Obrazy na stronie
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Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth
Our secret wealth. But God’s all-seeing eye
Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore;
For one by one all our own children died,
And he, the stranger, sole remained the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness loved the boy,
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth,
With his own secret; but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.
Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty;
And, as we oft observed, he bore himself,
Not as the o: of our cottage blood,
For nature will break out: mild with the mild,
But with the froward he was fierce as fire,
And night and day he talked of war and arms.
I set myself against his warlike bent;
But all in vain; for when a desperate band
Of robbers from the savage mountains came—
Lady R. Eternal Providence! What is thy name?
Pris. My name is Norval ; and my name he

Lady R. 'Tis he, ’tis he himself . It is my son! 0, sovereign mercy! 'Twas my child I saw! No wonder, Anna, that my bosom burned. Anna. Just are your transports: ne'er was woman's heart Proved with such fierce extremes. High-fated dame! But yet remember that you are beheld By servile.. your gestures may be seen Impassioned, strange; perhaps your words o'erheard. Lady R. Well dost thou counsel, Anna; Heaven bestow On me that wisdom which my state requires' Anna. The moments of deliberation pass, And soon you must resolve. This useful man Must be dismissed in safety, ere my lord Shall with his brave deliverer return. Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear, Have of your words and gestures rightly judged, | Thou art the daughter of my ancient master; The child I rescued from the flood is thine. Lady R. With thee dissimulation now were vain. I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm; | The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine. Pris. Blessed be the hour that made me a poor man My poverty hath saved my master's house. Lady R. Thy words surprise me; sure thou dost not feign! | The .stands in thine eye: such love from thee Sir Malcolm's house deserved not, if aright | Thou told'st the story of thy own distress. Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower; The fastest friend, the best, the kindest master; But ah! he knew not of my sad estate. After that battle, where his gallant son, | Your own brave brother, fell, the good old lord | Grew desperate and reckless of the world; And never, as he erst was wont, went forth | To overlook the conduct of his servants. By them I was thrust out, and them I blame; May heaven so judge me as I judged my master, And God so love me as I love his race! Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee. On thy

faith Depends the fate of thy loved master's house,

| Rememberest thou a little lonely hut,
That like a holy hermitage appears
Among the cliffs of Carron?

Pris. I remember
The cottage of the cliffs.

Lady R. "Tis that I mean;
There dwells a man of venerable age,
Who in my father's service spent his youth :
Tell him I sent thee, and with him remain,

Till I shall call upon thee to declare,
Before the king and nobles, what thou now
To me hast told. No more but this, and thou
Shalt live in honour all thy future days;
Thy son so long shall call thee father still,
And all the land shall bless the man who saved
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir.

John HomE, author of Douglas, was by birth connected with the family of the Earl of Home; his father was town-clerk of Leith, where the poet was born in 1722. He entered the church, and succeeded Blair, author of “The Grave,’ as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this, however, he had taken up arms as a volunteer in 1745 against the Chevalier, and after the defeat at Falkirk, was imprisoned in the old castle of Doune, whence he effected his escape, with some of his associates, by cutting their blankets into shreds, and letting themselves down on the ground. The romantic poet soon found the church as severe and tyrannical as the army of Charles Edward. So violent a storm was raised by the fact that a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that Home was forced to succumb to the presbytery, and resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with the sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George III. in 1760, when the influence of Bute was paramount, the poet received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote various other tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but with an income of about £600 per annum, with an easy, cheerful, and benevolent disposition, and enjoying the friendship of David Hume, Blair, Robertson, and all the most distinguished for rank or talents, John Home's life glided on in happy tranquillity. He survived nearly all his associates, and died in 1808, aged eighty-six.

Among the other tragic writers may be mentioned Mallet, whose drama of Elvira was highly successful, and another drama by whom, Mustapha, enjoyed a factitious popularity by glancing at the characters of the king and Sir Robert Walpole. Glover, author of “Leonidas, also produced a tragedy, Boadicea, but it was found deficient in interest for a mixed audience. In this play, Davies, the biographer of Garrick, relates that Glover “preserved a custom of the Druids, who enjoined the persons who drank their poison to turn their faces towards the wind, in order to facilitate the operation of the potion!' Horace Walpole was author of a tragedy, The Mysterious Mother, which, though of a painful and revolting nature as to plot and incident, abounds in vigorous description and striking imagery. As Walpole had a strong predilection for Gothic romance, and had a dramatic turn of mind, it is to be regretted that he did not devote himself more to the service of the stage, in which he would have anticipated and rivalled the style of the German drama. The “Mysterious Mother” has never been ventured on the stage. The Grecian Daughter, by Murphy, produced in 1772, was a classic subject, treated in the French style, but not destitute of tenderness.

[Against the Crusades.]

- I here attend him,
In expeditions which I ne'er approved,
In holy wars. Your pardon, reverend father.
I must declare I think such wars the fruit
Of idle courage, or mistaken zeal;
Sometimes of rapine, and religious rage,
To every mischief prompt. * *

+ * Sure I am, 'tis madness, Inhuman madness, thus from half the world 39

l

| A kind of persecution.

To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect
Each art of peace, each care of government;
And all for what? By spreading desolation,
Rapine, and slaughter o'er the other half,
To gain a conquest we can never hold.
I venerate this land. Those sacred hills,
Those vales, those cities, trod by saints and prophets,
By God himself, the scenes of heavenly wonders,
Inspire me with a certain awful joy.
But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains,
Surrounds, and fills this universal frame;
And every land, where spreads his vital presence,
His all-enlivening breath, to me is holy.
Excuse me, Theald, if I go too far:
I meant alone to say, I think these wars
And when that—
That most absurd and cruel of all vices,

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| Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder

Gaze on the solemn scene; behold yon oak,
How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms
Chills the pale plain beneath him: mark yon altar,
The dark stream brawling round its rugged base;
These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus,
Skirted with unhewn stone; they awe my soul,
As if the very genius of the place
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread
Stalked through his drear domain. And yet, my friends,
If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage,
Surely there is a hidden power that reigns
'Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature,
Controlling sober reason; tell me else,
Why do these haunts of barbarous superstition
O'ercome me thus? I scorn them ; yet they awe me.
MAson's Caractacus.

[Against Homicide.]

Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms
The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth
Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think,
And let the thought restrain thy impious hand.
The race of man is one vast marshalled army,
Summoned to pass the spacious realms of Time,
Their leader the Almighty. In that march
Ah! who may quit his post? when high in air
The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields
The imperial standard of Heaven's providence,
Which, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted sky,
Overshadows all creation.

Mason's Elfrida.

[Solitude on a Battle Field.]

I have been led by solitary care
To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook,
Which murmurs through the camp; this mighty camp,
Where once two hundred thousand sons of war,
With restless dins awaked the midnight hour.
Now horrid stillness in the vacant tents
Sits undisturbed; and these incessant rills,
Whose pebbled channel breaks their shallow stream,
Fill with their melancholy sounds my ears,
As if I wandered, like a lonely hind,
O'er some dead fallow, far from all resort:
Unless that ever and anon a groan
Bursts from a soldier, pillowed on his shield
In torment, or expiring with his wounds,
And turns my fixed attention into horror.
GLovER's Boadicca. |

[Forgiveness.] |

So prone to error is our mortal frame,
Time could not step without a trace of horror,
If wary nature on the human heart,
Amid its wild variety of passions,
Had not impressed a soft and yielding sense,
That when offences give resentment birth,
The kindly dews of penitence may raise
The seeds of mutual mercy and forgiveness.
GLovER's Boadiceu.

[Fortitude.]

But, prince, remember then The vows, the noble uses of affliction; Preserve the quick humanity it gives, The pitying, social sense of human weakness; Yet keep thy stubborn fortitude entire. The manly heart that to another's wo Is tender, but superior to its own. Learn to submit, yet learn to conquer fortune; Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life; to life itself, With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. | Chief, let devotion to the sovereign mind, A steady, cheerful, absolute dependence In his best, wisest government, possess thee. In thoughtless gay prosperity, when all Attends our wish, when nought is seen around us But kneeling slavery, and obedient fortune; Then are blind mortals apt, within themselves To fly their stay, forgetful of the giver; But when thus humbled, Alfred, as thou art, When to their feeble natural powers reduced, 'Tis then they feel this universal truth That Heaven is all in all, and man is nothing. MALLET's Alfred.

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The comic muse was, during this period, more successful than her tragic sister. In the reign of George II., the witty and artificial comedies of Vanbrugh and Farquhar began to lose their ground, both on account of their licentiousness, and the formal system on which they were constructed with regard to characters and expression. In their room, Garrick, Foote, and other writers, placed a set of dramatic compositions, which, though often of a humble and unpretending character, exercised great influence in introducing a taste for more natural portraitures and language; and these again led the way to the higher productions, which we are still accustomed to refer to veneratively, as the legitimate English comedies.

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Amongst the first five-act plays in which this |improvement was seen, was The Suspicious Husband |† Hoadly, in which there is but a slight dash of the license of Farquhar. Its leading character, Ranger, is still a favourite. GEORGE ColMAN, ma|nager of Covent Garden theatre, was an excellent comic writer, and produced above thirty pieces, a few of which deservedly keep possession of the stage. | His Jealous Wife, founded on Fielding's Tom Jones,' has some highly effective scenes and well-drawn characters. It was produced in 1761; five years after

George Colman.

wards, Colman joined with Garrick and brought out The Clandestine Marriage, in which the character of an aged beau, affecting gaiety and youth, is strikingly personified in Lord Ogleby. ARTHUR Murphy (1737–1805), a voluminous and miscellaneous writer, added comedies as well as tragedies to the stage, and his Way to Keep Him is still occasionally performed. Hugh KELLY, a scurrilous newspaperwriter, surprised the public by producing a comedy, False Delicacy, which had remarkable success both on the fortunes and character of the author: the profits of his first third night realised £150—the largest sum of money he had ever before seen—' and from a low, petulant, absurd, and ill-bred censurer,’ says Davies, * Kelly was transformed to the humane, affable, good-natured, well-bred man.' The marked success of Kelly's sentimental style gave the tone to a much more able dramatist, Richard Cumberi.AND (1732– 1811), who, after two or three unsuccessful pieces, in 1771 brought out The West Indian, one of the best stage plays which English comedy can yet boast. The plot, incidents, and characters (including the first draught of an Irish gentleman which the theatre had witnessed), are all well sustained. Other | dramas of Cumberland, as The Wheel of Fortune, The Fashionable Lover, &c., were also acted with applause, though now too stiff and sentimental for our audiences. Goldsmith thought that Cumberland had carried the refinement of comedy to excess, and he set himself to correct the fault. His | first dramatic performance, The Good-Natured Man, presents one of the happiest of his delineations in the character of Croaker; but as a whole, the play

| dred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he

wants point and sprightliness. His second drama,

She Stoops to Conquer, performed in 1773, has all the requisites for interesting and amusing an audience; and Johnson said, “he knew of no comedy for many years that had answered so much the great end of comedy—making an audience merry.' The plot turns on what may be termed a farcical incident—two parties mistaking a gentleman's house for an inn. But the excellent discrimination of character, and the humour and vivacity of the dialogue throughout the play, render this piece one of the richest contributions which have been made to modern comedy. The native pleasantry and originality of Goldsmith were never more happily displayed, and his success, as Davies records, “revived fancy, wit, gaiety, humour, incident, and character, in the place of sentiment and moral preachment.’

[A Deception.] [From “She Stoops to Conquer."] LANDLord and Tony Lumpkin.

Landlord. There betwo gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They've lost their way upon the forest, and they are talking something about Mr Hardcastle.

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners?

}. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen.

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I’ll set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I’ll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Ereunt Mob.] Fatherin-law has been calling me a whelp and hound this half-year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I am afraid —afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hun

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Mar. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. ar. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet; and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen; but I am told you have been inquiring for one Mr Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are int Hast. Not in the least, sir; but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came? Hast. No, sir; but if you can inform us— Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is that —you have lost your way. Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came? Mar. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son :

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Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole; the son a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of: Mar. Our information differs in this: the daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem. Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. Hast. Unfortunate 1 Tony. It’s a long, dark, boggy, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr Hardcastle's [winking at the Landlord]—Mr Hardcastle's of Quagmire-marsh. You understand me? Land. Master Hardcastle's Lack-a-daisy! my masters you're come a deadly deal wrong. . When you came to the bottom of the hill you should have crossed down Squash-lane. Mar. Cross down Squash-lane? Land. Then you were to keep straight forward till you came to four roads. Mar. Come to where four roads meet? Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one. Mar. O, sir! you’re facetious. Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crack-skull Common; there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill Mar. Zounds! man, we could as soon find out the longitude 1 Hast. What's to be done, Marlow : Mar. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master! we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge that's taken up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it: don't you think, Stingo, our landlady would accommodate the gentlemen by the fireside with three chairs and a bolster Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside. Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you? Then let me see—what if you go on a mile farther to the Buck's Head, the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole country. Hast. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Land. [Apart to Tomy.] Sure you bean't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? Tony Mum you fool, you; let them find that out. [To them.] You have only to keep on straight forward till you come to a large house on the road-side : you’ll see a pair of large horns over the door; that's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. can't miss the way. Tony. No, no: but I tell you though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he, he, hel He'll be for giving you his company; and, ecod! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of the

The servants

peace. Iland. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a

keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole county. Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say? Tony. No, no, straight forward. I'll just *}. self and show you a piece of the way. [To the dlord.] Mum ! [Exeunt.

[Arrival at the Supposed Inn.] Enter MARLow and HAstings. Hast. After the disappointments of the day, wel

come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word a very welllooking house; antique, but creditable. Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it has at last come to levy contributions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly. Mar. Travellers must pay in all places; the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.

Enter HARDCASTLE.

Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr Marlow [Mar. advances.] Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire I like to give them, a hearty reception, in the old style, at my gate; I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Mar. [Aside.] He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hard.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To Hast.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning; I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. Hast. I fancy, you're right: the first blow is half the battle. We must, however, open the campaign. Hard. Mr Marlow—Mr Hastings—gentlemen— pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen; you may do just as you please here. Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. We must show our generalship by securing, if necessary, a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrisonMar. Ay, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy. Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men— Hast. Marlow, what's o'clock 1 Hard. I say gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Mar. Five minutes to seven. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him —you must have heard of George Brooks—I’ll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So— Mar. What? My good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, sir!—This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. [Aside.

Mar. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch after our journey will be comfortable.

This is Liberty-hall, you know.
Hard. Here's a cup, sir.
Mar. So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only

Enter SERVANT with a tankard.
[Aside to Hast.

let us have just what he pleases. Hard. [Taking the cup.] I hope you’ll find it to | your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you’ll own the ingredients are tolerable. | Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. | [Drinks, and gives the cup to Marlow. | Mar. A very impudent fellow this; but he's a character, and I’ll humour him a little. [Aside.] Sir, my service to you. Hast. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper before he has learned to be a gentleman. [Aside. Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work now and then at elections, I suppose. - [Gives the tankard to Hardcastle. Hard. No, sir; I have long given that work over. | Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of elect| ing each other, there's no business for us that sell ale. [Gives the tankard to Hastings. Hast. So, you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about who's in or who's out than I do about John Nokes or Tom Stiles. So my service to you. | Hast. So that, with eating above stairs and drinking below, with receiving your friends within and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it. | Haro. I do stir about a good deal, that's certain. |Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Mar. [After drinking.] And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall. Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little

philosophy. Mar. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. [Aside.

Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you at

tack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack them with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. [Drinks. | Hard. Good, very good; thank you; has hat Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's | almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper!

Hard. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request to a man in his own house? [Aside. | Mar. Yes, sir; supper, sir; I begin to feel an appe| tite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. | Hard. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. [Aside.] Why really, sir, as for supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cookmaid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.

| Mar. You do, do you?

actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence I hope, sir. Hard. O no, sir, none in the least: yet, I don't know how, our Bridget, the cookmaid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. Hast. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Mar. [To Hardcastle, who looks at them with surprise.] Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper: I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. [Serrant brings in the bill of fare, and erit. IIast. All upon the high ropes 1 His uncle a colonel ! We shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. [Aside.] But let's hear the bill of fare. Mar. [Perusing.] What's here? For the first course ; for the second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir! Do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners’ Company, or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do.

Hast. But let's hear it. Mar. [Reading.] For the first course : at the top, a pig and prune sauce. * * Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune sauce, is very good eating. Their impudence confounds me. [Aside..] Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there any thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen : Mar. Item : a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a shaking-pudding, and a dish of tifs—taff—taffety cream. Hast. Confound your made dishes I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I’m for plain eating. Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like; but if there be any thing you have a par- | ticular fancy to— Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper: and now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. You

Hard. I intreat you'll leave all that to me. shall not stir a step. Mar. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must excuse me; I always look to these things myself. Hard. I must insist, sir, you’ll make yourself easy on that head. Mar. You see I’m resolved on it. A very troublesome fellow, as ever I met with. [Aside. Hard. Well, sir, I’m resolved at least to attend you. This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. Aside. Ereunt Mar. and IIard. Hast. So, I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry with those assiduities which are meant to please him Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that's happy

Two years after Goldsmith's dramatic triumph, a

still greater in legitimate comedy arose in the per

son of that remarkable man, who survived down to

our own day, RICHARD BRINsley SHERIDAN. On

the 17th of January 1775, his play of The no was 43

l Hard. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in

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