English fashion. But short was the learned Doctor's enjoy. ment of his new honour; for, returning from Chester to London, he fell sick, and died at his house in Aldersgatestreet, November 29th, 1661; and, on the fifth of December following, was interred with much pomp, in the south aisle of St. Paul's Cathedral, opposite the monument of Elizabeth's dancing Lord Chancellor, Hatton, with a Latin epitaph of which ANTHONY A WOOD gives the following translation:

"Here awaiteth the sound of the last trump, BRIAN WALTON, Lord Bishop of Chester. Reader, look for no farther epitaph on him, whose very name was epitaph enough. Nevertheless, if thou lookest for a larger and louder one, consult the vocal oracles of his fame, and not of this dumb marble. For let me inform thee (if it be not a shame to be ignorant) this was he that with the first brought succour and assistance to the true Church, sick and fainting under the sad pressure of persecution. This was he that fairly wiped off those foul and contumelious aspersions cast upon her pure and spotless innocence by those illiterate and clergy-trampling schismaticks. This was he that brought more light and lustre to the true reformed Church here established; whilst, maugre the malice of those hellish machinators, he, with more earnest zeal and indefatigable labour than any, carried on, and promoted the printing of, that great Bible in so many languages. So that the Old and New Testa ment may well be his monument, which he erected with no small expense of his own. Therefore, he little needs the pageantry of pompous titles emblazoned, or displayed in herald's books, whose name is written in the book of life. He died on St. Andrew's Eve, in the 62 year of his age, in the first year of his consecration, and in the year of our Lord God 1661."

THOMAS WEBBER.

"Being, like poor Dryden, frequently hard up, he generally wrote more for profit than for fame. Most of his poems were written for the passing hour, and excited great interest at the time they were published. No important event transpired in Stockton but he recorded it in verse, and thus he acquired the name of its poet-laureate."-HEAVISIDES's Annals of Stockton-onTees."

Though for many years known as "the Stockton poetlaureate," Thomas Webber was born at Tiverton, in Devonshire, about the year 1783, where he received a fair amount of schooling, and served his apprenticeship to woolcombing. In 1806, he obtained employment with Joseph Pease & Co., at Darlington, with whom he continued for some years. In 1814, he had removed to Stockton-on-Tees, where (though he did not, like Orlando in As You Like It," hang odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles,") he was ready to rhyme on all occasions, serious or merry, if a few shillings were to be honestly earned in that manner; but he would not attempt to blacken a fair character, nor to write or speak in favour of oppression, however much he might need the gold which such prostitution of the pen would have brought him. To enumerate the titles alone of his pieces would occupy more space than I can afford for this notice; for he seems to have sung an elegy on the death of every Stocktonian of consequence for many years. The following is a favourable specimen of his

Elegiac Stanzas.

To the memory of the late much-lamented and highly-respected T. H. FABER, Esq., for many years Recorder of Stockton-on-Tees and Coroner for Stockton Ward.

E e

"TO THOMAS HENRY FABER, now no more,
Forced by a ruthless conqueror away,
Whose loss a whole community deplore,
I fain would tune an elegiac lay.
Though all Jehovah's mandate must obey,
In every age, in every state and clime,
Where'er the sun emits his cheering ray,
From the first dawn, through all revolving time;

Still, Nature prompts Affection's tears to flow,
And sanctifies the impulse in our kind,

While Friendship's sacred strains impassion'd głow,
Unheard, unseen, in many a feeling mind.
Such are the ties, the kindred ties, which bind
The nearest, dearest relatives and friends;
Whence we at times a mournful solace find,
A hallow'd boon which every gift transcends.

FABER, in neither station which he held,
Was ever by vindictive motives sway'd,
Nor could in either office be excell'd,

For he impartially the balance weigh'd.
In social life he ev'ry trait display'd

Which can confer a dignity on man, But Death the Coroner hath lowly laid And summon'd the Recorder to his ban.

Yes, ere he in th' unequal conflict fell,

While keenest anguish rent his manly frame; And woes unnumber'd would his bosom swell, He struggled nobly till th' Avenger came, When soon extinguish'd was the vital flame :

Then, when reclining in the arms of Death, He with his Saviour's breathed his partner's name, And bless'd his children with his parting breath.

And he is gone-gone to his final home,

To where we hope immortal pleasures reign, And 's welcome made beneath that heavenly dome Where sits the Judge, the Lamb for sinners slain : No more to feel disquietude and pain,

Nor base contumely with its scorpion stings, But with the seraph-band, a countless train, Chant forth Hosannas to the King of Kings.