happy interview between me and my relation when I should come to relate my sad story to him-in fact, if I remember well, a hundred pounds was the fancy figure at which he valued his non-participation in the present catastrophe. We held a consultation about it, and came to the conclusion that, as there was some probability of recovering the gun at low tide, it would be as well, perhaps, to avoid raising the avuncular wrath that evening by saying nothing about it. I pointed out exactly where I had fallen in, and "The Little Tailor" promised to be up at "grey dawn" next morning, and narrowly inspect the "flotsam" and "jetsam" about the spot, and see what he could do to recover the lost property. And so we parted on that disastrous evening. I am sorry to have to confess that I had to "draw the long bow" to account for my wet clothes and late appearance at the dinner table, and very trying were the frequent remarks as to the "absence” displayed in my demeanour, and general falling off from my usual flow of spirits. Happily no awkward questions were put about the gunin fact, I do not think my uncle knew anything about its having left the security of his library. I will draw a veil over the horrors of the night which followed that uncomfortable evening, of the fearful dreams of a jury of ducks finding me "guilty" and sentencing me to be secured by the neck to the big gun and drowned in "full fathom five." I couldn't sleep after the first streak of dawn appeared, so slipped on my clothes and sneaked down to the kitchen with the wariness of a burglar, and out of the back door off to the scene of my last evening's performance. Oh! what a relief it was to meet "The Little Tailor" marching home with the lost piece of ordnance, none the worse, beyond a little mud and rust, for its night's pickling in the briny. In a secure outhouse we cleaned her ladyship up, much sand, oil, and tow being expended on her toilet, and watching my uncle safe out of the way I smuggled her back to her old berth in his "sanctum," which I believe she occupies to this day. Many years elapsed before I told "the master" of his gun's second adventure, when he, good-humouredly, seemed to think (but then distance lends, &c.,) that the recovery of his gun was as nothing compared with the hard lines of losing my first duck, and ducking. CLEAVELAND: ROYALIST, WIT, AND POET. BY EDWIN GOADBY. T the commencement of the seventeenth century Loughborough was one of the quaintest of Midland towns. Situate on the top of a knoll on the left bank of the sleepy River Soar, with rich slopes of intervening meadow land, silted up by the river in earlier times, and a long range of high-arched bridges to carry its main turnpike safely over the flats during the regular floods, the town was still true to its old name— "The place by the lake." Behind it rose up the unenclosed wooded heights of the Charnwood Hills, where William the Conqueror declined to hunt because he declined to break his neck, and wild game abounded, and foresters held their yearly open courts at the coped oak, perpetuating their old Saxon customs. The town within was quaintness itself. Thatched houses, narrow streets, a market, and a market-cross; wine and ale houses, with their devices painted over the doors; and members of the guild of carpenters and other trade associations moving about, not too anxiously, or peeping out of their shops; now and then a long string of pack-horses passing through the street with corn or salt, or a lumbering waggon jolting along on its way to Leicester or to Nottingham, or possibly London or York; or rubicund yeomen crowding in, with their white-aproned wives and daughters; or a wayside minstrel, singing his songs or playing his conjuring tricks; or an irruption of boys from the highgabled Grammar School by the church, which had sent many a poor scholar to Oxford or Cambridge; or a grand peal from the noble old tower of the church itself, which stood out in the surrounding landscape, bold and ubiquitous,-all these made it quite a curiosity to neighbouring villagers not less than to passing travellers or beggars, sure of a night's rest in a farmstead, and a few pence from the dispensers of the various local charities. Our business, however, is with the Grammar School. It was a plain building, but it gave a free and substantial education to all the youths of the town, and it had a remarkable history. One Thomas Burton, a native and a merchant of the staple, had left lands in the fifteenth century for pious purposes, which had subsequently been diverted and devoted to a free school, the payment of town taxes, and the support of the poor. The school itself dated from June 28, 1569, and its rules show that education was once a serious business. The school-doors were to be opened at six o'clock in the morning from Lady-day to Michaelmas, and at seven from Michaelmas to Lady-day. One hour was allowed for breakfast, and two hoursfrom eleven till one-for dinner. It was the duty of the master and his assistants to teach the boys "to read in psalter or testament,” to teach them "writing and accounts, sufficient for being put to apprenticeship," and "to instruct youths in classical learning, beginning with ye grammar, untill fit for ye Universitie." Many famous men have been educated in this school, including Dr. Pulteney, the botanist, and Bishop Davys, of Peterborough, who acted as tutor to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. At the date I have mentioned the schoolmaster was Mr. George Dawson, a scholar unknown to fame, and his assistant was Thomas Cleaveland, M.A., father of a more famous son, in the person of John Cleaveland, orator, wit, royalist, and poet. There has always been some doubt as to the position occupied by Cleaveland, and as to whether his son was born at Loughborough or at Hinckley, whither the father subsequently removed; but I am able to settle both points by the very best evidence. An examination of the accounts of the bridge-master, who was the financial officer of Burton's charity, shows that Thomas Cleaveland was an usher in the Grammar School, possibly acting as curate to the Rev. John Brown, the rector of the parish, at the same time. His salary was small, as appears by the following entry, which occurs first in 1611, and every year subsequently until his removal to Hinckley :— "Item, paid to Mr. Cleaveland (usher), Simon Mudd's legacye, due as before (i.e. half yearly), XLs." Four pounds a year could hardly have been the whole of his salary, but as the schoolmaster himself only received £12 13s. 6d. a year, and could not hold other preferment-though he acted as clerk in the town, keeping the public accounts, and writing out the parish register-I assume that Cleaveland supplemented his wretched salary in one way or another. Coin had been debased between 1543 and 1560, so that in the early part of the seventeenth century the shilling contained but ninety-three grains of silver, and wheat had risen to 38s. 6d. per quarter. Under these circumstances, no man could be "passing rich" upon four pounds a year. Four children were born to the Rev. Thomas Cleaveland, as the register styles him, during his residence in the town: "Mary Cleaveland"-I copy the old spelling-was baptised October 17, and buried October 19, 1611; John, the poet, was baptised June 17, 1613; Margaret, August 27, 1615; and Joseph, of whom we subsequently hear nothing, June 14, 1620. In 1621 Cleaveland obtained the living of Hinckley. He at once placed his son John under the care of Richard Vines, the head master of the Hinckley Grammar School, who, curiously enough, was as ardent a Puritan as his pupil became a Royalist. The future poet was so forward a scholar that he entered Christ Church College, Cambridge, in his fifteenth year-that is, in 1628. When eighteen he became B.A., at twenty-one he was elected fellow of St. John's, and at twenty-two he became M.A. Thus, as a quaint writer remarks, "To cherish so great hopes, the Lady Margaret drew forth both her breasts. Christ College gave him admission, and St. John's a fellowship. There he lived about nine years, the delight and ornament of that society. What service as well as reputation he did it, let his orations and epistles speak; to which the library oweth much of its learning, the chapel much of its pious decency, and the college much of its renown." During Cleaveland's residence in Cambridge he was much moved by two incidents, which may be said to have determined his whole future career. The first incident was a royal visit. Charies I. reached Cambridge in May, 1633, accompanied by Laud, Bishop of London, on his way to Scotland to cure Presbyterianism, "the loud rustle of him," as Carlyle says, "disturbing for a day the summer husbandries and operations of mankind." In his capacity of orator, Cleaveland wrote an epistle on the event, which is preserved in his works, and may be cited as a fair specimen of his Latinity. The following extract may suffice to justify Fuller's criticism that he was a “pure Latinist": : Cæsaris Epilogus fuit Prologus Caroli, neque enim optior Stella, quam Invictissima illius Herois Anima, quæ vestræ soboli res gerendas ominaretur. Stellam dixi? Muto factum; crederem potius ipsum Solem fuisse, qui tunc temporis tibi relimavit moderamen Diei, et ut Principis cunas fortius videret, suum in Stellam contraxit oculum. Ecce ut patrissat Carolus! Ut ad vestras Virtutes anhelus surgit! Quod sub pientissimo Rege accidisse legimus Solem multis gradibus retro ferri, Principis ætis pari portento compensavit damnum, cujus festina virtus devorat Horologium, et Pueritiâ nondum libatâ meridiem attigit. . . . O fælicem interim Academiam, et Æternititatem quandam nactam! quæ in Rege et Principe, et esse nostrum, et nostrum fore simul complectitur. Non est quod plura expectentur sæcula; viximus et nostram et posterorum vitam. Sed vereor ne molestus fuerim importuno officio, quod in tam illustri præsentia in nescio quid magus piaculo excrescit. Minima coram Rege Errata, tanquam angustiores rimæ, extenduntur lumine. Oratio itaque nostra pro genio temporum reformabitur, vel, quod tantundem est, rescindetur. Hoc unicum præfabor votum; Vivas Augustissime, Pietas tuorum et Tremor Hostium. Vivas denique eam indutus gloriam, ut Filium tuum Carolum appellemus Maximum, quia solo Patre minorem. As might be expected, the King was highly delighted, and summoned Cleaveland to his presence, gave him his hand to kiss, and offered him other expressions of grace and kindness. A copy of the letter was sent by command to the King at Huntingdon, and Cleaveland was henceforth, whatever he might have been previously, an enthusiastic and devoted Royalist. The second incident was Oliver Cromwell's election as M.P. for Cambridge in 1640, "recommended by Hampden, say some; not needing any recommendation in those fen counties, think others," as Carlyle puts the matter. Cambridge was a Parliamentary hot-bed, but Cleaveland worked hard against Cromwell, whom he detested and privately designated as "a screech-owl❞—in those days choice epithets were rare; and foreseeing disaster, as the result of his futile opposition, he turned upon the town and said, "That single vote had ruined both Church and kingdom." Cambridge soon became an important garrison town; but before this and other serious indications of the direction of affairs occurred, Cleaveland found that he had raised a storm about his ears. "Perceiving the ostracism that was intended," says one writer, "he became a volunteer in his academic exile, and would no longer breathe the common air with such pests of mankind." Another writer states that he lost his fellowship by reason of his outrageous royalism. He doffed his cap and gown, and proceeded to the King's camp at Oxford, where he was well received, and indeed he deserved to be, being a martyr to his King. He had been the first to appear in verse on the King's side, and probably the poem thus honoured was the one on "The King's Return" : Return'd; I'll ne'er believ't; first prove him hence Kings travel by their beams and influence. Who says the soul gives out her Gests, or goes But the foundation of his reputation in the camp was "The Rebel Scot," one of the bitterest of his satires, to be noticed anon. Cleaveland, however, was not a warrior, he was only a wit, though the point of his pen did more mischief than the pike of a Puritan. The Parliamentarians never forgave him his attacks, and the Cavaliers never ot his verses. The first opening that came was given him by |