic books unread; In rural shades his artless numbers tries, And on a rural theme his muse employs; Nor fit for nobler tasks, but if thro' time Her note refuses, and rises more sublime; Thou, dear Lucinda, shall my days engage, And charm, as now, in all succeeding age. The poet changed his pen for a sword, fought bravely on the French coast, and then-died. Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear and mute the truthful tongue. In Shropshire the muses appear to have flourished more than in any other county. Weeding from the specimens afforded, we pause, at Shifnel, before the monument to Sir Thomas and Lady Stanley, of the Derby family. At the head are the following lines: Not monumental stone preserves our fame, We are not inclined to agree with the author of the "New and complete British Traveller' when he considers these verses as breathing of piety. The destined situation of the defunct nobleman seems something rather positive for this feeling; however, at the foot of the sculptured figures is inscribed, Ask who lies here, but do not weep, His fame is more perpetual than these stones; After extensive extracts from various poetical effusions, then to have been met with at Leasows, the seat of the late William Shenstone, Esq., close to Hales Owen, we quote the following: O, you that bathe in courtlye blysse, For faults there beene in busye life, From which these peaceful glennes are free. Here is a pathetic and filial inscription to the memory of a pious father: The ritual stone thy son doth lay Only proclaims the mournful day Fame will convey thy vertues down 'Tis needless, since so well they're known, Deep to engrave them on my heart Rather demands my care; Ah! could I stamp in every part In life to copy thee I'll strive, May some good-natured friend survive These lines were to the memory of the Rev. William Edwards, of Cleobury, who died in 1738. With these extracts we take leave of "The New and Complete British Traveller " for a while. THE "PRIMROSE.” Pride of the woodlands, in thy yellow dress, Remembrance loves to dwell on childhood's hours, PART XI. AT HOME. Ön the last day of the year, two brothers left their father's house. One was to return in peace when the wintry sun went down; and one was to come back when that home had long forgotten to remember him among its household treasures. The lamp was nightly trimmed by the loving hands of one who thought always of the coming time when he would return and sit in its light. But the flickering flame died out a thousand times. The watcher's eyes were darkened, and the loving hands were folded above, and to lay for ever over the heart that had mourned the wanderer. Years rolled on,―changes came, and he might be far away, fled, none knew whither. Charged with no particular crime, he had a roving spirit, selfish, and impatient of control. His employers expressed dissatisfaction with some part of his conduct, and he suddenly terminated his engagement. That was all they knew of him. His desk was speedily occupied, but his old chair at home was never again his chair. PART XII. He had reached Australia, not then a land of tune smiled then he would write without fail; four years fled, fortune never smiled so originate a letter. PART XIII. as to SIR EDWARD ĠRAVELY made up his betting book. |