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ford. It is now about eight years ago; he was then nineteen, and, therefore, nearly of my own age; and I can well remember having held several conversations with him on Stratford and its inhabitants, and particularly as describing my uncle to him as prodigiously wealthy, and, at that time, in my own opinion, not a little parsimonious."


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My dear friend," exclaimed the elder Mr. Combe, as soon as his brother had done speaking, and shaking the poet, at the same time, most cordially by the hand, "were it not that we have some here not quite so thoroughly acquainted with the benevolence of your disposition as myself, such a disclaimer had been altogether needless; but you well know, from

Richard Braithwayte was born at Warcop, near Appleby, in Westmoreland, in 1588, and at the age of sixteen became a commoner of Oriel college, Oxford, being matriculated as a gentleman's son, and a native of Westmoreland. In his "Remains, &c.” published in 1618, occurs the epitaph in question, "of which," says Mr. Boswell, after weighing all the circumstances connected with its attribution to Shakspeare, I have very little doubt that Braithwayte was the author.”- -MALONE'S Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 500.

Braithwayte died at Appleton, near Richmond in Yorkshire, May 4th, 1673. His Poet's Willow," was published in


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long and home-felt experience, that wit is often involuntarily compelled to father what it has not written; and I cannot but remind you," he added laughing, "as one reason, perhaps, for the attribution of which you complain, that there was a time, though now long since passed, when the sharpness of your poetical retort on a former neighbour of ours, occasioned some little stir in this place, though it happily led, in conjunction with the youthful frolic from which it took its origin, to that line of life which has placed you, at length, on the very summit of dramatic reputation."

"It is on this very account, Mr. Combe," cried Helen Montchensey, "that I and my father so much wish to see the scene of this juvenile exploit, and my kind host here," smiling upon Shakspeare as she spoke, with the most bewitching archness, "has been good enough to promise that he will to-morrow morning gratify our desire, and conduct us to the spot himself."

"I am certain," returned Mr. Combe," that the worthy family at Charlcote will receive you, were it only for your conductor's sake, with the

utmost hospitality; for Sir Thomas has never suffered the prejudices of his father to enter his breast; and with him, indeed, all recollection of the juvenile deer-stalker is lost in the regard which he feels for the poet and the man."

"I thank you, my good neighbour," exclaimed the modest bard, "for your partial opinion; but it behoves me to place the matter in its more probable light, and to say, that Sir Thomas Lucy is too wise a man to visit the sins of the stripling on the head of unoffending age." Then turning to Mr. Thomas Combe, for whom he entertained a more than common regard, "What say you, my young friend," he continued, "this is an idle time with you, for to-morrow is our Midsummer's vigil; will you join us in this pilgrimage to Charlcote ?"

"With all the pleasure in life,” replied Mr. Combe, with extraordinary animation, while Lord Carew and Sir Thomas Stafford declared, that, were they not obliged to leave Clopton the next morning, they should have petitioned for leave to increase the party. "And may not I be allowed, my dear father," said Mrs. Hall, who hitherto had had no opportunity of becom


ing acquainted with the intended excursion, may not I be allowed to form one of your number? for though familiar with the scenes you are about to visit, I should much enjoy retracing them in the company of Helen Montchensey."

"Certainly, Susanna, if the Doctor sees no objection, we shall be most happy to have you amongst us."

The conversation now took a more general turn, and, after being supported for some time with much sprightliness and good humour, the party adjourned to the cool and shady retreats of the college gardens, where the evening coming on remarkably balmy and serene, they enjoyed to a late hour, encanopied, as it were, amid flowers of every hue, the fragrant freshness of the summer breeze.

(To be continued.)

No. IV.

The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,
Live in description, and grow green in song.


Or that highly beautiful and exquisitely finished poem, Les Jardins, par M. L'Abbé De Lille, we possess two translations, one well known from the pen of Mrs. Montolieu, and the other published anonymously in the year 1789.

It is to this version of 1789, now fallen into neglect, and become extremely scarce, that I wish to recall the attention of the lovers of poetry and of the original work, not as being executed throughout with undeviating skill, but as possessing parts of uncommon excellence; such, indeed, as not only do justice to the original, but, from the more poetical structure of our language and versification, seem to rise above it in richness and in tone. One great cause, however, of this apparent superiority hast arisen from the free and very happy manner in which the translator has often introduced the

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