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that many plous ministers of the word of God, some thousands of them, do now beg their bread; and told me how highly the present clergy do carry themselves every where, so as that they are hated and laughed at by every body; among other things, for their excommunications, which they send upon the least occasions almost that can be. And I am convinced in my judgement, not only from his discourse, but my thoughts in general, that the present clergy will never heartily go down with the generality of the commons of England; they have been so used to liberty and freedom, and they are so acquainted with the pride and debauchery of the present clergy. He did give me many stories of the affronts which the clergy receive in all places of England from the gentry and ordinary persons of the parish. He do tell me what the City thinks of General Monk, as of a most perfidious man that hath betrayed every body, and the King also; who, as he thinks, and his party, and so I have heard other good friends of the King say, it might have been better for the King to have had his hands a little bound for the present, than be forced to bring such a crew of poor people about him, and be liable to satisfy the demands of every one of them. He told me that to his knowledge, (being present at every meeting at the Treaty at the Isle of Wight,) that the old King did confess himself over-ruled and convinced in his judgement against the Bishopps, and would have suffered and did agree to exclude the services out of the churches, nay his own chapell; and that he did always say, that this he did not by force, for that he would never abate one inch by any vyolence; but what he did was out of his reason and judgement. He tells me that the King by name, with all his dignities, is prayed for by them that they call Fanatiques, as heartily and powerfully as in any of the other churches that are thought better: and that, let the King think what he will, it is them that must help him in the day of warr. For so generally they are the most substantiall sort of people, and the soberest; and did desire me to observe it to my Lord Sandwich, among other things, that of all the old army now, you cannot see a man begging about the streets; but what? You shall have this captain turned a shoemaker: the lieutenant, a baker; this a brewer; that a haberdasher: this common soldier, a porter; and every man in his apron and frock, &c. as if they never had done any thing else: whereas the other go with their belts and swords, swearing, and cursing, and stealing: running into people's houses, by force oftentimes, to carry away something; and this is the difference between the temper of one and the other; and concludes (and I think with some reason,) that the spirits of the old parliament soldiers are so quiet and contented with God's providences, that the King is safer from any evil meant him by them one thousand times more than from his own discontented Cavalier. And then to the publick management of business: it is done, as he ob. serves, so loosely and so carelessly, that the kingdom can never be happy with it, every man looking after himself, and his own lust and luxury; and that half of what money the parliament gives the King is not so much as gathered. And to the purpose he told me how the Bellamys (who had some of the Northern counties assigned them for

their debt for the petty warrant victualling) bave often complained to him that they cannot get it collected, for that nobody minds, or if they do, they won't pay it in. Whereas, (which is a very remarkable thing,) he hath been told by some of the Treasurers at Warr here of late, to whom the most of the 120,0001 monthly was paid, that for most months the payments were gathered so duly, that they seldom had so much or more than 40s. or the like, short in the whole collection; whereas now the very Commissioners for Assessments and other public payments are such persons, and those that they choose in the country so like themselves, that from top to bottom there is not a man carefull of any thing, or if he be, is not solvent; that what between the beggar and the knave, the King is abused the best part of all his revenue. We then talked of the Navy, and of Sir W. Pen's rise to be a general. He told me he was always a conceited man, and one that would put the best side outward, but that it was his pretence of sanctity that brought him into play. Lawson, and Portman, and the fifth-monarchy men, among whom he was a great brother, importuned that he might be general; and it was pleasant to see how Blackburne himself did act it, how when the Commissioners of the Admiralty would enquire of the captains and admirals of such and such men, how they would with a sigh and casting up of the eyes say, "such a man fears the Lord," or, "I hope such a man hath the Spirit of God." But he tells me that there was a cruel articling against Pen after one fight, for cowardice, in putting himself within a coyle of cables, of which he had much ado to acquit himself: and by great friends did it, not without remains of guilt, but that his brethren had a mind to pass it by, and Sir H. Vane did advise him to search his heart, and see whether this fault or a greater sin was not the occasion of this so great tryall. And he tells me, that what Pen gives out about Cromwell's sending and entreating him to go to Jamaica, is very false; he knows the contrary: besides, the Protector never was a man that needed to send for any man, especially such a one as he, twice. He tells me that the business of Jamaica did miscarry absolutely by his pride, and that when he was in the Tower he would cry like a child. And that just upon the turne, when Monk was come from the North to the City, and did begin to think of bringing in the King, Pen was then turned Quaker. That Lawson was never counted any thing but only a seaman, and a stout man, but a false man, and that now he appears the greatest hypocrite in the world. And Pen the same. He tells me that it is much talked of, that the King intends to legitimate the Duke of Monmouth; and that neither he, nor his friends of his persuasion, have any hopes of getting their consciences at liberty but by God Almighty's turning of the King's heart, which they expect, and are resolved to live and die in quiet hopes of it; but never to repine, or act any thing more than by prayers towards it. And that not only himself but all of them have, and are willing at any time to take the oaths of Allegiance and Supremacy. Mr. Blackburne observed further to me, some certain notice that he had of the present plot so much talked of; that he was told by Mr. Rushworth, how one Captain Oates, a great dis

coverer, did employ several to bring and seduce others into a plot, and that one of his agents met with one that would not listen to him, nor conceal what he had offered him, but so detected the trepan. He also did much insist upon the cowardice and corruption of the King's guards and militia.'

1664. March 25. To Whitehall, and there to chapel; where it was most infinite full to hear Dr. Critton. The Dr. preached upon the thirty-first of Jeremy, and the twenty-first and twenty-second verses, about a woman compassing a man; meaning the Virgin conceiving and bearing our Saviour. It was the worst sermon I ever heard him make, I must confess; and yet it was good, and in two places very bitter, advising the King to do as the Emperor Severus did, to hang up a Presbyter John (a short coat and a long gowne interchangeably) in all the Courts of England. But the story of Severus was pretty, that he hanged up forty Senators before the Senatehouse, and then made a speech presently to the Senate in praise of his own lenity; and then decreed that never any senator after that time should suffer in the same manner without consent of the Senate: which he compared to the proceeding of the Long Parliament against my Lord Strafford. He said the greatest part of the lay magistrates in England were Puritans, and would not do justice; and the Bishops' powers were so taken away and lessened, that they could not exercise the power they ought. He told the King and the ladies, plainly speaking of death and of the skulls and bones of dead men and women, how there is no difference; that nobody could tell that of the great Marius or Alexander from a pyoneer; nor, for all the pains the ladies take with their faces, he that should look in a charnelhouse could not distinguish which was Cleopatra's, or fair Rosamond's, or Jane Shore's.'

1668. July 6. The Duchesse of Richmond sworn last week of the Queene's bed-chamber, and the King minding little else but what he used to do-about his women.

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Dec. 2. Abroad with my wife the first time that ever I rode in my own coach, which do make my heart rejoice and praise God, and pray him to bless it to me and continue it. So she and I to the King's play-house, and there saw the Usurper; a pretty good play in all but what is designed to resemble Cromwell and Hugh Peters, which is mighty silly.'

The next day, we find him abroad with his wife again, to the Duke of York's play-house.

And so home, it being mighty pleasure to go alone with my poor wife in a coach of our own to a play, and makes us appear mighty great, I think, in the world; at least, greater than ever I could, or my friends for me, have once expected; or, I think, than ever any of my family ever yet lived in my memory, but my cousin Pepys in Salisbury Court."

With this characteristic burst of simple-hearted self-gratulation, we must close our extracts. The Private Correspon

dence' contains some pleasing letters from Evelyn, two or three characteristic ones from Sir Isaac Newton, two from Lord Clarendon, and others from men of smaller note, but they 'are not of remarkable interest.

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Art. VIII. Peak Scenery; or the Derbyshire Tourist. By E. Rhodes. 8vo. pp. 379. Price 14s. London. 1824.

WE differ from Dr. Johnson. Of all the different modes of travelling, we most cordially dislike a seat in a postchaise, since it is at once the most expensive, and the least favourable for the gratification of picturesque propensities. An artist must pedestrianize. His quest is not only after the lofty and extensive, but the beautiful and the minute. The hedgerow and the mountain-crest, the expanse of the broad lake and the ripple of the summer stream,-the rush of mighty waters and the green margin of the standing pool, the darkened chambers of the ruin, and the frowning masses of its towers and curtains with a thousand other objects that set highways and cross roads at defiance,-furnish him with the richest materials of his art, and he can reach them only by the sacrifice of a large portion of those conveniences which, under common circumstances, are deemed indispensable. But, in a general way, we know of no mode of travelling so delightful and so advantageous as that afforded by a commodious lodgement on the roof of a stage-coach. It places one in the centre of an ever-shifting panorama; it raises the eye above the hedges which screen so much of the landscape from the lowlier traveller; and it gives form and combination to what would appear, if seen from level ground, scattered and insulated. How often, when tracing the road-side sinuosities of 'an untrimmed hedge, and wearying our eyes in peering for loopholes in the dense foliage, have we cast an anxious look backward, in hope that some friendly vehicle would overtake us, and give us aid and elevation!

The tourist before us is an artist, certainly, in eye and feeling; and he appears to have availed himself of all the different modes of conveyance as they might suit his purpose. He has traversed one of the most picturesque portions of England in the full exercise of a practised eye and an active mind; and the result lies before us in the form of a judicious and agreeable travelling companion for the Derbyshire tourist. The work was originally published in a more expensive shape, for the purpose of illustrating a series of sketches by Chantrey;

"

it now appears in a less imposing, but a more generally useful

form.

It is exceedingly difficult to describe at once with accuracy and effect. It requires a simplicity, both theoretical and practical, both visual and mental, that does not occur quite so commonly as may be imagined. We have both heard and read descriptions in which it has been nearly impossible to recognize a single feature of distinct locality; and this failure has been the effect, neither of the absence of good faith nor of an exaggerating habit, but simply of the difficulty that lies in rendering lines and shadows into words. With much to admire in his general manner both of viewing and citing nature, we cannot think that the Author of the volume before us has been always successful in this respect. The use of general terms is extremely convenient as a refuge from the awkward necessity that perpetually presents itself, for describing specific objects in specific terms. To say of a particular set of lines and surfaces, that they are sublime, beautiful, or picturesque, is easy enough, but perfectly ineffectual for the purposes of definite description. One tourist tells us of that singular spot, Dovedale, that it is beauty in the lap of horror,' and congratulated himself, we suppose, on having said a very fine thing. Mr. Gilpin did worse, for he gave a view of the same place, with about as much accuracy of delineation as if he had called it Cotopaxi. The description given by Mr. Rhodes has much merit, and, with some small deficiency in discrimination, is liable to no censure on the score of inaccu

We should have been disposed to extract a page or two of very beautiful descriptive painting, but for the interest of the following details.

'Dove Dale was one of the favourite resorts of the enthusiastic and sensitive Rousseau during his residence in its immediate vicinity, and he is said to have planted many rare and curious seeds in this sequestered spot. At this time he lived chiefly at Wooton Hall, a retreat that was procured for him principally through the influence of the historian Hume. Rousseau lived in continual agitation and alarm. Plots and conspiracies, he supposed, were entered into and carried on against his personal safety and happiness, in every country on the continent of Europe, and he sought an asylum in England from the imagined persecutions of imaginary enemies. In April, 1766, when Rousseau had just settled in Derbyshire,-" Here," says he, "I have arrived at last at an agreeable and sequestered asylum, "where I hope to breathe freely and at peace." But here he did not long remain at peace;" he soon found cause of quarrel with those who were endeavouring to serve him, and in the month of April following, he quitted his "agreeable and sequestered asylumn," and returned to the Continent, heaping reproaches on his best friends. VOL, XXIV, N.S.

K