and there, despite all accidents, they remained until now, when they were of great importance to her. Mr. Manning lost everything save the wet clothes he wore; but with much persuasion, Peg got him to accept of three dubloons, something more than ten pounds, as a reward for saving her life. Had he known that she possessed more than a hundred of those pieces, he might not have hesitated to accept what she offered; but, supposing that she offered too much for her ability, it was with reluctance he took it, even as a loan. Ten years afterwards, Peg Runciman being then Mrs. Andrew Galroy, and having children, the second, Manning Galroy, received a fortune. The friend from whom he took his Christian name died, namely, Mr. Henry Manning, formerly mate of the Nightingale transport, wrecked on the coast of Cornwall, and afterwards captain of the Ulverstone merchantman, and left as a legacy to the said Manning Galroy the sum of seven hundred pounds sterling. So that again Peg's trip to Spain was not an unproductive one.

In two days after that of the wreck, we were all conveyed to Falmouth, and in three days more we embarked for Portsmouth; being required there, as it was said, to give evidence on a court of inquiry, relative to the wreck of the vessel; but whether such a court assembled I never heard; I had no questions put to me but by those who were personally interested in the fate of my master.

It was not until we were at Portsmouth that the poet was sufficiently recovered, and in possession of himself to return to his stanzas, the study of which was so unpropitiously interrupted on that night, when he first submitted part of them to my notice. He had suffered severely during the gale;

and he only made his escape from the ship into one of the small boats, by the chance of my having taken him from the multitude, between decks, into my berth in the steward's cabin. Most of the other servants who were with us, as well as the officers, their masters, got into the long-boat, and were drowned when she was upset.

The term of suffering and insensibility, however, did not blot out what was written in his memory, nor incapacitate him for taking up the unfinished verses at the lines where he had broken off.

"I am at a loss," he said to me one day, "to make the fifth and sixth verses read as I would like them; but I've torn and twisted words and ideas until the subject has almost grown stale from my familiarity with it, so for the present, I shall let it stand as it is you wanted a copy of it, and I've made this one, which you may keep; but I shall first make some remarks on it, so that you may give your opinion."

I accepted the manuscript, and I make no apology for reprinting those now well-known stanzas; nor do I expect any apology is necessary, seeing that I was the first on whose ear their musical and pathetic sound fell. It will be seen by those who know the lines as they are now printed in school books, Sheridan Knowles's Elocution, for instance, that there is some slight alteration from the poet's original manuscript; but by whom the alteration has been made I cannot say. I do not question but the finished taste of Mr. Knowles may have caused the sixth stanza to be marked as an extract of speech with perfect propriety, but amongst the several markings of the author, and uncertainties which I

here subjoin, those turned commas were not mentioned. I print those words and lines in italic which have been altered since the verses were written on the sheet given to me.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(From the Original M.S. of the Author, as given to his friend Swanston, in February, 1809.)

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the ramparts (1) we hurried ; (2)

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave (3) where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly; at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the twinkling of the pale starlight, (4)
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest—
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him._(5)

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we heard by the outpost signal (6) gun
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly, we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory:
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him-alone with his glory.

(1) I have had this sometimes ramparts, and sometimes grave; and I find it must now be ramparts, as you will see by figure 3.

'(2) I have had this carried, and hurried : and hurried, and carried; which is best?

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(3) This was place when you heard it; because grave was there in the place of ramparts, and to have had it grave again was tautological. I think grave sounds much better than place, so I have made the first ramparts instead of grave.

(4) This line is not good. I have tried it different ways. By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, is one of them; which do you think best? (This is most generally

printed as the author has it in this note.)

'(5) This verse and the next line cost me more labour than all the others, not in making them what they are; but in trying to make them something else; I am not pleased with them." (This is Wolfe's last remark.)

Relative to figure 6, Paul Swanston has to remark that the words are altered to distant and random gun; but by whom he is not aware. It is smoother and more poetical, but not so correct in sense when the words suddenly firing are looked to. However, it is not of much consequence. Probably Wolfe altered it himself. It will be seen also that what he originally intended to be the second stanza is now the last; and that some printers have put in instead of with in the last line.

It was either on the occasion of my getting the manuscript from Wolfe, or some other day that we

met during his stay at Portsmouth, that I obtained from him and some of his comrades a circumstantial detail of the manner in which the melancholy task of burying Sir John Moore was performed. In looking into my memorandums, letters, and wellfilled memory, for the materials of this memoir of my own life, I find the following to be nearly the manner in which they gave their account. I shall give it as

A SKETCH FROM RECOLLECTION.

SCENE.-Mother Tupper's Taproom, Portsea.
PERSONS.-Corporal Wolfe, Davis Lloyd, Timothy
Lockhart, Barney O'Leary, and Paul Swanston.
Soldiers of various regiments, and broken-down
Seamen, smoking, drinking, and singing.
bacco pipes, tobacco, and quart pots on the table.
A pot of beer newly drawn.

TIME.-Evening of a day in February, 1809.

To

Corporal Wolfe.-Drink, Barney; the pot stands at you.

Barney. Fait then, Carporal, it will not be after standing there long.

life, joy (he drinks).

Here's to the good of all your Sure it must be cruel hard to make all them words maitre as you done ;-drink to wet them out of your trote, carporal.

Corporal. Here's t'ye, Barney; glad to see you safe over the gale. Healths a piece, lads.

Barney.-Och! you're the boy that can make the pothry maitre rightly. If Mick Donnolly of Cork had you with him he would make a man of you, so he would! Sure, he is the only man that makes all the songs in the country.