The only consequence that resulted from the adventure thus providentially terminated, was a wet jacket; but a brisk fire, a glass of grog, and a warm welcome in my host’s capacious settle, helped to banish it from my recollection.  My worthy friend, Sam Clovelly, was not mistaken; my interest, which was deeply awakened, received a strong whet from the narrative which Mr. Sheepshanks related, and though wearied with the day’s adventure, I did not go to rest till I had heard the conclusion of his somewhat prolix story.  I afterwards happened to know more, indeed, of the circumstances alluded to; and though the day’s incident was of a frightful nature, yet I look back upon it as the means of introducing me to the knowledge of events connected with the history of the last surviving member of an ancient family, to me of deep interest.  I pause:  the reader may hear more of the FATE OF WALTER DAWLISH.

VYVYAN.

    [3] Printed by mistake Tor-withiel, in No.  II. of these
        Recollections:  see Mirror, vol. xv. p. 356.

* * * * *

OLD POETS.

* * * * *

MELANCHOLY.

  Melancholy from the spleen begun,
  By passion mov’d into the veins doth run;
  Which when this humour as a swelling flood,
  By vigour is infused in the blood,
  The vital spirits doth mightily appal,
  And weakeneth so the parts organical,
  And when the senses are disturb’d and tir’d
  With what the heart incessantly desir’d,
  Like travellers with labour long oppress’d
  Finding relief, eftsoons thy fall to rest.

DRAYTON.

* * * * *

LOVE.

  Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet,
  When like desires and affections meet;
  For from the earth to heaven is Cupid raised
  Where fancies are in equal balance peised.

MARLOWE.

  O learn to love, the lesson is but plain,
  And once made perfect, never lost again.

SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

BEAUTY.

  Such colour had her face as when the sun
  Shines in a watery cloud in pleasant spring;
  And even as when the summer is begun
  The nightingales in boughs do sit and sing,
  So the blind god, whose force can no man shun
  Sits in her eyes, and thence his darts doth fling;
  Bathing his wings in her bright crystal streams,
  And sunning them in her rare beauties beams. 
  In these he heads his golden-headed dart,
  In those he cooleth it, and tempereth so,
  He levels thence at good Oberto’s heart,
  And to the head he draws it in his bow.

SIR J. HARRINGTON.

* * * * *