Whach. Look you there now! Well, all Europe cannot show a knot of finer wits and braver gentlemen.

Ding. Faith, they are pretty smart men.

Blust. The gentlemen, I must confess, are pretty gentlemen: but time shall try. I'll say no more."

The Volunteers, or Stockjobbers, was a posthumous play, and represented after the death of the author. It was written at a time when volunteering to join the Duke of Marlborough was common, and when there raged a mania for joint-stock companies, which appears to have rivalled in extravagance the feverish time of the South-Sea adventure, or the excitement, as it is called, of 1825. The following passage might, in truth, have been revived on the last occasion with great aptness.

"Hack., sen. Well, have you been inquiring what patents they are soliciting for, and what stocks to dispose of?

1 Jobber. Why, in truth, there is one thing liketh me well, it will go all over England.

Mrs. Hack. What's that? I am resolved to be in it, husband?

1 Jubber. Why, it is a mouse-trap, that will invite all mice in, nay rats too, whether they will or no: a whole share, before the patent, is fifteen pounds; after the patent, they will not take sixty. There is no family in England will be without 'em.

2 Jobber. I take it to be a great undertaking: but there is a patent likewise on foot for one's walking under water; a share twenty pounds. Mrs. Hack. That would have been of great use to carry messages under the ice this last frost, before it would bear.

Hack., sen. Look thee, lamb: between us, it's no matter whether it turns to use or not: the main end, verily, is to turn the penny in the way of stock-jobbing, that's all.

1 Jobber. There is likewise one who will undertake to kill all fleas, in all the families in England, provided he hath a patent, and that none may kill a flea but himself.

1

2 Jobber. There is likewise a patent moved for, of bringing some Chinese rope-dancers over, the most exquisite in the world. Considerable men have shares in it; but verily I question whether this be lawful or not.

Hack., sen. Look thee, brother, if it be to a good end, and that we ourselves have no share in the vanity or wicked diversion thereof, by beholding of it, but only use it whereby we may turn the penny, and employ it for edification, always considered that it is like to take, and the said shares will sell well; and then we shall not care whether the aforesaid dancers come over or no.

2 Jobber. There is another patent in agitation for flying; a great virtuoso undertakes to out-fly any post-horse five miles an hour: very good for expresses and intelligence."

The characters in the Volunteers are numerous, varied, and well drawn, Major-General Blunt, an old cavalier officer, brave, sensible, and blunt, is well contrasted with Colonel Hackwell,

an old anabaptist colonel of Cromwell's; stout, godly, and bigoted; led and abused by his wife; a depraved hypocrite. Sir Nicholas Dainty and Sir Timothy Kastril are both dandies; but with a difference: Dainty is brave, vain, coxcombical, and successful; Kastril, unfortunately, fails both in love and courage. By a clumsy profession of the same arts for which Sir Nicholas is admired, he gets himself despised. The author has succeeded in giving a highly comic turn to his character, and which pleases the more, inasmuch as it is founded in human nature. Sir Timothy has been beaten more than once in certain rencontres; feeling his heart fail him, he has not made a proper resistance. It occurs to him, that the reputation of these affairs getting abroad will expose him to ill-treatment from every bully; the very fear of being beaten supplies him with courage, and in a fit of desperation he determines to attack some one, to recover his character. Happily he succeeds in the first attempt; the intoxication of success is now added to the desperation of fear, and he determines to try again; in short, he is for fighting every body, and never hears of a quarrel but he instantly puts himself forward; and he by a sudden metamorphosis becomes for a time as foolhardy as he had been cowardly. With a scene which exhibits this change of resolution we must close our extracts from these volumes.

"Enter Sir Timothy Kastril.

Sir Tim. If I suffer myself to be beaten, cuffed, and kicked thus any longer, instead of saluting me with their hats, fellows will salute, me with fist, foot, and cudgel. I shall be beaten like hemp or stockfish; I shall grow, in a little time, the common anvil of the town. Well, in short, I dare not endure beating any longer. Let me see. -What a pox! 'tis fifty to one he does not hit my vitals, if he hits me. And if it be but a flesh-wound, that's no great matter.-Ha! I have a pretty long sword.-What a devil! I'll fight, I am resolved: for 'tis better to be killed than to live such a beaten life as I am like to live without it. Where is this rogue, Nickum? I'll watch him till midnight,-if he does not bolt out before.

me.

Enter Nickum.

Nick. These kicks from this damned beau sit very uneasily upon He touched my honour to the quick, as Hudibras says. I must resolve to fight him: for if not, after this baffle, I shall not get a debt that's owing me by a bubble in England. I have a challenge ready penned. I fancy, if I come round up with him, he will be modest yet.

Sir Tim. Ha! here the rogue is. What is he muttering to himself? Nick. It shall go!--Porter, porter!

Porter. Who calls porter?

Enter Porter.

Nick. Here, I take this note, and carry it as it is directed; and here's sixpence for your pains.

[Exit Porter.

Nick. Well, 'tis gone. I must resolve to fight; this confounded beau will tell all the town what men he baffles, as well as what women he lies with.

Sir Tim. There's no more to be said.-I will fight.- -Sirrah! rogue! rascal! scoundrel! coward! I'll whip thee through-I'll make thee fuller of holes than e'er pinked sattin was.

Nick. What the devil! Is this coward beau run mad?

Sir Tim. He begins to fear me.-Sirrah, I will mangle thee so, that when I have kill'd thee, they shall not know whether thou art a man or a fish.

Nick. If you long to be beaten again

[Draws. Sir Tim. Beaten, you dog! Have at your lungs, or some other of your entrails.

[He runs at Nickum as hard as he can, and disarms him. Damn me! beg your life, sirrah!

Nick. I do, I do!

Sir Tim. What a pox is this all? I have no hurt. To make such a business of fighting! Here, sirrah, take your sword, and fight again! Here's a business indeed!

Nick. What! with one that has given me my life?

Sir Tim. Prithee, I gave thy life to thee to fight with it. Gad! I must fight with you, or somebody else. It's an admirable exercise. I intend to use it a-mornings, instead of tennis.

Nick. This is most amazing! What a metamorphosis is this? He is a bloody-minded beau. That I should light on two wrong beaux in an hour! Pox on 'em for me! I'll meddle no more with 'em.

Sir Tim. Will you fight again, sirrah? If you won't, get you about your business:--what have I to do with you? a company of cowardly rascals of you! Now I think on't, you laid on me confoundedly. [Struts up and down, and cudgels him. Nick. This is the devil in his shape, sure! My sword, sir. Sir Tim. No, sirrah, you have no occasion for it; you durst not fight. I'll keep it, sirrah-begone!

Nick. What a devil! does he take the plunder o' the field? I see I must fight now. [Ex. Nickum. Sir Tim. Gad take me, this is rare sport! I long to be fighting with somebody else: I must pick a quarrel.”

Besides the plays of Shadwell's, of which we have given an account, he wrote Psyche, a kind of mythological drama, which is destitute of merit: he modified the Timon of Athens of Shakspeare, and boasts that he had turned it into a play he translated, or rather imitated, the L'Avare of Moliere; he claims having made considerable changes in it; and his Miser is undoubtedly a very respectable comedy.

The portion of these volumes which is peculiarly disagreeable to us is the prologues and epilogues, which are almost wholly written by the author. They are very dull, very full of pretension, and excessively abusive and illiberal.

Thomas Shadwell was born at Stanton Hall in Norfolk, a seat

of his father's, about the year 1640. He was educated at Caius College, Cambridge, and afterwards entered of the Middle Temple, where he studied law for a time, and then visited the continent. At the revolution he was made poet laureate through the influence of a warm friend, the Earl of Dorset. He died December 6, 1692, of an over-dose of opium, to the practice of taking which it is said he was addicted. The play of the Volunteers is dedicated to Queen Anne by his widow, who acknowledges, with gratitude, the support and favour she had received from her Majesty. Dr. John Shadwell, the dramatist's eldest son, afterwards Sir John Shadwell, was physician successively to Queen Anne, George I., and George II. Charles Shadwell, who was either his son or his nephew, it is uncertain which, wrote several plays, which were chiefly acted in Ireland. He died in Dublin in 1726, where he enjoyed a post in the

revenue.

The Letters which Johan Ashwell, Priour of Newnham Abbey, sent secretly to the Bishop of Lincolne, wherein the said Priour accuseth George Joye of four Opinions, with the Answere of the said George unto the same Opinions. Printed at Strasburg, A. D. 1527.

THE author of the little work, the name of which is prefixed to this article, was one of the first who stood forward in England to advocate the diffusion of the Holy Scriptures, and to proclaim the sacred right of private judgment. George Joye was a native of Bedfordshire. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated A. B. in 1513, and A.M. in 1517; and the same year elected fellow of Peter House. Learning was then at a very low ebb in both the English universities. Cambridge was the seat of ignorance, of bigotry, and superstition'. The nurslings of reform, which accident produced or protected within her sacred precincts, for a time were soon blasted by the poisoned breath of persecution; and he who presumed to teach the right of private judgment, and to promulgate the truths and expose the corruptions of the Holy Scriptures, was instantly beset by a set of monkish hornets, who dreaded lest the light of God's eternal word, shed abroad upon the people, should discover to the world the unholy recesses of their nests of indolence, impiety, and iniquity.

The reader will not be surprised that Joye, who advocated the universal diffusion of the Gospel, and who was, as we are told by

Life of Latimer, prefixed to the fourth edition of his Sermons.

Fuller," the great friend of Master Tindale," became the object of calumny and persecution. Accused of heresy by the Prior of Newenham, who wrote a letter to the Bishop of Lincoln, to which the work above is an answer, he was sent for, to use his own words," as from the Cardinal Wolsey, by one of his officers, to Cambridge, with letters delivered to the Vice-chancellor, Dr. Edmunds, then Master of Peterhouse, in which letters he was desired to send me up to appeare at Westminster at ix. of the clock, with Bilney and Arthure, for certain erroneous opinions. I saw the Cardinal's sign manual subscribed in great letters, and his seal. I got me horse, when it snowed, and was cold, and came to London, and so to Westminster, not long after my houre, when Bilney and Arthure were in examination. When I knew but those two poor sheep among so many cruel wolves, I was not overhasty to thrust in amongst them, for there was a shrewd many of Bishops, besides the Cardinal, with others of that faction. On the Saturday, a master of mine, William Gascoigne, the Cardinal's treasurer, bade me go to the chamber of presence. I was but a coarse courtyer, never before hearing this term, and I was half ashamed to ask after it, and at last happened upon a door and knocked, and one opened it, and when I looked in, it was the kitchen! Then the Treasurer tolde me, the Cardinale sent not for me. Then I began to smell their secret conveyance, and how they had counterfeited theyr Lord the Cardinale's letters. And here the Treasurer sent me to the Bishop of Lyncolne; Dr. Raines showed my Lord of me, and said that I must come again in the morning at six of the clock. I did so, and waited at the stair's foot till it was about eight. My Lord came down, and I did my duty to him. He asked me, Be you Master Joye?' Yea! forsooth, my Lord,' quoth I. Abide,' quoth he, 'with my Chancellor till I come again.' I desired my Lord to be good Lord to me, and shew me his pleasure, what his Lordship would with me, and he answered me like a Lord, and said, I should wait upon his leisure. On the morrow, I met with a scholar of Cambridge, and he tolde me the Bishop of Lincolne had sent his servant busily to enquire, and to seke me. What is the matter,' quoth I. Mary,' quoth he, it is said he would give you a benefice.' A benefice!' quoth I, yea, a malefice rather, for so reward they men for well-doing.' Then I gote me horse, and rode from my benefice, and left college, and all that I had. And the Bishop of Lincolne laid privy wait for me, to be taken, and my feet bound under an horse's belly to be brought into him."

Suspecting that the Cardinal had no charitable design towards him, he resigned his fellowship, his home, his country, and his friends, and fled to Strasburg, in 1527. "Your letters," as he pathetically writes to his calumniator, wrought me much

VOL. II.-PART I.

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