the river Kennet. Close on one side of the more piteous entreaties of the mother, thrust it house is a thick grove of lofty trees, along the under the grate, and, raking the live coals upon verge of which runs one of the principal avenues it, soon put an end to its life. The midwife, after to it through the park. It is an irregular build- spending some time in affording all the relief in Ing of great antiquity, and was probaply erected her power to the wretched mother, was told that about the time of the termination of feudal war- she must be gone. Her former conductor apfare, when defence came no longer to be an ob-peared, who again bound her eyes, and conject in a country mansion. Many circumstances, veyed her behind him to her own home; he then however, in the interior of the house, seem ap- paid her handsomely, and departed. The midpropriate to feudal times. The hall is very spa- wife was strongly agitated by the horrors of the cious, floored with stones, and lighted by large preceding night; and she immediately made a transom windows, that are clothed with case-deposition of the facts before a magistrate. Two ments. Its walls are hung with old military ac- circumstances afforded hopes of detecting the coutrements, that have long been left a prey to house in which the crime had been committed; rust. At one end of the hall is a range of coats one was, that the midwife, as she sat by the of mail and helmets, and there is on every side bedside, had, with a view to discover the place, abundance of old-fashioned pistols and guns, cut out a piece of the bedcurtain, and sewn it in many of them with matchlocks. Immediately again; the other was, that as she had descended below the cornice hangs a row of leathern jer- the staircase she had counted the steps. Some kius, made in the form of a shirt, supposed to suspicions fell upon one Darrell, at that time have been worn as armour by the vassals. A large the proprietor of Littlecote House, and the dooak-table, reaching nearly from one end of the main around it. The house was examined, and room to the other, might have feasted the whole identified by the midwife, and Darrell was tried neighbourhood, and an appendage to one end of at Salisbury for the murder. By corrupting his it made it answer at other times for the old judge, he escaped the sentence of the law; but game of shuffleboard. The rest of the furniture broke his neck by a fall from his horse in huntis in a suitable style, particularly an arm-chair ing a few months after. The place where this of cumbrous workmanship, constructed of wood, happened is still known by the name of Darrell's curiously turned, with a high back and triangu- Style,- a spot to be dreaded by the peasant lar seat, said to have been used by Judge Pop-whom the shades of evening have overtaken on ham in the reign of Elizabeth. The entrance into his way. the hall is at one end, by a low door, communicating with a passage that leads from the outer door in the front of the house to a quadrangle within; at the other, it opens upon a gloomy staircase, by which you ascend to the first floor, and, passing the doors of some bedchambers, enter a narrow gallery, which extends along the back front of the house from one end to the other of it, and looks upon an old garden. This gallery is hung with portraits, chiefly in the Spanish dresses of the sixteenth century. In one of the bedchambers, which you pass in going towards the gallery, is a bedstead with blue furniture, which time has now made dingy and threadbare, and in the bottom of one of the bedcurtains you are shown a place where a small piece has been cut out and sewn in again,-a circumstance which serves to identify the scene of the following story:

"It was on a dark rainy night in the month of November, that an old midwife sat musing by her cottage fire-side, when on a sudden she was startled by a loud knocking at the door. On opening it she found a horseman, who told her that her assistance was required immediately by a person of rank, and that she should be handsomely rewarded; but that there were reasons for keeping the affair a strict secret, and, therefore, she must submit to be blindfolded, and to be conducted in that condition to the bedchamber of the lady. With some hesitation the midwife consented; the horseman bound her eyes, and placed her on a pillion behind him. After proceeding in silence for many miles through rough and dirty lanes, they stopped, and the midwife was led into a house, which, from the length of her walk through the apartments, as well as the sounds about her, she discovered to be the seat of wealth and power. When the bandage was removed from her eyes, she found herself in a bedchamber, in which were the lady on whose account she had been sent for, and a man of a haughty and ferocious aspect. The lady was delivered of a fine boy. Immediately the man commanded the midwife to give him the child, and catching it from her, he hurried across the room, and threw it on the back of the fire, that was blazing in the chimney. The child, however, was strong, and, by its struggles, rolled itself upon the hearth, when the ruffian again seized it with fury, and, in spite of the intercession of the midwife, and the

"Littlecote House is two miles from Hungerford, in Berkshire, through which the Bath road passes. The fact occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. All the important circumstances I have given exactly as they are told in the country; some trifles only are added, either to render the whole connected, or to increase the impres sion."

It

To Lord Webb's edition of this singular story, the author can now add the following account, extracted from Aubrey's Correspondence. occurs among other particulars respecting Sir John Popham:

"Sir *** Dayrell, of Littlecote, in Corn. Wilts, having gott his lady's waiting woman with child, when her travell came, sent a servant with a horse for a midwife, whom he was to bring hood-winked. She was brought, and layd the woman, but as soon as the child was born, she sawe the knight take the child and murther it, and burn it in the fire in the chamber. She having done her business, was extraordinarily rewarded for her paines, and sent blindfolded away. This horrid action did much run in her mind, and she had a desire to discover it, but knew not where 'twas. She considered with herself the time that she was riding, and how many miles she might have rode at that rate in that time, and that it must be some great person's house, for the roome was 12 foot high; and she should know the chamber if she sawe it. She went to a Justice of Peace, and search was made. The very chamber found. The Knight was brought to his tryall; and, to be short, this judge had this noble house, parke and manner, and (I thinke) more, for a bribe to save his life.

"Sir John Popham gave sentence according to lawe, but being a great person and a favourite, he procured a noli prosequi.'

With this tale of terror the author has combined some circumstances of a similar legend, which was current at Edinburgh during his childhood.

About the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the large castles of the Scottish nobles, and even the secluded hotels, like those of the French noblesse, which they possessed in Edinburgh, were sometimes the scenes of strange and mysterious transactions, a divine of singular sanctity was called up at midnight to pray with a person at the point of death. This was no unusual summons; but what followed

name was Robert, was a man of great spirit and stationed his men properly in the avenues, and enterprise; and for his many feats of personal himself armed, rode directly into the church. It bravery had obtained, among the Oliverans of probably was not a regular church, but some those parts, the appellation of Robin the Devil. large place of meeting. It is said he intended to After the war had subsided, and the direful seize the Colonel and carry him off; but as this effects of public opposition had ceased, revenge seems to have been totally impracticable, it is and malice long kept alive the animosity of in- rather probable that his intention was to kill dividuals. Colonel Briggs, a steady friend to him on the spot, and in the midst of the confuusurpation, resided at this time at Kendal, and, sion to escape. Whatever his intention was, it under the double character of a leading magis- was frustrated, for Briggs happened to be else. trate (for he was a Justice of Peace) and an where. The congregation, as might be exactive commander, held the country in awe. pected, was thrown into great confusion on seeThis person having heard that Major Philipsoning an armed man on horseback make his apwas at his brother's house on the island in Win-pearance among them; and the Major, taking dermere, resolved, if possible, to seize and advantage of their astonishment, turned his punish a man who had made himself so particu- horse round, and rode quietly out. But having larly obnoxious. How it was conducted, my au- given an alarm, he was presently assaulted as thority does not inform us,-whether he got to- he left the assembly, and being seized, his girths gether the navigation of the lake, and blockaded were cut, and he was unhorsed. the place by sea, or whether he landed and carried on his approaches in form. Neither do we learn the strength of the garrison within, nor of the works without. All we learn is, that Major Philipson endured a siege of eight inmonths with great gallantry, till his brother, the Colonel, raised a party and relieved him.

"It was now the Major's turn to make reprisals. He put himself, therefore, at the head of a little troop of horse, and rode to Kendal. Here, being informed that Colonel Briggs was at prayers, (for it was on a Sunday morning,) he

"At this instant his party made a furious attack on the assailants, and the Major killed with his own hand the man who had seized him, clapped the saddle, ungirthed as it was, upon his horse, and, vaulting into it, rode full speed through the streets of Kendal, calling his men to follow him; and, with his whole party, made a safe retreat to his asylum in the lake. The action marked the man. Many knew him: and they who did not, knew as well from the exploit that it could be nobody but Robin the Devil."

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION.

IN the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year 1809, three Fragments were inserted, written in imitation of Living Poets. It inust have been apparent, that by these prolusions, nothing burlesque, or disrespectful to the authors was intended, but that they were offered to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of them, and present it as a separate publication.

It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be introduced; since his general acquiescence in the favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called ROMANTIC POETRY; the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual.

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure romance; but, in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song, do not exceed in number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society; and, indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance.

It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded the standards of poetry; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most appropriate subject for poetry; his purpose was to write the early history of his country: the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him, and this he has adorned by the exertions of a genius. which, if it has been equalled, has certainly never been surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing it, was brought into question. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Instead of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these later days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by almost all the writers upon the Epopera; with what success the fate of Homer's numerous imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of criticism was inflicted on the author if he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in a fatal comparison with those giants in the land, whom it was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which appeared in the Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of poetry; and, indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite.

Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interesting in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene immediately presented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate of but one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention: the other, if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual soldier in combat,

than in the grand events of a general action; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring at an universal good, but by exerting their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to general interest and attention; and perhaps we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated.

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; beginning and ending as he may judge best: which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epee, and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this species of composition: and, before joining the outery against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges and battles and great military evolutions in our poetry is complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our days are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects.