for the present in their little cottage by the Wells. The weather being hot, and having sent my man on before, I rode negligently under favor of the shade, till within three miles of BROMLEY. At a place called the Procession Ooke, two cut-throats started out, and striking with long staves at the horse, and taking hold of the reines, threw me down, took my sword, and haled me into a deep thicket some quarter of a mile from the highway, where they might securely rob me, as they soone did! What they got of money was not considerable; but they took two rings, the one an emerald with diamonds, the other an onyx, and a paire of buckcles, set with rubies and diamonds, which were of value, and after all bound my hauds behind me, and my feete, having before pulled off my boots; they then set me up against an oak with most bloody threats to cutt my throat if I offered to crie out or make any noise, for they should be within hearing, I not being the person they looked for. I told them if they had not basely surprised me, they should not have had so easy a prize, and that it would teach me never to ride neare an hedge, since, had I been in the mid-way, they durst not have adventured on me; at which they cocked their pistols, and told me they had long guns, and were fourteen companions! I begged for my onyx, and told them it being engraven with my arms, would betray them, but nothing prevailed. My horses's bridle they slipped, and secreted the saddle which they pulled off, but let the horse graze; and then turning againe, bridled him and tied him to a tree, yet so as he might graze, and thus left me bound! My horse was not perhaps taken because he was marked and croppt on both eares, and well known on that road. Left in this manner, grievously was I tormented with flies, ants, and the sun, nor was my anxiety little how 1 should get loose in that solitary place, where I could neither hear nor see any creature but my poor horse, and a few sheep straggling in the copse! After neare two hours attempting, I got my hands to turn palm to palm, having been tied back to back, and then it was long before I could slip the cord over my wrists to my thunib, which at last I did, and then soone unbound my feete, and saddling my horse, and roaming awhile about, I at last perceived dust to rise, and soone after heard the rattling of a

cart towards which 1 made, and by the help of two countrymen, I got back into the the highway. I rode to Col. Blount, a great justiciariæ of these times, who sent out hue and cry immediately. The next morning, sore as my wrists and armes were, I went to London and got 500 tickets printed, and dispersed by an officer of Goldsmith's Hall, and with two days had tidings of all I had lost, except my sword, which had a silver hilt, and some trifles!" The articles had been pawned, but the robbers escaped with impunity.

In a modern ludicrous poem, a similar adventure is said to have befallen poor DR. SYNTAX, in Search of the Picturesque

Thus to a tree they quickly bound him,
The cruel cords went round and round him!
And having of all power bereft him,
They tied him fast and there they left

him!

We next passed through the village of Lewisham, in whose church-yard lies the unfortunate Irish Poet, Dermody, whose intemperance brought him to an early grave! This place adjoins Blackheath, and is at the entrance of the road to Maidstone. Deptford came next-low and marshy, having the honor of being denominated the dirtiest place in his Majesty's dominions! Its magazines and dock-yard are extensive. Hence it swarms with inhabitants. I cast an interesting look towards Say's Court, the family mansion of JOHN EVELYN, (already mentioned,) the friend of science and of mankind. His memoirs, recently published, is one of the most interesting works in the English language. Whilst he supported the claims, he reprobated the vices of the Stuart family. This is the man whose life Lord Orford pronounces to have been "a course of enquiry, study, curiosity, instruction, and benevolence." and on whose tomb, at his own request, was inscribed the memorable declaration, "All is VANITY which is not honest, and there is no solid wisdom but in REAL PIETY!" Indeed, these just sentiments recall to my mind, lines which delineate the passing nature of every thing here below with a degree of originality—

Whate'er we see-do-bear of— ALL
A prey to hungry time must fail-
TIME of all strengths the only strong,
And that which is shall not be long-
The gasping rivers shall run dry,
The ocean from his sands shall fly ;

The mountains pine to dwarfish size,

And shrinks beneath the threatening skies!
Those skies shall in their turn expire,
Burned in their vain rebellious fire;
That death we fear, and would prevent,
Is nature's LAW-not punishment.

Driving onwards over Blackfriar'sbridge, through Smithfield, we soon reached the populous village of ISLINGTON, where we

Look'd on for pleasures yet to come,
And felt again that-HOME WAS HOME!

Having spent my vacation in KENT, I cannot but bear testimony to the kindness and hospitality of its inhabitants. Longè sunt humanissimi qui CANTIUM incolunt, were the expressions of Julius Cæsar eighteen hundred years ago, who can be suspected of no flattery. With this county I have been for near these thirty years acquainted. Connected by domestic ties, several of my summer recesses have here glided away in undisturbed serenity. Riding and angling were my chief amusements. But the greatest pleasure was derived from intercourse with friends, whose urbanity led them to make happy their guest on all occasions.

FRIENDSHIP-mysterious cement of the soul,

Sweetener of life, and solder of society

I owe thee much! THOU hast deserved of

me

Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have 1 proved the labors of thy love,
And the warm effort of the gentle heart
Auxious to please!—

Friendship is indeed the balm of human life. It multiplies its joys, and divides its sorrows. It forms an ingredient of that inconceivable bliss, which is perfected at the resurrection of the just, and runs parallel with Eternity!

And now, my dear Sir, I will only add, should you think my delineation of BRIGHTON and of TUNBRIDGE WELLS, with their respective vicinities, of too partial a nature, an elegant writer has furnished me with an apology.

When we name OUR OWN COUNTRY, we name the spot of earth within which all that is most dear to us lies. To be long absent from it is a circumstance of distress, but to be excluded from the hope of ever returning to it, sinks the spirits of the worthy and the brave into extreme depression. Its very dust appears to them to be precious. Its well-known fields and mountains, and rivers, become in their eyes a sort of

consecrated ground-the remembrance of which often touches the heart with sensations of more tender joy than can be raised by scenes more rich, and objects more splendid in any foreign land."

Thus, my dear Sir, hath passed our Midsummer Recess, and more serious occupations await us. This alternation of business and of pleasure, involves the secret of human enjoyment. The "task of teaching the young idea how to shoot," though "delightful," demands patience and attention. Nor let the communication of knowledge be deemed an unimportant or an ignoble employ. Laws cement, religion upholds, manners endear, and arts adorn society. EDUCATION keeps these objects in view-whilst their consummation is its fondest accomplishment. Thus, indeed, is the couplet of Dryden verified by the continued and well-directed labors of the instructor of the rising generation

What in nature's dawn the child admired, The youth endeavoured, and the man acquired!

After all, frail mortals cannot command, but only deserve success. In the morning (says Solomon) sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand, for thou knowest not whether shall prosper either this or that-or whether they both shall be alike good. On this exuberant topic, even nature is preg nant with instruction

Down the steep abrupt of hills,

Furious foams the headlong tide,
Through the meads the streamlet trills,
Ruin vast, and dread dismay,
Swelling slow in gentle pride-
Mark the clamorous Cataract's way,
Glad increase, and sweets benign,
Round the rivulet's margin shine!
YOUTH-with stedfast eye peruse

Scenes to lesson thee, displayed,
Yes-in these the moral muse

Bids thee see THYSELF pourtrayed—
Thou with headstrong wasteful force,
Mays't reflect the torrent's course,
Or resemble streams that flow,
Blest and blessing as they go!

KNOX.

Academical institutions, conducted with wisdom and piety, prove reservoirs of blessings to the community. Thousands of schools, with an adequate number of instructors, are scattered over the land. Lily, the grammarian, compares LEARNING to the tree of knowledge. Pedants, indeed, (it has been said,) only reach its leaves, and

HERE have been so many histoTH ries of the English stage, and some of them have been so satisfactorily executed, that it is neither necessary, nor suitable to our present purpose to introduce it farther, than for the sake of illustrating our own notices. It is not intended to give a regular series, but a selection of our early dramatists. And we take this opportunity of stating that intention, in limine, lest we should happen to be misunderstood.

We now proceed to George Chapman, the well known translator of Homer and Hesiod, and other ancient as well as modern poets. His original produc tions are almost entirely dramatic, and although he possesses great claims to distinction on their account, his contemporaries seem rather to have preferred his translations. This taste may be easily accounted for with reference to the period at which he wrote, when the paucity and inferiority of translations were so remarkable; and the benefit conferred on English literature, by presenting Homer in the language of our country, so signal a one, that he deserved the most grateful applause of that day. The improvements which have been since made in translations, sink his fame into insignificance on that account, though the spirit and fidelity of his version deserve considerable praise. The suffrages of Waller and Pope are in his favor, and their authority must be confessed to have some weight.

Chapman was born about the year 1557, and seems to have been employed during the whole of his life in literary pursuits. His works are numerous, and

if not all of the same merit, are all far above mediocrity, equal to most, and superior to the generality of his competitors, always excepting the mighty deities of our drama, Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher, with whom no comparison can be made to the advantage of any of our other poets. He is the author of sixteen plays, and was besides concerned in writing Eastward Hoe, together with Ben Jonson and Marston, this latter play is said to have brought him under the displeasure of the King (James I.), who resented deeply any sarcasm against Scotland. He was a man of amiable disposition, even grim old Anthony a Wood says, (with his usual reluctance when a poet is to be praised,)" He was a person of a most reverend aspect, religious and temperate, qualities not rarely meeting in a poet. He possessed the friendship of most of the men of genius in that age. He ranked among his friends and patrons the King's son, Henry, that prince of promise, of whose death he says, in all the bitterness of affliction and blighted hope, "it has so stricken all my spirits to the earth, that I will never more dare to look up to any greatness; but resolving the little rest of my poor life to obscurity, and the shadow of his death, pre- :. pare ever after for the light of heaven.” The favorite Carr, Earl of Somerset, (who, with all his crimes and follies, displayed good taste and liberality in his treatment of literary worth) and the celebrated Inigo Jones were his intimate and chosen friends. Of the sincerity and affection of the latter, he speaks with a fervour which was afterwards proved to have been merited: the last offices were performed to the poet's memory, by the erection of a monument by Jones, at the church of St. Giles in the Fields, where Chapman was buried in May, 1624.

His acquirements and talents gained him a reputation which survived many of his cotemporaries. His Bussy D'Ambois was a favorite play long after the restoration. It was a favorite of Dryden's once, though he says he afterwards changed his opinion. He, however, gives no better reason for it, than that it fails on a comparison with Ben Jonson; and in his poetical way, proposes to sacrifice Chapman to the memory of Jonson, as an Italian nobleman is said to have burnt a Statius annually in honor of the manes of

Virgil. The comparison is not fair in itself, and still less so as regards the judgment of Dryden, who almost wor shipped Jonson, and sometimes professed to imitate him. Chapman's great beauty cousists in a vigorous original style, into which he has infused a portion of that classical fire which he had imbibed from his study of the ancient poets. His plots are remarkable for a boldness in their formation, and for the introduction of uncommon or supernatural events, without any apparent necessity or even expediency: this, which may now be justly considered a blemish, was, in his own day, one cause of his popularity.

Bussy D'Ambois, a Tragedy. The play is founded on a mention which is made in Sully's Memoirs of D'Ambois, the favorite of Monsieur, being killed by the Marquess Montsoreau, in consequence of an intrigue which he carried on with the Marquess's wife. At the commencement, D'Am bois is introduced as a young disbanded soldier, overlooked by the court, and "out of suits with Fortuue"

A man of spirit beyond the reach of fear, Who (discontent with his neglected worth) Neglects the light, and loves obscure abodes.

This is the character which our elder dramatists seem to delight in painting. It is their chosen task to represent a brave neglected genius struggling with the frowns of fortune, suffering because he must, but not yielding a jot to the force of adverse circumstance-biding the pelting of the pitiless storm with undaunted courage-stricken to the earth, but still with mounting spirits

and a whole heart: and then to raise him to his befitting rank, to bear thither with him all his pride of conscious excellence, and to expand the buddings of his worth and honor, under the warm sun of princely favor.

Monsieur, the brother of Henry the Fourth, seeks out D'Ambois, with whose courage and constancy he is acquainted, for the purpose of fortifying that party which he is forming in the court to obtain possession of the crown in the event of the King's death. He compliments him, bestows money on him, and introduces him at court: the following soliloquy of D'Ambois, is on the same idea as that of Shakspeare-" There is a tide in the affairs of men," &c.

The king hath known me long as well as he,

Yet could my fortune never fit the length
Of both their understandings till this hour.
For each man's good, when which nick
There is a deep nick in time's restless wheel
comes it strikes;

As rhetoric, yet worketh not persuasion,
But only is a mean to make it work:
So no man rises by his real merit,
But when it cries clink is his raiser's
spirit.

Many will say that cannot rise at all,
Man's first hour's rise is first step to his
fall:

I'll venture that, men that fall low must die

As well as men cast headlong from the sky.

D'Ambois at court is the mate of the proudest; and the Duke of Guise, taking fire at his familiarity with the Duchess, rudely attacks him; D'Am bois retorts fiercely, beards him before the whole court; and Guise quitting the presence, some of the courtiers. indulge their contemptible jealousy at his sudden advancement, by jeers at his former fortunes, and insolent glances at him. He, who would not bear the scorn of the first prince of the realm, gives a loose to his resentment on this provocation, and threatning them with in-' stant chastisement, they invite him to retire to adjust their difference. The poet avails himself of the Nuntius

of the ancient drama to describe their combat, and it is rendered by this means more powerful, and makes its way more immediately to the understandings of the auditors, than the actual representation could have effected. For force of description, and boldness of expression, it is unrivalled: it possesses all the fire and minuteness of Homer, and stands out by its individual excellence, like au alto relievo, from all the other parts of the play.

Nun. I saw fierce D'Ambois, and his

two brave friends, Enter the field, and at their heels their foes;

Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor, L'Anou, and Pyrhott, great in deeds of

But Barrisor's friends (being equally engag'd

In the main quarrel) never would expose His life alone, to that they all deserv'd. And (for the other offer of remission) D'Ambois (that like a laurel put in fire, Sparkl'd and spit) did much much more than scorn

That his wrong should incense him so like chaff,

To go so soon out; and, like lighted paper, Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes:

So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed,

That Barrisor should fight with fiery D'Ambois:

Pyrhot with Melynell;

L'Anou:

with Brisac,

Who thrust still as he pluck'd, yet (past belief!)

He with his subtle eye, hand, body scap'd; At last the deadly biting point tugg'd off, On fell his yet undauted foe so fiercely, That (only made more horrid with his wound)

Great D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground;

But soon return'd, redoubled in his danger, And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger:

Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak
Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top
Bent to his root, which being at length
made loose

(Even groaning with his weight) he'gan to nod

This way and that, as loath his curled brows

(Which he had oft wrap'd in the sky with storms)

Should stoop, and yet his radical fibres burst.

Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold

earth.

So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks

Of ten set battles in your highness' war, 'Gainst the sole soldier of the world Navarre.*

Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes
Met in the upper region of a clond,
At the report made by this worthy's fall,
Brake from the earth, and with them rose

revenge,

Entering the fresh powers his two noble friends;

And under that odds fell surcharg'd Brisac, The friend of D'Ambois, before fierce L'Anou;

Which D'Ambois seeing, as I once did

see

In my young travels through Armenia,
An angry unicorn in his full career
Charge with too swift foot a jeweller,
That watch'd him for the treasure of his

brow,

And ere he could get shelter of a tree, Nail him with his rich antler to the earth, So D'Ambois ran upon reveng'd L'Anou; Who eyeing th' eager point borne in his face,

And giving back, fell back, and in his fall His foe's uncurb'd sword stop'd in his heart:

By which time all the life-strings of th' two

other

Were cut, and both fell (as their spirit flew)

Upwards and still bunt honour at the view.

Henry IV. then King of Navarre.