his Majesty's concessions to be so unsatisfactory, that no wellgrounded peace could be built upon them.

In the next place, care was taken by the army to purge the house of all those members to whom his Majesty's condescensions had given satisfaction: which done, a new court, called the "High Court of Justice," is to be set up a president of the same appointed-certain Commissioners nominated to act as judges and a set time designated to call his Majesty to a trial, in an unprecedented way, before his subjects.

On Saturday, the 20th of January, the day of his appearing being come, his Majesty was brought from the palace of St. James unto Westminster-Hall, to appear before the new judges, and answer unto all particulars which should be thought fit to be proposed.

His appearance could not be avoided, in regard he was under a constraint; but no constraint could force his will to make him acknowledge their authority, nor submit himself unto their judgment. He would not so betray the liberty of the English subject to any arbitrary and lawless power, as he must needs do by submitting unto their proceedings; and, therefore, as the laws and liberties of the land were now in question, he stood resolved to die a martyr for them both. For which contempt he was sentenced, on Saturday, the 27th of January, to lose his life, by the dividing of his head from his body.

That fatal morning being come, the Bishop of London, who attended on him in that sad exigent, read the morning prayers. No sooner had he done his devotions, but he is hurried to Whitehall, out of the banqueting house, whereof a way is forced to the scaffold on which he was to act the last part of his tragedy in the sight of the people. Having declared that he died a martyr for the laws of this kingdome, and the liberties of the subject, he made a confession of his faith, insinuating that he died a true son of the church of England—he betook himself to his private devotions, and patiently submitted that royal head to an executioner, which had before been crowned with so much outward pomp and splendour.

His body was removed to Windsor and there interred in the same vault with King Henry VIII. but not interred with that solemnity, nor in that publick form and manner which is appointed in the liturgy of the church of England, of which he had been always a devout observer, and to the last a resolute patron and defender. His funeral solemnities and his death were lamented with fewer tears than can be easily imagined; men bled inwardly in their hearts, but their eyes durst not express, outwardly, what grief they felt. So dangerous were the times, that men's very sighs were registered and kept upon account toward the undoing of many in the time to come.

EPITAPHS.

(Continued from page 138.)

This, by Captain Morris, being of avowed humour, is the more excusable, even though the author's wit has here taken a wrong direction. It was, I presume, intended rather for the club room than the churchyard.

On Edward Heardson, thirty years cook to the Beef Steak Club.

His last steak done, his fire 'rak'd out and dead,
Dish'd for the worms himself, lies honest Ned ;
We, then, whose breasts bore all his fleshly toils,
Took all his bastings, and shar'd all his broils;
Now, in our turn, a mouthful crave, and trim,
And dress at Phoebus's fire one scrap for him.

His heart, which well might grace the noblest grave,
Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave;
And ne'er did Earth's wide maw a morsel gain,

Of kindlier juices, or more tender grain;

His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt,
Charm'd all who heard the faithful zeal he felt;
Still to whatever end his chops he mov'd,
'Twas all well season'd, relish'd, and approv'd.

This room his heav'n! when threat'ning fate drew nigh,
The closing shade that dimm'd his ling'ring eye;
His last fond hopes, betray'd by many a tear,
Were, that his life's last spark might glimmer here;
And the last words that choak'd his parting sigh,
Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die.

The following is part of an epitaph copied from a stone, in the burial ground of Whitfield's tabernacle, Tottenham-court-road, London, on the wife of Edward Casteline :

My days were few, and short my race,
From womb to grave I went apace.'

On two poets, buried in the same grave:

Beneath one tomb here sleep two faithful friends :
Constant through life, united in their ends;
Their studies, their amusements, were the same,
Alike their genius, and alike their fame:
By fortune favour'd, or by want oppress'd;
Still they in common ev'ry thing possess'd :

One heart, one mind, one purse, though small their riches,
One room, one bed, one hat, one pair of breeches.

The following is said to be in a churchyard, at Bury St. Edmonds, Suffolk :

Here lies Jane Kitchen, who, when her glass was spent,

She kick'd up her heels, and away she went.

On a stone, in a churchyard, in Gloucestershire, the following is said to be inscribed by a Mr. Kemp, on his wife, after recording her name, age, and time of death:

Whether in the other world she'll

Know her brother John,

Or scrape acquaintance with

Her sister Soam,

Is not for me to enquire;

But this I know,

She once was mine,

And now,

To thee, O Lord, I her resign,

And am your humble servant,

ROBERT KEMP.

Man's life is a vapour and full of woes,

He cuts a caper, and down he goes!

As the climax of the ludicrous can scarcely ascend beyond the quaint absurdity of the above couplet, with that, therefore, we will close the subject.

For the union of elegant expression, tender feeling, and chaste simplicity, the following would, perhaps, meet general approbation, were I to propose it as a model of a perfect epitaph. It has been, erroneously, given to various authors; amongst others, to the late Lord Palmerston, and Doctor Hawkesworth; but it is unquestionably the production of Mason, whose Lady died of a consumption, at Bristol Hot Wells:

"Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish brings
His heart's whole treasure to fair Bristol's springs;
Whoe'er, like me, to sooth disease and pain,
Shall seek these salutary springs in vain ;
Condemn'd, like me, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye;
From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death,
And watch in dumb despair, the shortening breath :
If chance should bring him to this artless line,
Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine :

Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast,

Whose virtue warm'd me, and whose beauty bless'd;
Fram'd every tie that binds the soul, to prove
Her duty friendship, and her friendship love.
But yet remembering that the parting sigh,
Appoints the just to slumber, not to die,
The starting tear I check'd; I kiss'd the rod ;
And not to earth resign'd her, but to God."

BENEFIT OF PRESENCE OF MIND.

A quick presence of mind often relieves a person from awkward and embarrassing situations, into which he may have fallen, and sometimes turns a very untoward accident to his advantage which otherwise, would probably have been exceedingly injurious to him. An instance of this occurred to a preacher in Paris, known by the name of Le Petit Pere Andrè. He was one day engaged to preach in the church of his convent; and, that he might not be idle during prayers, he sat down to play a game at cards with a friend in his apartment. He was thus employed, when the bell rang for him to mount the pulpit. As they were at that moment engaged in a warm dispute about some part of the game, he slipped the cards up the sleeve of his gown, that they might discuss the matter more at leisure after the sermon.

The subject of his discourse turned upon the general immorality of the times, and the too great indulgence of the passions, particularly that of gaming, the dangerous and insinuating power of which, when given way to, he inveighed against with all the eloquence in his power. Unfortunately, however, in the warmth of his declamation, in raising up his hands to heaven, down from his sleeve, which had accidentally been loosened, fell the cards, showering, to the no small astonishment of the audience.

Many a one, after so unexpected a circumstance, would have been much at a loss how to have acted? but not so the Doctor. Seeing a child not far from the pulpit, he desired it to gather up the cards, and bring them to him. Having done so, he asked it the name of each card, which the child told accurately; he then questioned it about the catechism, of which it was entirely ignorant. He then dismissed the child, and looking around upon the audience with an air of indignation, he cried, "Ye wicked parents, is not this a scandalous and a most flagrant proof of what I have advanced, that in this abandoned, this impious age,

nothing is thought of but gaming. Here is almost an infant that completely knows every card in the pack, is thoroughly learned in the Devil's book, and yet is entirely ignorant of the book of its salvation. What early sacrifices do ye make of the young hearts of your children to the Prince of darkness. Ye more than parricide parents! ye betrayers of their souls to a miserable eternity!" He kindled so fast, and became so vehement in his reproaches, that the people departed fully convinced, that what was in itself an unlucky accident, had been a premeditated scheme of the preacher, more effectually to rebuke their dissoluteness by an example so obvious and familiar to them all.

WIDOW CHILCOTT AND OLD JOHN STAGG.

(From Wine and Walnuts.)

Poor Peter Toms* and old Gerrard Vandergucht,† how they made my father and my great uncle Zachary laugh one evening at the Shades, under Fishmongers' Hall, with their joint description of that notorious scold, Mrs. Nanny Chilcott's attack on the Surveyor-General (Mr. Worsley), his friend Sir Robert Taylor, the architect, who built the wings to the south front of the Bank of England, and old John Stagg, in Westminster Hall, just before the last coronation.

I shall relate the story, second hand, as I had it from old Dr. Chauncey, one night, when a party of us went to his house in Austin Friars, to see a portrait of that cunning little puss, the

* Peter Toms, one of the earliest of the Academicians, principally employed in painting draperies, for Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mr. Francis Cotes, the celebrated crayon painter, the works of both of whom derived vast advantage from the skilful pencil of poor Toms, who, in a fit of melancholy, died by his own

hands.

† Gerrard Vandergucht, a well-known picture dealer, and founder of the gallery in Lower Brook-street. He was formerly an engraver, and his name is to numberless small book-plates. This gallery contained a fine collection of pictures, the property of poor Benjamin, his son, a portrait painter, who was drowned in crossing the Thames, from the Duke of Devonshire's, at Chiswick, in 1794. Subsequently it was furnished with a large collection of pictures by the ingenious hand of Thomas Barker. It was then tenanted by Mr. Tresham, of facetious memory, and for some years, was the exhibition gallery of the painters in water colours.