fidelity to his religion and to his prince he never faltered. He was fined as a "popish delinquent," heavily and frequently, but he flinched not from his position. For this steadfastness he is worthy of praise. But, though by many esteemed "an ingenious gentleman, a good poet and a great lover of learning," to quote an old biographer, he was more generally known to be a boon fellow, fond of "a fine little glass"; and in the end, largely because of this, helped no doubt by losses suffered for the sake of his principles, he found himself without estate and in considerable necessity. In 1671 he joined with his son in selling the estate at Ashbourne, and twelve years later he let go his last bit of land, only reserving for himself a small annuity for life. In the winter of 1683 he was buried beside his wife and only son. Thus Ashbourne passed out of a family in which it had continued for many ages: indeed, men know not when the Cokaynes arose. They were at Ashbourne in the twelfth century, and held the lordship for over four hundred years.

If my reader would know something of Sir Aston Cokayne's works without taking the labor of searching for a copy thereof, I can tell him, after carefully reading the "Obstinate Lady," "Trappolin," and the "Tragedy of Ovid," that Sir Aston has no originality and helps little in a study either of language or of manners. The first of the three plays named is commonplace and weak, and for whatever merit it may have the author was indebted to Massinger's "Very Woman" and to Beaumont and Fletcher's "Philaster." The plot of the second was also borrowed, but though in wit and humor tame and in action absurd and improbable, much of the dialogue is lively and with some resolution can be read. The third play was dedicated to Charles Cotton, Walton's scholar and Cokayne's cousin. Only upon the assumption that Charles Cotton's taste was out of sorts, temporarily and charitably perhaps, can I account for the courteous and generous entertainment he afforded this piece, or for his epigram upon it beginning:

Long live the poet and his lovely muse,
The stage with wit and learning to infuse!

and ending with the lines:

Naso was Rome's fam'd Ovid; you alone
Must be the Ovid to our Albion,
In all things equal, saving in this case,
Our modern Ovid has the better grace.

I would be cruel to ask anybody to take this play and from it justify these last two lines. What fish did the good angler hope to catch?

The heart is saddened as in this church where so many of its members are buried, one thinks of the dying out of a family such as the Cokaynes, a family associated with the history of Ashbourne for several hundred years. Sir Aston was the last male descendant of his line. That he did not win glory was not so much his fault as his lack of power. He tried for position and honor-tried, I am sure, at these sorry plays of his as some of his ancestors tried on the field of battle; but the genius was not his. And were it not for these tombs the stranger would never hear of him or of his fathers. Thus the great and the mighty pass away; and families powerful and honorable decline and decay, and a few monuments, some dust, and scattered, broken memories alone remain.

It should, perhaps, be added that in these effigies of the Cokaynes the faces are depicted as severe and expressionless: a striking contrast to those of the family that succeeded them. The Cokayne arms were three cocks, and the crest was a cock or a cock's head. In the same chapel are memorials to some of the Bradburnes of Lea-a village beyond Wirksworth, and on the other side of the Derwent, about fifteen miles from Ashbourne. One of these is an altar-tomb upon which are the recumbent figures cut in alabaster of Sir Humphrey Bradburne, died 1581, and Lady Elizabeth, his wife. On the sides of the tomb are figures of their children: nine sons and six daughters.

From the Cokaynes the lordship of Ashbourne went to the Boothbys, and of them several are buried in this chapel. To this family belonged Miss Hill Boothby, one of Dr. Johnson's correspondents and friends-with whom, indeed, though she read her Bible in Hebrew, that great man had such familiarity that he addressed her as his "dearest dear," his "sweet angel," and assures her not only that his "heart is full of tenderness," but also that "he has none other on whom his heart reposes.' That she was worthy of his friendship is evident from the letters which she wrote him, in which enthusiastic piety, clear common sense, scholarly refinement and commendable vivacity are happily mingled. In her Johnson discovered a similarity of tastes in learning and in religion, which could not fail to attract him: even though gossips spoke of him as antiquated and of her as sublimated. Unhappily the intimacy was of brief duration. Three years from its beginning she died, in 1756, about the age of forty-seven. Dr. Johnson carefully treasured her letters, and composed a prayer in which he thanked God for the opportunity of instruction afforded him "by the knowledge of her life and by the sense of her death." In this prayer, as a result of her example, occurs this fine sentence, noble and finished both in

shape and in sentiment: I implore thy grace "that I may consider the uncertainty of my present state, and apply myself earnestly to the duties which thou hast set before me, that, living in thy fear, I may die in thy favour." Her nephew, Sir Brooke Boothby, told well the story of her beautiful life in lines that are worth reading:

Could beauty, learning, talents, virtue, save
From the dark confines of th' insatiate grave,
This frail memorial had not ask'd a tear
O'er Hill's cold ashes, sadly mouldering here.
Friendship's chaste flame her ardent bosom fired,
And bright religion all her soul inspired :
Her soul, too heavenly for an house of clay,
Soon wore its earth-built mansion to decay.
In the last struggles of departing breath,
She saw her Saviour gild the bed of death;
Heard His mild accents, tun'd to peace and love,
Breathe a blest welcome to the realms above;

To those bright regions, that celestial shore,

Where friends long lost shall meet to part no more.

“Blest Lord, I come! my hopes have not been vain :”
Upon her lifeless cheek extatic smiles remain.

There is an alabaster monument to Sir Brooke Boothby, the brother of this lady, who died 1789, and Phoebe his wife, 1788. They left an only daughter named Maria Elizabeth, who deceased in 1805, a little over fortyseven years old. The following lines are inscribed on the end of her tomb, and though in grace and spirit inferior to those just quoted, I give them.

Chaste earth within thy hallow'd breast

Let these sad relics peaceful rest :
The mortal spoils, an angel mind,
Mounting to heaven, has left behind;
Her bosom pure as virgin snow,
Did with each mild affection glow;
Almost from human frailties free,
Yet boundless was her charity;
The sense in her that brightly shone,
Seem'd to her modest self unknown.
Reader, no poet's pencil drew
This portrait: it is simply true.
O All-belov'd! the general woe
Thy universal worth may show ;
And O, too soon united here
With parents to thy bosom dear,

Sleep by a well-lov'd mother's side,
In life her chiefest joy and pride!
Sister, farewell; nor time nor place
Maria's memory shall efface;

Thy brothers who inscribe this stone,

With their last sigh thy loss shall mourn.

No one can read epitaphs such as these and not obtain some idea of the refinement, affection and piety which prevailed in this family. "All the inscriptions," says a local authority, "whether in English or Latin, indicate literary taste and talent, a regard for virtue, and a sensitiveness of disposition." Both the ladies spoken of in these lines appear to have been worthy of all that is said of them; and were they not, yet the lines themselves have a tenderness and a beauty, rare enough in such poetry, that speak well not only for him who wrote them, but also for those who used them.

This character was maintained by Sir Brooke Boothby, the brother of the lady to whose memory the latter lines were written, and the nephew of her who was Dr. Johnson's friend. He was, indeed, in his young days spoken of "as one of those who think themselves pretty gentlemen du premier ordre," but later, better things were known of him than this judgment suggests. Not only did he move in circles to which belonged people such as Miss Seward, Dr. Erasmus Darwin, Thomas Day and the Edgeworths, but he also was the author of several books. Among other things he defended some features of the French Revolution, and sought to vindicate Rousseau's character and work from the "wanton, butcherly attack" made by Burke. During a prolonged residence in France he became intimate with Rousseau. Earlier than this-from the spring of 1766 to the May of 1767-Jean Jacques, then a refugee in England, much to Dr. Johnson's disgust, had been entertained at Wootton Hall by a Mr. Davenport, having been introduced there by the historian Hume. Wootton, about five miles from Ashbourne, is in a cheerless neighborhood, bleak and lonely, as a local epigram runs:

Wootton under Weaver, where God came neever.

But Rousseau liked it. Said he: "It has been freezing ever since I came here; it has snowed incessantly; the wind cuts the face. In spite of all this I would rather live in a hole of one of the rabbits of this warren than in the finest room in London." Here the "Apostle of Affliction" began his "Confessions," and here, being, to use Hume' expression, like