We cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of Stuart of itself is only contemptible; armed with the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imitates their conduct should be warned by example; and while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember that, as it was acquired by one revolution, it may be lost by another.

See Junius (2 vols. 1772); Junius (3 vols. 1812); the Life of Francis by Parkes and Merivale (1867); articles in Dilke's Papers of a Critic (1875); articles in the Athenæum for 1888 and 1897 by Mr Fraser Rae; Chabot and Twistleton, The Handwriting of Junius (1871); H. R. Francis, Junius Revealed (1894); and The Francis Letters, edited by Beata Francis and Eliza Keary (1900).

Dr John Langhorne (1735-79), born at Kirkby Stephen in Westmorland, was for two years a London curate, and then from 1766 rector of Blagdon, Somerset, with a prebend of Wells. Langhorne wrote various prose works, the most successful being the Letters of Theodosius and Constantia; and in conjunction with his brother, the Rev. WILLIAM LANGHORNE (1721-72), he published a translation of Plutarch's Lives (1770), long the standard one. His efforts in satire and drama were unsuccessful; his ballad Owen of Carron, founded on the old Scottish tale of Gil Morrice, is smooth and rhythmical, but in poetical value falls far below its original. The only poem of Langhorne's which has a true vein of originality is his Country Justice (1774-77), and there he anticipated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true colours. His picture of the Gypsies, and his sketches of venal clerks and rapacious overseers, are genuine likenesses. He has not the raciness or vividness of Crabbe, but he has all Crabbe's fidelity, and he pleads as warmly for the poor vagrant:

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
Still mark the strong temptation and the need:
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call,
At least more lenient let thy justice fall.
For him who, lost to every hope of life,
Has long with Fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair;
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike if folly or misfortune brought
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought;
Believe with social mercy and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore

The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore;
Who then, no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptised in tears.

This allusion to the dead soldier and his widow on the field of battle was the subject of a print by

Bunbury, under which were engraved Langhorne's pathetic lines. Scott recorded that the only time he saw Robert Burns, a copy of this picture was in the room in Dr Adam Ferguson's house. Burns shed tears over it; and Scott, then a lad of fifteen, told him where the lines were to be found. The print seen by Burns is now in the Chambers Institution at Peebles, having been presented to Dr Robert Chambers by Sir Adam Ferguson, son of the historian, and transferred by Dr R. Chambers to Dr William Chambers for preservation in the Institution. The name of Langhorne,' though in very small characters, is engraved on the print below the quotation, and this had drawn Scott's attention to the poem.

Appeal to Justices in behalf of the Poor.

Let age no longer toil with feeble strife,
Worn by long service in the war of life;
Nor leave the head, that time hath whitened, bare
To the rude insults of the searching air;
Nor bid the knee, by labour hardened, bend,
O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend!
If, when from heaven severer seasons fall,
Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall,
Each face the picture of a winter day,
More strong than Teniers' pencil could portray;
If then to thee resort the shivering train,
Of cruel days, and cruel man complain,
Say to thy heart-remembering him who said-
'These people come from far, and have no bread.'
Nor leave thy venal clerk empowered to hear ;
The voice of want is sacred to thy ear.
He where no fees his sordid pen invite,
Sports with their tears, too indolent to write;
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain
To hear more helpless animals complain.

But chief thy notice shall one monster claim;
A monster furnished with a human frame-
The parish officer !-though verse disdain
Terms that deform the splendour of the strain,
It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe
On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer;
The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust,
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust!

When the poor hind, with length of years decayed,
Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade,
Forgot the service of his abler days,

His profitable toil, and honest praise,
Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty bread,
This slave, whose board his former labours spread?
When harvest's burning suns and sickening air
From labour's unbraced hand the grasped hook tear,
Where shall the helpless family be fed,
That vainly languish for a father's bread?
See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care,
To the proud farmer fearfully repair ;
Soon to be sent with insolence away,
Referred to vestries, and a distant day!
Referred to perish! Is my verse severe ?
Unfriendly to the human character?
Ah! to this sigh of sad experience trust :
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just.

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear,
Think not that patience were a virtue here.

His low-born pride with honest rage control;
Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul.
But, hapless! oft through fear of future woe,
And certain vengeance of the insulting foe;
Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer,
The last extremes of penury they bear.

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher?
To something more than magistrate aspire!
And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind,
Step nobly forth, the friend of humankind!
The game I start courageously pursue!
Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu !

And first we 'll range this mountain's stormy side,
Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride,
As meet no more the wintry blast to bear,
And all the wild hostilities of air.
That roof have I remembered many a year;
It once gave refuge to a hunted deer-
Here, in those days, we found an aged pair ;
But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there?
'Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed
Of naked fern, two human creatures dead!
Embracing as alive!-ah, no!--no life!
Cold, breathless!'

'Tis the shepherd and his wife.
I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold
What speaks more strongly than the story told-
They died through want.

'By every power I swear,

If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air,
Through whose default of duty, or design,
These victims fell, he dies.'

A Farewell Hymn to the Valley of Irwan.
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale,
My infant years where Fancy led,
And soothed me with the western gale,
Her wild dreams waving round my head,
While the blithe blackbird told his tale.
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale!

The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head,
The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red;
No longer I their sweets inhale.
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale!

How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye!
How oft, along those banks I've strayed,
And watched the wave that wandered by ;
Full long their loss shall I bewail.
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale!

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,

To mark the close of parting day;

Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away;
Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,

Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

John Langhorne's Poetical Works were collected by his son, the Rev. John T. Langhorne (2 vols. 1804), and are included in the sixteenth volume of Chalmers's English Poets.

William Julius Mickle (1735-88) is remembered as an early translator of the Lusiad from the Portuguese of Camoens, and was a poet of some natural gift, though of no great power. He was son of the minister of Langholm in Dumfriesshire, and became clerk and then chief-partner in an Edinburgh brewery; but he failed in business, and in 1763 went to London with literary ambitions. Lord Lyttelton encouraged his poetic efforts, and Mickle was buoyed up with dreams of patronage and celebrity. Two years of increasing destitution dispelled this vision, and the poet was glad to accept a situation as corrector of the Clarendon Press at Oxford (1765). Here he published Pollie, an elegy, and the Concubine, a poem in the manner of Spenser, which he afterwards reprinted with the title of Syr Martyn. Mickle affected the archaic phraseology of Spenser, which was antiquated even in the age of the Faerie Queene, and had been almost wholly discarded by Thomson in his Castle of Indolence. The first stanza of this poem was quoted by Sir Walter Scott-divested of its antique spelling to show that Mickle, with a vein of great facility, united a power of verbal melody, which might have been envied by bards of much greater renown :'

Awake, ye west winds, through the lonely dale, And Fancy to thy faery bower betake; Even now, with balmy sweetness, breathes the gale, Dimpling with downy wing the stilly lake; Through the pale willows faltering whispers wake, And Evening comes with locks bedropped with dew; On Desmond's mouldering turrets slowly shake The withered rye-grass and the harebell blue, And ever and anon sweet Mulla's plaints renew. The poem was highly successful--not the less, perhaps, because it was printed anonymously, and was ascribed to different authors; and it went through three editions. Voltaire in the Shades (1770) was an attack on Hume. In 1771 Mickle published the first canto of his Camoens, which was completed in 1775; and being supported by a long list of subscribers, was highly advantageous both to his fame and fortune. His somewhat Popean version of Os Lusiadas is a fairly close rendering, with occasional expansions and paraphrases; but in its smoothness loses much of the directness of the original. In 1779 he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and was received with much distinction in Lisbon by the countrymen of Camoens. On the return of the expedition Mickle was appointed joint-agent for the distribution of the prizes. His own share was considerable; and having received some money by his marriage with a farmer's daughter whom he had known in his obscure sojourn at Oxford, he spent his last years in ease and leisure. He died at Forest Hill near Oxford.

The most notable of Mickle's original poems is his ballad of Cumnor Hall (1784), which acquired additional interest later on through its having suggested to Sir Walter Scott the groundwork

of Kenilworth; it was Constable who proposed
the title Kenilworth after Scott had intended to
give the novel the same name as the ballad.
Mickle also wrote a play on The Siege of Mar-
seilles, which Garrick refused; and the Prophecy
of Queen Emma, on American independence. He
assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads--
in which Cumnor Hall and other pieces of his
first appeared in 1784; and though he did not
reproduce the direct simplicity and unsophisticated
ardour of the real old ballads, he attained to some-
thing of their tenderness and pathos. He wrote
a number of songs, the last being on his birthplace,
Eskdale Braes. The famous Scotch song originally
called, somewhat absurdly, The Mariner's Wife,
but usually named from its chorus There's nae
Luck about the House, is almost certainly Mickle's ;
though in 1810 Cromek asserted it to be the
work of Jean Adam (afterwards calling herself
Miss Jane Adams), successively servant-maid in
Greenock, schoolmistress, and hawker, who, born
in 1710, died in 1765 in the Glasgow poorhouse,
having published in 1734 a small volume of poor
religious poems.
There's nae Luck was sung in
the streets about 1772, and was first asserted to
be Jean's by some of her old pupils, without
evidence. An imperfect, altered, and corrected
copy was found among Mickle's manuscripts after
his death; and his widow confirmed the external
evidence in his favour by an express declaration
that her husband had said the song was his
own, and that he had explained to her the
Scottish words. It is the fairest flower in his
poetical chaplet, but was not published till after
his death, by the editor of his works (1806).
Beattie (a kinsman of Mickle's) added a double
stanza to this song, containing a happy epicurean
fancy-which Burns, who commended the whole
song as one of the most beautiful songs in the
Scots or any language,' said was 'worthy of the
first poet :'

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Cumnor Hall.

The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.
'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft has sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,

Immured in shameful privity?

'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

'Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

'I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark so blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.
If that my beauty is but small,

Among court-ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,

Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? 'And when you first to me made suit,

How fair I was, you oft would say! And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay.

'Yes! now neglected and despised,

The rose is pale, the lily 's dead; But he that once their charms so prized, Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay :

What floweret can endure the storm?

'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare,
That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.
'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild-flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my passing beauty rare.
'But, Leicester-or I much am wrong-
It is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead-
The injured surely may repine-
Why didst thou wed a country maid,

When some fair princess might be thine?
'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
'The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go :
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.
'The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;

To be content, than to be great. 'How far less blest am I than them,

Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.

There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

Bring down to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl blue—
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air;

His very fit has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth I'm like to greet.

In the author's manuscript (which has 'button gown' where 'cotton gown' is usually given) another verse is added:

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave,

And gin I live to mak him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.

The following was the addition made by Beattie :
The cauld blasts of the winter wind
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part.

But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

The Spirit of the Cape.-From the 'Lusiad.' Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled; From these rude shores our fearless course we held: Beneath the glistening wave the god of day Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread, And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star; So deep a gloom the lowering vapour cast, Transfixed with awe the bravest stood aghast. Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds, As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds;

Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning heaven,
The wonted signs of gathering tempest given.
Amazed we stood-O thou, our fortune's guide,
Avert this omen, mighty God, I cried;

Or through forbidden climes adventurous strayed,
Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed,
Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky

Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed eye?
Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more
Than midnight tempests and the mingled roar,
When sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore.
I spoke, when rising through the darkened air,
Appalled, we saw a hideous phantom glare;
High and enormous o'er the flood he towered,
And thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered.
Unearthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread,
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red;
Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose,
Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows;
His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind,
Revenge and horror in his mien combined;

His clouded front, by withering lightning scarred,
The inward anguish of his soul declared.
His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves
Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore
With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar.
Cold gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast;
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed
Wild dread; the while with visage ghastly wan,
His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began:
'O you, the boldest of the nations, fired
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired,
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose,
Through these my waves advance your fearless prows,
Regardless of the lengthening watery way,
And all the storms that own my sovereign sway,
Who 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore
Where never hero braved my rage before;
Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane,
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign,
Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew,
To veil her secret shrine from mortal view,
Hear from my lips what direful woes attend,
And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend.

With every bounding keel that dares my rage,
Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage;
The next proud fleet that through my dear domain,
With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane,
That gallant navy by my whirlwinds tossed,
And raging seas, shall perish on my coast.
Then he who first my secret reign descried,
A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide
Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail,
O Lusus! oft shalt thou thy children wail;
Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore,
Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore.'
He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew,
A doleful sound, and vanished from the view;
The frightened billows gave a rolling swell,
And distant far prolonged the dismal yell ;
Faint and more faint the howling echoes die,
And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky.
There is an edition of Mickle's works, with Life, by Sim (1809).
Mickle's translation of the Lusiad superseded that of Fanshawe,
and has been succeeded by those of Quillinan, Musgrave, Mitchell,
and Sir Richard Burton.

James Beattie (1735-1803) was the son of a small farmer and shopkeeper at Laurencekirk in Kincardine. He lost his father in childhood, but was assisted in his education by a kindly elder brother; and in his fourteenth year he obtained a bursary or exhibition (implying some proficiency in Latin) at Marischal College, Aberdeen. Having graduated and been appointed schoolmaster of the parish of Fordoun (1753), he was placed amidst scenery which stirred his love of nature and poetry. The scenes sketched in his Minstrel were plainly those in which he had grown up, and the feelings and aspirations therein expressed were those of his own boyhood and youth. In 1758 he was elected a master of the grammar-school of Aberdeen, and in 1760 Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in Marischal College. In 1761 he published a collection of poems and translations contributed from time to time to the Scots Magazine, the piece called Retirement being most noticeable. In 1765 appeared The Judgment of Paris, and some ungenerous verses on the death of Churchill. His ardour for what he held to be the truth led him at times into intolerance, and he was too fond of courting the notice and approbation of the great. In 1770 the poet appeared as a metaphysician in his Essay on Truth, where orthodox principles were defended in no very philosophical temper, and in a style which suffered by comparison with that of his illustrious opponent, David Hume. Next year the first part of The Minstrel was published, and was received with universal approbation. Honours flowed in on the fortunate author. He visited London, and was admitted to all its brilliant and distinguished circles; Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, and Reynolds were numbered among his friends. On a second visit in 1773 he had an interview with the king and queen, which resulted in a pension of £200 per annum. Oxford made him LL.D., and Reynolds painted his portrait in an allegorical picture, in which he was seen by the side of the angel of Truth, thrusting down Prejudice, Scepticism, and Folly (two of them meant for Hume and Voltaire). He was even promised preferment in the Church of England. The second part of the Minstrel was published in 1774; the projected third part never appeared. Domestic sorrows marred Beattie's otherwise happy lot. His wife became insane, and had to be confined in an asylum; and he lost both of his accomplished sons. his last years he was overcome by despondency, and sank into mental and physical decay.

In

To a new edition of the Essay on Truth in 1776, Beattie added essays on poetry and music, on laughter, and on the utility of classical learning ; and in 1783 he published a series of moral and critical Dissertations, of which Cowper said that Beattie was the only author whose philosophical works were 'diversified and embellished by a poetical imagination that makes even the driest subject and the leanest a feast for epicures.' The