as one--

"Who prized black eyes, and a lucky hit
At bowls, above all the trophies of wit."

It was comparatively an age of peace,

"Like strength reposing on his own right arm;"

but the sound of civil combat might still be heard in the distance, the
spear glittered to the eye of memory, or the clashing of armour struck on
the imagination of the ardent and the young. They were borderers on the
savage state, on the times of war and bigotry, though in the lap of arts,
of luxury, and knowledge. They stood on the shore and saw the billows
rolling after the storm: "they heard the tumult, and were still." The
manners and out-of-door amusements were more tinctured with a spirit of
adventure and romance. The war with wild beasts, &c. was more strenuously
kept up in country sports. I do not think we could get from sedentary
poets, who had never mingled in the vicissitudes, the dangers, or
excitements of the chase, such descriptions of hunting and other athletic
games, as are to be found in Shakspeare's Midsummer Night's Dream or
Fletcher's Noble Kinsmen.

With respect to the good cheer and hospitable living of those times, I
cannot agree with an ingenious and agreeable writer of the present day,
that it was general or frequent. The very stress laid upon certain
holidays and festivals, shews that they did not keep up the same
Saturnalian licence and open house all the year round. They reserved
themselves for great occasions, and made the best amends they could, for a
year of abstinence and toil by a week of merriment and convivial
indulgence. Persons in middle life at this day, who can afford a good
dinner every day, do not look forward to it as any particular subject of
exultation: the poor peasant, who can only contrive to treat himself to a
joint of meat on a Sunday, considers it as an event in the week. So, in
the old Cambridge comedy of the Return from Parnassus, we find this
indignant description of the progress of luxury in those days, put into
the mouth of one of the speakers.

"Why is't not strange to see a ragged clerke,
Some stammell weaver, or some butcher's sonne,
That scrubb'd a late within a sleeveless gowne,
When the commencement, like a morrice dance,
Hath put a bell or two about his legges,
Created him a sweet cleane gentleman:
How then he 'gins to follow fashions.
He whose thin sire dwelt in a smokye roofe,
Must make tobacco, and must wear a locke.
His thirsty dad drinkes i