this?'Twas no year of our Lord, replied my father...... That's impossible, cried my uncle Toby......Simpleton ! said my father, 'twas forty years before Christ was born. My uncle Toby had but two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the Wandering Jew,—or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain. -' May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore him,' said my uncle Toby, praying silently for my father, and with tears in his eyes.

My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his harangue with great spirit.

'There is not such great odds, brother Toby, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines.' (This way of setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions.)- -'Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life.'.. ......Much good may it do them,-said my uncle Toby to himself.

'My son is dead!'--so much the better;-'tis a shame, in such a tempest, to have but one anchor.

'But he is gone for ever from us! be it so.- He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald; he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited;-from a banquet before he had got drunken.

'The Thracians wept when a child was born,'.... (And we were very near it, quoth my uncle Toby)........... 'and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason-Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of Envy after it ;-it unlooses the chain of the captive,—and puts the bondsman's task into another man's hands.

'Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I'll show thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.'

Is it not better, my dear brother Toby-(for markour appetites are but diseases) is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?—not to thirst, than to take physic to cure it?

Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues,from love and melancholy,—and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled traveller who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?

There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks but what it borrows from groans and convulsions—and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a dying man's room.-Strip it of these,-What is it ?......'Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle Toby.-Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its mourning, its plumes, escutcheons, and other mechanic aids-What is it?......Better in battle? continued my father, smiling; for he had absolutely forgot my brother Bobby-it is terrible no way-for consider, brother Toby, when we are-death is not ;—and when death is-we are not. -My uncle Toby laid down his pipe, to consider the proposition; my father's eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man ;-away it went and hurried my uncle Toby's ideas along with it.

For this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect how little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have made-Vespasian died in a jest upon his close-stool-Galba with a sentence ;Septimus Severus in a despatch ;-Tiberius in dissimulation ;—and Cæsar Augustus in a compliment..............I hope 'twas a sincere one,-quoth my uncle Toby'Twas to his wife,-said my father.

(From Tristram Shandy, v. 7.)

The Kitchen Sorrowing.

-My young master in London is dead! said Obadiah.

-A green satin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought into Susannah's head.—Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfections of words.Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into mourning. -But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herselffailed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green. — The green satin night-gown hung there still.

-Oh! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah. My mother's whole wardrobe followed.-What a procession! her red damask,—her orange-tawny, —her white and yellow lute-strings,—her brown taffeta, -her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats-Not a rag was left behind.—No -she will never look up again!' said Susannah.

We had a fat foolish scullion ;-my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;-she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.He is dead! said Obadiah; -he is certainly dead!......So am not I, said the foolish scullion.

Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen,-master Bobby is dead and buried—the funeral was an interpolation of Susannah'ss—we shall have all to go into mourn ing, said Susannah.

I hope not, said Trim...... You hope not! cried Susannah, earnestly.The mourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's....I hope,-said Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true....I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah; and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the Ox-moor....Oh! he's dead, said Susannah....As sure, said the scullion, as I'm alive. I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a sigh.-Poor creature!-poor boy!poor gentleman!

-He was alive last Whitsuntide! said the coachman...... Whitsuntide !-alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,-what is Whitsuntide, Jonathan (for that was the coachman's name), or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this! Are we not here now, continued the Corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability);—and are we not-(dropping his hat on the ground) gone! in a moment !— 'Twas infinitely striking-Susannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and stones. -Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it.-The whole kitchen crowded about the Corporal.

Now, as I perceive plainly that the preservation of our constitution in church and state, and, possibly, the preservation of the whole world,—or, what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the Corporal's eloquence,-I do demand your attention:-your Wor ships and Reverences, for any ten pages together, take

them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.

I said, 'We are not stocks and stones :'-'tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels,-I wish we were; but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations :---and what a junketing piece of work of it there is betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them; for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm that, of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, tho' most of your Barbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,-gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy than words can either convey-or sometimes get rid of.

--I've gone a little about ;-no matter, 'tis for health, -let us only carry it back in our mind, to the mortality of Trim's hat-Are we not here now,-and gone in a moment?'-There was nothing in the sentence ;'twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.

Are we not here now,' continued the Corporal, and are we not '-dropping his hat plump upon the ground,—and pausing, before he pronounced the word -'gone! in a moment?' The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand seemed to vanish from under it ;-it fell dead;-the Corporal's eye fixed upon it as upon a corpse ;-and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.

Now, ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground without any effect. -Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under Heaven,-or in the best direction that could be given to it :-had he dropped it like a goose,-like a puppy,-like an ass, or in doing it, or even after he had done it, had he looked like a fool,-like a ninny,-like a nincompoop,—it had failed, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.

Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence ;-who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,-and then harden it again to your purpose ;

Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass; and having done it, lead the owners of them whither ye think meet ;

Ye, lastly, who drive; and why not? Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market, with a stick and a red clout, meditate,-meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim's hat. (From Tristram Shandy, v. 7.)

The Starling. Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be overburthened with money as thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate me how much I had taken care for? Upon telling him the exact sum, Eugenius shook his head and said it would not do; so pulled out his purse, in order to empty it into mine......I've enough, in conscience, Eugenius, said I......Indeed Yorick, you have not, replied Eugenius; I know France and Italy better than you...... But you don't consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing his offer, that before I have been three days in

Paris, I shall take care to say or do something or other for which I shall get clapped up into the Bastile, and that I shall live there a couple of months entirely at the King of France's expense......I beg pardon, said Eugenius, drily; really, I had forgot that resource.

Now the event I had treated gaily came seriously to my door.

Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity; or what is it in me, that after all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and I was quite alone, I could not bring down my mind to think of it otherwise than I had then spoken of it to Eugenius?

-And as for the Bastile-the terror is in the word.Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a tower ;-and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out of.Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.— But with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man can't get out, he may do very well within, -at least for a month or six weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in.

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I settled this account; and remember I walked down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning.Beshrew the sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly-for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened; reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them.-'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition-the Bastile is not an evil to be despised.—But strip it of its towers-fill up the foss--unbarricade the doors-call it simply a confinement, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper-and not of a man, which holds you in it-the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.

I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained it could not get out.'-I look'd up and down the passage, and, seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention.

In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage.-'I can't get out-I can't get out,' said the starling.

I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity,-'I can't get out,' said the starling.

-God help thee! said I,-but I'll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get the door : it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. -I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and, thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient.-I fear, poor creature, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty.' No,' said the starling; I can't get out-I can't get out.'

I vow I never had any affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call'd home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they

chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, said I, still thou art a bitter draught! and, though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.-'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron ;-with thee, to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose Court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion,-and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!

The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. I sat down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me,

-I took a single captive; and, having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood; -he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time;-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice-His children !

But here my heart began to bleed; and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calender of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there :-he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down,-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. -He gave a deep sigh. I saw the iron enter into his soul!-I burst into -I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

tears.

(From A Sentimental Journey.)

I

There is an edition of Sterne's works by the present writer (with the letters and sermons, 6 vols. 1894); of Tristram Shandy, by Messrs Henley and Whibley (1894); and of Tristram Shandy and the Sentimental Journey, in Macmillan's Library of English Classics (1900). For the biography consult Ferriar's Illustrations of Sterne (1812), Percy Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne (new ed. 1896), H. D. Traill's monograph in the English Men of Letters Series (1882),

the French Life by Paul Slapfer (1881), Scherer's Essay (trans. 1891), and Mr Sidney Lee's article in the Dictionary of National Biography. It ought, perhaps, to be said that this last adds very largely, from sources mostly unpublished and sometimes accessible with great difficulty, to our previous information. The particulars, however, though sometimes interesting, are in no single instance of great importance; and in a good many cases probably represent merely the gossip to which, unluckily, Sterne seems to have given more than sufficient handles. But on the whole they may be said materially to confirm and enliven, without in any way altering, the portrait of the author of Tristram Shandy that we derive from his own books and his long-known letters.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY. James Townley (1714-78) was author of High Life below Stairs, a burlesque on the extravagance and affectation of servants in aping the manners of their masters, ultimately detected by the master in disguise. The play was said actually to have had some effect in correcting this abuse; at all events it provoked organised and violent protest from all the liveried servants in the gallery when it was produced in the Edinburgh theatre. Townley, son of a wealthy London merchant and brother of Sir Charles Townley, Garter King of Arms, was born at Barking and bred at St John's, Cambridge. From 1760 he was head-master of Merchant Taylors' School, and latterly he also held clerical preferments. Other two farces of his were failures. But it was said that from one of them came much of a piece produced by Garrick and Colman, and that many of the best things by Garrick, Townley's intimate, benefited greatly by Townley's suggestion and revision.

John Hawkesworth (c. 1715-73), born in London, in 1744 succeeded Dr Johnson on the Gentleman's Magazine; and in 1752 started, with Johnson and others, The Adventurer, half of whose 140 numbers were from Hawkesworth's pen, and show a not wholly unsuccessful imitation of the Johnsonian manner. Hawkesworth, who became LL.D., published a volume of fairy tales (1761), edited Swift, and prepared the account of Captain Cook's first voyage, which formed vols. ii. and iii. of Hawkesworth's Voyages (3 vols. 1773).

Charles Johnstone (c. 1719-1800) amused the town in 1760-65 by the clever contemporary satire of his Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea. Born of Annandale ancestry in County Limerick, Johnstone studied at Dublin, and was debarred by deafness from success as a lawyer. He went to India in 1782, was a proprietor of one of the Bengal newspapers, and died at Calcutta. Several other novels from his pen are now even more completely forgotten than Chrysal. Dr Johnson to whom the manuscript was shown by the bookseller-advised the publication of Chrysal, whose author, Sir Walter Scott afterwards said, might safely be ranked as a prose Juvenal. The adventures are related somewhat in the style of Le Sage and of Smollett, but the satirical portraits are overcharged; the author exaggerated the vices of his age and of its public men, and his book was not altogether unjustly called the best scandalous chronicle of the day.

Horace Walpole (formally HORATIO), fourth Earl of Orford, was born 24th September 1717 (O.S.) in London, the third son of Sir Robert Walpole. At Eton and at King's College, Cambridge, he had Gray the poet as a friend, and while still at the university was appointed by his father to sinecures worth £1200 a year. He and Gray set out together on the grand tour, but after two years quarrelled and parted at Reggio, where Walpole fell ill. Returning to England (1741), he took his seat for Callington in Cornwall; but although he interested himself in cases like the Byng trial of 1757, his function in politics was that of the chronicling spectator rather than the energetic actor. He exchanged his Cornish seat in 1754 for the family borough of Castle Rising, and this in 1757 for that of King's Lynn. In 1745 his father died, leaving him with ample means; and he continued to live the life of collector and connoisseur, dabbling lightly in familiar verse and jeux d'esprit, trifling with history and art criticism, and corresponding voluminously. In 1747 he purchased, near Twickenham, the cottage which he gradually elaborated into the well-known 'Gothic Castle' and 'curiosity shop' of Strawberry Hill. This transformation, authorship, visits to Paris (1765, 1767, 1775, where he came to know Madame du Deffand), the establishment of a private press (1757), and correspondence with Sir Horace Mann and others constituted the occupations of his life. His acquaintance with the two Misses Berry, his 'twin wives,' dated from 1788; he died in London 2nd March 1797, and was buried at Houghton, the Norfolk seat of his family. In 1791, by the death of his eldest brother's son, he had become fourth Earl of Orford; he was never married. His essays in Moore's World exhibit a deft hand, and he had gifts as a verse-writer. such squibs as the Letter from Xo Ho to his friend Lien Chi at Pekin (1757), in which he follows Montesquieu and Lyttelton and anticipates Goldsmith, he is at his best. His Castle of Otranto (1764), professedly a translation from the MS. of an Italian cleric, was, with its mediaval and supernatural machinery, a forerunner of the romantic movement. Lauded by Sir Walter Scott and denounced by Hazlitt, this romance had undoubtedly the honour, such as it is, of leading up to the School of Terror,' to Clara Reeve and Mrs Radcliffe, to Beckford and Monk Lewis and Maturin. Walpole's tragedy of The Mysterious Mother (1768), pronounced of the highest order' by Byron, is 'strong' but gruesome. Other works often quoted are the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors (1758; best ed. 1806), Fugitive Pieces in Verse and Prose (1758), Anecdotes of Painting in England (1761-71, a standard work for more than a century), a Catalogue of Engravers (1763), Historic Doubts on Richard III. (1768), an Essay on Modern Gardening (1785), Memoirs of the Last Ten Years of George II.(1822), Memoirs of the Reign of George III. (1845; good ed. by G. F. Russell Barker, 1892), &c. He also printed at the Strawberry Hill Press

In

the Odes of Gray (1757), Grammont's Memoires (1772), Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury (1764), Lucan's Pharsalia, with Bentley's notes (1760), &c. Walpole's literary reputation rests chiefly upon his published letters, which, nearly 2700 in number, rival in interest those of his friend Gray, and deal in the most vivacious way with party politics, foreign affairs, literature, art, and personal gossip. His criticisms, frequently caustic, at times merely capricious, often show real literary insight.

Strawberry Hill.

You perceive by my date [1747] that I am got into a new camp, and have left my tub at Windsor. It is a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs Chenevix's shop [the place was sub-let to him by Mrs Chenevix, a toy-woman], and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in enamelled meadows, with filigree hedgesA small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little finches wave their wings of gold. Two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me continually with coaches and chaises; barges as solemn as Barons of the Exchequer move under my window; Richmond Hill and Ham Walks bound my prospects; but, thank God! the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry. Dowagers, as plenty as flounders, inhabit all around; and Pope's ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight.

The Scottish Rebellion.

Nov. 15, 1745.

I told you in my last what disturbance there had been about the new regiments; the affair of rank was again disputed on the report till ten at night, and carried by a majority of twenty-three. The King had been persuaded to appear for it, though Lord Granville made it a party-point against Mr Pelham. Winnington did not speak. I was not there, for I could not vote for it, and yielded not to give any hindrance to a public measure (or at least what was called so) just now. The Prince acted openly, and influenced his people against it; but it only served to let Mr Pelham see, what, like everything else, he did not know, how strong he is. The King will scarce speak to him, and he cannot yet get Pitt into place.

The Rebels are come into England: for two days we believed them near Lancaster, but the Ministry now own that they don't know if they have passed Carlisle. Some think they will besiege that town, which has an old wall, and all the militia in it of Cumberland and Westmoreland; but as they can pass by it, I don't see why they should take it, for they are not strong enough to leave garrisons. Several desert them as they advance south; and altogether, good men and bad, nobody believes them ten thousand. By their marching westward to avoid Wade, it is evident that they are not strong enough to fight him. They may yet retire back into their mountains, but if once they get to Lancaster, their retreat is cut off; for Wade will not stir from Newcastle till he has embarked them deep into England, and then he will be behind them. He has sent General

Handasyde from Berwick with two regiments to take possession of Edinburgh. The Rebels are certainly in a very desperate situation: they dared not meet Wade; and if they had waited for him, their troops would have

deserted. Unless they meet with great risings in their favour in Lancashire, I don't see what they can hope, except from a continuation of our neglect. That, indeed, has nobly exerted itself for them. They were suffered to march the whole length of Scotland, and take possession of the capital, without a man appearing against them. Then two thousand men sailed to them, to run from them. Till the flight of Cope's army, Wade was not sent. Two roads still lay into England, and till they had chosen that which Wade had not taken, no army was thought of being sent to secure the other. Now Ligonier, with seven old regiments, and six of the new, is ordered to Lancashire: before this first division of the army could get to Coventry, they are forced to order it to halt, for fear the enemy should be up with it before it was all assembled. It is uncertain if the Rebels will march to the north of Wales, to Bristol, or towards London. If to the latter, Ligonier must fight them: if to either of the other, which I hope, the two armies may join and drive them into a corner, where they must all perish. They cannot subsist in Wales but by being supplied by the papists in Ireland. The best is, that we are in no fear from France; there is no preparation for invasions in any of their ports. Lord Clancarty, a Scotchman [not so; he was Irish] of great parts, but mad and drunken, and whose family forfeited £90,000 a year for King James, is made vice-admiral at Brest. The Duke of Bedford goes in his little round person with his regiment; he now takes to the land, and says he is tired of being a pen-and-ink man. Lord Gower insisted too upon going with his regiment, but is laid up with the gout.

With the Rebels in England, you may imagine we have no private news, nor think of foreign. From this account you may judge that our cause is far from desperate, though disagreeable.

The Prince [Frederick, Prince of Wales], while the Princess lies-in, has taken to give dinners, to which he asks two of the ladies of the bed-chamber, two of the maids of honour, &c. by turns, and five or six others. He sits at the head of the table, drinks and harangues to all this medley till nine at night; and the other day, after the affair of the regiments, drank Mr Fox's health in a bumper, with three huzzas, for opposing Mr Pelham : 'Si qua fata aspera rumpas,

Tu Marcellus eris!'

You put me in pain for my eagle, and in more for the Chutes, whose zeal is very heroic, but very ill-placed. I long to hear that all my Chutes and eagles are safe out of the Pope's hands! Pray, wish the Suareses joy of all their espousals. Does the Princess pray abundantly for her friend the Pretender? Is she extremely abattue with her devotion; and does she fast till she has got a violent appetite for supper? And then, does she eat so long, that old Sarrasin is quite impatient to go to cards again? Good-night! I intend you shall still be Resident from King George.

P.S.-I forgot to tell you that the other day I concluded the Ministry knew the danger was all over; for the Duke of Newcastle ventured to have the Pretender's declaration burnt at the Royal Exchange.

The Chutes were an English family of Walpole's acquaintance at Florence. The eagle was the antique found near the Baths of Caracalla at Rome in 1742, and purchased in 1745 by Walpole through the agency of Chute. It formed part of his collection at Strawberry Hill.

Νοτ. 22, 1745

For these two days we have been expecting news of a battle. Wade marched last Saturday from Newcastle, and must have got up with the Rebels if they stayed for him, though the roads are exceedingly bad and great quantities of snow have fallen. But last night there was some notice of a body of Rebels being advanced to Penryth. We were put into great spirits by an heroic letter from the Mayor of Carlisle, who had fired on the Rebels and made them retire; he concluded with saying, 'And so I think the town of Carlisle has done his Majesty more service than the great city of Edinburgh, or than all Scotland together.' But this hero, who was grown the whole fashion for four-and-twenty hours, had chosen to stop all other letters. The King spoke of him at his levée with great encomiums; Lord Stair said: 'Yes, sir, Mr Paterson has behaved very bravely.' The Duke of Bedford interrupted him-'My Lord, his name is not Paterson; that is a Scotch name; his name is Pattinson. But alack! the next day the Rebels returned, having placed the women and children of the country in waggons in front of their army, and forcing the peasants to fix the scaling-ladders. The great Mr Pattinson, or Paterson (for now his name may be which one pleases), instantly surrendered the town, and agreed to pay two thousand pounds to save it from pillage.

Aug. 1, 1746.

I am this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most melancholy scene I ever yet saw! you will easily guess it was the trials of the rebel Lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine: a coronation is a puppet-show, and all the splendour of it, idle; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes and engaged all one's passions. It began last Monday; three-parts of Westminster-hall were inclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and even with the witnesses who had sworn against them, while the Lords adjourned to their own house to consult. No part of the Royal Family was there, which was a proper regard to the unhappy men, who were become their victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches frequent and full! The Chancellor was Lord High Steward; but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion to bow to the Minister that is no peer, and consequently applying to the other Ministers, in a manner, for their order; and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping up to the humane dignity of the law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence. I had armed myself with all the resolution I could, with the thought of their crimes and of the danger past, and was assisted by the sight of the Marquis of Lothian in weepers for his son who fell at Culloden-but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked me! their behaviour melted me! Lord Kilmarnock and Lord Cromartie are both past forty, but look younger. Lord Kilmarnock is tall and slender, with an extreme fine person: his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his