"The truth is, your worship," said John, "she's never satisfied; she was drunk last night, and very drunk, indeed, the night before; she was the same this morning-and she's drunk now. She wants to be an angel, and I can't afford it. I'm willing for her to be drunk once a day, your worship, and that's as much as I can do; as for her black eye, she tumbled down and trod on it-that's all."

"Break both their necks down stairs, constable ;-or here, give them this shilling-they mean to kill themselves with drinking, and the sooner it's done the better. What case next?"

66

Armstrong and Kirk against Martin, the secondhand clothes-seller," shouted Tipstaff, "and Martin against Armstrong."

"Quick-state case-be brief!" said the Justice, looking again at the clock; then muttering to himself, "Armstrong against Martin, and Martin against Armstrong. What the devil now ?"

"Please your worship" said Kirk.

"But it doth not please me!" exclaimed the old Justice; " quick, sirrah! state your case—we'll save the pleases' and worships' for after-dinner compli

6

ments."

"Then, your worship, I bought a second-hand black coat of Abraham Martin a fortnight ago, which he said was as good as new-and it did look as black and bright as you would wish to see a coat. Well, your worship, I put on my clean white trousers, and went out, Sunday before last

"The old tale-" said the Justice, interrupting him. "Martin, you're a long while selling off those soldiers' old jackets :-did I not tell you to ticket them, so that your customers might know what they were buying?"

"I did," replied Martin; "but your worship sees, when they get mixed among the other goods, it's difficult to tell them again, without a good deal of rubbing."

So would matters go on; and every one who had won a cause, when they got outside gave the signal to the boys, who huzzaed and threw up their crownless hats, and made the little market-place to ring again. Nor would they disperse until they had watched the old magistrate out of the Bull's Head Inn, where he mostly dined; and often, when he had taken an extra glass, he would throw a few halfpence among them, and leave them fighting and scrambling with each other, while he rode off like a good old-fashioned Justice of the Peace.

207

RURAL POETRY.

BROWNE'S "BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS,” AND “ SHEPHERD'S

PIPE."

To my truly beloved Friend, Mr. Brown, on his Pastorals.

But I have seen thy work, and I know thee:
And, if thou list thyself, what thou canst be,
For though but early in these paths thou tread,
I find thee write most worthy to be read.

BEN JONSON.

OUR object in the present chapter is, to bring before our readers a few beautiful passages from the works of a sterling old English poet, whose writings are too little known; one who, in his day, was a favourite of Rare Ben Jonson, and had complimentary poems addressed to him by Michael Drayton, Selden, Brooke, Herbert, Withers, and many other celebrated writers of that period. Beautiful, however, as his poems are, and excelling, in our humble opinion, nearly all that come under the denomination of Pastoral Poetry in the English language, you look in vain for his name in the Essays of Pope, Warton, and Johnson, in which they profess to treat upon this subject. They make no mention of either William Browne or his " Britannia's Pastorals ;" and sorry are we to add, that among all the Miscellaneous Collections of Poetry, but few extracts (and those of an inferior description) from his works are to be found. Many of the compilers of English poetry have never once alluded to him, and those who have, almost

lead us to conclude that they never read a tithe of his works.

Bold as the assertion may appear, we will undertake, in this article, to produce some of the most delightful passages of rural poetry which have ever been written, scarcely excepting the mighty compositions of Milton. It is a duty we owe to the dead to do justice to their memories, and we doubt not but that many of the extracts which we shall here bring forth, will cause the works of the author to be inquired after, and not a few of the quotations which we make, to be selected and stored up among the many other gems which this immortal island abounds in. We understand no other language but that of our mother-tongue,—and that, we fear, indifferently,— therefore are unable either to read Theocritus or Virgil, saving by translations; and if by this method the ideas of the authors can be faithfully given, (for we care not for words alone,) William Browne is as great a pastoral poet as either of the above-named authors. His mind is thoroughly English, he drank deeply from that well whence Chaucer and Spenser drew their inspiration— the ever-flowing fountain of Nature. Nor need a stronger proof be brought of his good taste than that intense admiration which he had for the writings of Spenser,a poet whose works are the very touchstone of taste, and which none but a true lover of poetry can ever thoroughly relish.

Poetry ought to be judged by the emotions it awakens more than the mere sounding of words and the artificial turning of its sentences; for, after all, it consists in the thought, and not the expression; you cannot feel the words the image it calls up and the feeling it stirs belong to a higher power than mere language. Instance the thousands of lines which are published and read every year, and contain not an atom of true poetry. The