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Since the first light on Henry's head arofe;'

other authors would have faid,

light; or,

Since Henry first faw the

Since the first light on Henry's eyes arofe.'

But our author very properly mentions the head, as this old light was a type of that new light which was afterwards to enter his head-through a crack in his fcull.

When Henry the hero of our author had thus attained his ninth year, a venerable old gentleman called Acafto defired him to take a walk in a fine fummer's morning, which is thus defcribed:

Soon as the larks their early fong begun, [Anglice began]
And thousand cobwebs floated in the fun."

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While they were thus quaffing fresh breezes of the purest air, Acafto began to moralife, or rather to preach, in a very fingular manner, A person whofe devotion was founded on reafon, and enlightened by philofophy, would have led his pupil from the beauties of nature before his eyes, to the wifdom, goodness, and power of the Deity, the original fource of the order and happiness which prevails in the world. Inftead of this Acafto puts the query to Henry, that, if he was to die that morning, what fort of figure he would make at the day of judgment? and advifes him to beware of fancy, for

By fancy led adventurous Adam fell.'

We have always understood, both from Mofes, and from Milton (who is the better poet of the two), that Adam fell from a fond and foolish complaifance to his wife and the devil; but we are happy to be corrected in our opinion. After this, in the common methodistical cant, Acafto makes overtures to Henry for his converfion, which, after fome murmurs and remonftrances from reafon and felf, were humbly received, and Henry was converted, like a good boy, in the ninth year of his age.

Being thus fairly regenerated, he very naturally began to inquire about his generation. He obferved to Acafto that the lambkins had ewes for their mothers; that the thrushes and blackbirds fed their half-fledged young; and that his fchoolfellows too had both fathers and mothers, while he was entirely ignorant of his origin;' probably believing that he had sprung from a cabbage-ftock. Acafto then told him that he was his grandfon by a daughter; and that both his father and mother were dead and rotten long ago. It is a little fingular that he had never told him this before; but grandfathers have their fancies! The death of his father and mother, according to Acafto, was

followed

followed by a general mourning, not in the court, nor among their friends and relations, but through all nature:

⚫ A folemn gloom befpread the fertile vale;'

which is explained in the next line,

Night o'er the land her fable curtain drew,
And dufky tents on all creation threw.
And as with fympathetic feelings wrung,
A teary drop on every bloffom hung.'

The moon too went into mourning:

• The pallid liftning moon, with quivering light,
But half unveils her waning watery fight,

Hears the fad tale, and ftruck with forrow deep,
Behind fome friendly cloud retires to weep.'

The unfeeling ftars, however, ftruck up a concert, and made an illumination on the occafion:

Whilst the fair stars attendant on their queen,

In concert join, and twinkle o'er the green.'

Sir Richard Hill tells us in his preface that the publication of this poem was without the knowledge and against the confent of his brother, the author. Thefe meretricious airs of modesty are as well known, and have become as ridiculous among authors, as the common complaints about feduction and rapes among a certain clafs of females, where, in nipe cafes out of ten, the feduction and the rape originate with the complainer.

ART. XII. Love in the Eaft; or, Adventures of Twelve Hours: a Comic Opera, in Three Acts. Written by the Author of the Strangers at Home. As performed at the Theatre Royal, DruryLane. 8vo. Is. 6d. Lowndes. London, 1788.

IT is with regret that we obferve the triumph of comic opera

over genuine comedy; but it is a natural effect of the indolence of luxury. As the Romans degenerated, their theatrical reprefentations gradually dwindled into pantomime; the enervated mind was fatigued with the smallest exertion, and could be pleafed only through the medium of the eye. From the fame cause we facrifice fenfe to found, and liftlessly dofe over mufical As the callow bird can only open its beek to receive food, its fole enjoyment, fo the only inlet to pleasure which remains to us is the ear, To relish fenfe, wit, or humour,

notes.

requires

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requires intellectual exertion, and the energies of mind are now. too laborious to give delight.

This depraved tafte naturally induces writers for the stage to decline the more difficult tafk of fterling comedy. They content themselves with tacking together a few fcenes as a vehicle for the more important part of the production, the mufic; and fhould only two or three of the fongs happen to take, the piece has a run, and the author is amply rewarded.

The scene of the opera now before us lies in Calcutta. Warnford pays his addreffes to Ormellina the fuppofed ward, but real daughter, of Colonel Bentley, who whimfically conceals the relation he bears to her, left he should spoil her by overfondness. Yet this expedient answers fo ill, that his paternal tenderness is mistaken for amorous attachment, and it is fufpected, from various circumstances, that he means to marry his fuppofed ward. The whole ambiguity is, however, at last cleared up, and the Lovers are made happy. There is another plot carrying on at the fame time. Eliza, under the disguise of Mr. M'Proteus, a Scotchman, comes to Calcutta in fearch of her lover, Mr. Stanmore. This couple too, after the ufual manœuvres, are landed in the haven of matrimony. The intrigues of Mrs. Mushroom, her quarrels with her husband, the gallantries of old Colonel Baton, a Frenchman, who thinks every woman in love with him, and is himself an univerfal lover, with the droll embarraffments of Twift a tailor, fill up the reft of the canvas.

As a fpecimen both of the dialogue and poetry, we lay the following scene before the public:

SCENE, The Garden-Room belonging to Colonel Bentley's House. • Enter Colonel Bentley and Stanmore.

• Bent. It does not fignify talking, Stanmore; I will not discover to Ormellina that fhe is my daughter. I love the flut fo well, thạt I muft not let her know it.

Stan. And fo, Sir, you will ftill continue the impofition of letting her suppose she is an orphan, supported and educated by your bounty.

Bent. Certainly. It is that happy ignorance of her birth which has faved her from the ill effects of my fondnefs; for I am fure if I had once owned her for my daughter, I should certainly have spoiled her. You know, Stanmore, I am one of those fools who are vulgarly called good-natured people, and who find themselves involved in a thousand difficulties, merely because they can't fay no to any thing. Stan. Yes, I know that is your infirmity.

Bent. Whenever a man wanted to borrow a few guineas, which he never meant to repay, Jack Bentley was the man applied to; and I had the exclufive privilege of being pigeon'd by my friends, merely because I was the best creature in the world. However, I foon found it was a damn'd misfortune to be fo agreeable; fo I e'en parted with

my

my character to fave my money, and affronted my acquaintance to prevent my being obliged to quit fociety.

Stan. Ay, there it is, now. -What a pity that good-nature, like the drefs of an officer in battle, fhould be only a dangerous mark of distinction for the enemy to aim at.

Bent. How often have I envied poor Sam Sulky! He was a happy fellow-bleft with the worft temper I ever knew, and had the finelt forbidding frown-never lent a man a fhilling in his life-nobody praised him, and he praised nobody-fo he grew rich because people did not like his company well enough to ruin him.

Stan. Ah, Colonel! you would not have changed places with him for all that-your natural difpofition

Bent. For heaven's fake, Stanmore, don't betray me by calling me a good-natur'd man.-Do act the part of a friend-and abuse me behind my back.

Stan. Here comes Mr. Warnford.

Bent. For his anfwer, I fuppofe.-He afk'd my confent yesterday to marry Ormellina.

Stan. Well, Sir; and

• Bent. And I mean to try the force of his attachment by leaving him a little while in fufpence-But he is here.

Enter Warnford.

• Warn. My dear colonel, I rejoice to fee you.-Mr. Stanmore, yours.—I read your confent to my marrying Ormellina in your

countenance.

• Bent. He who believes all he reads, young man, must be often wofully mistaken,

Warn. I cannot be miflaken here, Sir-I depend on my author -Nature has traced benevolence and good-humour in every feature and her characters have not been defaced by malice or hypocrify.

< Bent. Sir, you do me a great deal of honour to fancy my face a gazette extraordinary of good news to you. But I fay again that you are mistaken; I am not benevolent-I am ill-temper'd, Sir, and morofe; and as for all the filly cant of lovers, I confider it as the halfform'd dialogue of children, an abuse of language, which they correct as they grow older.

Warn. It is the language of my heart, Sir; and while that heart beats fuch muft be its effufions.

Bent. And fo I am to infer from all this that if I refuse fent you will run away with the girl.

my con

Warn. Why look ye, colonel-I will not answer for myself-if Ormellina will agree to it.

Bent. [afide] A fine fellow, i'faith!-[to him] This is beyond bearing, Warnford.

Warn. Nay, I predict that you will forgive me.

You have a

friend who will infallibly make my peace with you-a conftant friend,

to whom you now owe fome of your happiest moments.

Bent. Eh!-what friend do you mean?

Warn. The remembrance of what you were at my age-I'll be

hang'd if you would not have done the fame thing.

• Bent.

Bent. No, no-indeed no, Warnford-though, to be fure, at your age, I did not want for fire.

Warnf. You were in love, Sir?

Bent. In love !-Who could have seen my dear Sophia, without loving her? Oh, Warnford! fuch a pair of eyes! fuch a winning fmile! But I am a vile hand at defcription-I fhall never for get when she got into the chaife to elope with me.

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Warnf. You eloped with her then, Sir?

Bent. Aye, my boy.

Warnf. Her guardian had refufed his confent?
Bent. Phaw! What fignifies that?

Warnf. Bravo, Colonel Bentley ;-and fo, glowing with youth, love, and high fpirits, you afferted the privilege of a lover, and' fmatch'd a fine girl from the tyranny of caprice, as I would do.

now.

• Bent. Eh!-Snatch a fine girl!-Caprice! Why, what the devil, I muft explain myfelf, Warnford.

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Warnf. The voice of Nature needs no explanation, Sir.

AIR. WARNFORD.

The guardian, dear Sir, or, if you would rather,
Suppofe, if you pleafe, 'tis the young lady's father,
Capricious,
Avaricious,

Shuns the fond lover's fuit,

And with frowns ftrikes him mute.

Pray give me leave, Sir, my tale to pursue:
Well, what's to be done?

The lady's in tears,

The lover diftracted;

Such mad pranks are acted,

Till love interferes,

And cries, off you must run:

Dear Sir, remember, 'twas once fo with you. As fubjects, you know, to Cupid's dominion, All lovers must bow to their fov'reign's opinion: From laws fo delightful, fay, who can depart? The laws of a monarch, whofe throne is the heart. Hufh! hufh remember, 'twas once fo with you.

The picture is yours, Sir, the likeness is juft,

And, though painted too young, that you'll pardon, I trust;
Like you, I the dictates of Nature pursue:
Hush! hufh! remember, 'twas once fo with you.

[Exit.

• Bent. Zounds! Stanmore, why didn't you ftop me, when you faw me expofing myfelf fo? The dog took me unawares, and unfortunately furprised me into a fit of good-humour. He is a fine highmettled fellow, faith.

• Stans

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