The Li/eofJVilliam Mutton, of Birmingham. 



Sutton Colildeld, without food, without 

 a homei without money, and, wiint is 

 the last resort of the wretched, witliDUt 

 hope. Wliat had 1 done to merit tiiis 

 severe calamity ? Why did not I stay at 

 home, oppose the villains at my own 

 door, and sell my life at the dearest rate ! 

 I could have destroyed several before I 

 had fallen myself. This may be counted 

 rash; but unmerited distress, like mine, 

 could operate but two ways; a man 

 must either sink under it, or become des- 

 perate. 



Wliile surrounded by the gloom of 

 niglit, and the still greater gloom which 

 oppressed the mind, a person seemed to 

 liover ab:jut me who had evidently some 

 design, Whetiier an honest man or a 

 knave gave me no concern ; for I had 

 nothing to lose but life, which I esteemed 

 of little value. He approached nearer 

 with seeming diffidence. " Sir, is not 

 your name Iluttoii ?" " Yes." " I have 

 good news. The light-horse, some time 

 ago, passed through Sutton, in their way 

 to Birmingham." As Iliad been treated 

 with nine falsehoods for one truth, I 

 asked his authority. He replied, " I saw 

 them." This arrival I knew would put 

 a period to plunder. The inhabitants 

 of Birmingham received them with open 

 arms, with illuminations, and viewed 

 tJiem as their deliverers. 



We left the mob towards evening on 

 Sunday the 17tli, returning from King's 

 Norton. They cast a glance upon the 

 well-stored cellar and valuable plunder 

 of Edgbaston Hall, the residence of Dr. 

 Withering, who perhaps never heard a 

 presbytenan sermon, and yet is as ami- 

 able a character as he who has. Before 

 their work ivas completed, the words 

 light-horse sounded in their ears; when 

 this formidable banditti mouldered away, 

 no soul knew how, and not a ehadow of 

 it could be found. ^ 



Exclusive of the devastations above- 

 mentioned, the rabble did numberless 

 mischiefa. The lower class among us, 

 long inured to fire, had now treated 

 tliemselves with a full resale of their 

 favourite element. If their teachers are 

 fniihful to their trust, they will present 

 to their idea another powerful flame in 

 reversion. 



Next morning, Monday the 18th, I 

 returned to Birmingham, to be treated 

 with the £ad spectacle of another house 

 in ruins. Every part of the mutilated 

 building declared that tile iiand of vio- 

 lence had been theie. 



My friends received mc with joy; and 

 though thev liad not fouuht for ine, Uie^ 



MuMX ULY Mac. No. 293, 



643 



had been assiduous in securing some of 

 my property, which, I w.is told, " had 

 paved half the streets in Birmingham." 



ROBr.RT BAQE. 



The second occurrence of 1301 was 

 the loss of my worthy friend Robert 

 Bage, whom 1 had known CO years, 

 and with whom I liad lived upon th« 

 most intimate terms of t"n'end>hip durinj; 

 51; a person of the most exttaordinary 

 parts, and who has not left behind liiin 

 a man of more honour or f^enernsiiy. I 

 have lost my oldest friend. He died 

 September 1. Mr. Bage was the author 

 of Mount Ilenclh, Barham Downx, 

 James Wallace, Tlie Fair Si/rian, Alan 

 as he is. and Man as he is not ; all much 

 favoured by the world, I ivrote, by pub- 

 lic desire, the meiiKMrs of his liie, « hich 

 were published in the Monthly Magazin* 

 for December 1801. 



HIS JUURNEYTO THE P.OMAN WALL, 

 DESCIUCED BV illS-i HLITON, 



in a Letter to Samuel Jackson Fratt, Esg, 

 Dear Sir, — Our Summer excursion iii 

 1801 was ardently wished for by both. 

 ]\Iv father's ohject was to see the Roman 

 Wall; mine, ihs Lakes of Cumberland^ 

 and Westiinrelaiid. We talked it over 

 by our lire-side every evening the prece- 

 ding winter. He always ins.it>ted upoa 

 setting out on foot, and performing as 

 much of the journey as he should be 

 able in the s^me manner. I made little 

 objection to his plan, reserving myself 

 for a grand attack at last. 



When the time drew near, I repre-' 

 sented t) my father that it was impos- 

 sihle he shoulil walk the whole way, 

 though I agreed with him that he could 

 walk a considerable part; the only dii"- 

 ference between us was, whetiier ha' 

 should ride to prevent mischief, or after 

 mischief v.a-'. done. I besought him witfi' 

 tears to go as far as Liverpool in a car- 

 riage, and walk ai'terwariis, as he iiii^ht; 

 find it expedient; but lie was inflexible. 

 All I could obtain was a promise that h*s 

 would take care of himself. 



I rode on a pillion behind the sefvan', 

 and our mode of travelling was this : my ' 

 father informed himself at a night how lie 

 could ge: out of the housa the next morn- 

 ing before the servants were stirring. He 

 ruse at four o'clock, wnlked to the end of. 

 the next stage, breakf.uieii, and waited 

 fur me. I set out at sevon, and when T 

 arrived at the same inn, broaklasted also. 

 When my father had lested ;w.> hours, lie 

 set olf again. When my horse had fed 

 properly I followed, passed my father on 

 the road, arrived betorc hi n ^t liie next 

 inn, and bespoke dinner uiid beds. 



4 N My 



