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Duke. Stand off; you are a commoner; nothing under nobility approaches Kitty. Sir H. You are so devilish proud of your nobility. Now, I think we have more true nobility than you. Let me tell you, sir, a knight of the shire— Duke. A knight of the shire! Ha, ha, ha! a mighty honour, truly, to represent all the fools in the county. Kit. Olud! this is charming to see two noblemen quarrel. | Sir H. Why, any fool may be born to a title, but only a wise man can make himself honourable. Kit. Well said, Sir Harry, that is good morillity. Duke. I hope you make some difference between hereditary honours and the huzzas of a mob. Kit. Very smart, my lord; now, Sir Harry. Sir H. If you make use of your hereditary honours to screen you from debt— Duke. Zounds! sir, what do you mean by that? Ait. Hold, hold ! I shall have some fine old noble blood spilt here. Ha' done, Sir Harry. | Sir H. Not I; why, he is always valuing himself upon his upper house. | Io. We have dignity. [Slow. | Sir H. But what becomes of your dignity, if we | refuse the supplies : [Quick. | Kit. Peace, peace; here's lady Bab.

Enter LADY BAB's SERVANT in a chair. | Dear Lady Babs Lady %. Mrs Kitty, your servant: I was afraid of taking cold, and so ordered the chair down stairs. | Well, and how do you? My lord duke, your servant, and Sir Harry too, yours. Duke. Your ladyship's devoted. Lady B. I'm afraid I have trespassed in point of time. "[Looks on her watch..] But I got into my favourite author. Duke. Yes, I found her ladyship at her studies this morning; some wicked poem. Lady B. Oh, you wretch! I never read but one | book. | Kit. What is your ladyship so fond of Lady B. Shikspur. Did you never read Shikspur ! Kit. Shikspur ! Shikspur ! Who wrote it ! No, I never read Shikspur. Lady B. Then you have an immense pleasure to come. Kit. Well, then, I’ll read it over one afternoon or other. Here's Lady Charlotte.

Enter LADY CHARLotte's MAID in a chair.

Dear Lady Charlotte! Lady C. Oh! Mrs Kitty, I thought I never should have reached your house. Such a fit of the cholic seized me. Oh! Lady Bab, how long has your ladyship been here? My chairmen were such drones. My lord duke! the pink of all good breeding. Duke. Oh! ma'am. [Bowing. Lady C. And Sir Harry ! Your servant, Sir Harry. [Formally. Sir H. Madam, your servant: I am sorry to hear your ladyship has been ill. Lady C. You must give me leave to doubt the sincerity of that sorrow, sir. . Remember the Park. Sir H. The Park! I'll explain that affair, madam. Lady C. I want none of your explanations.

[Scornfully.

Sir H. Dear Lady Charlotte : Lady C. No, sir; I have observed your coolness of late, and despise you. A trumpery baronet ! Sir H. I see how it is; nothing will satisfy you but nobility. That sly dog, the marquis—

Lady C. None of your reflections, sir. The marquis is a person of honour, and above inquiring after a lady's fortune, as you meanly did. | Sir H. I—i, madam? I scorn such a thing. I

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am confounded. My lord duke, what shall I say to her? Pray help me out. [Aside.

Duke. Ask her to show her legs. Ha, ha, ha! [Aside.

Enter Philip and LovEL, laden with bottles.

Phil. Here, my little peer, here is wine that will ennoble your blood! Both your ladyships' most humble servant. Lov. [Affecting to be drunk.] Both your ladyships' most humble servant. Kit. Why, Philip, you have made the boy drunk. Phil. I have made him free of the cellar, ha, ha, ha! Low. Yes, I am free; I am very free. Phil. He has had a smack of every sort of wine, from humble port to imperial tokay. Lov. Yes, I have been drinking kokay. Kit. Go, get you some sleep, child, that you may wait on his lordship by and by. Lov. Thank you, madam; I will certainly wait on their lordships and their ladyships too. [Aside and eacit. Phil. Well, ladies, what say you to a dance? and then to supper.

Enter Cook, CoAchMAN, Kingston, and Clor.

Come here; where are all our people? I'll couple you. My lord duke will take Kitty; Lady Bab will do me the honour of her hand; Sir Harry and Lady Charlotte; coachman and cook; and the two devils will dance together: ha! has has Duke. With submission, the country dances by and by. Lady C. Ay, ay; French dances before supper, and country dances after. I beg the duke and Mrs Kitty may give us a minuet. Duke. Dear Lady Charlotte, consider my poor gout. Sir Harry will oblige us. [Sir Harry §. All. Minuet, Sir Harry; minuet, Sir Harry. Kit. Marshal Thingumbob's minuet. [A minuet by Sir Harry and Kitty; awkward and conceited. Lady C. Mrs Kitty dances sweetly. Phil. And Sir Harry delightfully. Duke. Well enough for a commoner. Phil. Come, now to supper. A gentleman and a lady. [They sit down.] Here is claret, burgundy, and champaign, and a bottle of tokay for the ladies. There are tickets on every bottle: if any gentleman chooses port— Duke. Port! 'Tis only fit for a dram. Kit. Lady Bab, what shall I send you? Lady Charlotte, pray be free ; the more free the more welcome, as they say in my country. The gentlemen will be so good as to take care of themselves. [A pause.

Duke. Lady Charlotte, “IIob or nob o' Lady C. Done, my lord, in burgundy if you please. Duke. Here's your sweetheart and mine, and the friends of the company. [They drink. A pause. Phil. Come, ladies and gentlemen, a bumper all round ; I have a health for you. “Here is to the amendment of our masters and mistresses.’ All. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! [Loud laugh. A pause. Kit. Ladies, pray what is your opinion of a single gentleman's service Lady C. Do you mean an old single gentleman All. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! [Loud laugh. Phil. My lord duke, your toast. Duke. Lady Betty. Phil. Oh no, a health and a sentiment. Duke. Let us have a song. Sir Harry, your song. Sir H. Would you have it? Well then, Mrs Kitty, we must call upon you : will you honour my muse? All. A song, a song; ay, ay, Sir Harry's song ; Sir Harry's song.

Duke. A song to be sure, but first, preludio. [Kisses Kitty..] Pray, gentlemen, put it about. [Kisses round. Kingston kisses Cloe heartily. Sir H. See how the devils kiss | Kit. I am really hoarse; but hem—I must clear up my pipes, hem! This is Sir Harry's song; being a new one, entitled and called the “Fellow Servant, or All in a Livery.” [Sings. Phil. How do you like it, my lord duke? Duke. It is a vile composition. Phil. How so? Duke. O, very low !—Very low indeed . Sir H. Can you make a better? Duke. I hope so. Sir H. That is very conceited. Duke. What is conceited, you scoundrel ? Sir H. Scoundrel! You are a rascal; I'll pull you by the nose. All rise. Duke. Lookye, friend; don't give yourself airs, and make a disturbance among the ladies. If you are a gentleman, name your weapons. Sir H. Weapons!—what you will—pistols. Duke. Done, behind Montague House. Sir H. Done, with seconds. Duke. Done. Phil. Oh, for shame, gentlemen. My lord duke Sir Harry—the ladies —fiel [Duke and Sir Harry affect to sing. A violent knocking. Kitty faints.] What the devil can that be, Kitty? Kit. Who can it possibly be? Phil. Kingston, run up stairs and peep. [Erit Kingston.] It sounds like my master's rap: pray heaven it is not he l

But by far the greatest of this class of authors remains to be mentioned. SAMUEL Foote (1721family, and educated at

Oxford; but, squandering away his fortune, was forced to become an actor and dramatic writer. In powers of mimicry, in wit, and in humour, he seems to have gone far beyond all the men of his own time, and it may be questioned if three such men have come under public notice in England. Samuel Johnson, though he disliked the man for his easy morals and his making the burlesquing of private characters

a profession, was forced to admit the amazing powers and fascinations of his conversation. It was in 1747 that Foote commenced a class of new entertainments in the Haymarket theatre, in which he was himself the sole stage figure, and which proved highly attractive by the many droll and whimsical portraits of character which they presented, many of these being transcripts or caricatures of persons well known. The Diversions #. the Morning, The Auction of Pictures, and The Englishman in Paris, were the names of some of these pieces. Of the regular farces of Foote, which were somewhat later in production, The Minor—an unjustifiable attack upon the Methodists—was the most successful. It was followed by The Mayor of Garratt, a coarse but humorous sketch, including two characters, in Major Sturgeon, the city militia officer, and Jerry Sneak, which can never be completely obsolete. His plays are twenty in number, and he boasted, at the close

characters to the English stage.

[Tuft Hunting.] [From “The Lame Lover."] Charlotte and SERJEANT Cincurr.

Charlotte. Sir, I have other proofs of your hero's vanity not inferior to that I have mentioned. Serjeant. Cite them. Char. The paltry ambition of levying and following titles. Selj. Titles! I don't understand you. Char. I mean the poverty of fastening in public upon men of distinction, for no other reason but because of their rank; adhering to Sir John till the baronet is superseded by my lord; quitting the puny peer for an earl; and sacrificing all three to a duke. Selj. Keeping good company!—a laudable ambition! Char. True, sir, if the virtues that procured the father a peerage could with that be entailed on the son. i. Have a care, hussy; there are severe laws against speaking evil of dignities. Char. Sir! Serj. Scandalum magnatum is a statute must not be trifled with: why, you are not one of those vulgar sluts that think a man the worse for being a lord? Char. No, sir; I am contented with only not thinking him the better. Selj. For all this, I believe, hussy, a right honourable proposal would soon make you alter your mind. Char. Not unless the proposer had other qualities than what he possesses [. patent. Besides, sir, you know Sir Luke is a devotee to the bottle. Serj. Not a whit the less honest for that. Char. It occasions one evil at least; that when under its influence he generally reveals all, sometimes more than he knows. Serj. Proofs of an open temper, you baggage; but, come, come, all these are but trifling objections. Char. You mean, sir, they prove the object a trifle. Serj. Why, you pert jade, do you play on my words! I say Sir Luke is— Char. Nobody. Selj. Nobody how the deuce do you make that out? He is neither a person attainted nor outlawed, may in any of his majesty's courts sue or be sued, | appear by attorney or in propria persona, can acquire, buy, procure, purchase, possess, and inherit, not only personalities, such as goods and chattels, but even realities, as all lands, tenements, and hereditaments, whatsoever and wheresoever. Char. But, sir— Serj. Nay, further, child, he may sell, give, bestow, bequeath, devise, demise, lease, or to farm let, ditto lands, or to any person whomsoever—and Char. Without doubt, sir; but there are, notwith

of his life, that he had added sixteen decidedly new standing, in this town a great number of nobodies, not described by Lord Coke.

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SIR. LUKE LIMP makes his appearance, and after a short dialogue, enter a Servant and delivers a card to SIR LUKE.

Sir Luke. [Reads.] ‘Sir Gregory Goose desires the honour of Sir Luke Limp's company to dine. An

answer is desired.” Gadso! a little unlucky; I have

been engaged for these three weeks. Serj. What! I find Sir Gregory is returned for the corporation of Fleecem. Sir Luke. Is he so? Oh, oh! that alters the case. George, give my compliments to Sir Gregory, and I'll certainly come and dine there. Order Joe to run to Alderman Inkle's in Threadneedle Street; sorry can't wait upon him, but confined to bed two days with the new influenza. [Ecit Servant. Char. You make light, Sir Luke, of these sort of engagements. Sir Luke. What can a man do? These fellows (when one has the misfortune to meet them) take scandalous advantage: when will you do me the honour, pray, Sir Luke, to take a bit of mutton with me? Do you name the day? They are as bad as a beggar who attacks your coach at the mounting of a hill; there is no getting rid of them without a penny to one, and a promise to toother. Serj. True; and then for such a time too—three weeks! I wonder they expect folks to remember. It is like a retainer in Michaelmas term for the summer assizes. Sir Luke. Not but upon these occasions no man in England is more punctual than

Enter a SERVANT, who gives SIR LUKE a letter.

From whom Serr. Earl of Brentford. The servant waits for an answer. Sir Luke. Answer! By your leave, Mr Serjeant and Charlotte. [Reads.] “Taste for music—Mons. Duport—fail—dinner upon table at five.” Gadso! I hope Sir Gregory's servant an’t gone. Serv. Immediately upon receiving the answer. Sir Luke. Run after him as fast as you can—tell him quite in despair—recollect an engagement that can't in nature be missed, and return in an instant. [Erit Servant. Char. You see, sir, the knight must give way for my lord. Sir Luke. No, faith, it is not that, my dear Charlotte; you saw that was quite an extempore business. No, hang it, no, it is not for the title; but, to tell you the truth, Brentford has more wit than any man

in the world: it is that makes me fond of his house.

Char. By the choice of his company he gives an unanswerable instance of that. Sir Luke. You are right, my dear girl. But now to give you a proof of his wit: you know Brentford's finances are a little out of repair, which procures him some visits that he would very gladly excuse. i. What need he fear? His person is sacred; for by the tenth of William and Mary— Sir Luke. He knows that well enough; but for all that Serj Indeed, by a late act of his own house (which does them infinite honour), his goods or chattels may be

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service, my lord. . What, Lloyd with an L. It was with an L, indeed, my lord. Because in your part of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Flloyd were synonymous, the very same names. Very often indeed, my lord. But you always spell yours with an L. : Always. That, Mr Lloyd, is a little unlucky; for you must know I am now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years you might have come in with an F; but I am afraid I can give you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha!

Enter a SERVANT.

Serv. There was no overtaking the servant. Sir Luke. That is unlucky: tell my lord I’ll attend him. I'll call on Sir Gregory myself. [Ecil Serv. Serj. Why, you won't leave us, Sir Luke Sir Luke. Pardon, dear Serjeant and Charlotte; have a thousand things to do for half a million of people, positively; promised to procure a husband for Lady Cicely Sulky, and match a coach-horse for Brigadier Whip; after that, must run into the city to borrow a thousand for young At-all at Almack's; send a Cheshire cheese by the stage to Sir Timothy Tankard in Suffolk; and get at the Herald's office a coat of arms to clap on the coach of Billy Bengal, a nabob o arrived; so you see I have not a moment to Ose. Serj. True, true. Sir Luke. At your toilet to-morrow you may— [Enter a Servant abruptly, and runs against Sir Luke.] Can't you see where you are running, you rascal. Serv. Sir, his grace the Duke of Sir Luke. Grace —Where is he? Where— Serv. In his coach at the door. If you an’t better engaged, would be glad of your company to go into the city, and take a dinner at Dolly's. | Sir Luke. In his own coach, did you say? Serv. Yes, sir. Sir Luke. With the coronets—or— Serv. I believe so. Sir Luke. There's no resisting of that. run to Sir Gregory Goose's. Serv. He is already gone to Alderman Inkle's. Sir Luke. Then do you step, to the knight—hey! —no—you must go to my lord's—hold, hold, no—I have it—step first to Sir Greg's, then pop in at Lord Brentford's, just as the company are going to dinner. Serv. What shall I say to Sir Gregory: Sir Luke. Anything—what I told you before. Serv. And what to my lord? Sir Luke. What!—Why, tell him that my uncle from Epsom-no—that won't do, for he knows I don't care a farthing for him—hey ! Why, tell him—hold, I have it. Tell him that as I was going into my chair to obey his commands, I was arrested by a couple of bailiffs, forced into a hackney coach, and carried into the Pied Bull in the borough; I beg ten thousand pardons for making his grace wait, but his grace knows my misfor [Ereunt Sir Luke and Serv. Char. Well, sir, what d'ye think of the proofs I flatter myself I have pretty well established my case. Serj. Why, hussy, you have hit upon points; but then they are but trifling flaws, they don't vitiate the title; that stands unimpeached.

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The popularity of “The Beggar's Opera’ being partly owing to the excellent music which accompanied the piece, we find in this period a number of comic operas, in which songs and dialogue alternate. Sheridan's unexampled success has been already mentioned. The Devil to Pay, by C. CofFEY, was long a favourite, chiefly for the female character, Nell, which made the fortune of several actresses; and among the best pieces of this description are those by Isaac Bickenstaff, whose o The 5

Padlock, Love in a Village, Lionel Clarissa, &c., present a pleasing union olyrical charms with those of dramatic incident and dialogue. CHARLEs DIBDIN was author and composer of a multitude of musical operas and other dramatic trifles: his Quaker, produced in 1777, is distinguished for its excellent music.

PERIODICAL ESSAYIST S.

An attempt was made at this period to revive the style of periodical literature, which had proved so successful in the hands of Addison and Steele. After the cessation of “The Guardian, there was a long interval, during which periodical writing was confined to party politics. An effort was made to connect it again with literature by Dr Johnson, who published the first paper of The Rambler on the 20th of March 1750, and it was continued twice a-week, without interruption, till the 14th of March 1752. Johnson received only four contributions (one from Richardson the novelist) during the whole course of the publication, and, consequently, the work bore the stamp of but one mind, and that mind cast in a peculiar mould. The light graces and genialities of Steele were wanting, and sketches of the fashions and frivolities of the times, which had contributed so much to the popularity of the former essayists, found no place in the grave and gloomy pages of “The Rambler.' The serious and somewhat pedantic style of the work was ill-calculated for general readers, and it was no favourite with the public. Johnson, when he collected these essays, revised and corrected them with great care, but even then they appeared heavy and cumbrous; his attempts at humour were not happy, and the female characters introduced were all, as Garrick remarked, Johnsons in petticoats. They all speak the same measured lofty style, and resemble figures in sculpture rather than real life. The author's use of hard words was a common complaint; but it is somewhat curious to find, among the words objected to in ‘The Rambler, resuscitation, narcotic, Jatuity, and germination, which have now become of daily use, and with them no appearance of pedantry. The turgid style of Johnson, however, often rose into passages of grandeur and beauty; his imagery is striking and original, and his inculcation of moral and religious duty was earnest and impressive. Goldsmith declared that a system of morals might be drawn from these essays. No other English writer of that day could have moralised in such a dignified strain as in the following passages:—

On useful knowledge:– To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy, it may be necessary to consider, that though admiration is excited by abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse upon questions about which only a small part of mankind has knowledge sufficient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be useful on great occasions may die without exercising his abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients.

No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond endearments and

tender officiousness; and, therefore, no one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed as others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted as others are qualified to enjoy. . By this descent from the pinnacles of art, no honour will be lost; for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination; he remits his splendour but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles less.” On revenge:—‘A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom and malice and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity; a combination of a passion which all endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that “all pride is abject and mean.” It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to anything but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower | our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and || most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives. The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue without regard to present dangers or advantages; a continual reference of every action to the divine will ; a habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can ob

tain. But that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men; of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they have never examined ; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight, till it has received the ratification of our own conscience.

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of his innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly. | Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty etermity is suspended; and to him that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been born in vain.” A still finer specimen of Johnson's style is afforded in an essay on retirement from the world:— * On him,' says the moralist, “that appears to pass through things temporal with no other care than not to lose finally the things eternal, I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his | conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts; yet I could never forbear to wish, that while Vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened effron| tery, Virtue would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. | Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and, however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of beneficence.” These sentences show the stately artificial style of Johnson, which, when supported by profound thought, or pointed morality, as in the foregoing extracts, appears to great advantage, but is unsuited to ordinary topics of life and conversation. Hence, he shines more in his colloquial displays, as recorded by Boswell, where much of this extraneous pomp was left off, while all the point and vigour of his understanding, and the powers of wit and imagination, were retained. He is, in fact, a greater man in the pages of his biographer than in his own works: the intellectual gladiator of the club evinced a more powerful, ready, and various mind, than he could embody in his deliberate writings in the closet. Goldsmith was directly the reverse: he could argue best, as he said, with the pen in his hand.

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his attention from wounds or diseases. But the negative infelicity which proceeds, not from the pressure of sufferings, but the absence of enjoyments, will always yield to the remedies of reason. One of the great arts of escaping superfluous uneasiness, is to free our minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with imaginary states of delight and security, perhaps unattainable by mortals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distressful as not to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they may learn to rejoice in their own lot. No inconvenience is less superable by art or diligence than the inclemency of climates, and therefore none affords more proper exercise for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England, pinched with the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country by suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport among woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur ; but if he turns his thoughts towards the polar regions, and considers the nations to whom a great portion of the year is darkness, and who are condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will soon recover his tranquillity; and while he stirs his fire, or throws his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to providence that he is not placed in Greenland or Siberia. The barrenness of the earth, and the severity of the skies in these dreary countries, are such as might be expected to confine the mind wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so that the care of escaping death from cold and hunger should leave no room for those passions which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct, or diversify characters ; the summer should be spent only in providing for the winter, and the winter in longing for the summer. Yet learned curiosity is known to have found its way into those abodes of poverty and gloom : Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their critics, and their poets; and Love, that extends his dominion wherever humanity can be found, perhaps exerts the same power in the Greenlander's hut as in the palaces of eastern monarchs. In one of the large caves to which the families of Greenland retire together, to pass the cold months, and which may be termed their villages or cities, a youth and maid, who came from different parts of the country, were so much distinguished for their beauty, that they were called by the rest of the inhabitants, Anningait and Ajut, from a supposed resemblance to their ancestors of the same names, who had been transformed of old into the sun and moon. Anningait for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little emotion, but at last, by frequent interviews, became sensible of her charms, and first made a discovery of his affection by inviting her with her parents to a feast, where he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale. Ajut seemed not much delighted by this gallantry; yet, however, from that time was observed rarely to appear but in a vest made of the skin of a white deer; she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her hands and forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to braid her hair with great exactness. The elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of her ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait that he could no longer be restrained from a declaration of his love. He therefore composed a poem in her praise, in which, among other heroic and tender sentiments, he protested that “She was beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as thyme upon the mountains; that her fingers were white as the teeth of the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice; that he would pursue her, though

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