rapacity, and ambition, sent him all wrong;
he denounced Goring, and ordered the people
to rise en masse and beat him out of Cornwall
if he dare enter. He refused to act under
Lord Hopton, the king's general-in-chief in the
west, and was finally committed to prison by
the prince for his oppression, tyranny, and
disobedience. A gate, the sole surviving relic
of the old Plymouth fortification, was pulled
down in 1863.

An old resident in Plymouth, has drawn a
graphic picture of the town, about the year
1809, and the crow, refreshing his memory by
this means, looks back and sees again the
Plymouth of the past. Old admirals then paced
the streets, pig-tailed sailors revelled in the
grog-shops, old heroes perambulated the Hoe.
It was the time of hard fighting and press-gangs,
of courts-martial, and frequent stringing up at
the yard-arm. Old Haydon, the shrewd, clever
father of the artist, was a printer and book-
seller then, in a large shop nearly opposite
the end of Market-street, facing the awkward
Guildhall. Haydon used to relate to favourite
customers how, when a boy of seventeen, he
had heard an old seaman describe the horrors
of the storm of 1703. The man had seen
Winstanley, when the sea was breaking over
Drake's Island like a cascade, go off from
the Barbican steps to the Eddystone lighthouse,
of which he was the builder—but
neither builder, nor the slightest fragment of
the Pharos, were ever seen again after that
night. Newsmongers and quidnuncs of all
ranks frequented Haydon's shop. Old
Captain Winne used to drop in, telescope under
his arm, on his way to the Hoe or the
Citadel. Winne had been with Lord Howe on
the first of June, and used to relate exultingly
how, when our line was complete, the
admiral shouted, "Then up with the helm, in the
name of God!" and dashed through the
Frenchmen, felling seventy of the enemy in the
Montague alone with his sweeping broadsides.
The Duke of Clarence, when stationed at
Plymouth, fell in love with the fair sister of this
Captain Winne. Then there was old Admiral
Manly, who is said once, in a fog, to have kept
up a long and steady fire at a cloud, that he
mistook for a French ship. In Haydon's shop these
veterans often met Admiral Vincent, a captain
of 1747, who wrote a book on the non-existence
of matter when he was between eighty and
ninety years old; and brave one-armed Sir
Michael Seymour, of the Amethyst. That
huge man, General England, the lieutenant-
governor, also sometimes dropped in. The
Duke of York, by some supposed to be his
brother, had christened him "Great Britain."
Another habitué was Herbert, the banker, a
thin old man, whom the townspeople had
christened "Death," from the following story.
Two tipsy sailors blundered one night into
the banker's garden, in Frankfort-place; the
shutters not being closed, one of them looked
in at the window, and saw the pale, gaunt old
man nodding alone over his parlour fire, he
instantly called to his lingering messmate:

"Jack, Jack, heave a-head; if you never
saw Death before, here he is."

And a fine Holbein picture of senile decay
the story gives us.

The old resident remembers once, in this
same wartime, yachting near the French coast,
knowing old "Billy Blue" (Admiral Cornwallis)
was between him and Brest, with twenty or
thirty line-of-battle ships. Presently he saw
hull down the mast of a large vessel; then soon
after rose up two vessels, one towing the other.
The Thetis, of forty-four guns, had been captured
by Sir Michael Seymour's vessel, the Amethyst,
of thirty-six. It had been a butchering
fight of an hour and a half. The Thetis had lost
one hundred and thirty-five killed and one
hundred and two wounded, out of a crew of
three hundred seamen and one hundred
soldiers; the Amethyst about seventy killed or
wounded out of two hundred and twenty or
two hundred and thirty. The old resident
went on board, and saw the shambles still
uncleared; the bulwarks were jagged with
shot; the shot thrown by us into the Frenchman's
hull had in several places knocked two
ports into one. Ghastly wounded men lay on
blood-soaked hammocks and coils of rope,
moaning and shrieking; the red deck was
strewn with dying men, cut rigging, and
severed limbs. The cockpit was choked with
wounded sailors; on one plank thirteen
miserable wretches were dying with lock jaw.
"We can do nothing for them," the surgeons
said, with looks of pity. The grins were
splashed with blood, the steps of the gangways
dripped with gore, the planks were sodden
and black with powder.

On another occasion the old resident visited
the Northumberland, that had just driven on
shore two French frigates and a brig, and
had had a brush with the Brest batteries.
One French gun had killed six or eight of
our men and wounded twenty-six. One shot
"beat out the brains of a seaman, killed a
second man, and then passed nearly through
the opposite side of the Northumberland. The
ball was cut out, and hung in a netting in the
ward-room, as a shot that had done its duty.
Among the Northumberland's officers on this
occasion was Stuart, who was afterwards master
of the Susan when she was wrecked in Mount's
Bay. A mounted methodist preacher rode into
the waves and saved two men, but on the third
attempt was swept away.

Another character of old Plymouth is
remembered by the old resident. This was
Captain Rotherham, one of the Smollet school
of sailors, and the brave old tar who
commanded the Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar,
and would insist on wearing his enormous
cocked-hat all through the battle, though it
made him as conspicuous as the fatal diamond
star did poor Nelson. Rotherham was a tall,
wiry, mahogany-coloured veteran, who wore
his cocked-hat square, and always carried a
quid in his cheek.

There were Plymouth captains in these days,
stiff-backed martinets, who considered Nelson