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had not shown rather the weak than the strong points of the Puritan character. But chiefly the brief history of the settlement goes to show that the kind of expeditions which were begun by Hawkins and Drake never really ceased in the West Indies. Record of them is lost, because they were undertaken by private persons who had commonly no motive for publishing a record of what they

did, but, on the contrary, many reasons for preserving a judicious silence when King James and King Charles wished to remain on friendly terms with Spain. A certain piquancy is given to the tale by the old combination of the Puritan and buccaneer elements. It stands alone in the strange pirating, smuggling, adventurous history of the Spanish Main.

A MASQUERADER.

SORROW once wearied of his sad estate,
And finding Pleasure sleeping in the sun
Put on his mantle, bargaining with Fate
That she should tell of the exchange to none;
Then through the city gates he made his way,
And eager crowds flocked round from far and near,
But some who strove to grasp his garments gay
Shrank back, they knew not why, with sudden fear.
And there were those who gave him of his best,
Who set before him a most royal feast,

Doing him homage as a kingly guest

Till, as the music and the mirth increased,

One peered beneath his hood, and saw with wild surprise
The sombre Spirit looking out from Sorrow's eyes!

CHRISTIAN BURKE.

AN IRISH BOSWELL.

SAID an optimist once, "Every man and woman carries in his (or her) head the material of an interesting novel." One is inclined to dispute this judgment; but it might be argued with greater truth that in every life there is the material of an entertaining biography. No two men, unless they be priggish conformities to a type, pass through the same experience, and nothing is necessary to create an interest save a sincere personality. Grandeur, genius, courage, have a stately value, which we estimate apart from their possessors; and a hero may be far less romantic, when his trappings are laid aside, than the impecunious clerk who, at five o'clock, rides back to his suburb on a 'bus. In his own brain the clerk is as little conscious of romance as the hero, since romance is always and for all men that which happens to somebody else. But the clerk's experience and reflection may be more whimsical and curious than the epic, in which statesmen and warriors take part. Drum and trumpet biography, indeed, may become as tiresome as drum and trumpet history: it is right and proper that the lives of great men should be written for our amusement and instruction, but these lives are too often written with a wrong method and for an unsound reason. The achievements of a valiant commander, for instance, are set forth by some patient

admirer who forgets that the valiant commander was also a man. The bravery and skill which the commander shares with all his class are scrupulously described, but all the intimate tricks and features which mark him off not only from his own class but from the rest of mankind are clumsily slurred over. The result is rather the photograph of a dressed-up dummy than an individual portrait. We understand the rude outline by a kind of habit, but all the finer shades of character and aspect escape us.

For biography depends less upon its subject than upon its method, and the life of the greatest king would appear insignificant if it were written without talent and without sympathy. On the other hand, a Boswell could make the adventures and table - talk of a costermonger for ever memorable. able. Intimate knowledge and quick sympathy, of course, are necessary, but above all the biographer must possess the art of selection. He must discard no incident, no aphorism, which is characteristic of his subject, and he must remember that insignificant traits are generally of higher importance than the common proofs of distinction. All generals fight battles, but all do not use snuff nor pray on the eve of a contest. Now, it so happens that the two great biographies in the languageBoswell's 'Johnson' and Lock

hart's 'Sir Walter Scott' reveal to us the lives and characters of two great men. But that is an accident, and the same admirable methods of portraiture, applied to lesser men, would produce a no less human and distinguished result. A fine biography, then, is as rare an event in the history of literature as a fine tragedy; and even of the few we have, some still escape notice. Who, for instance, knows the admirable Life of Philip Skelton,' which was penned a century ago? In all essentials this forgotten book is a masterpiece of the art, and though Macaulay counted it among his favourites, it has since sunk into a sad obscurity. This obscurity is the more to be regretted because Samuel Burdy, A.B., the biographer, was after his fashion a man of genius. The very name has a strange and simple look more fitted to raise a smile than to inspire respect. But for all the simplicity of the man and the name, Samuel Burdy, A.B., not only knew his model intimately, but he understood the difficulties of portraiture; and the result is that, though Philip Skelton was but the clergyman of an Irish parish, we may enjoy a better acquaintance with him than with the most of his more exalted contemporaries. Swift, the greatest satirist of his century, remains a puzzle for the critics. His character is befogged by prejudice unto the present day, and so loud is the voice of posthumous slander that it is perhaps too late to explain the truth. But Skel

ton, a rival in the pulpit to the Dean of St Patrick's, and author of a pamphlet once ascribed to the great man, need not escape our comprehension and regard. For there he is drawn by Samuel Burdy with the touch of truth and sincerity which Boswell himself might well have envied.

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Of course he was a man of force and character. But the Ireland of the eighteenth century was rich in modest heroes, and Skelton would never have lived beyond his death had it not been for the skill and intelligence of Samuel Burdy, who has been as foolishly misunderstood as his eminent rival. The ancient theory that James Boswell was imbecile drunkard, who happened by chance to compose a work of genius, was long popular, and the many excellences of his famous biography were but excuses for cheap ridicule and facile misapprehension. But at last it is realised that Boswell sacrificed himself to his ambition, that in order to enhance the truth of his portrait he would cut antics before the whole world, and no critic of the future dare say that his success was not com

plete. So in a lesser degree Samuel Burdy, A.B., might be underrated, were his name more widely known. It is easy to find him tripping over the same obstacles at which Boswell so gloriously stumbled. He uncovers the faults of his idol with a grotesque, unconscious candour; he repeats with an air of unsurprised piety the bitterest insults which Skelton

hurled at all the dignitaries of the Church; and he tells the truth in so austere a spirit of impartiality, that at the first glance you recognise the verisimilitude of the portrait. Here, indeed, is no "plaster saint," but a real man, whose temper was as violent as his orthodoxy was strong, and who never could be tamed, even in the shadow of the Church, to withhold his fist or to chasten his tongue.

And Burdy has succeeded in the task of portraiture, because he was born with the talent of biography. One work was allotted for his accomplishment, and he accomplished it like a master. Skelton, no doubt, was the single man who fired his imagination, and as deep a sympathy united the two men, different though they were in temper, as united Johnson and his biographer. Burdy's other works are merely commonplace; his career was merely commonplace: once only did opportunity confront him, and he deserves to be remembered, because he seized the opportunity with both hands. His style is vigorous, and sometimes even dignified; he gathered his material by the Socratic method, and no doubt he put as many questions as the laird of Auchinleck; the authority for his most outrageous statements is always Skelton; and while he makes no attempt to soften his model, it is obvious that he has never put a too harsh edge upon the reverend gentleman's features. Above all, he has cultivated the anecdote with a zeal that might

put the composer of chap-books to shame. And, in truth, the chap-book was to Burdy a potent influence. He wrote his authentic biography of an ancient clergyman as the hacks of the eighteenth century composed the lives of Freney and Barrington. Nor is there anything astonishing in this imitation. Ireland a hundred years since depended for her literature upon the pedlars—the real circulating libraries of old-who carried their pamphlets to the distant corners of that wild land, and picked up their modest bread and butter in cottages which knew not the meaning of the things we call books. So that, while on the one hand Burdy rivals Boswell, on the other he imitates the simple bundles of jest and anecdote which the pedlars carried in their pack. Yet the result is not incongruous, because the biographer, with his genuine sense of humour and proportion, keeps the picture within its frame.

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In 1781 Burdy, still student, was infatuated with the stories, which all Dublin repeated, of Skelton's vigour and skill in argument. So as Boswell sought Johnson in Davies's bookshop, Burdy sought the Irish divine in his humble lodging. He went with the avowed purpose of asking advice; but curiosity was stronger within him than interest, and his retentive memory was already prepared to feed a notebook. His reception was not so brusque as was Boswell's, yet it might have dismayed a less pertinacious admirer. Burdy

tracked the hero to his bedchamber, where he found “a remarkably tall large man; his eyebrows were quite grey, his shoulders somewhat bent by age, and his bones nearly twice the size of those of an ordinary man. He wore a brown wig, a blue coat with black cuffs, the breast of which was covered over with snuff, black velvet waistcoat and breeches, yarn stockings made of black wool, and small silver buckles on his shoes." Thus the man is brought before you in a few lines, with the added note that "his countenance showed he had been handsome in his youth." Skelton instantly saw the man with whom he dealt, and rallied him incontinent. "You're finely dressed," said he, "with your fine bright buttons. I thought you were a man of sense and a scholar, but I have been deceived, I find; I believe you are but an indifferent sort of a body; I always judge a man by his buttons. However, the brilliantly bedecked Burdy was not easily subdued. Despite his finery, he put the old man, then past seventy, into a good temper, and, as he ingenuously declares, changed his buttons the very next day.

Henceforth Burdy's task was designed for him. He frequented the company of Skelton assiduously, and has left us the best portrait of a bullying, wrangling parson that exists. Philip Skelton, we learn, was born near Lisburne in 1706, the son of a "decent and honest country

man.

He was roughly nurtured, but his early hardships did but increase the vigour and

"At

insolence of his character. his father's they always got beef on Sundays," he said, "but not regularly during the week." So in the midst of poverty he grew up, dividing his time between the fields and the grammar-school. When he did not relish his books, his father put coarse brogues on his feet, a frieze coat on his back, and sent him to toil with the common labourers, and when the day's work was done sat him down to feed with the lowest servants. Then, as the boy began to relent, "Sirrah," said his father, "I'll make this proposal to you: Whether do you choose to drudge and toil all your life, as you have these few days past, living on coarse food, clad in frieze clothes, and with brogues on your feet, or to apply to your books, and eat, drink, and be dressed like your brothers here?" pointing to his brothers, who had just come down from the University, decked out in Dublin finery. Poor Philip, whose bones ached with the hand-barrow, said he would readily go to school, and be attentive to his studies. And so attentive was he that he made himself a scholar in spite of obstacles. Candles failing him he used furze, which he gathered for the purpose, and throwing it piece by piece on the fire, read by the glimmering light. But though he became a scholar, he would never make the smallest claim to be a gentleman. "He only is a gentleman," said he, "who has riches derived from ancestors, that possessed them from time imme

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