and then we'll talk over these matters at our

ease.

Aim. (going out) I only hope this fine young man may not be spoilt by such empty coxcombs. Exeunt Aim. Lamb. Flush. O'Neale. Well-bred men-admirable manners. Ever. And these you choose to prefer to your old friend-flattering indeed!

E. Bel. Surely, gentlemen, you might find a better subject for ridicule than literary merit.

Ever. Is the merit real? for if they are but pretenders, and upon their hollow and unsound profession of knowledge and talents, assume the privilege of rudeness to all around them, they are despicable in exact proportion to the magnificence of their claims.

Bel. Right, Mr. Everard, right.

O'Neale. They must be intolerable indeed, to have struck such a spark of anger from you, Everard-But, Belford !--what is the fellow looking at?-what now? has Apelles hung a picture on the opposite wall-on my soul, man, you will disjoint your neck-the milliner's shop, is it-Mr. Philosopher, your most obedient-a woman is the chief good after all, most laborious student, most retired sage, most self-concentered meditator.

E. Bel. I was not thinking of a woman, much less looking at one- though indeed, if the original uncreated form, the ideal model of

loveliness appears to us mortals, it is most assuredly in woman.

Bel. There did you hear him, gentlemen, did you hear him?-a downright author-now is he not mad? and he thinks not of woman-I wish I had never thought of woman, and I should not have had a disobedient son to defeat the prospects of a long life-Gentlemen, I'll leave you to see what you can make of him-perhaps, as the spirit of opposition declines on the departure of his father, he may recover something of his original character-death-I have no patience. Exit.

Ever. Belford, you heard your father's hopes. O'Neale. For heaven's sake, my dear fellow, come to the masquerade to-night-particularly as it is to end in a ball.

Ever. In a day or two I shall be able to see my friends-and then I shall have the honour of your company.

O'Neale. Just one dance.

Ever. We shall have no more quarrels.
E. Bel. Heaven grant it!

O'Neale. Lady Lovell and her niece will be there.

E. Bel. What-they are in Bath?

O'Neale. In Bath? so when you sent out such a glance to the milliner's shop just now, it brought back no answer to that question-most learned sir.

E. Bel. I saw them but for a month-her

ladyship knows how to make her faults graceful, and as for her niece, whatever is fair and lovely, in nature, seemed just so much ornamented by fashion as to be set off to most advantage.

Ever. Now if the old gentleman could have heard that piece of eloquence-it's almost lost upon us!

O'Neale. So-so-I find I have a rival-with all my heart-certainly you'll come to the ball -you won't be positively compelled to dance, and if you find a country dance too intricate for you, what think you of getting two of these ideal models to join with you in the sweeping grace of the reel-or you may choose the selfdependent solitary merriment of the horn-pipe, or the unsophisticated clatter of the Irish jig.

E. Bel. This is well-perfectly well--and these are friends! (half aside.)

O'Neale. There you will be figuring in Athenian or Roman steps-bringing back the simplicity of ancient times-shewing us how Pericles used to dance away his gravity with his Aspasia. Ah! I am sadly afraid that old Grecian was not a jot better than the statesmen of our own day.

E. Bel. (Throwing himself in a chair) Heaven and earth!

Ever. What is the matter, Belford-O'Neale, I am sure, will beg the Grecian lady's pardon. E. Bel. You vex me beyond all patience

you know I have no spirits, that I ought to have no spirits for the world's gaiety-and yet you, my old friends, the common friends of him, who for me has suffered so much and for whom I ought to suffer in my turn, make yourselves the panders to my father's unreasonable ambition, and would tear out my heart for the inspection and experimental cruelty of an unfeeling world-away, away, away.

O'Neale. We'll take you at your word—and, indeed, I may be better employed, for I have to make my peace with this female paragon for an inattention, which, I am afraid, excellent as she is, she has not forgiven-so farewell. Exit.

Ever. And as I seem to have no chance of seeing his sister, and don't find myself quite at home in these tempests, I may as well take my departure also-Good morning to you-Belford.

Exit.

E. Bel. Thank heaven--they are gone-Oh what a holy calm is there in solitude, when man sinks into himself amid the silence of the passions, or, should he wander forth, has philosophy for his companion and guide, and explores, thus emboldened, whatever there is in air, earth, or sea, for treasures that may benefit his kind.

Exit.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-An Apartment at LADY LOVELL's.

Enter LADY LOVELL-LAURA.

Lady Lovell.

MARRIAGE? no-not for me-since poor Sir Thomas's death I have never thought of a second husband without horror-He was my earliest love, dear man. Never shall the widow's blush tingle on my cheek; never, to use the language of Mr. Flush, shall Hymen relume his torch for me.

Laura. Hold it in the air, my dear aunt, particularly if the wind should be westerly, and depend upon it it will blaze.

L. Lov. Mr. O'Neale is a handsome agreeable fellow I confess.

Laura. You are very quick of apprehension. I mentioned no names. Besides, he is in disgrace at present-he hardly chose to acknowledge me this morning, so you cannot suspect me of pleading his cause.