THE LIFE OF THE SEA.BY B. SIMMONS.

But the most wanton and persevering brawler of that quarrelsome period was no less a person than Philip, seventh Earl of Pembroke, and fourth of Montgomery. Head-breaking and rib-piercing were his daily diversions: for in those days, when all gentlemen wore swords, the superabundant pugnacity of bloods about town did not exhale itself on such easy terms as in the present pacific age. Now, the utmost excesses of "fast" youths—whether right honourables or linen-shopmen—when, after a superabundance of claret or gin twist, a supper at an opera-dancer's, or a Newgate song at a night-tavern, they patrol the streets, on rollicking intent, never exceed a "round" with a cabman, the abstraction of a few knockers, or a "mill" with the police; and are sufficiently expiated by a night in the station-house, and a lecture and fine from Mr Jardine the next morning. But with the Pembrokes, and Mohuns, and Walters, when the liquor got uppermost, it was out bilbo directly, and a thrust at their neighbours' vitals. And, doubtless, the lenity of the judges encouraged such rapier-practice; for unless malice aforethought was proved beyond possibility of a doubt, the summing-up was usually very merciful for the prisoner, as in the trial of Walters for Sir Charles Pym's death, when Mr Baron Jenner told the jury that "he rather thought there was a little heat of wine amongst them," (the evidence said that nine or ten bottles had been drunk amongst six of them, which, inthe case of seasoned topers, as they doubtless were, might hardly be considered an exculpatory dose;) "and this whole action was carried on by nothing else but by a hot and sudden frolic; and he was very sorry that it should fall upon such a worthy gentleman." Between merciful judges and privilege of peerage, Lord Pembroke got scot-free, or nearly so, out of various scrapes which would have been very serious matters a century and a half later. The first note taken of his eccentricities is an entry in the Lords' journals, dated the 28th January 1678, recording that the house was that day informed by the Lord Chancellor, in the name of his majesty, of "the commitment of the Earl of Pembroke to the Tower of London, for uttering such horrid and blasphemous words, and other actions proved upon oath, as are not fit to be repeated in any Christian assembly." After four weeks' imprisonment, his lordship was set free upon his humble petition, in which he asked pardon of God, the King, and the House of Peers, and declared his health "much impaired by the long restraint." His convalescence was rather boisterous, for exactly one week after his release, a complaint was made to the house by Philip Rycaut, Esq., to the effect that, on the evening of the preceding Saturday, "he being to visit a friend in the Strand, whilst he was at the door taking his leave, the Earl of Pembroke, coming by, came up to the door, and with his fist, without any provocation, struck the said Philip Rycaut such a blow upon the eye as almost knocked it out; and afterwards knocked him down, and then fell upon him with such violence that he almost stifled him with his gripes, in the dirt; and likewise his lordship drew his sword, and was in danger of killing him, had he not slipped into the house, and the door been shut upon him." One cannot but admire the sort of ascending scale observable in this assault. The considerate Pembroke evidently shunned proceeding at once to extreme measures; so he first knocked the man's eye out, then punched his head, then tried a little gentle strangulation, and finally drew his sword to put the poor wretch out of his misery. A mere assault and battery, however, was quite insufficient to dispel the steam accumulated during the month passed in the Tower. Twenty-four hours after the attack on Rycaut, and before that ill-used person had time to lodge his complaint, the furious earl had got involved in an affair of a much more serious nature, for which he was brought to trial before the Peers, in Westminster Hall. The Lord High Steward appointed on the occasion was the Lord Chancellor, Lord Finch, afterwards Earl of Nottingham, for whose address to the prisoner we would gladly make room here, for it is a masterpiece, of terse and dignified eloquence, and one of the most striking pages of Mr Peter Burke's compilation. The crime imputed to Lord Pembroke was the murder of one Nathaniel Cony, by striking, kicking, and stamping upon him; and the evidence for the prosecution was so strong that a verdict of guilty was inevitable. But it was brought in manslaughter, not murder; and the earl, claiming his privilege of peerage, was discharged. It is difficult to say what was considered murder at that time; nothing, apparently, short of homicide committed fasting, and after long and clearly established premeditation. A decanter of wine on the table, or the exchange of a few angry words, reduced the capital crime to a slight offence, got over by privilege of peerage or benefit of clergy. The death of Cony was the result of most brutal and unprovoked ill-treatment. "It was on Sunday the 3d of February," said the Attorney-General, Sir William Jones, in his quaint but able address to the peers, "that my Lord of Pembroke and his company were drinking at the house of one Long, in the Haymarket, (I am sorry to hear the day was no better employed by them,) and it was the misfortune of this poor gentleman, together with one Mr Goring, to come into this house to drink a bottle of wine." The said Goring was one of the chief witnesses for the prosecution, but his evidence was not very clear, for he had been excessively drunk at the time of the scuffle, and indeed poor Cony seems to have been the same; and it was his maudlin anxietyto see his friend home, and to take a parting-glass at Long's, "which itseems," said Goring, "was on the way," (he, the said Goring, being anything but confident of what had beenonoroffthe way on the night in question)—that brought him into the dangerous society of Lord Pembroke. Goring got into dispute with the earl, received a glass of wine in his face, had his sword broken, lost his hat and periwig, and was hustled out of the room. "Whilst I was thrusting him out of doors," deponed Mr Richard Savage, one of Lord Pembroke's companions, "I saw my Lord of Pembroke strike Cony with his right hand, who immediately fell down, and then gave him a kick; and so upon that, finding him not stir, I took Mr Cony, being on the ground, (I and my lord together, for I was not strong enough to do it myself,) and laid him on the chairs, and covered him up warm, and so left him." The tender attention of covering him up warm, did not suffice to save the life of Cony, who had evidently, from his account and that of the medical men, received a vast deal more ill-usage than Savage chose to acknowledge. The earl got off, however, as already shown, and was in trouble again before the end of the same year—this time with a man of his own rank, Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, the wit and poet, who received a message late one night, to the effect that Lord Pembroke was desirous to speak with him at Locket's tavern. After inquiring whether Pembroke were sober, and receiving an affirmative reply, Dorset went as requested, but only to be insulted by his very drunken lordship of Pembroke, who insisted on his fighting him forthwith for some imaginary affront. The matter came before the House of Peers, and the disputants were put under arrest in their respective dwellings, until Lord Pembroke, declaring himself unconscious of all that had passed on the night in question, tendered apologies, and craved to be allowed to retire to his house at Wilton, whither he accordingly was permitted to go, and where he may possibly have remained—as no other frolics are related of him—until his death, which occurred three or four years afterwards.

Few of the remarkable trials given in theAnecdotes of the Aristocracywill obtain much attention from persons who have read Mr Peter Burke's book, whence most of them are borrowed and condensed, with here and there a slight alteration or addition. In a note towards the close of his second volume, Mr Bernard Burke somewhat tardily acknowledges his obligations to his brother. Considering the recent publication of theCelebrated Trials, &c., it would perhaps have been judicious of him to have altogether omitted the criminal cases in question. As told by him, they do not constitute the best portion of his book, whose most interesting chapters, to our mind, are those including such wild old fragments asA Curious Tradition,The Mysterious Story of Littlecot,An Irish Waterfiend, and others of a similar kind. The short anecdotes are generally better than those that have been worked up into a sort of tale. Many of the stories have of course been already thrice told; but by persons who have not met with them, and who are not likely to take the trouble of hunting them up in old memoirs and magazines, they will be read with pleasure, and duly prized. And whilst Mr Craik's book may fairly claim to rank as history, and Mr Peter Burke's as a well-arranged and interesting compilation, it were hardly fair to refuse brother Bernard the modicum of praise usually awarded to a painstaking and amusing gossip.

"A very intelligent young lady, born and bred in the Orkney islands, who lately came to spend a season in this neighbourhood, told me nothing in the mainland scenery had so much disappointed her as woods and trees. She found them so dead and lifeless, that she never could help pining after the eternal motion and variety of the ocean. And so back she has gone; and I believe nothing will ever tempt her from the wind-swept Orcades again."—Sir Walter Scott.Lockhart's Life, vol. ii.—[Although it is of a female this striking anecdote is related, it has been thought more suitable to give the amplified expression of the sentiment in the stanzas a masculine application.]

These grassy vales are warm and deep,Where apple-orchards wave and glow;Upon soft uplands whitening sheepDrift in long wreaths.—Below,Sun-fronting beds of garden-thyme, aliveWith the small humming merchants of the hive,And cottage-homes in every shady nookWhere willows dip and kiss the dimples of the brook.

But all too close against my faceMy thick breath feels these crowding trees,They crush me in their green embrace.—I miss the Life of Seas;The wild free life that round the flinty shoresOf my bleak isles expanded Ocean pours—So free, so far, that, in the lull of even,Naught but the rising moon stands on your path to heaven.

In summer's smile, in winter's strife,Unstirr'd, those hills are walls to me;I want the vast, all-various lifeOf the broad, circling Sea,—Each hour in morn, or noon, or midnight's range,That heaves or slumbers with exhaustless change,Dash'd to the skies—steep'd in blue morning's rays—Or back resparkling far Orion's lovely blaze.

I miss the madd'ning Life of Seas,When the red, angry sunset dies,And to the storm-lash'd OrcadesResound the Seaman's cries:Mid thick'ning night and fresh'ning gale, uponThe stretch'd ear bursts Despair's appealing gun,O'er the low Reef that on the lee-beam ravesWith its down-crashing hills of wild, devouring waves.

How then, at dim, exciting morn,Suspense will question—as the DarkIs clearing seaward—"Has she wornThe tempest through, that Bark?"And, 'mid the Breakers, bulwarks parting fast,And wretches clinging to a shiver'd mast,Give funeral answer. Quick with ropes and yawl!Launch! and for life stretch out! they shall not perish all!

These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom,White with the hawthorn's summer snows;Along soft turf a purple gloomThe elm at sunset throws:There the fond lover, listening for the sweetHalf-soundless coming of his Maiden's feet,Thrills if the linnet's rustling pinions pass,Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the grass.

But Love his pain as sweetly tellsBeneath some cavern beetling hoar,Where silver sands and rosy shellsPave the smooth glistening shore—When all the winds are low, and to thy tenderAccents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slenderAnd tinkling cadence, wafting, every one,A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun.

Calm through the heavenly sea on highComes out each white and quiet star—So calm up Ocean's floating skyCome, one by one, afar,White quiet sails from the grim icy coastsThat hear the battles of the Whaleing hosts,Whose homeward crews with feet and flutes in tuneAnd spirits roughly blithe, make music to the moon.

Or if (like some) thou'st loved in vain,Or madly wooed the already Won,—Go when the Passion and the PainTheir havoc have begun,And dare the Thunder, rolling up behindThe Deep, to match that hurricane of mind:Or to the sea-winds, raging on thy paleGrief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter-keen a tale.

For in that sleepless, tumbling tide—When most thy fever'd spirits reel,Sick with desires unsatisfied,—Dwell life and balm to heal.Raise thy free Sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast—It boots not what—those rose-clouds in the West,And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be,Ploughing the stars through seas of blue Eternity.

This mainland life I could not live,Nor die beneath a rookery's leaves,—But I my parting breath would giveWhere chainless Ocean heaves;In some gray turret, where my fading sightCould see the Lighthouse flame into the night,Emblem of guidance and of hope, to save;Type of the Rescuer bright who walked the howling wave.

Nor, dead, amid the charnel's breathShall rise my tomb with lies befool'd,But, like the Greek who faced in deathThe sea in life he ruled,13High on some peak, wave-girded, will I sleep,My dirge sung ever by the choral deep;There, sullen mourner! oft at midnight loneShall my familiar friend, the Thunder, come to groan.

Soft Vales and sunny hills, farewell!Long shall the friendship of your bowersBe sweet to me as is the smellOf their strange lovely flowers;And each kind face, like every pleasant starBe bright to me though ever bright afar:True as the sea-bird's wing, I seek my home,And its glad Life, once more, by boundless Ocean's foam!

What trifles mere are more than treasure,To curious, eager-hearted boys!I yet can single out the pleasure,From memory's store of childish joys,That thrill'd me when some gracious guestFirst spread before my dazzled eyes,In covers, crimson as the West,A glorious book ofLondon Cries.

For days that gift was not resign'd,As stumbling on I spelt and read;It shared my cushion while I dined,—I took it up at night to bed;At noon I conn'd it half-awake,Nor thought, while poring o'er the prize,How oft my head and heart should acheIn listening yet to London Cries.

Imprinted was the precious bookBy great John Harris, of St Paul's,(The Aldus of the nursery-nook;)I still revere the shop's gray walls,Whose wealth of story-books had powerTo wake my longing boyhood's sighs:—But Fairy-land lost every flowerBeneath your tempests-London Cries!

I learn'd by rote each bawling word—And with a rapture turn'd the broad,Great staring woodcuts, dark and blurr'd,I never since derived from Claude.—That Cherry-seller's balanced scale,Poised nicely o'er his wares' rich dyes,Gave useful hints, of slight avail,To riper years 'mid London Cries.

The Newsman wound his noisy horn,And told how slaughter'd friends and foesLay heap'd, five thousand men, one morn,In thy red trenches, Badajoz.'TwasFame, and had its fond abettors;Though some folk now would think it wiseTo change that F for other letters,And hear no more such London Cries.

Here chimed the tiny Sweep;—since thenI've loved to drop that trifling balm,Prescribed, lostElia, by thy pen,Within his small half-perish'd palm.14And there the Milkmaid tripp'd and splash'd,—All milks that pump or pail supplies,(Save that with human kindness dash'd,)'Twas mine to quaff 'mid London Cries.

That Dustman—how he rang his bell,And yawn'd, and bellow'd "dust below!"I knew the very fellow's yellWhen first I heard it years ago.What fruits of toil, and tears, and trust,Of cunning hands, and studious eyes,Like Death, he daily sacks to dust,(Here goesmymite) 'mid London Cries!

The most vociferous of the printsWas He who chaunted Savoys sweet,The same who stunn'd, a century since,That proud, poor room in Rider Street:When morning now awakes his note,Like bitter Swift, I often rise,And wish his wares were in that throatTo stop at leasthisLondon Cries.15

That Orange-girl—far different powersWere hers from those that once could winHis worthless heart whose arid hoursWere fed with dew and light by Gwynn;The dew of feelings fresh as day—The light of those surpassing eyes—The darkest raindrop has a ray,And Nell had hers 'mid London Cries.16

Here sued the Violet-vender bland—It fills me now-a-days with gloomTo meet, amid the swarming Strand,Her basket's magical perfume:—The close street spreads to woodland dells,Where early lost Affection's tiesAre round me gathering violet-bells,—I'll rhyme no more of London Cries.

Yet ere I shut from Memory's sightThat cherish'd book, those pictures rare—Be it recorded with delightTheOrgan-fiend was wanting there.Not till the Peace had closed our quarrelsCould slaughter that machine devise(Made from his useless musket-barrels)To slay us 'mid our London Cries.

Why did not Martin in his ActInsert some punishment to suitThis crime of being hourly rack'dTo death by some melodious Brute?From ten at morn to twelve at nightHis instrument the Savage plies,From him alone there's no respite,Since'tis the Victim, here, that cries.

Macaulay! Talfourd! Smythe! Lord John!If ever yet your studies brownThis pest has broken in upon,Arise and put the Monster down.By all distracted students feelWhen sense crash'd into nonsense diesBeneath that ruthlessOrgan'swheel,We call! O hear our London Cries!

We gladly welcome this essay from the hand of an old friend, to whom Scotland is under great obligations. To Archdeacon Williams, so many years the esteemed and efficient head of our Edinburgh Academy, we are indebted for a large part of that increased energy and success with which our countrymen have latterly prosecuted the study of the classics; and he is more especially entitled to share with Professor Sandford, and a few others, the high praise of having awakened, in our native schools, an ardent love, and an accurate knowledge, of the higher Greek literature. We do not grudge to see, as the first fruits of Mr Williams's dignified retirement and well-earned leisure, a book devoted to an interesting passage in the antiquities of his own land.

The students of British history, particularly in its ecclesiastical branch, have long been familiar with the conjecture that Claudia, who is mentioned by St Paul, in his Second Epistle to Timothy, in the same verse with Pudens, and along with other Christian friends and brethren, may be identified in the epigrams of Martial as a lady of British birth or descent. The coincidences, even on the surface of the documents, are strong enough to justify the supposition. Claudia and Pudens are mentioned together by St Paul. Martial lived at Rome at the same time with the apostle; and Martial mentions first the marriage of a Pudens to Claudia, a foreigner, and next the amiable character of a matron Claudia, whom he describes as of British blood, and as the worthy wife of a holy husband. These obvious resemblances, with some other scattered rays of illustration, had been early observed by historians, and may be met with in all the common books on the subject, such as Thackeray and Giles. But the Archdeacon has entered deeper into the matter, and with the aid of local discoveries long ago made, but hitherto not fully used, and his own critical comparison of circumstances lying far apart, but mutually bearing on each other, he has brought the case, as we think, to a satisfactory and successful result; and has, at the same time, thrown important light on the position and character of the British people of that early period.

It seems remarkable that neither Thackeray nor Giles has noticed the argument derived from the singular lapidary inscription found at Chichester in 1723, and described in Horsley'sBritannia Romana. According to the probable reading of that monument it was erected by Pudens, the son of Pudentinus, under the authority of Cogidunus, a British king, who seems, according to a known custom, to have assumed the name of Claudius when admitted to participate in the rights of Roman citizenship, and who may be fairly identified with the Cogidunus of Tacitus, who received the command of some states in Britain, as part of a province of the empire, and whom the historian states that he remembered "as a most faithful ally of the Romans." The inscription is to be found in Dr Giles's appendix, but he seems ignorant of the inference which Dr Stukeley drew from it when it was first brought to light. From Dr Giles's plan, perhaps, we were wrong in expecting anything else than a compilation of the materials which were readiest at hand; but, even with our experience of his occasional love of paradox, we were not prepared for his attempt to cushion the question as to the conversion of the early Britons, by assuming the improbability "that the first teachers and the first converts to Christianity adopted the preposterous conduct of our modern missionaries, who, neglecting vice and misery of the deepest dye at home,expend their own overflowing feelings, and exhaust the treasures of the benevolent, in carrying their deeds of charity to the Negro and the Hindoo." Differences of opinion may be entertained as to the mode in which some modern missions have been conducted; and those who think there should be no missions at all, are at liberty to say so. But, as a matter of fact, it seems strange that any one should be found to lay it down that either St Paul or his brethren, or their disciples, could confine themselves merely to vice and miseryat home, or could have reconciled their consciences to so narrow a sphere of exertion, while the last words of their Master were still echoing in their ears, "Go ye, therefore, and teach ALL nations." The argument seems peculiarly absurd in the mouth of one who has edited, and with some success, the works of the venerable Bede—the worthy historian of those great changes which flowed from the Roman pontiff's resolution to look beyond vice and misery at home, and convey Christianity to the British shores; and who has also edited, we will not say so well, the remains of the excellent Boniface, whose undying fame rests on his self-devotion, in leaving his native land to seek the conversion of the German pagans.

If the only objection to the Britannic nativity of the Christian Claudia rested on the supposed indisposition of the apostles and their converts to diffuse the gospel over the remoter parts of the Roman empire, the case would be a clear one. But, even taking all difficulties into view, the probabilities in its favour are of a very decided character. The connexion between a Claudia and Pudens in Britain and a Pudens and Claudia in Rome, with the improbability that these names should be brought together in Paul's epistle in reference to other parties, goes far to support the conclusion; and it is aided by the collateral fact, that the name of Rufus—the friend of Martial's married Pair—has a connexion with the suspected Christianity of Pomponia, the wife of one of the Roman governors of Britain. But, without ourselves entering into details, we shall submit the summary which Mr Williams has made of the argument. The latter part of it relates to traditions or conjectures as to other parties, and as to ulterior consequences from the preceding theory, in reference to the early conversion of the Britons, which are deserving of serious attention, but in the accuracy of which we do not place equal confidence, though we think there is a general probability that a Christian matron of high rank and British birth would not forget the religious interests of her countrymen.

"We know, on certain evidence, that, in the year A.D. 67, there were at Rome two Christians named Claudia and Pudens. That a Roman, illustrious by birth and position, married a Claudia, a "stranger" or "foreigner," who was also a British maiden; that an inscription was found in the year 1723, at Chichester, testifying that the supreme ruler of that place was a Tib. Claud. Cogidunus; that a Roman, by name "Pudens, the son of Pudentinus, was a landholder under this ruler;" that it is impossible to account for such facts, without supposing a very close connexion between this British chief and his Roman subject; that the supposition that the Claudia of Martial, a British maiden, married to a Roman Pudens, was a daughter of this British chief, would clear all difficulties; that there was a British chief to whom, about the year A.D. 52, some states, either in or closely adjacent to the Roman Province, were given to be held by him in subjection to the Roman authority; that these states occupied, partly at least, the ground covered by the counties of Surrey and Sussex; that the capital of these states was "Regnum," the modern Chichester; that it is very probable that the Emperor Claudius, in accordance with his known practice and principles, gave also his own name to this British chief, called by Tacitus, Cogidunus; that, after the termination of the Claudian dynasty, it was impossible that any British chief adopted into the Roman community could have received the names "Tib. Claudius;" that during the same period there, lived at Rome a Pomponia, a matron of high family, the wife of Aulus Plautius, who was the Roman governor of Britain, from the year A.D. 43 until the year 52; that this lady was accused of being a votary of a foreign superstition; that this foreign superstition was supposed by all the commentators of Tacitus, both British and Continental, to be the Christian religion; that a flourishing branch of the GensPomponia, bore in that age the cognomen of Rufus; that the Christianity of Pomponia being once allowed, taken in connexion with the fact that she was the wife of A. Plautius, renders it highly probable that the daughter of Tib. Claudius Cogidunus, the friend of A. Plautius, if she went to Rome, would be placed under the protection of this Pomponia, would be educated like a Roman lady, and be thus made an eligible match for a Roman senator; and that, when fully adopted into the social system of Rome, she should take the cognomen Rufina, in honour of the cognomen of her patroness; and that, as her patroness was a Christian, she also, from the privileges annexed to her location in such a family, would herself become a Christian; that the British Claudia, married to the Roman Pudens, had a family, three sons and daughters certainly, perhaps six according to some commentators; that there are traditions in the Roman Church, that a Timotheus, a presbyter, a holy man and saint, was a son of Pudens the Roman senator; that he was an important instrument in converting the Britons to the faith in Christ; that, intimately connected with the narrow circle of Christians then living at Rome, was an Aristobulus, to whom the Christian Claudia and Pudens of St Paul must have been well known; that the traditions of the Greek Church of the very earliest period record, that this Aristobulus was a successful preacher of Christianity in Britain; that there are British traditions that the return of the family of Caractacus into Britain was rendered famous by the fact that it brought with it into our island a band of Christian missionaries, of which an Aristobulus was a leader; that we may suppose that, upon Christian principles, the Christianised families of both Cogidunus and Caractacus should have forgotten, in their common faith, their provincial animosities, and have united in sending to their common countrymen the word of life, the gospel of love and peace."

We believe that the Archdeacon is perfectly correct in his assertion that the British were not then either so barbarous, or so lightly esteemed by the Romans, as has been sometimes supposed. The undoubted alliance between Pudens and Claudia, celebrated by Martial as a subject of joyous congratulation, and the analogous case of the kindred Gauls, who were cheerfully acknowledged to deserve all the privileges of imperial naturalisation, seem to leave no room for doubt upon this question. Britain, therefore, we may assume, was, in the first century, both worthy and well prepared to receive any valuable boon of spiritual illumination which her friends at Rome might be ready to communicate.

But, while we so far go along with Mr Williams in his historical conjectures, we are not so much inclined to sympathise with him in some of the uses to which he wishes to put them. We rejoice to think that Christianity was largely diffused through Britain before the Saxon invasion. But we know too little of the British Church, except in the time of Pelagius, to have much confidence in her doctrine or discipline, or to regret deeply that theEnglishpeople—for such is undoubtedly the fact—were for the most part Christianised, not by the British clergy, but by the missionaries of Rome. We question if the historians of the sister isle will admit, or if impartial critics will unhesitatingly adopt the Archdeacon's assertion, that "this British church sent forth her missionaries into Ireland, and conveyed into that most interesting island both the faith of Christ and the learning of ancient Rome." With every disposition to acknowledge the services of the Irish in the conversion of the Picts, and partially also of the Angles, we must have more evidence before we can allow to the British Church even the indirect merit of those exertions.

But the material point in this question is, whether it be true that the British clergy refused or declined to exert themselves in the conversion of their conquerors. That they did so, is indicated by the absence of any evidence of such an attempt; and it was expressly made a subject of reproach to them, in the conference with Augustine, that they would not preach "the way of life to the Angles." If this be the case,—and it is half admitted by Mr Williams, when he says, that "the Irish Church,the members of which were less hostile to the Saxon invaders than were the Christian Britons, sent back into Britain the true faith,"—then such a course, so directly at variance with the spirit of Christianity, however humanly excusable, was sufficient toseal the doom of the church that practised it. It forms a remarkable contrast to the conduct of the Saxons themselves, who, when they in their turn were a prey to invasion, became the teachers of the very tyrants under whom they groaned, and even sent their missionaries into Scandinavia, to convert the countries which were the source of their sufferings. Nor were they in this respect without their reward. Their successful labours softened the oppression of their lot, and the sons of heathen and ruthless pirates became the beneficent and refined occupants of a Christian throne. If the British Church refused the opportunity afforded her, of at once converting and civilising her oppressors, she deserved her lot, and her advocates cannot now complain that the glory of founding Saxon Christianity must be awarded, not at all to her, but mainly to the Roman Gregory, who, whether from policy or piety, or both, entertained and perfected that missionary enterprise which influenced so beneficially the destiny of England and of Europe.

To us, and, we should think, to many men, it must be matter of little moment through what channel the stream of Christianity has been conveyed to us, if we possess it at our doors in purity and abundance. We would give the Pope his due, as well as others; but no antiquity of tradition, or dignity of authority, should restrain us from revising the doctrines transmitted to us, by a reference to the unerring standard of written truth. We adopt here the simple words and sound opinions of old Fuller: "We are indebted to God for his goodness in moving Gregory; Gregory's carefulness in sending Augustine; Augustine's forwardness in preaching here; but, above all, let us bless God's exceeding great favour that that doctrine which Augustine planted here but impure, and his successors made worse with watering, is since, by the happy Reformation, cleared and refined to the purity of the Scriptures."

This, however, is not an essential part of our present subject, and these feelings cannot interfere with our due appreciation of what Mr Williams has done to throw light on a most important subject of inquiry. If he gives us what he further promises,—a life of Julius Cæsar,—he will add a valuable contribution to the elucidation of British antiquities. The history and character of our Celtic fellow-countrymen, whether in the south, the north, or the west, have yet much need of illustration; and the task is well worthy of one who, with national predilections to stimulate his exertions, can bring to his aid the more refined taste and correcter reasoning which are cherished by a long familiarity with classical pursuits.

Sir Astley Cooper died in his seventy-third year, on the 12th of February 1841—that is, upwards of eight years ago—and with him was extinguished a great light of the age. He was a thorough Englishman: his character being pre-eminently distinguished by simplicity, courage, good nature, and generosity. He was very straightforward, and of wonderful determination. His name will always be mentioned with the respect due to signal personal merit, as that of a truly illustrious surgeon and anatomist, devoting the whole powers of his mind and body, with a constancy and enthusiasm which never once flagged, to the advancement of his noble and beneficent profession. His personal exertions and sacrifices in the pursuit of science, were almost unprecedented; but he knew that they were producing results permanently benefiting his fellow-creatures, at the same time that he must have felt a natural exultation at the pre-eminence which they were securing to himself over all his rivals and contemporaries, both at home and abroad, and the prospect of his name being transmitted with honour to posterity. What an amount of relief from suffering he secured to others in his lifetime! not merely by his own masterly personal exertions, but by skilfully training many thousands of others19to—go, and do likewise, furnished by him with the principles of sound and enlightened surgical, anatomical, and physiological knowledge! And these principles he has embodied in his admirable writings, to train succeeding generations of surgeons, so as to assuage agony, and avert the sacrifice of life and limb. Let any one turn from this aspect of his character, and look at him in a personal and social point of view, and Sir Astley Cooper will be found, in all the varied relations of life—in its most difficult positions, in the face of every temptation—uniformly amiable, honourable, high-spirited, and of irreproachable morals. His manners fascinated all who came in contact with him; and his personal advantages were very great: tall, well-proportioned, of graceful carriage, of a presence unspeakablyassuring20—with very handsome features, wearing ever a winning expression; of manners bland and courtly—without a tinge of sycophancy or affectation—the same to monarch, noble, peasant—in the hospital, the hovel, the castle, the palace. He was a patient, devoted teacher, during the time he was almost overpowered by the multiplicity of his harassing and lucrative professional engagements! Such was Sir Astley Cooper—a man whose memory is surely entitled to the best exertions of the ablest of biographers. Oh that a Southey could do by Astley Cooper as Southey did by Nelson!

"No one," observes Mr Cooper, the nephew of Sir Astley, and author of the work now before us, "has hitherto attempted to render the history of any surgeon a matter of interest or amusement to the general public."21We cannot deny the assertion, even after having perused the two volumesunder consideration, which are the production of a gentleman who, after making the remark just quoted, proceeds truly to observe, that "no author has had so favourable an opportunity"—i. e.of rendering the history of a surgeon a matter of general interest—as himself, "for few medical men in this country have ever held so remarkable a position in the eyes of their countrymen, for so long a period, or endeared themselves by so many acts of conduct, independent of their profession, as Sir Astley Cooper."22

Mr Bransby Cooper became the biographer of his uncle, at that uncle's own request,23who also left behind him rich materials for the purpose. We are reluctantly compelled to own that we cannot compliment Mr Cooper on the manner in which he has executed the task thus imposed upon him. He is an amiable and highly honourable man, every way worthy of the high estimation in which he was held by his distinguished kinsman, and whose glorious devotion to his profession he shares in no small degree. He is also an able man, and a surgeon of great reputation and eminence. He must, however, with the manliness which distinguishes his character, bear with us while we express our belief that he cannot himself be satisfied with the result of his labours, or the reception of them by the public. He evidently lacks the leading qualities of the biographer; who, at the same time that he has a true and hearty feeling for his subject, must not suffer it to overmaster him; who, conscious that he is writing for the public at large, instinctively perceives, as himself one of that public, what is likely to interest and instruct it—to hit the happy medium between personal and professional topics, and to make both subordinate to the development of THE MAN, so that we may not lose him among the incidents of his life. It is, again, extremely difficult for a man to be a good biographer of one who was of his own profession. He is apt to take too much, or too little, for granted; to regard that as generally interesting which is so only to a very limited circle, and, often halting between two opinions—whether to write for the general or the special reader—to dissatisfy both. From one or two passages in his "Introduction," Mr Cooper seems to have felt some such embarrassment,24and also to have experienced another difficulty—whether to write for those who had personally known Sir Astley or for strangers.25Mr Cooper, again, though it may seem paradoxical to say so, knows reallytoo muchof Sir Astley—that is, has so identified himself with Sir Astley, his habits, feelings, character, and doings—as boy and man, as the affectionate admiring pupil, companion, and kinsman—that he has lost the power of removing himself, as it were, to such a distance from his subject as would enable him to view it in its true colours and just proportions. These disadvantages should have occasioned him to reflect very gravely on the responsibility which he was about to undertake, in committing to the press a memoir of Sir Astley Cooper. He did so sadly too precipitately. Within sixteen months' time he had completed his labours, and they were printed, ready for distribution to the public. This was an interval by no means too short for a master of his craft—a ready and experienced biographer, but ten times too short for one who was not such. A picture for posterity cannot be painted at a moment's notice, and in five minutes' time: which might perhaps suffice for a gaudy daub, which is glanced at for a moment, and forgotten for ever, or remembered only with feelings of displeasure and regret. Mr Cooper felt it necessary to put forward some excuses, which we must frankly tell him are insufficient. "Professional duties, engagements, and other circumstances of a more private nature,"cannot"be accepted as an apology for the many defects to be found in these volumes."26A memoir of Sir Astley Cooper, by Mr Bransby Cooper, ought never to have stood in need of such apologies. If he had not sufficient time at his command, he should have considerably delayed the preparation of the Memoir, or committedhis materials to other hands, or subjected his performance to competent revision. As it is, we look in vain for discrimination, and subordination, and method. Topics are introduced which should have been discarded, or handled very, very differently. Innumerable communications from friends and associates of Sir Astley are incorporated into the work, in their writers'ipsissima verba; and this is positively treated by Mr Cooper as a matter of congratulation!27Again, the progress of the Memoir is continually interrupted by subsidiary memoirs of persons who had been casually or professionally connected with Sir Astley, but of whom the public at large knows nothing, nor cares for them one straw. We modify our complaint, on this score, as far as concerns the sketches of his contemporaries by Sir Astley himself, which are generally interesting and faithful, and occasionally very striking.—It grieves us to speak thus plainly of a gentleman so estimable and eminent as Mr Bransby Cooper, and justly enjoying so much influence and reputation; but, alas!Magaknows not friend from foe, the moment that she has seated herself in her critical chair. Unworthy would she be to sit there, as she has for now four hundred moons, were it otherwise.

The work before us came under our notice at the time when it was published—early in the year 1843; and the very first passage which attracted our attention was the following, lying on the threshold—in the first page of the Preface. It appeared to us to indicate a writer who had formed strange notions of the objects and uses of biography. Speaking of the "moral benefit" to be derived from perusing memoirs of those whose exertions had raised them to eminence, Mr Cooper proceeds to make these edifying and philosophical observations:—"Those who are in the meridian of their career,endeavour to discover a gratifying parallelin themselves; whilst the aged may still be reconciled to the result of their pilgrimage, if less successful, by adopting thecomfortable (!) self-assurancethat thefrowns of fortune, orsome unlooked-for fatality, have alone prevented them from enjoying a similar distinction, or becoming equally useful members of society."28Indeed! ifthesebe the uses of biography,—thus to pander to a complacent overweening vanity, or "minister" poison to minds diseased, embittered, and darkened by disappointment and despair, let us have no more of it. No, no, Mr Cooper, such are not the uses of biography, which are to entertain, to interest, to instruct; and its "moral benefit" is to be found in teaching the successful in life humility, moderation, gratitude; and stimulating them to a more active discharge of their duties,—to higher attainments, and more beneficial uses of them on behalf of their fellow-creatures; and also to remind them that their sun, then glittering at its highest, is thenceforward to descend the horizon! And as for those who have failed to attain the objects of their hopes and wishes, the contemplation of others' success should teach lessons of resignation and self-knowledge; set them upon tracing theirfailureto theirfaults—faults which have been avoided by him of whom they read; cause them to form a lower estimate of their own pretensions and capabilities; and if, after all, unable to account for failure, bow with cheerful resignation—notbeneath the "frowns of fortune," or yielding to "fatality," but to the will of God, who gives or withholds honour as He pleaseth, and orders all the events of our lives with an infinite, an awful wisdom and equity. We regard this use of the words "frowns of fortune," and "unlooked-for fatality," as inconsiderate and objectionable, and capable of being misunderstood by younger readers. Mr Cooper is a gentleman of perfectly orthodox opinions and correct feeling, and all that we complain of, is his hasty use of unmeaning or objectionable phraseology. In the very next paragraph to that from which we have been quoting, he thus laudably expresseshimself upon the subject. "It will be a useful lesson to observe that such distinction is the reward of early assiduous application, determined self-denial, unwearied industry, and high principle, without which, talents, however brilliant, will be of slight avail, or prove to be only theignes fatuiwhich betray to danger and destruction." And let us here place conspicuously before our readers—would that we could write in letters of gold!—the following pregnant sentences with which Sir Astley Cooper was wont, as President of the College of Surgeons, to address those who had successfully passed their arduous examination, in announcing to them that happy event:—

"Now, gentlemen, give me leave to tell you on what your success in life will depend.Firstly, upon a good and constantly increasing knowledge of your profession.Secondly, on an industrious discharge of its duties.Thirdly, upon the preservation of your moral character.Unless you possess the first,Knowledge, you ought not to succeed, and no honest man can wish you success.Without the second,Industry, no one will ever succeed.And unless you preserve yourMoral Character, even if it were possible that you could succeed, it would be impossible you could be happy."29

"Now, gentlemen, give me leave to tell you on what your success in life will depend.

Firstly, upon a good and constantly increasing knowledge of your profession.

Secondly, on an industrious discharge of its duties.

Thirdly, upon the preservation of your moral character.

Unless you possess the first,Knowledge, you ought not to succeed, and no honest man can wish you success.

Without the second,Industry, no one will ever succeed.

And unless you preserve yourMoral Character, even if it were possible that you could succeed, it would be impossible you could be happy."29

Peace to your ashes, good Sir Astley! honour to your memory, who from your high eminence addressed these words of warning and goodness to those who stood trembling and excited before you, and in whose memory those words were engraved for ever!

The passage which we have above first quoted from the preface of the work before us, was, we own, not without its weight in disinclining us to read that work with care, or notice it in Maga. Our attention, after so long an interval, was recalled to the work quite accidentally, and we have lately read it through, in an impartial spirit; rising from the perusal with a strong feeling of personal respect for Mr Cooper, and of regret that he had not given himself time to make more of his invaluable materials—thereby doing something like justice to the memory of his illustrious relative, and making a strong effort, at the same time, to "render the history of a surgeon a matter of interest and amusement to the general public." While, however, we thus censure freely, let us do justice. Mr Cooper writes in the spirit of a gentleman, with singular frankness and fidelity. His manly expressions of affection and reverence for the memory of Sir Astley, are worthy of both. When, too, Mr Cooper chooses to make the effort, he can express himself with vigour and propriety, and comment very shrewdly and ably on events and characters. One of the chief faults in his book is that of showing himself to be too much immersed in his subject: he writes as though he were colloquially addressing, in the world at large, a party of hospital surgeons and students. For this defect, however, he scarcely deserves to be blamed; the existence of it is simply a matter of regret, to the discriminating and critical reader.

The two volumes before us are rich in materials for the biographer. We can hardly imagine the life of a public man more varied, interesting, and instructive, than that of the great surgeon who is gone; and we have resolved, after much consideration, to endeavour to present to our innumerable readers, (for are they not so?) as distinct and vivid a portraiture of Sir Astley Cooper as we are able, guided by Mr Bransby Cooper. If our readers aforesaid derive gratification from our labour of love, let them give their thanks to that gentleman alone, whose candour and fidelity are, we repeat it, above all praise. We are ourselves not of his craft, albeit not wholly ignorant thereof, knowing only so much of it as may perhaps enable us to select what will interest general readers. Many portions of these volumes we shall pass over altogether, as unsuitable for our purposes; and those with which we thus deal, we may indicate as we go along. And, finally, we shall present some of the results of our own limited personal knowledge and observation of the admirable deceased.

Astley Paston Cooper came of agood family, long established in Norfolk, and there is reason for believing that there ran in his veins some of the blood of the immortal Sir Isaac Newton.30He was born on the 23d August 1768, at a manor-house called Brooke Hall, near Shottisham, in Norfolk. He was the sixth of ten children, and the fourth son. His father was the Rev. Samuel Cooper, D.D., (formerly a pensioner of Magdalen College, Cambridge,) then rector of Yelverton in that county, and afterwards perpetual curate of Great Yarmouth—a large cure of souls, numbering sixteen thousand, among whom he discharged his pastoral duties with exemplary faithfulness and vigilance, and was universally beloved and respected. He was also a magistrate, in which capacity he was conspicuous in suggesting and supporting schemes of public utility and benevolence. He was one of two sons of Mr Samuel Cooper, a surgeon at Norwich, a person of considerable professional reputation, and possessed of some literary pretensions. He left a handsome fortune to each of his sons, Samuel and William, and spent the evening of his life in the house of his elder son, at Yarmouth, but died at Dunston, in Norfolk, in 1785. The younger son became an eminent surgeon in London, and exercised, as will be presently seen, considerable influence on the fortunes of his celebrated nephew. Dr Cooper was the author of various works on the religious and political subjects principally discussed at that eventful period.31In the year 1761, while yet a curate, he married a lady of large fortune, Maria Susannah, the eldest daughter and heiress of James Bransby, Esq., of Shottisham, who was descended from an ancient Yorkshire family, the head of which was Geoffrey de Brandesbee. She appears to have been a lovely woman, equally in person, mind, and character, and possessed also of some literary reputation, as the author of several works of fiction, of a moral and religious character. She was an exemplary and devoted mother, and exercised a powerful and salutary influence over all her children, especially her son Astley, the dawn of whose eminence she lived to see, with just maternal pride and exultation; dying in the year 1807, when he was in his thirtieth year. Several of her letters to him are given in these volumes, and they breathe a sweet spirit of piety and love. Thus, on both sides, he was well born, and his parents were also in affluent circumstances, enabling them to educate and provide satisfactorily for their large family.

Astley took his Christian name from his godfather, Sir Edward Astley, then M.P. for the county of Norfolk, and the grandfather of the present Lord Hastings. His second name,Paston, was the maiden name of hismaternal grandmother, who was related to the Earl of Yarmouth. As his mother's delicate health would not admit of her nursing him, as she had nursed all her other children, the little Astley was sent, for that purpose, to a Mrs Love, the wife of a respectable farmer, a parishioner of Dr Cooper's;32and on returning home he received the zealous and affectionate attentions of his exemplary mother, who personally instructed him, as soon as he was able to profit by her exertions, in English grammar and history, for the latter of which he always evinced a partiality. He was initiated by his father into Greek and Latin; but his classical acquirements never enabled him to do more than read a little in Horace and the Greek Testament. As soon, in fact, as his boyish attention had ceased to be occupied with the classics, he seems to have bade them farewell, and never, at any period of his life, did he renew or increase his acquaintance with them. His only other preceptor, at this early period, was Mr Larke, the village schoolmaster, who taught writing, arithmetic, and mathematics to Dr Cooper's children, of all of whom Astley seems to have done him the least credit. Astley was about thirteen years old when he ceased to receive the instructions of Mr Larke, and was of a gay, volatile disposition, full of fun and frolic, and utterly reckless of danger. He had a charming deportment from his earliest youth; his manners were so winning, and his disposition was so amiable, that he was a universal favourite, even with those who were most frequently the victims of his frolicsome pranks. Wherever danger was to be found, there was Astley sure to be—the leader in every mischievous expedition which he and his companions could desire. His adventurous disposition frequently placed his limbs, and even his life, in danger. He would often, for instance, drive out the cows from a field, himself mounted on the back of the bull; and run along the eaves of lofty barns, from one of which he once fell, but luckily on some hay lying beneath. He once climbed to the roof of one of the aisles of the church, and, losing his hold, fell down, to the manifest danger of his life—escaping, however, with a few bruises only. Once he caught a horse grazing on a common, mounted him, and with his whip urged the animal to leap over a cow lying on the ground. Up jumped the cow at the moment of the startling transit, and overthrew both horse and rider; the latter breaking his collarbone in the fall. If vicious and high-mettled horses were within his reach, he would fearlessly mount them, without saddle or bridle, guiding them with a stick only. Was there a garden or orchard to be robbed, young Astley was the chieftain to plan the expedition, and divide the spoil. "Who can say," observes his biographer,33"that the admiration and applause which young Astley obtained from his fellows for his intrepidity in these youthful exploits, were not, in truth, the elements of that love of superiority, and thirst for fame, which prevented him over afterwards from being contented with any but the highest rank in every undertaking with which he associated himself?" There may be some truth in this remark; but let it also be borne in mind—(that youth may not be led astray by false notions)—that this love of adventure and defiance of danger have often been exhibited in early years, by those who haveturned out very differently from Astley Cooper, and proved themselves to be the silliest, most mischievous, and most degraded of mankind—the very curses of society.

One of the earliest incidents in young Astley's life, was one which exposed him to great danger. While playing with an elder brother, who happened to have an open knife in his hand, Astley ran heedlessly against it; the blade entering the lower part of his cheek, passing upwards, and being stopped only by the socket of the eye. The wound bled profusely, and the injury sustained was so great, as to keep him a close prisoner, and under surgical treatment, for a long time; and Sir Astley bore with him to the grave the scar which had been made by the wound. Two other incidents happening about the same time, when he was in his twelfth or thirteenth year, present young Astley in an interesting and striking point of view. Some of the scholars belonging to a boarding-school in the village, were playing together one day near a large pond, when the bell had summoned them to return to their duties. As they were going, one of them snatched off the hat of one of his companions, and flung it into the pond. The latter cried bitterly for the loss of his hat, and from fear of being punished for not returning with the others to school. At this moment came up a young gentleman dressed, according to the fashion of that day, in a scarlet coat, a three-cocked hat, a glazed black collar or stock, nankeen small-clothes, and white silk stockings, his hair hanging in ringlets down his back. This was no other than Astley Cooper, returning from a dancing-school held at a neighbouring inn, by a teacher of the art, who used to come from Norwich. Observing the trouble of the despoiled youngster, Astley inquired the cause; and having his attention directed to the hat in the water, he marched in with great deliberation, and succeeded in obtaining the hat, having waded above his knees, and presenting a somewhat droll object as he came out, his gay habiliments bedaubed with mud and water. The other circumstance alluded to is certainly very remarkable, when coupled with his subsequent career. One of his foster-brothers, while conducting a horse and cart conveying coals to some one in the village, unfortunately stumbled in front of the cart, the wheel of which passed over his thigh, and, among other severe injuries, lacerated the principal artery. The danger was of course imminent. The poor boy, sinking under the loss of blood, which the few bystanders ineffectually attempted to stop by applying handkerchiefs to the wound, was carried into his mother's house, whither young Astley, having heard of the accident, quickly followed. He alone, amidst the terror and confusion which prevailed, had his wits about him, and after a few moments' reflection took out his pocket handkerchief, encircled with it the thighabove the wound, and bound it round as tightly as possible, so as to form a ligature upon the wounded vessel. This stopped the bleeding, and kept the little sufferer alive till the arrival of a surgeon. The self-possession, decision, and sagacity displayed by little Astley Cooper on this occasion, are above all praise, and must have produced a deep impression on the minds of his parents, and indeed upon any one who had heard of the occurrence. It is barely possible that he might have originally caught the hint through overhearing such subjects mentioned by his grandfather or his uncle, the surgeons. This is hardly likely; but, even were it so, it leaves the self-possessed and courageous youth entitled to our highest admiration. In after years, Sir Astley Cooper frequently spoke of this circumstance as a very remarkable event in his life, and that which had first bent his thoughts towards the profession of surgery.34This is very probable. The inward delight which he must have experienced at having saved the life of his foster-brother, and receiving the grateful thanks and praises of his foster-mother and her family, must have contributed to fix the occurrence in his mind, and to surround it with pleasing associations.

In the year 1781, Dr Cooper and his family quitted Brooke for Yarmouth,on his being appointed to the perpetual curacy of the latter place. Astley was then in his thirteenth year. Sixty years afterwards, the great surgeon, who had a strong attachment to particular places, made a pilgrimage to the scene of his gay and happy boyhood at Brooke, at that time a pretty and retired village, and hallowed by every early and tender association. He found it, however, strangely altered, as he gazed at it, doubtless with a moistened eye and a throbbing heart. Let him speak for himself; for he has left on record his impressions. Having dined at the village inn, he says,—

"I walked down the village, along an enclosed road, dull and shadowed by plantations on either side; instead of those commons and open spaces, ornamented here and there by clean cottages. The littlemere35was so much smaller than in my imagination, that I could hardly believe my eyes; the great mere was half empty, and dwindled also to a paltry pond. On my right were the plantations of Mr Ketts, overshading the road, and for which numerous cottages had been sacrificed; on my left, cottages enclosed in gardens. Still proceeding to the scenes of my early years, on the right was a lodge leading to Mr Holmes's new house, and water with a boat on it—a fine mansion, but overlooking the lands of Mr Ketts. I then walked on to the vicar's, Mr Castell, but he was out. I looked for the church mere, and it was filled up, planted, and converted into a garden. I looked for the old Brooke Hall, the place of my nativity, and the seat of the happiness of my early years; for the road which led to it and its forecourt—its flower-gardens and kitchen-gardens, its stable-yard and coach-houses—and all were gone. The very place where they once were is forgotten. Here we had our boat, our swimming, our shooting—excellent partridge-shooting—in Brooke wood tolerable pheasant-shooting—woodcocks; in Seething Fen abundance of snipes—a good neighbourhood, seven miles from Norwich, almost another London, where my grandfather lived; we knew everybody, kept a carriage and chaise, saw much company, and were almost allowed to do as we liked; but the blank of all these gratifications now only remains."The once beautiful village is swallowed up by two parks—cottages cut down to make land for them—commons enclosed," &c.36

"The once beautiful village is swallowed up by two parks—cottages cut down to make land for them—commons enclosed," &c.36

On the page opposite to that on which these remarks are written, Sir Astley has roughly sketched the village as it had stood in his childhood, and as he found it on the occasion of his revisiting it.

On reaching his new residence at Yarmouth, this apparently incorrigible Pickle betook himself with renewed energy to mischief and fun; "indulging more easily," says Mr Cooper, "and on a larger scale, in those levities, the offspring of a buoyant heart and thoughtless youth, which had already distinguished him in the more limited sphere which he had just quitted.... These irregularities, however, were never strictly opposed to the interests of virtue and honesty—nor, indeed, ever exhibited anything but repugnance to those mean, though less serious faults, which often intrude into schoolboy sports and occupations. They were, on the contrary, characterised by cheerfulness of temper, openness of character, sensibility of disposition, and every quality of an ingenuous mind."37Very soon after his arrival, his temerity led him into a most perilous adventure—one which might have been expected to cure his propensity to court danger.

"Soon after Dr Cooper's arrival in Yarmouth, the church underwent certain repairs, and Astley having constant access to the building from his influence with the sexton, used frequently to amuse himself by watching the progress of the improvements. Upon one occasion he ascended by a ladder to the ceiling of the chancel, (a, height of seventy feet,) and with foolish temerity walked along one of the joists—a position of danger to which few but the workmen, who were accustomed to walk at such an elevation, would have dared voluntarily to expose themselves. While thus employed, his foot suddenly slipped, and he fell between the rafters of the ceiling. One of his legs, however, fortunately remained bent over the joist on which he had been walking, while the foot was caught beneath the next adjoining rafter, and by this entanglement alone he was preserved frominstant destruction. He remained for some time suspended with his head downwards, and it was not until after repeated and violent efforts, that he succeeded in jerking his body upwards, when, by catching hold of the rafter, he was enabled to recover his footing. I believe, from the manner in which Sir Astley used to refer to this adventure, that he always re-experienced to a great degree the horror which filled his mind at seeing the distance between him and the floor of the chancel, when he was thus suspended from its ceiling."—(Pp. 70-1.)

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