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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
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 The Cabinet of Irish Literature
 
 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 After the Painting by SIR JOSHUA RE Y MOLDS
 
 /ijier me t^amting oy i>iK juiitiU^ A'ii ii\uj^uo
 
 The 
 
 Cabinet of Irish Literature 
 
 Selections from the Works of 
 
 The Chief Poets, Orators, and Prose Writers 
 
 of h'eland 
 
 With Biographical Sketches and Literary Notices by 
 
 CHARLES A. READ, f.rh.s. 
 
 Author of "Tales and Stories of Irish Life" "Stories from the Ancient Classics" &c. 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 Revised and greatly Extended by 
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON 
 
 Author of "Poems" "The Dear Irish Girl" "She Wallts in Beauty" "A Girl of Galway" &c. 
 
 Volume I 
 
 LONDON 
 THE GRESHAM PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 34 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND 
 1902

 
 Preface to the Second Edition 
 
 The Cabinet of Irish Literature was first published in the early eighties, 
 at a moment of storm and stress in Ireland, when there was little sign of 
 the pleasant industry presently to be in the field of literature. So many 
 have been the workers since then, and so considerable the work, that it is 
 thought fitting that a new edition should now be issued, to include the new- 
 comers. In arranging this new edition it seemed best to follow the manner of 
 the old, in making it consist of the same number of parts and of volumes. To 
 do this a sifting of the Cabinet as it stood was necessary. The first editor's 
 scheme had included a good many names which seemed to the present editor to 
 belong rather to other forms of energy than to that of literature. She has fol- 
 lowed her own judgment in excluding a good many of the early inclusions, which 
 is not to say so much that she dissents from the first admirable editor's judg- 
 ment, as that her sympathies necessarily are narrower. Some orators have gone 
 because she thought that the fire had died out of the speeches with the passing 
 of the man; and that it was a poor service to represent an illustrious name by 
 many pages of dulness. Many military memoirists have gone because their 
 work was merely special. Many divines, because their discourses failed like the 
 speeches of the orators, or because they appealed only to special circles. The 
 scholars are her grief, because their magnificent work, unless they were poets 
 and story-tellers as well, is so difficult of representation in a book for popular 
 reading; and one has to let them stand by dry-as-dust. Here and there she has 
 added, where she considered that a poet or romancist was inadequately repre- 
 sented, and taken away where there was over-representation. In a few instances 
 she has altered the quotations. She has included in an Appendix the names of 
 many distinguished writers, an extract from whose work did them little justice. 
 Otherwise, except in the mere matter of detail, the Cabinet stands pretty much 
 as it was. She has not quarrelled with her predecessor's literary opinions, though 
 she has often not agreed with them; and she desires to be held responsible only 
 for the added matter of the new edition. 
 
 a
 
 Preface to the First Edition 
 
 A Roman historian in a well-known passage rebuked an ancient people for 
 ignorance of their own land and their own race. Strong as is the attachment 
 of the Irish people to their country, they cannot be wholly acquitted of the 
 same charge. It is only within the last half century that a real attempt has 
 been made to subject early Irish literature to severe and systematic investiga- 
 tion; and German scholars at one period seemed likely to anticipate Irishmen 
 in the study of the Celtic tongue. The rise of men like O'Donovan, O'Curry, 
 Petrie, and others, fortunately averted this national discredit, and an impetus 
 has now been given to Celtic research which, so to speak, secures the future of 
 that department of Irish literature. 
 
 But it is not the ancient literature or the elder generations of Irish litterateurs 
 that alone have been neglected by the Irish people. There are few Irishmen, 
 I venture to think, who have any conception of the number of well-known 
 literary names which belong to Ireland. Accustomed to read and hear of 
 many writers as belonging to English literature, we are liable to forget their 
 connection with Ireland; and thus many eminent authors pass for being English 
 who were born on Irish soil. 
 
 Apart, however, from this consideration, the want has long been felt for a 
 work in which the prose, the poetry, and the oratory of great Irishmen might 
 be found in a collected and accessible form. Such a book is primarily necessary 
 for the purpose of enabling the literary history of Ireland to be traced in a 
 systematic manner; and not the literary history only, but also the historical and 
 social development of the people. In Ireland, as in other countries, literature is 
 the mirror wherein the movements of each epoch are reflected, and the study 
 of literature is the study of the country and the people. Most Irishmen, more- 
 over, have felt the desire for a work in which they could readily find access to 
 the gems of literary effort which rest in their memory, and would be gladly seen 
 again. 
 
 I have made ample confession of the neglect of Irish literature among Irish- 
 men themselves, and with the greater freedom I can make complaint of the 
 astonishing ignorance of Irish literature among Englishmen. It is no exagger- 
 ation to say that many London writers of comparatively small importance are 
 better known than some Irish writers of genius. 
 
 So much for the ideas which led to this Work; I now pass on to the plan 
 on which it has been prepared. As will be seen, a biographical sketch is first given 
 of each author, and this is followed by selections from his works. The memoirs 
 are not, as a rule, of great length, for the book is meant to be a cabinet of literature 
 and not a biographical dictionary. In the selection of extracts the choice has 
 been guided by a desire to present those specimens of an author which best 
 
 iii
 
 iv PEEFACE 
 
 illustrate his style. Other considerations had also to be taken into account. It 
 would be obviously absurd to give a passage which was not intelligible without 
 full knowledge of all by which it was preceded or followed. As a consequence 
 it was necessary to seek for an extract which stood out in something like relief, 
 and which required no acquaintance with the context, or only such acquaintance 
 as could be conveyed in a short preliminary note. This consideration has neces- 
 sitated occasionally the selection of passages which Avere not, perhaps, the most 
 brilliant in the author's works. Finally, it has been the constant aim to avoid 
 the quotation of anything that had become hackneyed or that could wound the 
 feelings or offend the taste of any class or creed. 
 
 As will be seen from the final memoir in the last volume, I have had no large 
 share in the preparation of the Work. Well nigh the whole of the first three 
 volumes were prepared by the late Mr. Read, whose life-history Mr. Charles Gibbon 
 has so touchingly told, and were carried through the press by Mrs. Read, who 
 supplemented by various contributions what was necessary to their completion. 
 I am responsible for the fourth volume only. 
 
 Finally, Mrs. Read unites with me in thanking the many authors and publishers 
 who have so readily and courteously accorded permission to use extracts from 
 the various works quoted. 
 
 T. P. O'CONNOR, M.A.
 
 Contents of Volume I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction, xi 
 
 Eakly Irish Writers — 
 
 Geoffry Keating (1570- leso), xxv 
 
 Michael O'Clery (isso-igw), xxv 
 
 James Usher (isso-ieso), xxvi 
 
 Maurice Fitzgerald (dr. 1012), xxix 
 
 Sir James Ware (1594-1G66), xxix 
 
 Maurice Dugan (cir. i64i), xxx 
 
 Richard Stanihurst (1545-1618), xxxi 
 
 LuDOViCK Barry (cU-. ion), xxxi 
 
 Teige Macdaire (1570-iCoo), xxxi 
 
 Duald MacFirbis (i585-i6ro), xxxi 
 
 Nicholas French (i604-i678), xxxii 
 
 RODERIC O'FlAHERTY (1628-1718), XXxii 
 
 William Molyneux (1606-1 698), xxxiii 
 
 Nahum Tate (I652-1715), xxxv 
 
 Nicholas Brady (lesg-me), .. xxxv 
 
 Andrew Magrath (1723- ), xxxv 
 
 Sir John Denham (1615-1669), 1 
 
 Cooper's Hill, 2 
 
 Of a Future Life, 3 
 
 To Sir Richard Fanshawe, 4 
 
 On Cowley's Death, 4 
 
 Owen Ward (icoo-ieio), 5 
 
 Lament for the Tyronian and Tyrconnellian 
 Princes, 5 
 
 Richard Flecknoe (160o-1678), 7 
 
 Silence, 7 
 
 Of Drinking, 7 
 
 On Travel, 8 
 
 To Dryden, 8 
 
 On the Death of Our Lord, 8 
 
 Extract from " Love's Kingdom ", . ... 8 
 
 One Wlio Turns Day into Night, .... 8 
 
 A Sower of Dissension, 9 
 
 Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery (1621-1679),... 9 
 
 On Christmas Day, 10 
 
 On the Day of the Crucifixion, 10 
 
 The Hon. Mrs. Monk (i677-m5), 11 
 
 On Providence, 11 
 
 On a Statue of a Lady, 11 
 
 Epitaph on a Gallant Lady, 11 
 
 Orpheus and Eurydice, 11 
 
 Runaway Love, 12 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Earl of Roscommon (1633-1684), 13 
 
 The Day of Judgment, 14 
 
 Ode upon Solitude, 14 
 
 Imitation of Twenty-Second Ode, First Book 
 
 of Horace, 15 
 
 Essay on Translated Verse, 15 
 
 The Hon. Robert Boyle (i626-i69i), 16 
 
 Fishing with a Counterfeit Fly, 17 
 
 On a Glow-worm in a Phial, 18 
 
 Thomas Duffet (cir. i676), 19 
 
 Since Coelia's my Foe, 19 
 
 Come all you Pale Lovers, 19 
 
 Uncertain Love, 20 
 
 George Farquhar (i678-17C7), 20 
 
 A Woman of Quality, 21 
 
 A Gentlemanly Caning, 23 
 
 The Counterfeit Footman, 24 
 
 Father and Son, 25 
 
 Count Hamilton (1646-1720), 27 
 
 Portrait of Grammont, 28 
 
 Fiddlestick, 28 
 
 The Enchanter Faustus, 33 
 
 Thomas Parnell (1679-1717), 35 
 
 A Fairy Tale, 36 
 
 The Hermit, 38 
 
 Robert Viscount Molesworth (1656-i725), . . . 40 
 
 The Court of Denmark, 41 
 
 SUSANNNA CeNTLITRE (1667-1723), 43 
 
 The Busybody, 43 
 
 Marplot's Cleverness, 44 
 
 Miss Lovely and her Guardians, .... 45 
 
 Father and Daughter, 49 
 
 John O'Neachtan (cir. 1695-1720), 51 
 
 Maggie Laidir, 51 
 
 A Lament, 52 
 
 Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729), 53 
 
 The Ci^^l Husband, 55 
 
 Inkle and Yarico, 56 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley's Wooing, .... 58 
 
 Charity, 60 
 
 The Old Style and the New, 62 
 
 A Romantic Young Lady, 63 
 
 Mrs. Constantly Grierson (1706-1733), 67 
 
 At a Country Assize, 67
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William Congreve (1672-1729), 68 
 
 Amoret, 69 
 
 Letter to a Friend, 69 
 
 Talking of Lovers, 69 
 
 Settling the Contract, 71 
 
 A Literary Lady, 72 
 
 Extracts from "The Mourning Bride", . . 73 
 
 TUBLOUGH O'CaROLAN (1670-1738), 73 
 
 Peggy Browne, 75 
 
 Gentle Brideen, 75 
 
 Bridget Cruise, 75 
 
 Why, Liquor of Life ? 76 
 
 Grace Nugent, 77 
 
 Mild Mabel Kelly, 77 
 
 O'More's Fair Daughter, 77 
 
 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), 78 
 
 Extract from " The Journal to Stella", . . 84 
 
 On the Death of Mrs. Johnson, 84 
 
 Thoughts on Various Subjects, 88 
 
 Prometheus, 90 
 
 Wishes and Realities, 91 
 
 The Happy Life of a Country Parson, . . 92 
 
 Stella's Birthday, 92 
 
 In Sickness, 93 
 
 The Furniture of a Woman's Mind, ... 93 
 
 Lawyers, 94 
 
 Samuel Botse (1708-1749), 94 
 
 Hope's Farewell, 96 
 
 The Home of Content, 96 
 
 The Golden Eule, 97 
 
 Justice, Why Blind? 97 
 
 Sir Hans Sloane (166O-1752), 98 
 
 The Coco Tree, 99 
 
 Thomas Southerne (1660-1746), 100 
 
 Extract from "Oroonoko", 100 
 
 Matthew Concanen (died 1749), 103 
 
 The Advice, 10.3 
 
 A Love Song, 104 
 
 October Ale, 104 
 
 Cupid's Revenge 104 
 
 The Football Match, 105 
 
 Bishop Berkeley (1684-1753), 106 
 
 On America, 107 
 
 LaETITIA PiLKINGTON (1712-1760), 108 
 
 Mrs. Pilkington's Patrons, 108 
 
 Expostulation, HO 
 
 Contentment, HO 
 
 Written on her Death-bed, HI 
 
 John Boyle, Earl of Cork (1707-1702), Ill 
 
 Mrs. Muzzy on Duelling, 112 
 
 rxor. 
 
 John MacDonnell (1691-1754), 113 
 
 Granu Wail and Queen Elizabeth, .... 113 
 
 Claragh's Lament, 114 
 
 Old Erin in the Sea, 114 
 
 Claragh's Dream, 115 
 
 Charles Molloy (1706-1707), 116 
 
 Miser and Maid 117 
 
 A Candid Beauty, 118 
 
 Mrs. Barber (1712-1-57), 119 
 
 Apology for the Rich, 120 
 
 The Oak and the Ivy, 120 
 
 Stella and Flavia, 120 
 
 Laurence Sterne (m3-i76S), 121 
 
 Widow Wadman's Eye, 122 
 
 The Bastile v. Liberty, 123 
 
 The Story of Yorick 124 
 
 The Story of Le Fevre, 128 
 
 Philip Francis (1719-1773), 131 
 
 Horace's Epistle to Aristius Fuscus in Praise 
 of a Country Life, 131 
 
 John Cunningham (1729-1773), 132 
 
 Morning, 132 
 
 Noon, 133 
 
 Evening, 133 
 
 The Ant and the Caterpillar, 133 
 
 The HoUday Gown, 134 
 
 A Pastoral, 134 
 
 Patrick Delany (lese-nes), 135 
 
 The Duties of a Wife, 136 
 
 The Duty of Paying Debts, 138 
 
 Frances Sheridan (1724-1766), 141 
 
 Ode to Patience, 141 
 
 A Wonderful Lover, 142 
 
 A Romantic Love Match, 144 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774), 147 
 
 The Deserted Village 152 
 
 Switzerland and France, 156 
 
 Description of an Author's Bed-chamber, . 157 
 
 Hope, 157 
 
 The Budding Rose, 157 
 
 Extracts from " The Good-natured Man", . 157 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, 161 
 
 The Gentleman in Black, 163 
 
 Advice to the Ladies, 166 
 
 The Vicar's Home 167 
 
 Moses at the Fair, 169 
 
 A City Night Piece, 171 
 
 Hugh Kelly (1739-1777), 172 
 
 In Debt and in Danger, 173 
 
 A Hollow Victory, 175 
 
 Extract from "Thespis", 177 
 
 All Her Own Way, 177
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 Vll 
 
 James Delacour (i709-178i), 179 
 
 How Lovo was Born, 180 
 
 Euphrates, 1^0 
 
 A Moonlit Night, ISO 
 
 How to Praise, 180 
 
 The Poor Poet, 180 
 
 On Seeing a Lady at an Opposite Window, . 181 
 
 William Havard (i7io-i778), 181 
 
 Charles I. in Prison, 182 
 
 Fairfax and Cromwell, 182 
 
 Kane O'Hara (d. 1782), 184 
 
 A Most Tragical Tragedy, 185 
 
 Pan's Song to Apollo, 186 
 
 Push about the Jorum, 186 
 
 ThOM.\8 LeLAND (1722-1785), 186 
 
 The Battle of Aughrim, 187 
 
 Henry Brooke (i706-i783), 189 
 
 Essex and Elizabeth, 190 
 
 Essex and Nottingham, 190 
 
 Gone to Death, 191 
 
 Nature's Skill and Care, 192 
 
 Francis Gentleman (1728-i784), 193 
 
 The Birthday, 193 
 
 Two Opposites, 194 
 
 Thomas Sheridan (mi-irss), 196 
 
 Captain O'Blunder : a Farce, 197 
 
 General Burgotne (cir. 1728-1792), 199 
 
 The Lady and the Cynic, 200 
 
 An Old Rascal, 201 
 
 Rural Simplicity, 203 
 
 Charlotte Brooke (mo- 1793), 205 
 
 To a Warrior, 205 
 
 Oh, Give me Sight ! 205 
 
 Henry Flood (1732-1791), 206 
 
 Flood's Reply to Grattan's Invective, . . . 208 
 
 A Defence of the Volunteers, 210 
 
 On a Commercial Treaty with France, . . 211 
 Extract from "Pindaric Ode to Fame", . . 212 
 
 Charles Macklin (1690-1797), 213 
 
 A Mischief-maker, 214 
 
 How to get on in the World, 215 
 
 A Bevy of Lovers, 218 
 
 Walter Hussey Burgh (1742-1783), 220 
 
 Extract from Speech on Money Grant, . . 222 
 
 The Wounded Bird, 222 
 
 See ! Wicklow's Hills, 222 
 
 The Toupee, 223 
 
 Edmund Burke (1730-1797), 223 
 
 Gradual Variation, 226 
 
 Queen Marie Antoinette, 227 
 
 Extracts from the Impeachment of Warren 
 
 Hastings, 228 
 
 Chatham and Townshend, 232 
 
 The Desolation of the Camatic, .... 233 
 
 Elizabeth Ryves (d. 1797), 234 
 
 Ode to SensibiHty, 235 
 
 Ode to Friendship, 235 
 
 Song, fi 
 
 The Sylph Lover, '•^^ 
 
 Extract from "The Hermit of Snowden", . 236 
 
 Theobald Wolfe Tone (i703-i798), 236 
 
 Essay on the State of Ireland in 1720, . • 239 
 Interviews with Buonaparte, 241 
 
 Charles Johnstone (1719-1800), 243 
 
 Poet and Publisher, 243 
 
 Isaac Bickerstafk (1735-1800), 245 
 
 A Noble Lord, 246 
 
 Hoist with his own Petard 247 
 
 Mr. Mawworm, 249 
 
 Two Songs, 250 
 
 What are Outward Forms? 251 
 
 Hope, 
 
 251 
 
 Thomas Dermody (1775-1802), 251 
 
 When I sat by my Fair, 253 
 
 Evening Star, 253 
 
 The Sensitive Linnet, 254 
 
 Jealousy, -'^■* 
 
 Lines to the Countess of Moira, 254 
 
 Contentment in Adversity 254 
 
 On Songs, ^55 
 
 Robert Jephson (1736-1803), 255 
 
 A Mighty Fighter, 256 
 
 Most Seeming False, 257 
 
 Joseph Cooper Walker (mr-mo), 260 
 
 Dress of the Ancient Irish, 261 
 
 Arthur Murphy (1727-1805), 264 
 
 How to Fall Out, 265 
 
 . Edward Lysaght (i763-i8io), 266 
 
 ! Kate of Garnavilla, 266 
 
 The Sprig of Shillelah, 267 
 
 Our Island, 267 
 
 Sweet Chloo, 268 
 
 Thy Spirit is from Bondage Free, .... 268 
 
 To Henry Grattan, 268 
 
 Kitty of Coleraine, 269 
 
 Robert Emmet (i778.i803) 269 
 
 Last Speech, .270 
 
 Lines on the Burying-ground of Arbour Hill, 
 DubUn, 273 
 
 The Hon. George Ogle (1739-1814), 274 
 
 The Banks of Banna, 274 
 
 Banish Sorrow, 2/4 
 
 Molly Astore, 274
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 RiCHAKD BkINSLEY ShERIDAN (1751-1816), 275 
 
 Bob Acres' Duel, 278 
 
 The Money-hunter, 282 
 
 The Happiest Couple, 284 
 
 An Art Sale, 285 
 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary's Play, 287 
 
 The Desolation of Oude, 289 
 
 Drinking Song, 290 
 
 By Coelia's Ai'bour, 290 
 
 MkS. MaBY TiGHE (1772-1810), 290 
 
 Praise of Love, 291 
 
 Sympathy, 292 
 
 The Lily, 292 
 
 CalmDeHght, 293 
 
 Edmund Malone (1741-1812), 293 
 
 The Early Stage, 294 
 
 Ancient Moralitie- and Mysteries, .... 295 
 Stage Scenery, 296 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Andrew Cherry (1762-1812), 297 
 
 Two of a Trade, 298 
 
 Desperate Rivals, 299 
 
 Famed for Deeds of Arras, 301 
 
 The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland, . . 301 
 
 The Bay of Biscay, 301 
 
 Tom Moody, 302 
 
 Richard Alfred Millikin (1707-1815), 302 
 
 The Groves of Blarney, 303 
 
 Convivial Song, 304 
 
 A Prologue, 304 
 
 Sir Philip Francis — Junius (1740-18I8), 304 
 
 Letter LVn.— To the Duke of Grafton, . . 306 
 
 William Drennan, m.d. (1754-1820), 308 
 
 The Wake of William Orr, 309 
 
 When Erin first rose, 309 
 
 sweeter than the fragrant Flower, . . . 310 
 
 The Wild Geese, 310 
 
 My Father, 310 
 
 A Song from the Irish, 311
 
 List of Illustrations 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Laurence Sterne — After the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds, .frontispiece 
 
 A Gentlemanly Caning, 24 
 
 Sir Richard Steele — After the painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller, 54 
 
 Talking of Lovers, 70 
 
 Jonathan Swift — After the painting by Markham, 78 
 
 "My Uncle Toby sat himself down upon the chair by the bed-side", 130 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith — After the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 148 
 
 Edmund Burke — After the painting by G. Romney, 224 
 
 A Noble Lord, 247 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan — After the painting by Sii' Joshua Reynolds, 276 
 
 ix
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Literature in ancient Ireland seems to have been the enviable profession. The 
 person of the bard was as sacred as the person of the priest, and, like the priest, 
 the bard called down lightnings on those who offended him. It was a less easy 
 profession, as befitted one so privileged, than it is nowadays, when staff and scrip, 
 or pen, inkhorn, and fair white paper, are the only equipment, plus brains more or 
 less. The old bard, the old story-teller, trained worthily for a noble profession ; the 
 profession of letters indeed, it deserved its stately title. There was no monstrous 
 regiment of ready writers in those days. The craft had vigil and ordeal like any 
 knighthood, and was protected by its pains. Nowadays literature is the easiest of 
 all the professions, as it is the most open, the most unprotected, and the most 
 saddled Avith incompetence. Dr. Douglas Hyde, the true brother of the ancient 
 great scholars, in his monumental Irish Literary History, tells us how an ollamh or 
 chief bard, was made. He had to know by word of mouth three hundred and fifty 
 romances. It took him from nine to twelve years' time to learn the two hundred 
 and fifty prime stories, the hundred secondary ones, and the lesser matters that 
 became a bard. The prime stories, combinations of novel and epic, prose and poetry, 
 ranged over the folloAving subjects: — Destruction of fortified places, cow-spoils (i.e. 
 cattle -raiding expeditions), courtships, battles, cave-stories, navigations, tragical 
 deaths, feasts, sieges, adventunes, elopements, slaughters, water-eruptions, expeditions, 
 progresses, and feasts. The bards were trained in bardic colleges, which survived, 
 Dr. Hyde tells us, though with greatly diminished prestige, till nearly the end of 
 the seventeenth century. He describes these schools or colleges in a passage so 
 interesting that I transcribe it. 
 
 " The session of the bardic schools began about Michaelmas, and the youthful 
 aspirants to bardic glory came trooping about that season from all quarters of the 
 four provinces to offer with trembling hearts their gifts to the ollamh of the bardic 
 college, and to take possession of their new quarters. . . . The college usually 
 consisted of a long low group of whitewashed buildings, excessively warmly 
 thatched, and lying in the hollow of some secluded valley, or shut in by a sheltering 
 wood, far removed from noise of human traflnc and the bustle of the great world. 
 But what most struck the curious beholder was the entire absence of windows or 
 partitions over the greater portion of the house. According as each student arrived 
 he was assigned a windowless room to himself, with no other furniture in it than a 
 couple of chairs, a clothes-rail, and a bed. When all the students had arrived, a 
 general examination of them was held by the professors and oUamhs, and all who 
 could not read and write Irish well, or who appeared to have an indiflferent memory, 
 were usually sent away. The others were divided into classes, and the mode of 
 procedure was as follows. The students were called together into the gi-eat hall or 
 sitting-room, amply illuminated by candles and bog-torches, and we may imagine the
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 head ollamh addressing them upon their chosen profession, and finally proposing 
 some burning topic for the higher class to compose a poem on, while for the second 
 class he sets one more commonplace. . . . The students retired after their break- 
 fasts to their own warm, but perfectly dark compartments, to throw themselves each 
 upon his bed, and there think and compose till supper-hour, when a servant came 
 round to all the rooms with candles, for each to write down what he had composed. 
 They Avere then called together into the great hall, and handed in their written 
 compositions to their professors, after which they chatted and amused themselves till 
 bed-time. On every Saturday, and the eve of every holiday, the schools broke up, 
 and the students dispersed themselves over the country. They were always gladly 
 received by the land-owners of the neighbourhood, and treated hospitably till their 
 return on the Monday morning. The people of the district never failed to send in, 
 each in turn, large supplies to the college, so that between this and the presents 
 brought by the students at the beginning of the year, the professors are said to have 
 been fairly rich. The schools always broke up on the 25th of March, and the 
 holidays lasted for six months, it not being considered judicious to spend the Avarm 
 part of the year in the close college, from which all light and air-draughts had been 
 so carefully excluded." 
 
 Great was the power of the bards with the lords and chiefs who were their 
 patrons and fosterers. The anger of a bard was almost as terrible as the anger 
 of a saint; and their songs could make men's blood run like lava through their 
 veins. One remembers that gallant Geraldine, Silkur Thomas, nearly turned from 
 the rebellion that Avas his ruin by the tender wisdom of the aged chancellor, till his 
 Irish harper, breaking into an impassioned chant upon the glories of the Geraldines, 
 maddened him anew against the king, and in his crusade " for valiantesse and 
 liberty ". Long afterAvards, when the Irish harpers were under protection in the 
 houses of the gentry, there occurred this delightful passage between O'Carolan, or 
 Carolan, the last of the bards, and M'Cule, another harper in the house of Charles 
 O'Conor of Belnagar, Avhither he had wandered in his blindness. "I think", said 
 Carolan, as his fingers strayed over the harp-strings, "that I must be in the house 
 of O'Conor, for the harp has the old fire in it." " Nay," replied M'Cule, " but your 
 soul has the old madness in it." 
 
 But, reverenced and feared as they were among their OAvn people, they Avere 
 hunted doAvn as mercilessly as wolves by those Avho desired the subjection or de- 
 struction of the island race. By the Statute of Kilkenny it Avas made penal for the 
 English settlers " to entertain the bards, who perverted the imagination by romantic 
 tales ". Dangerous fellows, who not only influenced the Irish, but made the English, 
 suckled at the breast of that softest of motherlands, more Irish than the Irish ! Henry 
 Tudor, though be quartered the harp of Ireland in the arms of England, was a bitter 
 enemy to the Irish bards. "Elizabeth," says that fine historian, Mrs. Atkinson, 
 "albeit shoAving a decided preference for the Irish tunes as perfox-med at court galas, 
 ferociously pursued in Ireland the bards and rhymers, placing them in the same 
 category as monks, friars, Jesuits, and such like, as 'a traitorous kind of people'. 
 Cromwell's soldiers broke the harp Avherever they found it." 
 
 To the power of this bardic instrument are many testimonies. Giraldus Cara- 
 brensis, who had no love for these traitor harpers, Avrote: "They are incomparably 
 more skilful than any other nation I have ever seen. They delight so delicately, 
 and soothe Avith such gentleness, that the perfection of their art appears in the
 
 INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 concealment of art." Dante had an Irish harp, and deh'ghted in its construc- 
 tion. "No harp hath a sound so melting and prolonged as the Irish harp", said 
 Lord Bacon. While Evelyn, after listening to the performance of his friend Clerk 
 on the Irish harp, says: "Such music before or since did I never hear"; and goes 
 on to declare this neglected instrument far superior to the lute itself, or Avhatever 
 speaks with strings. 
 
 But all that was later. The splendour of the bards was swept away in that 
 war of extermination of Queen Elizabeth's day that destroyed the Desmonds, and 
 left Munster the place of desolation which Spenser described so terribly. The 
 bards were as little to be spared as any Desmond of them. Their songs and 
 stories made men's hearts rebellious, and they were very hot-gospellers of sedition. 
 So, enactments of Elizabeth's reign were directed against them. The nobles were 
 forbidden to entertain them, in the hope that they might starve and die out. 
 "Item," says the Act, "for that those rhymours by their ditties and rhymes made 
 to divers lords and gentlemen in Ireland to the commendation and high praise of 
 extortion, rebellion, rape, ravin, and other injustice, encourage those lords and 
 gentlemen rather to follow those vices than to leave them, and for making of the 
 said rhymes rewards are given by the said lords and gentlemen, for abolishing of 
 so heinous an abuse orders be taken." "Orders were taken, and taken so 
 thoroughly," says Dr. Hyde, "that O'Brien, Earl of Thomond, obliged to enforce 
 them against the bards, hanged three distinguished poets." Nor were the bards 
 more mercifully treated by some whose sympathy they should have had. Spenser, 
 who was in Ireland as a soldier of fortune, and had his share of the Desmond 
 inheritance, has no good to say of his Irish brother. "There are", he writes, 
 "among the Irish a certain kind of people called bards, the which are had in so 
 high regard and estimation among them that none dare displease them, for fear 
 to run into reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the 
 mouths of all men." Upon which his friend Eudoxus remarks that he had thought 
 poets persons rather to be encouraged than to be put down. To which the poet 
 replies: "Yes, they should be encouraged when they desire honour and virtue; but 
 these Irish bards are for the most part of another mind, and so far from instructing 
 young men in moral discipline, that whomsoever they find to be most licentious of 
 life, most bold and lawlesse in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of 
 disobedience and rebellious disposition, him they set up and glorify in their rhythmes, 
 him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow". 
 "Tell me, I pray you," asks Eudoxus, "have they any art in their compositions, or 
 be they anything wittie and well-mannered as poems should be'?" "Yea truly," 
 answers the author of Ejnthalamium, the most beautiful of all marriage poems, " I 
 have caused divers of them to be translated unto me that I might understand them, 
 and surely they savoured of sweet art and good invention, but skilled not in the 
 goodly ornaments of poesie, yet were they sprinkled with some pretty flowers of 
 their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them; the which it 
 is a great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice which with good 
 usage would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." Spenser's indictment against the 
 morals of the bards may pass. He was an enemy Avriting of enemies, and no doubt 
 it is the gist of his arguments against them that their poems are tending for the 
 most part to the hurt of the English or maintenance of their own "lewde libertie, 
 they being most desirous thereof". Dr. Hyde says he has read many hundreds of
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the poems written by the bards in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but has 
 never come across a single syllable in praise of "extortion, rape, ravin, and other 
 injustice", though many inciting to rebellion. 
 
 One has a curiosity about these poems which Spenser had translated to him. 
 That they deserved his praises at least, one believes, reading some of them in 
 Dr. Sigerson's masterly Bards of the Gael and the Gall, and the translations of 
 Mangan and others. Mangan no doubt translated freely, and may well have given 
 us sometimes a poem more precious than he found; but the two of his poems in 
 which his inspiration is most certain, by which his genius stands as something 
 more than an idle report — for Irish criticism of poetry especially is not to be 
 trusted — these two poems have at least their foundation in the poetry of those 
 contemned Elizabethan bards. "Dark Rosaleen", which is spirit and fire indeed, 
 and that extraordinary concentration of pity and passion, elemental in its forces, 
 "O'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire", had never stood, two forest trees of Anglo- 
 Irish poetry, but for these same bards. However, " the annoying " of the Desmonds 
 swept them away like leaves before the blast, and there were none powerful enough 
 to protect them, so they took their songs and their turbulence, their love and their 
 little wars, to a kinder world. A century or so later they lifted their heads again 
 at the report of the coming of Charles Edward, but they were no longer the children 
 of the patriarchal system of the Irish clans, they no longer sat by the knees of the 
 chiefs, with gold and honours and cherishing in return for their songs. They were 
 now schoolmasters, labourers, pedlars, publicans, sometimes settled, but more often 
 wandering men. 
 
 To the Irish schoolmaster, by the way, Irish letters owe a debt not lightly to 
 be estimated. Who but he kept the lamp alight in dark days, and preserved the 
 Irish intellect from the inevitable dulling and degradation that must come 
 after generations of disuse? Learning perhaps never flourished under stranger 
 and more difficult conditions. The freedom of the mind as well as the freedom 
 of the soul was denied these Irish Celts, and the schoolmaster was often enough 
 the martyr of his calling. He followed Learning in the rain and the wind, under 
 inclement skies, and exposed to the blasts of winter. Surely never was she so 
 wooed; and it is certain that she rewarded her devout disciple. Arthur Young 
 saw " ditches full of scholars " when he travelled in Ireland, and there are many 
 other authentic records of the like. In July, 1779, the artist Beranger, having visited 
 Ballintubber Abbey and made a sketch of it, entered in his Journal: "Found a 
 schoolmaster in the abbey with a parcel of children; his desk was a large monument, 
 and the children sat on stones arranged". Another author mentions that the tomb- 
 stones with their inscriptions sometimes served as books, while a bit of chalk and 
 the gravestone served for writing materials. Says Mrs. Atkinson: "Master and 
 scholars assembled in the safest spot they could find — on the sheltered side of a 
 hedge, in a dry ditch, or on the edge of a wood, and worked away at the three E's, 
 the classics, and their native tongue, prepared in dangerous times to hide their books 
 and disperse over the country at a moment's notice. The hunted schoolmaster had 
 one chance more than the hunted priest; for while the latter dared not fly from the 
 altar, the pedagogue had only to throw his Horace into a thorn-bush, walk away 
 with his hands in his pocket, and devote his attention to farming operations in 
 adjacent fields. ... In those days Latin was freely spoken, especially in Kerry. 
 Boys were often met with on the lonely hillsides conning their Homer, and runners
 
 INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 and stable-boys in the service of the Protestant gentry could quote for you a verse 
 of Horace, or season their remarks with a line from Virgil." No wonder that Learn- 
 ing is precious and venerated among the Irish peasants to-day. Their schoolmasters 
 were invariably Jacobites, as they were always to be found on the side of the lost 
 causes. 
 
 King James had had his minstrels, but he excited no such romantic personal 
 attachment as his grandson, and certainly no such flowering of poetry. Of this 
 Jacobite poetry a deal has been happily retained in the inspired renderings of 
 Ferguson, Walsh, Callanan, Mangan, Dr. Sigerson, and others, as well as in the 
 academic — correct no doul)t, but quite uninspired — renderings of those admiral^le 
 workers. Miss Brooke and the translators of Hardimau's Irish Minstrelsy. The 
 Cabinet contains a goodly selection from these Jacobite poems. Here is one 
 translated by Mangan from Egan O'Eeilly, which is an excellent specimen of 
 an exquisite school. It is, of course, allegorical, and the lady is Ireland, she who 
 was typified under many names, Kathaleen-ni-Houlahan, Celia Connellan, The Silk 
 of the Kine, &c., as her royal lover was the Blackbird. 
 
 The brightest of the bright met me on my path so lonely. 
 The crystal of all crystals was her flashing dark blue eye; 
 
 Melodious more than music was her spoken language only, 
 And glories were her cheeks of a brilliant dye. 
 
 With ringlets above ringlets her hair in many a cluster 
 Descended to the earth and swept the dewy flowers; 
 
 Her bosom shone as bright as a mirror in its lustre; 
 She seemed like some fair daughter of celestial powers. 
 
 She chanted nie a chant, a beautiful and grand hymn, • 
 Of him who should be shortly Eire's reigning king ; 
 
 She prophesied the fall of the wretches who had banned him : 
 And somewhat else she told me which I dare not sing. 
 
 Trembling with many fears, I called on Holy Mary, 
 As I drew nigh this fair, to shield me from all harm; 
 
 When, wonderful to tell, she fled far to the fairy 
 Green mansion of Slieb Luachra in much alarm. 
 
 O'er mountain, moss, and marsh, by greenwood, lough, and hollow 
 I tracked her distant footsteps with a throbbing heart ; 
 
 Through many an hour and day did I follow on and follow 
 Till I reached the magic palace reared by Druid art. 
 
 Then a wild wizard band, with mocking cries of laughter, 
 
 Pointed out her I sought, seated low by a clown ; 
 And I felt that I never could dream of pleasure after, 
 
 Wlien I saw the maid so fallen who deserved a crown. 
 
 Then with burning speech and soul I looked at her and told her 
 That to wed a churl like that was for her shame of shames. 
 
 When a bridegroom such as I was longing to enfold her 
 To a heart that her beauty had kindled in flames. 
 
 But answer made she none ; she wept with bitter weeping ; 
 
 Her tears ran down in rivers, but nothing could she say : 
 She gave me a guide for my safe and better keeping, 
 
 The Brightest of the Bright whom I met on my way.
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 O my misery and woe, my sorrow and my anguish, 
 
 My bitter source of dolor is evermore that she. 
 The LoveUest of the Lovely, should thus be left to languish 
 
 Amid a ruffian horde till the Heroes ci'oss the sea. 
 
 So nearly always is the belle dame sans merci of the Irish bard, the country, herself 
 enslaved, that has him in bonds, represented as a fair damsel whom the poet meets 
 on the way, and with whom he holds converse. That Egan O'Eeilly is not over- 
 praised by Mangan's flowing version of him we see in Dr. Sigerson's translation of 
 the same poem: , 
 
 Brightness of Brightness came in loneliness advancing, 
 Crystal of Crystal her clear gray eyes were glancing, 
 Sweetness of Sweetness her soft words flowed entrancing. 
 Redness and Whiteness her cheek's fair form enhancing. 
 
 Sui-ely Mangan has attenuated the image, has diluted the thought. 
 
 Instead of the old bardic schools, and the ollamhs and their emulous fellow- 
 students, the bards had now the circle by the fireside, to which they were welcomed, 
 being yet hedged by that sacredness which in Ireland has long attached to learning 
 or to intellectual gifts. One of the most famous of them, O'Toomey, had a hostelry 
 in Limerick, above the door of which was written a Gaelic verse : 
 
 Poor poet, do not pass me by; 
 For though your tongue is always dry. 
 And not a thraneen in your purse, 
 O'Toomey welcomes you no worse. 
 
 No doubt there were many such places for sessions of the bards, though the 
 hospitable O'Toomey was soon " broke out of " his establishment, and had to take to 
 being an assistant hen-wife, and to recei\dng as many blows and buffets from the 
 owner of the hens as King Alfred did from the owner of the burnt cakes. However, 
 wherever they went, or on what low days and ways they were fallen, they carried 
 "my Lady Beauty" in their hearts, as their translators have shown. They were 
 treason-mongers like their predecessors, and most often, as the respectable hold it, 
 they were ne'er-do-weels, usually in opposition to all authority, and with authority's 
 hand against them. They are fascinating fellows to linger over, but one must get 
 on. They call Turlough O'Carolan the last of the bards. I think the last of the 
 bards was one Edward Walsh, a poor schoolmaster of a penal settlement. You will 
 read in the body of the Cabinet how exquisitely he rendered into English the songs 
 of his Irish-speaking fellows. This surely is the song of the last of the bards, and 
 never was brooding and sorrowful passion imagined more tenderly. It is from the 
 unknown Irish, but it is the genius of Edward Walsh that is in it. 
 
 SONG OF THE PENAL DAYS. 
 
 Mouthful men and elders hoary, 
 
 Listen to the harper's song ! 
 My clarseach weeps my true love's story 
 
 In my true love's native tongue. 
 She's bound and bleeding 'neath the oppressor; 
 
 Few her friends and fierce her foe; 
 And brave hearts cold that would redress her, 
 
 Ma chreevin evin, alga 0/
 
 INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 My love had riches once and beauty — 
 Want and woe have paled her cheek ; 
 
 And stalwart hearts for honour's duty — 
 Now they crouch like cravens sleek. 
 
 Ah heaven, that e'er this day of rigour 
 Saw sons of heroes abject, low ! 
 
 And blood and tears thy face disfigure, 
 
 Ma chreevin evin, alga 0! 
 
 I see young virgins on the mountain, 
 
 Graceful as the bounding fawn, 
 With cheeks like heath-flowers by the fountain, 
 
 Breasts like downy canavan} 
 Shall bondsmen share these beauties ample? 
 
 Shall their pure bosoms' currents flow 
 To nurse new slaves for them that trample. 
 
 Ma chreevin evin^ alga 0? 
 
 Around my clarseach's speaking measures 
 
 Men like their fathers tall arise, 
 Their heart the same deep hatred treasures, 
 
 I read it in their kindling eyes. 
 The same proud brow to frown at danger. 
 
 The same dark coolun's graceful flow. 
 The same dear tongue to curse the stranger. 
 
 Ma chreevin evin, alga ! 
 
 I'd sing ye more, but age is stealing 
 
 O'er my pulse, and tuneful fires. 
 Far bolder woke my chord appealing 
 
 For craven Shemus to your sires. 
 Arouse to vengeance, men of braA^ery, 
 
 For broken oaths, for altars low. 
 For bonds that bind in bitter slavery. 
 
 Ma chreevin evin, alga 0! 
 
 Meanwhile side by side with this Irish literature the Anglo-Irish was haA-ing 
 its beginnings, though it is long till the writings of the Anglo-Irish bear any trace 
 that their makers were born on Irish soil. Sir John Denham, Richard Stanihurst, 
 Sir James Ware, Usher, Congreve, Farquhar, were only Irish by the accident of 
 birth; and the same may be said of practically the whole Anglo-Irish school down 
 to Swift and Goldsmith. It may have been to S\vift that his Irish birth and 
 connection with Ireland seemed his inalienable misfortune; but whether that is so 
 or not, his whole character and genius derived from the place of his birth. The 
 profound and hopeless melancholy of the Celt was his bitter inheritance. His soe,va 
 indignatio, his pity and love and rage, were for this people whom he would break 
 to make nearer to his heart's desire. Who can doubt that among those fine ladies 
 and gentlemen of the Journal to Stella his soul walked alone 1 Ireland was not his 
 Laputa; and in his furious proposal that the Irish children should be killed and 
 eaten, the inhuman lash of his sarcasm is for the nation in high places that had laid 
 his in the dust. Granted that he was brutal to the Irish. He would have scourged 
 them to be what they were not; and the sceva indignatio is not incompatible with 
 
 1 The flower of the bog cotton. 
 Vv Vol-- I- *
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 much love of this country and this people. So goaded was he by his own melancholy 
 that he had left us only savage things if it were not for that extraordinary revelation 
 of himself in the Journal to Stella. I would, as a mere matter of personal preference, 
 give all the Anglo-Irish literature of that day for the Journal. To us who know 
 the tremendous tragedy of Swift's life, while we fail to unriddle its meaning, the 
 poignant tenderness and playfulness of the Journal are intolerable. The charming 
 figure of Stella at the other end of the Journal looks roguishly through every 
 line of it; and black above the love and the gaiety and the yearning for the one 
 creature to whom Swift was all softness, hangs the cloud that was to envelop Swift 
 in impenetrable night. Goldsmith, with his sunny temperament, was of course 
 very Irish; and from Swift and Goldsmith on, the Irish influence begins to show 
 in the Anglo-Irish literature. Indeed, to certain fine gentlemen associated with 
 fashion and the Court in the Dublin of the last century, we owe some exquisite 
 additions to our poetry. There was the Hon. George Ogle, who wrote " Molly 
 Astore" and "The Banks of Banna". And again, there was the Hon. George 
 Fox, who translated from the Irish one of the most beautiful poems we possess. 
 Strange enough that he should have remained the author of a single song. 
 
 THE COUNTY OF MAYO. 
 
 On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sit in woeful plight. 
 Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night ; 
 "Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go. 
 By the blessed sun, 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo I 
 
 When I dwelt at home in plenty and my gold did much abound. 
 In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round. 
 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that I am forced to go. 
 And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. 
 
 They are altered girls in Irrul now ; 'tis proud they've grown and high, 
 With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by. 
 But it's little now I heed their airs, since God will have it so. 
 That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo. 
 
 'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still ; 
 And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill ; 
 And that Colonel Hugh O'Grady should be lying cold and low, 
 And I sailing, sailing swiftly, from the County of Mayo. 
 
 Never has a song of lamentation been more beautifully rendered. What simplicity, 
 what directness, what grief! Again, there is that ballad of the Brigade that 
 Stevenson loved; but its makers are unknown, and to feel its full beauty you must 
 hear it sung to its yearning music. 
 
 SHULE AROON. 
 
 I would I were on yonder hill, 
 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill. 
 Till every tear would turn a mill. 
 7s go de tu mo vuirnin! sldn. 
 
 I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, 
 I'll sell my only spinning-wheel.
 
 INTRODUCTION. six 
 
 To buy for my love a sword of steel, 
 Is go de tu mo vuirnin! sldn. 
 
 I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, 
 Around the world I'll beg my bread, 
 Until my parents shall wish me dead, 
 Is go de tu mo vuirnin! sldn. 
 
 I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, 
 I wish I had my heart again, 
 And vainly think I'd not complain, 
 Is go de tu mo vuirnin! sldn. 
 
 But now my love has gone to France 
 To try his fortune to advance. 
 If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance, 
 Is go de tu mo vidrnin! sldn. 
 
 The Irish refrain means " Mayst thou go safe, darling!" The song belongs to the 
 time when the Irish who had fought against King William, when his cause was 
 triumphant sailed away and took service in France and Austria and Spain. They 
 were knoAvn as the Wild Geese. Another of these beautiful things, dropped into the 
 Irish literature from whence one knows not, is " Savourneen Deelish ". This, too, 
 has the music to draw the heart out of the breast. 
 
 Ah ! the moment was sad when my Love and I parted, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 As I kissed off her tears I was nigh broken-hearted, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 Wan was her cheek when she hung on my shoulder. 
 Damp was her hand, no marble was colder ; 
 And I felt that I never again should behold her, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 
 When the word of command put our men into motion, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wild ocean, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, 
 Pleased with the voyage, impatient for plunder, 
 My bosom with grief well-nigh torn was asunder, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 
 Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you, love, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 Peace was proclaimed : escaped from the slaughter, 
 Landed at home, my sweet girl I sought her ; 
 But sorrow, alas ! to the cold grave had brought her, 
 
 Savourneen deelish, Eileen Oge ! 
 
 Another of these artlessly artful things, and I am done. Since there is no place 
 for them in the body of the Cabinet with its authenticities, they are well here, for no 
 collection of Irish poetry should be without them. "Kathleen O'More", perfect of 
 its kind, belongs also to the latter half of the eighteenth century, when English 
 poetry, awaiting the coming of Shelley and Keats and AVordsworth, was cold and 
 artificial. This is by George Nugent Reynolds, an else-forgotten song-Avriter.
 
 XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 KATHLEEN O'MORE. 
 
 My love, still I think that I see her once more, 
 But, alas ! she has left me her loss to deplore, 
 My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, 
 Her colours still changing, her smiles ever new. 
 So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir ; 
 Though wicked to all it was gentle to her. 
 So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 She sat at the door one cold afternoon. 
 To hear the wind blow and to gaze on the moon, 
 So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower, 
 It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour ; 
 And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 The bird of all birds that my heart loves the best 
 Is the robin that in the churchyard builds his nest ; 
 For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen, 
 My Kathleen O'More. 
 
 Meanwhile, interest in the ancient Irish poetry had awakened. Walker's Histori- 
 cal Memoirs of the Irish Bards was the first sign. To this Miss Charlotte Brooke 
 contributed her first translations. Her Beliques of Irish Poetry was the next note- 
 worthy event; and later came Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, with the contributions of 
 Furlong and others. This was all excellent scholarship; but the translators who 
 were capable of thinking in Irish and writing in English were yet to come. Moore's 
 advent makes a little blaze of glory in those end-of-the-century days. He had the 
 excellent good fortune to marry a pretty gift of song-writing to the beautiful old 
 Irish airs. Without the music it is doubtful whether even his own countrymen 
 would persist in thinking Moore a great poet. Anyhow, he overshadowed every- 
 one else in his day. He had a great opportunity, and took it, and he remains the 
 idol of his country-people while other poets languish in cold neglect. Among 
 English people he made Ireland and her woes fashionable; and he is even yet singing 
 in many English homes where Ireland and the Irish sentiment are in little favour. 
 Still, though he was not a great poet, he wrote some exquisite songs, the most 
 exquisite " Through Darkness and Danger ", and " At the Mid-Hour of Night ". A 
 very remarkable poet, George Darley, lived and wrote contemporaneously with 
 Moore, but only the most literary of Irish people know even his name. However, 
 real sincerity in Irish literary work was on its way. Davis was perhaps too deter- 
 mined to be Irish, and poetically Irish, and he was a spendthrift of his gift. Both in 
 his own case and that of others he insisted upon the Muse being the handmaid of 
 politics, frequently with disastrous results to the poetry. He had no time himself
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 to be anything but fluent and careless; he had bigger things to do than the 
 making of literature, and he insisted rather on quantity than quality in the poets 
 of the Nation. No doubt the fascination of Davis and Mitchel and their ideals gave 
 the impulse to a movement in poetry that else would never have been heard of. 
 Mitchel was the one big literary figure of the '48 movement, and his medium, of 
 course, was prose. Davis was not exacting with himself or others. Why should he 
 have been indeed? He came to bring a new soul into Eri; and though the arts 
 were to serve, it was no time for men to sit polishing their work and listening 
 to the still small voice of the artistic conscience. With Davis, oratory, history, 
 and poetry were the drums and fifes of his movement; and he himself showed them 
 how the playing should be done. So there is plenty of fine and even splendid 
 rhetoric in the poetry of those days; nobly inspiriting as it is, it crashes and cries 
 against the ear, is heard, not overheard, as someone says poetry should be. Poetry 
 is not to be pressed into causes however ideal, and the spirit not seldom fled from 
 the exaltations and energies of the Nation to quieter places. Of subtle and essential 
 poetry there is little in the Spirit of the Nation, or in the published volumes of the 
 Nation poets. Of fine ballads and tender love-songs there are many ; but Davis himself 
 did not always rise to the level of his beautiful "Lament for the Death of Owen 
 Eoe". Davis the poet was lost in Davis the leader of men. Of the essentially 
 political poets of the time D'Arcy M'Gee seems to me the best. Of course there 
 were men on the fringe of the movement who were poets first — nay, poets altogether. 
 There was Mangan, whose inspiration only failed him when he became political or 
 ceased to be Irish. There was Walsh, who must have felt as his brothers of a 
 century earlier had felt if they had seen " the Blackbird " come home at last. And 
 there was Ferguson, quite alien in politics, whose "Lament for the Death of Thomas 
 Davis " is perhaps the truest poetry Davis ever inspired. It comes very easy to the 
 Irishman to write. Give him a Cause, and he is as much a ready writer as a ready 
 speaker. '98 had its scores of poets as it had its scores of historians. '48 had 
 Davis to fuse it all, to set it a thousand paths, though but one way, for its energy. 
 
 Meanwhile the simplicity, the sincerity, the directness, the purity of style, which 
 came in with Callanan, had found others to emulate them. In that year '46, which 
 was dark enough with Davis's light prematurely blown out, there was published 
 a little book of excellent augury for Irish jDoetry. This was Specimens of the 
 Early Native Poetry of Ireland, edited by Montgomery. The translators included 
 Ferguson, Walsh, Mangan, Anster, and D'Alton, with the older translators; and the 
 volume would be memorable if only because it published Mangan's translation 
 of O'Hussey's "Ode to the Maguire", one of the finest poems in our literature. 
 Meanwhile, outside any general movement, and in some cases anterior to it, a 
 few poets had been making their poetry with entire sincerity and success. There 
 was John Keegan, the peasant poet, who is altogether delightful, though with 
 characteristic Irish carelessness he makes the dog in "Caoch the Piper" to have 
 nearly the life of a man; or at least the piper and the piper's dog seem to grow 
 old at the same pace. There was that most winning writer, Gerald Griffin. And 
 again there was John Banim, who laid the Irish priesthood under an immeasurable 
 debt by his "Soggarth Aroon", a poem which holds the very heart of the attachment 
 the people have for their priests. And there were others, though these names occur 
 most readily. 
 
 But now the names of Banim and Griffin remind me that I have been writing
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as if the Irish literature were but the Irish poetry. As a matter of fact, the art 
 of romance and story-telling had become natural to the Irish people in the English 
 tongue much sooner than the art of poetry. Of course Miss Edgeworth, our one 
 acknowledged name of the first magnitude, came of a stock originally "planted". 
 But like some Irish writers of to-day, the Edgeworths had become strongly Irish, 
 and no doubt the extraordinary wit and observation of the great Maria owed 
 something to that aloofness of race and blood which enabled her to see and to 
 interpret dispassionately. Carleton, however, was altogether Irish; and while Miss 
 Edgeworth displayed to the world the topsy-turvy life of the gentry in Castle 
 Rackrent and The Absentee, Carleton showed us the Irish peasant from within as no 
 one else has done. He was no gentle idealist. He was a big, coarse peasant of 
 genius; and while the genius in him enabled him at times to paint the soft and 
 beautiful side of the Irish peasant character, especially as it is sometimes seen in a 
 peasant mother, soft as Ireland herself, yet the very genius of the man was for some- 
 thing grinding and melancholy. He had his own mother for a revelation of soft 
 beauty, and his own father for a revelation of a spiritual life which no needs of the 
 body could cloud or alienate. One phrase used by Carleton in speaking of his 
 father's piety is a grosser revelation of character than the coarsest of Carleton's 
 pages. His father prayed incessantly, on his way to Mass, at Mass, on his way from 
 Mass, as if he had not had enough of it, wrote his son ! Some malignant fairy must 
 have been at Carleton's christening to steal away the little sa\n[ng salt of spirituality 
 which would have made his genius beautiful. He rendered the tragedy of Irish 
 peasant life wonderfully. He had the peasant hate of hate, the peasant long 
 memory, which, as we see in that astounding human document the Autobiography, 
 made him impale every one who had ever done him a real or fancied injury. These 
 were potent ingredients when it came to the painting of peasant wrong and peasant 
 oppression. About the absolute monumental value of Fardarougha the Miser and 
 The Black Prophet one has not the slightest doubt. They belong to the primal things 
 of life and literature. John Banim had something of Carleton's gloomy power, but 
 was a bourgeois, not a peasant, and had a lighter, sweeter side to his character. Like 
 Carleton with " The Churchyard Bride ", John Banim produced one beautiful poem, 
 " Soggarth Aroon ", with others less beautiful. Michael Banim, working in the same 
 genre as his brother, is less powerful and more pleasing. Father Connell is a charming 
 book; and both brothers had a gift of humour, which one needs in describing a life 
 so often concerned with things melancholy and tragic. Griffin, with The Collegians, 
 is another memorable novelist; and one cannot but be sorry that he did not produce 
 more novels instead of training the young mind of Ireland as a Christian brother. 
 Lever and Lover were also excellent in their kind. To my mind it is a good kind. 
 The high spirits of Charles O^Malley, Harry Lorrequer, Jack Hinton, and all that gay 
 company, seem to me genius; and while Luitrell of Arran has perhaps more serious 
 literary qualities. Lever seems destined to immortality by reason of his roisterers, as 
 high of heart and courage, as adventurous, as gay almost as the Mousquetaires. After 
 all, there is another life than the peasant in Ireland, and no doubt Lever depicted 
 truly enough the irresponsible, rackety, pleasant life of the Irish gentry before the 
 Encumbered Estates Act came to make it dull. Lover is frankly farcical, the 
 professional humorist, and very successful at his trade. 
 
 In memoirs Irish literature is especially strong, or in things that are of the 
 nature of memoirs. I take a few books at random, and I declare that no literature
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 can produce better than these. There is Swift's Journal to Stella, for which I wovild 
 give all the literature, including Swift's own, and only excepting Steele's, of Queen 
 Anne's reign. There is Tone's Diary, which exhilarates and saddens more than 
 any novel of adventure I have ever read. There are Lord Edward Fitzgerald's gay, 
 tender, and manly Letters in Moore's Life, for which I would certainly give all the 
 Melodies. And yet they talk of '48 as the literary epoch of Irish revolutionary 
 life! Then the Autobiography of Carleton, with its terrible frankness, its amazing 
 egoism, its colossal vanity — why, as mere literature it is beyond price. I name but 
 these four books that stand out; but of Memoirs, Biographies, and Recollections 
 there is no end. '98 alone produced so great a number that one is forced to believe 
 that every Irish soldier of fortune carried writing materials in his knapsack. 
 
 As for drama, the Anglo-Irish mind seems to have always run to that; and the 
 Cabinet has more than its share of dramatists, though their number is fewer in our 
 own day. 
 
 Since '48 Irish and English have fused rapidly. Even our scholars and anti- 
 quaries are oftener than not of English extraction. An O'Curry indeed led the 
 way, an O'Donovan followed, and O'Grady is a famous name in our own day; but 
 what of the un-Celtically-named Gilbert Stokes and Hyde 1 But the country takes 
 them all in in time. To Eugene O'Curry more than to any man "let the greater 
 praise belong" for the latest development of Irish literature; for the distinction 
 between Irish and Anglo-Irish is fast ceasing. In the years between '48 and '78 
 there was not much doing in general literature in Ireland. The Fenian time pro- 
 duced no one more interesting than Kickham, whose peasant ballads are faultless, 
 and who has written in Knocknagow a beautiful but too gentle novel of Irish life. 
 Aubrey de Vere of course was working in poetry, and so was Allingham. Ferguson 
 also produced his Epics, so that in poetry the time was memorable enough. Indeed, 
 if one had to make a selection, instead of a collection, of Irish poems, and of the 
 choicest kind, one would certainly draw largely on the work of those years, in which 
 Ferguson wrote so much that was virile and romantic, De Vere that was beautiful 
 and dignified, and Allingham that was exquisite and perfectly right. If one had 
 to make a selection! It would begin with The Burial of Sir John Moore, the one 
 immortal poem of Charles Wolfe, and would go on with — But no, it is a selection 
 in the clouds; and we have yet the last twenty years unaccounted for. 
 
 Since The Cabinet of Irish Literature was first published new Irish writers have 
 arisen thick as leaves in Vallombrosa. Scholars indeed have no close time in 
 Ireland, and their labours are not disturbed by the noise of more or less peaceful 
 revolutions. But the respite from strong passions, particularly of the last decade, 
 has allowed more sensitive people to collect their thoughts; and the literary acti\nty 
 has been very remarkable. It has seemed as though all at once the Anglo-Irish, 
 by reason of descent, had found a pride and a pleasure in being Irish, and the 
 educated and privileged class — not one here and there more enlightened and 
 generous than the rest, but in numbers — had discovered that their very reason for 
 being was their Irishism. To be an Irish writer nowadays has its advantages, 
 though they are not those of pelf. Even a humble writer may hope for a little <ind 
 sweet remembrance because of his accidental prominence as among the first drops 
 in a shower. By-and-by, when the ranks of Irish Avriters are thronged as the 
 ranks of English writers are, many more deserving than some of us will be trodden 
 down, crushed out and clean forgotten. It is our compensation for being little read
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in our lifetime; for the race of Irish readers of Irish books is not yet: and the 
 more Irish we are the less likely we are to find favour with English readers. That 
 is to say, that with the best will in the world the two peoples are widely different. 
 
 The English indeed liked Lever, and would be glad of a new Lever any day. 
 Ladies who write in the same light-hearted and irresponsible fashion are sure of 
 their vogue. But give them a microcosm of the Irish nature as the Irish know it, 
 consciously or unconsciously, and it is worse to them than a Chinese puzzle. It 
 is a topsy-turvy world, and they resent being brought into it: they are not sure 
 whether they are being laughed at, or whether they have by accident found their 
 way into a madhouse. Anyhow they will have none of it. A born critic here 
 and there will find out that Mr. Frank Mathew's Wood of the Brambles is packed 
 as full of wit, wisdom, observation, and knowledge as genius can make it; but to 
 the ordinary reader it is deliberately and offensively topsy-turvy, and there's an 
 end of it. Another very remarkable Irish novel which goes the way of The Wood of 
 the Brambles is The Real Charlotte, by the ladies who call themselves " (E. Somerville 
 and Martin Ross". At least one great critic — the one inspired English critic now 
 living — found out that The Real Charlotte was a book of extraordinary vivacity, 
 discernment, and truth, but its recognition was limited, and the authors were 
 perforce obliged to give their English readers something more to their palate. 
 Another remarkable Irish novel of late years is Mr. Downey's Merchant of Killogtie, 
 which for its faithful representation of a life that is passing, and its portrayal of one 
 great rough figure, deserves to be a classic of Irish literature. Perhaps it may be 
 one day; but at present Mr. Downey is known chiefly as a humorist. 
 
 Even serious Irish romance has little chance between the two stools of English 
 aloofness and Irish neglect. Another Irish writer of a remarkable book is Mr. Shan 
 Bullock, whose By Thrasna River is not so much a story as a long leisurely summer 
 in the north of Ireland, where the very reek of the turf-smoke is in the air, and the 
 mountain, with its ragged wisps of cloud about it, is for ever in sight. And too 
 late to include in the body of the Cabinet comes Miss Julia Crotty with her 
 admirably realized Neighbours, a new departure in Irish literature which is apt to be 
 over-idyllic. The English public will have the Irish writer in perpetual high spirits 
 or it will have none of him. It is not a matter of prejudice. The Irish vivacity 
 of certain popular writers is very welcome and very pleasant to English readers, but 
 if they are asked to look beyond it they are simply not interested. 
 
 The Irish at present are a conversational, animated, unrestful race, feeling more 
 the direct appeal of the orator or the dramatist than the quiet concentration which 
 a book demands. It is a people which lives too keenly to care for a similitude of 
 life, however admirably presented. Great excitements, returning with the regularity 
 of the swing of the pendulum, are fatal to letters; and the man fed on oratory will 
 be quiet only long enough to take in the articles of some unquiet newspaper, which 
 is but another form of stimulant. Perhaps, after all, our great need is of a Critic, a 
 critic who would do immediately the sifting which is always going on behind the 
 scenes, sifting the false from the true, the lasting from the merely perishable, in a 
 judgment there is no gainsaying. But the Critic would be as a voice crying in the 
 wilderness, unless he had the art to capture and to lead the opinion of the people 
 — nay, to make an opinion in default of one ready-made.
 
 EAELY lEISH WEITEES, 
 
 1550—1750. 
 
 GEOFFRY KEATING. 
 
 Born 1570 — Died 1650. 
 
 This celebrated Irish historian and divine, 
 to whose indefatigable labours Irish history 
 is so deeply indebted, was born at Tubbrid, 
 near Clogheen, in county Tipperary, about 
 the year 1570. Of the details of his life 
 there is left us but a scanty record. At an 
 early age he was sent to Spain, and in the 
 college of Salamanca he studied for twenty- 
 three years. On his return home he was 
 received with great respect by all classes 
 of his countrymen, and after a tour through 
 the country was appointed to the ministry 
 of his native parish, Tubbrid, in county 
 Tipperary. Here he soon became famous 
 for his eloquence, and crowds came to hear 
 him from the neighbouring towns of Cashel 
 and Clonmel. "Among others", says the 
 editor of Clanricarde's Memoirs, "came a 
 gentleman's wife whom common fame re- 
 ported to be too familiar with the Lord- 
 president of Munster. The preacher's dis- 
 course was on the sin of adultery, and the 
 eyes of the whole congregation being on the 
 lady, she was in great confusion, and, imagin- 
 ing that the doctor had preached that sermon 
 on purpose to insult her, she made loud 
 complaint of him to the president, who was 
 so enraged that he gave orders for appre- 
 hending him, intending to punish him with 
 all the rigour of the law." Before, however, 
 the soldiers reached his house, the historian, 
 warned by his friends, had fled for safety 
 into the Galtee Mountains near at hand. 
 
 In the solitude of the mountains Keating 
 caused to be brought to him the materials 
 he had been collecting for years, and at once 
 proceeded to write his well-known and im- 
 portant History of Ireland, which was written 
 in his native language, and ultimately com- 
 pleted about the year 1625. It begins from 
 
 the earliest period (namely, the arrival of 
 the three daughters of Cain, the eldest named 
 Banba, who gave her name to Ireland, which 
 was called "the Isle of Banba"), and ex- 
 tends to the Anglo-Norman invasion. In 
 1603, however, Keating was enabled, owing 
 to the recall of the president. Sir George 
 Carew, to England, to return to his parish, 
 where he found a coadjutor, with whom he 
 lived and laboured peacefully for many years. 
 One of the joint works of the two men was 
 the erection of a church in 1644, over the 
 door of which may yet be seen an inscription 
 speaking of them as founders, and beside 
 which was placed afterwards the following 
 epitaph on the poet-historian : 
 
 " In Tybrid, hid from mortal eye, 
 A priest, a poet, and a prophet lie ; 
 All these and more than in one man could be 
 Concentred was in famous Jeoffry ". 
 
 Of the other works of Keating many were 
 a few years ago, and possibly still are, well 
 known traditionally to the peasantry of 
 Munster. Among them are "Thoughts on 
 Innisfail", which D'Arcy Magee has trans- 
 lated: "A Farewell to Ireland"; a poem 
 addressed to his harper ; " An Elegy on the 
 Death of Lord de Decies"; the "Three Shafts 
 of Death", a treatise in Irish prose, which 
 Irish soldiers, we are told, have long held 
 in admiration. 
 
 Keating's death is generally supposed to 
 have taken place in 1650. 
 
 MICHAEL O'CLERT. 
 
 Born 1580 — Died 1643. 
 
 Michael O'Clery, the principal author of 
 the well-known Annals of the Four Masters, 
 was, according to Geraghty in his introduc-
 
 XXVI 
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 tion to Connellan's translation of that work, 
 born in Donegal about the year 1580. He 
 was descended from a learned family who 
 had been for centuries hereditary historians 
 to the O'Donnells, princes of Tyrconnell, and 
 at an early age became distinguished for his 
 abilities and laboriousness. While yet young 
 he left Ireland and retired to the Irish 
 Franciscan monastery at Louvain, where he 
 soon attracted the attention of the learned 
 Hugh Ward, a native of his own county, 
 and a lecturer at the Irish College. His 
 perfect knowledge of the Irish language and 
 history caused him to be employed by Ward 
 to carry out a project that enthusiastic monk 
 had formed for rescuing the annals and 
 antiquities of his country from the compara- 
 tive oblivion into which they had fallen. 
 
 O'Clery, accepting the offer made to him, 
 returned to Ireland, where for many years 
 he busied himself collecting manuscripts and 
 other works and transmitting them to Lou- 
 vain. In 1635 Ward died, but some time 
 before he managed to publish from O'Clery's 
 materials The Life of St. Rumold, an Irish 
 Martyrology, and a treatise on the Names of 
 Ireland. John Colgan, also a native of Done- 
 gal, afterwards made large use of O'Clery's 
 manuscripts in his works on the Irish saints 
 Trias Thaumaturga and Acta Sanctorum 
 Hihernice. Even before Ward's death, how- 
 ever, O'Clery had already commenced his 
 great work, which at first went by the name 
 of The Annals of Donegal, then by the title 
 of The Ulster Annals, and is now known over 
 the world as The Annals of the Four Masters, 
 as he and his assistants, Peregrine O'Clery, 
 Conary O'Clery, and Peregrine O'Duigenan, 
 a learned antiquary of Kilronan, were 
 named. He had also some little help from 
 two members of the old and learned family 
 of the O'Maolconerys, hereditary historians 
 to the kings of Connaught. 
 
 In the "Testimonials" prefixed to the 
 work it is stated that it was entirely com- 
 posed in the convent of the Brothers of 
 Donegal, who supplied the requirements of 
 the transcribers while their labours were in 
 progress. Fergal O'Gara, a member for 
 Sligo in the parliament of 1634, is also said 
 to have liberally rewarded O'Clery's assist- 
 ants, while it was his advice and influence 
 that prevailed on O'Clery to bring them to- 
 gether and proceed with the work. In the 
 "Testimonials" are also stated the names 
 of the books and manuscripts from which 
 the Annals were compiled, and there also 
 
 we find the information that the first volume 
 was begun on the 22nd January, 1632, and 
 the last finished on the 10th August, 1636, 
 To the "Testimonials", which is a kind of 
 guarantee of the faithfulness of the work, 
 is subscribed the names of the superior and 
 two of the monks, together with the counter 
 signature of O'Donnell, prince of Tyrconnell. 
 After the completion of the Annals O'Clery 
 returned to Louvain, where in 1643 he pub- 
 lished a Vocabulary of the Irish Language. 
 This seems to have been the last of his 
 works, and this year the last year of his life. 
 
 JAMES USHER. 
 
 Born 1580 — Died 1656. 
 
 Unlike too many of the prelates of the 
 Protestant Episcopal Church in Ireland, 
 Archbishop Usher, or Ussher as he is some- 
 times called, was not only of Irish birth but 
 of long-continued Irish descent. The origi- 
 nator of the family was one Nevil, who came 
 over to Ireland in the train of King John, 
 and who, from his oflfice, received the name 
 of Ushei', which he transmitted to his descen- 
 dants. James Usher, known as one of the 
 most eminent scholars of modern times, was 
 born on the 4th January, 1580, in the city 
 of Dublin. 
 
 His earlier education was attended to by 
 two aunts, who, although blind from their 
 youth, were inwardly full of intellectual and 
 religious light. By these he was encouraged 
 in his passion for books. While only eight 
 years old he was sent to school to two young 
 Scotchmen, who, in the disguise of school- 
 masters, had been placed in Dublin to further 
 the interests of James I, before he became 
 king of England. The Scotchmen are said 
 to have been excellent masters, and under 
 their care he progressed rapidly. In 1593, 
 when the college of the University of Dublin 
 was opened, he was, though only thirteen 
 years of age, admitted one of the first three 
 students, in which position his name may 
 to this day be seen in the first line of the 
 roll. 
 
 In 1596, while only in his seventeenth 
 year, he took his degree of bachelor. Even 
 before this he had already drawn up the 
 plan and collected much of the materials for 
 his Annals of the Old and New Testament.
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 xxvu 
 
 Wliile in his nineteenth year he had a con- 
 troversy with the learned Jesuit Henry 
 Fitz-Symonds, then a prisoner in Dublin 
 Castle, and acquitted himself so well that 
 the Jesuit, who at first despised him as a 
 boy, afterwards acknowledged the ripeness 
 of his wit and his skill in disputation. 
 Usher himself says, in answer to the foolish 
 yet constantly repeated taunt of youth, "If 
 I am a boy (as it hath pleased you very 
 contemptuously to name me) I give thanks 
 to the Lord that my carriage towards you 
 hath been such as could minister unto you 
 no occasion to despise my youth". In 1600 
 he acquired the degree of Master of Arts, 
 and was appointed proctor and lecturer of 
 the university, and soon after, though under 
 canonical age, he was, on account of his 
 great abilities, ordained deacon and priest 
 by his uncle, then Archbishop of Armagh. 
 In 1601, among other sermons, he preached 
 one which has since been claimed as pro- 
 phetical, and which contained the words, 
 "From this year I reckon forty years; and 
 then those whom you now embrace shall 
 be your ruin, and you shall bear their 
 iniquity". In the rebellion of 1641 came 
 the supposed fulfilment of the prophecy. 
 
 In 1603 Usher was appointed to proceed 
 to London in company with Dr. Luke 
 Challoner, in order to purchase books for 
 the library of the university. In 1607 he 
 took the degree of Bachelor of Divinity, 
 and was soon after made Chancellor of St. 
 Patrick's. In the same year Camden visited 
 Dublin to collect materials for his description 
 of that city, which may be found in the last 
 edition of his Britannia. In this he con- 
 cludes his description thus : — " Most of which 
 I acknowledge to owe to the diligence and 
 labour of James Usher, chancellor of the 
 church of St. Patric, who in various learning 
 and judgment far exceeds his years". In 
 this year also, while yet only twenty-six 
 years of age, he was chosen divinity professor 
 in the university, the duties connected with 
 which he performed diligently for thirteen 
 years. 
 
 In 1609 Usher visited London for the 
 third time, and on this occasion he became 
 acquainted with the most able and learned 
 men then there. These comprised Camden, 
 whom he had already met, Selden, Sir Robert 
 Cotton, Lydiat, Dr. Davenant, by all of 
 whom he was treated with the utmost respect 
 and consideration. After this he made it a 
 rule to visit England once every three years 
 
 for a stay of about three months, one of which 
 he spent at each of the universities, the 
 other in London. In 1610 he was elected 
 provost of Trinity College, Dublin, which 
 office he refused, fearful of its duties inter- 
 fering with his literary designs, and in 1612 
 he took his degree of Doctor of Divinity. 
 Next year, while in London, he publi.shed 
 his first real work, De Ecclesiarum Christian- 
 arum Successione et Statu, whicli in its best 
 shape in the edition of 1687 is printed with 
 his Antiquities of the British Churches. 
 
 On his return to Ireland in 1613 he mar- 
 ried the only daughter of Dr. Luke Chal- 
 loner. The marriage was a happy one, and 
 in no way interfered with the studies or 
 habits of Usher, who we find in London in 
 1619, when he so satisfied James I that he 
 was next year made Bishop of Meath. In 
 1623 he was again in England collecting 
 materials for a work which the king had 
 employed him to write on the antiquities 
 of the churches of England, Ireland, and 
 Scotland. Just before the king's death he 
 visited England, and was advanced to the 
 archbishopric of Armagh, which he failed to 
 enter upon for some months in consequence 
 of an attack of ague. His appointment was 
 on the 21st ; the death of James occurred 
 six days later, on the 27th March, 1625. 
 
 Before returning to Ireland Usher made 
 the acquaintance of Charles I, by whom he 
 was highly favoured, and who ordeied him 
 for his expenses i>400 out of the Irish trea- 
 sury. On entering upon the labours of his 
 diocese he found matters, religious and 
 political, in an excited condition, but though 
 he took part in them vigorously he was not 
 to be prevented from following his beloved 
 studies. Aided by his increased income he 
 employed a British merchant residing at 
 Aleppo to purchase oriental writings, and 
 through this person he soon obtained several 
 rare and curious, as well as valuable and 
 important, manuscripts. One of these was 
 a copy of the Samaritan Pentateuch, another 
 a copy of the Old Testament in Syriac. All 
 these treasures he liberally placed at the 
 disposal of other scholars, and many of them 
 are now to be found in the Bodleian Library 
 at Oxford. In 1634 there arose again the 
 ever-recurring dispute as to precedence be- 
 tween the Archbishops of Armagh and 
 Dublin. This time the prelate of Armagh 
 asserted his right to first place with such 
 clearness and vigour that it was decided in 
 his favour, a decision which forty years later
 
 XXVlll 
 
 EAELY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 was confirmed at a full meeting of cardinals 
 in Rome. 
 
 In 1640, just before the outbreak of the 
 troubles in Ireland, Usher and his family — 
 he had only one child, a daughter — came 
 to England. Prevented from returning to 
 Ireland by the rebellion of 1641, he was 
 appointed to the bishopric of Carlisle; but 
 from this, owing to the successes of the 
 Parliamentarians, he derived no benefit, 
 though afterwards parliament voted him a 
 pension of ^400 a year, which he received 
 once or twice. Shortly before King Charles 
 came to Oxford he removed there, and in 
 1643 he was appointed one of the Assembly 
 of Divines at Westminster, but refused to 
 sit, his principles leading him not only to 
 preach against, but refuse to be present at 
 the revision and remodelling of the Church 
 which the Assembly contemplated. For this 
 refusal and for some expressions in his ser- 
 mons parliament ordered his library to be 
 seized. Dr. Featly, however, obtained it for 
 his own use, and so preserved it to its right- 
 ful owner. In the midst of the political and 
 religious turmoil and rancour of the age he 
 lived quietly at Oxford for some time, and 
 there he published his tracts On the Lawful- 
 ness of Levying War against the King; 
 Historical Disquisition touching Lesser Asia; 
 and The Epistles of Saint Ignatius. 
 
 Just before the siege he left Oxford and 
 retired to Cardiif Castle, commanded by Sir 
 T. Tyrrel, who had married his daughter. 
 Here he continued in quietness for some 
 months, still engaged in study, and here he 
 was visited by the king shortly after the 
 fatal fight of Naseby. From Cardiff he pre- 
 sently moved to the castle of St. Donats, to 
 which he was invited by the Dowager Lady 
 Stradling. On his way thither he and his 
 party were set upon, and the chests contain- 
 ing the most dearly beloved of his books 
 and manuscripts were broken open, and 
 their contents flung about. A few gentle- 
 men of the country, however, appeared on 
 the scene, and prevented further outrage. 
 At St. Donats he was attacked with a dan- 
 gerous illness, the first premonitions of the 
 end. 
 
 From St. Donats he moved to London to 
 the house of Lady Peterborough in 1646, 
 and in 1647 he was chosen preacher of Lin- 
 coln's Inn. In 1648 he was sent for by the 
 king, who was confined in Carisbrooke 
 Castle in the Isle of Wight, to give his advice 
 in several important matters; and in 1649, 
 
 from the roof of Lady Peterborough's house, 
 he saw with horror the execution of the 
 unfortunate Charles. In 1650 he published 
 the first part of his Annals of the Old 
 Testament, and the second in 1654. In this 
 last year, in answer to an invitation, he paid 
 Cromwell a visit, and again in 1655 he ap- 
 peared before him to plead the cause of the 
 Church of England clergy, when he received 
 a promise that they should not be molested 
 if they kept clear of politics. This promise 
 Cromwell afterwards refused to ratify — a 
 refusal which greatly pained the prelate. 
 On March 20th, 1656, while at the house of 
 Lady Peterborough at Reigate, he was taken 
 ill, and died on the next day. While pre- 
 parations were being made to bury him 
 privately, Cromwell ordered him to be in- 
 terred in Westminster Abbey, which was 
 done accordingly with great pomp on the 
 17th of April. His library, which consisted 
 of over ten thousand volumes, was eagerly 
 sought after, the King of Denmark and 
 Cardinal Mazarin offering large sums for it. 
 Cromwell interfered, however, and it was 
 soon after purchased by the army in Ireland, 
 and stored in Dublin Castle, from whence 
 on the Restoration it was moved to Trinity 
 College. 
 
 The works of Usher are well known to 
 all scholars for the breadth of view, deep 
 learning, and wide research which they dis- 
 play. His chronology of the Bible is still 
 the chronology adopted in the authorized 
 version ; his work on the Solar Calculations of 
 the Syrians, a work On the Apostles^ Creed and 
 other Ancient Confessions of Faith, and his 
 work De GrcBca Septuaginta, are remarkable 
 as displaying his wide range of reading. Of 
 his Ecclesiastical Antiquities of the British 
 Churches Gibbon says, "All that learning 
 can extract from the rubbish of the dark ages 
 is copiously stated by Archbishop Usher". 
 Bishop Jebb says he was "the most pro- 
 foundly learned offspring of the Reforma- 
 tion " ; and Dr. Johnson says, " Usher is the 
 great luminary of the Irish Church ; and a 
 greater no church can boast of". The Body 
 of Divinity, we are told, was published with- 
 out his approbation, and of it Bickersteth 
 says, "Usher's Body of Divinity, though 
 never revised by him, is full of valuable 
 theology". 
 
 Such was the universal esteem of his char- 
 acter and literary reputation that he was 
 offered a professorship at Leyden, and Car- 
 dinal Richelieu invited him to settle in
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 France, promising liim perfect freedom as 
 to the exercise of his religion, although his 
 notions of church government had a con- 
 siderable leaning towards Presbyterianism. 
 He was wont to hold learned conferences 
 with Dr. John Preston, " the most celebrated 
 of the Puritans"; and at the conclusion of 
 these interviews it was very common with 
 the good archbishop to say, "Come, doctor, 
 let us say something about Christ before we 
 part". " He hath a great name deservedly", 
 says Edward Leigh, "among the Reformed 
 Churches for his skill in ecclesiastical anti- 
 quities, his stout defence of the orthodox 
 religion, frequent and powerful preaching, 
 and unblamable life." 
 
 It is remarkable, as has been pointed out 
 in Irish Writers of the Seventeenth Century, 
 "that though living in an age when even 
 Waller was lured from his flute, and Milton 
 from his high dreams of Paradise to fight 
 on affairs of church and state. Usher only 
 once used his pen in defence of the king and 
 his cavaliers". 
 
 MAURICE FITZGERALD. 
 
 About 1612. 
 
 Maurice Fitzgerald was the son of David 
 duff (the black) Fitzgerald, and, as his poems 
 testify, lived in Munster in the time of Eliza- 
 beth. Though several works of his are extant 
 the facts of his life are shrouded in darkness. 
 It is supposed that he died in Spain, where 
 many of the most eminent Irishmen of his 
 time found an exile's home. His journey 
 thither probably suggested the Ode on his 
 Ship, though, as Miss Brooke says in her 
 Reliques of Irish Poetry, it is possible the 
 third ode of Horace deserves that credit. In 
 O'Reilly's Irish Writers is a list of seven 
 poems by Fitzgerald which were in O'Reilly's 
 possession in 1820. Fitzgerald seems to have 
 been a man of considerable education and of 
 refined taste. 
 
 SIR JAMES WARE. 
 
 Born 1594 — Died 1666. 
 
 Ware was born in Castle Street, Dublin, 
 on the 26th November, 1594, his father being 
 then auditor-general of Ireland after having 
 
 already served as secretary to two different 
 lord deputies. At sixteen he entered Trinity 
 College as a student, and while there, much 
 to his advantage, made the acquaintance of 
 Usher, who had already started on the road 
 to fame. Like Usher, Ware was quick at 
 learning, and in regular course he took his 
 degrees of Bachelor and Master of Arts. 
 Like Usher also, he had already commenced 
 the labours which were to make him famous, 
 and before he was thirty years of age his 
 collection of books and manuscripts was any- 
 thing but contemptible. In 1626 he visited 
 London, and in that same year the Antiquities 
 of Ireland began to appear. It was published 
 in parts, as were almost all his works, and, 
 as Magee observes, still bears the external 
 evidences of profound patchwork. In London 
 he was introduced by Usher to Sir Robert 
 Cotton, who gave him every help in his power, 
 and who placed his library and collection at 
 his service. He availed himself largely of the 
 treasures thus placed before him, and he also 
 made considerable researches among the state 
 papers in the Tower and elsewhere. Soon 
 after his return to Ireland he commenced the 
 publication of his Lives of the Irish Bishops ; 
 and two years later, in 1628, he again visited 
 London, where he this time made theacquaint- 
 ance of Selden, and from whence he brought 
 back to Ireland large additions to his collec- 
 tion. In 1629 he was knighted, and in 1632, 
 when his father died, he succeeded to both the 
 fortune and office of his parent. In 1639 he 
 was made one of the privy-council, and the 
 same year, despite the labours of his office 
 and the distractions by which he was sur- 
 rounded, he managed to publish his most 
 quoted work, the Writers of Ireland. In 
 this year also he was elected member of 
 parliament for the University of Dublin, and 
 in 1640, as the friend of Strafford, he strongly 
 opposed the election of the Irish committee 
 which was sent to London to assist in the 
 accusation of the unlucky viceroy. During 
 the rule of Borlase and Parsons and the suc- 
 ceeding viceroyalty of Ormond, the conduct 
 of Ware was such as to be admired by friend 
 and foe. 
 
 In 1644 Ware left Dublin for Oxford as one 
 of the deputies from Ormond to the king, and 
 while in Oxford he still continued his favourite 
 studies, and was made a Doctor of Laws by 
 the university. On his way back to Ireland 
 the vessel in which he sailed was captured by 
 a Parliamentarian vessel, and he was sent a 
 prisoner to the Tower of London, where he
 
 XXX 
 
 EAELY lEISH WRITERS. 
 
 remained ten months, until exchanged, and 
 returned to Dublin. In 1647, on the surrender 
 of Dublin, he was given up as one of the hos- 
 tages and despatched to London, where he was 
 detained two years. On his again returning 
 home he lived privately for a time, but in 
 1649 the Puritan deputy ordered him to quit 
 the kingdom, and with one son and a single 
 servant he departed for France. In France 
 Ware resided chiefly at Caen and Paris, and 
 at both places busied himself, as might be 
 expected, in his favourite pursuits of hunting 
 for manuscripts and making extracts from 
 those lent to him or which he was allowed to 
 see. In 1651 he was permitted to return to 
 London on family business, and in 1653 he 
 was allowed to return to Ireland to visit his 
 estate, which was then in a sad condition. In 
 1654 he published his final instalment of the 
 A rdiquities of Ireland, of which a second and 
 improved edition appeared in 1659. In 1656 
 appeared his Works Ascribed to St. Patrick, in 
 1664 his Aiinals of Ireland, and in 1665 he 
 saw the completion of his Lives of the Irish 
 Bishops. 
 
 The Restoration brought restoration of his 
 previous ofl&ces to Ware, and at the election 
 for parliament he was again chosen member 
 for the university. He was soon also appointed 
 one of the four commissioners for appeals in 
 excise cases, and he was offered the title of 
 viscount, which he " thankfully refused ". Two 
 blank baronetcies were then presented to him, 
 and these he filled up with the names of two 
 friends. A little later, on the 1st December 
 (Wills says the 3rd), 1666, he died, famed for 
 uprightness and benevolence. He was buried 
 in the family vault in the church of St. Wer- 
 burgh, Dublin. 
 
 Ware's works were all written and pub- 
 lished in Latin, but in the following century 
 they were translated into English by Walter 
 Harris, who married Ware's great-grand- 
 daughter, and thereby inherited his manu- 
 scripts. His translation filled two massive 
 folio volumes, which are to be found on the 
 shelves of every library deserving the name. 
 The very excellence of these important works 
 — their brief accuracy and minute compre- 
 hensiveness — render them almost as un- 
 quotable as a dictionary. In them, also, the 
 author rarely falls into theorizing, for which, 
 says Wills, " he had too little genius, yet too 
 much common sense ". Magee speaks of him 
 as " a great, persevering bookworm, a sincere 
 receiver and transmitter of truth ". Bishop 
 Nicolson says of htm, "To Sir James Ware 
 
 (the Camden of Ireland) this kingdom is 
 everlastingly obliged for the great pains he 
 took in collecting and preserving our scattered 
 monuments of antiquities ". 
 
 MAURICE DUGAN. 
 
 ABOtTT 1641. 
 
 [All that we can discover of Maurice Dugan 
 or O'Dugan is that he lived near Benburb, in 
 county Tyrone, about the year 1641, and that 
 he wrote the song here given to the air of the 
 " Coolin ", which was even in his time old, and 
 which is, as Hardiman says, considered by 
 manv " the finest in the whole circle of Irish 
 music ". He was supposed to be descended 
 from the O'Dugans, hereditary bards and his- 
 torians, one of whom wrote the Topography of 
 A ncien t Irela rid, which was extensively used by 
 the "Four Masters" in theii'^?i«a/5. O'Reilly, 
 in his Irish TTriVers, mentions four other poems 
 the production of O'Dugan, namely. Set your 
 Fleet in Motion, Ov:en was in a Rage, Erin 
 has Lost her Lawful Spouse, Fodhla {Ireland) 
 is a Woman in Decay. These productions are 
 not to be found in English, and are supposed 
 to be lost. We incline to the belief, how- 
 ever, that many bardic remains, in their 
 original and almost unreadable IrLsh, may 
 yet be discovered in unsuspected and out-of- 
 the-way hiding-places.] 
 
 THE COOLUN.i 
 [Tbasslated by Sib Samuel Febguson.] 
 
 Oh, had you seen the Coolun 
 
 Walking down by the cuckoo's street, 
 With the dew of the meadow shining 
 
 On her milk-white twinkling feet. 
 Oh, my love she is and my colleen oge, 
 
 And she dwells in Balnagar ; 
 And she bears the palm of beauty bright 
 
 From the fairest that in Erin are. 
 
 In Balnagar is the Coolun, 
 
 Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
 Bright beauty dwells for ever 
 
 On her fair neck and ringlets meek. 
 Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music 
 
 Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
 Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 
 
 Farewell to the setting sun. 
 
 1 The head of fair curK
 
 EARLY lEISH WRITERS. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Rise up, my boy, make ready, 
 
 To horse, for I forth would ride 
 To follow the modest damsel 
 
 Where she walks on the green hill-side. 
 For ever since our youth were we plighted 
 
 In faith, truth, and wedlock true. 
 Oh, sweeter her voice is nine times over 
 
 Than organ or cuckoo. 
 
 And ever since my childhood 
 
 I've loved the fair and darling child; 
 But our people came between us 
 
 And with lucre our pure love defiled. 
 Oh, my woe it is and my bitter pain, 
 
 And I weep it night and day. 
 That the colleen bawn of my early love 
 
 Is torn from my heart away. 
 
 Camden : Eruditissimu* ille nobilis Richardtu 
 Stanihurstus. 
 
 RICHAKD STANIHUEST. 
 
 Born 1545— Died 1618. 
 
 Richard Stanihurst was born in Dublin, 
 and in his eighteenth year became a com- 
 moner of University College, Oxford. After 
 graduating he pursued his law studies at 
 Furnival's Inn and Lincoln's Inn ; but, re- 
 turning to Ireland, married a daughter of 
 Sir Charles Barnewell. About 1579 he took 
 up his residence in Leyden, entered holy 
 orders, and became chaplain to Albert, Arch- 
 duke of Austria, and Governor of the Spanish 
 Netherlands. A great portion of his writings 
 are in Latin. His first work, which was pub- 
 lished in London in 1570, in folio, is entitled 
 Harmonia, seu catena dialectica Porphyrium, 
 and is spoken of with particular praise by 
 Edmund Campion, then a student of St. 
 John's College, Oxford. His other works are 
 De rebus in Hibernia gestis (Antwerp, 1584, 
 4to); Descriptio Hiberniae, which is to be 
 found in HoUnsheds Chronicle, of which it 
 formed a part of the second volume ; De Vita 
 S. Patricii (Antwerp, 1587, 12mo); Hebdomada 
 Mariaiia (Antwerp, 1609, 8vo); Hebdomada 
 Eucharistica (Douay, 1614, 8vo); Brevis pre- 
 monitio pro futxira commentatione cum Jacobo 
 Csserio (Douay, 1615, Svo); The Principles of 
 the Catholic Religion ; The First Four Books 
 of Virgil's Aeneis in English Hexameters 
 (1583, small Svo, black letter), with which 
 are printed the four first psalms, "certayne 
 poetical conceites " in Latin and English, 
 and some epitaphs. The friend of Sir Philip 
 Sidney, he deserved the description of 
 
 LUDOVICK BARRY. 
 
 ABOtrr 1611. 
 
 The first Irish dramatist who wrote in 
 English. His comedy, Ram Alley or Merry 
 Tricks, "is, for liveliness of incident, and spirit 
 and humour in dialogue and character, one 
 of the best of our old English dramas". Lamb 
 quoted the Prologue to Ratn Alley in his Speci- 
 mens of English Dramatic Poets, and the 
 play itself was reprinted in 1636, and is con- 
 tained in Dodsley's collection of old plays. 
 
 TEIGE MACDAIRE. 
 
 BoBN 1570— Died 1650. 
 
 He was principal poet to Donogh O'Brien, 
 fourth Earl of Thomond, and held as his 
 appanage the Castle of Dunogan, in Clare, 
 with its lands. In accordance with the bardic 
 usages, he wrote his elegant Advice to a Prince 
 to his chief when he attained to the title. 
 This is the most elaborate of his poems. A 
 stilted translation into English, from which 
 we do not quote, as not preserving the spirit 
 of the original, exists. MacDaire was assassi- 
 nated bv a marauding soldier of Cromwell's 
 army, who, as he treacherously flung the 
 poet over a precipice, mocked him in Irish, 
 crying: "Gro, make your songs now, little 
 man ! " This would be one of MacDaire's own 
 countr^-men. The bards, from their position 
 and privileges, as well as from their haughty 
 insistence on their rights, made, no doubt, 
 many enemies. 
 
 DUALD MACFIRBIS. 
 
 Born 15S5— Died 1670. 
 
 This famous scholar was born in county 
 Sligo. He was the author of The Branches 
 of Relationship, OT Volumes of Pedigrees. The
 
 XXXll 
 
 EAELY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 autograph copy of this vast compilation, 
 generally known as The Book of MacFirbis, 
 is now in the library of the Earl of Roden. 
 He assisted Sir James Ware by transcribing 
 and translating from the Irish for him. His 
 Collection of Glossaries has been published 
 by Mr. Whitley Stokes. His autograph 
 Martyrology, or Litany of the Saints in verse, 
 is preserved in the British Museum. The 
 fragment of his Ti'eatise on Irish Authors is 
 in the Royal Irish Academy. His transcrip- 
 tion of the Chronicum Scotorum was translated 
 by the late Mr. W. M. Hennessy, and pub- 
 lished in 1867. His Annals of Ireland has 
 been translated and edited by O'Donovan, 
 and published by the Irish Archaeological 
 Society. A transcript of his Catalogue of 
 Extinct Irish Bishoprics, by Mr. Hennessy, is 
 in the collection of the Royal Irish Academy. 
 In the Transactions of the Kilkenny Archceolo- 
 gical Society may be found his English version 
 of the Registry of Clonmacnoise, compiled in 
 the year 1216. 
 
 NICHOLAS FRENCH. 
 
 BoBN 1604— Died 1678. 
 
 Nicholas French, afterwards Bishop of 
 Ferns, was born in the town of Wexford in 
 1604, from which he was sent early in life to 
 the Irish College at Louvain. There before 
 long he distinguished himself, and "there also 
 he was received into holy orders". Soon after, 
 hearing of the troubles of his country, he de- 
 termined to return thither, and having been 
 appointed parish priest of Wexford, " he be- 
 came of such repute both for elocution, be- 
 haviour, prudence, and integrity that he was 
 chosen one of the representatives of that town 
 in the assembly of the confederate Catholics 
 at Kilkenny ". Before this time French had 
 already completed his first work, A System of 
 Philosophy, which so far as we can discover 
 yet remains unpublished. 
 
 In 1643 French was appointed Bishop of 
 Ferns, and in 1645 his election to the assembly 
 at Kilkenny took place as stated. For the 
 next few years he laboured busily in connec- 
 tion with political matters, giving good ad- 
 vice to the party to which he belonged, and 
 not wanting courage to strike out against 
 those he opposed. In 1651 he went as am- 
 bassador for his party to the Duke of Lor- 
 
 raine at Brussels, in which negotiation he 
 was successful, though in the end, owing to 
 no fault of the ambassador, all came to 
 nought. In 1652, the year of the downfall 
 of his political hopes, he published at 
 Brussels his celebrated work. The Unkiiide 
 Desertor of Loyall Men and True Friends. 
 In this he mercilessly belaboured the Duke 
 of Ormond, to whom he attributed the ulti- 
 mate failure of his mission. Soon after we 
 find him at Paris, where he was appointed 
 coadjutor to the archbishop; but from this 
 post he was shortly driven by the intrigues 
 of Ormond and the exiled Charles II. In 
 1662 and 1665 he was at Santiago in Spain, 
 as we know from some letters written by 
 him from that place. In the latter year he 
 writes also from Paris, and a little later he 
 returned to the cloisters of St. Anthony's at 
 Louvain. 
 
 He had scarcely settled down in his old 
 quarters before he took up his pen again, 
 and in quick order appeared his numerous 
 tracts upon Irish affairs, among which were 
 "Thirty Sheets of Reasons against the Re- 
 monstrance", "The Due Obedience of Catho- 
 lics", and "A Dissertation Justifying the Late 
 War". In 1668 appeared his best work, from 
 a literary point of view. The Settlement and 
 Sale of Ireland; and in 1674 The Bleeding 
 Iphigenia. Before this he became president 
 of the Irish College, but about this time he 
 moved to Ghent, where he was appointed 
 coadjutor bishop, and where he died in the 
 year 1678. 
 
 In addition to the works named, French 
 also wrote The Doleful Fall of Andrew Sail 
 and The Friar Disciplined, as well as a larger 
 work entitled Religion in England. 
 
 RODERIC O'FLAHERTY. 
 
 Born 1628— Died 1718. 
 
 Among antiquarians and historical writers 
 and students the name of Roderic O'Flaherty, 
 the author of Ogygia, stands deservedly high. 
 His life was passed in a time full of miseries 
 and disasters to his country, of wars and 
 rumours of wars, yet none of these could 
 draw him aside from the path he had marked 
 out for himself. He saw the race of which 
 he was writing melting away before him, 
 and it might well seem that the day might
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 XXXIU 
 
 come when there would be none of it left to 
 read his writings. Still he held on his way, 
 and laboured as only those labour who enjoy 
 their work for itself more than for the fame 
 it brings. As a result he has left us works 
 "entitled to rank among the most learned 
 and agreeable that have been bequeathed to 
 any country ". 
 
 O'Flaherty was born at the paternal man- 
 sion of Park, near Galway, in the year 1628, 
 his father being then principal proprietor of 
 the barony of Moycullen. Soon after his 
 father died, and in 1630 he was declared a 
 king's ward — the equivalent of our present 
 ward in Chancery. Before he became of age 
 the king had been beheaded, the Cromwellian 
 wars had spread into Connaught, and he had 
 retired to Sligo for shelter from the storm. 
 There he met with Duald MacFirbis, with 
 whom he studied the Irish language and 
 literature. After the Restoration he re- 
 turned to Galway to find the lands of his 
 family in the possession of one Martin, or 
 "Nimble Dick Martin", as he was called. 
 " I live ", O'Flaherty said, " a banished man 
 within the bounds of my native soil; a spec- 
 tator of others enriched by my birthright; 
 an object of condoling to my relatives and 
 friends, and a condoler of their miseries." He 
 immediately entered into legal warfare with 
 Martin, and somehow managed to get pos- 
 session of the family mansion, but it was not 
 until seventeen years after his death that his 
 son finally ejected the usurpers from the 
 patrimonial lands. Before this he had made 
 the acquaintance of John Lynch, author of 
 Cambrensis Eversits, who induced him to 
 undertake the labour of his great work 
 Ogi/gia. This was, it seems, completed about 
 1665, but did not appear in print till 1684, 
 when it was issued in the original Latin. 
 From the Latin the work was afterwards 
 translated into English by J. Hely, and pub- 
 lished in Dublin in 1693. Very soon after 
 its appearance it came under the notice of 
 Sir George Mackenzie, lord-advocate of Scot- 
 land, who strove to make light of its au- 
 thority. This caused O'Flaherty to produce 
 his Ogygia Vindicce, which, though much 
 spoken of as settling the question in dis- 
 pute, was not printed until 1775, when it 
 was issued under the care of Chai^les O'Conor. 
 In 1709 Sir Thomas Molyneux, brother of 
 the celebrated William Molyneux, made a 
 journey to Connaught and called upon 
 O'Flaherty, whom he found "very old and 
 in miserable condition ", though proud- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 spirited and fond of his studies. Nine 
 years later, at the age of ninety, the old 
 man passed away, the last of the ancient 
 race of Irish historians and chronologers. 
 
 In addition to his Ogygia and Ogygia Vin- 
 dicce, O'Flahei'ty wrote A Chorograpkical De- 
 scription of West or Il-Iar Connaught, Ogygia 
 Christiance, which it is feared is lost, and 
 several smaller pieces, the very names of 
 which have perished. The Description of 
 H-Iar Connaught has been edited by Mr. 
 J. Hardiman for the Irish Archaeological 
 Society, and published in 1846. Allibone 
 says, "O'Flaherty was something like an 
 antiquarian: the Christian era was with him 
 quite a modern date ". 
 
 In O'Flaherty's works as they originally 
 appeared there is a purity of style not very 
 usual in his age. Though the author shows 
 himself to be a man of imagination, he is 
 never credulous, and he never forgets the 
 nobility of the calling to which he has de- 
 voted himself. "At times", says Magee, "he 
 smothers a point in illustrations. But there 
 is great dignity in his embellishments." All 
 his works are agreeable reading to anyone 
 who likes the old-world flavour that pervades 
 them. Among English writers he is spoken 
 of by Belling and quoted with approbation 
 by the clear-headed Stillingfleet. 
 
 WILLIAM MOLYNEUX. 
 
 Born 1656— Died 1698. 
 
 William Molyneux, the first of the great 
 trio, Molyneux, Swift, and Grattan, that 
 commenced, continued, and brought to a 
 perfect end the battle of the Irish parlia- 
 ment for independence, was born in Dublin 
 on the 17th April, 1656. His father was a 
 gentleman of good family and fortune, a 
 master of the ordnance, an officer of the 
 Irish exchequer, and a man of intellect and 
 culture. His grandfather had been Ulster 
 king-at-arms, and had used his pen in the 
 production of a continuation of Hanmer^s 
 Chronicle. Owing to his tender health 
 William Molyneux was educated at home 
 by a tutor till he reached the age of nearly 
 fifteen, when he was placed in the Univer- 
 sity of Dublin, under the care of Dr. Palliser, 
 afterwards Archbishop of Cashel. Here he 
 was distinguished, as a biographer says, " by
 
 XXXIV 
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 the probity of his manners as well as by the 
 strength of his parts; and having made a 
 remarkable progress in academical learning, 
 and especially in the new philosophy, as it 
 was then called, he proceeded to his Bachelor 
 of Arts degree". After taking his degree, 
 which he did in his nineteenth year, he was 
 sent to London, where he entered the Middle 
 Temple in June, 1675. At the Middle Temple 
 he remained for three years engaged in the 
 diligent study of the law, but not forgetting 
 his beloved studies in the mathematical and 
 physical sciences, which had received such a 
 mighty impulse just then owing to the many 
 discoveries and exertions of the members of 
 the Royal Society. 
 
 In 1678 Molyneux returned to Ireland, 
 where he soon after married Lucy, the 
 daughter of Sir William Domville, attorney- 
 general. As he possessed a private fortune, 
 and was therefore under no necessity of 
 earning a living, he continued his philo- 
 sophical studies ; and astronomy gaining a 
 strong hold on his mind, he began in 1681 
 a correspondence with Flamstead, which was 
 continued for many years with benefit to 
 both. In 1683 he managed to bring about 
 the establishment of a philosophical society 
 in Dublin on the model of the Royal Society, 
 and prevailing on Sir William Petty to be- 
 come its first president, he accepted the office 
 of secretary. His labours in connection with 
 this society soon made Molyneux's learning 
 and abilities well known. Being introduced 
 to the Duke of Ormond, and after performing 
 some literary labour for that nobleman, he 
 was appointed one of the two chief engineers 
 and surveyors of crown buildings and works. 
 In 1685 he was elected a member of the Royal 
 Society, and in the same year was sent to 
 survey the fortresses on the Flemish coast. 
 While on the Continent he travelled through 
 Flanders and Holland, part of Germany and 
 France, and paid a visit to the celebrated 
 Cassini with letters of introduction from his 
 friend Flamstead. 
 
 On his return from abroad Molyneux 
 published his first work of any importance, 
 Sciothericum Telescopium, 1686, a description 
 of a telescopic dial and its uses which he had 
 invented. In 1687 Halley, with whom he 
 had established a correspondence, sent him 
 the proof-sheets of Newton's Principia as 
 they were produced, and Molyneux, though 
 struck with admiration and astonishment at 
 the work, confessed himself, like many other 
 astronomers of the time, unable to wholly 
 
 understand it. In 1689, owing to the wars 
 of William and James, he left Ireland and 
 removed to Chester, where he busied himself 
 in the preparation of a work which, under 
 the revision of Halley, appeared in 1692 with 
 the title of Dioptrica Nova: a Treatise of 
 Dioptrics in Two Parts. During his resi- 
 dence in Chester, his son Samuel was born 
 to him, and his wife died. As soon as tran- 
 quillity was restored in Ireland he returned 
 thither, and in the year in which his Dioptrics 
 was published, 1692, he was elected one of 
 the members of parliament for the city of 
 Dublin. This event, which seemed unimpor- 
 tant at the time, was the originating cause 
 of the production of the great work by which 
 the name of Molyneux will be for ever re- 
 membered in Ireland. In the parliament of 
 1695 he was chosen to represent the univer- 
 sity, which he continued to do till his death, 
 and a little later he was created Doctor of 
 Laws. About this time also he was nomi- 
 nated one of the commissioners of forfeited 
 estates, with a salary of £500 a year, but, as 
 a biographer states, "looking upon it as an 
 invidious office, and not being a lover of 
 money, he declined it ". In his place in the 
 Irish parliament Molyneux now began to 
 take notice of and study the fight for inde- 
 pendence which that body had begun in 1690 
 by the rejection of a money bill which had 
 not originated with themselves. In 1696 and 
 
 1697 the English parliament, desiring to de- 
 stroy the Irish woollen manufactures, then 
 in a most thriving state, introduced prohibi- 
 tory laws to prevent their exportation. These 
 enactments seemed to Molyneux not only 
 cruel and unwise, but unjust and tyrannical, 
 and he immediately set himself to produce 
 his Case of Ireland Stated. This appeared in 
 
 1698 with a manly yet respectful dedication 
 to William III. 
 
 The work, which in size is little more than 
 a pamphlet, created a great sensation in Eng- 
 land. The English House of Commons, losing 
 its head in a fit of irritation, declared, " that 
 the book published by Mr. Molyneux was of 
 dangerous tendency to the crown and people 
 of England, by denying the authoi'ity of the 
 king and parliament of England to bind the 
 kingdom and people of Ireland, and the sub- 
 ordination and dependence that Ireland had, 
 and ought to have, upon England, as being 
 united and annexed to the imperial crown 
 of England ". An address was presented to 
 the king, who readily promised to enforce 
 the laws binding the parliament of Ireland to
 
 EARLY IRISH WRITERS. 
 
 XXiV 
 
 dependence, and the book itself was com- 
 mitted to the hands of the common hang- 
 man, by whom it was glorified by being 
 " burnt with fire ". The reception his work 
 met with caused little astonishment to Moly- 
 neux, who, in his preface, seemed to antici- 
 pate something like what occurred. "I have 
 heard it said", he writes, "that perhaps I 
 might run some hazard in attempting the 
 argument; but I am not at all apprehensive 
 of any such danger. We are in a miserable 
 condition, indeed, if we may not be allowed 
 to complain when we think we are hurt." 
 
 Before the great stir had subsided Moly- 
 neux journeyed into England to visit Locke, 
 with whom he had kept up a most intimate 
 correspondence for some time. This visit 
 began in July, 1698, and lasted to September, 
 and it was arranged that it should be re- 
 peated the next spring. But by the next 
 spring the daisies were blooming unseen by 
 the patriot philosopher. The fatigues of his 
 journey bi'ought on an attack of a disease 
 from which he suffered (calculus), and after 
 reaching Dublin his retchings broke a blood- 
 vessel, and he died, after two days' illness, on 
 the 11th of October, 1698. 
 
 In addition to the works we have named, 
 Molyneux wrote a reply to one of Hobbes's 
 works under the title of Metaphysical Medi- 
 tations on God and Mind, and a considerable 
 number of articles and papers which appeared 
 in Philosophical Transactions and elsewhere. 
 
 NAHUM TATE. 
 
 BoBN 1652— Died 1715. 
 
 Was the son of a county Cavan clergyman. 
 He was born in Dublin, whither his parents 
 were driven by the Northern rising of 1641. 
 He was at the University of Dublin; after- 
 wards drifted to London, where he found a 
 patron in the Earl of Dorset and a friend in 
 Dryden. Is known chiefly of course by the 
 metrical translation of the Psalms of David, 
 which he made in collaboration with Dr. 
 Brady. He wrote several plays — Brutus of 
 Alba, a tragedy; The Royal General, a tragedy; 
 The Island Princess, a tragi -comedy; and 
 
 Richard III, or Sicilian Vespers. His other 
 works included Poems on Several Occasions, 
 JephthaKs Vow, and Miscellanea Sacra, or 
 Poems on Divine and Other Subjects. He also 
 collaborated with Dryden in the second part 
 of Absalom and Achitophel. He was laureate 
 for a considerable time. Except for his acci- 
 dental prominence as the co-maker of the 
 metrical Psalter, he is of little importance. 
 
 NICHOLAS BRADY. 
 
 Born 1659— Died 1726. 
 
 Was born at Bandon, county Cork. Went 
 to Westminster School, and received Student- 
 ship of Christ CTiurch, Oxford. However, he 
 took his degrees at Dublin University ; was a 
 prebendary of Cork Cathedral. He was a 
 Williamite in the Revolution, but had so 
 much influence with the Jacobite general, 
 M'Carthy, that he three times saved his 
 native town from being burned. He finally 
 settled in London, held several livings in and 
 about the metropolis, and filled the position 
 of chaplain to William and Mary. Besides 
 his share in The New Version of the Psalms he 
 published several volumes of sermons, made 
 a translation of t\ie ^neid in four volumes, 
 and was the author of a tragedy. 
 
 ANDREW MAGRATH. 
 
 1723— 
 
 Andrew Magrath, one of the most gay, 
 careless, and rollicking of the Jacobite poets 
 writing in Iiish, was born in Limerick about 
 1723. He was the author of a great many 
 songs and poems of politics, of love, and of 
 drinking. He was, like so many of his fel- 
 lows, a wild liver ; and his name survives 
 yet among the peasantry of his native Mun- 
 ster, among whom he is remembered as the 
 Mangaire Sugach, or Merry Monger. None 
 of his poems have been adequately rendered 
 into English. The date of his death is not 
 known.
 
 THE CABINET 
 
 OF 
 
 IRISH LITERATURE. 
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 Born 1615 — Died 1669. 
 
 [Sir John Denham, the first Irish poet of 
 repute that wrote in English, was born in 
 Dublin in the year 1615. His father, at that 
 time chief baron of the exchequer in Ireland, 
 and also one of the lords commissioners for 
 that kingdom, was of Little Horksley in Essex. 
 His mother was Eleanor, daughter of Sir 
 Garrett More, baron of Mellefont in Ireland. 
 When the poet was only two years of age, his 
 father, being appointed one of the barons of 
 exchequer in England, removed to that coun- 
 try, carrying with him his family. In 1631 
 the youth was entered a gentleman commoner 
 of Trinity College, Oxford, where it seems he 
 was "looked upon as a slow and dreaming 
 young man by his seniors and contemporaries, 
 and given more to cards and dice than his 
 study ; they could never then in the least 
 imagine that he would ever enrich the world 
 with his fancy or issue of his brain, as he 
 afterwards did ". At the end of three years 
 he underwent his B.A. examination, and was 
 sent to Lincoln's Inn to study law, which he 
 did so far as his vice of gaming would allow 
 him. After having been plundered by game- 
 sters and severely reproved by his parents 
 he acquired a sudden abhorrence of the evil 
 practice, and wrote an essay against it, which 
 he presented to his father. He also about 
 this time added the study of poetry to that 
 of laws, and produced a translation of the 
 second book of Virgil's JEneid. In 1638 his 
 father died, and immediately after Denham 
 gave himself up to his old vice, and lost the 
 money — several thousand pounds — that had 
 
 been left him. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 In 1641, like a lightning flash out of a clear 
 sky, appeared his tragedy called The Sophy, 
 which was at once admired by the best judges, 
 and gave him fast hold of the public attention. 
 Speaking of the poet in connection with this 
 piece, Waller said that " he broke out like the 
 Irish rebellion, threescore thousand strong, 
 when nobody was aware or in the least sus- 
 pected it". Soon after this he was made high- 
 sheriff of Surrey and governor of Farnham 
 Castle for the king, but not caring for, or not 
 being skilled in military affairs, he quitted the 
 post before long and retired to Oxford, where, 
 in 1643, he published Cooper's Hill, a poem of 
 some three hundred lines, on which his fame 
 chiefly rests. Of this work Dryden says it 
 is "a poem which for majesty of style is, and 
 ever will be, the standard of good writing ". 
 An attempt was made to rob Denham of his 
 laurels by what Johnson calls " the common 
 artifice by which envy degrades excellence ". 
 In the " Session of the Poets ", in some lum- 
 bering verses, it is said that the work was 
 not his own, but was bought of a vicar for 
 forty pounds. 
 
 In 1647 Denham began to mix in political 
 matters, and in 1648 he conveyed James, 
 Duke of York, into France, or at least so 
 say Johnson and others ; though Clarendon 
 affirms that the duke went off with Colonel 
 Bamfield only, who conti'ived his escape. 
 Certain it is anyhow that Denham went to 
 France, from whence he and Lord Crofts 
 were sent ambassadors to Poland from 
 Charles II. In that kingdom they found 
 many Scotchmen wandering about as traders.
 
 SIK JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 and from these they obtained £10,000 as a 
 contribution to the king. About 1652 he 
 returned to England, where he was enter- 
 tained by Lord Pembroke, with whom, liaving 
 no home of his own, he lived for about a year. 
 At the Eestoration he was appointed to the 
 office of surveyor-general of the king's build- 
 ings, and at the coronation received the order 
 of the Bath. 
 
 After his appointment he gave over his 
 poetical works to a great extent, and " made 
 it his business ", as he himself says, " to draw 
 such others as might be more serviceable to 
 his majesty, and, he hoped, more lasting". 
 Soon after this, when in the height of his 
 reputation for poetry and genius, he entered 
 into a second marriage, in which he was so 
 unhappy that for a time he became a lunatic. 
 For this misfortune he was cruelly and un- 
 generously lampooned by Butler, but fortun- 
 ately it did not last long, and he was again 
 restored to his full health and vigour of mind. 
 A few months after, he wrote one of his best 
 poems, that on the death of Cowley. This 
 was his last work, for on March 19, 1669, he 
 died at his office in Whitehall. He was laid 
 in Westminster Abbey by the side of the poet 
 he had just panegyrized. 
 
 Dr. Johnson says that " Denham is justly 
 considered as one of the fathers of English 
 poetry. . . . He is one of the writers that 
 improved our tasteandadvanced our language, 
 and whom we ought, therefore, to read with 
 gratitude, though, having done much, he left 
 much to do." Dryden, speaking of Waller's, 
 Cowley's, and Denham's translations of Virgil, 
 declares that " it is the utmost of his ambition 
 to be thought their equal, or not much inferior 
 to them ". Prior places Denham and Waller 
 side by side as improvers of our versification, 
 which was perfected by Dryden. Pope in his 
 Essay on Criticism speaks of 
 
 " the easy vigour of a line 
 Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness 
 join"; 
 
 and in his Windsor Forest, within the compass 
 of a few lines, he calls Denham " lofty " and 
 "majestic", and, talking of Cooper's Hill, he 
 prophesies — 
 
 " On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow, 
 While lasts tbo mountain, or while Thames shall 
 flow ". 
 
 There can be little doubt that Cooper's Hill 
 is an almost perfect model of its kind, not- 
 withstanding the factthat Johnson, character- 
 istically enough, declares that " if it be mali- 
 
 ciously inspected it will not be found without 
 its faults ". 
 
 Denham's works have been several times 
 reprinted in one volume under the title of 
 Poems and Translations, with the Sophy, a 
 Tragedy. In addition to what appeals in this 
 collection there are other things attributed to 
 him. The most important of these is a New 
 Version of the Book of Psalms, which is now 
 little known. A panegyric on General Monk, 
 printed in 1659, is generally ascribed to him, 
 and his name appears on the poem " The True 
 Presbyterian without Disguise ", as well as two 
 pieces called "Clarendon's House Warming", 
 and "His Epitaph". These last are, however, 
 believed to be by Marvell, and are printed in 
 the late American edition of that author's 
 works. Strange to say, Denham has been 
 rather overlooked and forgotten of late years, 
 and his name does not appear in any of the 
 later popular editions of the poets.] 
 
 COOPER'S HILL. 
 
 Through untraced ways and airy paths I fly, 
 More boundless in my fancy than my eye : 
 My eye, which swift as thought contracts the space 
 That lies between, and first salutes the place 
 Crowned with that sacred pile,i so vast, so high, 
 That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky 
 Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud 
 Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud. . . 
 Under his proud survey the city lies, 
 And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise ; 
 Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd, 
 Seem at this distance but a darker cloud : 
 And is, to him who rightly things esteems, 
 No other in effect than what it seems : 
 Where, with like haste, through several ways 
 
 they run, 
 Some to undo, and some to be undone. . . . 
 My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys 
 AVhere Thames among the wanton valleys strays ; 
 Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons 
 By his old sire, to his embraces runs, 
 Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 
 Like mortal life to meet eternity. 
 Though with those streams he no remembrance hold, 
 Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold ; 
 His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore. 
 Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 
 O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 
 And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring. 
 And then destroys it with too fond a stay. 
 Like mothers who their infants overlay ; 
 Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 
 
 1 St. Paul's, as seeu from Cooper's Hill.
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 
 No unexpected inundations spoil 
 The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil. 
 But godlike his unwearied bounty Hows; 
 First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 
 Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, 
 But free and common as the sea or wind. 
 When he, to boast or to disperse her stores, 
 Full of the tribute of his grateful shores, 
 Visits the world, and in his flying towers 
 Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours : 
 Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants. 
 Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ; 
 So that to us no thing, no place is strange, 
 While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 
 0, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 
 My great example, as it is my theme ! 
 Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; 
 Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing full ! 
 Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast; 
 Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost. . 
 The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear. 
 That had the self-enamour'd youth gaz'd here. 
 So fatally deceived he had not been, 
 While he the bottom, not his face had seen. 
 But his proud head the airy mountain hides 
 Among the clouds ; his shoulders and his sides 
 A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows 
 Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows. 
 While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat: 
 The common fate of all that's high or great. 
 Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac'd. 
 Between the mountain and the stream embrac'd. 
 Which shade and shelter from the Hill derives. 
 While the kind river wealth and beauty gives. 
 And in the mixture of all these appears 
 Variety, which all the rest endears. 
 This scene had some bold Greek or Roman bard 
 Beheld of old, what stories had we heard 
 Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs, their dames. 
 Their feasts, their revels, and their amorous flames! 
 'Tis still the same, altho' their airy shape 
 All but a quick poetic sight escape. 
 There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts. 
 And thither all the horned host resorts 
 To graze the ranker mead ; that noble herd 
 On whose sublime and shady fronts is rear'd 
 Nature's great masterpiece, to show how soon 
 Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 
 Here have I .seen the king, when great affairs 
 Gave leave to slacken and unbend his cares. 
 Attended to the chase by all the flower 
 Of youth, whose hopes a nobler prey devour; 
 Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy, 
 And wish a foe that would not only fly. 
 The stag, now conscious of his fatal growth. 
 At once indulgent to his fear and sloth. 
 To some dark covert his retreat had made. 
 Where nor man's eye nor heaven's should invade 
 His soft repose, when th' unexpected sound 
 
 Of dogs and men his wakeful ear does wound. 
 Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear. 
 Willing to think tiie illusions of his fear 
 Had given this false alarm, but straight his view 
 Confirms, that more than all he fears is true. 
 Betray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset. 
 All instruments, all arts of ruin met; 
 He calls to mind his strength, and then his speed. 
 His winged heels, and then his armed head; 
 With these t' avoid, with that his fate to meet; 
 But fear prevails and bids him trust his feet. 
 So fast he flies that his reviewing eye 
 Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry; 
 Exulting till he finds their nobler sense 
 Their disproportioned speed doth recompense; 
 Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent 
 Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent: 
 Then tries his friends; among the baser herd, 
 Where he so lately was obeyed and feared, 
 His safety seeks. The herd, unkindly wise, 
 Or chases him from thence, or from him flies; 
 Like a declining statesman, left forlorn 
 To his friends' pity and pursuers' scorn, 
 With shame remembers, while himself was one 
 Of the same herd, himself the same had done. 
 
 Then to the stream, when neither friends nor force, 
 
 Nor speed nor art avail, he shapes his course. 
 
 Thinks not their rage .so desperate to essay 
 
 An element more merciless than they. 
 
 But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood 
 
 Quench their dire thirst; alas! they thirst for blood. 
 
 So tow'rds a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply. 
 
 Which, wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly. 
 
 Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare 
 
 Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. 
 
 So fares the stag; among the enraged hounds 
 
 Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds: 
 
 And as a hero whom his baser foes 
 
 In troops surround, now these assails, now those, 
 
 Though prodigal of life, disdains to die 
 
 By common hands; but if he can descry 
 
 Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls 
 
 And begs his fate, and then contented falls. 
 
 So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 
 
 From his unerring hand, then, glad to die. 
 
 Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood. 
 
 And stains the crystal with a purple flood. 
 
 This a more innocent and happy chase 
 
 Than when of old, but in the self-same place, ^ 
 
 Fair Liberty, pursu'd, and meant a prey 
 
 To lawless power, here turn'd and stood at bay. 
 
 OF A FUTURE LIFE. 
 
 These to his sons (as Xenophon records) 
 Of the great Cyrus were the dying words: 
 
 1 Runuymede, where the Magna Charta was first sealed.
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 "Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn) 
 1 shall be no where, or to nothing turn; 
 That soul, which gave me life, was seen by none, 
 Yet by the actions it design'd was known; 
 And though its flight no mortal eye shall see. 
 Yet know, for ever it the same shall be. 
 That soul which can immortal glory give 
 To her own virtues must for ever live. 
 Can you believe that man's all-knowing mind 
 Can to a mortal body be confin'd? 
 Though a foul foolish prison her immure 
 On earth, she (when escap'd) is wise and pure. 
 Man's body, when dissolv'd, is but the same 
 With beast's, and must return from whence it came; 
 But whence into our bodies reason flows 
 None sees it, when it comes, or when it goes. 
 Nothing resembles death as much as sleep, 
 Yet then our minds themselves from slumberskeep; 
 When from their fleshly bondage they are free, 
 Then what divine and future things they see I 
 Which makes it most apparent whence they are, 
 And what they shall hereafter be declare." 
 This noble speech the dying Cyrus made. 
 Me, Scipio, shall no argument persuade 
 Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom fame 
 Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th' world their 
 
 name,i 
 Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul, 
 Who fell at Cannse against Hannibal, 
 Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd 
 To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd 
 In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought 
 That only fame our virtuous actions brought; 
 'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose 
 Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close: 
 Some high assurance hath possest my mind, 
 After my death a happier life to find. 
 Unless our souls from the Immortal came. 
 What end have we to seek immortal fame? 
 All virtuous spirits some such hope attends. 
 Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends. 
 The foolish and short-.sighted die with fear 
 That they go no where, or they know not where; 
 The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes. 
 Before she parts, some happy port descries. 
 My friends, your fathers I shall surely see, 
 Nor only those I lov'd, or who lov'd me; 
 But such as before ours did end their days. 
 Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise. 
 This I believe: for were I on my way 
 None should persuade me to return, or stay: 
 Should some god tell me, that I should be born, 
 And cry again, his offer I would scorn; 
 Asham'd, when I have ended well my race, 
 To be led back to my first starting-place. . . . 
 Hence from an inn, not from my home I pass, 
 Since nature meant us here no dwelling-place. 
 Happy when I, from this turmoil set free, 
 
 I .Scipio Africanus and Scipio Asiaticus. 
 
 That peaceful and divine assembly see. . . . 
 Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief 
 From age, which is of my delights the chief. 
 My hopes, if this assurance hath deceiv'd 
 (That I man's soul immortal have belie v'd). 
 And if I err no power shall dispossess 
 My thoughts of that expected happiness: 
 Though some minute philosophers pretend, 
 That with our days our pains and pleasures end. 
 If it be so I hold the safer side, 
 For none of them my error shall deride; 
 And if hereafter no rewards appear. 
 Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here. 
 
 TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE, 
 ON HIS TRANSLATION OF "PASTOR FIDO", 
 
 Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, 
 ! That few but such as cannot write, translate. 
 j But what in them is want of art or vice, 
 ! In thee is either modesty or choice. . . . 
 j That servile path thou nobly dost decline 
 I Of tracing word by word, and line by line; 
 These are the labour'd birth of slavish brains, 
 Not the effect of poetry, but pains; 
 Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords 
 No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words- 
 A new and nobler way thou dost pursue, 
 To make translations and translators too: 
 They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame, 
 True to his sense, but truer to his fame. 
 Fording his current, where thou find'st it low, 
 Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow. 
 Wisely restoring whatsoever grace 
 It lost by change of times, or tongue, or place. 
 Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times, 
 Betray 'st his music to unhappy rhymes; 
 Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength 
 Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinew'd lengths 
 Yet after all (lest we should think it thine), 
 Thy spirit to his circle does confine. 
 
 ON COWLEY'S DEATH. 
 
 Old Chaucer, like the morning star. 
 To us discovers day from far; 
 His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd 
 Which our dark nation long in vol v'd: 
 But he descending to the shades. 
 Darkness again the age invades. 
 Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, 
 Whose purple blush the day foreshows; 
 The other three with his own fires 
 Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires; 
 By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, 
 Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines: 
 These poets near our princes sleep. 
 And in one grave their mansion keep.
 
 OWEN WARD. 
 
 They liv'd to see so many days, 
 Till time had blasted all their bays: 
 But cursed be the fatal hour 
 That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower 
 That in the Muses' garden grew, 
 And amongst wither'd laurels threw. 
 Time, which made them their fame outlive. 
 To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. 
 Old mother-wit and nature gave 
 Shakspere and Fletcher all they have; 
 In Spenser, and in Jonson, art 
 Of slower nature got the start; 
 
 But both in him .so equal are. 
 
 None knows which bears the happier share: 
 
 To him no author was unknown, 
 
 Yet what he wrote wa.s all his own; 
 
 He melted not the ancient gold. 
 
 Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold 
 
 To plunder all the Roman stores 
 
 Of poets and of orators: 
 
 Horace's wit and Virgil's state 
 
 He did not steal, but emulate ! 
 
 And when he would like them appear, 
 
 Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear. 
 
 OWEN WARD. 
 
 Flourished about 1600-1610. 
 
 [Of Owen Eoe Mac an Bhaird, or Red 
 Owen Ward, little is known beyond the fact 
 that he was the bard of the O'Donnells, and 
 accompanied the princes of Tyrconnell and 
 Tyrone when they fled from Ireland in 1607. 
 In O'Reilly's Irish Writers the names of nine 
 lengthy and still extant poems of his are 
 given. The elegy which we give here is 
 addressed to Nuala, sister of O'Donnell, the 
 prince of Tyrconnell, who died in Rome, and 
 was interred in the same grave with O'Neill, 
 prince of Tyrone. Ward was the descendant 
 of a long line of bards and poets of the same 
 name.] 
 
 LAMENT 
 
 FOB THE TYRONIAN AND TYRCONNELLIAN PRINCES 
 BURIED AT ROME. 
 
 0, Woman of the Piercing Wail, 
 
 Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay 
 With sigh and groan. 
 Would God thou wert among the Gael ! 
 Thou would'st not then from day to day 
 Weep thus alone. 
 'Twere long before, around a grave 
 In green Tirconnell, one could find 
 This loneliness ; 
 Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave 
 Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 
 Compassionless. 
 
 Beside the wave, in Donegall, 
 
 In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 
 Or Killilee, 
 Or where the sunny waters fall. 
 At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, 
 This could not be. 
 On Berry's plains — in rich Drumclieff — 
 Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned 
 In olden years. 
 
 No day could pass but woman's grief 
 Would rain upon the burial-ground 
 Fresh floods of tears ! 
 
 0, no ! — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, 
 From high Dunluce's castle-walls. 
 From Lissadill, 
 Would flock alike both rich and poor. 
 
 One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls 
 To Tara's hill ; 
 And some would come from Barrow-side, 
 And many a maid would leave her home, 
 On Leitrim's plains, 
 And by melodious Banna's tide. 
 
 And by the Jlourne and Erne, to come 
 And swell thy strains ! 
 
 0, horses' hoofs would trample down 
 The ilount whereon the martyr-saint ^ 
 Was crucified. 
 From glen and hill, from plain and town, 
 One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, 
 Would echo wide. 
 There would not soon be found, I ween. 
 One foot of ground among those bands 
 For museful thought, 
 So many shriekers of the keen ^ 
 
 Would cry aloud and clap their hands, 
 All woe-distraught ! 
 
 Two princes of the line of Conn 
 Sleep in their cells of clay beside 
 O'Donnell Roe : 
 Three royal youths, alas ! are gone, 
 Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 
 For Erin's woe ! 
 
 1 St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, 
 though at first it may seem one : the poet supposes the 
 grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally in- 
 cludes in the transference the whole of the immediate 
 locality around the grave. — J. C. M. 
 
 - The funeral wail.
 
 OWEN WARD. 
 
 Ah ! could the men of Ireland read 
 The names those noteless burial-stones 
 Display to view, 
 Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 
 Their tears gush forth again, their groans 
 Resound anew ! 
 
 The youths whose relies moulder here 
 
 Were sprung from Hugh, high Princeand Lord 
 Of Aileach's lands ; 
 Thy noble brothers, justly dear. 
 Thy nephew, long to be deplored 
 By Ulster's bands. 
 Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time 
 Could domicile decay or house 
 Decrepitude ! 
 They passed from earth ere manhood's prime. 
 Ere years had power to dim their brows 
 Or chill their blood. 
 
 And who can marvel o'er thy grief. 
 Or who can blame thy flowing tears, 
 That knows their source? 
 O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief. 
 Cut off amid his vernal years, 
 Lies here a corse 
 Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
 Tirconnell ot the Helmets mourns 
 In deep despair — 
 For valour, truth, and comely bloom, 
 For all that greatens and adorns 
 A peerless pair. 
 
 0, had these twain, and he, the third, 
 The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son. 
 Their mate in death — 
 A prince in look, in deed, and word — 
 Had these three heroes yielded on 
 The field their breath, 
 0, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, 
 There would not be a town or clan 
 From shore to sea, 
 But would with shrieks bewail the slain. 
 Or chant aloud the exulting rann^ 
 Of jubilee ! 
 
 When high the shout of battle rose, 
 
 On fields where Freedom's torch still burned 
 Through Erin's gloom. 
 If one, if barely one of those 
 
 Were skin, all Ulster would have mourned 
 The hero's doom ! 
 If at Athboy, where hosts of brave 
 Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 
 The shock of spears. 
 Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave. 
 Long must the North have wept his death 
 With heart-rung tears ! 
 
 If on the day of Ballach-myre 
 
 The Lord of Mourne had met thus young 
 A warrior's fate, 
 
 1 A SOUL'. 
 
 In vain would such as thou desire 
 
 To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 
 From Niall the great! 
 No marvel this — for all the dead. 
 Heaped on the field, pile over pile, 
 At Mullach-brack, 
 Were scarce an eric^ for his head. 
 
 If death had stayed his footsteps while 
 On victory's track ! 
 
 If on the Day of Hostages 
 
 The fruit had from the parent bough 
 Been rudely torn 
 In sight of Munster's bands — Mac-Nee's- 
 Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, 
 Could ill have borne. 
 If on the day of Ballach-boy 
 
 Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, 
 The chieftain low. 
 Even our victorious shout of joy 
 
 Would soon give place to rueful cries 
 And groans of woe ! 
 
 If on the day the Saxon host 
 
 Were forced to fly — a day so great 
 For Ashanee — 
 The chief had been untimely lost, 
 
 Our conquering troops should moderate 
 Their mirthful glee. 
 There wovild not lack on Lifford's day, 
 From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, 
 From Limerick's towers, 
 A marshalled file, a long array 
 Of mourners, to bedew the soil 
 With tears in showers I 
 
 If on the day a sterner fate 
 
 Compelled his flight from Athenree, 
 His blood had flowed, 
 What numbers all disconsolate. 
 
 Would come unasked, and share with thee 
 Affliction's load ! 
 If Derry's crimson field had seen 
 
 His life-blood oflTered up, thougJi 'twere 
 On Victory's shrine, 
 A thousand cries would swell the keen, 
 A thousand voices of despair 
 Would echo thine ! 
 
 0, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 
 That bloody night on Fergus' banks 
 But slain our chief. 
 When rose his camp in wild alarm — 
 How would the triumph of his ranks 
 Be dashed with grief! 
 How would the troops of Murbach mourn 
 If on the Curlew Mountains' day, 
 Which England rued. 
 Some Saxon hand had left them lorn. 
 By shedding there, amid the fray. 
 Their prince's blood ! 
 
 A compensation or fine.
 
 RICHARD FLECKNOE. 
 
 Red would have been our warrior's eyes 
 Had Roderick found on Sligo'a field 
 A gory grave, 
 No northern chief would soon arise 
 So sage to guide, so strong to shield, 
 So swift to s'ive. 
 Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh 
 Had met the death he oft had dealt 
 Among the foe ; 
 But, had our Roderick fallen too, 
 All Erin must alas have felt 
 The deadly blow ! 
 
 What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! 
 Already we bewail in vain 
 Their fatal fall ! 
 And Erin, once the great and free, 
 
 Now vainly mourns her breakless chain 
 And iron thrall ! 
 Then, daughter of O'Donnell ! dry 
 Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 
 Thy heart aside ; 
 For Adam's race is born to die. 
 And sternly the sepulchral urn 
 Mocks human pride ! 
 
 Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, 
 Nor place thy trust in arm of clay — 
 But on thy knees 
 Uplift thy soul to God alone. 
 
 For all things go their destined way 
 As he decrees. 
 Embrace the faithful crucifix. 
 
 And seek the path of pain and prayer 
 Thy Saviour trod ! 
 Nor let thy spirit intermix 
 
 With earthly hope and worldly care 
 Its groans to God ! 
 
 And thou, mighty Lord ! whose ways 
 Are far above our feeble minds 
 To understand. 
 Sustain us in these doleful days. 
 
 And render light the chain that binds 
 Our fallen land ! 
 Look down upon our dreary state. 
 And through the ages that may still 
 Roll sadly on. 
 Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, 
 And shield at least from darker ill 
 The blood of Conn ! 
 
 RICHARD FLECKNOE. 
 
 Born 1600 — Died 1678. 
 
 [Richard Flecknoe was born probably 
 about the end of the sixteenth or beginning 
 of the seventeenth century. His first work, 
 Uierothalamium ; or, the Heavenly Nuptials, 
 appeared in 1626; and Marvel, who met 
 him in Rome about 1643, speaks of him as 
 then an old man. He also calls him " priest, 
 poet, and musician ". His place of birth was 
 Ireland, and in early life he was a Jesuit, 
 if not a priest. This last character he ceased 
 to assume after the Restoration. From 
 Rome, Flecknoe, who was a considerable 
 traveller, moved to Lisbon, where he re- 
 mained some time, and was kindly treated 
 by King John of Portugal. From Lisbon, 
 in 1646, he made a voyage to Bi-azil, by per- 
 mission of the king, who presented him with 
 two hundred crowns as a contribution to- 
 wards his expenses. In 1650 he returned 
 again to Lisljon, and began to write his 
 Travels of Ten Years in Europe, Asia, Afrique, 
 arid America. In 1654 he printed his Love's 
 Dominion, a Dramatick Piece, and dedicated 
 it to Lady Elizabeth Claypole. This was 
 afterwards reprinted in 1664 under the title 
 of Lov(^s Kingdom. In 1667 appeared his 
 comedy Demoiselles a la Mode, and in 1670 
 
 his Moral Epigrams, dedicated to the queen, 
 daughter of the King of Portugal. Of the 
 other works of Flecknoe those most deserv- 
 ing mention are, Ermina, or the Chaste Lady, 
 and his Diarium, or Journal, in burlesque 
 verse. He died in 1678.] 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 Still-born Silence, thou that art 
 
 Floodgate of the deeper heart. 
 
 Offspring of a heavenly kinde. 
 
 Frost o' th' mouth, and thaw o' th' mind ; 
 
 Secrecy's confidant, and he 
 
 Who makes religion mystery. 
 
 OF DRINKING. 
 
 The fountains drink caves subterren. 
 The rivulets drink the fountains dry ; 
 
 Brooks drink those rivulets again, 
 And then some river gliding by ; 
 
 Until some uulphing sea drink them. 
 
 And ocean drinks up that again. 
 
 1 This and the next piece are from Miscellanea, or 
 Poems of All Soi'ts.
 
 EICHAED FLECKNOE. 
 
 Of ocean then does drink the sky ; 
 
 When having brew'd it into rain, 
 The eartli with drink it does supply, 
 
 And plants do drink up that again. 
 When turned to liquor in the vine, 
 'Tis our turn next to drink the wine. 
 
 By this who does not plainly see, 
 
 How into our throats at once is hurl'd- 
 
 Whilst merrily we drinking be — 
 The quintessence of all the world? 
 
 Whilst all drink then in land, air, sea, 
 
 Let us too drink as well as they. 
 
 ON TRAVEL.i 
 
 It is not travel makes the man, 'tis true, 
 Unless a man could travel, sir, like you. 
 By putting off the worst and putting on 
 The best of every country where they come ; 
 Their language, manners, fashions, and their use, 
 Purg'd from the dross, and stript from the abuse, 
 Until at last in manners they become 
 New men and creatures at their coming home; 
 Wliilst your pied traveller, who nothing knows 
 Of other countries' fashions but their clothes, 
 And speaks their language but as parrots do. 
 Only at best a broken word or two. 
 Goes and returns the same he went again, 
 By carrying England still along with him ; 
 Or else returns far worse by bringing home 
 The worst of every land where he does come. 
 
 TO DRYDEN. 
 
 Dryden, the Muse's darling and delight. 
 
 Than whom none ever Hew so high a flight ; 
 
 Nor ever any's muse so high did soar 
 
 Above th' poets' empyrium before. 
 
 Some go but to Parnassus' foot, and there 
 
 Creep on the ground, as if they reptiles were : 
 
 Others but water poets, who have gone 
 
 No further than the fount of Helicon ; 
 
 And they're but airy ones, whose muse soars up 
 
 No higher than to Mount Parnassus' top. 
 
 Whilst thou with thine dost seem t' have mounted 
 
 higher 
 Than he who fetcht from heaven celestial fire ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF OUR LORD. 
 
 Oh blessed Lord ! and wouldst thou die 
 For such a wretched worm as I ! 
 This of thy love's so great a proof. 
 Angels can ne'er admire enough ; 
 And all the love by far transcends 
 Of parents and of dearest friends. 
 
 1 This and the two pieces folhiwiiif; are from A Col- 
 lection of the Choicest Epigratnn and Characters, 1673. 
 
 To have such benefit bestow'd 
 
 Would undo any but a God ; 
 
 And love itself make bankrupt too. 
 
 By leaving nothing more to do. 
 
 Had any king done this for me, 
 
 What wondering at it there would be ! 
 
 And wondering at it now there's none 
 
 When by a God himself 'tis done. 
 
 Strange blindness ! man should more esteem 
 
 A benefit bestow'd on him 
 
 By earthly kings, than what is given 
 
 Unto him by the King of Heaven ! 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "LOVE'S KINGDOM". 
 
 Palemon. Now here. Love, at thy sacred shrine 
 I offer up these vows of mine. — 
 Father of dear and tender thoughts, 
 Thou who the hardest bosom softs ; 
 Soften Bellinda's heart, and make 
 Her but thy dear impression take. 
 So shall I burn Arabian gums. 
 And oflTer up whole hecatombs 
 Upon thy altar, whilst thy fires 
 Shall shine as bright as my desires. 
 
 First Priest. Whilst he the deity does invoke 
 The flame ascends in troubled smoke. 
 
 Philander. What sort of offering mine shall be, 
 Divinest Love, 's best known to thee ; 
 Nor spices nor Arabian gums. 
 Nor yet of beasts whole hecatombs : 
 These are too low and earthly, mine 
 Are far more heavenly and divine ; 
 An adamantine faith, and such 
 As jealousy can never touch ; 
 A constant heart and loyal breast, 
 These are the offerings thou lovest best. 
 
 Second Priest. Love's fires ne'er brighter yet 
 appeared. 
 Whoe'er thou art thy vows are heard. 
 
 ONE WHO TURNS DAY INTO NIGHT.^ 
 
 He is the antipodes of the country where 
 he lives, and with the Italian begins his 
 day with tlae first hour of night ; he is worse 
 than those that call light darkness and 
 darkness light, for he makes it so, and con- 
 tradicts that old saying that the day was 
 made for man to labour in and the night to 
 rest. He thinks that sentence of Solomon 
 nothing concerning him, that all is vanity 
 underneath the sun, for all his is underneath 
 the moon ; for the sun's rising only serves 
 him to go to bed by ; and as foiiuerly they 
 measured time by water, he measures it only 
 
 - This and the following extract are from Choicest 
 Epi<jrams and Characters.
 
 ROGER BOYLE, EARL OF ORRERY. 
 
 by fire and candle light ; he alters his pater 
 noster, and as others pray for their daily 
 he prays for his nightly bread. Meantime 
 he fears neither death nor judgment; for 
 death is said to come like a thief in the 
 night, and then he sits up and watches ; and 
 judgment by day, and then he is abed and 
 sleeps. And if they charge him for ill ex- 
 pense of time, he only changes it — change 
 is no robbery ; «o as, in fine, if he have no 
 other sins than that, there is none would 
 have less to answer for than he. 
 
 A SOWER OF DISSENSION. 
 
 He is the devil's day labourer, and sows 
 his tares for him, or seeds of dissension, by 
 telling you this and that such an one said 
 
 of you, when you may be sure it is wholly 
 false, or never wholly true, he so alters it 
 with his reporting it. He goes a-fishing for 
 secrets, and tells you those of others only 
 to hook yours out of you, Vjaiting men as 
 they do fishes, one with anotlier. He is like 
 your villanous flies, which always leave 
 sound places to light on sore, and are such 
 venomous ones as even to make sound places 
 sore with their fly-blowing them. In fine, 
 they would set dissension between man and 
 wife the first day of their maiiiage, and 
 father and son the last day of their lives. 
 Nor will innocence be ever safe, or conver- 
 sation innocent, till such as they be banished 
 human society ; and if I would afford them 
 being anywhere, it should be with Ariosto's 
 Discord, among mine enemies. Meantime my 
 prayer is, God bless my friends from them ! 
 
 ROGER BOYLE, EARL OF ORRERY. 
 
 Born 1621 — Died 1679. 
 
 [Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, was the fifth 
 son of Richard, "the great Earl of Cork". 
 He was born in April, 1621, and was created 
 Baron Broghill when only seven years of 
 age. At the age of fifteen he became a 
 student of Trinity College, Dublin, from 
 which in a few years he was taken by his 
 father and sent with his eldest brother to 
 make the tour of France and Italy. On his 
 return he made his appearance at the court 
 in England, where he was received with 
 respect and delight, and during his stay 
 there he married Margaret Howard, sister 
 to the Earl of Suffolk. Accompanied by his 
 wife he proceeded to Ireland, just at the 
 beginning of the troubles of 1641. Here for 
 a time he served gallantly as a soldier on 
 the side of the Parliamentarians, but on the 
 death of the king he threw up his post in 
 disgust, and returning to England lived pri- 
 vately at Marston, in Somersetshire, till 
 1649. About this time he formed an inten- 
 tion of applying to Charles II. for a com- 
 mission to raise forces in Ireland ; but this 
 intention reached the ears of Cromwell, who 
 visited him, and dealt with him so generously 
 that he accepted a post in the army of tlie 
 Protector. In a few days he was on his way 
 to Ireland with a few soldiers ; on his arrival 
 there he increased his small army materi- 
 ally, and so managed affairs as to present 
 
 a formidable appeai'ance until, on the 15th 
 August, 1649, Cromwell himself landed in 
 Wexford with an army of 8000 foot and 
 4000 horse, together with money and mate- 
 rials. With the sad events that followed 
 we are not here concerned, except to say 
 that Lord Broghill passed through them 
 with courage and address, so much so indeed 
 that Cromwell made him one of his privy- 
 council, and confided in him more than in 
 almost any other man. Cromwell also in 
 1656 sent him into Scotland to attempt to 
 remedy the rough rule of Monk, and on his 
 return to London the Protector was so in- 
 fluenced by him that he was enabled to save 
 more than one noble house from impending 
 ruin. 
 
 After the death of Cromwell, Broghill did 
 his best to be of service to the new lord- 
 protector, Richard; but finding that weak 
 but amiable descendant of the man of iron 
 determined to be undone he retired to his 
 command in Munster. There he soon began 
 to busy himself to bring about the Resto- 
 ration, and gained over to the royal side 
 Wilson, governor of Limerick, and Sir Charles 
 Coote, who held a command in the north. 
 After the king's accession Broghill came 
 to England, where he was received rather 
 coldly by Charles. After a time, however, 
 he managed to show that he had been prime
 
 10 
 
 EOGER BOYLE, EARL OF ORRERY. 
 
 mover in the successful affairs in Ireland, 
 and on this he was received into favour, and 
 soon after, on the 5th September, 1660, he 
 was made Earl of Orrery, sworn into the 
 privy-council, appointed one of the lord- 
 justices as well as president of Munster. In 
 1662, when the Duke of Oriuond was made 
 lord-lieutenant, Broghill retired to his presi- 
 dency, where, by virtue of his office, he 
 heard and decided cases in a court called the 
 Residency Court. In this capacity he ac- 
 quired such a reputation that after the fall 
 of Clarendon he was offered the seals, but 
 declined the post in consequence of the gout 
 which afflicted him. 
 
 Of his works the chief are: A Poem on 
 His Majesty's Happy Restoration ; A Poem on 
 the Death of Coioley ; The History of Henry V., 
 a tragedy, 1668 ; Mustapha, a tragedy, 1667- 
 68 ; The Black Prince, a tragedy, 1672 ; 
 Triphon, a tragedy, 1672; Parthenissa, a 
 romance, 1665 ; A Dream, full of bold advice 
 to the king ; A Treatise 07i the Art of War ; 
 Poems on the Fasts and Festivals of the 
 Church. After his death the following 
 additional works were published : — Mr. 
 Anthony, a comedy, 1692 ; Guzuron, a comedy, 
 1693; He7-od the Great, a tragedy, 1694; 
 Altemira, a tragedy, placed on the stage in 
 1702 ; State Letters, 1742. 
 
 Roger Boyle died 16th October, 1679, 
 leaving behind him a reputation as a wit, 
 a soldier, a statesman, and a man of letters — 
 the last title being the one of which he was 
 most proud.] 
 
 ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Hail, glorious day which miracles adorn, 
 Since 'twas on thee eternity was born ! 
 Hail, glorious day, on which mankind did view 
 The Saviour of the old world and the new! 
 Hail, glorious day, which deifies man's race, 
 Birth-day of Jesus, and through him, of grace ! 
 In thy blest light the world at once did see 
 Proofs of his Godhead and humanity. 
 To prove him man, he did from woman come, 
 To prove him God, 'twas from a virgin's womb. 
 Man ne'er could feign, what his strange birth 
 
 prov'd true, 
 For his blest mother was a virgin too. 
 
 While as a child He in the manger crycs, 
 Angels proclaim his Godhead from the skyes ; 
 He to so vile a cnidle did submit, 
 That wc, througli faith in him, on thrones might sit. 
 
 Oh prodigie of mercy, which did make 
 The God of gods our human nature take ! 
 
 And through our vaile of flesh, his glory shine, 
 That we thereby might share in the divine. 
 
 Hail, glorious virgin, whose tryumphant womb 
 Blesses all ages past and all to come ! 
 Thou more than heal'st the sin by Adam's wife, 
 She brought in death, but thou brought'st endless 
 
 life. 
 No greater wonder in the world could be, 
 Than thou to live in it and heaven in thee. 
 
 Heav'n does thine own great prophecy attest, 
 All generations still shall call thee blest. 
 To thee that title is most justly paid, 
 Since by thy Son we sons of God are made ! 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 Wonderful day ; that title's due to thee. 
 Above all days, which have been, or shall be. 
 The day, when order out of chaos broke ; 
 The day, when God our human nature took ; 
 The day, when Christ ascended from the tomb ; 
 The day, when all the world must hear their doom: 
 Though these four days, we justly great ones call, 
 Yet when, alas, compar'd to thee, are small ! 
 For 'twas not strange, that both the heav'ns and 
 earth 
 From God's all-powerful word receiv'd their birth: 
 Nor, when nought else heaven's justice could atone, 
 The God of nature put our nature on : 
 Nor that he should, in whose hand only lies 
 Th' issues of life and death, from death arise : 
 Nor that one general assize should be, 
 To hear from God's own mouth his just decree. 
 These but the actings of a God display. 
 But that God sufFer'd, on this signal day; 
 Which miracle amazement did infuse 
 In heaven, earth, hell, and all but in the Jews, 
 In whose obdurate souls such rancour dwelt, 
 As all the world, but they, compunction felt. 
 The sun from his bright globe his lustre strips, 
 And with his Maker suffers an eclipse. 
 The moon did hide her face, though filled with light. 
 Seeing the sun at noon create a night. 
 The sacred temple at the dread event 
 Of this great day her vaile for sorrow rent. 
 The earth, which does insensible appear, 
 Yet at this prodigie did shake with fear; 
 Hell's sad inhabitants for anger cry'd. 
 And, by these signs, knew the Messiah dy'd ; 
 Th' insatiate grave, which the last day does dread, 
 Thinking it now was come, releas'd her dead ! 
 
 Prodigious day ; on which ev'n God did pray 
 To God, to take the bitter cup away ! 
 A day in which philosophy descry'd 
 That nature or the God of nature dy'd. 
 A day in which mortality may cry, 
 Death, thou art swallowed up in victory ! 
 
 Oh may this day be in all hearts engrav'd ; 
 This day in which God dy'd and man was sav'd 1 

 
 THE HON. MES. MONK. 
 
 11 
 
 THE HON. MRS. MONK. 
 
 Born 1677 — Died 1715. 
 
 [Mary, daughter of Viscount Molesworth 
 of Swords, and wife of George Monk, Esq., 
 was born in Dublin, in the year 1677 so far 
 as we can ascertain. Her father was a peer 
 of Ireland, and author of An Account of Den- 
 mark; her mother was sister of Richard, earl 
 of Bellamont. While a mere cliild she dis- 
 played gi'eat ability for learning, and with 
 vei'y little help soon acquired a perfect know- 
 ledge of the Latin, Spanish, and Italian lan- 
 guages. Reading the best authors, and especi- 
 ally the poets in these tongues, taught her to 
 become facile in verse-making, an ability she 
 turned to account by translating into English 
 many sprightly and philosophically witty 
 pieces. She also wrote many original fugi- 
 tive poems, and had in contemplation the 
 production of something more important, 
 when she was removed by death in 1715, 
 at the early age of thirty-eight. Her poems 
 were shortly after collected by her father, and 
 published under the title of Marinda : Poemi^ 
 and Translations upon Several Occasions, 
 1716. 
 
 In his Lives of the Poets Jacob says that hei- 
 poems and translations " show the trae spirit 
 and numbers of poetry, delicacy of turns, and 
 justness of thought and expression." They 
 are, indeed, remarkable for a neatness of man- 
 ner not common in her time, and for a wit 
 untinged by the lurid glare of immodesty that 
 shone more or less out of the works of almost 
 every other contemporary writer. In her 
 hands the English language seemed as full of 
 sparkle and light as if it were Italian, and 
 she appeared to play with it as easily as a 
 clever swordsman with his rapier.] 
 
 ON PROVIDENCE. 
 
 As a kind mother with indulgent eye 
 
 Views her fair charge and melts with sympathy, 
 
 And one's dear face imprints with kisses sweet, 
 
 One to her bosom clasps, one on her knee 
 
 Softly sustains in pleasing dignity, 
 
 And one permits to cling about her feet; 
 
 And reads their various wants and each request 
 
 In look or action, or in sigh expressed : 
 
 This little supplicant in gracious style 
 
 She answers, that she blesses with a smile; 
 
 Or if she blames their suit, or if approves, 
 
 And whether pleased or grieved, yet still she loves- 
 
 With like regard high providence Divine 
 
 Watches affectionate o'er human race: 
 
 One feeds, one comforts, does to all incline, 
 
 And each assists with kind parental care; 
 
 Or once denying us some needful grace, 
 
 Only denies to move an ardent prayer; 
 
 Or courted for imaginary wants, 
 
 Seems to deny, but in denying grants. 
 
 ON A STATUE OF A LADY. 
 
 See how in this marble statue 
 Phillis like herself looks at you; 
 Nature and carver were at strife. 
 But he has done her most to th' life. 
 She made that frozen breast so white, 
 He made her such another by't. 
 She made her a most pretty creature, 
 And he exactly hit each feature. 
 She her for love and dalliance chose, 
 And did of softest mould compose. 
 Like to the jess'mine or the rose; 
 But he, who saw how she was grown 
 Hard and relentless as a stone, 
 Did her with artful chisel frame, 
 Of what she bv her fault became. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A GALLANT LADY. 
 
 O'er this marble drop a tear. 
 
 Here lies fair Eosalinde; 
 All mankind was pleased with her, 
 
 And she with all mankind. 
 
 ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. 
 
 Upon a time, as poets tell. 
 Their Orpheus went down to hell 
 To fetch his wife, nor could he guess 
 To find her in a likelier place. 
 
 Down he went singing, as they say. 
 And trolling ballads all the way; 
 No wonder that, the reason's clear, 
 For then he was a widower.
 
 12 
 
 THE HON. MRS. MONK. 
 
 Timber and stones with speed did fly 
 After his noble harmony; 
 The self- same thing I've seen befall 
 The woefuU'st scraper of them all. 
 
 To hell he came, and told his case, 
 Torment and pain straight quit the place; 
 Each fiend was happy when compared 
 With such a wretched wedded bard. 
 
 He had the luck, with doleful ditty, 
 Deaf Pluto to inspire with pity, 
 And got (if you will call it gain, 
 And not a plague) his wife again. 
 
 With his petition he complied. 
 
 But him to these conditions tied. 
 
 That he should take, not look upon her, — 
 
 Both hard commands to man of honour. 
 
 So on the loving couple went. 
 
 He led her up the steep ascent; 
 
 But when the man does downward stray, 
 
 The woman then does lead the way. 
 
 The fond wretch turned his head too soon; 
 If 'twas on purpose, 'twas well done: 
 But if by chance, a hit indeed 
 Which did beyond his hopes succeed. 
 
 Happy's the married wight that e'er 
 Comes once to be a widower; 
 But twice of one wife to get free 
 Is luck in its extremity. 
 
 This is the first, last instance of this kind; 
 No fool will e'er again such fortune find. 
 
 RUNAWAY LOVE. 
 
 From the immortal seats above, 
 
 I, beauty's goddess, Queen of Love, 
 
 Descend to see, if here below 
 
 Ye ought of my lost Cupid know: 
 
 As on my lap the other day 
 
 The wanton chit did sport and play, 
 
 (Whether it was design or chance) 
 
 He let his golden arrow glance 
 
 On my left side; which done, he fled, 
 
 .\nd ever since ha.s rambling stray 'd. 
 
 1 that am mother of tlie cliild, 
 
 By nature gentle, soft, and mild, 
 
 Come here to seek him, and when found 
 
 To give him pardon for my wound : 
 
 I've searched my orb, and that of Jove, 
 
 .\nd the wide space where i)lanets move; 
 
 I looked for him in Mars, his sphere 
 
 (For I had often seen him there). 
 
 Above I've nothing left untry'd 
 
 To find where my lov'd boy does hide. . . . 
 
 Ladies, I know I must despair 
 To find my boy amongst the fair, 
 For though he pleas'd about you flies. 
 Basks in the glances of your eyes. 
 Sports in your lair, and fain would rest 
 In the soft lodging of your breast; 
 The child to enter strives in vain 
 A place that's guarded by disdain. 
 
 With men I better fate shall prove, 
 Whose hearts are open still to love : 
 Tell me then, sirs, I pray now do. 
 Has my child hid himself with you? 
 If any one shall show me where 
 To find the boy, by Styx I swear 
 A sacred oath, that he shall have 
 The sweetest kiss I ever gave; 
 But he that brings him to my arms 
 Shall master be of all my charms! . . . 
 Does none reply? perhaps he lies 
 Lurking among you in disguise. 
 Has laid aside his darts and bow, 
 That he may pass incognito; 
 But mark these signs, and you'll discover 
 (For all his tricks) the wily rover: 
 Though full of cunning, full of years, 
 The chit's so little, he appears 
 An infant yet, and like a child 
 Is forward, restless still, and wild; 
 He seems to sport himself, and joy 
 In ev'ry little foolish toy, 
 Though all the time his fell intent 
 On wicked mischiefs wholly bent: 
 A trifle angers him, but then 
 A trifle pleases him again; 
 At once there in his look appears 
 Joy mixt with grief, and smiles with tears. . . . 
 From his sweet lips, whene'er he speaks. 
 The lisping accent softly breaks. . . . 
 At first appearance ne'er was seen 
 A creature of an humbler mien; 
 He softly knocks, or stands at door, 
 Your kind assistance to implore, 
 But soon to lord it he'll begin 
 If once your pity lets him in. . . . 
 
 You've heard the marks by which you may 
 Know and arrest the runaway: 
 Sirs, tell me if he here does stay! 
 Does any hope the boy to hide, 
 Th' attempt is vain, though often tried; 
 For who can think love to conceal? 
 Each look, each word will love reveal; 
 He'll force his way through all disguise. 
 Break from the tongue, start from the eyes, 
 As the false adder, never to be charm'd, 
 Tears from the breast in which 'twas hid and warm'd ! 
 
 But since I cannot find him here. 
 Before I back to Heav'n repair, 
 A little further still I'll seek the wanderer!
 
 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 13 
 
 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 BoBN 1633 — Died 1684. 
 
 [Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 
 was born in 1633, and was the eldest son of 
 Sir James Dillon, third Earl of Roscommon. 
 His mother was Elizabeth Wentworth, sister 
 to the Earl of Stratibrd,then Lord-lieutenant of 
 Ireland, for which reason the poet was chris- 
 tened by the name of Wentworth. When 
 Strafford returned to England he brought 
 young Dillon with him, and placed the youth 
 at his seat in Yorkshire, under the tuition of 
 Dr. Hall, afterwards Bishop of Norwich. The 
 poet soon learned to write Latin with elegance 
 and correctness, though he could never re- 
 member a single rule of grammar. On the 
 impeachment of Strafford his nephew was sent 
 to Caen in Normandy, to finish his education 
 under the learned Bochart. From Caen he, 
 after some time, journeyed to Rome, where 
 he busied himself assiduously in the study of 
 antiquities, and in acquiring the Italian lan- 
 guage, " which," says one of his biographers, 
 " he spoke with so much gi-ace and tlueucy 
 that he was frequently mistaken for a native." 
 
 After the Restoration he returned to Eng- 
 land, where he was made captain of the band 
 of pensioners by Charles II. There he in- 
 dulged in gaming, and fought many duels, but 
 before long he was obliged to go into Ireland, 
 owing to some dispute with the lord privy- 
 seal about part of his estate. In Dublin he 
 was looked upon as " certainly the most hope- 
 ful young nobleman in Ireland," and soon after 
 his arrival he was appointed captain of the 
 guards. His vice of gaming clung to him, and 
 involved him in many duels and dangerous 
 adventures. One night he was attacked by 
 three ruffians, but defended himself so well 
 that he killed one, a gentleman coming to his 
 help disarmed another, and the third ran 
 away. Roscommon's ally turned out to be a 
 disbanded officer of good family, but in such 
 poor circumstances that he had not clothes fit 
 to appear in at the castle. However, the 
 grateful poet presented him to the Duke of 
 Ormond, and obtained that nobleman's leave 
 to resign his commission in favour of the 
 officer, who at once became captain of the 
 guards, and enjoyed the post till his death. 
 Roscommon returned to London, drawn thither 
 by the pleasures of the court and the many 
 friendships he had made in that city. 
 
 Soon after his arrival in England Roscommon 
 wa-s made ma.ster of the horse to the Duchess 
 of York, and about the same time married the 
 eldest daughter of the Earl of Burlington. 
 Verses began to flow from his pen, and were 
 highly praised; and he and Dryden, who were 
 close friends, projected a design for "fixing 
 and refining the standard of our language." 
 Johnson, in his life of Roscommon, expresses 
 little hope of this project ever being of any 
 real use ; but anyhow all chance of canying it 
 out was destroyed by the turbulence of the 
 times. 
 
 In January, 1684, Roscommon decided to 
 remove to Rome, as he foresaw great troubles 
 in the state, giving as his reason for so doing 
 that "it was best to sit near the chimney 
 when the chamber smoked." When about to 
 make his move he was delayed by the gout, 
 and being very impatient, both of the pain 
 and its stoppage of his journey, he called in a 
 French quack. This person dealt with the 
 disease so that he drove it inwai'ds, where it 
 soon became fatal. On the 17th of Januaiy 
 the poet died, after the fervent utterance of 
 two lines from his own version of " Dies Iraj." 
 
 "My God, my Father, and my Friend, 
 Do not forsake me in my end." 
 
 He was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Roscommon wrote little, but that little well, 
 a thing in which he might well be imitated by 
 more than one of our modern poets. His best 
 works are his Essay on Translated Verse and 
 his translation of Horace's Art of Poetry. His 
 translation of the " Dies Ir;« " is vigorous, and 
 many of his smaller pieces, such as his " Ode 
 upon Solitude," are full of grace. Johnson says, 
 " We must allow of Roscommon, what Fenton 
 has not mentioned so distinctly as he ought, 
 and what is yet very much to his honour, 
 that he is perhaps the only correct writer in 
 vei-se before Addison." Pope says of him in 
 one place : — 
 
 "To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, 
 And every author's merit but his own." 
 
 In another place he gives him credit for 
 morality in an age when every other poet was 
 immoral : — 
 
 "Unhappy Dryden ! in all Charles's days 
 Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays."
 
 14 
 
 EAKL OF EOSCOMMON. 
 
 Dryden also says, — 
 
 "The Muse's empire is restored again, 
 In Charles's reign and by Roscommon's pen." 
 
 Fenton says of him that "his imagination 
 might probably have been more fruitful and 
 sprightly if his judgment had been less severe;" 
 a very good reason for the small quantity but 
 superior quality of his work.] 
 
 THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 (TRANSLATION OF "DIES IR^E.") 
 
 The day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 Shall the whole world in ashes lay, 
 As David and the Sibyls say. 
 
 What horror will invade the mind, 
 
 \\Tien the strict Judge, who would be kind, 
 
 Shall have few venial faults to find. 
 
 The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound 
 Shall through the rending tombs rebound. 
 And wake the nations underground. 
 
 Nature and death shall with surprise 
 
 Behold the pale offender rise. 
 
 And view the Judge with conscious eyes. 
 
 Then shall, with universal dread, 
 The sacred mystic book be read. 
 To try the living and the dead. 
 
 The Judge ascends his awful throne, 
 He makes each secret sin be known. 
 And all with shame confess their own. 
 
 Oh then! what interest shall I make. 
 
 To save my last important stake, 
 
 When the most just have cause to quake? 
 
 Thou mighty, formidable King, 
 Thou mercy's unexhausted spring, 
 Some comfortable pity bring ! 
 
 Forget not wliat my ransom cost. 
 Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost, 
 In storms of guilty terror tost. 
 
 Thou, who for mc didst feel such pain. 
 Whose precious blood the cross did stain, 
 Let not these agonies be vain. 
 
 Thou whom avenging powers obey. 
 Cancel my debt (too great to pay) 
 Before the sad accounting day. 
 
 Surrounded witli amazing fears. 
 Whose load my soul with anguish bears, 
 I sigh, I weep; accept my tears. 
 
 Thou, who wert moved with Mary's grief. 
 And, by absolving of the thief, 
 Hast given me hope, now give relief. 
 
 Eeject not my unworthy prayer. 
 Preserve me from that dangerous snare. 
 Which Death and gaping Hell prepare. 
 
 Give my exalted soul a place 
 Among the chosen right-hand race, 
 The sons of God and heirs of grace. 
 
 From that insatiable abyss. 
 
 Where flames devour and serpents hiss, 
 
 Promote me to thy seat of bliss. 
 
 Prostrate my contrite heart I rend. 
 My God, my Father, and my Friend, 
 Do not forsake me in my end. 
 
 Well may they curse their second breath, 
 Who rise to a reviving death; 
 Thou great Creator of mankind. 
 Let guilty man compassion find. 
 
 ODE UPON SOLITUDE. 
 
 Hail, sacred Solitude ! from this calm bay 
 I view the world's tempestuous sea, 
 
 And with wise pride despise 
 
 All those senseless vanities: 
 With pity moved for others cast away 
 On rocks of hopes and fears, I see them toss'd; 
 On rocks of folly and of vice, I see them lost: 
 Some, the prevailing malice of the great. 
 
 Unhappy men, or adverse fate, 
 Send deep into the gulfs of an afflicted state. 
 But more, far more, a numberless prodigious train. 
 Whilst virtue courts them, but, alas ! in vain. 
 
 Fly from her kind embracing arms, 
 Deaf to her fondest call, blind to her greatest 
 
 charms. 
 And, sunk in pleasure and in brutish ease, 
 They in their shipwreck'd state themselves obdu- 
 rate please. 
 
 Hail, sacred Solitude ! soul of my soul, 
 
 It is by thee I truly live. 
 Thou dost a better life and nobler vigour give; 
 Dost each unruly appetite control : 
 Thy constant quiet fills my peaceful breast 
 With unmix'd joy, uninterrupted rest. 
 
 Presuming love does ne'er invade 
 
 This private solitary shade; 
 And, with fantastic wounds by beauty made, 
 The joy has no alloy of jealousy, hope, and fear. 
 The solid comfort,s of this happy sphere: 
 
 Yet I exalted Love admire, 
 
 Friendship, abhorring sordid gain, 
 And purify'd from Lust's dishonest stain:
 
 EARL OF EOSCOMMON. 
 
 15 
 
 Nor is it for my Bolitude unfit, 
 
 For I am with my friend alone, 
 
 As if we were but one; 
 'Tis the polluted love that multiplies, 
 But friendship does two souls in one comprise. 
 
 Here in a full and constant tide doth flow 
 
 All blessings men can hope to know; 
 Here in a deep recess of thought we find 
 Pleasures which entertain and which exalt the 
 
 mind, 
 Pleasures which do from friendship and from 
 
 knowledge rise, 
 Which make us happy, as they make us wise; 
 Here may I always on this downy grass 
 Unknown, unseen, my easy minutes pass: 
 Till with a gentle force victorious death 
 
 My solitude invade. 
 And, stopping for a while my breath, 
 With ease convey me to a better shade. 
 
 IMITATION OF THE TWENTY -SECOND 
 ODE OF FIEST BOOK OF HORACE. 
 
 Virtue (dear friend) needs no defence, 
 No arms but its own innocence : 
 Quivers and bows, and poison'd darts, 
 Are only used by guilty hearts. 
 
 An honest mind safely alone 
 May travel through the burning zone; 
 Or through the deepest Scythian snows. 
 Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows. 
 
 While, ruled by a resistless fire, 
 Our great Orinda I admire. 
 The hungry wolves, that see me stray, 
 Unarm'd and single, run away. 
 
 Set me in the remotest place 
 That ever Neptune did embrace; 
 When there her image fills my breast, 
 Helicon is not half so blest. 
 
 Leave me upon some Libyan plain. 
 So she my fancy entertain. 
 And when the thirsty monsters meet 
 They'll all pay homage to my feet. 
 
 The magic of Orinda's name. 
 
 Not only can their fierceness tame. 
 
 But, if that mighty word I once rehearse, 
 
 They seem submissively to war in verse. 
 
 ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE. 
 
 Happy that author, whose correct essay 
 Repairs so well our old Horatian way: 
 And happy you, who (by propitious fate) 
 On great Apollo's sacred standard wait, 
 
 And with strict discipline instructed right. 
 Have learned to use your arms before you fight. 
 But since the press, the pulpit, and the stage. 
 Conspire to censure and expose our age, 
 Provok'd too far, we resolutely must, 
 To the few virtues that we have, be just, 
 For who have longed, or who have laboured more 
 To search the treasures of the i?oman store; 
 Or dig in Grecian mines for purer ore? . . . 
 
 The first great work (a task perform'd by few) 
 Is, that yourself may to yourself be true: 
 No mask, no tricks, no favour, no reserve; 
 Dissect your mind, examine every nerve. 
 Whoever vainly on his strength depends. 
 Begins like Virgil, but like Majvius ends. 
 That wretch (in spite of his forgotten rhymes). 
 Condemned to live to all succeeding times, 
 With pompous nonsense and a bellowing sound 
 Sung lofty Ilium trembling to the ground. 
 And (if my Muse can through past ages see). 
 That noisy, nauseous, gaping fool was he; 
 Exploded, when with universal scorn. 
 The mountain labour'd and a mouse was bom. 
 . . . Each poet with a different talent writes. 
 One praises, one instructs, another bites. 
 Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays, 
 Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays. 
 Examine how your humour is inclin'd, 
 And which the ruling passion of your mind; 
 Then seek a poet who your way does bend, 
 And choose an author as you choose a friend. 
 
 United by this sympathetic bond. 
 You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; 
 Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls 
 agree, 
 
 No longer his interpreter, but he . . . 
 Immodest words admit of no defence; 
 
 For want of decency is want of sense. . . . 
 Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good, 
 
 It must delight as when 'tis understood. 
 
 He that brings fulsome objects to my view 
 
 (As many old have done and many new), 
 
 With nauseous images my fancy fills, 
 
 And all goes down like oxyrael of squills. . . . 
 On sure foundations let your fabric rise. 
 
 And with attractive majesty surprise, 
 
 Not by affected meretricious arts, 
 
 But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; 
 
 Which through the whole insensibly must pass, 
 
 With vital heat to animate the mass. . . . 
 Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault) 
 
 Proceeds from want of sense or want of thought. 
 
 The men who labour and digest things most. 
 
 Will be much apter to despond than boast; 
 
 For if your author be profoundly good, 
 
 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. 
 
 How many ages since has Virgil writ ! 
 
 How few there are who understand him yet ! 
 
 . . . Words in one language elegantly us'd. 
 
 Will hardly in another be excus'd.
 
 16 
 
 THE HON. ROBERT BOYLE. 
 
 And some that Rome admir'd in Caesar's time, 
 Jlay neither suit our genius nor our clime. 
 The genuine sense, intelligibly told, 
 Shows a translator both discreet and bold. . . . 
 
 I pity from my soul, unhappy men, 
 Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen; 
 Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
 And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! 
 But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs. 
 Who to your country owe your swords and cares, 
 Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, 
 For rich ill poets are without excuse. . . . 
 
 Of many faults rhyme is perhaps the cause; 
 Too strict to rhyme we slight more useful laws, 
 For that, in Greece or Rome, was never known, 
 Till by barbarian deluges o'erflown: 
 Subdued, undone, they did at last obey. 
 And change their own for their invaders' way. 
 . . . Oh may I live to hail the glorious day. 
 And sing loud paeans through the crowded way, 
 When in triumphant state the British Muse, 
 True to herself, shall barbarous aid refuse, 
 And in the Roman majesty appear. 
 Which none know better, and none come so near. 
 
 THE HON. ROBERT BOYLE. 
 
 Born 1626 — Died 1691. 
 
 [Robert Boyle, " a most distinguished philo- 
 sopher and chemist, and an exceedingly good 
 man," was seventh son of Richard, " the great 
 Earl of Cork," and brother of Roger Boyle, 
 Earl of Orrery, of whom we have already 
 spoken. He was born at Lismore, in the south 
 of Ireland, on the 25th January, 1626, and 
 was early committed to the care of a country 
 nurse, with instructions to bring him up as 
 hardy as if he had been her own son. When 
 about three years old he lost his mother, and 
 shortly after had a narrow escape from being 
 drowned. A little later, while in his fourth 
 year, he was sent to Eton, and placed in charge 
 of the provost. Sir Henry Wootton, an old 
 friend and intimate acquaintance of his father. 
 At Eton he remained for three or four years, 
 when his father took him to his own house at 
 Stalbridge in Doraetshire, where he had for 
 tutor the minister of the place. In 1638 he 
 went with his father to London, and at the 
 end of October in the same year he and his 
 brother Francis were sent abroad on their 
 travels under the charge of a Mr. Marcombes. 
 At Geneva, where their tutor had his family, 
 they halted and pursued their studies quietly 
 for a time, and there Robert renewed and 
 made more perfect his acquaintance with 
 mathematics. A writer in the National 
 Encyclopcedia says, "At Geneva the occur- 
 rence of an awful thunderstorm awakened 
 religious feelings which actuated him greatly 
 in after life." 
 
 Towards the end of 1641 he quitted Geneva, 
 and p.xssing through Switzerland visited most 
 of the priiicij)al cities and towns in Italy. 
 During the winter he stayed at Florence, 
 
 where he spent his time in reading Italian 
 hi.story and acquiring the language. After 
 seeing Rome he and his brother visited 
 several other places, and in May, 1642, they 
 reached Marseilles. Here they had letters 
 from their father, telling of the outbreak of 
 the Irish rebellion, and saying how hard put 
 to he had been to procure the .£250 he sent 
 to carry them home. The money never 
 reached their hands, and they were forced to 
 accompany their tutor to Geneva, where, after 
 a time, some money was raised on jewels, by 
 means of which they continued their journey 
 to England. "When they arrived in 1644 they 
 found their father dead. 
 
 In 1646 Boyle retired to his manor of Stal- 
 bridge, left him by his father, and there ap- 
 plied himself with great industry to studies of 
 various kinds, but chiefly to those of chemistry 
 and natural philosophy. About this time, too, 
 he formed one of the little band of men who 
 held weekly meetings for the promotion of 
 philosophy and science under the title of the 
 Philosophical College, which, on the Restora- 
 tion, burst into full bloom as the Royal Society. 
 In 1652 he went over to Ireland to look after 
 his property, and after a second visit in 1654 
 he went to live at Oxford, where he stayed 
 chiefly till 1668. At Oxford he found most of 
 the members of the Philosophical College, and 
 while there he invented the air-pump. 
 
 After the Restoration he was treated with 
 great respect by the king and those in author- 
 ity; but he resolutely refused their request 
 that he should enter into holy orders, thinking 
 that he could be of more benefit to religion as 
 a layman. In 1660 he published his New Ex-
 
 THE HON. KOBERT BOYLE. 
 
 17 
 
 periments; in the same year also appeared his 
 Seraphic Love, a piece which had been written 
 as early as 1648. In 1661 he issued certain 
 physiological essays and other tracts ; and in 
 1662 his Sceptical Chemist. All these were 
 successful, and were reprinted — some of them 
 more than once — within a few years. In 1663, 
 on the incorporation of the Royal Society, he 
 was appointed one of the council. In the same 
 year he published Consideratioiis touching tlie 
 Usefubiess of Experimental Natural Philo- 
 sophy ; Experiments ^vpon Colours, a curious 
 and useful work; and Considerations upon the 
 Style of the Holy Scriptures. In the year 
 1665 appeared his Occasional Reflections upon 
 Several Subjects, a work satirized by Swift, 
 but which is said to have actually given that 
 genius his first hint of Gulliver's Travels. In 
 that year also was issued New Experiments 
 and Observations on Cold. On the 8th March, 
 1666, he wrote his celebrated letter to Mr, 
 Stubbe on the controversy as to Valentine 
 Greatrakes, who professed to cure diseases by 
 stroking. This letter is upwards of twenty 
 octavo pages in length, "very learned and 
 very judicious, wonderfully correct in diction 
 and style, remarkably clear in method and 
 form, highly exact in the observations and 
 remarks, and abounding in pertinent and 
 curious facts. Yet it appears it was written 
 within the compass of a single morning." In 
 this year also he published Hydrostatical 
 Paradoxes and The Origin of Forms and 
 Qualities. 
 
 In 1668 Boyle settled permanently in London 
 in the house of his beloved sister Lady Rane- 
 lagh, and from this until his death work after 
 work appeared from his pen in rapid succes- 
 sion. We cannot do more than name the 
 chief of them here: — Continuation of Experi- 
 ments touching the Spring and Weight of Air, 
 1669 ; Tracts about the Cosmical Qualities of 
 Things, 1670; Essay on the Origin and Virtue 
 of Oems, 1672; Essays on the Strange Subtlety, 
 t&c, of Effluvia, 1673; The Excellence of Theo- 
 logy, 1673; The Salt)iess of the Sea, cCc, 1674; 
 Sojne Considerations about the Reconcilableness 
 of Reason and Religion, 1675; Experiments 
 about the Mechanical Origin or Production of 
 Particular Qualities, 1676; Historical Account 
 of a Degradation of Gold by an Anti-Elixir, 
 1678; Discourse of Things above Reason, 1681; 
 Memoirs on the Natural History of Human 
 Blood, 1684; Essay on the Great Effects of 
 Even, Languid, and Unheeded Motion, 1690; 
 Of the High Veneration Man's Intellect Owes 
 to God, 1690; The Christian Virtuoso, 1690. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 In 1677 Boyle, who was a director of the 
 East India (Jomj^any, printed at Oxford and 
 sent abroad 500 copies of the Gospels and 
 Acts of the Apostles in the Malayan tongue, 
 and in November of this year he was ap- 
 pointed President of the Royal Society. In 
 the early part of 1689 his health began to 
 decline, and on the 18th of July, 1691, he 
 made his will. In October of that year he 
 grew worse, chiefly owing, it is supposed, to 
 the illness of his favourite sister, who died 
 on the 23rd December. On the 30th he 
 followed her, dying peacefully in the sixty- 
 fifth year of his age. 
 
 Among the good deeds of Boyle's life we 
 must not omit to mention his large contribu- 
 tions to the printing and publishing of Bibles 
 for Ireland, Scotland, and Wales ; his contri- 
 butions towards propagating Chi'istianity in 
 America ; his large expenditure over the pub- 
 lication and dispersal of an Arabic edition of 
 Grotius, On the Truth of the Christian Reli- 
 gion; and above all, his establishment of 
 the Boyle Lectures in Defence of Revealed 
 Religion. 
 
 Boyle never married; but in early life it 
 is said he loved a fair daughter of Gary, Earl 
 of Monmouth, and to this we owe the pro- 
 duction of Seraphic Love.^ 
 
 FISHING WITH A COUNTERFEIT FLY. 
 
 Being at length come to the river-side we 
 
 quickly began to fall to the sport for which 
 
 we came thither, and Eugenius finding the 
 
 fish forward enough to bite, thought fit to 
 
 spare his flies till he might have more need of 
 
 them, and therefore tied to his line a hook, 
 
 furnished with one of those counterfeit flies 
 
 which in some neighbouring countries are 
 
 much used, and which, being made of the 
 
 feathers of wild fowl, are not subject to be 
 
 drenched by the water, whereon those birds 
 
 are wont to swim. This fly being for a pretty 
 
 while scarce any oftener tlu'own in than the 
 
 hook it hid was drawn up again with a fish 
 
 fastened to it : Eugenius looking on us with 
 
 a smiling countenance seemed to be very 
 
 proud of his success, which Eusebius taking 
 
 notice of. Whilst (says he) we smile to see 
 
 how easily you beguile these silly fishes, that 
 
 you catch so fast with this false bait, possibly 
 
 we are not much less unwary ourselves, and 
 
 the world's treacherous pleasures do little less 
 
 delude both me and you : for Eugenius (con- 
 
 2
 
 18 
 
 THE HON. ROBERT BOYLE. 
 
 tinues he), as the apostles were fishers of meu 
 in a good sense, so their and our grand adver- 
 sary is a skilful iisher of men in a bad sense^ 
 and too often in his attempts to cheat fond 
 mortals meets with a success as great and easy 
 as you now hnd yours. And certainly that 
 tempter, as the Scripture calls him, does sadly 
 delude us, even when we rise at his best baits, 
 and, as it were, his true flies : for, alas ! the 
 best things he can give are very worthless, 
 most of them in their own nature, and all of 
 them in comparison of what they must cost us 
 to enjoy them. But however riches, power, 
 and the delights of the senses are real goods 
 in their kind, though they be not of the best 
 kind, yet, alas ! many of us are so fitted for 
 deceits that we do not put this subtle angler 
 to make use of his true baits to catch us. We 
 suffer him to abuse us much more grossly, and 
 to cheat us with empty titles of honour, or the 
 ensnaring smiles of great ones, or disquieting 
 drudgeries dignified with the specious names 
 of great employments, and though these, when 
 they must be obtained by sin, or are proposed 
 as the recompenses for it, be, as I was going 
 to say, but the devil's counterfeit flies, yet, as 
 if we were fond of being deceived, we greedily 
 swallow the hook for flies that do but look 
 like such, so dim-sighted are we as well to 
 what vice shows as to what it hides. Let us 
 not then (concludes Eusebius) rise at baits, 
 whereby we may be sure to be either grossly 
 or at least exceedingly deceived; for, whoever 
 ventures to commit a sin, to taste the luscious 
 sweets that the fruition of it seems to promise, 
 certainly is so far deceived as to swallow a 
 true hook for a bait, which either proves but 
 a counterfeit fly or hides that under its allur- 
 ing show which makes it not need to be a 
 counterfeit one to deceive him. 
 
 ON A GLOW-WORM IN A PHIAL. 
 
 If this unha])py w^orm had been as despic- 
 able as the other reptiles that crept up and 
 down the hedge whence I took him, he might 
 a.s well as they have been left there still, and 
 his own obscurity as well as that of the night 
 had preserved him from the confinement he 
 now suffers. And if, as he sometimes for a 
 
 pretty while withdrew that luminous liquor, 
 that is as it were the candle to this dark Ian- 
 thorn, he had continued to forbear the disclos- 
 ing of it, he might have deluded my search 
 and escaped his present confinement. 
 
 Rare qualities may sometimes be preroga- 
 tives without being advantages. And though 
 a needless ostentation of one's excellencies 
 may be more glorious, yet a modest conceal- 
 ment of them is usually more safe, and an un- 
 seasonable disclosure of flashes of wit may 
 sometimes do a man no other service than to 
 direct his adversaries how they may do him a 
 mischief. 
 
 And as though this worm be lodged in a 
 crystalline prison, through which it has the 
 honour to be gazed at by many eyes, and 
 among them are some that are said to shine 
 far more in the day than this creature does in 
 the night, yet no doubt, if he could express 
 a sense of the condition he is in, he would 
 bewail it, and think himself unhappy in an 
 excellency which procures him at once admir- 
 ation and captivity, by the former of which 
 he does but give others a pleasure, while in 
 the latter he himself resents a misery. 
 
 This ofttimes is the fate of a great wit, 
 whom the advantage he has of ordinary men 
 in knowledge, the light of the mind exposes 
 to so many effects of other men's importunate 
 curiosity as to turn his prerogative into a 
 trouble ; the light that ennobles him tempts 
 inquisitive men to keep him as upon the score 
 we do this glow-worm from sleeping, and his 
 conspicuousness is not more a friend to his 
 fame than an enemy to his quiet, for men 
 allow such much praise but little rest. They 
 attract the eye of others but are not suffered 
 to shut their own, and find that by a very dis- 
 advantageous bargain they are reduced for 
 that imaginary good called fame to pay that 
 real blessing liberty. 
 
 And as though this luminous creature be 
 himself imprisoned in so close a body as glass, 
 yet the light that ennobles him is not thereby 
 restrained from diffusing itself, so there are 
 certain truths that have in them so much of 
 native light or evidence, that by the personal 
 distresses of the proposer it cannot be hidden 
 or restrained, but in spite of prisons it shines 
 freely, and procures the teachers of it ad- 
 miration even when it cannot procure them 
 liberty.
 
 THOMAS DUFFET. 
 
 19 
 
 THOMAS DUFFET. 
 
 Flouuished about 1676. 
 
 [Of Thomas Duffet very little is known 
 except that he was an Irishman who kept at 
 first a milliner's shop in the New Exchange, 
 London, and who while thus engaged dis- 
 covered an ability for song-writing and bur- 
 lesque. This latter talent, however, has got 
 him into sad disfavour with some of his bio- 
 graphers, the editors of Biographia Jjramatica 
 taking him hotly to task for his presumption 
 in laughing at Dryden, Shadwell, and Settle. 
 Indeed, so occupied with this part of their 
 task were they that they neglected even to 
 state the time of his death or to mention a 
 single song of his, and all encyclopaedic bio- 
 graphers from then till now have followed 
 their example. Indeed in many cases their 
 words have simply been reprinted, although 
 their reverence for Settle and Shadwell is but 
 an absurdity to us ; while we all know that 
 Dryden, though a great poet, was not a great 
 dramatist, and his plays are just the kind for 
 a clever burlesque writer to delight in. 
 
 That Buffet's burlesques were successful 
 even the editors of Biographia Dramatica 
 acknowledge, but they declare that for the 
 favourable reception they found " Mr. Duffet 
 stood more indebted to the great names of 
 those authors whose works he attempted to 
 burlesque and ridicule than to any merit of 
 his own ". Of these burlesques six are at 
 present known: The Amorous Old Woman 
 (doubtful) ; Spanish Rogue ; Empress of Mo- 
 rocco ; Mock Tempest ; Beauty's Triumph ; and 
 Psyche Debauched. The best of these, say 
 the biographers just quoted, met with the 
 worst success— a thing not uncommon even 
 in our days. 
 
 However, it is as a song- writer that Duffet 
 is now remembered, and as such only do we 
 care to study him and present him here. 
 His songs are delightful of their kind, an 
 artificial kind to be sure, but it was an age of 
 artificialities. Something of the delicate un- 
 real grace, — as of a duchess playing at milk- 
 maid with a Dresden -China petticoat all 
 nosegays and true-lover-knots, — which gave 
 their most exquisite inspiration to Purcell 
 and Arne, is to be found in the songs of the 
 accomplished ex -man -milliner; something, 
 too, of the gay and cold sparkle of Pope is in 
 his praises of Celia.] 
 
 SINCE COELIA'S MY FOE. 
 
 Since Coelia's my foe, 
 To a desert I'll go, 
 
 Where some river 
 
 For ever 
 Shall echo my woe. 
 
 The trees shall appear 
 More relenting than her, 
 
 In the morning 
 
 Adorning 
 Each leaf with a tear. 
 
 When I make my sad moan 
 To the rocks all alone, 
 
 From each hollow 
 
 Will follow 
 Some pitiful groan. 
 
 But with silent disdain 
 She requites all my pain, 
 
 To my mourning 
 
 Eeturning 
 No answer again. 
 
 Ah, Coelia! adieu, 
 When I cease to pursue, 
 
 You'll discover 
 
 No lover 
 Was ever so true. 
 
 Your sad shepherd flies 
 From those dear cruel eyes, 
 
 Which now seeing. 
 
 His being 
 Decays, and he dies. 
 
 Yet 'tis better to run 
 
 To the fate we can't shun, 
 
 Than for ever 
 
 To strive for 
 What cannot be won. 
 
 What, ye gods, have I done, 
 That Amyntor alone 
 
 Is so treated, 
 
 And hated, 
 For loving but one ? 
 
 COME ALL YOU PALE LOVERS. 
 
 Come all you pale lovers that sigh and complain, 
 While your beautiful tyrants but laugh at your 
 pain, 
 
 Come practise with me 
 
 To be happy and free,
 
 20 
 
 GEORGE FAEQUHAR 
 
 In spite of inconstancy, pride, or disdain. 
 I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy 
 No rival can lessen nor envy destroy. 
 
 My mistress so fair is, no language or art 
 Can describe her perfection in every part; 
 Her mien's so genteel. 
 With such ease she can kill. 
 Each look with new passion she captures my heart. 
 
 Her smiles, the kind message of love from her 
 
 eyes. 
 When she frowns 'tis from others her flame to 
 disguise. 
 
 Thus her scorn or her spite 
 I convert to delight, 
 As the bee gathers honey wherever he flies. 
 
 My vows she receives from her lover unknown. 
 And I fancy kind answers although I have none. 
 How blest should I be 
 If our hearts did agree. 
 Since already I find so much pleasure alone. 
 I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy 
 No rival can lessen nor envy destroy. 
 
 UNCERTAIN LOVE. 
 
 The labouring man that plants or sows, 
 His certain times of profit knows; 
 Seamen the roughest tempest scorn, 
 Hoping at last a rich return. 
 
 But my too much loved Celia's mind 
 Is more unconstant and unkind 
 Than stormy weather, sea, or wind. 
 Now with assured hope raised high 
 I think no man so blest as I — 
 Hope that a dying saint may own, 
 To see and hear her speak alone. 
 
 But ere my swiftest thought can thence 
 
 Convey a blessing to my sense, 
 
 My hope, like fairy treasure's gone, 
 
 Although I never made it known; 
 
 From all untruth my heart is clean, 
 
 No other love can enter in. 
 
 Yet Celia's ne'er will come again. 
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAE. 
 
 Born 1678 — Died 1707. 
 
 [George Farquliar, "the fine and noble- 
 minded, and, in every sense, the honourable 
 Farquhar — one in the shining list of geniuses 
 that adorn the biographical page of Ireland," 
 was born in Londonderry in the year 1678. 
 In that city he received the rudiments of 
 education, and before leaving it he began to 
 display the bent of his genius. In 1694 he 
 entered at Trinity College in Dublin, and for 
 a time made great progress in his studies. 
 However, being of a volatile nature, the steady- 
 going life of the university grew distasteful 
 to him, and having formed an intimacy with 
 the celebrated actor Wilks, he obtained a 
 situation in the Dublin theatre. Being hand- 
 some in person and gifted with ability, his 
 appearance was successful, and he would 
 doubtless have remained an actor ail his life 
 were it not for an accident which made him 
 forswear the histrionic art. In playing the part 
 of Guyomar in Dryden's Indian Emperor, by 
 an act of forgetfulness he wounded a brother 
 tragedian so grievously that his life was only 
 just saved after great anxiety. 
 
 Having now no further business in Dublin, 
 he went over to London, where he renewed 
 
 his acquaintance with Wilks, by whom he was 
 after a time induced to write his first comedy, 
 Love and a Bottle. This appeared in 1698, 
 and being full of sprightly dialogue and busy 
 scenes, was well received. In 1700, the year 
 of jubilee at Rome, he produced his Constant 
 Couple; or, Trip to the Jubilee, in which Wilks 
 made a great hit as Sir Hai-ry Wildair. To- 
 wards the end of the year he visited Holland, 
 probably in fultilment of the duties of a lieu- 
 tenancy which the Earl of Orrery obtained for 
 him. While there he wrote home two very 
 facetious letters descriptive of what he had 
 seen, as well as a set of verses on the same 
 subject. 
 
 In 1701, on his return to England, the great 
 success of Trip to the Jiibilee caused him to 
 write a continuation, which appeared under 
 the title of Sir Harry Wildair; or. The Sequel 
 of the Trip to the Jubilee. In this Mrs. Old- 
 field made a great success, while WUks added 
 to his reputation as the Sir Harry Wildair of 
 married life. In 1702 he published his Mis- 
 cellanies; oi', Collections of Poems, Letters, and 
 Essays, in which may be found many " hum- 
 orous and pleasant sallies of fancy ; " and in
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAR. 
 
 21 
 
 1703 he produced The Inconstant, a jjlay which 
 has ever since kept the stage, and which was 
 acted only the other day in Loudon with great 
 success. The play was not, however, at first 
 very well received, owing, it is said, to the 
 sudden springing up among the public of a 
 taste for opera. This year also he was en- 
 trapped into marriage by a female adventurer, 
 who became madly enamoured of him. Though 
 immediately after marriage he found how he 
 had been deceived, though embarrassments 
 closed round him, and though a family quickly 
 appeared to add to his troubles, he never once 
 upbraided his wife, but after the first shock of 
 discovery treated her with kindness and affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Early in 1704 he produced, with the assis- 
 tance of a friend, the farce called The Stage 
 Coach, which was well received. In 1705 his 
 comedy The Twin Rivals appeared, and in 
 1706 the comedy called The Recruiting Oflcer. 
 His last work w;is The Beaux' «Si?-ato^e?H, which 
 he did not live to see produced, and which is 
 perhaps the best of all his works. Oppressed 
 with debt, he applied to a courtier friend for 
 assistance; but the creature advised him to sell 
 his commission, and pledged his honour that 
 in a short time he would find him another. 
 Farquhar followed the advice; but when he 
 applied to his jxitron to help him to a new 
 commission the worthy declared that he had 
 forgotten his promise. This disappointment 
 so preyed upon his mind that it broke him 
 down completely, and in April, 1707, while 
 The Beaux' Stratagem was being rehearsed at 
 Drury Lane, he sank into his last sleep in the 
 twenty-ninth year of his age. After his death 
 the following letter to Wilks was found among 
 his papers: — "Dear Bob, I have not anything 
 to leave thee to perpetuate my memory but 
 two helpless girls; look upon them sometimes, 
 and think of him that was to the last moment 
 of his life, thine, George Farquhar." It is 
 pleasant to know that Wilks did his utmost 
 for the widow and two girls, all of whom, how- 
 ever, fell into pitifid circumstances before 
 their death. 
 
 Farquhar is far more natural than Congreve 
 or any other of his rivals; "his style is pure 
 and unaffected, his wit natural and flowing, 
 his plots generally well contrived." His works 
 were so successful in book form, as well as on 
 the stage, that within fifty years of his death 
 they had gone through more than eight edi- 
 tions. "The character of "Wildair appeai-s to 
 me," says Cowden Clarke, "one of the most 
 naturally buoyant pieces of delineation that 
 
 ever was written — buoyant without inanity; 
 reckless, wanton, careless, irrepressibly viva- 
 cious, and outpouring, without being ob- 
 streperous and oppressive, and aU the while 
 totally free from a tinge of vulgarity in the 
 composition." " Farquhar's gentlemen ai'e 
 Irish gentlemen," he continues, " frank, gene- 
 rous, eloquent, witty, and with a cordial word 
 of gallantry always at command." Hazlitt 
 had a high opinion of Farquhar, who, he says, 
 " has humour, character, and invention in com- 
 mon with the other (Vanbrugh), with a more 
 unaffected gaiety and spii-it of enjoyment 
 which sparkles in all he does. . . . His in- 
 cidents succeed one another with rapidity, but 
 without premeditation; his wit is easy and 
 spontaneous ; his style animated, unembar- 
 rassed, and flowing ; his characters full of life 
 and spirit." " In short," says Cowden Clarke, 
 "he was a delightful wTiter, and one to whom 
 I should sooner recur for relaxation and enter- 
 tainment — and without after cloying and dis- 
 gust — than to any of the school of which he 
 may be said to be the last."] 
 
 A WOMAN OF QUALITY.* 
 
 A Lady's Apartment. Two Chambei-maids 
 enter. 
 
 First Cham. Are all things set in order? 
 The toilette fixed, the bottles and combs put 
 in form, and the chocolate ready? 
 
 Second Cham. 'Tis no great matter whether 
 they be right or not ; for right or wrong we 
 shall be sure of our lecture ; I wish, for my 
 part, that my time were out. 
 
 First Cham. Nay, 'tis a hundred to one but 
 we may run away before our time be half ex- 
 pired ; and she's worse this morning than ever. 
 — Here she comes. 
 
 Lady Ltjrewell enters. 
 
 Lure. Ay, there's a couple of you indeed ! 
 But how, how in the name of negligence could 
 you two contrive to make a bed as mine was 
 last night ; a wrinkle on one side and a rumple 
 on t'other; the pillows awry and the quilt 
 askew! — I did nothing but tumble about, and 
 fence with the sheets all night along. — Oh! my 
 bones ache this morning as if I had lain all 
 night on a pair of Dutch staii-s — Go, bring 
 
 1 This and the following extract are from The Constant 
 Couple and its sequel Sir Harry Wildair.
 
 22 
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAR. 
 
 chocolate. — And, d'ye hear? Be sure to stay 
 an hour or two at least — "Well ! these English 
 aniraaLs are so unpolished ! I wish the per- 
 secution would rage a little harder, that we 
 might have more of these French refugees 
 among ua. 
 
 The Maids enter with chocolate. 
 
 These wenches are gone to Smyrna for this 
 chocolate. — And wliat made you stay so 
 long? 
 
 C'ha.m. I thought we did not stay at all, 
 madam. 
 
 Lure. Only an hour and hsJf by the slowest 
 clock in Christendom — And such salvers and 
 dishes too ! The lard be merciful to me '. 
 what have I committed to be plagued with 
 such animals? — Where are my new japan sal- 
 vers ?— Broke, o'my conscience '. All to pieces, 
 I'll lay my life on't. 
 
 Cham. No, indeed, madam, but your hus- 
 band — 
 
 Lure. How? husband, impudence! FIl 
 teach you manners. [Gives her a box on 
 the ear.] Husband: Is that your Welsh 
 breeding ? Ha'nt the colonel a name of his 
 own? 
 
 Cham. Well, then, the colonel. He used 
 them this morning, and we ha'n't got them 
 since. 
 
 Lure. How ! the colonel use my things I 
 How dare the colonel use anything of mine? 
 — But his campaign education must be par- 
 doned—And I warrant they were fisted about 
 among hLs dirty levee of disbanded officers ? — 
 Faugh ! The very thoughts of them fellows 
 with their eager looks, iron swords, tied-up 
 wigs, and tucked-in cravats, make me sick as 
 death.— Come, let me 9.ee.—[0oes to take tlie 
 cliocolate, and starU back.] Heavens protect 
 me from such a sight ! Lord, girl ! when did 
 you wash your hands last? And have you 
 been pawing me all this morning with them 
 dirty fists of yours? [Rv/ns to the fflass.]—! 
 must dress all over again— Go, take it awav, I 
 shall swoon else.- Here, Mrs. Monster, call 
 up my tailor; and d'ye hear? you, Mrs. 
 Hobbyhorse, see if my company be come to 
 cards yet. 
 
 The Tailor enters. 
 
 Oh, Mr, Remnant ! I don't know what ails 
 thfe.se stays you have made me; but something 
 is the matter, I don't like them. 
 
 Rem. I am very sorry for that, madam. 
 But what fault does your ladyship find? 
 
 Lure. I don't know where the fault lies; 
 but in short I don't like them; I can't tell 
 how ; the things are well enough made, but I 
 don't like them. 
 Rem. Are they too wide, madam ? 
 Lure. No. 
 
 Rem. Too strait, perhaps? 
 Lj,re. Xot at all: they fit me very well; 
 but — lard bless me, can't you tell where the 
 fault lies ? 
 
 Rem. "V\Tiy, truly, madam, I can't tell. — 
 But your ladyship, I think, is a little too 
 slender for the fashion. 
 
 Lure. How! too slender for the fashion, 
 say you 1 
 
 Rem. Yes, madam ! there's no such thing as 
 a good shape worn among the quality : your 
 fine waists are clear out, madam. 
 
 Lire. And why did not you plump up my 
 stays to the fashionable size ? 
 
 Rem. I made them to fit you, madam. 
 Lure. Fit me '. fit my monkey— ^\'hat! d'ye 
 think I wear clothes to please myself! Fit 
 me ! fit the fashion, pray; no matter for me — 
 I thought something was the matter, I wanted 
 quality-air.— Pray, Mr. Remnant, let me have 
 a bulk of quality, a spreading counter. I 
 do remember now, the ladies in the apart- 
 ments, the birth-night, were most of them 
 two yards about. Indeed, sir, if you con- 
 trive my things any more with your scanty 
 chambermaid's air, you shall work no more 
 for me. 
 
 Rem. 1 shall take care to please your l.'tdy- 
 ship for the future. [£xit. 
 
 A Servant enters. 
 Serv. 3irladam, my ma.ster desires — 
 Lure. Hold, hold, fellow; for God's sake 
 hold: if thou touch my clothes with that 
 tobacco breath of thine, I shall poi.son the 
 whole drawing-room. Stand at the door, pray, 
 and speak. 
 
 [Servant goes to the door and speaks. 
 Serv. My master, madam, desires-- 
 Lure. Oh, hideous ! Now the rascal bellows 
 so loud that he tears my head to pieces. — 
 Here, Awkwardness, go take the booby's mes- 
 sage and bring it to me. 
 
 [Maid ffoes to the door, whispers, 
 and returns. 
 Cham. My master desires to know how your 
 ladyship rested last night, and if you are 
 pleased to admit of a visit this morning. 
 
 Lmre. Ay— why, this is civil. — "Tis an in- 
 supportable toil though for women of quality 
 to model their husbands to goo<^l breedinrr.
 
 GEORGE FAEQUHAR. 
 
 23 
 
 A GENTLEMANLY CANING. 
 
 Lady Lurewell solus. 
 Enter Sir Harry "Wildair. 
 
 well beaten, and Sir Harry pestered, next 
 term, with bloodsheds, batteries, costs and 
 damages, solicitors and attonieys. And if they 
 don't tease him out of his good humour I'll 
 never plot again. [Exit. 
 
 Sir H. "My life, my soul, my all that 
 heaven can give ! — 
 
 Lady L. " Death's life with thee: without 
 thee, death to live." 
 
 Still brisk and aiiy, I find, Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir H. The sight of you, madam, exults my 
 air, and makes joy lighten in my face. 
 
 Lady L. Would yo^x miury me. Sir Han-y ? 
 
 Sir H. TNTiy, maiTiage is the de^•il !— But I 
 will marry you. 
 
 Lady L. Your word, sir, is not to be relied 
 on. If a gentleman will forfeit his honour in 
 dealings of business, we may reasonably sus- 
 pect his fidelity in an amour. 
 
 Sir H. My honour in deiUings of business ! 
 —Why, madam, I never had any business all 
 my life. 
 
 Lady L. Yes, Sii- Harry; I have heai'd a 
 very odd story, and am sorry that a gentle- 
 man of your figm-e should undergo the scandal. 
 
 Sir H. Out with it, madam. 
 
 Lady L. Why, the merchant, sir, that trans- 
 mitted youi- bills of exchauge to you in France 
 complains of some indii-ect and dishonourable 
 dealings. 
 
 Sir H. Who— old Smuggler ? 
 
 Lady L. Ay, ay, you know him. I find. 
 
 Sir H. I have some reason, I think. Why, 
 the rogue has cheated me of above i'SOU 
 within these three years. 
 
 Lady L. 'Tis your business, then, to acquit 
 youi-self publicly, for he spreads the scand;\l 
 everywhere. 
 
 Sir H. Acquit myself publicly! Here, sir- 
 rah. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Mv coach: I'll drive instantly into the city, 
 and cane the old villain round the Royal Ex- 
 change. 
 
 Lady L. Why, he is in the house now, sir. 
 
 Sir H. What, in this house \ 
 
 Lady L. Ay. in the next room. 
 
 Sir H. Then, sii-ndi, lend me your cudgel. 
 
 [E.rit Servant. 
 
 Lady L. Sir Hany, you won't i-aise a dis- 
 turbance in the house? 
 
 Sir H. Disturbance, madam ! No. no ; I'll 
 beat him with the temper of a philosopher. 
 Here, Mi-s, Parley, show me the gentleman. 
 
 [Exit icith Parley. 
 
 Lady L. Now shall I get the old monster 
 
 Another Room in the Same House. 
 
 Enter Alderman Smuggler and Sir 
 Harry Wildair. 
 
 Sir 11. Dear IMr. Aldennan, I'm your most 
 devoted and humble servant. 
 
 Aid. ]SIy best friend. Sir Harr)% you're wel- 
 come to England. 
 
 Sir H. I'll assure you, sir, there's not a man 
 in the king's dominions I am gladder to meet, 
 dear, dear Mr. Alderman. 
 
 [Bowing very low. 
 Aid. Oh ! lord, sir, you travellers have the 
 most obliging ways with you. 
 
 Sir H. There is a business, Mr. Alderman, 
 fallen out, which you may oblige me infin- 
 itely by — I am very sorry that I am forced 
 to be ti-oublesome. but necessity, Mr. Alder- 
 man — 
 
 Aid. Ay, sir, as you say, necessity — But 
 upon my word, sir, I am very short of money 
 at present; btit — 
 
 Sir H. That's not the matter, sii- ; I'm above 
 an obligation that way; but the business is, 
 I'm reduced to an indispensable necessity of 
 being obliged to you for a beating. Here, 
 take this cane. 
 
 Aid. A beating. Sii- Hairy I Ha, ha, ha! 
 I beat a knight baronet ! An alderman turned 
 cudgel-player '. Ha. ha, ha I 
 
 Sir H. Upon my word, sir, you must beat 
 me. or I'll beat you ; take your choice. 
 Aid. Psha, psha ! Y'ou jest. 
 Sir H. Nay, 'tis sure as fate ; so, alderman. 
 I hope you'll j^ai-dou my cui-iosity. 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 Aid. Curiosity! Deuce take your cuiiosity, 
 sir ! What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Sir H. Nothing at :U1. Fm but in jest, sir. 
 
 Aid. Oh! I can take anything in jest; 
 
 but a man might imagine, by the smartness 
 
 of the stroke, that you were in downright 
 
 eai'uest. 
 
 Sir H. Not in the least, sir {strikes him)— 
 not in the least, indeed, sir. 
 
 Aid. Prav, good sir, no more of your jests ; 
 for they are the bluntest jests that ever I 
 knew. 
 
 Sir H. I heartily beg your pardon, with all 
 
 my heart, sir. [Strikes him. 
 
 Aid. Pardon, sir! Well, sir, that is satis-
 
 24 
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAR. 
 
 faction enough from a gentleman. But 
 seriously, now, if you pass any more of your 
 jests upon me I shall grow angry. 
 
 Sh- H. I humbly beg your permission to 
 break one or two more. \Strihes him. 
 
 A Id. Oh ! lord, sir, you'll break my bones. 
 Ai-e you mad, sir? Murder, felony, man- 
 slaughter. [^Falls down. 
 
 Sir H. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons, 
 but I am absolutely compelled to't, upon my 
 honour, sir. Nothing can be more averse to 
 my inclinations than to jest with my honest, 
 dear, loving, obliging friend the alderman. 
 
 [Striking him all this ivhile. Alderman 
 tumbles over and over, shakes out his 
 pocket-book on the floor. 
 
 Enter Lady Lure well, and takes it up. 
 
 Lady L. The old rogue's pocket-book; this 
 may be of use. {Aside.) Oh ! lord. Sir 
 Harry's murdering the poor old man. 
 
 Aid. Oh! dear madam, I was beaten in jest 
 till I am murdered in good earnest. 
 
 Lady L. Well, well, I'll bring you off, 
 seigneur — frappez, frappez ! 
 
 Aid. Oh! for charity's sake, madam, rescue 
 a poor citizen. 
 
 Lady L. Oh ! you barbarous man ! Hold — 
 hold ! frappez plus rudement. Frappez ! T 
 wonder you are not ashamed. {Holding Sir 
 H.) A poor reverend honest elder. {Helps 
 Aid. up.) It makes me weep to see him in 
 this condition, poor man ! Now, deuce take 
 you. Sir Harry — for not beating him harder. 
 Well, my dear, you shall come at night, and 
 I'll make you amends. 
 
 [Here Sir H. takes snuff. 
 
 Aid. Madam, I will have amends before I 
 leave the place. Sir, how durst you use me 
 thus 1 
 
 Sir H. Sir? 
 
 Aid. Sir, I say that I will have satisfaction. 
 
 Sir H. With all my heart. 
 
 [Throu's snuff in his eyes. 
 
 Aid. Oh ! murder, blindness, fire ! Oh ! 
 madam — madam ! get me some water — water 
 — fire — water ! 
 
 [Exit with Lady L. 
 
 Sir H. How plea.sant is resenting an injury 
 without passion ! 'Tis the beauty of revenge. 
 
 Let statesmen plot, and under business groan, 
 And settling public quiet, lose their own ; 
 I make the most of life, no hour misspend, 
 Pleasure's the mean, and pleasure is my end. 
 No spleen, no trouble, shall my time destroy; 
 Life's but a span, I'll every inch enjoy. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 THE COUNTERFEIT FOOTMAN. 
 
 (from "the beaux' stratagem.") 
 
 Scrub, a Footman, and Archer, a Supposed 
 Footman. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sullen and Dorinda. 
 
 [They walk to the opposite side. Mrs. 
 S. drops her fayi; Archer runs, takes 
 it up, and gives it to her. 
 
 Arch. Madam, your ladyship's fan. 
 
 Mrs. S. Oh, sir, I thank you. What a hand- 
 some bow the fellow made ! 
 
 Dor. Bow ! Why, I have known several 
 footmen come down from London, set up here 
 as dancing-masters, and carry off the best for- 
 tunes in the country. 
 
 Arch. {Aside.) That project, for aught I 
 know, had been better than ours. Brother 
 Scrub, why don't you introduce me '? 
 
 Scrub. Ladies, this is the strange gentle- 
 man's servant, that you saw at church to-day ; 
 I understand he came from London, and so I 
 invited him to the cellar, that he might show 
 me the newest flourish in whetting my knives. 
 
 Dor. And I hope you have made much of 
 him. 
 
 Arch. Oh, yes, madam; but the strength of 
 your ladyship's liquor is a little too potent for 
 the constitution of your humble servant. 
 
 Mrs. S. What ! then you don't usually drink 
 ale? 
 
 Arch. No, madam ; my constant drink is 
 tea, or a little wine and water : 'tis prescribed 
 me by the physicians, for a remedy against the 
 spleen. 
 
 Scrub. Oh, la ! Oh, la ! A footman have 
 the spleen ! 
 
 Mrs. S. 1 thought that distemper had been 
 only proper to people of quality. 
 
 Arch. Madam, like all other fashions it 
 wears out, and so descends to their servants ; 
 though, in a great many of us, I believe, it 
 ])roceeds from some melancholy particles in 
 the blood, occasioned by the stagnation of 
 wages. 
 
 Dor. How afl'ectedly the fellow talks ! How 
 long, pray, have you served your present 
 master? 
 
 Arch. Not long; my life has been mostly 
 spent in the service of the ladies. 
 
 Mrs. S. And, pray, which service do you 
 like best? 
 
 Arch. Madam, the ladies pay best; the 
 honour of serving them is sufficient wages; 
 there is a charm in their looks that delivers a
 
 A GENTLEMANLY CANING
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAR. 
 
 25 
 
 pleasure with their commands, and gives our 
 duty the wings of inclination. 
 
 Mrs. S. That tiight wa.s above the pitch of 
 a livery : and, sir, would you not be satistied 
 to serve a lady again ? 
 
 A7'ch. As groom of the chamber, madam, 
 but not as a footman. 
 
 Mrs. S. I suppose you served as footman 
 before i 
 
 Arch. For that reason, I would not serve in 
 that post again ; for my memory is too weak for 
 the load of messages that the ladies lay upon 
 their servants in London. My Lady llowd'ye, 
 the last mistress I served, called me up one 
 morning, and told me, "Martin, go to my 
 Lady Allnight, with my humble service; tell 
 her I was to wait on her ladyship yesterday, 
 and left word with Mrs. Rebecca, that the 
 preliminaries of the affair she knows of are 
 stopped, till we know the concurrence of the 
 person I know of, for which there are circum- 
 stances wanting, which we shall accommodate 
 at the old place ; but that, in the meantime, 
 there is a person about her ladyship, that, 
 from several hints and surmises, was accessorj' 
 at a certain time to the disappointment that 
 naturally attend things, that to her knowledge 
 are of more importance — 
 
 Mrs. S. and Dor. Ha, ha ! Where are you 
 going, sir? 
 
 Arch. Why, I hav'n't half done. 
 
 Scrub. I should not remember a quarter 
 of it. 
 
 Arch. The whole howd'ye was about half 
 an hour long; I happened to misplace two 
 syllables, and was turned off, and rendered 
 incapable — 
 
 Dor. The pleasantest fellow, sister, I ever 
 saw. But, friend, if your master be married, 
 I presume you still serve a lady? 
 
 Arch. No, madam ; I take care never to 
 come into a married family; the commands of 
 the master and mistress are always so contrary 
 that 'tis impossible to please both. 
 
 Dor. There's a main point gained. My lord 
 is not married, I find. 
 
 Mrs. S. But I wonder, friend, that in so 
 n)any good services you had not a better pro- 
 vision made for you. 
 
 Arch. I don't know how, madam ; I am 
 very well as I am. 
 
 Mrs. S. Something for a pair of gloves. 
 
 [Offering him monei/. 
 
 Arch. I humbly beg leave to be excused. 
 My master, madam, pays me ; nor dare I take 
 money from any other hand without injuring 
 his honour and disobeying his commands. 
 
 Scrub. Brother Martin ! brother Martin ! 
 Arch. What do you say, brother Scrub? 
 Scrub. Take the money and give it to me. 
 [Exeunt Archer and Scrub. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 (FROM "THE INCONSTANT.") 
 
 [Old Mirabel, guardian of Oriana, to whom 
 his son young Mii-abel w;us engaged. How- 
 ever, three years' absence changes him, and 
 although he loves Oriana he has formed a 
 resolution never to marry. Dugard is brother 
 to Oriana, and Petit her page.] 
 
 Enter Old and Young Mirabel, meeting. 
 
 Old Mir. Bob, come hither. Bob. 
 
 }'. Mir. Your pleasure, sir ? 
 
 Old Mir. Are not you a great rogue, sirrah ? 
 
 }'. Mir. That's a little out of my compre- 
 hension, sir; for I've heard say that I resemble 
 my father. 
 
 Old Mir. Your father is your very humble 
 slave. I tell thee what, child, thou art a very 
 pretty fellow, and I love thee heartily; and a 
 very great villain, and I hate thee mortally. 
 
 Y. Mir. Villain, sir ! Then I must be a very 
 impudent one; for I can't recollect any pas- 
 sage of my life that I'm ashamed of. 
 
 Old Mir. Come hither, my dear friend ; dost 
 see this picture? [Shows him a little picture. 
 
 Y. Mir. Oriana's ? Psha ! 
 
 Old Mir. What, sir, won't you look upon't ? 
 Bob, dear Bob, pr'ythee come hither, now. 
 Dost want any money, child ? 
 
 Y. Mir. No, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Why then, here's some for thee : 
 come here now. How canst thou be so hard- 
 hearted an unnatural, unmannerly rascal 
 (don't mistake me, child, I a'n't angry), as to 
 abuse this tender, lovely, good-natured, dear 
 rogue? Why, she sighs for thee, and cries for 
 thee, pouts for thee, and snubs for thee; the 
 poor little heart of it is like to burst. Come, 
 my dear boy, be good-natured, like your own 
 father; be now; and then, see here, read this; 
 the effigies of the lovely Oriana, with thirty 
 thousand pounds to her portion ! — thirty 
 tliousand pounds, you dog ! — thirty thousand 
 pounds, you rogue ! how dare you refuse a 
 lady with thirty thousand pounds, you im- 
 pudent rascal? 
 
 Y. Mir. Will you hear me speak, sir ? 
 
 Old Mir. Heai- you speak, sLr? If you had
 
 26 
 
 GEOEGE FARQUHAR. 
 
 thirty thousand tongues, you could not out- 
 talk thii-ty thousand pounds, sir. 
 
 F. Mir. Nay, sir, if you won't hear me, 
 I'll begone, sir: I'll take post for It;ily, this 
 moment. 
 
 Old Mir. Ah, the fellow knows I won't part 
 with him! Well, sir, what have you to 
 say? 
 
 T. Mir. The universal reception, sir, that 
 marriage has had in the world, is enough to 
 fix it for a public good, and to draw every 
 body into the common cause; but there are 
 some constitutions, like some instruments, so 
 peculiarly singular, that they make tolerable 
 music by themselves, but never do well in a 
 concert. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, this is reason, I must con- 
 fess : but yet it is nonsense, too, for though 
 you should reason like an angel, if you argue 
 yourself out of a good estate, you talk like a 
 fool. 
 
 Y. Mir. But, sir, if you bribe me into bond- 
 age with the riches of Croesus, you leave me 
 but a beggar, for want of my liberty. 
 
 Old Mir. Was ever such a perverse fool 
 heard? 'Sdeath, sir! why did I give you 
 education? was it to dispute me out of my 
 senses? Of what colour, now, is the head of 
 this cane? You'll say, 'tis white, and, ten to 
 one, make me believe it too. I thought that 
 young fellows stiidied to get money. 
 
 Y. Mir. No, sir, I have studied to despise 
 it; my reading was not to make me rich, but 
 happy, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Lookye, friend, you may persuade 
 me out of my designs, but I'll command you 
 out of yours; and though you may convince 
 my reason that you are in the right, yet there 
 is an old attendant of sixty-three, called Posi- 
 tiveness, which you, nor all the wits of Italy, 
 shall ever be able to .shake: so, sir, you're a 
 wit, and I'm a father : you may talk, but I'll 
 be obeyed. 
 
 Y. Mir. This it is to have the son a finer 
 gentleman tlian the father; they first give us 
 breeding, that they don't understand; then 
 they turn us out of dooi's, because we are wiser 
 than themselves. But I'm a little beforehand 
 with the old gentleman. (Aside.) Sir, you 
 have been pleased to settle a thousand pounds 
 sterling a year upon me; in return for which, 
 I have a very great honour for you and your 
 family, and shall take care that your only and 
 beloved son shall do nothing to make him 
 hate his father, or to hang himself. So, dear 
 sir, I'm your very humble servant. [Ru7is off. 
 
 Old Mir. Here, sirrah ! rogue ! Bob ! villain ! 
 
 Enter Dugard. 
 
 Dug. Ah, sir ! 'tis but what he deserves. 
 
 Old Mir. 'Tis false, sir ! he don't deserve it: 
 what have you to say against my boy, sir ! 
 
 Dug. I shall only repeat your own words. 
 
 Old Mir. What have you to do with my 
 words? I have swallowed my words already; 
 I have eaten them up. I say, that Bob's an 
 honest fellow, and who dares deny it? 
 
 Dug. Come, sir, 'tis no time for trifling: my 
 sister is abused; you are made sensible of the 
 affront, and your honour is concerned to see 
 her redressed. 
 
 Old Mir. Lookye, Mr. Dugard, good words 
 go farthest, I will do your sister justice, but 
 it must be after my own rate; nobody must 
 abuse my son but myself; for, although Robin 
 be a sad dog, yet he's nobody's puppy but my 
 own. 
 
 [Old Mirabel and Oriana cause the report 
 to be circulated that she is about to be man-ied 
 to a Spanish nobleman, with a view to stimu- 
 late Young Mirabel by jealousy. Old Mirabel 
 personates the nobleman.] 
 
 Young Mirabel solus. 
 
 Enter Old Mirabel, dressed in a Spanish 
 habit, leading Oriana, 
 
 Oriana. Good, my lord, a nobler choice had 
 better suited your lordship's merit. My j^erson, 
 rank, and circumstance expose me as the 
 public theme of raillery, and subject me so to 
 injurious usage, my lord, that I can lay no 
 claim to any part of your regard, except your 
 pity. 
 
 Old Mir. Breathes he vital air that dares 
 presume. 
 With rude behaviour, to profane such ex- 
 cellence ? 
 Show me the man — 
 
 And you shall see how my sudden revenge 
 Shall fall upon the head of such presumption. 
 Is this thing one? [Strutting up to Y. Mir. 
 
 Y. Mir. Sii- ! 
 
 Oriana. Good, my lord, 
 
 Old Mir. If he, or any he, 
 
 Oriana. Pray, my lord, the gentleman's a 
 stranger. 
 
 Old Mir. O, your pardon, sir, but if you 
 had — remember, sir, the lady now is mine, her 
 injuries are mine; therefore, sir, you under- 
 stand me, — Come, madam. 
 
 [Leads Oriana to the door; she goes off; 
 Young Mirabe' runs to his father, and 
 pidls him by the sleeve.
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 27 
 
 Y. Mir. Ecoutez, Monsieur le Count. 
 
 Old Mir. Your business, sir? 
 
 Y. Mir. Boh ! 
 
 Old Mir. Boh ! what language is that, sir ? 
 
 Y. Mir. Spanish, my lord. 
 
 Old Mir. Wliat d'ye mean? 
 
 }'. Mir. Tiiis, sir. [^Trips up Ids heels. 
 
 Old Mir. A very concise quarrel, truly — 
 I'll bully him. — Trinidade Seigneur, give me 
 fair play. [Offering to rise. 
 
 Y. Mir. By all means, sir. {Takes away 
 his sword.) Now, seigneur, where's that 
 bombast look, and fustian face, your count- 
 ship wore just now? [Strikes him. 
 
 Old Mir. The rogue quarrels well, very 
 well ; my own son right ! But hold, sirrah, 
 no more jesting; I'm your father, sir! your 
 father ! 
 
 Y. Mir. My father ! Then, by this light, I 
 could find in my heart to pay thee. (Aside.) 
 Is the fellow mad? Why, sure, sir, I ha'n't 
 frighted you out of your senses? 
 
 Old Mir. But you have, sir ! 
 
 Y. Mir. Then I'll beat them into you 
 again. [Offers to strike him. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, rogue ! — Bob, dear Bob ! 
 don't you know me, child ? 
 
 Y. Mir. Ha, ha, ha ! the fellow's down- 
 right distracted ! Thou miracle of impu- 
 dence ! wouldst thou make me believe that 
 such a grave gentleman as my father would 
 go a masquerading thus ? That a person of 
 three-score and three would run about, in a 
 fool's coat, to disgrace himself and family? 
 
 why, you impudent villain, do you think I 
 will suffer such an affront to pa.ss upon my 
 honoured father, my worthy father, my dear 
 father? 'Sdeath, sir! mention my father but 
 once again, and I'll send your soul to thy 
 grandfather this minute ! 
 
 [Offering to stab him. 
 
 Old Mir. Well, well, I am not your father. 
 
 Y. Mir. Why, then, sir, you are the saucy, 
 hectoring Spaniard, and I'll use you accord- 
 ingly- 
 
 Bnter Dugard, Oriana, Maid, and Petit. 
 
 [Dugard runs to Young Mirabel, the rest 
 to Old Mirabel. 
 
 Bug. Fie, fie, Mirabel ! murder your father 1 
 
 Y. Mir. My father? What, is the whole 
 family mad ? Give me way, sir ; I won't be 
 held. 
 
 Old Mir. No, nor I either ; let me begone, 
 pray. [Offering to go. 
 
 Y. Mir. My father ! 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, you dog's face! I am your 
 father, for I have borne as much for thee as 
 your mother ever did. 
 
 Y. Mir. O ho ! then this was a trick, it 
 seems, a design, a contrivance, a stratagem ! 
 Oh, how my bones ache ! 
 
 Old Mir. Your bones, sirrah! why yours? 
 
 Y. Mir. Why, sir, ha'n't I been beating 
 my own flesh and blood all this while? O, 
 madam. (To Oriana.) I wish your ladyship 
 joy of your new dignity. Here was a con- 
 trivance, indeed! 
 
 COUNT HAMILTON, 
 
 BoKN 1646 — Died 1720. 
 
 [Anthony, Count Hamilton, descended from 
 a younger branch of the dukes of Hamilton, 
 was born at Roscrea in 1646. His parents 
 were Catholics and Royalists, and as such 
 found it wisest to leave Ireland and take up 
 their abode in France on the death of CTiarles 
 I. in 1649. In France the future count re- 
 sided for many years with his parents, and it 
 was there he was educated. At the Restora- 
 tion in 1660 he was brought over to England, 
 where he soon grew in favour with the court 
 and wits of the day. For a number of years 
 he divided his time between France and 
 England, and when the Revolution occurred 
 he was appointed governor of Limerick by 
 
 James II. On the break-up of James's party 
 he returned once more to France, where he 
 passed the rest of his life, and died at St. 
 Germains in 1720, aged seventy-four. 
 
 The works of Count Hamilton have been 
 frequently published, and always with suc- 
 cess. His Memoirs of the Count rfe (Jrammont 
 is, to this day, eagerly sought after, and is, 
 as one of his biographers says, "a spirited 
 production, exhibiting a free, and in the 
 general outline a faithful, delineation of the 
 voluptuous court of Charles II." His Fairy 
 Tales are marked by great elegance of style 
 in the original French in which they were 
 written. They were intended as a " piece of
 
 28 
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 ridicule on the passion for the marvellous 
 which made the Arabian Nights so eagerly 
 read at their first appearance" in French. 
 All his works are marked by fertility of ima- 
 gination and ready movement. "The History 
 of Grammont", says Sir Walter Scott, "may 
 be considered as an unique ; there is nothing 
 like it in any language. For drollery, know- 
 ledge of the world, various satire, general 
 utility, united with great vivacity of com- 
 position, Oil Bias is unrivalled: but as a 
 merely agreeable book, the Memoirs of Gram- 
 mont, perhaps, deserves that character more 
 than any which was ever written."] 
 
 PORTRAIT OF GRAMMONT. 
 
 For your past sketch how beauties tender 
 Did to his vows in crowds surrender: 
 Show him forth-following the banners 
 
 Of one who match'd the goddess born: 
 Show how in peace his active manners 
 
 Held dull repose in hate and scorn: 
 Show how at court he made a figure, 
 Taught lessons to the best intriguer, 
 
 Till, without fawning, like his neighbours, 
 
 His prompt address foil'd all their labours. 
 Canvas and colours change once more, 
 
 And paint him forth in various light: 
 The scourge of coxcomb and of bore; 
 Live record of lampoons in score, 
 
 And chronicle of love and fight; 
 Redoubted for his plots so rare. 
 By every happy swain and fair; 
 Driver of rivals to despair; 
 
 Sworn enemy to all long speeches; 
 Lively and brilliant, frank and free; 
 Author of many a repartee: 
 Remember, over all, that he 
 
 Was most renowned for storming breaches. . 
 Tell too by what enchanting art. 
 Or of the head, or of the heart, 
 
 If skill or courage gain'd his aim; 
 When to St. Alban's foul disgrace. 
 Despite his colleague's grave grimace, 
 And a fair nymph's seducing face. 
 
 He carried off gay Buckingham. ^ 
 
 1 This refers to Gramniont's share in carrying Bucking- 
 ham to France and causing him to determine on brealcinij 
 the Triple Alliance. 
 
 2 From May Flower, a Circassian Tale, second edition 
 in En(;li8h, Salirjbury, 1790. The occasion of Count 
 Hamilton writing this beautiful Circassian tale is thus 
 related in the introduction to the book: "The conversa- 
 tion happened to turn in a company in ■which he was 
 present on the Arabian NighU' Entertainments, which 
 ■were just published ; every one highly conunendcd the 
 book ; many seemed to hint at the difficulty of writing 
 
 Speak all these feats, and simply apeak, — 
 To soar too high were forward freak, — 
 
 To keep Parnassus' skirts discreetest; 
 For 'tis not on the very peak 
 
 That middling voices sound the sweetest. 
 Each tale in easy language dress. 
 
 With natural expression closing; 
 Let every rhyme fall in express; 
 Avoid poetical excess. 
 
 And shun low miserable prosing: 
 Doat not on modish style, I pray, 
 
 Nor yet condemn it with rude passion: 
 There is a place near the Marais, 
 Where mimicry of antique lay 
 
 Seems to be creeping into fashion. 
 This new and much admired way. 
 
 Of using Gothic words and spelling, 
 Costs but the price of Rabelais, 
 
 Or Ronsard's sonnets, to excel in. 
 With half a dozen ekes and ayes. 
 Or some such antiquated phrase. 
 At small expense you lightly hit 
 On this new strain of ancient wit. 
 
 Still may his wit's unceasing charms 
 
 Blaze forth, his numerous days adorning; 
 May he renounce the din of arms. 
 
 And sleep some longer of a morning: 
 Still be it upon false alarms. 
 
 That chaplains come to lecture o'er him; 
 Still prematurely, as before, 
 That all the doctors give him o'er. 
 
 And king and court are weeping for him. 
 May such repeated feats convince 
 
 The king he lives but to attend him; 
 And may he, like a grateful prince. 
 
 Avail him of the hint they lend him; 
 Live long a.s Grammont's age, and longer, 
 Then learn his art still to grow younger 
 
 FIDDLESTICK.^ 
 
 About seven thousand three hundred and 
 fifty-three miles from hence there is a certain 
 beautiful country called Cashmeer, which was 
 governed by a caliph. This caliph had a 
 daughter, and that daughter a face; but it 
 would have been better for many if she had 
 
 that species of composition. 'Nothing can be more 
 easy," replied Count Hamilton, 'and as a proof of it I 
 will venture to write a Circassian tale after the manner 
 of the Arabian Nights' Entertainment on any subject 
 which you can mention.' 'Fiddlestick!' [Tarare!] re- 
 plied the other. ' You have hit it,' said Count Hamilton; 
 ' and I promise you that I shall produce a tale in which 
 Fiddlestick shall be the principal hero.' In a few days 
 he finished this tale, which he called ' Fleur d'Epine.' It 
 was much read and admired in Paris.'
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 29 
 
 been born without one. For her beauty, 
 tolerable to the fifteenth year of her age, be- 
 came insupportable at that period. I shall 
 not pretend to describe the most beautiful 
 mouth that was ever seen, the whitest teeth, 
 a nose which was neither too long nor too 
 short ; the liveliness of her complexion, in com- 
 parison with which the lilies of Cashmeer, 
 which are a thousand times whiter than ours, 
 appeared dirty, and the carnation of her 
 cheeks, which shamed the damask-rose. But 
 all these charms were nothing in comparison 
 with her eyes, which shone with such astonish- 
 ing brightness, that from the eighth year of 
 her age, her father, who was a truly economical 
 prince, used to extinguish all the candles at 
 midnight throughout his palace, and the light 
 from her eyes was so great, that all the cour- 
 tiers (and courtiers always speak truth) de- 
 clared they could see as well as at midday. 
 No one could ever distinguish their colour ; 
 for as soon as any one ventured to take a peep 
 at them he was immediately struck as with a 
 flash of lightning ; and from this circumstance 
 she was called the Brilliant. 
 
 The misfortune was that the finest young 
 men of the court perished continually ; and a 
 day did not pass that two or three of those 
 fops, who affected to ogle whenever they met 
 with a pretty jjair of eyes, and who had hitherto 
 escaped unhurt, could not avoid the general con- 
 flagration. Such, indeed, was the effect of the 
 operation that the flame passed rapidly from 
 the eyes to the heart of those men who looked 
 at her; and in less than four-and-twenty hours 
 they died, continually pronouncing tenderly 
 her name, and humbly thanking her beautiful 
 eyes for the honour of sending them to the 
 grave. 
 
 The fair sex, however, suffered differently. 
 Those who saw her at a distance were dazzled 
 to such a degree as to become near-sighted; 
 but those who waited on her person purchased 
 their honour at a dear rate : the lady of the 
 bed-chamber, four maids of honour, and an 
 old mistress of the robes, became absolutely 
 blind. 
 
 The grandees of the kingdom, who saw 
 their families daily extinguished by the fatal 
 conflagration of her eyes, humbly petitioned 
 the caliph to find out some remedy for a dis- 
 order which deprived their sons of their lives 
 and their daughters of their sight. 
 
 Accordingly, the caliph summoned his 
 council of state to deliberate on what was to 
 be done. His minister presided, and this 
 minister was the silliest president alive. 
 
 The council was divided in opinion. One 
 party proposed to put Brilliant into a convent; 
 supposing that there could be no harm if a 
 dozen or two old nuns, with their abbess, 
 should become blind for the good of the state. 
 A second pai'ty proposed to sew her eyelids 
 
 '. together; and a third offered to take out her 
 
 I eyes with such address that she should feel no 
 pain, keep them in a silver box till the fatal 
 fire was somewhat extinguished, and then 
 replace them in their sockets as if they had 
 
 I never been taken out. 
 
 I The caliph, who tenderly loved his daughter, 
 objected to all these proposals, and the j)rime 
 minister, who penetrated his royal master's 
 sentiments, got up to speak. The good man 
 had cried bitterly for above an hour, and he 
 began his harangue even without wiping his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I have been lamenting," he said, " the 
 
 death of the count. 
 
 my son. 
 
 knight 
 
 of the 
 
 sword, which honour, however, could not pre- 
 serve him from the fatal looks of the princess. 
 He was yesterday buried : so no more of him. 
 We are now met for the service of your 
 majesty, and I must forget that I am a father, 
 to remember only that I am a minister. 
 
 " My grief has not prevented me from lis- 
 tening to the several opinions : and with great 
 respect to the company, I do not approve any 
 which have been given. Mine is as follows : 
 I have a squire in my service : I do not know 
 whence he comes, or what he is; further, I 
 know, that since he has been in my service I 
 no longer trouble myself about the affairs of 
 my household. He is like a spirit who knows 
 everything, and although I have the honour of 
 being your majesty's first minister, yet I am a 
 mere ignoramus in comparison with him. My 
 wife tells me so every day. Now, if your ma- 
 jesty should find it good to consult him upon 
 an affair of such difficulty, I am persuaded 
 your majesty would be satisfied." 
 
 "Willingly, good Mr. Minister," returned 
 the caliph ; " a nd more particularly as I shall 
 be very glad to see a man who has more wis- 
 dom and understanding than yourself." 
 
 On being sent for the squire refused to come, 
 unless the eyes of the princess were closed. 
 
 "Sire," said the minister, "did I not tell 
 you so ! " 
 
 "Oh, ho!" replied the caliph, "I see he is 
 not deficient in understanding; bring him 
 here; he shall not see my daughter's eyes." 
 He soon came, and though neither well nor 
 ill made he had something agreeable in his 
 air and striking in his physiognomy.
 
 30 
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 " Speak boldly to him, sire," said the min- 
 ister, " he understands all languages." 
 
 The caliph, who only understood his own 
 tongue, and that not very well, after meditat- 
 ing a loniT time in order to find out an in- 
 genious question, said to him — 
 
 "My friend, what is your name?" 
 
 " Fiddlestick," replied he. 
 
 " Fiddlestick ! " returned the caliph. 
 
 "Fiddlestick!" exclaimed the minister. 
 
 " I ask you," resumed the caliph, " what is 
 your name?" 
 
 " I understand you, sire." 
 
 "Well, then," said the caliph, "what is 
 it?" 
 
 " Fiddlestick," replied the other, making at 
 the same time a low bow. 
 
 "And why are you called Fiddlestick?" 
 
 " Because it is my name." 
 
 "And how so?" 
 
 "Because I quitted my real name to take 
 this; so I am called Fiddlestick, although it is 
 not my real name." 
 
 " Nothing is plainer," returned the caliph ; 
 " and yet I should never have found it out in 
 a month." 
 
 "Well then, Mr. Fiddlestick, what 
 
 shall we do with my daughter?" 
 
 " What you please, sire." 
 
 "But I say, what shall we do with my 
 daughter?" 
 
 "WTiat you please," again replied Fiddle- 
 stick. 
 
 " To cut the matter short," said the caliph, 
 "my minister advised me to consult you in 
 regard to her misfortune in killing or striking 
 blind those who look at her." 
 
 "The gods are to blame, sire," Fiddlestick cries, 
 " Who made her so handsome, and not her bright 
 eyes. 
 
 But if it is a misfortune to have such beau- 
 tiful eyes, hear what is to be done, according 
 to my humble opinion. The fairy Serena 
 knows all the secrets of nature; send her a 
 trifling present of a hundred or two hundred 
 thousand rupees, and if she does not find a 
 remedy for tlie eyes of the princess you may 
 be fully persuaded that her disorder is incur- 
 able; and in order to prevent all excuses or 
 delays, I will myself vmdertake to consult 
 Serena on your part, as I am well acquainted 
 with her habitation." 
 
 The califjh approved the proposal, and 
 ordered a jjurse of the most brilliant diamonds, 
 and half a bushel of the largest pearls, as a 
 present for the fairy ; and our adventurer set 
 
 out on the expedition, notwithstanding the 
 opposition and regret of the minister's wife. 
 
 During his absence on this expedition, which 
 lasted a month, the eyes of Brilliant did more 
 execution than ever; and the caliph ordered 
 public prayers and processions to incline Heaven 
 to look with an eye of pity on his distressed 
 subjects, and to prevent her fixing her eyes on 
 him. In the midst of these distresses and 
 ceremonies Fiddlestick returned, and repairing 
 to the caliph, who was in the act of consulting 
 his privy-council, thus addressed him : " Sire, 
 the fairy Serena presents her compliments, 
 thanks you for your present, but declines ac- 
 cepting it. She says that she is able to render 
 the eyes of the princess as harmless as those 
 of your majesty, without diminishing their 
 lustre, provided you will supply her with four 
 things." 
 
 " Four ! " returned the caliph ; "four hundred 
 if she pleases." 
 
 "Softly if you please," replied Fiddlestick; 
 " the first of these is the portrait of Brilliant ; 
 the second. May Flower; the third, the Lumi- 
 nous Hat; and the fourth, the mare Sonora." 
 
 "What is the meaning of all this?" inter- 
 rupted the caliph. 
 
 " I will tell you, sire," returned Fiddle- 
 stick. " Serena has a rival whose name is 
 Mother Long Tooth; she is almost as powerful 
 as herself, but as she employs her art in doing 
 harm, she is only a witch, while Serena is an 
 honest fairy. Now this old hag contrived to 
 carry away the daughter of Serena, and is now 
 endeavouring by most cniel usages to force 
 her to marry her son, who is a little monster. 
 This supposed daughter of Serena is called May 
 Flower. The old hag has also in her possession 
 a hat all covered with diamonds, and those 
 diamonds are so sparkling that they rival the 
 sun, and are only inferior to the lustre of Bril- 
 liant's eyes; this is the Luminous Hat. Beside 
 these things she has a mare, each hair of which 
 is provided with a golden bell, so harmonious 
 that it is a concert of itself; and whenever 
 this animal stirs the united sound of all the 
 bells forms a melody louder and more ravish- 
 ing than the harmony of the spheres. 
 
 " These are the four things which Serena 
 requires, and as a comfort, she added, that it 
 is next to impossible for any one who endea- 
 vours to carry off May Flower, the Luminous 
 Hat, and Sonora, not to avoid falling into 
 the hands of the old hag; and if that should 
 happen not all the powers of earth can again 
 deliver him from her clutches." 
 
 The consideration of these hard terms affected
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 31 
 
 the calipli and his privy-councillors to such a 
 degree that they burst into tears. Fiddlestick, 
 affected at their sorrow, said to the caliph, 
 " Sire, I know a man who will undertake to 
 execute the first commission." 
 
 " How !" returned the caliph, " to draw the 
 portrait of my daughter ! and who is there 
 sufficiently out of his senses to attempt what 
 is impossible ? " 
 
 " Fiddlestick," replied the other; "Fiddle- 
 stick!" returned the caliph; "Fiddlestick!" 
 repeated the minister and all the privy-coun- 
 cillors; "Fiddlestick!" echoed the courtiers 
 who were waiting in the drawing-room till the 
 caliph made his appearance ; and " Fiddle- 
 stick!" re-echoed the servants who were stand- 
 ing in the court-yard of the palace, and the 
 boys who were playing in the streets. 
 
 " Sire," said the minister, " he will succeed 
 if he undertakes it." 
 
 " And if he does," replied the caliph, " who 
 will undertake the rest?" 
 
 " Fiddlestick," answered the other ; " Fiddle- 
 stick!" said the caliph; "Fiddlestick!" re- 
 peated the minister and all the privy-council- 
 lors; " Fiddlestick ! " echoed the courtiers who 
 were waiting in the drawing-room till the 
 caliph made his appearance ; and " Fiddle- 
 stick!" re-echoed the servants who were stand- 
 ing in the court-yard of the palace, and the 
 boys who were playing in the streets. 
 
 " Sire," said Fiddlestick impatiently, " I 
 cannot engage in this attempt, but under two 
 conditions ; the first, that when my name is 
 mentioned, it may not be bandied about from 
 one to the other like so many echoes ; and the 
 second, that when the princess is restored to 
 the state which you desire, she may be per- 
 mitted to choose her own husband." 
 
 The caliph solemnly promised ; and the min- 
 ister, who loved business, issued lettei-s patent 
 under the great seal, granting to Fiddlestick 
 the sole monopoly of painting the portrait of 
 the Princess Brilliant, and of being called 
 Fiddlestick without any one's presuming to 
 repeat the name whenever it was mentioned. 
 
 This important business being finished, the 
 caliph and the whole court were emj)loyed 
 in making conjectures by what means he 
 would paint a countenance which no one could 
 look at without instant blindness or death; 
 but he soon convinced them that it was not 
 impossible. 
 
 Having travelled much, and being accus- 
 tomed to make a journal of his tour, he found 
 in his notes, that in those countries where 
 eclipses are common the natives were accus- 
 
 tomed to look at the sun through a glass 
 tinired with a dark colour. 
 
 He immediately contrived to make a i)air 
 of spectacles with gla.sses of a dark green 
 colour; and having tried their effect against 
 the sun at midday, he repaired to the apart- 
 ments of Brilliant with the proper apparatus 
 for taking her portrait. 
 
 This proceeding surprised her, and to punish 
 his rashness she opened her eyes as much as 
 she could, but all she did was in vain, for the 
 painter, after he had sufficiently and minutely 
 examined, under cover of his spectacles, the 
 features of her countenance, began the por- 
 trait. 
 
 Although he was not a painter by profes- 
 sion, yet no one surp;\ssed him in the art. He 
 had an exquisite taste in all the branches of 
 design, composition, and colouring, and was 
 an admirable judge of beauty. The beauty of 
 the princess did not at fii-st make upon his 
 heart that impression which might have been 
 expected. But by degi-ees his insensibility 
 wore off, he became smitten with her chai-ms, 
 and endeavoured to render himself agi-eeable 
 by the power of his wit and understanding, 
 which he possessed in so high a degree. The 
 princess was not insensible to the praises 
 which he bestowed on her beauty, and lis- 
 tened with the greatest attention to the agree- 
 able account of his travels, which he related 
 under the pretext of amusing her while she 
 was sitting for her picture. She was so de- 
 lighted with his lively sallies and amusing 
 conversation, that she would often prolong 
 the time in which she was to sit, always ex- 
 pressed her regret when he left her, quite 
 forgot that his person was not as beautiful as 
 his mind, and at length became passionately 
 in love with him. 
 
 The portrait was no sooner finished than it 
 became the admiration of the whole court; all 
 the courtiei-s to a man declared that they could 
 scarcely bear to look at the eyes of the pic- 
 ture, and affected to borrow spectacles for that 
 purpose. 
 
 • ■ • • • " 
 
 Meanwhile the princess became pensive and 
 melancholy, and her uneasiness increased as 
 the time approached when Fiddlestick was 
 about to depart in pursuit of so dangerous an 
 adventure. 
 
 On taking leave she assured him "that in 
 exposing himself for her sake he was going to 
 labom- for himself; for if he succeeded she was 
 permitted to choose her own husband, and she 
 need not tell him who that should be ; and if
 
 32 
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 he did not succeed, she should then remain 
 single." 
 
 It must be confessed, that this declaration 
 was plain and open; but in those days when- 
 ever a beautiful lady felt any symptoms of 
 tenderness she was eager to disclose them, and 
 princesses were not more squeamish than other 
 women. Nor was Fiddlestick shocked at this 
 eagerness; he flung himself twenty times at 
 her feet, to express transports which he did 
 not feel, for he was astonished at finding that 
 his heart did not beat time with his mouth, 
 and that lie did not love as much as lie pro- 
 fessed. 
 
 [After wonderful adventures, Fiddlestick, 
 aided by the fairy Serena, conquered old 
 Mother Long Tooth, and released May Flower; 
 at the same time he managed cleverly to fiU 
 the bells with something to hinder their sound- 
 ing, so that the mare called Sonora went off 
 with him quietly. The diamond hat also is 
 secured. May Flower, in gratitude for her re- 
 lease, fell in love with him, and he reciprocated 
 the feeling. However, he returned to court 
 accompanied by May Flower, and this is how 
 matters proceed.] 
 
 He carried in his hand a phial made of a 
 single diamond, containing a transparent 
 liquor of such splendour, that the eyes of 
 Brilliant herself were dazzled and closed of 
 themselves. 
 
 Fiddlestick took that opportunity of mois- 
 tening her temples and eyelids; having ordered 
 the doors to be thrown open, the people en- 
 tered in crowds and were witnesses to the 
 immediate effect of the hquor; her eyes were 
 no less brilliant than before, but so little 
 dangerous, that an infant of a year old could 
 ogle her during a whole day without danger. 
 
 Fiddlestick having respectfully kissed the 
 train of her robe retired from her presence, 
 and although the first emotion of his heart 
 would have carried him to the charming May 
 Flower, yet the report of the miracle he had 
 just performed was so quickly diffused, that he 
 was hurried involuntarily into the presence of 
 the caliph. 
 
 That good prince was almost transported 
 with joy when he heard that the eyes of his 
 daughter, though as bright as ever, were no 
 longer dangerous to behold, and when Fiddle- 
 stick had restored him to his sight he did not 
 appear so much delighted with seeing the light 
 of the sun, as grateful to him who had been 
 the means of opening his eyes. 
 
 He expressed a resolution of leading him 
 
 to his daughter, that she might choose him for 
 her husband, adding that the marriage should 
 instantly take place, and protested to his 
 council that he should never be completely 
 happy till he saw his palace full of little 
 Fiddlesticks. 
 
 The members of the council were upon the 
 point of repeating "Fiddlesticks ! " but fortun- 
 ately in time recollected the letters 2:>atent 
 which declared all those who repeated that 
 word guilty of high treason, and were silent. 
 
 [While the eyes of the Princess Brilliant 
 were being cured it was found that a beloved 
 l^arrot belonging to her had taken flight; all 
 other considerations were for the time for- 
 gotten in this dreadful calamity, and the 
 princess was almost distracted. In the midst 
 of the confusion the parrot returned. The 
 fairy Serena appeared and instantly restored 
 him to his former shape, that of a handsome 
 young prince named Phoenix. The Princess 
 Brilliant at once fell in love with him, and 
 he with her. All this was perplexing to the 
 caliph, who had intended his daughter for 
 Fiddlestick. The fairy Serena proposed to 
 tell her story and set matters right, and after 
 describing her father, who for love of science 
 resigned a crown, and ultimately succeeded in 
 discovering the philosopher's stone, — the mar- 
 riage of her sister to a Circassian prince, — the 
 death of her mother, and subsequently of her 
 father, who bequeathed to her all his magic 
 powers, — and her discovery by this means 
 that the eldest daughter of her sister is 
 menaced with great danger, — she goes on to 
 relate how she found the secret foe : — ] 
 
 "I had immediately recourse to my wand, 
 and having drawn the extremity over a skin of 
 parchment it traced of its own accord the 
 horrible figure of Mother Long Tooth, the 
 situation of her abode, her enchantments and 
 inclinations. I was shocked at finding that 
 the most horrible of all creatures had a gi-eater 
 propensity to love than to vengeance and 
 cruelty ; that she employed her art in drawing 
 men into her snares. I had also the regi'et of 
 discovering that neither my power nor my art 
 could avail against hers as long as she pos- 
 sessed Sonora and the Luminous Hat. 
 
 " I learned, moreover, by means of my wand 
 that she had an only son nearly of the same 
 age of May Flower, and I was convinced that 
 her aim was to carry oflF the heiress of Circas- 
 sia and give her to Master Long Tooth. For 
 this reason I proposed to take her under my 
 protection, and my sister sent her to me 
 secretly. But that precaution was of no ser-
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 33 
 
 vice, for the old hag contrived to carry her off 
 almost ill my presence, at the very moment 
 when she was about to be delivei'ed to me. I 
 in vain passed her ofl" as my daughter; the 
 cruel Mother Long Tooth was not to be de- 
 ceived, and all my arts were ineffectual in 
 defending my poor little May Flower from the 
 clutches of the inhuman sorceress. Yes, Caliph 
 of Cashmeer,that same May Flower whom you 
 now see is heiress of Cu'cassia. 
 
 " May Flower was thus torn from me, and 
 neither my art nor the powers of this world 
 could have delivered her from the fangs of 
 the sorceress if Fiddlestick had not under- 
 taken the enterprise. That glory was reserved 
 to the most ingenious as well as the most 
 faithful of lovers. I well knew that these two 
 qualities were necessary to him who should 
 carry off Sonora and the Luminous Hat ; and 
 I could not form a conjecture where I shoidd 
 find a man of such a character. 
 
 " About the same time Brilliant was bom, 
 and my books which I consulted on that 
 occasion having informed me that she would 
 be an extraordinary beauty, I spread a secret 
 contagion over the lustre of her eyes, well 
 convinced that I should be applied to for the 
 remedy, and resolved not to grant it but on 
 the condition of obtaining May Flower and 
 the treasures of Mother Long Tooth. 
 
 " The curiosity of Fiddlestick fortunately 
 conducted him to my palace before he made 
 his appearance at court, and what I discovered 
 of his understanding and sentiments made me 
 hope that if he undertook the adventure he 
 might succeed. 
 
 "Thus, sire. Fiddlestick is not so badly 
 married as your majesty imagined ; and the 
 loss of Cashmeer and Brilliant will be amply 
 supplied by the throne of Circassia and the 
 possession of his beloved May Flower." 
 
 Serena had no sooner finished her relation, 
 and the caliph was prepaiing a long harangue 
 of compliments to her, and of excuses to May 
 Flower, when he was relieved of his embar- 
 ra-ssments by supper's being announced, and 
 his most serene majesty had only time to say, 
 " I trust, most mighty Serena, that you will 
 unite with me in wishing that the brides and 
 bridegi'ooms may enjoy that happiness which 
 they deserve; that Brilliant may bear to 
 Phoenix a numerous progeny as beautiful as 
 their parents; that the palace of Circassia may 
 be filled with little Fiddlesticks, who shall 
 equal their father in ingenuity and courage, 
 and their mother in meekness and patience, 
 Vol. I. 
 
 and that future generations may continue to 
 hail the auspicious hour which placed on the 
 throne Sultan Fiddlestick the First and his 
 beloved May Flower." 
 
 THE ENCHANTER FAUSTUS: 
 A TALE TOLD TO A YOUNG LADY.' 
 
 Queen Elizabeth, in whose reign a great- 
 grandfather of my lady, your mother, was 
 lord high-admiral of Ireland, was a princess 
 wonderful alike for wisdom, knowledge, mag- 
 nificence, and greatness of character. So far 
 so good; but she was as envious as a dog, and 
 withal jealous and cruel, and this marred all 
 the rest. 
 
 Be this as it might, common report, which 
 never fails to give the bad side with the good, 
 had borne her reputation into the very depths 
 of Germany, whence a certain personage im- 
 mediately set out to betake himself to her 
 court. His name was Faust, but it is not 
 unlikely we may hereafter call him Faustus,for 
 the convenience of the rhyme, in case the fancy 
 should take us to put him into verse. This 
 Faustus, a great magician by profession, con- 
 ceived a desire to ascertain in person whether 
 the aforesaid Elizabeth, whereof such wonders 
 were related, was indeed as marvellously en- 
 dowed with good qualities as she was cursed 
 with bad. He was in every way fitted to 
 judge of the matter; for there was nothing 
 took place up aloft in the region of the stars 
 and planets but he knew of it; and Satan was 
 as obedient to his beck as a poodle. 
 
 One day being decked out with more than 
 usual magnificence in order to receive some 
 ambassadors,she had retired after the ceremony 
 into her private closet, where she summoned 
 our doctor to her presence. After admiring 
 herself for some time in two or thi-ee large 
 mirrors, she appeared mightily pleased with 
 herself. 
 
 She was in this position when the enchanter 
 Faustus made his appearance. He was the 
 most accomplished courtier, for a conjurer, the 
 world ever saw, and knowing the queen's weak- 
 ness with respect to her imaginary beauty, he 
 took good care not to lose so precious an op- 
 portunity of paying her his court. Accord- 
 ingly, playing the part of the astounded Esther, 
 he staggered back three steps as if about to 
 
 1 Translated from the original French in 1849. 
 
 3
 
 34 
 
 COUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 fall into a swoon. Whereupon the queen ask- 
 ing him if he felt ill, he replied, 
 
 "No, thank God, but the glory of Ahasuerus 
 has overpowered me." 
 
 The queen, who had the Old and New 
 Testament by heart, considered the allusion 
 as just as it was ingenious, but not having 
 her sceptre about her at the time that she 
 might give him the end of it to kiss as a token 
 of favour, she contented herself with drawing 
 a ruby ring from her alabaster finger, with 
 which he was just as well contented. 
 
 " For a queen, then," she said, " you think 
 we make a tolerable figure ; " at the same time 
 she moistened her lips with the tip of her 
 tongue as if quite unconsciously; whereupon 
 he swore the devil might have him (and the 
 prospect was no new one to the devil) if there 
 then existed or ever had existed her equal, 
 crowned or uncrowned. 
 
 " O Faustus, my friend," said she, " if the 
 famous beaiities of antiquity could but return, 
 it would be apparent that you flatter us." 
 
 "Would your majesty wish to see them?" 
 he replied. "Let her but speak and she may 
 satisfy her conscience at once." 
 
 The doctor's proposal was snapped at forth- 
 with, whether from the queen's desire to put 
 his magical science to the proof by so marvel- 
 lous an application of it, or for the satisfaction 
 of a curiosity she had long entertained. 
 
 You must not, however, imagine, Made- 
 moiselle, that what I am about to relate to you 
 is a mere fable and the coinage of my own 
 brain. The event is handed down in the 
 memoirs of one of the wits of the day. Sir 
 Philip Sydney, a sort of favourite of the 
 queen's, who has narrated the adventure at 
 length among the occurrences of his life, and 
 I have it from the late Duke of Ormond, your 
 grand-uncle, who frequently related it to me 
 as a matter of history. 
 
 The story goes on to say, then, that our con- 
 jurer requested the queen to step into a little 
 gallery close to her apartment while he went 
 to fetch his wand, his book, and his long black 
 robe. He was not long ere he returned with 
 all his talismans and paraphernalia. The gal- 
 lery had two doors, one at each end ; by one 
 of these the personages whom her majesty 
 desired to behold were to enter, and by the 
 other to depart. Only two persons more in 
 addition to the queen were admitted to the 
 spectacle ; one of these was Lord Essex, and 
 the other Sydney, the author of the memoii's. 
 
 The queen was posted about the middle of the 
 gallery, and her two favourites on either side 
 
 of her arm-chair, while the magician began, 
 as a matter of course, to draw round them a 
 mysterious circle, which he did witli all the 
 ceremonies usually employed on such occasions. 
 He then drew another directly opposite for 
 himself to stand in, leaving a space between, 
 through which the actors were to pass. There- 
 upon he entreated the queen not to utter a 
 word so long as they remained on the stage, 
 and above all not to alarm herself at anything 
 she might see. This latter precaution was 
 somewhat superfluous with respect to her, for 
 the good lady feared neither God nor devil. 
 Having imparted this admonition, he asked 
 her which of the defunct beauties she wished 
 to behold first; to which she replied that in 
 order to follow the proper chronological order, 
 he ought to begin with Helen of Troy. Where- 
 upon the necromancer, whose countenance ap- 
 peared to undergo a slight change, called to 
 them to " stand firm." Sydney confesses in 
 his memoirs that at this point of the magical 
 operation his heart began to beat a little, 
 adding that the brave Lord Essex turned as 
 white as a sheet, but that not a trace of any 
 emotion was visible in the queen. It was then 
 that — 
 
 After an incantation mutter'd, 
 Sotte voce it is said, 
 
 And sundry other mummeries utter'd, 
 The doctor Faustus raised his dead; 
 And seeing our two heroes dying 
 With fright, said, Hke a fury crying, 
 "Daughter of Leda, from your tomb 
 In all your ancient beauty come, 
 Such as you were in olden time, 
 When upon Ida's mountain shone 
 That beauty sparkling as its clime, 
 And Paris claim'd thee as his own." 
 
 After this invocation the lovely Helen could 
 not reasonably keep them waiting; accordingly 
 she appeared at the end of the gallery without 
 anyone perceiving how she had come in. She 
 was attired in a Greek costume, and our 
 author's memoire state that her dress diff'ered 
 in nothing from that worn by our opera god- 
 desses. ... As soon as she had disappeared 
 the queen exclaimed, 
 
 "What, is that the lovely Helen? Well, I 
 don't plume myself on my beauty," she con- 
 tinued, " but may I die if I would change 
 faces with her, even if it were possible." 
 
 " I told your majesty as much," replied the 
 magician; " and yet you saw her exactly as she 
 appeared in the very zenith of her beauty." 
 
 " Still," said Lord Essex, " I think her eyes 
 may be considered fine."
 
 THOMAS PAENELL. 
 
 35 
 
 " It must be admitted," rejoined Sydney, 
 " that they are large, nobly sliaped, black and 
 sparkling, but what expression is there in 
 them?" 
 
 "Not a pai'ticle," replied the favourite. 
 
 The queen, whose face that day was as red as 
 a turkey cock's, asked them what they thought 
 of Helen's porcelain complexion. 
 
 "Porcelain," cried Essex, "'tis but common 
 delf at the best." 
 
 [After the queen had seen Mariamne and 
 Cleopatra, fair Rosamond was next proposed, 
 whom Sydney declared was like the queen. 
 Elizabeth was so pleased with this, as the 
 phantom Rosamond had been very beautiful, 
 
 that she desired Dr. Faustus to call her before 
 them once more. The doctor tried to dissuade 
 her, but she was determined.] 
 
 He assured her, however, that if Rosa- 
 mond did return, it would neither be through 
 the door by which she had entered, nor that 
 Ijy which she had departed on her first ap- 
 pearance, and warned every one to take care 
 of himself, for he would not answer for con- 
 sequences. The queen, as we have already 
 observed, knew not the sensation of fear, and 
 our two gentlemen in waiting were by this 
 time sufficiently hardened to supernatural 
 appearances, so that the doctor's words gave 
 them no alarm. 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 BoBN 1679 — Died 1717. 
 
 [The life of Thomas Parnell was a short and 
 uneventful one, though for a time he jostled 
 amongst the foremost men — wits and poets — of 
 his day. He was born in Dublin in 1679, and 
 early in life displayed considerable ability as 
 well as quickness of memory. When only 
 thirteen years of age he left the school of Dr. 
 Jones and was admitted a member of Trinity 
 College. This admission not being by favour, 
 but after examination, proves the early, per- 
 haps the too early, matuiity of his understand- 
 ing. On the 9th July, 1700, he took his degree 
 of Master of Arts, and shortly after, having 
 obtained a dispensation as being under can- 
 onical age, he was ordained a deacon by Dr. 
 King, then Bishop of Derry. Three years 
 later he was ordained priest, and in 1705 had 
 conferred on him the Archdeaconry of Clogher. 
 About the same time also he married a 
 Miss Ann Minchin, a lady of great beauty 
 and high attainments, and who inspired him 
 to write at least one of his songs. My Days 
 have been so Wondrous Free. In 1706 Parnell 
 visited England, where he was well received, 
 and where he was soon admitted a member 
 of the Scriblerus Club, formed of Pope, Gay, 
 Arbuthnot, Swift, and Jervas. Pope especi- 
 ally soon became his warm friend, mutual 
 services drawing them nearer and nearer to 
 each other. His erudition and classical know- 
 ledge were of great use to Pope in producing 
 his translation of Homer, an obligation the 
 great man repaid by his edition of Parnell's 
 works after the early death of their author. 
 
 Of the Scriblerus papers Parnell is said to 
 have written or had a hand in several. The 
 Life of Zoilas was from his pen, and in the 
 Oi-igin of the Sciences from the Monkies in 
 Ethiopia, he had a principal share, according 
 to Pope. He also wrote papers for the Guar- 
 dian and Spectator, and some of his poems 
 having appeared, he was on the highroad to 
 fame when in 1712 his wife died, and, moved 
 by sorrow and the lassitude of a weak con- 
 stitution, he gave way a little more than was 
 wise to the delights of the bottle. This, how- 
 ever, he soon shook off to a great extent, being 
 of too pure and refined a nature to become its 
 slave. In 1713, by the good offices of Swift, 
 he obtained a prebend fi'om Ai'chbishop King, 
 and in 1716 the vicarage of Finglass, worth 
 £400 a year. This last he did not long enjoy, 
 for on his way to Ireland in July, 1717, he died 
 at Chester, and was buried in Trinity Church 
 in that city. Over his grave no monument was 
 placed, not even by his nephew, Sir John 
 Parnell, who by his death became possessor 
 of the hereditary property of the family. 
 
 Campbell, in his Specimens of British Poetry, 
 says: "The compass of Parnell's poetry is not 
 extensive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful 
 . . . from the graceful and reserved sensibility 
 that accompanied his polished phraseology. 
 The curiosa felicitas, the studied happiness of 
 his diction, does not spoil its simplicity. His 
 poetry is like a flower that has been trained 
 and planted by the skill of the gardener, but 
 which preserves in its cultured state the nat-
 
 36 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 ural fragrance of its wilder air." A later 
 critic, the Rev. John Mitford, says, that in his 
 Hesiocl, his Hermit, and his Fairy Tale, he 
 "has given us poems that, in their kind, it 
 would be very difficult to surpass in excel- 
 lence." Dr. Johnson, after speaking of Par- 
 nell's Hermit, says, "Of his other compositions, 
 it is impossible to say whether they are the 
 productions of nature so excellent as not to 
 want the help of art, or of art so refined as to 
 resemble nature." 
 
 In 1721 Pope gathered together and pub- 
 lished in one volume a collection of the best 
 of Parnell's poems, to which he attached an 
 epistle to the Earl of Oxford in his very best 
 manner. In 1758 The Posthumous Works of 
 Parnell appeared in Dublin. These, with 
 several additional poems, collected by Mr. 
 Nicholls, were printed in the London collec- 
 tion of English poets, and afterwards reprinted 
 in the British Poets, published at Edinburgh 
 in 1795. Goldsmith published an edition of 
 Pope's volume, to which he added a life, and 
 two poems. Piety or the Vision and Bacchus. 
 During the last seventy or eighty years several 
 editions of ParneU have appeared, and he has 
 a place among the Aldine Series of Poets^ 
 
 A FAIRY TALE, 
 
 IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE. 
 
 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, 
 When midnight faeries daunc'd the maze, 
 
 Liv'd Edwin of the green; 
 Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
 Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 
 
 Though badly shap'd he been. 
 
 His mountain back mote well be said 
 To measure heighth against his head, 
 
 And lift itself above: 
 Yet spite of all that nature did 
 To make his uncouth form forbid, 
 
 This creature dar'd to love. 
 
 He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. 
 Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 
 
 Could ladies look within; 
 But one Sir Topaz drcss'd with art, 
 And, if a shape could win a heart, 
 
 He had a shape to win. 
 
 Edwin, if right I read my song, 
 With slighted passion pac'd along 
 
 All in tlic moony light: 
 'Twas near an old enchaunted court, 
 
 Where sportive faeries made resort 
 To revel out the night. 
 
 His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 
 'Twas late, 'twas farr, the path was lost 
 
 That reach'd the neighbour-town; 
 With weary steps he quits the shades, 
 Eesolv'd the darkling dome he treads. 
 
 And drops his limbs adown. 
 
 But scant he lays him on the floor, 
 When hollow winds remove the door, 
 
 A trembling rocks the ground: 
 And, well I ween to count aright, 
 At once a hundred tapers light 
 
 On all the walls around. 
 
 Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
 Now sounding feet approachen near, 
 
 And now the sounds encrease; 
 And from the corner where he lay 
 He sees a train profusely gay 
 
 Come pranckling o'er the place. 
 
 But, trust me, gentles, never yet 
 Was dight a masquing half so neat, 
 
 Or half so rich before; 
 The country lent the sweet perfumes, 
 The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes. 
 
 The town its silken store. 
 
 Now whilst he gaz'd, a gallant drest 
 In flaunting robes above the rest, 
 
 With awfuU accent cried, 
 "What mortal of a wretched mind, 
 Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, 
 
 Has here presumed to hide? " 
 
 At this the swain, whose venturous soul 
 No fears of magic art controul, 
 Advanc'd in open sight; 
 "Nor have I cause of dreed," he said, 
 "Who view, by no presumption led, 
 Your revels of the night. 
 
 " 'Twas grief for scorn of faithful love 
 Which made my steps unweeting rove 
 
 Amid the nightly dew." 
 "'Tis well," the gallant cries again, 
 "We faeries never injure men 
 
 Who dare to tell us true. 
 
 " Exalt thy love-dejected heart. 
 Be mine the task, or ere we part, 
 
 To make thee grief resign ; 
 Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; 
 Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce. 
 
 Be little Mable thine." 
 
 He spoke, and all a sudden there 
 Light musick floats in wanton air; 
 The monarch leads the queen;
 
 THOMAS PAENELL. 
 
 87 
 
 The rest their faerie partners foand, 
 
 And Mable trimly tript the f,'round 
 
 With Edwin of the green. 
 
 The dauncing pawt, the board was laid, 
 And fiiker sucli a feast was made 
 
 As heart and lip desire; 
 Withouten hands the dishes fly, 
 The glasses with a wish come nigh, 
 
 And with a wish retire. 
 
 But now to please the faerie king, 
 Full every deal they laugh and sing, 
 
 And antick feats devise; 
 Some wind and tumble like an ape, 
 And other-some transmute their shape 
 
 In Edwin's wondering eyes. 
 
 Till one at last that Robin hight, 
 Renown'd for pinching maids by night. 
 
 Has hent him up aloof; 
 And full against the beam he flung, 
 AVhere by the back the youth he hung 
 
 To spraul unneath the roof. 
 
 From thence, " Reverse my charm," lie cries, 
 "And let it fairly now suffice 
 
 The gambol has been shown. " 
 But Oberon answers with a smile, 
 "Content thee, Edwin, for a while, 
 The vantage is thine own. " 
 
 Here ended all the phantome play; 
 They smelt the fresh approach of day, 
 
 And heard a cock to crow; 
 The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
 Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, 
 
 To warn them all to go. 
 
 Then screaming all at once they fly, 
 And all at once the tapers die; 
 
 Poor Edwin falls to floor; 
 Forlorn his state, and dark the place, 
 Was never wight in sike a case 
 
 Through all the land before. 
 
 But soon as Dan Apollo rose. 
 Full jolly creature home he goes, 
 
 He feels his back the less; 
 His honest tongue and steady mind 
 Han rid him of the lump behind 
 
 Which made him want success. 
 
 With lusty livelyhed he talks. 
 He seems a dauncing as he walks; 
 
 His story soon took wind; 
 And beauteous Edith sees the youth, 
 Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 
 
 Without a bunch behind. 
 
 The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd. 
 
 The youth of Edith erst approv'd. 
 
 To see the revel scene: 
 
 At close of eve he leaves his home. 
 
 And wends to find the ruin'd dome 
 
 All on the gloomy plain. 
 
 As there he bides, it so befell, 
 
 The wind came rustling down a dell, 
 
 A shaking seiz'd the wall: 
 Up spring the tapers as before, 
 The faeries bragly foot the floor, 
 
 And musick fills the hall. 
 
 But certes sorely sunk with woe 
 Sir Topaz sees the elfin show, 
 
 His spirits in him die: 
 When Oberon cries, "A man is near, 
 A mortall passion, cleeped fear, 
 
 Hangs flagging in the sky." 
 
 With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth! 
 In accents faultering ay for ruth 
 
 Intreats them pity graunt; 
 For als he been a mister wight 
 Betray'd by wandering in the night 
 
 To tread the circled haunt. 
 
 ' Ah losell vile ! " at once they roar, 
 "And little skill'd of faerie lore. 
 
 Thy cause to come we know: 
 Now has thy kestrell courage fell; 
 And faeries, since a lie you tell. 
 Are free to work thee woe. " 
 
 Then Will, who bears the wispy fire 
 To trail the swains among the mire, 
 
 The caitive upward flung; 
 There like a tortoise in a shop 
 He dangled from the chamber-top, 
 
 Where whilome Edwin hung. 
 
 The revel now proceeds apace, 
 Defily they frisk it o'er the place. 
 
 They sit, they drink, and eat; 
 The time with frolick mirth beguile, 
 And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 
 
 Till all the rout retreat. 
 
 By this the starrs began to wink. 
 They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, 
 
 ^Vnd down ydrops the knight: 
 For never spell by faerie laid 
 With strong enchantment bound a glade 
 
 Beyond the length of night. 
 
 Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, 
 Till up the welkin rose the day. 
 
 Then deem'd the dole was o'er: 
 But wot ye well his harder lot? 
 His seely back the bunch has got 
 
 Which Edwin lost afore. 
 
 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread ; 
 She softly strok'd my youngling head. 
 And when the tale was done.
 
 38 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 " Thus some are bom, my son," she cries, 
 "With base impediments to rise, 
 And some are born to none. " 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
 From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; 
 The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
 His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: 
 Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
 
 Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose; 
 
 That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey. 
 
 This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: 
 
 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
 
 And all the tenour of his soul is lost. 
 
 So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
 
 Calm nature's image on its watery breast, 
 
 Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. 
 
 And skies beneath with answering colours glow: 
 
 But if a stone the gentle scene divide. 
 
 Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 
 
 And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
 
 Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
 
 To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
 To find if books, or swains, report it right 
 (For yet by swains alone the world he knew 
 Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew). 
 He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore. 
 And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; 
 Then with the sun a rising journey went. 
 Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
 
 The morn was wasted in the pathless grass. 
 And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; 
 But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
 A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; 
 His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
 And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. 
 Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he cried; 
 "And hail, my son," the reverend sire replied; 
 Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd. 
 And talk of various kinds deceiv'd the road; 
 Till each with other pleas'd, and loath to part, 
 While in their age they differ, join in heart: 
 Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
 Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
 
 Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day 
 Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; 
 Nature in silence bid the world repose; 
 When near the road a stately palace rose: 
 There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass. 
 Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. 
 
 It chanc'd the noble master of the dome 
 
 Still made his house the wandering stranger's 
 
 home: 
 Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
 Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
 The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait; 
 Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
 The table groans with costly piles of food, 
 And all is more than hospitably good. 
 Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. 
 Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 
 
 At length 'tis mom, and at the dawn of day 
 Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; 
 Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
 And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. 
 Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
 An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; 
 Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd, 
 Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. 
 Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go; 
 And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe; 
 His cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise 
 The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 
 
 As one who spies a serpent in his way. 
 
 Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
 
 Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, 
 
 Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; 
 
 So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road. 
 
 The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
 
 He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling 
 
 heart, 
 And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part: 
 Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
 That generous actions meet a base reward. 
 
 While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, 
 The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; 
 A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, 
 And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
 Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, 
 To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground. 
 And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around; 
 Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. 
 Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. 
 
 As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
 Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; 
 The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, 
 And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
 Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
 Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
 At length some pity warm'd the master's breast 
 ('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest), 
 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
 And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; 
 One frugal faggot lights the naked walls. 
 And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls: 
 Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 39 
 
 Each hardly granted, serv'd them both to dine; 
 And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
 A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
 With still remark the pondering hermit view'd 
 In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; 
 And why should such, within himself he cried, 
 Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? 
 But what new marks of wonder soon took place 
 In every settling feature of his face, 
 When from his vest the young companion bore 
 That cup, the generous landlord own'd before. 
 And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
 The stinted kindness of this churlish soul! 
 
 But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; 
 
 The sun emerging opes an azure sky; 
 
 A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
 
 And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: 
 
 The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
 
 And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 
 
 While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 
 
 wrought 
 With all the travel of uncertain thought; 
 His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here: 
 Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
 Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
 
 Now night's dim shades again involve the sky. 
 Again the wanderers want a place to lie. 
 Again they search, and find a lodging nigh: 
 The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat. 
 And neither poorly low, nor idly great: 
 It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind. 
 Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. 
 
 Hither the walkers turn with weary feet. 
 Then bless the mansion, and the master greet: 
 Their greeting fair bestow'd, with modest guise. 
 The courteous master hears, and thus replies: 
 
 " Without a vain, without a grudging heart. 
 To him who gives us all, I yield a part; 
 From him you come, for him accept it here, 
 A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
 He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. 
 Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed. 
 When the grave household round his hall repair, 
 Wam'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 
 
 At length the world, renew'd by calm repose. 
 Was strong for toil, the dappled mom arose. 
 Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
 Near the clos'd cradle where an infant .slept. 
 And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride, 
 strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 
 Horror of horrors! what! his only son! 
 How look'd our hermit when the fact was done? 
 Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. 
 And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 
 
 Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed. 
 He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed; 
 His steps the youth pursues: the country lay 
 Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: 
 A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er 
 Was nice to find ; the servant trod before : 
 Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. 
 And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
 The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
 Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in; 
 Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head. 
 Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 
 
 Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes. 
 He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
 " Detested wretch! " — but scarce his speech began, 
 When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: 
 His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; 
 His robe tum'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; 
 Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; 
 Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; 
 And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, 
 Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
 The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
 And moves in all the majesty of light. 
 
 Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew. 
 Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; 
 Surprise in secret chains his words suspends. 
 And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
 But silence here the beauteous angel broke. 
 The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke. 
 
 "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
 In sweet memorial rise before the throne: 
 These charms, success in our bright region find. 
 And force an angel down, to calm thy mind; 
 For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky. 
 Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
 
 ' ' Then know the truth of government divine. 
 And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
 
 "The Maker justly claims that world he made. 
 In this the riuht of Providence is laid; 
 Its sacred majesty through all depends 
 On using second means to work his ends: 
 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
 The power exerts his attributes on high. 
 Your actions uses, nor controls your will. 
 And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
 
 "What strange events can strike with more sur- 
 prise. 
 Than those which lately struck thy wondering eye.-^? 
 Yet taught by these, confess th' Almighty just. 
 And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 
 
 "The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food. 
 Whose life was too luxurious to be good; 
 Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
 And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine,
 
 40 
 
 ROBERT VISCOUNT MOLESWORTH. 
 
 Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
 And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
 
 "The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
 Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor; 
 With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
 That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
 Conscious of wanting worth, he views tlie bowl. 
 And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
 Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 
 With heaping coals of fire upon its head; 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
 And loose from dross, the silver runs below. 
 
 " Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
 
 But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God; 
 
 Child of his age, for him he liv'd in pain, 
 
 And measur'd back his steps to earth again. 
 
 To what excesses had this dotage run! 
 
 But God, to save the father, took the son. 
 
 To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go. 
 
 And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. " 
 
 The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
 Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
 
 ' ' But how had all his fortune felt a wrack. 
 Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
 This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal, 
 And what a fund of charity would fail! 
 
 "Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
 Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
 
 On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
 The sage stood wondering as the seraph Hew. 
 Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
 His master took the chariot of the sky; 
 The fiery pomp ascending left the view; 
 The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. 
 
 The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 
 " Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done!" 
 Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place. 
 And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 
 
 ROBERT VISCOUNT MOLESWORTH. 
 
 BOBN 1656 — Died 1725. 
 
 [Robert Molesworth, Viscount Molesworth of 
 Swords, in County Dublin, was born at Dublin 
 in December, 1656, four days after the death of 
 his father, an eminent merchant of that city, 
 and one who had in early life served as a cap- 
 tain in the army. In Dublin young Moles- 
 worth received his education, and in due time 
 he entered the university there. Before he 
 ■was of full age he married a sister of Richard, 
 Earlof Bellamont,by whom he had adaughter, 
 afterwards well known to the world as Mrs. 
 Monk, author of Mari7ida} In 1688 he took 
 such a prominent part on the side of William 
 III. that he was attainted and his estate 
 sequestrated by the Irish parliament of James 
 on the 2nd May, 1689. This, however, only 
 served to his advancement, for on the success of 
 William he had all his estates restored, was 
 called to the privy-council, and in 1692 sent 
 envoy extraordinary to the court of Denmark. 
 
 In Denmark Molesworth resided about three 
 years, but at the end of that time he seems to 
 have given offence to the Danish king, and was 
 forbidden the court. This ollence appears to 
 have consisted in travelling the king's road 
 and hunting the king's game. Turning his 
 back upon the court without the ceremony of 
 a final audience he hastened to I'landcrs, and 
 » See page 11. 
 
 from thence home without leave. So soon as 
 he arrived he began to draw up his Account 
 of Denmark, in which he proved that there 
 were indeed many things "rotten in the state". 
 As might be expected. Prince George of Den- 
 mark was highly incensed at the free speech 
 in Molesworth 's work, and Scheel, the Danish 
 envoy, presented a memorial of complaint 
 against it to William III. Scheel also em- 
 ployed Dr. William King of London, author 
 of the Art of Love and the Art of Cookery, to 
 write a reply, and presented him with mate- 
 rials for spicing his dish. 
 
 Molesworth, however, took little notice of 
 all this fuss. His book and himself had by 
 one bound sprung into popularity, and the 
 former was immediately translated into several 
 languages. Shaftesbury, who saw in the book 
 not only an Account of Denmark, hut a politico- 
 philosophical treatise of a high kind, spoke out 
 his approval, and "conceived a great esteem 
 for the author, which afterwards ripened into 
 a close friendship ". Later on, in writing to 
 Molesworth, Shaftesbury said, "You have 
 long had my heart even before I knew you 
 personally. For the wholly and truly pious 
 man who revealed the greatest of mystei'ies; 
 he who, with a truly generous love to man- 
 kind and his country, pointed out the state of
 
 ROBERT VISCOUNT MOLESWORTH. 
 
 41 
 
 Denmark to other states, and propliesied of 
 things highly important to the gi'owing age ; 
 he, I say, had ah-eady gained me as his sworn 
 friend before he was so kind jus to make 
 friendship reciprocal by his ucquaintiuice and 
 expressed esteem." 
 
 After this Molesworth sat in the House of 
 Commons of both kingdoms, being member 
 for the borougli of Swords in Irehmd, and for 
 tliose of Bodmin, St. Micliael, and Retford in 
 Enghuid. He sat as a member of the privy- 
 council till the latter end of the reign of 
 Queen Anne, when, owing to the height of 
 party feeling, he was removed from the board. 
 This was on complaint of the Lower House of 
 •Convocation that he had aflfronted the clergy 
 when they presented their address to the lord- 
 chancellor, and that he had said openly, as no 
 <ioubt he did, "They that have turned the 
 world upside down are come hither also." 
 
 However, as Molesworth was a constant 
 and strenuous defender of the succession of 
 the house of Hanover, George I., on the 
 naming of his privy-council for Ireland, in 
 October, 1714, made him a member. Soon 
 .after he was appointed a commissioner of 
 trade and plantations, and in 1716 he was 
 made a peer of Ireland under the title of 
 Baron of Philipstown and Viscount Moles- 
 worth of Swords. For some years longer, 
 that is, until the early part of 1723, he con- | 
 tinned his labours. In 1723 he retired into 
 private life, in which he passed two quiet 
 happy years, and died at Breedenstown in the j 
 county of Dublin on the 22d of May, 1725. j 
 He was buried at Swords. ' 
 
 In addition to his Account of Denmark, 
 from which we quote, Molesworth wrote a | 
 great number of able pamphlets, and ephemeral 
 but highly successful and useful tracts, of a j 
 political and politico-philosophical kind. He 
 translated into English the Franco-G allia of 
 Hottoman, of which a second edition appeared 
 in 1721, with additions and a new preface by 
 the translator. His Address to the House of 
 Commons on the encouragement of agriculture 
 was frequently referred to for many years, and 
 his letter on the Irish peerage is not yet for- 
 gotten in certain quarters. 
 
 The letters of Locke and Molyneux show 
 that both these philosophers had a great 
 respect for Molesworth, and held him in high 
 regard. Locke calls him "an extraordinary 
 man;" and a biogi'apher writing in 1798 speaks 
 of his minor works as written " with great 
 force of reason and masculine eloquence, in 
 defence of liberty and his ideas of the con- 
 
 stitution of his country and the common rights 
 of mankind; and it is certain that few men 
 of his fortune and quality were more learned, 
 or more highly esteemed by men of learning."] 
 
 THE COURT OF DENMARK.^ 
 
 The ordinai'y diversions of the court are pro- 
 gresses, which are made once a year at least, 
 to Sleswick or Holstein, either to make a review 
 of some troops or to see the fortifications at 
 Rendsburg ; besides smaller journeys to Hol- 
 land and elsewhere, up and down the country. 
 These are of no expense to the trea-sury, because 
 the travelling waggons and horses are found by 
 the boors, who are also to pay their peisonal 
 attendants, and be ready for all necessary 
 services. During five or six weeks every sum- 
 mer the court removes to Jagersburg, a small 
 hunting house situated upon a little lake within 
 four English miles from Copenhagen, and not 
 far from the sea; and for five or six weeks 
 more it resides at Fredericksburg, the chief 
 country palace of the kings of Denmark, about 
 twenty English miles from Copenhagen, begun 
 by Christian the Fourth, and finished by this 
 king's father, Frederick the Third. This is 
 that house which the Danes boast so much of, 
 and tell wonders of the quantity of money it 
 cost in building. It is seated in the midst of 
 a lake, the foundations of it being laid in the 
 water, which probably occasioned the greater 
 part of the expense ; you pass into it over 
 several drawbridges. This watery situation in 
 so moist and cold a country cannot be approved 
 by the critical in seats, especially when the 
 rising grounds about this lake (which are 
 clothed with fine woods) afford much better 
 places both for health and ])ros]ject ; but it is 
 the humour of all this kingdom to build in the 
 midst of lakes ; which I suppose was at first 
 practised upon the score of security. This 
 palace, notwithstanding the great cost they 
 talk of, is far from being magnificent or 
 well contrived ; for the rooms are low, the 
 apartments iU disposed, the fine chapel much 
 too long in propoition to its breadth, and has 
 a gallery over it which has one of the worst 
 contrived entrances that can be imagined. In 
 fine, it falls far short of many of our noblemen's 
 country houses in England, yet is esteemed by 
 the Danes as a none-such. There is indeed a 
 
 1 T}iis and the following extract are from An Account 
 of Denmark.
 
 42 
 
 EGBERT VISCOUNT MOLESWORTH. 
 
 fine park about it, well filled with red-deer, 
 having large ponds, high trees in great quan- 
 tity, a good bathing house, and other country 
 embellishments; so that it is by far to be 
 preferred to all the rest of the king's houses, 
 which, except these two last mentioned, are 
 for the most jjart out of repair; that of the 
 fortress of Croveuburg near Elsignor, and of 
 Coldingen in Jutland, with others, being 
 scarce habitable even during one fortnight in 
 the summer quarter. 
 
 At Fredericksburg the court spends most of 
 its time in stag-hunting, for there are few 
 fallow-deer in Denmark ; during which sport 
 the king allows great freedom to his domestics 
 and ministers, who commonly do all accompany 
 him wherever he goes; insomuch that he 
 seems to lay aside all majesty and the for- 
 malities of it for that season; they eat and 
 drink together, the latter something to excess, 
 after a hard day's hunting ; when, as soon as 
 dinner is done they adjourn to the wine-cellar. 
 About five or six in the afternoon the hunting 
 assizes are solemnly held in the great court 
 before the palace, the stag is drawn into the 
 midst of it by the huntsmen, who are all clothed 
 in red, having their great brass hunting-horns 
 about their necks; and 'tis there broken up 
 with great ceremony, whilst the hounds attend 
 with much noise and impatience. One that is 
 likely to give a good gratuity to the huntsmen 
 is invited to take essay, and presented with 
 the deer's foot. Then proclamation is made, 
 if any can inform the king (who is both su- 
 preme judge and executioner) of any trans- 
 gression against the known laws of hunting 
 that day committed, let him stand forth and 
 accuse ; the accused is generally found guilty, 
 and then two of the gentlemen lead him to the 
 stag and make him kneel down between the 
 horns, turning down his head with his buttocks 
 up, and remove the skirts of his coat, which 
 might intercept the blows. Then comes his 
 majesty, and with a small long wand gives the 
 offender some lashes on his posteriors, whilst 
 in the meantime the huntsmen, with their 
 brass horns, and the dogs with their loud 
 openings, proclaim the king's justice and the 
 criminal's punishment. The whole scene afford- 
 ing diversion to the queen, ladies, and other 
 spectators, who are always assisting and stand 
 in a circle about the place of execution. This 
 is as often repeated as there happen to be delin- 
 quents ; who as soon as the cha.stisement is over 
 rise up and make their obeisance — 
 
 Proudly boasting 
 Of thoir magnificent rib roasting. 
 
 After all is done the hounds are permitted to 
 fall to and eat the deer. 
 
 At another season swan-hunting is the royal 
 pastime ; the wild swans haunt a certain small 
 island not far from Copenhagen, and breed 
 there; about the time that the young ones 
 are near as big as the old, before their feathei-s 
 are long enough to fly, the king, with the 
 queen, ladies, and othera of the court, go to 
 the killing of them ; the foreign ministers are 
 usually invited to tiike part in this sport. 
 Every pei-son of condition has a pinnace 
 allotted to him, and when they come near the 
 haunt they surround the jilace, and inclose a 
 great multitude of young swans, which they 
 destroy with guns till they have killed some 
 thousands. What is killed by the whole com- 
 pany is brought to the court, which challenges 
 the feathers and down of these birds, the flesh 
 of them being good for nothing. 
 
 On Shrove Tuesday the king, queen, royal 
 family, home and foreign ministers, and all 
 the other persons above mentioned that usu- 
 ally compose the court, clothe themselves in 
 the habit of the North Holland boors, with 
 great trunk hose, short doublets, and large 
 blue thrum caps; the ladies in blue petticoats 
 and odd head-dresses. Thus accoutred they 
 get up in their waggons, a man before and a 
 woman behind, which they drive themselves, 
 and go to a country village called Amak, about 
 three English miles from town; here they 
 dance to bagpipes and squeaking fiddles, and 
 have a country dinner, which they eat out of 
 earthen and wooden platters, with wooden 
 spoons, and having passed the day in these 
 divertisements, where all are equal, and little 
 regard had to majesty or other quality, at 
 night they drive in like manner home again, and 
 are entertained at a comedy and magnificent 
 supper by the Viceroy Guldenbien, spending 
 the remainder of the night in dancing in the 
 same habits, which they put not off all that day. 
 
 Every winter, as soon as the snow is firm 
 enough to bear, the Danes take great delight 
 in going in sleds, the king and court first 
 giving the example, and making several tours 
 aboiit the town in great pomp, with kettle- 
 drums and trumpets, the horses which draw 
 the sleds being richly adorned with trappings, 
 and harness full of small bells to give warning 
 to such as stand in the way. After the court 
 has been abroad the burghers and others trot 
 about the streets all night, wrapped u]) in their 
 fur cowns, with each his female in the sled 
 with him ; and this they esteem a great and 
 pleasant pastime.
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 43 
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 BoHN 1667 — Died 1723. 
 
 [Susanna Centlivre, originally Freeman, 
 was born in Ireland, it is believed in the year 
 1667. Her early life was an unpleasant one, 
 and on the death of her mother, being, as 
 she thought, badly treated, she ran away 
 from home while yet a girl. Then, as now, 
 London was the goal for such minds as hers, 
 and towards that city she travelled as best 
 she might, now on foot, now getting a lift 
 from some kind teamster. Before reaching 
 London she met, among other travellers, a 
 Mr. Hammond, who became deeply interested 
 in her appearance and story. Being a student 
 at Cambridge he hardly knew how to assist 
 her, but after a time he persuaded her to as- 
 sume boy's clothing; and in this disguise he 
 sheltered her at college for several months. 
 At the end of these months, being better able 
 to provide help for her, he sent her on to 
 London, where, in a short time, before pass- 
 ing out of her sixteenth year, she married a 
 nephew of Sir Stephen Fox. Her married 
 happiness was short-lived, for within a twelve- 
 month her husband died, and she was again 
 thrown on the world. However, before long 
 she took for second husband an officer of the 
 army named Carrol; but again, in short time, 
 she was left a widow, her husband being killed 
 in a duel before they had been quite two years 
 married. This event reduced her to extreme 
 poverty, and after trying many ways of earn- 
 ing a living, she at last became a dramatic 
 writer. Her first attempt was a tragedy called 
 The Perjured Husband, which was produced 
 in 1700 with reasonable success. This, how- 
 ever, gave her the idea that tragedy was not 
 her line, and taking the hint she produced in 
 rapid succession several comedies, translations 
 from the French, but marked sufficiently by 
 her own individuality to be looked upon as 
 almost original work. At the same time she 
 took to the stage as an actress, being hand- 
 some, sprightly, and agreeable, and in 1706, 
 while acting the part of Alexander the Great, 
 Joseph Centlivre, yeoman to the queen, fell 
 in love with her and became her third hus- 
 band. 
 
 After this she left the stage as an actress, 
 but continued to write for it; and produced 
 her three best plays, The Busybody, The Won- 
 der, and A Bold Stroke for a Wife. She also 
 
 became known and appreciated by Steele, 
 Rowe, and Farquhar. She died at her hus- 
 band's house in Spring Gardens in 1723, 
 having written in all some fifteen plays.] 
 
 THE BUSYBODY.i 
 
 Scene, the Park. Sir George Airey and 
 Charles talking. 
 
 Enter Marplot, with a patch across his face. 
 
 Mar. Dear Charles, yours. Ha ! Sir George 
 Airey ! the man in the world I have an ambi- 
 tion to be known to. {Aside.) Give me thy 
 hand, dear boy. {To Charles. 
 
 Chas. A good assurance! But, harkye— 
 how came your beautiful countenance clouded 
 in the wrong place? 
 
 3Iar. I must confess 'tis a little mal-a-pro- 
 pos; but no matter for that. A word with 
 you, Charles. Pr'ythee introduce me to Sir 
 George— he is a man of wit; and I'd give 
 ten guineas to — 
 
 Chas. When you have them, you mean. 
 Mar. Ay ; when I have them; poh, plague, 
 you cut the thread of my discourse. I would 
 give ten guineas, I say, to be ranked in his 
 acquaintance. But, pr'ythee, introduce me. 
 
 Chas. Well; on condition you'll give us a 
 true account how you came by that mourn- 
 ing nose, I will. 
 Mar. I'll do it. 
 
 Chas. Sir George, here's a gentleman has 
 a passionate desire to kiss your hand. 
 
 Sir G. (Advancing.) Oh, I honour men of 
 the sword; and I presume this gentleman is 
 lately come from Spain or Portugal by his 
 scars. 
 
 Mar. No, really, Sir George; mine sprung 
 from civil fury. Happening, last night, to 
 step into the groom-porter's, I had a strong 
 inclination to go ten guineas with a sort of a 
 —sort of a— kind of a milksop, as I thought. 
 A plague of the dice ! He flung out; and my 
 pockets being empty, as Charles knows they 
 often are, he proved a surly North Briton, 
 and broke my face for my deficiency. 
 Sir G. Ha, ha! and did not you draw? 
 Mar. Draw, sir ! Why, I did but lay my 
 hand upon my sword to make a swift retreat, 
 
 1 This and the next scene are from The Biisybody.
 
 44 
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVEE. 
 
 and he roared out, " Now the deel of ma saul, 
 sir, gin ye touch yer steel, I se whip mine 
 through yer wem." 
 
 Sir G. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Chas. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Safe was the word. 
 So you walked off, I suppose. 
 
 Mar. Yes; for I avoid fighting, purely to be 
 serviceable to my friends, you know, 
 
 Sir G. Your friends are much obliged to 
 you, sir. I hope you will rank me in that 
 number. 
 
 Mar. Sir George, a bow from the side-box, 
 or to be seen in your chariot, binds me ever 
 yours. 
 
 Sir G. Trifles; you may command them 
 when you please. 
 
 Chas. Provided he may command you. 
 
 Mar. Me ! Why, I live for no other pur- 
 pose. Sir George, I have the honour to be 
 caressed by most of the reigning toasts of the 
 town. I'll tell them you are the finest gentle- 
 
 man- 
 
 Sir G. No, no, pr'ythee ; let me alone to tell 
 the ladies my parts. Can you convey a letter 
 upon occasion, or deliver a message with an 
 air of business— ha? 
 
 Mar. With the assurance of a page and the 
 gravity of a statesman. 
 
 Sir G. You know Miranda? 
 
 Mar. What, my sister-ward ! Why, her 
 guardian is mine ; we are fellow-sufl'erers. 
 Ah ! he is a covetous, cheating, sanctified cur- 
 mudgeon. That Sir Francis Gripe is a d — d 
 old — hypocritical — 
 
 Chas. Hold, hold ; I suppose, friend, you 
 forget that he is my father. 
 
 Mar. I ask your pardon, Charles ; but it is 
 for your sake I hate him. Well, I say, the 
 world is mistaken in him ; his outside piety 
 makes him every man's executor, and his in- 
 side cunning makes him every heir's jailer. 
 Egad, Charles, I'm half persuaded that thou 
 art some ward too, and never of his getting ; 
 for never were two things so unlike as you and 
 your father; he scrapes up everything, and thou 
 spendest everything; everybody is indebted to 
 him, and thou art indebted to everybody. 
 
 Chas. You are very free, Mr. Marplot. 
 
 Mar. Ay; I give and take, Charles; you 
 may be as free with me, you know. 
 
 Sir G. A pleasant fellow. 
 
 Chas. The dog is diverting sometimes, or 
 there would be no enduring his impertinence. 
 He is pressing to be employed, and willing to 
 execute ; but some ill fate generally attends 
 all he undertakes, and he oftener spoils an in- 
 trigue than helps it. 
 
 MABPLOT'S CLEVERNESS. 
 
 Sir George and Miranda together. 
 Enter Scentwell. 
 
 Scent. Oh, madam ! my master and Mr. 
 Marplot are both coming into the house. 
 
 Mir. Undone, undone! If he finds you here 
 in this crisis, all my plots are unravelled. 
 
 Sir G. What shaU I do? Can't I get back 
 into the garden ? 
 
 Scent. Oh, no ; he comes up those stairs. 
 
 Mir. Here, here, here ! Can you condescend 
 to stand behind this chimney -board. Sir 
 George ? 
 
 Sir G. Anywhere, anywhere, dear madam, 
 without ceremony. 
 
 Scent. Come, come, sir; lie close. 
 
 \They j)ut him behind the chimney-hoard. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Gripe and Marplot, 
 Sir Francis peeling an orange. 
 
 Sir F. I could not go, though 'tis upon life 
 and death, without taking leave of dear chargy. 
 Besides, this fellow buzzed in my ears that 
 thou mightst be so desperate as to shoot that 
 wild rake that haunts the garden gate, and 
 that would bring us into trouble, dear. 
 
 Mir. So Marplot brought you back, then ? 
 
 Mar. Yes; I brought him back. 
 
 Mir. I'm obliged to him for that, I'm sure. 
 [^Frowning at Marplot aside. 
 
 Mar. By her looks, she means she's not 
 obliged to me. I have done some mischief 
 now, but what I can't imagine. [Aside. 
 
 Sir F. Well, chargy, I have had tkree mes- 
 sengers to come to Epsom to my neighbour 
 Squeezum's, who, for all his vast riches, is de- 
 parting. \Sighs. 
 
 Mar. Ay, see what aU you usurers must 
 come to. 
 
 Sir F. Peace, you young knave ! Some 
 forty years hence I may think on't ; but, 
 chargy, I'll be with thee to-morrow before 
 those pretty eyes are open. I will, I will, 
 chargy. I'll rouse you, i'faith. Here, Mi*3. 
 Scentwell, lift up your lady's chimney-board, 
 that I may throw my peel in, and not litter 
 her chamber. 
 
 Mir. Oh, my stai's ! What will become of 
 us now ? [Aside. 
 
 Scent. Oh, pray, sir, give it me; I love it 
 above all things in nature ; indeed I do. 
 
 Sir F. No, no, hussy; you have the gi-eeu 
 pip already. I'U have no apothecary's bills. 
 [Goes towards the chimney.
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 45 
 
 Mir. Hold, hold, hold, dear guardy! I have 
 a — a — a monkey shut up there ; and if you 
 open it before the man comes that is to tame 
 it, 'tis so wild, 'twill break all my china, or 
 get away, and that would break my heart; for 
 I'm fond on't to distraction, next thee, dear 
 guardy. \_In a flattering tone. 
 
 Sir F. "Well, well, chargy, I won't open it. 
 She shall have her monkey, poor rogue! Here, 
 throw this peel out of the window. 
 
 {Exit Scentivell. 
 
 Mar. A monkey! Dear madam, let me see 
 it. I can tame a monkey as well as the best 
 of them all. Oh, how I love the little minia- 
 tures of man ! 
 
 Mir. Be quiet, mischief ; and stand further 
 from the chimney. You shall not see my 
 monkey — who, sure, — {Striving with him. 
 
 Mar. For heaven's sake, dear madam, let 
 me but peep, to see if it be as pretty as Lady 
 Fiddlefaddle's. Has it got a chain ? 
 
 Mir. Not yet ; but I design it one shall last 
 its lifetime. Nay, you shall not see it. Look, 
 guardy, how he teazes me ? 
 
 ^iV F. {Getting beticeen him and the chimney.) 
 Sirrah, sirrah, let my chargy's monkey alone, 
 or my bamboo shall fly about your ears. 
 What, is there no dealing with you ^ 
 
 31ar. Pugh! plague of the monkey! Here's 
 a rout ! I wish he may rival you. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, they have put two more hoi-ses to 
 the coach, as you ordered, and 'tis ready at the 
 door. 
 
 Sir F. Well, I am going to be executor; 
 better for thee, jewel. B'ye, chargy. One 
 buss. I'm glad thou hast got a monkey to 
 divert thee a little. 
 
 Mir. Thankye, dear guardy! Nay, I'll see 
 you to the coach. 
 
 Sir F. That's kind, adad ! 
 
 Mir. Come along, impertinence ! 
 
 [To Marplot. 
 
 Mar. {Stepping back.) Egad, I will see the 
 monkey now. {Lifts tip the board, and dis- 
 covers Sir George. ) Oh, loi'd ! oh, lord ! 
 Thieves, thieves ! Murder ! 
 
 Sir G. D — n ye, you unlucky dog ! 'Tis I. 
 Which way shall I get out? Show me in- 
 stantly, or I'll cut your throat. 
 
 Mar. Undone, undone ! At that door there. 
 But, hold, hold ! Break that china, and I'll 
 bring you off. 
 
 \He ritns off at the corner, and throws 
 down some china. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Francis Gripe, Miranda, 
 
 and SCENTWELL. 
 
 Sir F. Mercy on me ! What's the matter? 
 
 Mir. Oh, you toad ! What have you done? 
 
 Mar. No great harm. I beg of you to for- 
 give me. Longing to see this monkey, I did 
 but just raise up the board, and it flew over 
 my shoulders, scratched all my face, broke 
 your china, and whisked out of the window. 
 
 Sir F. Where — where is it, sirrah ? 
 
 Mar. There — there. Sir Francis — upon your 
 neighbour Parmazan's pantiles. 
 
 Sir F. Was ever such an unlucky rogue? 
 Sirrah, I forbid you my house. Call the ser- 
 vants to get the monkey again. Pug, pug, 
 pug ! I would stay myself to look for it, but 
 you know my earnest business. 
 
 Scent. Oh, my lady will be best to lure it 
 back. All them creatures love my lady ex- 
 tremely. 
 
 Mir. Go, go, dear guardy ! I hope I shall 
 recover it. 
 
 Sir F. B'ye, b'ye, dearee ! Ah, mischief, 
 how you look now ! B'ye, b'ye ! [Exit. 
 
 Mir. Scentwell, see him in the coach, and 
 bring me word. 
 
 MISS LOVELY AND HER GUAEDIANS. 
 (from "a bold stroke for a wife.") 
 
 [Miss Lovely, an heiress. Her father, a 
 whimsical character, left her thirty thousand 
 jiounds provided she married with the consent 
 of her guardians; but to prevent her ever 
 doing so he left her in the care of four men of 
 opposite natures and tastes, and she is obliged 
 to reside three months of the year with each 
 of them. She just now resides with the 
 Quaker, Mi-. Prim.] 
 
 Enter Mrs. Priji, and Miss Lovely in a 
 Quaker's dress. 
 
 Mrs. P. So, now I like thee, Anne. Art 
 thou not better without thy monstrous vani- 
 ties and patches? If heaven should make 
 thee so many black spots upon thy face, would 
 it not fright thee, Anne? 
 
 Miss L. If it should turn you inside out- 
 ward, and show all the spots of your hyjiocrisy, 
 'twould fright me worse ! 
 
 Mrs. P. My hypocrisy ! I scorn thy words, 
 Ainie ; I lay no baits. 
 
 Miss L. If you did, you'd catch no fish. 
 
 Mrs. P. Well, well, make thy jests ; but I'd 
 have thee to know, Anne, that I could have
 
 46 
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVEE. 
 
 catched as many fish (as thou callest them) in 
 my time, as ever thou didst with all thy fool- 
 traps about thee. 
 
 Miss L. Is tliat the reason of your formality, 
 Mi-s. Prim % Truth will out ; I ever thought, 
 indeed, there was more design than godliness 
 in the pinched cap. 
 
 Mrs. P. Go ; thou art corrupted with read- 
 iug lewd plays and filthy romances ! All ! I 
 wish thou art not already too familiar with 
 the wicked ones. 
 
 Miss L. Too familiar with the wicked ones! 
 Pray, no more of these freedoms, madam. I 
 am familiar with none so wicked as yourself ; 
 how dare you thus talk to me, you — you — 
 you, unworthy woman, you — 
 
 [Bursts into tears. 
 
 Enter Tradelove, one of Miss Lovely's 
 guardians. 
 
 Trade. What, in tears, Nancy? "What 
 have you done to her, Mrs. Prim, to make her 
 weep? 
 
 Miss L. Done to me? I admire I keep my 
 senses among you ; but I will rid myself of 
 your tyranny, if there be either law or justice 
 to be had. I'll force you to give me up my 
 liberty. 
 
 Mrs. P. Thou hast more need to weep for 
 thy sins, Anne; yea, for thy manifold sins. 
 
 Miss L. Don't think that I'll be still the fool 
 which you have made me. No ; I'll wear what 
 I please; go when and where I please; and 
 keep what company I think fit, and not what 
 you shall direct, — I will. 
 
 Trade. For my part, I do think all this very 
 reasonable, Miss Lovely. 'Tis fit you should 
 have your liberty, and for that very purpose I 
 am come. 
 
 Enter Periwinkle and Obadiah Prim, tioo 
 other guardians. 
 
 Obad. What ai-t thou in the dumps for, 
 Anne? 
 
 Trade. We must marry her, Mr. Prim. 
 
 Obad. Why, truly, if we could find a hus- 
 band worth having, I should be as glad to see 
 her married as thou wouldst, neighbour. 
 
 Per. Well said, there are but few worth 
 having. 
 
 Trade. I can recommend you a man now, 
 that I think you can none of you have an objec- 
 tion to. 
 
 Enter Sir Philip Modelove, another 
 guardian. 
 Per. You recommend ? Nay, whenever she 
 marries, I'll recommend the husband. 
 
 Sir P. What, must it be a whale, or a rhin- 
 oceros, Mr. Periwinkle ? Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Per. He shall be none of the fojjs at your 
 end of the town, with mop-heads and empty 
 skulls; nor yet any of our trading gentry, 
 who puzzle the heralds to find arms for their 
 coaches. No ; he shall be a man famous for 
 travels, solidity, and curiosity ; one who has 
 searched into the profundity of nature ; when 
 heaven shall direct such a one, he shall have 
 my consent, because it may turn to the benefit 
 of mankind. 
 
 Miss L. The benefit of mankind ! What, 
 would you anatomize me? 
 
 Sir P. Ay, ay, madam ; he would dissect 
 you. 
 
 Trade. Or pore over you through a micro- 
 scope, to see how your blood circulates from 
 the crown of yoiu- head to the sole of your 
 foot — ha, ha ! But I have a husband for you, 
 a man that knows how to improve your for- 
 tune ; one that trades to the four comers of 
 the globe. 
 
 Miss L. And woidd send me for a venture, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Trade. One that wiU dress you in all the 
 pride of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America ; a 
 Dutch merchant, my girl. 
 
 Sir P. A Dutchman ! Ha, ha ! there's a 
 husband for a fine lady. Ya frow, will you 
 meet myn slapen — ha, ha! He'll learn you 
 to talk the language of the hogs, madam — 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Trade. He'U teach you that one merchant 
 is of more service to a nation than fifty cox- 
 combs. 'Tis the merchant makes the belle. 
 How would the ladies sparkle in the box 
 without the merchant? The Indian diamond; 
 the French brocade; the Italian fan; the 
 Flanders lace ; the fine Dutch holland. How 
 would they vent their scandal over their tea- 
 tables? And where would your beaux have 
 champagne to toast their mistresses, were it 
 not for the merchant? 
 
 Obad. Verily, neighbour Tradelove, thou 
 dost waste thy breath about nothing. All 
 that thou hast said tendeth only to debauch 
 youth, and fill their heads with the pride and 
 luxury of this world. The merchant is a very 
 great friend to Satan, and sendeth as many to 
 his dominions as the pope. 
 
 Per. Eight; I say, knowledge makes the 
 man. 
 
 Obad. Yea, but not thy kind of knowledge; 
 it is the knowledge of truth. Search thou for 
 the light within, and not for baubles, friend. 
 
 Miss L. Ah! study your country's good,
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 47 
 
 Mr. Periwinkle, and not her insects. Rid you 
 of your homebred monstera before you fetch 
 any from abroad. I dare swear, you have 
 maggots enough in your own brain to stock all 
 the virtuosos in Europe with butterflies. 
 
 Sir P. By my sovd ! Miss Nancy's a wit. 
 
 Obad. That is more than she can say of thee, 
 friend. Lookye, 'tis in vain to talk ; when I 
 meet a man worthy of her, she shall have my 
 leave to many him. 
 
 Miss L. Provided he be of the faithful. Was 
 there ever such a swarm of caterpillars to 
 blast the hopes of a woman ! (Aside.) Know 
 this, that you contend in vain ; I'll have no 
 husband of your choosing, nor shall you lord 
 it over me long. I'll try the power of an 
 English senate. Orphans have been redressed, 
 and wills set aside, and none did ever deserve 
 their pity more. Oh, Feignwell ! where are 
 thy promises to free me from those vermin ? 
 Alas ! the task was more difficult than he im- 
 agined. [Aside. 
 
 A harder task than what the poets tell 
 Of yore the fair Andromeda befell ; 
 She but one monster fear'd, I've four to fear, 
 And see no Perseus, no deliv'rer near. 
 
 [This is how Colonel Feignwell, Miss Lovely's 
 lover, managed to gain the consent of Mr. Peri- 
 winkle, the vii'tuoso :• — ] 
 
 A Tavern. 
 
 Col. Feignwell is discovered in an Egyptian 
 dress, with Sackbut the landlord. 
 
 Sac. A lucky beginning. Colonel; you have 
 got the old beau's consent. 
 
 Col. F. Ay, he's a reasonable creature ; biit 
 the other three will require some pains. Shall 
 I pass upon him, think you? Egad, in my 
 mind I look as antique as if I had been pre- 
 served in the ark. 
 
 Sac. Pass upon him ; ay, ay, if you have 
 assurance enough. 
 
 Col. F. I have no apprehension from that 
 quarter; assurance is the cockade of a soldier. 
 
 Sac. Ay, but the assurance of a soldier dif- 
 fers much from that of a traveller. Can you 
 lie with a good grace ? 
 
 Col. F. As heartily, when my mistress is the 
 prize, as I would meet the foe when my coun- 
 try called and king commanded ; so don't you 
 fear that part. If he don't know me again, 
 I am safe. I hope he'll come. 
 
 Sac. I wish all my debts would come as 
 sure. I told him you had been a great tra- 
 veller, had many valuable curiosities, and was 
 
 a person of most singular taste; he seemed 
 transported, and begged me to keep you till 
 he came. 
 
 Col. F. Ay, ay, he need not fear my running 
 away. Let's have a bottle of sack, landlord; 
 our ancestor drank sack. 
 
 Sac. You shall have it. 
 
 Col. F. And whereabouts is the trap-door 
 you mentioned? 
 
 Sac. There is the conveyance, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Col. F. Now, if I could cheat all these 
 roguish guardians, and carry off my mistress 
 in triumph, it would be what the French call 
 a grand coup d'eclat. Odso ! here comes Peri- 
 winkle. Ah ! deuce take this beard ; pray 
 Jupiter it does not give me the slip and spoil 
 all. 
 
 Enter Sackbut with wine, and Periwinkle 
 following. 
 
 Sac. Sir, this gentleman, hearing you have 
 been a great traveller, and a pei"son of fine 
 speculation, begs leave to take a glass with 
 you ; he is a man of curious taste himself. 
 
 Col. F. The gentleman has it in his face and 
 garb. Sir, you are welcome. 
 
 Per. Sir, I honour a traveller and men of 
 your inquiring disposition; the oddness of your 
 habit pleases me extremely; 'tis very antique, 
 and for that I like it. 
 
 Col. F. 'Tis very antique, sir. This habit 
 once belonged to the famous Claudius Ptole- 
 meus, who lived in the year one hundred and 
 thirty-five. 
 
 Sac. If he keeps up to the sample, he shall 
 lie with the devil for a bean-stack, and win it 
 every straw. [^Aside. 
 
 Per. A hundred and thirty -five! Why, 
 that's prodigious, now ! Well, certainly, 'tis 
 the finest thing in the world to be a traveller. 
 
 Col. F. For my part, I value none of the 
 modern fashions a fig-leaf. 
 
 Per. No more don't I, sir ; I had rather be 
 the jest of a fool than his favourite. I am 
 laughed at here for my singularity. This 
 coat, you must know, sir, was formerly worn 
 by that ingenious and very learned person, 
 Mr. John Tradescant, of Lambeth. 
 
 Col. F. John Tradescant ! Let me embrace 
 you, sir. John Tradescant was my uncle, by 
 my mother's side ; and I thank you for the 
 honour you do his memory. He was a very 
 curious man indeed. 
 
 Per. Your uncle, sir ! Nay, then, 'tis no 
 wonder that your taste is so refined; why, 
 you have it in your blood. My humble ser- 
 vice to you, sir. To the immortal memory of
 
 48 
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVEE. 
 
 John Tradescant, your never-to-be-forgotten 
 uncle. {Drinks. 
 
 Col. F. Give me a glass, landlord. 
 
 Per. I find you are primitive, even in your 
 wine. Canary was the drink of our wise fore- 
 fathers; 'tis balsamic, and saves the charge of 
 ajjothecaries' cordials. Oh that I had lived 
 in your uncle's days ! or rather, that he were 
 now alive ! Oh how proud he'd be of such a 
 nephew ! A person of your curiosity must 
 have collected many rarities. 
 
 Col. F. I have some, sir, which are not yet 
 come ashore — as an Egyptian idol. 
 
 Per. Pray what may that be 1 
 
 Col. F. It is, sir, a kind of an ape, which 
 they formerly worshipped in that country; 
 I took it from the breast of a female mummy; 
 two tusks of an hippopotamus, two pairs of 
 Chinese nut-crackers, and one Egyptian mum- 
 my. 
 
 Per. Pray, sir, have you never a crocodile ? 
 
 Col. F. Humph ! the boatswain brought one 
 with a design to show it; but touching at 
 Rotterdam, and hearing it was no rarity in 
 England, he sold it to a Dutch poet. Lookye, 
 sir, do you see this little phial? 
 
 Per. Pray you, what is it? 
 
 Col. F. This is called Poluflosboio. 
 
 Per. Poluflosboio ! It has a rumbUng 
 sound. 
 
 Col. F. Eight, sir ; it proceeds from a rum- 
 bling nature. This water was part of those 
 waves which bore Cleopatra's vessel when she 
 sailed to meet Antony. 
 
 Per. Well, of all that travelled, none had a 
 taste like you. 
 
 Col. F. But here's the wonder of the world. 
 This, sir, is called zona, or moros musphonon; 
 the virtues of this are inestimable. 
 
 Per. Moros musphonon ! What, in the 
 name of wisdom, can that be ? To me, it seems 
 a plain belt. 
 
 Col. F. This girdle has carried me all the 
 world over. 
 
 Per. You have carried it, you mean. 
 
 Col. F. I mean as I say, sir. Whenever I 
 am girded with this, I am invisible; and, by 
 turning this little screw, can be in the court 
 of the Great Mogul, the Grand Signior, and 
 King George, in as little time as your cook 
 can poach an egg. 
 
 Per. You must pardon me, sir; I can't be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Col. F. If my landlord pleases, he shall try 
 the experiment immediately. 
 
 Sac. I thank you kindly, sir; but I have no 
 inclination to ride post to the devil. 
 
 Col. F. No, no, you sha'n't stir a foot ; I'll 
 only make you invisible. 
 
 Sac. But if you could not make me visible 
 again. 
 
 Per. Come, try it upon me, sir; I am not 
 afraid of the devil, nor all his tricks. 'Sbud, 
 I'll stand 'em all. 
 
 Col. F. There, sir, put it on. Come, land- 
 lord, you and I must face the east. {They 
 turn about.) Is it on, sir] 
 
 Per. 'Tis on. \They turn about again. 
 
 Sac. Heaven protect me ! where is he ? 
 
 Per. Why, here, just where I was. 
 
 Sac. Where, where, in the name of virtue? 
 Ah, poor Mr. Periwinkle ! Egad, look to't ; 
 you had best, sir; and let him be seen again,, 
 or I shall have you burnt for a wizard. 
 
 Col. F. Have patience, good landlord. 
 
 Per. But, reiUly, don't you see me now ? 
 
 Sac. No more than I see my grandmother,, 
 that died forty years ago. 
 
 Per. Are you sure you don't lie ? Methinks 
 I stand just where I did, and see you as plain 
 as I did before. 
 
 Sac. Ah ! I wish I could see you once again. 
 
 Col. F. Take olF the girdle, sir. 
 
 [He takes it off. 
 
 Sac. Ah ! sir, I am glad to see you, with aU 
 my heart. [Embraces him. 
 
 Per. This is very odd; cei-tainly there must 
 be some trick in't. Pray, sir, will you do me 
 the favour to put it on youi'self ? 
 
 Col. F. With all my heart. 
 
 Per. But, first, I'U secure the door. 
 
 Col. F. You know how to turn the screw,. 
 Mr. Sackbut. 
 
 Sac. Yes, yes. Come, Mr. Periwinkle, we 
 must turn full east. 
 
 [They turn; the Colonel sinks through 
 the trap-door. 
 
 Col. F. 'Tis done ; now turn. [They turn. 
 
 Per. Ha ! mercy upon me ; my flesh creeps 
 n\ion my bones. This must be a conjuror^ 
 Mr. Sackbut. 
 
 Sac. He's the devil, I think. 
 
 Per. Oh ! Mr. Sackbut, why do you name 
 the devil, when perhaps he may be at your 
 elbow I 
 
 Sac. At my elbow! Marry, heaven forbid! 
 
 Col. F. Are you satisfied? 
 
 [From under the stage. 
 
 Per. Yes, sir, yes. How hollow his voice 
 sounds ! 
 
 Sac. Yours seemed just the same. 'Faith, 
 I wish this girdle were mine; I'd sell wine n» 
 more. Harkye ! Mr. Periwinkle {takes him 
 aside till the Colonel rises again), if he would
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 49 
 
 sell this girdle, you might travel with great [ 
 expedition. 
 
 Col. F. But it is not to be parted with for 
 money. 
 
 Per. 1 am sorry for't, sir; because I think 
 it the greatest curiosity I ever heard of. 
 
 Col. P. By the advice of a learned physiog- 
 nomist in Grand Cairo, who consulted the 
 lines in my face, I returned to England, where 
 he told me I should find a rarity in the keep- 
 ing of four men, which I was born to possess 
 for the benefit of mankind; and the first of 
 the four that gave me his consent, I should 
 present him with this girdle. Till I have 
 found this jewel I shall not part with the 
 girdle. 
 
 Per. What can this rarity be? Didn't he 
 name it to you? 
 
 Col. F. Yes, sir; he called it a chaste, beau- 
 tiful, unaffected woman. 
 
 Per. Pish ! women are no rarities. Women 
 are the very gewgaws of the creation ; play- 
 things for boys, who, when they write man, 
 they ought to throw aside. 
 
 iSac. A fine lecture to be read to a circle of 
 ladies! [^Aside. 
 
 Per. What woman is there, dressed in all 
 the pride and foppery of the times, can boast 
 of such a foretop as the cockatoo ? 
 
 Col. F. I must humour him. (Aside.) Such 
 a skin as the lizard ? 
 
 Per. Such a shining breast as the humming- 
 bird I 
 
 Col. F. Such a shape as the antelope 1 
 
 Per. Or, in all the ai'tful mixture of their 
 various dresses, have they haK the beauty of 
 one box of butterflies ] 
 
 Col. F. No ; that must be allowed. For my 
 part, if it were not for the benefit of mankind, 
 I'd have nothing to do with them; for they 
 are as indiff"erent to me as a sparrow or a 
 flesh-fly. 
 
 Per. Pray, sir, what benefit is the world to 
 reap from this lady \ 
 
 Col. F. Why, sir, she is to bear me a son, 
 who shall revive the art of embalming, and 
 the old Roman manner of burying the dead; 
 and, for the benefit of posterity, he is to dis- 
 cover the longitude, so long sought for in 
 vain. 
 
 Per. Od ! these are valuable things, Mr. 
 Sackbut ! 
 
 Sac. He hits it off admirably; and t'other 
 swallows it like sack and sugar. {Aside.) Cer- 
 tainly, this lady must be your ward, Mr. 
 Periwinkle, by her being under the care of 
 
 four persons. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Per. By the description, it should. Egad, 
 if I could get that girdle, I'd ride with the 
 sun, and make the tour of the world in four- 
 and-twenty hours. {Aside.) And you are to 
 give that girdle to the first of the four guar- 
 dians that shall give his consent to marry that 
 lady, say you, sir? 
 
 Col. F. I am so ordered, when I can find 
 him. 
 
 Per. I fancy I know the very woman; her 
 name is Anne Lovely. 
 
 Col. F. Excellent! He said, indeed, that 
 the first letter of her name was L. 
 
 Per. Did he, really? Well, that's pro- 
 digiously amiizing, that a pei-son in Grand 
 Cairo should know anything of my ward. 
 
 Col. F. Your ward ? 
 
 Per. To be plain with you, sir, I am one of 
 those four guardians. 
 
 Col. F. Are you, indeed, sir? I am trans- 
 ported to find that the very man who is to 
 possess this moros musphonon is a person of 
 so curious a taste. Here is a writing drawn 
 up by that famous Egyptian, which, if you 
 will please to sign, you must turn your face 
 fuU north, and the girdle is yours. 
 
 Per. If I live till the boy is born, I'll be 
 embalmed, and sent to the Royal Society when 
 I die. 
 
 Col. F. That you shall, most certainly. 
 
 [Colonel Feignwell learns the weak point in 
 the other guardians, and after a considerable 
 amount of amusing stratagem he manages to 
 obtain a written consent to his marriage with 
 the heiress from each of them, which they 
 cannot gainsay. The marriage winds up the 
 comedy.] 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 (from "the wonder.") 
 
 Enter Isabella and Inis her maid. 
 
 Inis. For goodness' sake, madam, where are 
 you going in this pet? 
 
 Isa. Anywhere to avoid matrimony; the 
 thought of a husband is terrible to me. 
 
 Inis. Ay, of an old husband ; bv;t if you may 
 choose for yourself, I fancy matrimony would 
 be no such frightful thing to you. 
 
 Isa. You are pretty much in the right, Inis; 
 but to be forced into the arms of an idiot, who 
 has neither pereon to please the eye, sense to 
 charm the ear, nor generosity to supply those 
 defects. Ah, Inis, what pleasant lives women
 
 50 
 
 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. 
 
 lead in Eogland, where duty wears no fetters 
 but inclination ! The custom of our country 
 enslaves us from our very cradles ; first to our 
 parents, next to our husbands; and when 
 Heaven is so kind to rid us of both these, our 
 brothers still usui'p authority, and expect a 
 blind obedience from us : so that, maids, wives, 
 or widows, we are little better than slaves to 
 the tyrant man ; therefore, to avoid their 
 power, I resolve to cast myself into a monas- 
 tery. 
 
 Inis. That is, you'll cut your own throat to 
 avoid another's doing it for you. Ah, madam, 
 those eyes tell me you have no nun's flesh 
 about you! A monastery, quotha! where you'll 
 wish yourself into the green - sickness in a 
 month. 
 
 Isa. What care I? there will be no man to 
 plague me. 
 
 Inis. No, nor, what's much worse, to please 
 you neither. Od'slife, madam, you are the 
 first woman that ever despaired in a Christian 
 country ! Were I in your place — 
 
 Isa. Why, what would your wisdom do if 
 you were? 
 
 Inis. I'd embark with the first fair wind 
 with all my jewels, and seek my fortune on 
 t'other side the water; no shore can treat you 
 worse than your own ; there's never a father 
 in Christendom should make me marry any 
 man against my wUl. 
 
 Isa. I am too great a coward to foUow 
 your advice : I must contrive some way to 
 avoid Don Guzman, and yet stay in my own 
 country. 
 
 Enter Don Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Must you so, mistress? but I shall 
 take care to prevent you. (Aside.) Isabella, 
 whither are you going, my child ? 
 
 Isa. To church, sir. 
 
 Inis. The old rogue has certainly overheard 
 her. [Aside. 
 
 Lop. Your devotion must needs be very 
 strong or your memory very weak, my dear ; 
 why, vespers are over for this night. Come, 
 come, you shall have a better errand to church 
 than to say your prayers there. Don Guzman 
 is arrived in the river, and I expect him ashore 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Isa. Ha ! to-morrow ! 
 
 Lop. He writes me word that his estate in 
 Holland is worth twelve thousand crowns a 
 year; which, together with what he had be- 
 fore, will make thee the happiest wife in 
 Lisbon. 
 
 Isa. And the most unhappy woman in the 
 world. Oh, SU-, if I have any power in your 
 
 heart, if the tenderness of a father be not quite 
 extinct, hear me with patience. 
 
 Lop. No objection against the marriage, and 
 I will hear whatsoever thou hast to say. 
 
 Isa. That's torturing me on the rack, and 
 forbidding me to groan; upon my knees I claim 
 the privilege of flesh and blood. [Kneels. 
 
 Lop. I grant it; thou shalt have an arm 
 full of flesh and blood to-morrow. Flesh and 
 blood, quotha ! heaven forbid I should deny 
 thee flesh and blood, my girl. 
 
 Inis. Here's an old dog for you ! [A side. 
 
 Isa. Do not mistake, sir ; the fatal stroke 
 which separates soul and body is not more 
 terrible to the thoughts of sinners than the 
 name of Guzman to my ear. 
 
 Lop. Pho, pho ! you lie, you lie ! 
 
 Isa. My frighted heart beats hard against 
 my breast, as if it sought a passage to your 
 feet, to beg you'd change your purjDose. 
 
 Lop. A very pretty speech this ; if it were 
 turned into blank verse it would serve for a 
 tragedy. Why, thou hast more wit than I 
 thought thou hadst, child. I fancy this was 
 all extempore ; I don't believe thou didst ever 
 think one word on't before. 
 
 Inis. Yes, but she has, my lord ; for I have 
 heard her say the same things a thousand 
 times. 
 
 Lop. How, how? What, do you top your 
 second-hand jests upon your father, hussy, 
 who knows better what's good for you than 
 you do yourself? Remember, 'tis your duty 
 to obey. 
 
 Isa. (Rises.) I never disobeyed you before, 
 and wish I had not reason now; but nature 
 has got the better of my duty, and makes me 
 loath the hai-sh commands you lay. 
 
 Lop. Ha, ha ! very fine ! Ha, ha ! 
 
 Isa. Death itself would be welcome. 
 
 Lop. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Isa. I am your daughter, my lord, and can 
 boast as strong a resolution as yovirself ; I'll 
 die before I'll maiTy Guzman. 
 
 Lop. Say you so? I'll try that presently. 
 (Draivs.) Here, let me see with what dex- 
 terity you can breathe a vein now. (Offers her 
 his sword.) The point is pretty sharp; 'twill 
 do your business, I warrant you. 
 
 Inis. Bless me, sir, what do you mean, to 
 put a sword into the hands of a desperate 
 woman ? 
 
 Lop. Desperate ! ha, ha, ha ! you see how 
 desperate she is. What, art thou frightened, 
 little Bell ? ha ! 
 
 Isa. I confess I am startled at your morals, 
 sir.
 
 JOHN O'NEACHTAN. 
 
 51 
 
 Lof. Ay, ay, child, thou hadst better 
 take the man, he'll hurt tliee least of the 
 two. 
 
 ha. I shall take neither, sir; death has 
 many doors, and when I can live no longer 
 with pleasure I shall find one to let him in at 
 without your aid. 
 
 Lop. Say'st thou so, my dear Bell? Ods, 
 I'm afraid thou art a little lunatic, Bell. I 
 must take care of thee, child. {Takes hold of 
 her., and pulls a key out of his pocket.) I shall 
 make bold to secure thee, my dear. I'll see 
 
 if locks and bars can keep thee till Guzman 
 comes. Go, get into your chamber. 
 
 \_Pv^hes her in, and locks the door. 
 
 There I'll your boa.sted resolution try — 
 And see who'll get the better, you or I. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 [She jumped out of a window, luckily into 
 the arms of a Captain Briton, who was in 
 Lisbon at the time and happened to be pass- 
 ing. He conveyed her to a house neai', which 
 happened to be the residence of a friend- 
 After a series of adventures they get married.] 
 
 JOHN O'NEACHTAN. 
 
 Probably about 1695-1720. 
 
 [Of this writer little remains but the two 
 poems quoted, which were translated by the 
 diligent gleaners of Hardiman's Irish Min- 
 strelsy. He was a native of Meath ; " a 
 learned man and ingenious poet ", says Hardi- 
 man, going on to speak of his five hundred 
 page treatise on geography and his curious 
 Annals of Ireland. The events of his life 
 are unknown.] 
 
 MAGGY LAIDIR. 
 
 Here's first the toast, the pride and boast, 
 Our darling Maggy Laidir ; 
 Let old and j'oung, with ready tongue 
 And open heart, applaud her. 
 Again prepare — here's to the Fair 
 Whose smiles with joy have crown 'd us, 
 Then drain the bowl for each gay soul 
 That's drinking here around us. 
 
 Come, friends, don't fail to toast O'Neill, 
 Whose race our rights defended ; 
 Maguire the true, O'Donnell too, 
 From eastern sires descended. 
 Up ! up again — the tribe of Maine 
 In danger never failed us. 
 With Leinster's spear for ever near, 
 When foemcn have assail'd us. 
 
 The madder fill with right good will, 
 
 There's sure no joy like drinking — 
 
 Our Bishop's name this draught must claim 
 
 Come let me have no shrinking. 
 
 His name is dear, and with him here 
 
 We'll join old Father Peter, 
 
 And as he steers thro' life's long years, 
 
 May life to him seem sweeter. 
 
 Come mark the call, and drink to all 
 Old Ireland's tribes so glorious, 
 
 Who still have stood, in fields of blood, 
 
 Unbroken and victorious : 
 
 Long as of old may Connaught hold 
 
 Her boast of peerless beauty ; 
 
 And Leinster show to friend and foe 
 
 Her sons all prompt for duty. 
 
 A curse for those who dare oppose 
 Our country's claim for freedom ; 
 May none appear the knaves to hear, 
 Or none who hear 'em heed 'em : 
 May famine fall upon them all, 
 May pests and plagues confound them, 
 And heartfelt care, and black despair. 
 Till life's la.st hour surround them. 
 
 May lasting joys attend the boys 
 
 AVho love the land that bore us, 
 
 Still may they share such friendly fare 
 
 As this that spreads before us. 
 
 May social cheer, like what we've here, 
 
 For ever stand to greet them ; 
 
 And hearts as sound as those around 
 
 Be ready still to meet them. 
 
 Come raise the voice ! rejoice, rejoice, 
 
 Fast, fast, the dawn's advancing, 
 
 My eyes grow dim, but every limb 
 
 Seems quite agog for dancing. 
 
 Sweet girls begin, 'tis shame and sin 
 
 To see the time we're losing. 
 
 Come, lads, be gay — trip, trip away, 
 
 While those who sit keep boozing. 
 
 Where's Thady Oge? up, Dan, you rogue, 
 
 Why stand you shilly-shally ; 
 
 There's Mora here, and Una's here, 
 
 And yonder's sporting Sally. 
 
 Now frisk it round — aye, there's the sound 
 
 Our sires were fond of hearing ; 
 
 The harp rings clear — hear, gossip, hear ; 
 
 sure such notes are cheering I 
 
 Your health, my friend ! till life shall end 
 May no bad chance betide us ;
 
 52 
 
 JOHN O'NEACHTAN. 
 
 Oh may we still, our grief to kill, 
 
 Have drink like this beside us ! 
 
 A fig for care ! but who's that there 
 
 That's of a quarrel thinking? — 
 
 Put out the clown or knock him down — 
 
 We're here for fun and drinking. 
 
 Tie up his tongue — am I not sprung 
 From chiefs that all must honour — 
 The princely Gael, the great O'Neill, 
 0' Kelly and O'Connor, 
 O'Brien the strong, Maguire, whose song 
 Has won the praise of nations; 
 O'More the tough, and big Branduff, 
 These are my blood relations ! 
 
 A LAMENT.i 
 
 Dark source of my anguish ! deep wound of a land 
 Whose young and defenceless the loss will de- 
 plore; 
 The munificent spirit, the liberal hand. 
 Still stretched the full bounty it prompted to pour. 
 
 The stone is laid o'er thee ! the fair glossy braid, 
 The high brow, the light cheek with its roseate 
 
 glow; 
 The bright form, and the berry that dwelt and 
 
 could fade 
 On these lips, thou sage giver, all, all are laid low. 
 
 Like a swan on the billows, she moved in her 
 grace. 
 
 Snow-white were her limbs, and with beauty re- 
 plete. 
 
 And time on that pure brow had left no more trace 
 
 Than if he had sped with her own fairy feet. 
 
 Whatever of purity, glorj', hath ever 
 
 Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was 
 
 thine; 
 Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should 
 
 sever 
 The tie which our spirits half broken resign. 
 
 Than Caesar of hosts — the true darling of Rome, 
 Far prouder was James — where pure spirits arc 
 met, 
 
 ' This poem is a lament for Mary D'Este, queen of 
 James II. She died at St. Germaine, April 26th, 1718. 
 Her son, called James Francis Edward, was the Chevalier 
 de St. George, so much beloved by the Irish. 
 
 The virgin, the saint — though heav'n's radiance 
 
 illume 
 Their brows — Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them 
 
 yet. 
 
 And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil 
 Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in 
 
 dust, 
 The rapt bard with their glory the nations shall fill, 
 With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the 
 
 ju.st. 
 
 Wherever the beam of the morning is shed, 
 With its light the full fame of our lov'd ones hath 
 
 shone, 
 The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his 
 
 head 
 That hath hurl'd them, the pride of our hearts, 
 
 from their throne. 
 
 The mid-day is dark with unnatural gloom — 
 And a spectral lament wildly .shrieked in the air 
 Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the 
 
 tomb. 
 Bids the old and the young bend in agony there ! 
 
 Faint the lowing of kine o'er the sear'd yellow 
 lawn! 
 
 And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray ! 
 
 The bright tenants that flashed through the cur- 
 rent are gone. 
 
 For the princess we honoured is laid in the clay. 
 
 Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame. 
 By the shore in mute agony wanders the Gael, — 
 And sad is my spirit, and clouded my dream, 
 For my king, for the star, my devotion would hail. 
 
 What woe beyond this hath dark fortune to wreak? 
 What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurl'd? 
 They turn them to Eome ! but despairing they 
 
 shriek. 
 For Spain's flag in defeat and defection is furled. 
 
 Though our sorrows avail not, our hope is not 
 lost — 
 
 For the Father is mighty ! the highest remains ! 
 
 The loos'd waters rushed down upon Pharaoh's 
 wide host. 
 
 But the billows crouch back from the foot he sus- 
 tains. 
 
 Just Power ! that for Moses the wave did'st divide. 
 Look down on the land where thy followers pine; 
 Look down upon Erin, and crush the dark pride 
 Of the scourge of thy people, the foes of thy shrine.
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 63 
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE, 
 
 Born 1672 — Died 1729, 
 
 [Richard Steele was born in Dublin on the 
 12th March, 1672, a few weeks before the 
 birth of his life-long friend Joseph Addison. 
 His father was an attorney, his mother, as he 
 himself says, " €a very beautiful woman, of a 
 ool)le si)irit." While he was in his fifth year 
 his father died; but notwithstanding this there 
 was little change in his condition until his 
 thirteenth year, when, through the influence 
 of the Duke of Ormond, he became a founda- 
 tioner at the Charterhouse in London. There 
 in 1686 he met with Addison, and from there 
 he went to Oxford in 1(!9(). Addison had 
 already gone to Oxford, and on Steele joining 
 him the friendship was renewed. 
 
 While at Oxford, Steele, as a matter of 
 course, began to write verses, and in 1695 he 
 made public his first poem, The Procession, 
 "which had for its subject the funeral of Queen 
 Mary. His best work at this time, however, 
 ■was in helping Addison to " break loose from 
 the critical cobwebs of an age of periwigs and 
 j)atches," and in helping to lay the first foun- 
 dation of that reputation, which, with the 
 generosity of his nature, he built so high 
 tiiat it is only now his own is beginning to 
 properly appear out of the shadow. Presently, 
 leaving Addison to his slow-going longings to 
 " launch into a bolder strain," Steele allowed 
 his patriotism to cai'iy him away, and he 
 enlisted as a private in the Coldsti-eam Guards. 
 For this, as he says himself, " he lost the suc- 
 cession to a very good estate in the county of 
 Wexford, from the same humour which he has 
 preserved ever since, of preferring the state of 
 his mind to that of his fortvme." The colonel 
 of the regiment, Lord Cutts, soon made Steele 
 his secretary, and got him a commission as 
 ensign. While an ensign he wrote his Chris- 
 tian Hero, chiefly to confirm himself in resist- 
 ing the temptations of his position; but as it 
 rather failed to do this he made it public, in 
 the hope that then it would have a greater 
 effect ou liim. The book was at once a success, 
 but in the eyes of his brother officers he had 
 changed from being a good companion into a 
 disagreeable fellow. To remedy this, and also 
 to show that his style was not in reality a 
 didactic one, he soon after produced a bright 
 little comedy, The Funeral; or, Grief a la 
 Mode, in which, however, he adhered to the 
 
 condemnation of the things condemned in his 
 book. This comedy, first acted in 1702, made 
 him at once popular with the town. In 1703 
 it wjis followed by The Tender Husband, which 
 was dedicated to Addison, and to which 
 Addison wrote a prologue. This comedy is 
 gay in manner and full of pure wit, yet it 
 preaches an effective moral, and has many a 
 hit at the fashionable vices of the day. In 
 1704 he produced the Lying Lovers, an adap- 
 tation from the French. The play was not a 
 success, art being sacrificed in it to morality. 
 Its failure placed Steele in the position " of 
 being the only English dramatist who had had 
 a piece damned for its piety." Foote after- 
 wards re-adapted it as The Liar, in which 
 form it still keeps the stage. 
 
 From 1704 to 1707 Steele wrote little, except 
 possibly as a collaborateur. In May of the 
 latter year he was appointed to the office of 
 gazetteer, the work of which he performed 
 with cai-e and faithfulness. In the same year 
 he mai-ried his second wife, he having already 
 been married to a lady belonging to Barbadoes, 
 who died a few months after her marriage. 
 From Addison he borrowed a thousand pounds 
 to "set up house," and the thousand was 
 repaid within a year. On the 12th of April, 
 1709, he published the first number of his 
 Tatler, "for the use of the good people of 
 England," but in which he candidly declared 
 that he was "an author writing for the public, 
 who expected from the public payment for his 
 work, and that he preferred this to gambling 
 for the patronage of men in office." The first 
 eighty numbers of the publication he produced 
 entirely out of his own resources, but the 
 mental strain must have been great, and no 
 doubt he welcomed the return of Addison 
 from Ireland, as it gave him an oppoi-tunity 
 of inducing his friend to join him in the work. 
 On the 2d of January, 1711, the Tatler was 
 discontinued, after a career of gi-eat usefulness 
 and influence, and on the 1st of the following 
 March appeared the first number of the Spec- 
 tator, that living monument to the friendship 
 of two honest men. The Spectator was even 
 a greater success than the Tatler, and on the 
 ai'ticles contributed to it to please his friend 
 now chiefly rests Addison's fame — a fame 
 which Steele took every opportunity of enlarg-
 
 54 
 
 SIE RICHAED STEELE. 
 
 ing. In the 555th number of the Spectator 
 proper, Steele brought it to a conclusion ; but 
 a year and a half later Addison revived it. 
 The revival was not a success fi'om any point 
 of view. Addison, without the guiding hand 
 of his friend, fell below his former standard. 
 His teaching became preaching, and his wit 
 lost both in delicacy and point. After the 
 production of eighty numbers he wisely gave 
 up the struggle, and his supplementary Spec- 
 tator was allowed to become the eighth volume 
 of the complete series. 
 
 Already, on March the 12th, 1713, Steele 
 had issued the first number of his Guardian, 
 the plan of which gave him more liberty to 
 write as a politician, which on entering par- 
 liament he found was desirable. The Guar- 
 dian, however, he brought to an end, of his 
 own freewill, on the 1st of October, when it 
 had reached 175 numbers, and five days later 
 he issued the first number of the Englishman. 
 The Englishman did not live very long, but 
 for the writing of its last number, as well as 
 for the celebrated Crisis, he was expelled 
 from the House of Commons by a factious 
 majority. Swift attacked the Crisis with aU 
 his force in The Public Spirit of the Whigs. 
 In the Crisis Steele indulged in no personali- 
 ties, unless we call his praise of the Scottish 
 nation such. Swift, on the other hand, indulged 
 in personal abuse of his manly opponent and 
 one-time friend, and launched his bitterest 
 satire at the poverty and greed of the Scotch. 
 Though expelled the house the moral victory 
 in the mMee was with Steele. 
 
 Being now at leism-e, owing to his expulsion 
 and the discontinuance of the Englishman, 
 Steele wrote An Apology for Himself and his 
 Writings, which may be found in his Political 
 Writings, published in 1715. Shortly after he 
 produced a deservedly forgotten treatise en- 
 titled Romish Ecclesiastical History of Late 
 Years, and in the same year two papers called 
 The Lover and The Reader. 
 
 On the death of Queen Anne and accession 
 of George I., Steele was appointed surveyor 
 of the royal stables, governor of the Royal 
 Company of Comedians, and a magistrate for 
 Middlesex. In April, 1715, he was also 
 knighted, and in George's first parliament 
 he was chosen member for Boroughbridge. 
 Finally, after the su])pression of the rebel- 
 lion in the north, he was made one of the 
 commissioners of the forfeited estates. In this 
 year, 1715, he published An Account of the 
 State of the Roman Catholic Religion through- 
 out the World, as well as A Letter from the 
 
 Earl of Mar to the King. In 1716 he pro- 
 duced a second volume of the Englishman; in 
 1718 An Account of his Fishpool; in 1719 The 
 Spinster, a pamphlet; and A Letter to the 
 Earl of Oxford concerning the Bill of Peerage. 
 This bill he opposed in the House of Commons 
 as well as in the Plebeian. Addison replied 
 to his criticisms in the Old Whig, and thus, a 
 year before the death of the latter, a coolness 
 sprang up between the two friends. In 1720 
 Steele wrote two pieces against the South Sea 
 scheme : one The Crisis of Property, the other 
 A Nation a Family. In January of the same 
 year, under the assumed name of Sir John 
 Edgar, he commenced a paper called The 
 Theatre, wliich he continued till the following 
 5th of April. During its existence his patent 
 as governor of the Royal Company of Comedians 
 was revoked. This, which was a heavy loss 
 to him, he discussed calmly in a pamphlet 
 called The State of the Case. In 1721, on the 
 accession of Walpole to power, he was rein- 
 stated in his post, and in 1722 his Conscious 
 Lovers was produced with great success. 
 
 Soon after this, having lost in 1723 his only 
 surviving son, his health began to decline, and, 
 hoping for an improvement, he moved from 
 London to Bath, and from there to Llangun- 
 nor near Caermarthen, where he lodged with 
 his agent and receiver of rents. In 1726 he 
 had an attack of palsy, and on the 1st of Sep- 
 tember, 1729, he died, having "retained his 
 cheerful sweetness of temper to the last." 
 
 Steele's position in literature is only now, 
 after many years, beginning to be properly 
 appreciated. In him is well seen how ready 
 the world is to take a man at his own measure- 
 ment, for as he claimed to be only a " whet- 
 stone to the wit of others," as Professor Mor- 
 ley puts it, the world gave him ci-edit for 
 little more. As a dramatist he was superior 
 to Addison — as an editor supei'ior beyond 
 comparison. His essays form that part of the 
 Spectator "which," says the wi'iter just quoted, 
 "took the widest grasp upon the hearts of 
 man." " It was," continues Professor Morley, 
 "the firm hand of his friend Steele that helped 
 Addison up to the place in literature which 
 became him. . . . There were those who 
 arffued that he was too careless of his own 
 fame in unselfish labour for the exaltation of 
 his friend, and no doubt his rare generosity 
 of temper has been often misinterpreted. 
 But ... he knew his countrymen, and was 
 in too genuine accord with the spirit of a time 
 then distant but now come, to doubt that, 
 when he was dead, his whole life's work would
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE 
 
 After the Painting by SIR GODFREY KXELLER
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 55 
 
 speak for him to posterity." Let us now at 
 last make this beUef a true one, and let 
 us no longer be found speaking of the Spec- 
 tator ;is " Addison's Spectatcyr;" but, if the 
 admirers of Addison will have it so, ;us " the 
 Steele- Addison Spectator." For among other 
 things let it be remembered that of the essays 
 in the Tatler, Spectator, and Ouardiaii, 510 
 belonged to Steele and 369 to Addison, while 1 
 Steele was in addition projector, founder, and 
 editor— and what he was as an editor may be 
 inferred when we look at Addison attempting 
 to walk alone.] 
 
 THE CIVIL HUSBAND.' 
 
 The fate and character of the inconstant 
 Osmyn is a just excuse for the little notice 
 taken by his widow of his departure out of this 
 life, which was equally troublesome to Elmira, 
 his faithful spouse, and to himself. That life 
 passed between them after this manner is the 
 reason the town has just now received a lady 
 with all that gaiety, after having been a relict 
 but three months, which other women hardly 
 assume under fifteen after such a disaster. 
 Elmira is the daughter of a rich and worthy 
 citizen, who gave her to Osmyn with a portion 
 which might have obtained her an alliance 
 with our noblest houses, and fixed her in the 
 eye of the world, where her story had not been 
 now to be related ; for her good qualities had 
 made her the object of universal esteem among 
 the polite part of mankind, from whom she 
 has been banished and immured till the death 
 of her jailer. 
 
 It is now full fifteen years since that beau- 
 teous lady was given into the hands of the 
 happy Osmyn, who in the sense of all the 
 world received at that time a present more 
 valual)le than the possession of both the Indies. 
 She was then in her early bloom, with an 
 understanding and discretion very little in- 
 ferior to the most experienced matrons. She 
 was not beholden to the charms of her sex, 
 that her company was preferable to any Osmyn 
 could meet with abroad ; for were all she said 
 considered, without regard to her being a 
 woman, it might stand the examination of the 
 severest judges. She had all the beauty of 
 her own sex, with all the conversation-accom- 
 plishments of ours. 
 
 But Osmyn very soon grew surfeited with 
 
 1 Niimber 53 of The Tatler. 
 
 the charms of her person by possession, and of 
 her mind by want of taste ; for he was one 
 of that loose sort of men, who have but one 
 reason for setting any value upon the fair sex, 
 who consider even brides but as new women, 
 and consequently neglect them when they 
 cease to be such. All the merit of Elmira 
 could not prevent her becoming a mere wife 
 within few months after her nuptials; and 
 Osmyn had so little relish for her conversation 
 that he complained of the advantages of it. 
 
 " My spouse," said he to one of his com- 
 panions, " is so very discreet, so good, so vir- 
 tuous, and I know not what, that I think her 
 person is rather the object of esteem than of 
 love; and there is such a thing as a merit 
 which causes rather distance than passion." 
 
 But there being no medium in the state of 
 matrimony, their life began to take the usual 
 gradations to become the most irksome of all 
 beings. They gi-ew in the first place very 
 complaisant; and having at heart a certain 
 knowledge that they were indifi'erent to each 
 other, apologies were made for every little 
 circumstance which they thought betrayed 
 their mutual coldness. This lasted but few 
 months, when they showed a difference of 
 opinion in every trifle ; and, as a sign of cer- 
 tain decay of affection, the word perhaps was 
 introduced in all their discourse. 
 
 "I have a mind to go to the park," says 
 she, "but perhaps, my dear, you will want 
 the coach on some other occasion." He would 
 very willingly carry her to the play, but per- 
 haps she had rather go to Lady Centaure's and 
 play at ombre. They were both persons of 
 good discerning, and soon found that they 
 mortally hated each other, by their manner of 
 hiding it. Certain it is, that there are some 
 Genio's which are not capable of pure afi"ection, 
 and a man is bom with talents for it as much 
 as for poetry or any other science. 
 
 Osmyn began too late to find the imperfec- 
 tion of his own heart, and used all the methods 
 in the world to correct it, and argue himself 
 into return of desire and passion for his wife, 
 by the contemplation of her excellent qualities, 
 his great obligations to her, and the high value 
 he saw all the world except himself did put 
 upon her. But such is man's unhappy condi- 
 tion, that though the weakness of the heart 
 has a prevailing power over the strength of the 
 head, yet the strength of the head has but 
 small force against the weakness of the heart. 
 Osmyn therefore struggled in vain to revive 
 departed desire ; and for that reason resolved 
 to retire to one of his estates in the country.
 
 56 
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 and pass away his hours of wedlock in the 
 noble diversions of the field ; and in the fury 
 of a disappointed lover, made an oath to leave 
 neither stag, fox, or hare living during the 
 days of his wife. Besides that country sports 
 would be an amusement, he hoped also that 
 his spouse would be half killed by the very 
 sense of seeing this town no more, and would 
 think her hfe ended as soon as she left it. 
 
 He communicated his design to Elmira, who 
 received it (as now she did all things) like a 
 person too unhappy to be relieved or afflicted 
 by the circumstance of place. This unexpected 
 resignation made Osmyn resolve to be as oblig- 
 ing to her as possible; and if he could not pre- 
 vail upon himself to be kind, he took a resolu- 
 tion at least to act sincerely, and communicate 
 frankly to her the weakness of his temper, to 
 excuse the indifference of his behaviour. He 
 disposed his household in the way to Rutland, 
 so as he and his lady travelled only in the 
 coach for the convenieiicy of discourse. They 
 had not gone many miles out of town when 
 Osmyn spoke to this purpose : — 
 
 " My dear, I believe I look quite as silly 
 now I am going to tell you I do not love you as 
 when I first told you I did. We are now going 
 into the country together, with only one hope 
 for making this life agreeable — survivorship; 
 desire is not in om- power ; mine is all gone 
 for you. "What shall we do to carry it with 
 decency to the world, and hate one another 
 Avith discretion?" 
 
 The lady answered without the least obser- 
 vation on the extravagance of the speech : — 
 " My dear, you have lived most of your 
 days in a court, and I have not been wholly 
 unacquainted with that sort of life. In courts, 
 you see, good-will is spoken with great warmth, 
 ill-will covered with great civility. Men ai-e 
 long in civilities to those they hate, and short 
 in expressions of kindness to those they love. 
 Therefore, my dear, let us be well-bred still, 
 and it is no matter, as to all who see us, 
 whether we love or hate ; and to let you see 
 how much you are beholden to me for my con- 
 duct, I have both hated and despised you, my 
 dear, this lialf year; and yet neither in language 
 or behaviour has it been visible but that I loved 
 you tenderly. Therefore, as I know you go 
 out of town to divert life in pursuit of beasts, 
 and convereation with men just above them ; 
 so, my life, from this moment I shall read all 
 the learned cooks who have ever writ, study 
 broths, plaisters, and conserves, till from a 
 fine lady I become a notable woman. We 
 must take our minds a note or two lowei", or 
 
 we shall be tortured by jealousy or anger. 
 Thus I am resolved to kill all keen passions by 
 employing my mind on little subjects, and 
 lessening the easiness of my sj^irit; while you, 
 my dear, with much ale, exercise, and ill com- 
 pany, are so good as to endeavour to be as con- 
 temptible as it is necessary for my quiet I 
 should think you." 
 
 To Rutland they arrived, and lived with 
 great but secret impatience for many successive 
 years, till Osmyn thought of an happy ex- 
 pedient to give their affairs a new turn. One 
 day he took Elmira aside, and spoke as fol- 
 lows : " My dear, you see here the air is so tem- 
 perate and serene, the rivulets, the groves, and 
 soil so extremely kind to nature, that we are 
 stronger and firmer in our health since we left 
 the town, so that there is no hope of a release 
 in this place ; but if you will be so kind as to 
 go with me to my estate in the hundreds of 
 Essex, it is possible some kind damp may one 
 day or other relieve us. If you will condescend 
 to accept of this ofi'er, I will add that whole 
 estate to your jointure in this county." 
 
 Elmira, who was all goodness, accepted the 
 offer, removed accordingly, and has left her 
 spouse in that place to rest with his fathers. 
 
 This is the real figure in which Elmira ought 
 to be beheld in this town, and not thought 
 guilty of an indecoi'um in not professing the 
 sense or bearing the habit of sori-ow for one 
 who robbed her of all the endearments of life 
 and gave her only common civility instead of 
 complacency of manners, dignity of passion, 
 and that constant assemblage of soft desires 
 and affections which all feel who love, but 
 none can express. 
 
 INKLE AND YARICO.» 
 
 Arietta is visited by all persons of both sexes 
 who may have any pretence to wit and gal- 
 lantry. She is in that time of life which is 
 neither affected with the follies of youth or 
 infirmities of age; and her conversation is 
 so mixed with gaiety and prudence, that 
 she is agreeable both to the young and the 
 old. Her behaviour is very frank, without 
 being in the least blamable; and as she is out 
 of the track of any amorous or ambitious pur- 
 suits of her own, her visitants entertain her 
 with accounts of themselves very freely, whe- 
 ther they concern their passions or their in- 
 
 1 Number 11 of The Spectator.
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 57 
 
 terests. I made her a visit this afternoon, | 
 having been formerly introduced to the honour 
 of her acquaintance by my friend Will. 
 Honeycomb, who has prevailed upon her to 
 admit me sometimes into her assembly as a 
 civil, inotfensive man. I found her accom- 
 panied with one person only, a commonplace 
 talker, who, upon my entrance, rose, and after 
 a very slight civility sat down again ; then 
 turning to Arietta, pursued his discourse, 
 which I found was upon the old topic, of con- 
 stancy in love. He went on with great facility 
 in repeating what he talks every day of his 
 life ; and, with the ornaments of insignilicant 
 laughs and gestures, enforced his arguments 
 by quotjitions out of plays and songs, which 
 allude to the perjuries of the fair and the 
 general levity of women. Methought he 
 strove to shine more than ordinarily in his 
 talkative way, that he might insult my silence, 
 and distinguish himself before a woman of 
 Arietta's taste and understanding. She had 
 often an inclination to interrupt him, but 
 could find no opj^ortunity, 'till the larum 
 ceased of itself ; which it did not till he had 
 repeated and murdered the celebrated story of 
 the Ephesian matron.^ 
 
 Arietta seemed to regard this piece of rail- 
 lery as an outrage done to her sex; as indeed 
 I have always observed that women, whether 
 out of a nicer regard to their honour, or what 
 other reason I cannot tell, are more sensibly 
 touched with those general aspei*sions which 
 are cast upon their sex than men are by what 
 is said of theirs. 
 
 When she had a little recovered herself from 
 the serious anger she was in, she replied in the 
 following manner : — 
 
 Sir, when I consider how perfectly new all 
 you have said on this subject is, and that the 
 story you have given us is not quite two thou- 
 sand years old, I cannot but think it a piece 
 of jDresumption to dispute with you : but your 
 quotations put me in mind of the fable of the 
 lion and the man. The man walking with 
 that noble animal, showed him, in the osten- 
 tation of human superiority, a sign of a man 
 killing a lion. Upon which the lion said very 
 justly, '"'We lions are none of us painters, else 
 we could show a hundred men killed by lions 
 for one lion killed by a man." You men are 
 writers, and can represent us women as unbe- 
 
 1 Told in the prose "SatjTicon" ascribed to Petronius, 
 wliom Nero called his arbiter of elegance. The tale was 
 known in the middle ages from the stories of the "Seven 
 Wise Masters." She went down into the vault with her 
 husband's corpse, resolved to weep to death or die of 
 
 coming as you please in your works, while we 
 are unable to return the injury. You have 
 twice or thrice observed in your discourse that 
 hypocrisy is the very foundation of our educa- 
 tion; and that an ability to dissemble our affec- 
 tions is a professed part of our bleeding. 
 These, and such other reflections, are sprinkled 
 up and down the writings of all ages, by 
 authors, who leave behind them memorials of 
 their reseiitment against the scorn of particu- 
 lar women, in invectives against the whole 
 sex. Such a writer, I doubt not, was the cele- 
 brated Petronius, who invented the pleasant 
 aggravations of the frailty of the Ephesian 
 lady; but when we consider this question be- 
 tween the sexes, which has been either a point 
 of dispute or raillery ever since there were 
 men and women, let us take facts from plain 
 people, and from such as have not either am- 
 bition or capacity to embellish their narrations 
 with any beauties of imagination. I was the 
 other day amusing myself with Ligon's account 
 of Barbadoes; and, in answer to your well- 
 wrought tale, I will give you (as it dwells 
 upon my memory) out of that honest traveller, 
 in his fifty-fifth page, the history of Inkle and 
 Yarico. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Inkle of London, aged twenty 
 years, embarked in the Downs, on the good 
 ship called the Achilles, bound for the West 
 Indies, on the 16th of June, 1647, in order to 
 improve his fortune by trade and merchandise. 
 Our adventurer was the third son of an eminent 
 citizen, who had taken particular care to instil 
 into his mind an early love of gain, by making 
 him a perfect master of numbers, and conse- 
 quently giving him a quick view of loss and 
 advantage, and preventing the natural im- 
 pulses of his passions, by prepossession towards 
 his interests. With a mind thus turned, young 
 Inkle had a pereon every way agreeable, a ruddy 
 vigour in his countenance, strength in his 
 limbs, with ringlets of fair hair loosely flowing 
 on his shoulders. It happened, in the coui-se 
 of the voyage, that the Achilles, in some dis- 
 tress, put into a creek on the main of America 
 in search of provisions : the youth, who is the 
 hero of my story, among othere, went ashore 
 on this occasion. From their first landing 
 they were observed by a party of Indians, who 
 hid themselves in the woods for that purpose. 
 The English unadvisedly marched a great dis- 
 
 famine; but was tempted to share the supper of a soldier 
 who was watching seven bodies hanging upon trees, and 
 that verj" night, in the grave of her husband and in her 
 funeral garments, married her new and stranger guest. — 
 Prof. Morley.
 
 58 
 
 SIE EICHARD STEELE. 
 
 tance from the shore into the country, and 
 were intercepted by the natives, who slew the 
 greatest number of them. Our adventurer 
 escaped, among others, by flying into a forest. 
 Upon his coming into a remote and pathless 
 part of the wood he threw himself [tired and] 
 breathless on a little hillock, when an Indian 
 maid rushed from a thicket behind him: after 
 the first surprise they appeared mutually agree- 
 able to each other. If the European was highly 
 charmed with the limbs, features, and wild 
 graces of the naked American, the American 
 was no less taken with the dress, complexion, 
 and shape of an European, covered from head 
 to foot. The Indian grew immediately en- 
 amoured of him, and consequently solicitous 
 for his preservation : she therefore conveyed 
 him to a cave, where she gave him a delicious 
 repast of fruits, and led him to a stream to 
 slake his thirst. In the midst of these good 
 oftices she would sometimes play with his hair, 
 and delight in the opposition of its colour to 
 that of her fingers : then open his bosom, then 
 laugh at him for covering it. She was, it 
 seems, a person of distinction, for she every 
 day came to him in a different dress of the 
 most beautiful shells, bugles, and bredes. She 
 likewise brought him a great many spoils, 
 which her other lovers had presented to her ; 
 so that his cave was richly adorned with all 
 the spotted skins of beasts, and most party- 
 coloured feathers of fowls, which that world 
 aff'orded. To make his confinement more 
 tolerable, she would carry him in the dusk of 
 the evening, or by the favour of moonlight, to 
 unfrequented groves and solitudes, and show 
 him where to lie down in safety and sleep 
 amidst the falls of waters and melody of night- 
 ingales. Her part was to watch and hold him 
 in her arms for fear of her countrymen, and 
 wake on occasions to consi;lt his safety. In 
 this manner did the lovers j)as3 away their 
 time till they had learned a language of their 
 own, in which the voyager communicated to 
 his mistress how happy he should be to have 
 her in his country, where she should be clothed 
 in such silks as his waistcoat was made of, and 
 be carried in houses drawn by horses, without 
 being exposed to wind or weather. All this 
 he promised her the enjoyment of, without 
 such fears and alarms as they were there tor- 
 mented witli. In this tender correspondence 
 these lovers lived for several months, when 
 Yarico, instructed by her lover, discovered a 
 vessel on the coast, to which she made signals, 
 and in the night, with the utmost joy and 
 satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's crew 
 
 of his countrymen, bound for Barbadoes. 
 When a vessel from the main arrives in that 
 island it seems the planters come down to the 
 shore, where there is an immediate market of 
 the Indians and other slaves, as with us of 
 horses and oxen. 
 
 To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now coming 
 into English territories, began seriously to 
 reflect upon his loss of time, and to weigh 
 with himself how many days' interest of his 
 money he had lost during his stay with Yarico. 
 This thought made the young man very pen- 
 sive, and careful what account he should be 
 able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon 
 which considerations the prudent and frugal 
 young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian mer- 
 chant ; notwithstanding that the poor girl, to 
 incline him to commiserate her condition, told 
 him that she was with child by him : but he 
 only made use of that information to rise in 
 his demands upon the purchaser. 
 
 I was so touched with this story (which I 
 think should be always a counterpart to the 
 Ephesian matron) that I left the room with 
 tears in my eyes ; which a woman of Arietta's 
 good sense did, I am sure, take for greater 
 applause than any compliments I could make 
 her. 
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S WOOING.* 
 
 In my first description of the company iu 
 which I pass most of my time it may be re- 
 membered that I mentioned a great affliction 
 which my friend Sir Eoger had met with in 
 his youth, which was no less than a disappoint- 
 ment in love. It happened this evening that 
 we fell into a very pleasing walk at a distance 
 from his house : as soon as we came into it, 
 "It is," quoth the good old man, looking round 
 him with a smile, "very hard that any part of 
 my land should be settled upon one who has 
 used me so ill as the perverse widow did ; and 
 yet I am sure I could not see a sprig of any 
 bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should 
 reflect upon her and her severity. She has 
 certainly the finest hand of any woman in the 
 world. You are to know this was the place 
 wherein I used to muse upon her; and by that 
 custom I can never come into it but the same 
 tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if I 
 had actually walked with that ]>eautifnl crea- 
 ture under these shades. I have been fool 
 enoujjh to carve her name on the bark of several 
 
 1 Number 113 of The Spectator.
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 59 
 
 of these trees; so unliappy is the condition of 
 men in love, to attempt tlie removing of their 
 piussion by the methods which serve only to 
 imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest 
 hand of any woman in the world." 
 
 Here followed a profound silence; and I was 
 not displeased to observe ray friend falling so 
 naturally into a discourse, which I had ever 
 before taken notice he industriously avoided. 
 After a very long pause he entered upon an 
 account of this great circumstance in his life, 
 with an air which I thought raised my idea 
 of him above what I had ever had before; and 
 gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of 
 his, before it received that stroke which has 
 ever since affected his words and actions. 
 But he went on as follows: — 
 
 " I came to my estate in my twenty-second 
 year, and resolved to follow the stej^s of the 
 most worthy of my ancestors who have in- 
 habited this spot of earth before me, in all the 
 methods of hospitality and good neighbour- 
 hood, for the sake of my fame; and in country 
 sports and recreations, for the sake of my 
 health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged 
 to serve as sheriff of the county ; and in my 
 servants, officers, and whole equipage indulged 
 the pleasure of a young man (who did not 
 think ill of his own person) in taking that 
 public occasion of showing my figure and be- 
 haviour to advantage. You may easily ima- 
 gine to youi-self what appearance I made, who 
 am pretty tall, rid well, and was very well 
 dressed, at the head of a whole county, with 
 music before me, a feather in my hat, and my 
 horse well bitted. I can assure you I was 
 not a little pleased with the kind looks and 
 glances I had from all the balconies and 
 windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes 
 were held. But when I came there a beautiful 
 creature in a widow's habit sat in court to hear 
 the event of a cause concerning her dower. 
 This commanding creature (who was born for 
 destruction of all who behold her) put on such 
 a resignation in her countenance, and bore the 
 whispers of all ai'ound the court with such a 
 pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and then 
 recovered herself from one eye to another, 
 'tiU she was perfectly confused by meeting 
 something so wistful in all she encountered, 
 that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast 
 her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner 
 met it but I bowed like a great surprised 
 booby ; and knowing her cause to be the fii-st 
 which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf 
 as I was, ' Make way for the defendant's wit- 
 nesses.' This sudden partiality made all the 
 
 county immediately see the sheriflf also was 
 become a slave to the fine widow. During 
 the time her cause was upon trial she behaved 
 herself, I warrant you, with such a deep atten- 
 tion to her busineas, took opportunities to have 
 little billets handed to her council, then would 
 be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, you 
 must know, by acting before so much company, 
 that not only I but the whole court was pre- 
 judiced in her favour; and all that the next 
 heir to her husband had to urge was thought 
 so groundless and frivolous, that when it came 
 to her council to reply, there was not half so 
 much said as every one besides in the court 
 thought he could have urged to her advantage. 
 You must understand, sir, this perverse woman 
 is one of those unaccountable creatures that 
 secretly rejoice in the admiration of men, but 
 indulge themselves in no further consequences. 
 Hence it is that she has ever had a train of 
 admirers, and she removes from her slaves in 
 town to those in the country, according to the 
 seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, 
 and far gone in the pleasures of friendship; 
 she is always accompanied by a confidant, who 
 is witness to her daily protestations against 
 our sex, and consequently a bar to her first 
 steps towards love, upon the strength of her 
 own maxims and declarations. 
 
 "However, I must needs say this accom- 
 plished mistress of mine has distinguished me 
 above the rest, and has been known to declai-e 
 Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and 
 most human of all the brutes in the country. 
 I was told she said so by one who thought he 
 rallied me ; but upon the strength of this 
 slender encouragement, of being thought least 
 detestable, I made new liveries, new paired 
 my coaoh-horses, sent them all to town to be 
 bitted, and taught to tkrow their legs well, 
 and move all together, before I pretended to 
 cross the country and wait upon her. As 
 soon as I tliought my retinue suitable to the 
 character of my fortune and youth, I set out 
 from hence to make my addresses. The par- 
 ticular skill of this lady has ever been to in- 
 flame your wishes, and yet command respect. 
 To make her misti'eas of this art she has a 
 greater share of knowledge, wit, and good 
 sense than is usual even among men of merit. 
 Then she is beautiful beyond the race of 
 women. If you won't let her go on with a 
 certain artifice with her eyes, and the skill of 
 beauty, she will arm herself with her real 
 charms, and strike you with admiration instead 
 of desire. It is certain that if you were to 
 behold the whole woman there is that dignity
 
 60 
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 in her aspect, that composure in her motion, 
 that complacency in her manner, that if her 
 form makes you hope, her merit makes you 
 fear. But then again, she is such a desperate 
 schohar, that no country gentleman can ap- 
 pi'oach her without being a jest. As I was 
 going to tell you, when I came to her house 
 I was admitted to her presence with great 
 civility; at the same time she placed herself to 
 be first seen by me in such an attitude, as I 
 think you call the jjosture of a picture, that 
 she discovered new charms, and I at last came 
 towards her with such an awe as made me 
 speechless. This she no sooner observed but 
 she made her advantage of it, and began a 
 discourse to me concerning love and honour, 
 as they both are followed by pretenders, and 
 the real votaries to them. When she [had] 
 discussed these points in a discourse, which I 
 verily believe was as learned as the best philo- 
 sopher in Europe could possibly make, she 
 asked me whether she was so happy as to fall 
 in with my sentiments on these important 
 particulars. Her confidant sat by her, and 
 upon my being in the last confusion and 
 silence, this malicious aid of hers, turning to 
 her, says, I am very glad to observe Sir Roger 
 pauses upon this subject, and seems resolved 
 to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter 
 when he pleases to sjjeak. They both kept 
 their countenances, and after I had sat half an 
 hour meditating how to behave before such 
 profound casuists, I rose up and took my leave. 
 Chance has since that time thrown me very 
 often in her way, and she as often has directed 
 a discourse to me which I do not understand. 
 This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance 
 from the most beautiful object my eyes ever 
 beheld. It is thus also she deals with all man- 
 kind, and you must make love to her, as you 
 would conquer the sphinx, by jjosing her. 
 But were she like other women, and that there 
 were any talking to her, how constant must 
 the plea.sure of that man be who could con- 
 verse with a creature — But, after all, you may 
 be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other; 
 and yet I have been credibly informed, — but 
 who can believe half that is said ! After she 
 had done speaking to me she put her hand to 
 her bosom and adjusted her tucker. Then she 
 cast her eyes a little down upon my beholding 
 her too earnestly. They say she sings excel- 
 lently: her voice in her ordinary speech has 
 something in it inexpressibly sweet. You 
 must know I dined with her at a public table 
 the day after I first saw her, and she helped 
 me to some tansy in the eye of all the gentle- 
 
 men in the country: she has certainly the 
 finest hand of any woman in the world. I can 
 assure you, sir, were you to behold her, you 
 would be in the same condition ; for as her 
 speech is music, her form is angelic. But I 
 find I grow irregular while I am talking of 
 her ; but, indeed, it would be stupidity to be 
 unconcerned at such perfection. Oh the ex- 
 cellent creature, she is as inimitable to all 
 women, as she is inaccessible to all men." 
 
 I found my friend begin to rave, and insen- 
 sibly led him towards the house, that we might 
 be joined by some other company; and am 
 convinced that the widow is the secret cause 
 of all that inconsistency which appears in some 
 parts of mj'- friend's discourse ; though he has 
 so much command of himself as not directly to 
 mention her, yet according to that of Martial, 
 which one knows not how to render in Eng- 
 lish, Dum tacet hanc loquitur. I shall end 
 this jiaper with that whole epigram, which 
 represents with much humour my honest 
 friend's condition. 
 
 Quicquid agit Rufus nihil est nisi Nsevia Rufo, 
 Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur : 
 
 Ccenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est 
 Nffivia; si non sit Naevia mutus erit. 
 
 Scriberet hesterna Patri cum Luce Salutem, 
 Nsevia lux, inquit, Nsevia lumen, ave. 
 
 Let Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk, 
 Still he can nothing but of Nsevia talk ; 
 Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute, 
 Still he must speak of Nsevia, or be mute. 
 He writ to his father, ending with this line, 
 I am, my lovely Nsevia, ever thine. 
 
 C H A III T Y.i 
 
 Charity is a virtue of the heart and not of 
 the hands, says an old writer. Gifts and alms 
 are the expressions, not the essence of this 
 virtue. A man may bestow great sums on the 
 poor and indigent without being charitable, 
 and may be charitable when he is not able 
 to bestow anything. Charity is therefore a 
 habit of good-will or benevolence in the soul, 
 which disposes us to the love, assistance, and 
 relief of mankind, especially of those who 
 stand in need of it. The ])oor man who has 
 this excellent frame of mind is no less intituled 
 to the reward of this virtue than the man who 
 founds a college. For my own part, I am 
 charitable to an extravagance this way. I 
 
 1 Number 166 of The Guardian.
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 61 
 
 never saw an indigent person in my life, with- 
 out reaching out to iiim some of this imaginary 
 relief. I cannot but synijmthize with every 
 one I meet that is in affliction; and if my 
 abilities were equal to my wishes, there should 
 be neither pain nor poverty in the world. 
 
 To give my reader a right notion of myself 
 in this particular, I shall present him with the 
 secret history of one of the most remarkable 
 parts of my life. 
 
 I was once engaged in search of the philo- 
 sopher's stone. It is frequently oliserved of 
 men who have been busied in this pursuit, 
 that though they have failed in their principal 
 design, they have however made such dis- 
 coveries in their way to it as have sufficiently 
 recompensed their inquiries. In the same 
 manner, though I cannot boast of my success 
 in that affair, I do not repent of my engaging 
 in it, because it produced in my mind such an 
 habitual exercise of charity, as made it much 
 better than pei-haps it would have been, had I 
 never been lost in so pleasing a delusion. 
 
 As I did not question but I should soon 
 have a new Indies in my possession, I was 
 perpetually taken up in considering how to 
 turn it to the benefit of mankind. In order 
 to it I employed a whole day in walking about 
 this great city, to find out proper places for 
 the erection of hospitals. I had likewise en- 
 tertained that project, which has since suc- 
 ceeded in another place, of building churches 
 at the court-end of the town, with this only 
 diflference, that instead of fifty, I intended to 
 have built a hundred, and to have seen them 
 all finished in less than one year. 
 
 I had with great pains and application got 
 together a list of all the French Protestants ; 
 and by the best accounts I could come at, had 
 calculated the value of all those estates and 
 effects which every one of them had left in his 
 own country for the sake of his religion, being 
 fully determined to make it up to him, and 
 return some of them the double of what they 
 had lost. 
 
 As I was one day in my laboratory, my 
 operator, who was to fill my coffers for me. 
 and used to foot it from the other end of the 
 town every morning, complained of a sprain 
 in his leu that he had met with over against 
 St. Clement's Church. This so affected me, 
 that as a standing mark of my gratitude to 
 him, and out of compassion to the rest of my 
 fellow-citizens, I resolved to new pave every 
 street within the liberties, and entered a 
 memorandum in my pocket-book accordingly. 
 About the same time I entertained some 
 
 thoughts of mending all the highways on this 
 side the Tweed, and of making all the rivers 
 in England navigable. 
 
 But the project I had most at heart was 
 the settling upon every man in Great Britain 
 three pounds a year (in which sum may be 
 comprised, according to Sir William Pettit's 
 observations, all the necessities of life), leaving 
 to them, whatever else they could get by their 
 ow'n industry to lay out on superfluities. 
 
 I was above a week debating in myself what 
 I should do in the matter of impropriations; 
 but at length came to a resolution to buy them 
 all up, and restore them to tlie Churcli. 
 
 As I was one day walking near St. Paul's I 
 took some time to survey that structure, and 
 not being entirely satisfied with it, though I 
 could not tell why, I liad some thoughts of 
 pulling it down, and building it up anew at 
 my own expense. 
 
 For my own part, as I have no pride in me, 
 I intended to take up with a coach and six, 
 half a dozen footmen, and live like a private 
 gentleman. 
 
 It happened about this time that public 
 matters looked very gloomy, taxes came hard, 
 the war went on heavily, people complained 
 of the great burdens that were laid upon them. 
 This made me resolve to set aside one morning 
 to consider seriously the state of the nation. 
 I was the more ready to enter on it, because 
 I was obliged, whether I would or no, to sit 
 at home in my morning gown, having, after a 
 most incredible expense, pawned a new suit 
 of clothes and a full-bottomed wig for a sum 
 of money which my operator assured me was 
 the last he should want to make all our mat- 
 ters to bear. After having considered many 
 projects, I at length resolved to beat the com- 
 mon enemy at his own weapons, and laid a 
 scheme which would have blown him up in a 
 quarter of a year, had things succeeded to my 
 wishes. As I was in this golden dream some- 
 body knocked at my door. I o])ened it and 
 found it was a messenger that brought me a 
 letter from the laboratory. The fellow looked 
 so miserably poor that I was resolved to make 
 his fortune befoi'e he delivered his message. 
 But seeing he brought a letter from my oper- 
 ator, I concluded I was bound to it in honour, 
 as much as a prince is to give a rew^ard to one 
 that brings him the first news of a victory. 
 I knew this was the long-expected hour of 
 projection, and which I had waited for wdth 
 great impatience above half a year before. In 
 short, I broke open my letter in a ti'ansport of 
 joy, and found it as follows : —
 
 62 
 
 SIR RICHAED STEELE. 
 
 " Sir, — After having got out of you every- 
 thing you can conveniently spare, I scorn to 
 trespass upon your generous nature, and there- 
 fore must ingenuously confess to you that I 
 know no more of the philosopher's stone than 
 you do. I shall only tell you for your comfort 
 that I never yet could bubble a blockhead out 
 of his money. They must be men of wit and 
 parts who are for my purjjose. This made me 
 apply myself to a person of your wealth and 
 ingenuity. How I have succeeded you your- 
 self can best tell. — Your humble servant to 
 command, "Thomas White. 
 
 " I have locked up the laboratory and laid 
 the key under the door." 
 
 I was very much shocked at the unworthy 
 treatment of this man, and not a little morti- 
 fied at my disappointment, though not so much 
 for what I myself, as what the public suflfered 
 by it. I think, however, I ought to let the 
 world know what I designed for them, and 
 hope that such of my readers who find they 
 had a share in my good intentions will accept 
 of the will for the deed. 
 
 THE OLD STYLE AND THE NEW. 
 
 (from "the conscious lovers.") 
 
 TTumphrey. 0, here's the prince of poor cox- 
 combs, the representative of all the better fed 
 than taught ! — Ho, ho, Tom ! whither so gay 
 and so airy this morning? 
 
 Enter Tom, singing. 
 
 Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen 
 are another kind of people than you domestic 
 ordinary drudges that do business; we are 
 raised above you : the pleasures of board wages, 
 tavern dinners, and many a clear gain, vails, 
 alas ! you never heard or dreamt of. 
 
 Humph. Thou hast follies and vices enough 
 for a man of ten thousand a year, though it 
 is but as t'other day that I sent for you to 
 town to put you into Mr. Sealand's family, 
 \ that you might learn a little before I put you 
 to my young master, who is too gentle for 
 training such a rude thing as you were into 
 proper obedience. — — You then pulled off your 
 hat to every one you met in the street, like a 
 biishful, great, awkward cub, as you were. 
 But your great oaken cudgel, when you were 
 a booby, became you much better than that 
 dangling stick at your button, now you are a 
 
 fop, that's fit for nothing, except it hangs there 
 to be ready for your master's hand, when you 
 ai'e impertinent. 
 
 Tom. Uncle Humjihrey, you know my 
 master scorns to strike his servants ; you talk 
 as if the world was now just as it was when 
 my old master and you were in your youth— 
 when you went to dinner because it was so 
 much o'clock, when the great blow was given 
 in the hall at the pantry door, and all the 
 family came out of their holes in such strange 
 dresses and formal faces as you see in the pic- 
 tures in our long gallery in the country. 
 
 Humph. Why, you wild rogue ! 
 
 Tom. You could not fall to your dinner, 
 till a formal fellow in a black gown said some- 
 thing over the meat, as if the cook had not 
 made it ready enough. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after? — 
 despising men of sacred characters ! T hope 
 you never heard my young master talk so like 
 a profligate. 
 
 Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me when I 
 first came to town about being orderly, and 
 the doctrine of wearing shams, to make linen 
 last clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, 
 and wearing a frock within doors. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons, 
 because I supposed at that time your master 
 and you might have dined at home every day, 
 and cost you nothing; then you might have 
 made you a good family servant ; but the gang 
 you have frequented since, at chocolate houses 
 and taverns, in a continual round of noise and 
 extravagance 
 
 Tom. I don't know what you heavy in- 
 mates call noise and extravagance; but we 
 gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut a figure, 
 sir, think it a fine life, and that we must be 
 very pretty fellows, who are kept only to be 
 looked at. 
 
 Humph. Very well, sir — I hope the fashion 
 of being lewd and extravagant, despising of 
 decency and order, is almost at an end, since 
 it is arrived at persons of your quality. 
 
 Tom. Master Humphrey, ha ! ha ! you were 
 an unhappy lad, to be sent up to town in such 
 queer days as you were. Why now, sir, the 
 lackeys are the men of pleasure of the age; 
 the top gamesters, and many a laced coat 
 about town, have had their education in our 
 party-coloured regiment. — We are false lovers, 
 have a taste of music, poetry, billet doux, 
 dress, politics, ruin damsels ; and when we are 
 weary of this lewd town, and have a mind to 
 take up, whip into our m;isters' clothes, and 
 marry fortunes.
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 G3 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your 
 extravagance ; I'U hear you prate no longer : 
 I wanted to see you, to inquire how things go 
 with your master, as far as you understand 
 thera : I suppose he knows he is to be married 
 to-day. 
 
 l^om. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed 
 as gay as the sun ; but between you and I, my 
 dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that 
 gaiety. As soon as he was dressed I retired, 
 but overheard him sigh in the most heavy 
 manner. He walked thoughtfully to and fro 
 in the room, then went into his closet ; when 
 he came out, he gave me this for his mistress, 
 whose maid, you know 
 
 Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine 
 person. 
 
 Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and loves 
 to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, 
 operas, and masquerades ; and lard ! says she, 
 you are so wild- — but you have a world of 
 humour. 
 
 Humph. Coxcomb ! "Well, but why don't you 
 run with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, 
 as he ordered you? 
 
 Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily 
 come at as you think for. 
 
 Hum-ph. Not easily come at? why, sir, are 
 not her father and my old master agreed that 
 she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before 
 to-morrow morning? 
 
 Tom. It's no matter for that : her mother, 
 it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it ; 
 and you must know, Mr. Humphrey, that in 
 that family the gray mare is the better 
 horse. 
 
 Humph. What dost thou mean? 
 
 Tom. In one woi-d, Mrs. Sealand pretends 
 to have a will of her own, and has provided a 
 relation of here, a stiff starched philosopher 
 and a wise fool, for her daughter ; for which 
 reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered 
 no message nor letter from my master to come 
 near her. 
 
 Humph. And where had you this intelli- 
 gence ? 
 
 Tom. From a foolish fond soul, that can 
 keep nothing from me — one that will deliver 
 this letter too, if she is rightly managed. 
 
 Humph. What, her pretty handmaid, Mrs. 
 Phillis? 
 
 Tom. Even she, sir. This is the very hour, 
 you know, she usually comes hither, under a 
 pretence of a visit to our housekeeper, for- 
 sooth, but in reality to have a glance at • 
 
 Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. 
 
 Tom. Nothing else in nature. You must 
 
 know I love to fret and play with the little 
 wanton 
 
 Humph. Play with the little wanton ! what 
 will this world come to ! 
 
 Tom. I met her this morning in a new 
 gown, not a bit the worse for her lady's wear- 
 ing, and she has always new thoughts and new 
 aii-s with new clothes — then she never fails to 
 steal some glance or gesture from every visit- 
 ant at their house, and is indeed the whole 
 
 town of coquettes at second hand But here 
 
 she comes ; in one motion she speaks and de- 
 scribes hei-self better than all the words in the 
 world can. 
 
 Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your 
 own affair is over, you will be so good as to 
 mind your master's with her. 
 
 Tom. Dear Humphrey ! you know my mas- 
 ter is my friend, and those are people I never 
 forget— — 
 
 Humph. Sauciness itself ! but I'll leave you 
 to do your best for him. {Exit. 
 
 A EOMANTIC YOUNG LADY. 
 
 (from "the tender husband.") 
 
 [Aunt, who desires her niece to marry her 
 cousin Humphrey Gubbin; she loves a Cap- 
 tain Clerimont, and determines to cut her 
 cousin.] 
 
 Enter Aunt and Niece. 
 
 Niece. Was it not my gallant that whistled 
 so charmingly in the parlour before we went 
 out this morning? He's a most accomplished 
 cavalier ! 
 
 Aunt. Come, niece, come ; you don't do well 
 to make sport of your relations, especially 
 with a young gentleman that has so much 
 kindness for you. 
 
 Niece. Kindness for me ! What a phrase is 
 there to express the darts and flames, the sighs 
 and languishings of an expecting lover ! 
 
 Aunt. Pray, niece, forbear this idle tr;ish, 
 and talk like other people. Your cousin 
 Humphrey will be true and hearty in what 
 he says, and that's a great deal better than the 
 talk and compliment of romances. 
 
 Niece. Good madam, don't wound my ears 
 with such expressions; do you think I can 
 ever love a man that's true and hearty ? Pray, 
 aunt, endeavour a little at the embellishment 
 of your style. 
 
 Aunt. Alack-a-day ! cousin Biddy, these idle 
 romances have quite turned your head.
 
 64 
 
 SIR EICHARD STEELE. 
 
 Niece. How often must I desire you, madam, 
 to lay aside that familiar name, cousin Biddy? 
 I never hear it without bhishing. Did you 
 ever meet with a heroine, in those idle 
 romances, as you call 'em, that was termed 
 Biddy? 
 
 Aunt. Ah ! cousin, cousin, these are mere 
 vapours, indeed ; nothing but vapours. 
 
 Niece. No ; the heroine has always some- 
 thing soft and engaging in her name ; some- 
 thing that gives us a notion of the sweetness 
 of her beauty and behaviour. A name that 
 glides through half-a-dozen tender syllables, 
 as Elismunda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs 
 upon vowels of the tongue, not hissing through 
 one's teeth, or breaking them with consonants. 
 'Tis strange rudeness, those familiar names 
 they give us, when there is Aurelia, Sacchar- 
 issa, Gloriana, for people of condition, and 
 Cella, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids 
 and those of lower rank. 
 
 Aunt. Lookye ! Biddy, this is not to be 
 supported ; I know not where you have learned 
 this nicety; but I can tell you, forsooth, as 
 mucli as you despise it, your mother was a 
 Bridget afore you, and an excellent house- 
 wife. 
 
 Niece. Good madam, don't upbraid me wath 
 my mother Bridget, and an excellent house- 
 wife. 
 
 Aunt. Yes, I say, she was; and spent her 
 time in bettei' learning than ever you did ; not 
 in reading of fights and battles of dwarfs and 
 giants, but in writing out receipts for broths, 
 possets, caudles, and surfeit-waters, as became 
 a good country gentlewoman. 
 
 Niece. My mother, and a Bridget ! 
 
 Aujit. Yes, niece ; I say again — your mother, 
 my sister, was a Bridget. The daughter of 
 her mother Margery, of her mother Cicely, of 
 her mother Alice — 
 
 Niece. Have you no mercy? Oh, the bar- 
 barous genealogy! 
 
 Aunt. Of her mother Winifred, of her 
 mother Joan — 
 
 Niece. Since you will run on, then, I must 
 needs tell you I am not satisfied in the point 
 of my nativity. Many an infant has been 
 placed in a cottage with obscure parents, till, 
 by chance, some ancient servant of the family 
 has known it Ijy its marks. 
 
 Aunt. Ay, you had best be searched. 
 That's like your calling the winds the fanning 
 gales, before I don't know how much company; 
 and the tree that was blown by them had, for- 
 sooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it. 
 
 Niece. Ignorance ! 
 
 Aunt. Then, a cloud, this morning, had a 
 flying dragon in it. 
 
 Niece. What eyes had you that you could 
 see nothing? For my part I look upon it as a 
 prodigy, and expect something extraordinary 
 will happen to me before night. But you 
 have a gross relish of things. What noble 
 descriptions in romances had been lost if the 
 writers had been persons of your gout ! 
 
 Aunt. I wish the authors had been hanged, 
 and their books burnt, before you had seen 
 them. 
 
 Niece. Simplicity ! 
 
 Aunt. A parcel of improbable lies — 
 
 Niece. Indeed, madam, your raillery is 
 coarse. 
 
 Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and 
 turn their heads with a thousand foolish 
 dreams of I don't know what. 
 
 Niece. Nay, now, madam, you grow extra- 
 vagant. 
 
 Aunt. What I say is not to vex, but advise 
 you for your good. 
 
 Niece. What, to burn Philocles, Artax- 
 erxes, Oroondates, and the rest of the heroic 
 lovers ; and take my country booby, cousin 
 Humphrey, for a husband. 
 
 Aunt. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Biddy, pray, 
 good dear, learn to act and speak like the rest 
 of the world; come, come, you shall marry 
 your cousin, and live comfortably. 
 
 Niece. Live comfortably! What kind of 
 life is that ? A great heiress live comfortably ! 
 Pray, aunt, learn to raise your ideas. What 
 is, I wonder, to live comfortably? 
 
 Aunt. To live comfortably is to live with 
 prudence and frugality, as we do in Lombard 
 Street. 
 
 Niece. As we do ! That's a fine life, indeed ! 
 with one servant of each sex. Let us see how 
 many things our coachman is good for. He 
 rubs down his horses, lays the cloth, whets the 
 knives, and sometimes makes beds. 
 
 Aunt. A good servant should turn his hand 
 to everything in a family. 
 
 Niece. Nay, there's not a creature in our 
 family that has not two or three different 
 duties — as John is butler, footman, and coach- 
 man, so Mary is cook, laundress, and cham- 
 bermaid. 
 
 Aunt. Well, and do you laugh at that? 
 
 Niece. No, not I; nor at the coach-horses, 
 though one has an easy trot for my uncle's 
 riding, and t'other an easy pace for your side- 
 saddle. 
 
 Aunt. And so you jeer at the good manage- 
 ment of your relations, do you?
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 65 
 
 Niece. No, I am well satisfied that all the 
 house are creatures of business ; but, iudeecl, 
 was in hopes that my poor lap-dog might have 
 lived with me upon my fortune without an 
 employment; but my uncle threatens every 
 day to make him a turnspit, that he, too, in 
 his sphere, may help us to live comfortably. 
 
 Aunt. Harkye! cousin Biddy - 
 
 Niece. I vow I'm out of countenance when 
 our butler, with his careful face, drives us all 
 stowed ill a chariot, drawn by one hoise 
 ambling and t'other trotting, with his pro- 
 visions behind for the family, from Saturday 
 night till Monday morning, bound for Hack- 
 ney. Then we make a comfortable figure, 
 indeed. 
 
 Aunt. So we do; and so will you always, if 
 you marry your cousin Humphrey. 
 
 Niece. Name not the creature. 
 
 Aunt. Creature ! What, your own cousin 
 a creature ! 
 
 Enter Humphrey Gubbin. 
 
 Hump. Aunt, your humble servant. Is 
 that he — eh, aunt? 
 
 Aunt. Yes, cousin Humphrey; that's your 
 cousin Bridget. Well, I'll leave you together. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Hump. Aunt does as she'd be done by, 
 cousin Bridget, doesn't she, eh, cousin ? What, 
 are you a Londoner and not speak to a gentle- 
 man ? Lookye ! cousin, the old folks resolving 
 to marry us, I thought it would be proper to 
 see how I liked you, as not caring to buy a 
 pig in a poke, for I love to look before I 
 leap. 
 
 Niece. Sir, your person and address brings 
 to my mind the whole history of Valentine 
 and Orson. What, would they marry me to 
 a wild man? Pray, answer me a question or 
 two. 
 
 Hump. Ay, ay; as many as you please, 
 cousin Bridget. 
 
 Niece. What wood were you taken in? 
 How long have you been caught? 
 
 Hump. Caught ! 
 
 Niece. Where were your haunts ? 
 
 Hump. My haunts? 
 
 Niece. Are not clothes very uneasy to you ? 
 Is this strange dress the fii'st you ever wore ? 
 
 Hump. How! 
 
 Niece. Are you not a great admirer of roots 
 and raw flesh? Let me look upon your nails. 
 Don't you love blackberries, haws, and pig- 
 nuts mightily? 
 
 Hump. How! 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 Niece. Canst thou deny that thou wert 
 suckled by a wolf ? You haven't been so bar- 
 barous, I hope, since you came amongst men 
 as to hunt your nurae, have you? 
 
 Hump. Hunt my nurse ! Ay, 'tis so ; she's 
 distracted, as sure as a gun. {Aside.) Harkye! 
 cousin, pray will you let me ask you a ques- 
 tion or two ? 
 
 Niece. If thou hast yet learned the use of 
 language, speak, monster. 
 
 Hump. How long have you been thus? 
 
 Niece. Thus ! What wouldst thou say ? 
 
 Hump. What's the cause of it? Tell me 
 truly, now. Did you never love anybody 
 before me? 
 
 Niece. Go, go ; thou'rt a savage. 
 
 Huvip. They never let you go abroad, I 
 supj^ose. 
 
 Niece. Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee. 
 
 Hump. Indeed, cousin, though 'tis folly to 
 tell thee so, I am afraid thou art a mad 
 woman. 
 
 Niece. I'll have thee into some forest. 
 
 Hump. I'll take thee into a dark room. 
 
 Niece. I hate thee. 
 
 Hump. I wish you did ; there's no hate lost, 
 I assure you, cousin Bridget. 
 
 Niece. Cousin Bridget, quotha ! I'd as soon 
 claim kindred with a mountain bear, I detest 
 thee. 
 
 Hump. You never do any harm in those fits, 
 I hope. But do you hate me in earnest? 
 
 Niece. Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester? 
 
 Hump. Yes ; for I've a reason, lookye ! It 
 happens very well if you hate me, and are in 
 your senses ; for to tell you truly, I don't much 
 care for you ; and there is another tine woman, 
 as I am informed, that is in some hopes of 
 having me. 
 
 Niece. This merits my attention. [Aside. 
 
 Hump. Lookye ! d'ye see? as I said, I don't 
 care for you. I would not have you set your 
 heart on me ; but, if you like anybody else, 
 let me know it, and I'll find out a way for us 
 to get rid of one another, and deceive the old 
 folks that would couple us. 
 
 Niece. This weai-s the face of an amour. 
 {Aside.) There is something in that thought 
 which makes thy presence less insupportable. 
 
 Hump. Nay, nay; now you're growing fond; 
 if you come with these maid's tricks, to say 
 you hate at first, and afterwards like me, you'll 
 spoil the whole design. 
 
 Niece. Don't fear it. When I think of con- 
 sorting with thee, may the wild boar defile 
 the cleanly ermine ! May the tiger be wed- 
 ded to the kid ! 
 
 6
 
 66 
 
 SIE RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 Hump. When I of thee, may the polecat 
 caterwaul with the civet ! 
 
 Niece. When I harbour the least thought 
 of thee, may the silver Thames forget its 
 course ! 
 
 Hump. When I like thee, may I be soused 
 over head and ears in a horse-pond ! But do 
 you hate me? 
 
 Enter Aunt. 
 
 Niece. For ever ; and you me 1 
 
 Hump. Most heartily. 
 
 Aunt. Ha! I like this. They are come to 
 promises and jirotestations. [^Aside. 
 
 Hump. I am very glad I have found a way 
 to please you. 
 
 Niece. You promise to be constant? 
 
 Hump. Till death. 
 
 Niece. Thou best of savages ! 
 
 Hump. Thou best of savages ! Poor Biddy ! 
 
 [Humphrey and Niece seated, and Captain 
 Clerimont, disguised as an artist, is introduced 
 by the Aunt to take her niece's portrait. As 
 he proceeds with his sketch he talks as fol- 
 lows: — ] 
 
 Cap. Ladies, have you heard the news of a 
 late marriage between a young lady of a great 
 fortune and a younger brother of a good fa- 
 mily? 
 
 Aunt. Pray, sir, how is it? 
 
 Cap. This young gentleman, ladies, is a par- 
 ticular acquaintance of mine, and much about 
 my age and stature — look me full in the face, 
 madam. He accidentally met the young lady, 
 who had in her all the perfections of her sex — 
 hold up your head, madam ; that's right. She 
 let him know that his person and discourse 
 were not altogether disagreeable to her; the 
 difficulty was liow to gain a second interview 
 — your eyes full upon mine, madam. For 
 never was there such a sigher in all the valleys 
 of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth during 
 the absence of her he loved. 
 
 Aunt. Alack-a-day ! poor young gentleman ! 
 
 Niece. It must be him — what a charming 
 amour is this. \^Aside. 
 
 Cap. At length, ladies, he bethought 
 himself of an expedient: he dressed himself 
 just as I am now, and came to draw her 
 picture. — Your eyes full upon mine, pray, 
 madam. 
 
 Hump. A subtle dog, I warrant him. 
 
 Cap. And by that means found an oppor- 
 tunity of carrying her off, and marrying her. 
 
 Aunt. Indeed, your friend was a very vicious 
 young man. 
 
 Niece. Yet, perhaps the young lady was 
 not displeased at what he had done. 
 
 Cap. But, madam, what were the transports 
 of the lover when she made him that confes- 
 sion ! 
 
 Niece. I dare say she thought herself very 
 happy when she got out of her guardian's 
 hands. 
 
 A unt. 'Tis very true, niece ; there is abun- 
 dance of those headstrong young baggages 
 about town. 
 
 Cap. The gentleman has often told me he 
 was strangely struck at first sight ; but when 
 she sat to him for her picture, and assumed all 
 those graces that are proper for the occasion, 
 his torment was so exquisite, his sensations so 
 violent, that he could not have lived a day, 
 had he not found means to make the charmer 
 of his heart his own. 
 
 Hump. 'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in 
 the world to stand shiUy-shally about a woman 
 when he had a mind to marry her. 
 
 Cap. The young painter turned poet on the 
 subject ; I believe I have the words by heart. 
 
 Niece. A sonnet ! Pray, repeat it. 
 
 Cap. When gentle Parthenissa walks, 
 
 And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks, 
 A thousand shafts around her fly, 
 A thousand swains unheeded die. 
 
 If, then, she labours to be seen 
 With all her killing air and mien; 
 For so much beauty, so much art, 
 What mortal can secure his heart? 
 
 Aunt. Why, this is pretty. I think a 
 painter should never be without poeti-y; it 
 brightens the features strangely. I profess 
 I'm mightily pleased. I'll but just step in and 
 give some orders, and be with you presently. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 [While the Aunt is absent the Captain 
 throws off his disguise and proposes an elope- 
 ment. Humphrey promises to assist, and the 
 matter is cleverly carried out, while Humph- 
 rey's marriage with the lady of his choice 
 reconciles aU parties to the marriage of the 
 Niece to Captain Clerimont.]
 
 MRS. CONSTANTIA GRIERSON. 
 
 67 
 
 MRS. CONSTANTIA GRIERSON. 
 
 BouN 1706 — Died 1733. 
 
 [Constantia Grierson, a very extraordinary 
 woman, says an old biographer, was born in 
 the county of Kilkenny, in the year 1706. 
 Her parents were poor, and from an early age 
 she had to assist in supporting the family by 
 needlework, " to which she was closely kept 
 by her mother ". However, with a little as- 
 sistance from the minister of her parish, she 
 early acquired a scholarlike knowledge of 
 Greek and Roman language and liteiature, 
 besides being well versed in history, divinity, 
 philosophy, and mathematics. A proof of her 
 knowledge of Latin may be seen in her 
 dedication of the Dublin edition of Tacitus 
 to Lord Carteret ; her Greek knowledge is 
 displayed in an epigram addressed to Lord 
 Carteret's son. Mrs. Pilkington says that 
 "when about eighteen years of age, Con- 
 stantia was brought to her father to be 
 instructed in midwifery ; that she was mis- 
 tress of Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and French, 
 and understood mathematics as well as ijaost 
 men ". While still young she was married 
 to Mr. Grierson, who soon after obtained a 
 patent as king's printer. In this patent, as 
 a reward for her great merits. Lord Carteret 
 caused her life also to be inserted. This 
 provision, however, was never of any use, 
 for she died in 1733, when only twenty-seven 
 years of age, regretted by all who knew her. 
 
 This very charming specimen of the learned 
 lady would seem to be a precursor of work- 
 ing women of to-day. From the time of 
 Juliana Berness, the prioress of a convent, 
 who wrote the Treatise on Hawking, letters 
 were the privilege of the leisured woman. 
 The Muse was a fine lady, and visited in her 
 own set. The Countess of Newcastle, "the 
 Matchless Orinda", and such accomplished 
 dames, took to verse-writing as an appanage 
 of their condition. But here is a daughter 
 of the people as accomplished as any. 
 
 In the few years of her married life Mrs. 
 Grierson wrote several gi^aceful poems, and 
 there is no doubt had she lived she would 
 have given to the world something it would 
 not willingly let die. As it is, the majority 
 of her verses are to be found in Mrs. Barber's 
 volume of poems, while several have been 
 lost, and some are only to be discovered after 
 weary search among broadsides, tracts, and 
 ephemeral publications of the period.] 
 
 AT A COUNTRY ASSIZE. 
 
 TO MISS LAETITIA VAN LAVEN, AFTERWABD8 
 MRS. PILKINGTON. 
 
 The fleeting birds may soon in ocean swim, 
 
 And northern whales through liquid azure skim, 
 
 The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake, 
 
 To dress and scandal an aversion take ; 
 
 When you can in the lonely forest walk, 
 
 And with some serious matron gravely talk 
 
 Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd, 
 
 And monstrous casks with mead and cyder fill'd ; 
 
 How many hives of bees she has in store, 
 
 And how much fruit her trees this summer bore; 
 
 Or home returning in the yard can stand 
 
 And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand; 
 
 Of each one's top-knot tell, and hatching pry, 
 
 Like Tully waiting for an augury. 
 
 When night approaches down to table sit 
 With a great crowd, choice meat, and little wit : 
 What horse won the last race, how mighty Tray 
 At the last famous hunting caught the prey ; 
 Surely you can't but such discourse despise, 
 Methinks I see displeasure in your eyes : 
 my Laetitia, stay no longer there, 
 You'll soon forget that you yourself are fair ; 
 Why will you keep from us, from all that's gay, 
 There in a lonely solitude to stay? 
 Where not a mortal through the year you view, 
 But bob-wigged hunters, who their game pursue 
 With so much ardour, they'd a cock or hare 
 To thee in all thy blooming charms prefer. 
 
 You write of belles and beaux that there appear. 
 And gilded coaches .such as glitter here; 
 For gilded coaches, each elated clown 
 That gravely slumbers on the bench has one. 
 But beaux ! They're young attorneys, sure, you 
 
 mean, 
 Who thus appear to your romantic brain. 
 Alas ! no mortal there can talk to you, 
 That love, or wit, or softness ever knew; 
 All they can speak of is capiivs and law. 
 And writs to keep the country fools in awe; 
 And if to wit or courtship they pretend, 
 'Tis the same way that they a cause defend. 
 In which they give of lungs a vast expense, 
 But little passion, thought, or eloquence: 
 Bad as they are, they'll soon abandon you, 
 And gain and clamour in the town pursue. 
 So haste to town, if even such fools you prize, 
 haste to town! and bless the longing eyes 
 Of your Constantia.
 
 68 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Born 1672 — Died 1729, 
 
 [It is alleged that an objection on the part 
 of Congreve to being known as an Irishman 
 is responsible for a certain confusion about 
 the date of his birth. He liked to be re- 
 garded as a man of fashion rather than of 
 letters, as he told Voltaire, and no doubt it 
 was unfashionable to be Irish-born, however 
 descended. 
 
 William Congreve, then, was born in Ire- 
 land in 1672, where, and at which time, his 
 father was steward to the Earl of Burlington. 
 At a very early age he was sent to school at 
 Kilkenny; afterwards to the University of 
 Dublin, where he displayed great precocity 
 and studied with success. Shortly after the 
 Revolution of 1688, while he was yet in his 
 seventeenth year, his father sent him over to 
 London, where he was placed in the Middle 
 Temple, and "where ", says Johnson, "he lived 
 for several years, but with very little attention 
 to statutes or reports". Soon after taking up 
 his abode in the Temple he produced his first 
 work, a novel called Incognita; or Love and 
 Duty Reconciled. Several biographers praise 
 this work as showing vivacity of wit and 
 fluency of style, and Johnson speaks of some 
 quotations from it as " for such a time of life 
 uncommonly judicious". He, however, adds, 
 " I would rather praise it than read it ". 
 
 While Incognita was being talked over by 
 the critics Congreve composed his first dra- 
 matic work, The Old Bachelor, which, with 
 foolish affectation, he declares he wrote with 
 " little thoughts of the stage ; but did it to 
 amuse myself in a slow recovery from a fit of 
 sickness". The comedy was placed in the 
 hands of Dryden, who fitted it for the stage, 
 and who stated that he "had never seen such 
 a first play in his life ". It was acted, after 
 some delay, in 1693, when the author was 
 actually only twenty-one years of age. Its 
 success was unequivocal, and procured for 
 Congreve the patronage of Halifax, who made 
 him a commissioner for licensing coaches, and 
 soon after appointed him to a post in the Pipe 
 Office, and to the office of commissioner of 
 wine licenses, worth ^600 a year. Johnson 
 says that "this gay comedy, when all deduc- 
 tions are made, will still remain the work of 
 very powerful and fertile faculties ; the dia- 
 
 logue is quick and sparkling, the incidents 
 such as seize the attention, and the wit so 
 exuberant that it ' o'er-informs its tenement.'" 
 
 Encouraged by his success Congreve produced 
 in the following year (1694) The Double Dealer, 
 which was not successful, though ])raised by 
 the best critics, and now known to be a better 
 play than The Old Bachelor. At the end of 
 the year Queen Mary died, and Congreve 
 wrote a pastoral on the event. Johnson calls 
 it a "despicable efi"usion," but another bio- 
 grapher speaks of it as " in point of simplicity, 
 elegance, and correctness of language, equal to 
 anything of the kind that has appeared in our 
 language." In 1695 appeared Love for Love, 
 which, like the first play, was highly success- 
 ful, and deservedly so. In the same year also 
 appeared his poem On the Taking of Namur, 
 in which he is said to have " succeeded 
 greatly." In 1697 he produced his 3Iourning 
 Bride, a tragedy, which raised high expecta- 
 tions, and, strange to say, was not in conse- 
 quence a failure. Indeed, nothing could be 
 better received, and the Jjlay, though marked 
 by more of bustle and noise than good writing, 
 still holds the stage. 
 
 In the following year (1698), Jeremy Collier 
 issued his Short Vieiv of the Immorality and 
 Profaneness of the English Stage, in which he 
 handled Congreve's four plays rather roughly. 
 Congreve attemjited a reply, "which, if it does 
 not justify him, shows, however, great modesty 
 and wit." This quanel seems to have given 
 him somewhat of a distaste for the stage, and 
 it was some time before his fifth, last, best, 
 and most carefully constructed play. The Way 
 of the World, was ^iroduced. This was at first 
 unsuccessful, for, says a writer in the General 
 Biographical Dictionary, " it gave so just a 
 picture of the ' way of the world ' that the 
 world seemed resolved not to bear it." 
 
 The comparative failure of this last play so 
 heightened Congreve's dislike to the stage 
 that he left off' writing for it for ever; upon 
 which Dennis the critic remarked " that Mr. 
 Congreve quitted tlie stage early, and that 
 comedy left it with him." From that time 
 his literary labours were confined to original 
 poems and translations, a comjilete edition of 
 which appeared in 1710. On the appearance
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 69 
 
 of Soutlierne's Oroonoko he wrote an epilogue 
 for it, and he gave Dryden considerable 
 assistance in his translation of Virgil. He 
 also wrote the translation of the eleventh 
 satire of Juvenal^ published in Dryden's 
 translation of that poet, and he contributed 
 at least one paper to Steele's Tatler. The 
 latter part of his life was passed chiefly in 
 retirement, not, however, of an eremitic 
 kind, but broken into by the visits of old 
 friends and distinguished people either in 
 fashion or literature. On the 19th January, 
 1729, he died in his house in Surrey Street, 
 Strand, and on the 26th his corpse " lay in 
 state" in the Jerusalem Chambei', whence 
 it was carried with great pomp into West- 
 minster Abbey and buried thei-e. In keep- 
 ing with the tuft-hunting weakness in his 
 character he bequeathed the chief part of 
 his fortune, .£10,000, to the Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, to whom it could be but of little 
 use, while he left his own family connections 
 and others who had moral claims on him 
 to struggle on unhelped by any hand of his. 
 
 Congreve "raised the glory of comedy", 
 says Voltaire, " to a greater height than any 
 English writer before or since his time. He 
 wrote only a few plays, but they are ex- 
 cellent of their kind." Johnson speaks 
 slightingly of his poems, but acknowledges 
 that " while comedy or while tragedy is re- 
 garded, his plays are likely to be read". 
 Mr. Cowden Clarke speaks of Congreve as 
 "the keystone to the arch of the conventional 
 and artificial school of the comic drama". 
 
 In addition to the works already men- 
 tioned Congreve wrote The Judgment of 
 Paris, a masque, and an oratorio or opera 
 called Semele, which was set to music by 
 Handel, but never acted, so far as we can 
 discover.] 
 
 AMORET. 
 
 Fair Amoret is 2:one astray ; 
 
 Pursue and seek, her, ev'ry lover; 
 I'll tell the signs by which you may 
 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
 Coquet and coy at once her air, 
 
 Both studied, though both seem neglected ; 
 Careless she is with artful care, 
 
 Affecting to seem unaffected. 
 
 With skill her eyes dart every glance, 
 
 Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; 
 
 For she'd persuade they wound by chance, 
 Though certain aim and art direct them. 
 
 She likes herself, yet others hates 
 For that which in herself siie jjri/es ; 
 
 And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
 She is the thing that she despises. 
 
 LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Should hope and fear thy heart alternate tear, 
 
 Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care, 
 
 Whatever passions may thy mind infest, 
 
 (Where is that miud which passions ne'er molest?) 
 
 Amidst the pangs of sucli intestine strife, 
 
 Still think the present day the last of life ; 
 
 Defer not till to-morrow to be wise, 
 
 To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise. 
 
 Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight 
 
 With her enlivening and unlook'd-for light, 
 
 How grateful will appear her dawning rays. 
 
 As favours unexpected doubly please ! 
 
 Who thus can think, and who such thoughts 
 
 pursues. 
 Content may keep his life, or calmly lose : 
 All proofs of this thou may'st thyself receive 
 When leisure from affairs will give thee leave. 
 Come, see thy friend, retir'd without regret, 
 Forgetting care, or striving to forget ; 
 In easy contemplation soothing time 
 With morals much, and now and then with rhyme: 
 Not so robust in body as in mind. 
 And always undejected, though declin'd ; 
 Not wondering at the world's wicked ways, 
 (Compar'd with those of our forefathers' days) 
 For virtue now is neither more nor less, 
 And vice is only varied in the dress. 
 Believe it, men have ever been the same, 
 And all the golden age is but a dream. 
 
 TALKING OF LOVERS.' 
 
 MiEABLE and Mrs. Fainall together. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Millamant, a young widow, 
 WiTwouLD, and Mincing. 
 
 Mir. Here she comes, i'faith ! full sail, 
 with her fan spread and streamers out, and 
 a shoal of fools for tenders — eh? no; I cry 
 her mercv. 
 
 M7's. F. I see but one poor empty sculler ; 
 and he tows her woman after him. 
 
 Mir. You seem to be unattended, madam. 
 You used to have the heau monde throng 
 after you, and a flock of gay, fine perukes 
 hovering round you. 
 
 Wit. Like moths about a candle. I had 
 
 1 This and the following extract are from The Way 
 of the World.
 
 70 
 
 ^VILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 like to have lost my comparison for want of 
 breath. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh, I have denied myself airs 
 to-day ! I have walked as fast through the 
 crowd — 
 
 Wit. As a favourite just disgraced; and with 
 as few followers. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Dear Mr. Witwould, truce with 
 your similitudes ; for I am as sick of 'em — 
 
 Wit. As a physician of a good air. I can- 
 not help it, madam, though 'tis against my- 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Yet again ! Mincing, stand be- 
 tween me and his wit. 
 
 Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before 
 a great fire. I confess, I do blaze to-day, I 
 am too bright. 
 
 Mrs. F. But Millamant, why were you so 
 long? 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Long ! Lud ! have I not made 
 violent haste 1 I have asked every living thing 
 I met for you ; I have inquLred after you, as 
 after a new fashion. 
 
 Wit. Madam, truce with your similitudes. 
 No, you met her husband, and did not ask 
 him for her. 
 
 Mir. By your leave, Witwould, that were 
 like inquiring after an old fashion, to ask a 
 husband for his wife. 
 
 Wit. Hum ! a hit, a hit — a palpable hit, I 
 confess it. 
 
 Mir. You were dressed before I came abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Ay, that's true. Oh ! but then 
 I had — Mincing, what had 1 1 Why was I so 
 long? 
 
 Mill. Oh ! mem, your la'ship stayed to peruse 
 a packet of letters. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh, ay, letters ! I had letters ; I 
 am persecuted with letters ; I hate letters ; 
 nobody knows how to write letters ; and yet 
 one has 'em, one does not know why — they 
 serve one to pin up one's hair. 
 
 Wit. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do 
 you pin up your hair with all your letters? I 
 find I must keep copies. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Only with those in verse, Mr. 
 Witwould, I never pin up my hair with prose. 
 I think I tried once, Mincing? 
 
 Min. Oh ! mem, I shall never forget it. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Ay, poor Mincing tiifed and tiffed 
 all the morning. 
 
 Min. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, 
 I'll vow, mem, and all to no purpose. But 
 wlien your la'sliip ])ins it up with poetry, it 
 sits so pleasant the next day as anything, and 
 is so pure and so crips ! 
 Wit. Indeed, so crips? 
 
 Mill. You're such a critic, Mr. Witwould. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Mirable, did you take excep- 
 tions last night? Oh ! ay, and went away. 
 Now I think on't, I'm angry — No, now I think 
 on't, I'm pleased ; for I believe I gave you 
 some pain. 
 
 Mir. Does that please you? 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Infinitely ; I love to give 
 pain. 
 
 Mir. You would affect a cruelty which is 
 not in your nature ; your true vanity is in the 
 power of pleasing. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh ! I ask your pardon for that. 
 One's cruelty is one's power, and when one 
 parts with one's cruelty, one parts with one's 
 power ; and when one has parted with that, I 
 fancy one's old and ugly. 
 
 Mir. Ay, ay, suff"er yoiu- cruelty to ruin the 
 object of your power, to destroy your lover ; 
 and then how vain, how lost a thing you'll be ! 
 The ugly and old, whom the looking-glass 
 mortifies, yet, after commendation, can be flat- 
 tered by it, and discover beauties in it; for 
 that reflects our praises, rather than your 
 face. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh, the vanity of these men ! 
 Fainall, d'ye hear him? If they did not com- 
 mend us, we were not handsome ! Now, you 
 must know they could not commend one, if 
 one was not handsome. Beauty the lover's 
 gift ! Dear me, what is a lover, that it can 
 give ? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one 
 pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, 
 and they die as soon as one pleases ; and then, 
 if one pleases, one makes more. 
 
 Wit. Very pretty. Why, you make no more 
 of making of lovers, madam, than of making 
 so many card-matches. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. One no more owes one's beauty 
 to a lover, than one's wit to an echo. They 
 can but i-eflect what we look and say ; vain, 
 empty things, if we are silent or unseen, and 
 want a being. 
 
 Mir. Yet, to those two vain, empty things, 
 you owe two of the greatest pleasures of your 
 life. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. How so? 
 
 Mir. To your lover you owe the pleasure of 
 hearing yourselves praised, and to an echo 
 the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. 
 
 Wit. But I know a lady that loves talking 
 so incessantly she won't give an echo fair play; 
 she has that everlasting rotation of tongue 
 that an echo must wait till she dies before it 
 can catch her last words. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh, fiction ! Fainall, let us leave 
 these men.
 
 TALKING OF LOVERS
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 71 
 
 SETTLING THE CONTRACT. 
 
 Mrs. Millamant, the young widow, solus 
 {Repeating) 
 
 Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy. 
 
 Enter MiRABLE. 
 Mir. {Repeating) 
 
 Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy. 
 
 Do you lock yourself up from me to make my 
 search more curioub? Or is this pretty artifice 
 contrived to signify that here the chase must 
 end, and my pursuit be crowned, for you can 
 fly no further ? 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Vanity! No; I'U fly and be 
 followed to the last moment. Though I am 
 upon the very verge of matrimony, I expect 
 you should solicit me as much as if I were 
 wavering at the grate of a monastery, with 
 one foot over the threshold. I'll be solicited 
 to the very last — nay, and afterwards. 
 
 Mir. What, after the last? 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Oh, I should think I were poor, 
 and had nothing to bestow, if I were reduced 
 to inglorious ease ; and freed from the agree- 
 able fatigues of solicitation. 
 
 Mir. But do not you know that when favours 
 are conferred upon instant and tedious solici- 
 tation, that they diminish in their value, and 
 that both the giver loses the grace, and the 
 receiver lessens his pleasure? 
 
 Mill. It may be in things of common appli- 
 cation; but never sure in love. O, I hate a 
 lover that can dare to think he draws a mom- 
 ent's air independent on the bounty of his 
 mistress. There is not so impudent a thing 
 in nature as the saucy look of an assured 
 man, confident of success. The pedantic ar- 
 rogance of a very husband has not so prag- 
 matical an air. — Ah ! I'll never marry, unless 
 I am first made sure of my will and pleasure. 
 
 Mir. Would you have 'em both before 
 marriage? Or will you be contented with only 
 the first now, " and stay for the other till after 
 grace?" 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Ah! don't be impertinent — My 
 dear liberty, shall I leave thee? My faithful 
 solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid 
 you then adieu? Ay, adieu — My morning 
 thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slum- 
 bers, ye douceicrs, ye sommeils du matin, adieu 
 
 — I can't do't, 'tis more than impossible 
 
 Positively, Mirable, I'll lie a-bed in the morn- 
 ing as long as I please. 
 
 Mir. Then I'll get up in a morning as early 
 as I please. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Ah ! idle creature, get up when 
 
 you will And, d'ye hear, I won't be called 
 
 names after I'm married; positively I won't 
 be called names. 
 
 Mir. Names ! 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, 
 joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest of 
 that nauseous cant in which men and their 
 wives are so fulsomely familiar ; I shall never 
 bear that. Good Mirable, don't let us be 
 familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my 
 Lady Fadler and Sir Francis; nor go in public 
 together the first Sunday in a new chariot to 
 provoke eyes and whispers; and then never 
 be seen there together again ; as if we were 
 proud of one another the first week, and 
 ashamed of one another ever after. Let ua 
 never visit together, nor go to a play together, 
 but let us be very strange and well bred ; let 
 us be as strange as if we had been married a 
 great while; and as well bred as if we were 
 not man-ied at all. 
 
 Mir. Have you any more conditions to 
 ofi"er? Hitherto, your demands are pretty 
 reasonable. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Trifles, as liberty to pay and re- 
 ceive visits to and from whom I please ; to 
 write and receive letters without interrogat- 
 ories or wry faces on your part ; to wear what 
 I please ; and choose conversation with regard 
 only to my own taste ; to have no obligation 
 upon me to converse with wits that I don't 
 like because they are your acquaintance ; or 
 to be intimate with fools because they may be 
 your relations. Come to dinner when I ple:ise, 
 dine in my dressing-room when I'm out of 
 humour, without giving a reason. To have 
 my closet inviolate ; to be sole empress of my 
 tea-table, which you must never presume to 
 approach without first asking leave. And 
 lastly, wherever I am, you shall alwaj's knock 
 at the door before you come in. These arti- 
 cles subscribed, if I contiime to endure you a 
 little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into a 
 wife. 
 
 Mir. Your bill of fare is something advanced 
 in tliis latter account. Well, have I liberty 
 to ofi"er conditions that when you are dwindled 
 into a wife I may not be beyond measure en- 
 larged into a husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Mill. You have free leave; propose 
 your utmost ; speak, and spai-e not. 
 
 Mir. I thank you. Imprimis then, I coven- 
 ant that your acquaintance be general ; that 
 you admit no sworn confidant or intimate of 
 your own sex; no she -friend to screen her 
 afi"airs under your countenance and tempt you
 
 72 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 to make trial of a mutual secrecy. No decoy- 
 duck to wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the 
 play in a mask; then bring you home in a 
 pretended fright, when you think you shall 
 be found out ; and rail at me for missing the 
 play, and disappointing the frolic which you 
 had to pick me up and prove my constancy. 
 
 Mrs. Mill. Detestable imprimis! I go to 
 the l)lay in a mask ! 
 
 Mir. Item, I article that you continue to 
 like your own face as long as I shall. And 
 while it passes current with me, that you en- 
 deavour not to new-coin it. To which end, 
 together with all vizards for the day, I pro- 
 hibit all masks for the night made of oiled 
 skins, and I know not what — hog's-bones, 
 hare's-gall, pig-water, and the marrow of a 
 roasted cat. In short, I forbid all commerce 
 with the gentlewoman in What-d'ye-call-it 
 Coiu't. Lastly, to the dominion of the tea- 
 table I submit. — But with proviso, that you 
 exceed not in your province; but restrain 
 youi'self to native and simple tea-table drinks, 
 as tea, chocolate, and coffee. As likewise to 
 genuine and authorized tea-table talk — Such 
 as mending of fashions, spoiling reputations, 
 railing at absent friends, and so forth — But 
 that on no account you encroach on the men's 
 prerogative, and presume to drink healths or 
 toast fellows; for prevention of which I banish 
 all foreign forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, 
 as orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, cit- 
 ron, and Barbadoes- waters, together with 
 ratafia, and the most noble spirit of Clary. 
 
 ■ But for cowslip-wine, poppy-water, and 
 
 all dormitives, those I allow. — These proviso 
 admitted, in other things I may prove a tract- 
 able and complying husband. 
 
 Mill. O, horridi proviso I filthy strong waters ! 
 I toast fellows, odious men ! I hate your odious 
 proviso. 
 
 Mir. Then we're agreed. Shall I kiss your 
 hand upon the contract? and here comes one 
 to be a witness to the sealing of the deed. 
 
 A LITERARY LADY.* 
 
 Enter Ladv Froth, Lord Trotu, and 
 Brisk. 
 
 Lady F. Then you tliink that episode be- 
 tween Susan the dairymaid and our coach- 
 man is not amiss? You know, I may suppose, 
 the dairy in town a.s well as in the country. 
 
 I From The Double Dealer. 
 
 Brisk. Incomparable, let me perish ! But, 
 then, being an heroic poem, had not you better 
 call him a charioteer? Charioteer sounds great; 
 besides, your ladyship's coachman, having a 
 red face, and you comparing him to the sun 
 — and, you know, the sun is called heaven's 
 charioteer. 
 
 Lady F. Oh ! infinitely better ; I'm ex- 
 tremely beholding to you for the hint. Stay, 
 we'll read over those half-a-score lines again. 
 (Pulls out a paper.) Let me see here. You 
 know what goes before ; the comparison you 
 know. [^Reads 
 
 For as the sun shines ev'ry day, 
 So of our coachman I may say — 
 
 Brisk. I'm afraid that simile won't do in 
 wet weather, because you say the sun shines 
 every day. 
 
 Lady F. No, for the sun, it won't; but it 
 will do for the coachman; for, you know, 
 there's most occasion for a coach in wet 
 weather. 
 
 Brisk. Right, right ; that saves all. 
 Lady F. Then, I don't say the sun shines 
 all the day ; but, that he peeps now and then. 
 Yet he does shine all the day, too, you know, 
 though we don't see him. 
 
 Brisk. Right; but the vulgar will never 
 comprehend that. 
 
 Lady F. "Well, you shall heai*. Let me see. 
 
 \^Reads 
 For as the sun shines eveiy day, 
 So of our coachman I may say. 
 He shows his drunken fiery face, 
 Just as the sun does, more or less. 
 
 Brisk. That's right; all's well, all's weU. 
 More or less. 
 
 Lady F. {Reads) 
 
 And when, at night, his labour's done, 
 Then, too, like heaven's charioteer, the sun— 
 
 Ay, charioteer does better. 
 
 Into the dairy he descends, 
 And there his whipping and his driving ends ; 
 There he's secure from danger of a bilk, 
 His fare is paid him, and he sets in milk. 
 
 For Susan, you know, is Thetis, and so — 
 
 Brisk. Incomparably well and proper, egad ! 
 but I have one exception to make. Don't you 
 think bilk— I know it's good rhyme — but 
 don't you think bilk and fare too like a hack- 
 ney-coachman ? 
 
 Ijady F. I swear and vow I'm afraid so ; 
 and yet our Jehu was a hackney-coachman 
 when my lord took him. 
 
 Brisk. "Was he ? I'm answered if Jehu was 
 a hackney-coachman. You may put that into
 
 TURLOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 73 
 
 the marginal notes, though, to prevent criti- 
 cism. Only mark it witlx u small asterism, 
 and say, Jehu was formerly a hackney-coach- 
 man. 
 
 Lady F. I will. You'd oblige me extremely 
 to write notes to the whole poem. 
 
 Brisk, With all my heart and soul; and 
 proud of the vast honour, let me perish ! 
 
 Lord F. He, he, he ! My dear, have you 
 done? Won't you join with us? We were 
 laughing at my Lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer. 
 
 Lady F. Ay, my dear, were you ? Oh ! filthy 
 Mr. Sneer ! he's a nauseous figure, a most 
 f ulsamic fop, pho ! He spent two days to- 
 gether in going about Covent Garden to suit 
 the lining of his coach with his complexion. 
 
 Lord F. Oh, silly ! Yet his aunt is as fond 
 of him as if she had brought the ape into the 
 world herself. 
 
 Brisk. Who, my Lady Toothless? Oh ! she's 
 a mortifying spectacle ; she's always chewing 
 the cud, like an old ewe. 
 
 Lord F. Fie ! Mr. Brisk, 'tis eringoes for 
 her cough. 
 
 Lady F. Then she's always ready to laugh 
 when Sneer offers to speak ; and sits in expec- 
 tation of his no jest, with her mouth open. 
 
 Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad ! Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Lady F. Then that t'other great strapping 
 lady; I can't hit of her name; the old fat fool 
 that paints so exorbitantly. 
 
 Brisk. I know whom you mean: but deuce 
 take me, I can't hit of her name neither. 
 Paints, d'ye say ? Why, she lays it on with a 
 trowel ; then she has a great beard, that 
 bristles through it, and makes her look as if 
 she were plastered with lime and hair, let me 
 perish. 
 
 Lady F. Oh ! you made a song upon her, 
 Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. Eh ! egad ! so I did. My lord can 
 sing it. 'Tis not a song, neither. It's a soit 
 of an epigram, or rather an epigrammatic 
 sonnet ; I don't know what to call it, but it's 
 satire. Sing it, my lord. 
 
 Song— LORD FROTH. 
 
 Ancient Phillis has young graces, 
 'Tis a strange thing, but a true one; 
 Shall I teUyou how? 
 She herself makes her own faces, 
 
 And each morning wears a new one; — 
 Where's the wonder now ? 
 
 Brisk. Short, but there's salt in it ; my way 
 of writing, egad ! 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM 
 "THE MOURNING BRIDE." 
 
 Music has charms to sooth a savage breast. 
 To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. 
 I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd, 
 And, as with living souls, have been inform'd 
 By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 
 Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent 
 The base injustice thou hast done my love: 
 Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress, 
 And all those ills which thou so long hast moum'd ; 
 Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd, 
 Nor hell a furv like a woman scorn'd. 
 
 Seest thou how jiist the hand of Heav'n has been? 
 Let us, who through our innocence survive, 
 Still in the paths of honour persevere, 
 And not from past or present ills despair; 
 For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds; 
 And though a late, a sure reward succeeds. 
 
 TURLOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 Born 1670 — Died 1738. 
 
 [Turlough Carolan, or O'Carolan as he is 
 more properly called, was born in the year 
 1670 at the village of Baile-nusah or Newton, 
 in the county of Westmeath, and not at Nob- 
 ber, as is generally, but erroneously, stated. 
 His father was a small farmer, and his mother 
 the daughter of a peasant in the neighbour- 
 hood. Goldsmith speaking of him says that 
 
 " he seemed by nature formed for his profes- 
 sion; for as he was born blind, so also he was 
 possessed of a most astonishing memory, and 
 a facetious turn of thinkins;, which c^ave his 
 entertainers infinite satisfaction." As to the 
 blindness. Goldsmith is in error, for Carolan 
 was born with perfect eyesight, but early in 
 life, or about his fifteenth year, an attack of
 
 74 
 
 TURLOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 small-pox made the world dark to him for 
 ever. Before this he had been sent to school 
 at Cruisetown, county Longford, and there he 
 made the acquaintance of the Bridget Cruise 
 whom he afterwards immortalized in one of 
 his songs. 
 
 While still a boy Carolan moved with his 
 father to Carrick-on-Sha-nnon, and there he 
 attracted the attention of a Mrs. M'Dermott- 
 Roe, who admired him for his intelligence. 
 Placing him among her own children, she had 
 him carefully instructed in Irish, and also to 
 some extent in English. She also caused him 
 to learn how to play the harja, not with the 
 view to his becoming a harper, but simply as 
 an accomplishment. Hardiman says he after- 
 wards " became a minstrel by accident, and 
 continued it more through choice than neces- 
 sity." Charles O'Conor — who jalaces Carolan 
 before us as a reduced Irish gentleman 
 who lost his property in the troubles of the 
 time — says " he was above playing for hire ; 
 at the houses where he visited he was wel- 
 comed more as a friend than an itinerant 
 musician." In liis twenty-second year he sud- 
 denly determined to become a harper, and 
 his benefactress providing him with a couple 
 of horses and an attendant to carry the 
 harp, he started on a round of visits to the 
 neighbouring gentry, to most of whom he was 
 already known. In his journey he did not 
 forget to visit Cruisetown, and though he 
 might not behold beauty of form, his mind 
 was doubly alive to the beauty of soul which 
 he believed existed in his old school-fellow 
 Miss Cruise. To her he poured out song after 
 song, and at last in plain prose acknowledged 
 his affection and met with a refusal. How- 
 ever, it is said that the young lady was any- 
 thing but averse to him personally, her rejec- 
 tion being founded chiefly on financial reasons. 
 Leaving Cruisetown his real career as an itin- 
 erant musician began, and for years he wan- 
 dered all over the country, gladly received 
 wherever he came, and seldom forgetting to 
 pay for his entertainment by song in praise of 
 his host. 
 
 When approaching middle life, Carolan went 
 on a pilgrimage to what is called St. Patrick's 
 Purgatory, a cave in an island on Lough Dearg 
 in county Donegal. While standing on the 
 shore he began to assist some of his fellow- 
 pilgrims into a boat, and, chancing to take 
 hold of a lady's hand, he suddenly exclaimed, 
 "By the liand of my gossip! this is the hand 
 of Bridget Cruise." So it was ; but the 
 fair one was still deaf to his suit, and soon 
 
 after he solaced himself for her loss by marry- 
 ing Miss Mary Maguire, a young lady of good 
 family. With her he lived very happily and 
 learned to love her tenderly, though she was 
 haughty and extravagant. On his marriage 
 he built a neat house at Moshill in county 
 Leitrim, and there entertained his friends with 
 more liberality than prudence. The income 
 of his little farm was soon swallowed up, and 
 he fell into embarrassments which haunted 
 him the rest of his life. On this he took to 
 his wandei'ings again, while his wife stayed at 
 home, and busied herself with the education 
 of their rather numerous family. In 1733, 
 however, she was removed by death, and a 
 melancholy fell upon him which remained 
 till the end. When the first agony of his 
 grief was past he composed a monody on her 
 death, a composition which we quote, and 
 which in the original Irish is peculiarly plain- 
 tive and pathetic. 
 
 Carolan did not survive his wife long. In 
 1738, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, he paid 
 a visit to the house of his early benefactress, 
 Mre. M'Dermott-Roe, and there he fell ill and 
 died of a disease, brought on it is said by over- 
 indulgence in drink. 
 
 Carolan was, as Goldsmith says, " at once a 
 poet, a musician, and a composer, and sung 
 his own verses to his harp." Goldsmith also 
 says that of all the bards Ireland produced, 
 " the last and the greatest was Carolan the 
 blind." With a single exception of no import- 
 ance all his songs, which numbered over two 
 hundred, were written in the Irish language, 
 in which also they appear to most advantage. 
 The style of his music may be best studied in 
 the air to " Bumper Squire Jones," which 
 Carolan origmally composed to words of his 
 own. Though essentially Gaelic, his style has 
 also something of Italian in its manner. It 
 was much admired by a great contemporary, 
 Geminiani, who declared Carolan was endued 
 with il genio vero della musica. 
 
 It is a great j^ity so few, and these not 
 the Ijest, of Carolan's com)30sitions are extant. 
 For this state of things we may thank an un- 
 filial son, who in 1747 published a collection 
 of his father's music, but omitted from it 
 most of the best compositions. However, 
 what we have is still of high merit, and de- 
 serves to be cherished by every true musician, 
 as well as by everj' lover of the scattered 
 reliques of ])oetry and music left us of the 
 time when Ireland was indeed the " Land 
 of Song." 
 
 We append an elegy on the death of Caro-
 
 TURLOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 76 
 
 Ian, written by liis friend M'Cabe, and trans- 
 lated by Miss Bruoke.^] 
 
 PEGGY BROWNE.= 
 
 (TRANSLATED BY THOMAS FURLONG.) 
 
 Oh, dark, sweetest girl, arc my days doomed to be, 
 While my heart bleeds in silence and sorrow for 
 
 thee: 
 In the green spring of life to the grave I go down, 
 Oh! shield me, and save me, my lov'd Peggy 
 
 Browne. 
 
 I dreamt that at evening my footsteps were bound 
 To yon deep spreading wood where the shades fall 
 
 around, 
 I sought, midst new scenes, all my sorrows to drown, 
 But the cure of my grief rests with thee, Peggy 
 
 Browne. 
 
 'Tis soothing, sweet maiden, thy accents to hear. 
 For, like wild fiiiry music they melt on the ear. 
 Thy breast is as fair as the swan's clothed in down. 
 Oh, peerless and perfect's my own Peggy Browne. 
 
 Dear, dear is the bark to its own cherished tree. 
 But dearer, far dearer, is my lov'd one to me: 
 In my dreams I draw near her, uncheck'd by a 
 
 frown. 
 But my anns spread in vain to embrace Peggy 
 
 Browne. 
 
 GENTLE BRIDEEN. 
 
 (GEORGE SIGERSON, M.D., TRANSLATOR.) 
 
 gentle fair maiden, thou hast left me in sadness; 
 
 My bosom is pierced with Love's arrow so keen; 
 For thy mien it is graceful, thy glances are glad- 
 ness, 
 
 And thousands thy lovers, gentle Brideen ! 
 
 1 M'Cabe, says Miss Brooke, was rather of a humorous 
 than a sentimental turn; he was a wit, but not a poet. 
 It was therefore his grief and not his muee tliat inspired 
 him on the present occasion. 
 
 The circumstances wliich gave rise to this elegy are strik- 
 ing and extremely affecting. Jl'Calic had l)ecn an unusual 
 length of time without seeing his friend, and went to pay 
 him a visit. As he approached near the end of his journey, 
 in passing by a church-yard, he was met by a peasant, of 
 whom he inquired for Carolan. The peasant pointed to 
 his grave and wept. M'Cabe, shocked and astonished, 
 was for some time unable to speak; his frame shook, Iiis 
 knees trembled, lie had just power to totter to the grave 
 of his friend, and then sunk to the ground. A flood of 
 tears at last came to his relief, and, still further to dis- 
 burden his mind, he vented its anguish in the following 
 lines. In the original they are simple and unadorned. 
 
 The gray mist of morning in autumn was fleeting. 
 When 1 met the bright darling down in the 
 boreen; 
 
 Her words were unkind, but 1 soon won a greeting; 
 Sweet kisses I stole from the lips of Brideen! 
 
 Oh! fair is the sun in the dawning all tender, 
 And beauteous the roses beneath it are seen. 
 
 Thy cheek is the red rose ! thy brow the sun- 
 .splendour! 
 And, clu.ster of ringlets! my dawn is Brideen! 
 
 Then shine, O bright Sun, on thy constant, true 
 lover; 
 Then shine, once auain, in the leafy boreen. 
 And the clouds shall depart that around my heart 
 hover, 
 And we'll walk amid gladness, my gentle 
 Brideen ! 
 
 BRIDGET CRUISE. 
 
 (translated by THOMAS FURLONG.) 
 
 Oh! turn thee to me, my only love. 
 Let not despair confound me; 
 
 Turn, and may blessings from above 
 In life and death surround thee. 
 
 but pathetic to a great degree; and this is a species of 
 beauty in composition extremely difficult to transfuse 
 into any other language. I do not pretend in tlus to have 
 entirely succeeded, l)ut I hope the effort will not be un- 
 acceptable; much of the simplicity is imavoidably lost; 
 the pathos which remains may, perhaps, in some measure 
 atone for it. 
 
 I came, with friendship's face, to glad my heart. 
 But sad and sorrowful my steps depart ! 
 In my friend's stead— a spot of earth was shown. 
 And on his grave my woe-struck eyes were thrown I 
 No more to their distracted sight remained. 
 But the cold clay that all they lov'd contained. 
 And there his last and narrow bed was made, 
 And the drear tombstone for its covering laid. 
 
 Alas ! for this my aged heart is wrung. 
 Grief chokes my voice, and trembles on ray tongue, 
 Lonely and desolate I mourn the dead. 
 The friend with whom my every comfort fled! 
 There is no anguish can with this compare ! 
 No pains, diseases, suffering, or despair. 
 Like that I feel, while such a loss I mourn, 
 INIy heart's companion from its fondness torn ! 
 Oh, insupportable, distracting grief 1 
 Woe, that through life can never hope relief! 
 Sweet-singing harp— thy melody is o'er ! 
 Sweet friendship's voice— I hear thy sound no morel 
 My bliss, my wealth of poetry is fled, 
 And every joy, with him I loved, is dead! 
 Alas! what wonder (while my heart drops blood 
 Upon the woes that drain its vital flood) 
 If maddening grief no longer can be borne, 
 And frenzy fill the breast, with anguish torn ! 
 
 2 The present Marquis of Sligo is descended from this 
 inspirer of Cardan's muse.
 
 76 
 
 TUELOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 This fond heart throbs for thee alone — 
 
 Oh! leave me not to languish; 
 Look on these eyes, whence sleep hath flown, 
 
 Bethink thee of my anguish: 
 My hopes, my thoughts, my destiny — 
 All dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee. 
 
 Young bud of beauty, for ever bright. 
 
 The proudest must bow before thee: 
 Source of my sorrow and my delight — 
 
 Oh! must I in vain adore thee? 
 Where, where, through earth's extended round, 
 Where may such loveliness be found ? 
 
 Talk not of fair ones known of yore; 
 Speak not of Deirdre the renowned — 
 
 She whose gay glance each minstrel liail'd; 
 
 Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore 
 From her fond husband's longing arms; 
 Name not the dame whose fatiil charms, 
 
 When weighed against a world, prevail'd; 
 To each might blooming beauty fall. 
 
 Lovely, thrice lovely, might they be; 
 But the gifts and graces of each and all 
 
 Are mingled, sweet maid, in thee! 
 
 How the entranc'd ear fondly lingers 
 
 On the turns of thy thrilling song ! 
 How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers 
 
 O'er the chords fly gently along ! 
 The noble, the learn'd, the ag'd, the vain. 
 Gaze on the songstress, and bless the strain. 
 How winning, dear girl, is thine air, 
 How glossy thy golden hair ! 
 Oh! lov'd one, come back again, 
 
 With thy train of adorers about thee — 
 Oh! come, for in grief and in gloom we remain — 
 
 Life is not life without thee. 
 
 My memory wanders — my thoughts have stray'd — 
 
 My gathering sorrows oppress me — 
 Oh! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid. 
 
 Say one kind word to bless me. 
 Why, why on thy beauty must I dwell. 
 When each tortur'd heart knows its power too well? 
 Or why need I say that favour'd and bless'd 
 
 Must be the proud land that bore thee? 
 Oh! dull is the eye and cold the breast 
 
 That remains unmov'd before thee. 
 
 WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE? 
 (translated by JOHN d'alton, m.r.i.a.) 
 
 The Bard addresses whisky — 
 Why, liquor of life ! do I love you so: 
 
 \V'^hen in all our encounters you lay me low? 
 jrore stupid and senseless I every day grow, 
 
 What a hint — if I'd mend by the warning! 
 Tatter'd and torn you've left my coat, 
 I've not a cravat — to save my throat. 
 Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat. 
 
 If you'd cheer me again in the morning! 
 
 Whisky replies — 
 When you've heard prayers on Sunday next, 
 With a sermon beside, or at least — the text, 
 Comedown to the alehouse — howeveryou're vexed. 
 
 And though thousands of cares assault you, 
 You'll find tippling there — till morals mend, 
 A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end, 
 The jar shall be near you, and I'll be your friend, 
 
 And give you a " Kead miUe /auU6." ^ 
 
 The Bard resumes his address — 
 You're my soul and my treasure, without and 
 
 within. 
 My sister and cousin and all my kin ; 
 'Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin, — 
 But all other enjoyment is vain, love! 
 My barley ricks all turn to you— 
 My tillage — my plough — and my horses too — 
 My cows and my sheep they have — bid me adieu, 
 I care not while you remain, love! 
 
 Come, vein of my heart ! then come in haste, 
 You're like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast, 
 My forefathers all had the very same taste — 
 
 For the genuine dew of the mountain. 
 Oh! Usquebaugh! I love its kiss! — 
 My guardian spirit, I think it is. 
 Had my christening bowl been filled with this, 
 
 I'd have swallowed it — were it a fountain. 
 
 Many's the quarrel and fight we've had, 
 
 And many a time you made me mad. 
 
 But while I've a heart — it can never be sad. 
 
 When you smile at me full on the table; 
 Surely you are my wife and brother — 
 My only child — my father and mother — 
 My outside coat — I have no other! 
 
 Oh! I'll stand by you — while I am able. 
 
 If family pride can aught avail, 
 
 I've the sprightliest kin of all the Gael — 
 
 Brandy and Usquebaugh, and Ale ! 
 
 But Claret untasted may pass us; 
 To clash with the clergy were sore amiss. 
 So, for righteousness sake, I leave tliem this. 
 For Claret the gownsman's comfort is. 
 
 When they've saved us with matins and 
 masses. 
 
 1 A thousand welcomes.
 
 TURLOUGH O'CAROLAN. 
 
 77 
 
 GRACE NUGEN'J'. 
 
 (translated by sir SAMUEL t'ERGCSON.) 
 
 Brightest blossom of the spring 
 Grace the sprightly girl I sing; 
 Grace who bore the palm of mind 
 From all the rest of womankind. 
 Whomso'cr the fates decree, 
 Happy fate for life to be, 
 Day and night my coolun near, 
 Ache or pain need never fear. 
 
 Her neck outdoes the stately swan, 
 Her radiant face the summer dawn; 
 Happy thrice the youth for whom 
 The fates design that branch of bloom. 
 Pleasant are thy words benign, 
 Rich those azure eyes of thine ; 
 Ye who see my queen beware 
 Those twisted links of golden hair. 
 
 This is what I fain would say 
 To the bird-voiced lady gay — 
 Never yet conceived the heart, 
 Joy that grace could not impart, 
 Fold of jewels, case of pearls, 
 Coolun of the circling curls ! 
 More I say not, but no less. 
 Drink your health and happiness. 
 
 MILD MABEL KELLY. 
 
 (translated by sir SAMDEL FERGUSON.) 
 
 Whoever the youth who by Heaven's decree 
 Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright 
 head of thine, 
 
 'Tis certain that he 
 From all sorrow is free, 
 Till the day of his death, if a life so divine 
 Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree. 
 Mild Mabel Ni Kelly, bright coolun of curls! 
 
 All stately and pure as the swan on the lake. 
 Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls. 
 And the youth of the land are love-sick for her 
 sake. 
 
 No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land 
 That .she knows not to sing, in a voice so en- 
 chanting. 
 
 That the cranes on the sand 
 Fall asleep where they stand. 
 Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er 
 waiting 
 To shed its mild lustre on bosom or hand. 
 The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray 
 
 More blue than her eyes human eye never saw. 
 Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray. 
 
 Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh ! 
 To gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies 
 'Mong the branches that shadow her path in the 
 grove. 
 
 But, alas, if her eyes 
 The rash gazer surprise, 
 AH eyesight departs from the victim of love, 
 And the blind youth steals home with his heart 
 
 full of sighs. 
 0, pride of the Gael, of the lily-white palm ! 
 
 0, coolun of curls to the grass at your feet ! 
 At the goal of delight and of honour 1 am 
 To boast .such a theme for a song so unmeet. 
 
 O'MORE'S FAIR DAUGHTER: 
 
 an ode. 
 
 (translated by THOMAS FURLONG.) 
 
 Flower of the young and fair, 
 
 'Tis joy to gaze on thee. 
 Pride of the gay hills of Maill, 
 Bright daughter of the princely Gael, 
 
 What words thy beauty can declare? 
 
 What eye unmoved thy loveliness can see? 
 Fond object of the wanderer's praise. 
 Source of the poet's love-fraught lays, 
 
 Theme of the minstrel's song. 
 Child of the old renowned O'More, 
 
 What charms to thee belong ! 
 
 Happy is he who wafts thee o'er 
 
 To yon green isle where berries grow ; 
 
 Happy is he who there retired, 
 Can rest him by thy side, 
 
 Marking with love's delicious frenzy fired 
 Thy young cheek's changing glow, 
 
 And all the melting meaning of thine eyes ; 
 
 While round and round him, far and wide, 
 
 On the shore and o'er the tide. 
 Soft strains of music rise, 
 
 Varying through each winning measure. 
 
 Soothing every sense to pleasure. 
 He to whom such joy is given 
 Hath, while here, his share of heaven. 
 
 Thy step is life and liglitness, 
 Thy glance hath a thrilling brightness. 
 Thy waist is straight and slender, 
 
 And thy bosom, gently swelling. 
 Outdoes the swan's in whiteness 
 
 When she starts from her tranquil dwelling 
 And breasts the broad lake in splendour. 
 
 Sweet girl, those locks so wildly curled. 
 
 Have snares and spells for many : 
 0, far may we range through this weary world 
 And find thee unmatched by any. 
 
 Art thou a thing of earth? 
 
 A maid of terrestrial birth? 
 Or a vision sent from high 
 
 In peerless beauty beaming. 
 Like the shapes that pass o'er the poet's eye 
 
 When he lies all idly dreaming.
 
 78 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Born 1667 — Dikd 1745. 
 
 [In the spring of 1667 Jonathan Swift, full 
 cousin to the poet Dryden, and steward to the 
 Society of King's Inns, Dublin, died in poor 
 circumstances, leaving a widow. Seven months 
 later, on the 30tli of November, in a little 
 house in Hoey's Court, the poor widow gave 
 birth to a son, who was named Jonathan 
 after his dead father, and whose life, begun 
 thus miserably, was fated to be one constant 
 round of warfare and sutt'ering, of defeat in 
 victory and of disappointment in success. 
 Born with a spirit fitting him to rule, the 
 greatest satirist of England felt in the very 
 first years of his life the cold hand of jDoverty 
 pressing him to the earth and branding him 
 a slave. 
 
 From his earliest days there seemed to be 
 something in Swift's life diff"erent from other 
 men. His father had been buried at the ex- 
 pense of the society he served ; his mother and 
 himself were kept in existence by the scanty, 
 and we believe necessarily scanty, bounty of 
 his uncle Godwin. Still, it seems he had a 
 nurse, and this nurse, like other women, in 
 after days became so attached to him, that 
 when she was called away to England to the 
 death-bed of a relative she carried him with 
 her clandestinely. After she was found the 
 mother refused to insist on taking the child 
 from her, fearing, as it was delicate, that it 
 might not be able to stand the fatigues of a 
 voyage from Whitehaven to Ireland. So in 
 Whitehaven Swift remained three or four 
 years, and there learned to read the Bible with 
 ease. 
 
 When he was about five years of age his 
 nurse carried him to Ireland again, where, 
 alas ! there wa.s now no kind mother to receive 
 him, she having gone to live with a rela- 
 tive at Leicester in England. However, the 
 little waif was taken into the family of his 
 uncle Godwin, by whom, at six years of age, 
 he was sent to Kilkenny school, where he re- 
 mained for about eight years, and where, says 
 Sir Walter Scott, his name, cut in school-boy 
 fashion upon his desk or form, is still shown 
 to strangers. There he learned to celebrate 
 his birthdays liy reading from Job the fierce 
 passage in which that patriarch curses the day 
 in which it was said in his father's house 
 "that a man-child was born," and there, no 
 
 doubt, he sufiered many an indignity from the 
 poverty-stricken state in which he was main- 
 tained by an uncle who seemed, but in reality 
 was not, rich. 
 
 At the age of fourteen he was entered at 
 the University of Dublin, being on the 24th 
 of April, 1682, received a pensioner under 
 the tuition of St. George Ashe. His cousin, 
 Thomas Swift, was also admitted at the same 
 time, and owing to this fact and to the mention 
 of the names in the college record without any 
 prsenomen attached, great ditficulty has arisen 
 in tracing certain details of their lives. At 
 the university Swift rebelled against having 
 to study tlie learned sophistry of Smiglecius 
 and his fellows. Instead he dived deeply into 
 studies of a wide but desultory kind, and 
 while so doing drew up, 3^ouug as he was, a 
 rough sketch of his Tale of a Tub. Not only 
 did he rebel against Smiglecius and his crew, 
 he rebelled also against the college discipline, 
 and became reckless and violent in other re- 
 spects. Like Johnson in a similar condition 
 he "disregarded all power and all authority;" 
 he was " miserably poor, mad, and violent," 
 and what " was bitterness, that they mistook 
 for frolic." For this he suffered several and 
 severe penalties, and in February, 1685-6, the 
 heaviest punishment of all in having his degi'ee 
 conferred on him by special favour. However, 
 he still remained in college, and still continued 
 to be a rebel to its rules. On the 18th of 
 March, 1687, he was i^ublicly admonished for 
 neglect of duties, and on the 20th of November, 
 1688, he and some others Avere convicted of 
 insolent conduct to the junior dean, and he 
 and another had their academical degree sus- 
 pended, and were condemned to publicly crave 
 pardon of the off"ended dignitary. 
 
 Whether or not Swift ever submitted to the 
 latter degradation is imknown, but shortly 
 afterwards he left the college " without," as 
 Scott says, " a single friend to protect, receive, 
 or maintain him," — his uncle having died a 
 year or two before. The war of the Revolution 
 had just broken out in Ireland, so he turned 
 his back upon that country, and, footsore and 
 weary, presented himself at his mother's resi- 
 dence in Leicestershire. There it was impos- 
 sible for him to remain, as his mother was 
 herself only the recipient of the bounty of her
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT 
 
 After the Painting by MARKHAM
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 79 
 
 friends, and an inmate of a house which was 
 not her own. However, she advised him to 
 apply to Sir William Temple, a retired states- 
 man, into wliose house he was received as 
 amanuensis at a salary of ^^20 a year. 
 
 At Moor Park, near Farnham, the residence 
 of Temple, Swift resided for a couple of years, 
 in the earlier part of which he was treated witli 
 coldness and distrust, and as one wlio had far 
 too confident a mien and too presuming a 
 temper for one so poor. However, he gradually 
 grew in favour as his worth and strength be- 
 came apparent, and aftei" he had made a short 
 visit to Ireland for the good of his health, 
 Temple took him into confidence so far as to 
 have him present at private interviews with 
 the king. About this time also he went to 
 Oxford, where, on the 5th of July, 1692, he was 
 admitted to the degree of Master of Arts. 
 At Oxford Swift composed his first extant 
 poetical work, a translation of the eighteenth 
 ode of the second book of Horace, and shortly 
 after he attempted a higher flight in the pro- 
 duction of Pindaric odes. These he showed 
 to Dryden, who at once answered decisively, 
 "Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." 
 The remark was never forgiven or forgotten, 
 for to the proud bitter soul of Swift it seemed 
 another of the insults to which his youth had 
 been subjected. Howevez-, notwithstanding 
 Dryden's opinion. Swift began to acquire a 
 literary reputation, and to make friendships 
 among such men as Congreve, to whom in 
 November, 1693, he addressed a copy of verses. 
 In these very verses, as Scott has well re- 
 marked, he shows that he felt confidence in 
 his own powers, and was already gifted with 
 that "hate for fools" which made him so 
 feared, and for which tlie " fools " yet make 
 his memory pay dearly. 
 
 " My hate, whose lash just Heaven had long decreed, 
 Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed." 
 
 After Swift's return from Oxford, where he 
 had been flatteringly received, Temple and he 
 grew gradually colder to each other. Swift 
 saw clearly that he was but very poorly re- 
 warded by his patron, who kept him in his 
 present state for selfish reasons he believed. 
 Temple looked upon Swift's anxiety for ad- 
 vancement as ingratitude, and off'ered him a 
 post in the EoUs Office in Ireland, which was, 
 it is said, expected to be refused. Swift did 
 refuse it, and the two parted in mutual bad 
 temper. Swift made another foot journey to 
 Leicester, stayed there for a short time with 
 his mother, then went over to Ireland, deter- 
 
 mined to enter holy orders. Before being 
 admitted a deacon he liad, however, to write 
 to Sir William Temple for a certificate of con- 
 duct, and this, after some delay, he brought 
 himself to do. In his letter he made admis- 
 sions that he had been perhaps over-hasty, if 
 not absolutely wrong in his conduct, and 
 Temjjle not only gave him the certificate, but 
 pleaded his cause with Lord C'apel, so that he 
 was at once, after admission to deacon's orders 
 in January, 1694-5, appointed to the prebend 
 of Kilroot, near Carrickfergus, worth about 
 £100 a year. 
 
 Swift's stay at Kilroot was not for long. 
 He soon became weary of its rude society and 
 dulness. Sir William found that he had lost 
 an indispensable companion, whose real value 
 only began to be properly seen when he was 
 no longer pi-eseut. Swift soon became aware 
 of Sir William's desire for his return, but for 
 a while his pride caused him to hesitate how 
 to act. At last this was decided almost by 
 accident. One day he met a curate with whom 
 he had formed an acquaintance, and who had 
 proved to be, not only a good man and modest, 
 but well-learned and the father of eight chil- 
 dren, whom he supported on an income of £40 
 a yeai-. Borrowing the clergj-man's horse. 
 Swift started off at once to Dublin, resigned 
 his preferment, and obtained a grant of it for 
 the poor curate, who was so afi'ected with 
 gratitude that the benefactor never forgot the 
 pleasure of the good deed so long as he lived. 
 
 On Swift's return to Moor Park, in 1695, 
 he was treated " rather as a confidential friend 
 than a dependent companion," and the two 
 great men soon became really fast friends. 
 Once more settling down to work Swift com- 
 pleted his 'I'ale of a Tub, and also wrote The 
 Battle of the Books, neither of which was 
 published till 1704. The latter was written 
 in defence of Temple's side in an argument 
 into which that statesman had got involved 
 as to the relative values of ancient and modern 
 learning. During thissecond residenceat Moor 
 Park Swift made the acquaintance of Esther 
 Johnson, whom he has immortalized as Stella, 
 an event the most unfortunate in his life, as 
 giving a handle to his enemies to vilify his 
 name. In January, 1698-9, Sir William 
 Temple died, and the four quietest and hap- 
 piest years of Swift's life were brought sharply 
 to an end. In his will Sir William left his 
 secretary £100, and, what was looked upon 
 as of much greater value than the money, his 
 literary remains. These Swift edited care- 
 fully, and published with a dedication to King
 
 80 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 William. A petition also was presented to 
 the king reminding him of his promise to Sir 
 William to bestow a prebend of Canterbury 
 or Westminster on Swift; but as the dead 
 statesman's services could no longer be turned 
 to account, his secretary's talents and claims 
 ceased to have any force, and Swift never 
 even had an answer to his request. After 
 long waiting, which must have been bitter 
 indeed to his haughty spirit, he accej^ted an 
 offer of the Earl of Berkeley, one of the lord- 
 justices, and went with that nobleman to Ire- 
 land as chajilain and private secretary. Before 
 long an intriguer of the name of Bushe was 
 appointed to the place of private secretary, 
 amends being promised to Swift in the shape 
 of the first good church living that should 
 become vacant. In this Swift was again dis- 
 appointed and tricked. The rich deanery of 
 Derry fell vacant, but Bushe, who seems rap- 
 idly to have gained influence over Berkeley, 
 declared Swift should not have it without a 
 bribe of ^1000. Swift classing master and 
 man together as partners in the vile transac- 
 tion, burst into an impetuous cry — " God con- 
 found you both for a couple of scoundrels !" — 
 and on the instant departed from his lodgings 
 in the castle. Berkeley, alarmed at the thought 
 of Swift's satiric lash, hastened to patch up 
 the breach, and the vicarages of Laracor and 
 Eathbeggan and the rectory of Agher, all in 
 the diocese of Meath, were conferred upon him. 
 These were altogether worth about ^270 a 
 year, not half the value of the deanery with- 
 held, but Swift accepted them. Berkeley and 
 Swift never were real friends again, but Lady 
 Berkeley and her two daughters still retained 
 the esteem of the late secretary, and one of the 
 daughters, Lady Elizabeth, remained to the 
 end of his days one of his most valued corre- 
 spondents. 
 
 At Laracor he preached regularly on Sun- 
 days, and said prayers twice a week — on Wed- 
 nesdays and Fridays — a thing not then much 
 in vogue. The church, which was in a sad 
 state of dilapidation, he repaired, as well as 
 the vicarage, which had almost fallen into ruin 
 through the avarice of former incumbents. 
 " He increased the glebe from one acre to 
 twenty." He also purchased the tithes of 
 Effernock, and settled them by will upon the 
 incuml>ent of that living. 
 
 While these things were being done, Stella, 
 and Mrs. Dingley her companion, took up their 
 abode in the town of Trim, near at hand. 
 Jolinson, like nearly all Swift's biographers, 
 calls her "the unfortunate Stella," but we 
 
 cannot see how the appellation is justified. 
 Her connection with Swift has made her name 
 remembered, which it otherwise would never 
 have been; while in the company, conversa- 
 tion, and confidence of such a master mind 
 she had a full recompense for sacrifices treble 
 those she seemed to make. Whether in the end 
 Swift did or did not marry her is a matter of 
 little moment, and a thing impossible to de- 
 termine. It is sufficient for us to know that 
 he and she were pure true friends to the last, 
 and that, so far at anyrate as he was concerned, 
 no trace of lower passion was allowed to enter 
 into their intercourse. To avoid scandal he 
 and she continued to live apart ; she and Mi-s. 
 Dingley occupying the parsonage in bis ab- 
 sence, but retiring from it on his return. They 
 also took care never to meet except in the 
 presence of a third party, a piece of precaution 
 that evidently originated with Swift. 
 
 In 1701 Swift's career began in earnest by 
 the publication anonymously of his treatise on 
 Disse7isions in Athens and Borne, a work in 
 which he showed how easy it is for liberty, by 
 degenerating into license, to force itself to be 
 extinguished by tjTanny. The work made a 
 great stir, and was attributed successively to 
 Lord Somers and Bishop Burnet — Burnet, to 
 escape an impeachment by the commons, 
 being reduced to make a public disavowal of 
 any share in the work, though in private he 
 was no way offended at having it attributed 
 to him. In 1702, on a visit to England, Swift 
 publicly avowed the authorship. In 1704 
 appeared The Tale of a Tuh and The Battle of 
 the Books. The first of these at once placed 
 Swift in the very foremost rank of living 
 writers, and showed to the world and to the 
 friends that flocked arovmd him — Addison, 
 Steele, and Arbuthnot, Somera and Halifax 
 — that a new and tremendous literary foi'ce 
 had arisen in their midst. In The Tale of a 
 Tuh Swift presents as an allegory three sons 
 who mistook, altered, observed, and neglected 
 the will of their father. In the records of 
 their conduct he satirizes the corruptions and 
 follies of the churches. At the same time in 
 his digressions he points his sarcastic thrusts 
 at the pedants, authors, and critics of his own 
 and future times. It gave offence in many 
 high quarters, however ; notably to Queen 
 Anne, who never forgave him for writing it, 
 and who would never afterwards listen to his 
 having the bishopric which he desired, earned, 
 and deserved. Four years later, that is in 1 708, 
 appeared The Sentiments of a Church of Eng- 
 land Man; Arguments against Abolishing
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 81 
 
 Christianity; Letter upon the Sacramental Test; 
 and the witty ridicule of astrology under the 
 name of Bickerstaff Predictions for 1708 (pub- 
 lished at the end of 1707). The first work "is 
 written," says Johnson, " with great coolness, 
 moderation, ease, and perspicuity;" and the 
 second " is a very happy and judicious irony." 
 Next year he published his Project for the 
 Advancement of Learning, as well as the Vin- 
 dication of Bickerstaff, and the curious ex- 
 planation of an Ancient Prophecy. In 1710, 
 on the persuasion of the primate of Ireland, 
 Swift solicited the queen for a remission 
 of the first-fruits and twentieth parts to the 
 Irish clergy. In doing this he was joined by 
 the Bishops of Ossoiy and Killaloe, but the 
 matter was to be left entirely in his hands in 
 case the bishops left London before it was 
 brought to an end. Starting on his journey to 
 London on the 1st of September, he reached 
 Chester on the 2d, and there wrote the first 
 of the letters in his Journal to Stella. When 
 he reached London he was full of bitterness 
 against the fallen Whigs, who had neglected 
 him, and on the 1st October he wrote Sid 
 Hamet^s Rod, a lampoon on Lord Godolphin. 
 On the 4th he was introduced to Harley, and 
 by Harley he was presented to St. John, and 
 between him and these two ministers a friend- 
 ship, begun in interest but ended in genuine 
 feeling, immediately commenced. Almost at 
 once he became a close adviser, and was ad- 
 mitted to the meetings of the ministry. On 
 the 10th November, 1710, appeared Swift's 
 first number of The Examiner, in which, till 
 the 14th of June, 1711, a space of seven 
 months, " he bore the battle upon his single 
 shield " — a battle in which he found opposed 
 to him all the friends he had made on his 
 previous visits to London — Steele, Addison, 
 Congreve, Eowe, Burnet. But he was more 
 than a match for them all, and one after 
 another he planted his rankling shafts in the 
 bosoms of Wharton, Somers, Marlborough, 
 Sunderland, and Godolphin. Against Whar- 
 ton he poured out the very vials of his wrath 
 in his Short Character of the Earl of Wharton. 
 In the midst of the turmoil he did not forget 
 the mission on which he had left Ireland, and 
 at last, owing to the influence he acquired over 
 the ministers, he brought it to a successful issue 
 just at the moment the bishops, with wonder- 
 ful stupidity, recalled his commission on the 
 pretext of putting it in the hands of the Duke 
 of Ormond. In the latter part of November, 
 1711, a few days before the meeting of par- 
 liament, appeared his treatise on The Conduct 
 Vol. 1, 
 
 of the Allies, of which, in the space of a week, 
 four editions were swallowed by the public. 
 To this treatise is attributed the conclusion of 
 the peace of Utrecht. It was a masterly piece 
 of political workmanship, drawn uj) with great 
 care and skill, and carried public opinion with 
 it in a wave. The Whigs denounced it vio- 
 lently, and even Walpole and Aislabie urged 
 that Swift should be impeached at the bar of 
 the House of Lords. However, he took no 
 notice of the little storm, and continued his 
 work for his friends by drawing up The Re- 
 presentation of the House of Commons on the 
 State of the Nation, and An Address of Thanks 
 to the Queen. In July, 1711, he wrote his 
 Proposal for Correcting, Improving, and As- 
 certaining the English Tongue, which was 
 published in May, 1712. In 1712 also ap- 
 peared the Reflections on the Barrier Treaty, 
 and his Remarks on the Bishop of Sarum's In- 
 troduction to his Third Volume of the History 
 of the Reformation, a bitter reply to the bishop's 
 pamphlet. Meanwhile, as occasion ofi"ered, he 
 busied himself in good offices for his friends, 
 even for those who, for political reasons, had 
 become his enemies. "Congreve, Rowe, and 
 Philips experienced in their turn the benefits 
 of his intercession," says Sir Walter Scott, 
 " and it appears he was really anxious to be of 
 service to Steele." He smoothed Parnell's way 
 for him, and caused him to receive " that 
 prompt attention which is most flattering to 
 the modesty of merit." Pope had his warmest 
 support while at work over Homer, and Gay 
 was made known to Bolingbroke through him. 
 Berkeley also " owed to Swift those introduc- 
 tions which placed him in the way to pro- 
 motion." Dr. King, an antagonist, he caused 
 to be made gazetteer, and later on, Prior, when 
 in distress, received from him efi'ectual assist- 
 ance and advice. 
 
 Meanwhile his desire for a life of ease began 
 to assert itself, and Swift called upon his min- 
 isterial friends to redeem the promises of 
 " doing something for him " which they had 
 so often made, as a compensation for his ser- 
 vices as a writer for the press, &c., which they 
 found invaluable. The policy of the Tory 
 party was to bring about a peace and draw 
 with them the popular feeling. In this Swift's 
 pen efiected what no other means in their 
 power was sufficient to produce. In his writ- 
 ings he pointed out the attempts of the Dutch 
 to get the better of England in all their treat- 
 ies, and also represented the financial loss of 
 the country in consequence of a war which 
 would have been ended but for the ambition
 
 82 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 of Marlborough, to whom alone its prolonga- 
 tion would be an advantage. A bishopric was 
 the least he expected and deserved, and there 
 is no doubt that, on a vacancy occurring in the 
 see of Hereford, Boliugbroke struggled hard 
 that he should have it. But an angry woman 
 stood in the way. The Duchess of Somerset 
 had been ridiculed by Swift in his Windsor 
 Pro-phecy some time before, and she now used 
 all a clever woman's skill to keep him down. 
 Joined to her was Archbishop Sharpe of York, 
 who did not scruple to describe The Tale of a 
 Tub as "a satire on religion in general, and the 
 writer as little better than an infidel." The 
 result was that the queen would not even see 
 Swift, a piece of woman's folly which he gen- 
 erously repaid by never once allowing his pen 
 to say a single bitter word of her. Finally it 
 was arranged that Dr. Sterne should be ]iro- 
 moted from the deanery of St. Patrick's in 
 Dublin to the bishopric of Dromore, and Swift 
 was prevailed upon to become a dean. Early 
 in June, 1713, he departed for Ireland, feeling 
 more like a person going into exile than one 
 returning to his native land. 
 
 In a letter to Stella he says, " At my first 
 coming I thought I should have died with 
 discontent, and was horribly melancholy while 
 they were installing me, but it begins to wear 
 off, and change to dulness." In a fortnight's 
 time, however, he was recalled to England to 
 reconcile Harley and Bolingbroke, between 
 whom a feud had broken out, and upon whose 
 cordial co-operation and confidence the success 
 of their government entirely depended. Swift 
 brought about an interview, and a temporaiy 
 reconciliation was elfected. But perfect con- 
 fidence between the two was impossible, and 
 the feud broke out again, bringing in its train 
 ruin and disaster. 
 
 Scarcely had Swift found himself in London 
 again when he too became a party to a bitter 
 feud between himself and Steele, in which 
 Steele shows to much advantage. Swift con- 
 ducted himself with fierceness and cruelty, 
 and showed all his wit; Steele wrote well 
 and manfully, and conducted himself with con- 
 siderable generosity. It was the unappeas- 
 able Achilles and the more humane Hector 
 over again, though the Hector in this case was 
 not dragged at the chariot-wheels of his rival. 
 Steele in his Crisis admired the wisdom of the 
 union and praised the Scottish nation. Swift 
 took the opposite side, and as he " disliked the 
 Scots and had quarrelled with Argyll," he spoke 
 of the Scots in The Public Spirit of the Whigs, 
 an answer to The Crisis, as "a poor fierce 
 
 northern people." The Scotch lords took the 
 gibes flung at them very ill, and through their 
 influence three hundred pounds were offered 
 for the discovery of the author of the pamph- 
 let. Morphew the bookseller and Barber the 
 printer were both arrested. However, by the 
 management of the ministry the storm was 
 played with till it had blown itself out, and 
 Swift, at one moment in great danger, soon 
 found himself of greater imjiortance than 
 ever. 
 
 By this time matters between Oxford and 
 Bolingbroke had reached such a height that 
 Swift had once more to try to reconcile them. 
 The attempt failed, and he retired, telling them 
 that "all was gone," and that he "would go 
 to Oxfoi'd on Monday, since he found it was 
 impossible to be of any use." On the Monday 
 he set out for Oxford, and at the house of Mr. 
 Gery, Upper Letcomb, Berkshire, he composed 
 his Free Thoughts on the State of Public Affairs. 
 This he sent to Barber, Barber showed it to 
 Bolingbroke, Bolingbroke at once added to it 
 svich things as made it very hurtful to Oxford, 
 and Swift hearing of this demanded its return. 
 After some delay the MS. was returned to its 
 author. A little later, and before anything 
 could be done to heal the breach in the Tory 
 ranks, Queen Anne died. Bolingbroke and 
 Ormond fled the country ; Oxford, Wyndham, 
 Prior, and others were imprisoned ; and Swift, 
 finding that the spirit of the Tories was utterly 
 broken, retired into Ireland, where he was 
 very badly received and insulted at first. 
 
 Very soon, however, Swift began to make 
 himself at home in his new sphere. He ob- 
 tained lodgings for Stella and Mrs. Dingley 
 in a house on Ormond's Quay. He himself 
 took possession of the deanery-house, where 
 twice a week he entertained such people as the 
 Grattans, Rev. Mr. Jackson, George Roche- 
 fort, Peter Ludlow, Dr. Walonsley, Dr. Hel- 
 sham. Dr. Sheridan, Mr. Stopford, and Dr. 
 Delany. However, before long a bird of ill 
 omen appeared in Dublin in the shape of Miss 
 Vanhomrigh, "Vanessa," whose acquaintance 
 Swift had made while in London, and who 
 seemed to think, though without any founda- 
 tion for the thought, that he was likely to 
 marry her. Her appearance roused the jeal- 
 ousy of Stella and made Swift fear for his 
 reputation. He spoke to her harshly of her 
 conduct, but she replied with tears, and fear- 
 ing that decisive measures might lead to some 
 tragic ending,he began a system of temporizing 
 between the two foolish women, and entered 
 upon that course of misery which ended in his
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 83 
 
 madness. However, in the year 1716, as some 
 say, he consented to a marriage with Stella on 
 condition that it was kept a perfect secret, 
 and that their old course of life Avas continued. 
 That it ever took place we can hardly believe, 
 and certain it is, more evidence than that at 
 present existing is required to establish the 
 fact. Anyhow, after this time Swift seems 
 to have redoubled his efforts to make Vanessa 
 forget her wretched passion. But she grew 
 only the more headstrong, and in 1717 she 
 retired like a mourning hermit to her house 
 and property at Celbridge. Here she was 
 occasionally visited by Swift, and to her while 
 here he addressed his finest poem Cadenus 
 and Vanessa. In 1720 Vanessa's sister died, 
 and left alone in the world she made a last 
 effort to secure Swift by writing to Stella to 
 know what relations existed between the two. 
 Stella in a rage declared herself the wife of 
 the dean, and sent him Vanessa's letter. Swift's 
 rage was terrific. Mounting a horse he rode 
 at once to the residence of Vanessa, and with 
 a face fidl of the bitterest anger and contempt 
 flung her letter on the table before her. Then 
 he dashed out of the house and rode madly 
 back to Dublin. In a few weeks the news 
 reached him that the passionate woman was 
 dead of a broken heart, having before dying 
 revoked a will made in his favour, and made 
 another by which slie left all she possessed to 
 Dr. Berkeley and Mr. Marshall, afterwards a 
 judge in the Irish Court of Common Pleas. 
 
 From 1716 to 1720 there is good reason to 
 believe Swift was engaged in reading up for 
 and in planning and writing portions of his 
 Gulliver's Travels. In 1720 his indignation at 
 the treatment of Ireland vented itself in A 
 Proposal for the Universal Use of Irish Manu- 
 factures, <&€., utterly rejecting and renounc- 
 ing everything wearable that comes fi-om 
 England. This made him at once very popular, 
 and roused the auger of the authoi'ities to such 
 a pitch that the printer was prosecuted. In 
 1723, after much intrigue, one Wood procured 
 a patent to coin £180,000 in copper for the 
 use of Ireland, by which he would have made 
 enormous gain at the cost of the people. To 
 prevent the carrying out of the evil scheme 
 Swift in 1724 wrote the Drapier Letters, and 
 at once became a power great as that of 
 O'Connell in after days. After a tremendous 
 stir and a bold attempt by the government 
 to overcome him by prosecuting the printer. 
 Swift carried the day. The government yield- 
 ed, and Wood's patent was surrendered for a 
 yearly grant of £3000 for twelve years. 
 
 In 1726 Swift visited England, where he 
 was gladly received by all his old friends, 
 but in the autumn of that year he hurried 
 back to Ireland on hearing of the illness 
 of Stella. However, he left behind him in 
 Loudon the MS. of Gulliver's Travels, and in 
 November the work appeared. The public 
 went wild over it. " It was read by the 
 high and the low, the learned and illitei-ate. 
 Criticism was for a while lost in wonder." 
 " Perhaps," says Scott, " no work ever exhi- 
 bited such general attractions for all classes." 
 At Voltaire's suggestion it was translated 
 into French. By March, 1727, Stella had 
 so much recovered that Swift returned to 
 England, where he was again well received ; 
 and in the same month appeared the three 
 volumes of Miscellanies in which his name ap- 
 pears with that of Pope, to whom he gave the 
 total profits of this as well as the copyright 
 of Gulliver. After a time he was attacked 
 with a heavy illness, and hearing that Stella 
 was once more unwell he left England for the 
 last time in October, 1727. In January, 
 1727-28, Stella died, and from that day for- 
 ward a cloud seemed to have fallen upon him. 
 He grew morose and passionate, " intolerable 
 to his fi'iends, unendurable to himself." In 
 1736, while engaged writing a poem called 
 The Legion Club, he was seized with a very 
 long-continued fit, and he never after at- 
 tempted any work of importance. Before that, 
 between 1730 and 1735, he wrote his Rhapsody 
 on Poetry and Verses on his Own Death. From 
 1737 to 1739 he busied himself in preparing 
 for publication his History of the Peace of 
 Utrecht, which, however, he withheld from the 
 press; and in doing the same duty by Direc- 
 tions to Servants, which appeared after his 
 death. In the summer of 1740, on the 26th 
 July, in a pathetic note to his cousin Mrs. 
 Whiteway, the last words that he was to 
 write passed from his pen. Soon after this 
 his mind failed him completely, and in the 
 next year he broke out into violent lunacy. 
 In 1742 reason returned for a few days, but 
 only to mock the hopes of his friends, and 
 on the 19th of October, 1745, he passed away 
 so quietly that those who watched him scarce 
 knew the moment of his departure. 
 
 To make any lengthened comment here on 
 Swift's works would be almost an impertin- 
 ence. We can scarcely do better than follow 
 the example of Sir Walter Scott, who closes 
 his Memoirs of Swift with the following quota- 
 tion from "the learned and candid Granger:" 
 
 " Swift was blessed in a higher degi'ee than
 
 84 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 any of his contemporaries with the powers 
 of a creative genius. The more we dwell 
 upon the character and writings of this 
 great man, the more they improve upon us ; 
 in whatever light we view him, he still ap- 
 pears to be an original. His wit, his humour, 
 his patriotism, his charity, and even his 
 piety, were of a diiferent cast from those of 
 other men. He had in his virtues few equals, 
 and in his talents no superior. In that of 
 humour, and more especially in irony, he ever 
 was, and probably ever will be, unrivalled. 
 . . . His style, which generally consists of 
 the most naked and simple terms, is strong, 
 clear, and expressive ; familiar without vul- 
 garity or meanness; and beautiful, without 
 affectation or ornament. . . . His writings, in 
 general, are regarded as standing models of 
 our language, as well as perpetual monuments 
 of their author's fame."] 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 (FBOM "the journal to STELLA"). 
 
 I know it is neither wit nor diversion to 
 tell you every day where I dine ; but I fancy 
 I shall have, some time or other, the curiosity 
 of seeing some particulars how I passed my 
 life when I was absent from M. D. this time ; 
 and so I tell you now that I dined to-day at 
 Molesworth's,the Florence envoy's; then went 
 to the coffee-house, where I behaved myself 
 coldly enough to Mr. Addison ; and so came 
 home to scribble. We dine together to- 
 morrow and next day by invitation ; but I 
 shall alter my behaviour to him till he 
 begs my pardon, or else we shall grow bare 
 acquaintance. I am weary of friends and 
 friendships are all monsters but M. D.'s. . . . 
 How do I know whether china be dear or 
 not? I once took a fancy of resolving to 
 grow mad for it, but now it is off. And so 
 you only want some salad-dishes and plates, 
 and &c. Yes, yes, you shall. I suppose you 
 have named as much as will cost five pounds. 
 Now to Stella's little postscript; and I am 
 almost crazed that you vex yourself for not 
 writing. Cannot you dictate to Dingley and 
 not strain your little dear eyes? I am sure 
 it is the grief of my soul to think you are 
 out of f>rder. Pray be quiet, and if you will 
 write, shut your eyes, and write just a line 
 and no more, thus: How do you do, Mrs. 
 Stella? That was written with my eyes 
 shut. . . . O then, you kept Presto's 
 
 little birthday? Would to God I had been 
 with you ! Rediculous, Madam ! I suppose 
 you mean ridiculous! I have mended it in 
 your letter. And can Stella read this writ- 
 ing without hurting her dear eyes ? O faith, 
 I am afraid not. Have a care of those eyes, 
 pretty Stella. . . . What, will you still 
 have the impudence to write London, Eng- 
 land, because I write Dublin, Ireland! Is 
 there no difference between London and 
 Dublin, saucy-boxes? The session, I doubt, 
 will not be over till the end of April ; how- 
 ever I shall not wait for it if the ministry 
 will let me go sooner. I wish I were just 
 now in my little garden at Laracor. I 
 would set out for Dublin early on Monday, 
 and bring you an account of my young 
 trees. ... I would fain be at the begin- 
 ning of my willows-growing. Percival tells 
 me that the quicksets upon the flat in the 
 garden do not grow so well as those famous 
 ones in the ditch. They want digging about 
 them. The cherry-trees by the river-side I 
 have set my heart upon. . . . See how my style 
 is altered by living and thinking and talking 
 among these people instead of my canal and 
 river walk and willows. Yes, faith, I hope 
 in God, Presto and M. D. will be together 
 this time twelvemonths. What then? Last 
 year, I suppose, I was at Laracor ; but next 
 I hope to eat my Michaelmas goose at my 
 little goose's lodgings. I drink no aile (I 
 suppose you mean ale), but yet good wine 
 every day of five or six shillings the bottle. 
 O Lord, how much Stella writes. Pray do 
 not carry that too far, young woman, but be 
 temperate to hold out. . . . Percival tells 
 me he can sell your horse. Pray let him 
 know that he shall sell his soul as soon. 
 What ! Sell anything that Stella loves, 
 and may be rides! And so God Almighty 
 protect poor, dear, dear, deal', dearest M. D, 
 'Night, dearest little M. D. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JOHNSON 
 
 (STELLA). 
 
 This day, being Sunday, January 28, 
 1727-28, about eight o'clock at night, a 
 servant brought me a note, with an account 
 of the death of the truest, most virtuous, 
 and valuable friend that I, or perhaps any 
 other person was ever blessed with. She 
 expired about six in the evening of this 
 day; and as soon as I am left alone, which
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 85 
 
 is about eleven at night, I resolve, for my 
 own satisfaction, to say something of her life 
 and character. 
 
 Slie was born at Eichmond, in Surrey, on 
 the 13th day of March, in the year 1681. 
 Her father was a younger brother of a good 
 family in Nottinghamshire, her mother of a 
 lower degree ; and indeed she had little to 
 boast of her birth. I knew her from six 
 years old, and had some share in her edu- 
 cation by directing what books she should 
 read, and perpetually instructing her in the 
 principles of honour and virtue, from which 
 she never swerved in any one action or 
 moment of her life. She was sickly from 
 her childhood until about the age of fifteen, 
 but then grew into perfect health, and was 
 looked upon as one of the most beautiful, 
 graceful, and agreeable women in London, 
 only a little too fat. Her hair was blacker 
 than a raven, and every feature of her face 
 in perfection. She lived generally in the 
 country, with a family where she contracted 
 an intimate friendship with another lady of 
 more advanced years. I was then, to my 
 mortification, settled in Ireland; about a 
 year after, going to visit my friends in 
 England, I found she was a little uneasy 
 upon the death of a person on whom she 
 had some dependence. Her fortune, at 
 that time, was in all not above £1500, the 
 interest of which was but a scanty main- 
 tenance, in so dear a country, for one of 
 her spirit. Under this consideration, and, 
 indeed, very much for my own satisfaction, 
 who had few friends or acquaintances in 
 Ireland, I prevailed with her and her 
 dear friend and companion, the other lady, 
 to draw what money they had into Ireland, 
 a great part of their fortune being in an- 
 nuities upon funds. Money was then ten 
 per cent in Ireland, besides the advantage 
 of returning it, and all necessaries of life 
 at half the price. They complied with my 
 advice, and soon after came over; but I, 
 happening to continue some time longer in 
 England, they were much discouraged to 
 live in Dublin, where they were wholly 
 strangers. She was at that time about 
 nineteen years old, and her person was 
 soon distinguished. But the adventure 
 looked so like a frolic, the censure held 
 for some time, as if there were a secret 
 history in such a removal, which, however, 
 soon blew off by her excellent conduct. She 
 came over with her friend in the year 1700, 
 and they both lived together until this day, 
 
 when death removed her from us. For some 
 years past she had been visited with con- 
 tinual ill -health, and several times within 
 these last two years her life was despaired 
 of. But for this twelvemonth past she 
 never had a day's health ; and, properly 
 speaking, she has been dying six months, 
 but kept alive, almost against nature, by the 
 generous kindness of two physicians and 
 the care of her friends. [Thus far I writ 
 the same night between eleven and twelve.] 
 
 Never was any of her sex born with better 
 gifts of the mind, or who more improved 
 them by reading and conversation. Yet 
 her memory was not of the best, and was 
 impaired in the latter years of her life. 
 But I cannot call to mind that I ever 
 once heard her make a wrong judgment of 
 persons, books, or affairs. Her advice was 
 always the best, and with the greatest 
 freedom, mixed with the greatest decency. 
 She had a gracefulness somewhat more 
 than human in every motion, word, and 
 action. Never was so happy a conjunction 
 of civility, freedom, easiness, and sincerity. 
 There seemed to be a combination among 
 all that knew her to treat her with a dig- 
 nity much beyond her rank ; yet people of 
 all sorts were never more easy than in her 
 company. Mr. Addison, when he was in 
 Ireland, being introduced to her, imme- 
 diately found her out ; and, if he had not 
 soon after left the kingdom, assured me 
 that he would have used all endeavours to 
 cultivate her friendship. A rude or con- 
 ceited coxcomb passed his time very ill upon 
 the least breach of respect; for in such a 
 case she had no mercy, but was sure to ex- 
 pose him to the contempt of the standers-by, 
 yet in such a manner as he was ashamed 
 to complain and durst not resent. All of 
 us who had the happiness of her friend- 
 ship agreed unanimously that, in an after- 
 noon or evening's conversation, she never 
 failed, before we parted, of delivering the 
 best thing that was said in the company. 
 Some of us have written down several of 
 her sayings, or what the French call bons 
 mots, wherein she excelled beyond belief. 
 She never mistook the understanding of 
 others; nor ever said a severe word but 
 where a much severer was deserved. 
 
 Her servants loved and almost adored her 
 at the same time. She would, upon occa- 
 sions, treat them with freedom ; yet her 
 demeanour was so awful, that they durst not 
 fail in the least point of respect. She chid
 
 86 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 them seldom, but it was with severity, which 
 had an effect upon them for a long time 
 after. 
 
 January 29. My head aches, and I can 
 write no more. 
 
 January 30. Tuesday. 
 
 This is the night of the funeral, which my 
 sickness will not suflFer me to attend. It is 
 now nine at night, and I am removed into 
 another apartment that I may not see the 
 light in the church, which is just over 
 against the window of my bedchamber. 
 
 With all the softness of temper that be- 
 came a lady, she had the personal courage 
 of a hero. She and her friend having re- 
 moved their lodgings to a new house, which 
 stood solitary, a parcel of rogues, armed, 
 attempted the house, where there was only 
 one boy. She was then about four-and- 
 twenty; and having been warned to appre- 
 hend some such attempt, she learned the 
 management of a pistol ; and, the other 
 women and servants being half-dead with 
 fear, she stole softly to her dining-room 
 window, put on a black hood to prevent 
 being seen, primed the pistol fresh, gently 
 lifted up the sash, and taking her aim with 
 the utmost presence of mind, discharged the 
 pistol, loaden with bullets, into the body of 
 one villain who stood the fairest mark. The 
 fellow, mortally wounded, was carried off by 
 the rest, and died the next morning, but his 
 companions could not be found. The Duke 
 of Ormond had often drunk her health to 
 me ujion that account, and had always a 
 high esteem for her. She was, indeed, under 
 some apprehensions of going in a boat after 
 some danger she had narrowly escaped by 
 water, but she was reasoned thoroughly out 
 of it. She was never known to cry out, 
 or discover any fear, in a coach or on horse- 
 back ; or any uneasiness by those sudden 
 accidents with which most of her sex, either 
 by weakness or affectation, appeared so much 
 disordered. 
 
 She never had the least absence of mind 
 in conversation, or was given to interruption, 
 or appeared eager to put in her word, by 
 waiting impatiently until another had done. 
 She spoke in a most agreeable voice, in the 
 plainest words, never hesitating, except out 
 of modesty before new faces, where she was 
 somewhat reserved; nor among her nearest 
 friends, ever spoke much at a time. She was 
 but little versed in the common topics of 
 female chat ; scandal, censure, and detraction 
 never came out of her mouth ; yet among 
 
 a few friends, in private conversation, she 
 made little ceremony in discovering her con- 
 tempt of a coxcomb, and describing all his 
 follies to the life ; but the follies of her own 
 sex she was rather inclined to extenuate or 
 to pity. 
 
 When she was once convinced, by open 
 facts, of any breach of truth or honour in 
 a person of high station, especially in the 
 Church, she could not conceal her indignation, 
 nor hear them named without showing her 
 displeasure in her countenance; particularly 
 one or two of the latter sort, whom she had 
 known and esteemed, but detested above all 
 mankind when it was manifest that they had 
 sacrificed those two precious virtues to their 
 ambition ; and would much sooner have for- 
 given them the commonest immoralities of 
 the laity. 
 
 Her frequent fits of sickness, in most parts 
 of her life, had prevented her from making 
 that progress in reading which she would 
 otherwise have done. She was well versed 
 in Greek and Roman story, and was not un- 
 skilled in that of France and England. She 
 spoke French perfectly, but forgot much of 
 it by neglect and sickness. She had read 
 carefully all the best books of travels, which 
 serve to open and enlarge the mind. She 
 understood the Platonic and Epicurean philo- 
 sophy, and judged very well of the defects 
 of the latter. She made very judicious ab- 
 stracts of the best books she had read. She 
 understood the nature of government, and 
 could point out all the errors of Hobbes, 
 both in that and religion. She had a good 
 insight into physic, and knew somewhat of 
 anatomy ; in both which she was instructed 
 in her younger days by an eminent physician, 
 who had her long under his care, and bore 
 the highest esteem for her person and under- 
 standing. She had a true taste of wit and 
 good sense both in poetry and prose, and 
 was a perfect good critic of style ; neither 
 was it easy to find a more proper or im- 
 partial judge, whose advice an author might 
 better rely on, if he intended to send a thing 
 into the world, provided it was on a subject 
 that came within the compass of her know- 
 ledge. Yet, perhaps, she was sometimes too 
 severe, which is a safe and pardonable error. 
 She preserved her wit, judgment, and vivacity 
 to the last, but often used to complain of her 
 memory. 
 
 [I since writ as I found time.] 
 
 But her charity to the poor was a duty
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 87 
 
 not to be diminished, and therefore became 
 a tax upon those tradesmen who furnish the 
 fopperies of other ladies. She bought clothes 
 as seldom as possible, and those as plain and 
 cheap as consisted with the situation she 
 was in ; and wore no lace for many years. 
 Either her judgment or fortune was extra- 
 ordinary in the choice of those on whom she 
 bestowed her charity, for it went fai'ther in 
 doing good than double the sum from any 
 other hand. And I have heard her say she 
 always met with gratitude from the poor; 
 which must be owing to her skill in dis- 
 tinguishing proper objects, as well as her 
 gracious manner in relieving them. But she 
 had another quality that much delighted 
 her, although it might be thought a check 
 upon her bounty ; however, it was a pleasure 
 she could not resist : I mean that of making 
 agreeable presents ; wherein I never knew 
 her equal, although it be an affair of as deli- 
 cate a nature as most in the course of life. 
 She used to define a present, that it was a 
 gift to a friend of something he wanted or 
 was fond of, and which could not be easily 
 gotten for money. I am confident, during 
 my acquaintance with her, she has, in these 
 and some other kinds of liberality, disposed 
 of to the value of several hundred pounds. 
 As to presents made to herself, she received 
 them with great unwillingness, but especially 
 from those to whom she had ever given any ; 
 being, on all occasions, the most disinterested 
 mortal I ever knew or heard of. 
 
 From her own disposition, at least as much 
 as from the frequent want of health, she 
 seldom made any visits; but her own lodgings, 
 from before twenty years old, were frequented 
 by many persons of the graver sort, who all 
 respected her highly upon her good sense, 
 good manners, and conversation. Among 
 these were the late Primate Lindsay, Bishop 
 Lloyd, Bishop Ashe, Bishop Brown, Bishop 
 Sterne, Bishop Pulleyn, with some others of 
 later date ; and indeed the greatest number 
 of her acquaintance was among the clergy. 
 Honour, truth, liberality, good-nature, and 
 modesty were the virtues she chiefly pos- 
 sessed, and most valued in her acquaintance : 
 and where she found them, [she] would be 
 ready to allow for some defects ; nor valued 
 them less although they did not shine in 
 learning or in wit ; but would never give the 
 least allowance for any failures in the former, 
 even to those who made the greatest figure 
 in either of the two latter. She had no use 
 of any person's liberality, yet her detestation 
 
 of covetous people made her uneasy if such 
 a one was in her company ; upon which occa- 
 sion she would say many things very enter- 
 taining and humorous. 
 
 She never interrupted any person who 
 spoke ; she laughed at no mistakes they 
 made, but helped them out with modesty ; 
 and if a good thing were spoken, but neglected, 
 she would not let it fall, but set it in the 
 best light to those who were present. She 
 listened to all that was said, and had never 
 the least distraction or absence of thought. 
 
 It was not safe, nor prudent, in her pres- 
 ence, to offend in the least word against 
 modesty ; for then she gave full employment 
 to her wit, her contempt, and resentment, 
 under which even stupidity and brutality 
 were forced to sink into confusion ; and the 
 guilty person, by her future avoiding him 
 like a bear or a satyr, was never in a way to 
 transgress a second time. 
 
 It happened one single coxcomb, of the 
 pest kind, was in her company among several 
 other ladies, and in his flippant way began 
 to deliver some double meanings; the rest 
 flapped their fans, and used the other com- 
 mon expedients practised in such cases, of 
 appearing not to mind, or comprehend, what 
 was said. Her behaviour was very dift'erent, 
 and perhaps may be censured. She said thus 
 to the man : " Sir, all these ladies and I 
 understand your meaning very well, having, 
 in spite of our care, too often met with those 
 of your sex who wanted manners and good 
 sense. But, believe me, neither virtuous 
 nor even vicious women love such kind of 
 conversation. However, I will leave you, and 
 report your behaviour ; and whatever visit 
 I make, I shall first enquii'e at the door 
 whether you are in the house, that I may 
 be sure to avoid you." I know not whether 
 a majority of ladies would approve of such 
 a proceeding ; but I believe the practice of it 
 would soon put an end to that corrupt con- 
 versation, the worst effect of dulness, ignor- 
 ance, impudence, and vulgarity, and the 
 highest affront to the modesty and under- 
 standing of the female sex. 
 
 By returning very few visits, she had not 
 much company of her own sex, except those 
 whom she most loved for their easiness, or 
 esteemed for their good sense : and those 
 not insisting on ceremony, came often to her. 
 But she rather chose men for her companions, 
 the usual topic of ladies' discourse being such 
 as she had little knowledge of, and less relish.
 
 88 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 THOUGHTS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.^ 
 
 We have just enough religion to make us 
 hate, but not enough to make us love one 
 another. 
 
 Reflect on things past, as wars, negotiations, 
 factious, &c. We enter so little into those 
 interests, that we wonder how men could pos- 
 sibly be so busy and concerned for things so 
 transitory: look on the present times, we find 
 the same humour, yet wonder not at all. 
 
 Positiveness is a good quality for preachers 
 and orators, because he that would obtrude his 
 thoughts and reasons ujjon a multitude, will 
 convince others the more, as he appears con- 
 vinced himself. 
 
 How is it possible to expect that mankind 
 will take advice, when they will not so much 
 as take warning? 
 
 No preacher is listened to but Time, which 
 gives us the same train and turn of thought 
 that elder people have tried in vain to put into 
 our heads before. 
 
 When we desire or solicit anji;hing our 
 minds run wholly on the good side or circum- 
 stances of it ; when it is obtained our minds 
 run wholly on the bad ones. 
 
 All fits of pleasure are balanced by an equal 
 degi-ee of pain or languor; it is like spending 
 this year part of the next year's revenue. 
 
 The latter part of a wise man's life is taken 
 up in curing the follies, prejudices, and false 
 opinions he had contracted in the former. 
 
 Would a writer know how to behave himself 
 with relation to posterity, let him consider in 
 old books what he finds that he is glad to 
 know, and what omissions he most laments. 
 
 Whatever the poets pretend, 'tis plain they 
 give immortality to none but themselves. 'Tis 
 Homer and Virgil we reverence and admire, 
 not Achilles or ^neas. With historians it is 
 quite the contrary; our thoughts are taken up 
 with the actions, persons, and events we read, 
 and we little regard the authors. 
 
 When a true genius appears in the world 
 you may know him by this sign, that the 
 dunces are all in confederacy against him. 
 
 Men who possess all the advantages of life 
 are in a state where there are many accidents 
 to disorder and discompose, but few to please 
 them. 
 
 'Tis unwise to punish cowards with igno- 
 miny ; for if they had regarded that they 
 
 ' These thoughts are perhaps more characteristic of the 
 author than anything else he has left behind him. 
 
 would not have been cowards : death is their 
 proper punishment, because they fear it most. 
 
 I am apt to think, that in the day of judg- 
 ment there will be small allowance given to 
 the wise for their want of morals, nor to the 
 ignorant for their want of faith, because both 
 are without excuse. This renders the advan- 
 tages equal of ignorance and knowledge. But 
 some scruples in the wise, and some vices in 
 the ignorant, will perhaps be forgiven upon the 
 strength of temptation to each. 
 
 ^Tis pleasant to observe how free the present 
 age is in laying taxes on the next : future ages 
 shall talk of this; this shall be famous to all 
 posterity; whereas their time and thoughts wiU 
 be taken up about present things, as ours are 
 now. 
 
 The chameleon, who is said to feed upon 
 nothing bilt air, hath of all animals the nim- 
 blest tongue. 
 
 When a man is made a spu'itual peer he 
 loses his surname; when a temporal, his Chris- 
 tian name. 
 
 It is in disputes as in armies, where the 
 weaker sides set up false lights, and make a 
 great noise, to make the enemy believe them 
 more numerous and strong than they really 
 are. 
 
 Some men, under the notions of weeding out 
 prejudices, eradicate virtue, honesty, and reli- 
 gion. 
 
 There are but three ways for a man to re- 
 venge himself of the censure of the world : to 
 despise it, to return the like, or to endeavour 
 to live so as to avoid it. The first of these is 
 usually pretended, the last is almost impos- 
 sible, the universal practice is for the second. 
 
 I have known some men possessed of good 
 qualities wliich were very serviceable to others, 
 but useless to themselves ; like a sun-dial on 
 the front of a house, to inform the neighbours 
 and passengers, but not the owner within. 
 
 If a man would register all his opinions upon 
 love, politics, religion, learning, &c., beginning 
 fi'om his youth and so go on to old age, what 
 a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions 
 would appear at last ! 
 
 What they do in heaven we are ignorant 
 of ; what they do not we are told expressly, 
 that they neither marry nor are given in mar- 
 riage. 
 
 It is a miserable thing to live in suspense ; 
 it is the life of a spider. 
 
 The stoical scheme of supplying our wants 
 by lopping off our desires is like cutting otF 
 our feet when we want shoes. 
 
 Physicians ought not to give their judgment
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 89 
 
 of religion, for the same reason that butchers 
 are uot admitted to be jurors uj^ou life aud 
 death. 
 
 The reason why so few marriages are happy, 
 is, because young ladies spend their time in 
 making nets, not in making cages. 
 
 If a man will observe as he walks the streets, 
 I believe he will find the merriest countenances 
 in mourning-coaches. 
 
 Nothing more unqualifies a man to act with 
 prudence, than a misfortune that is attended 
 with shame and guilt. 
 
 The power of fortune is confessed only by 
 the miserable ; for the happy impute all their 
 success to prudence or merit. 
 
 Ambition often puts men u2)on doing the 
 meanest offices; so climbing is performed in 
 the same posture with creeping. 
 
 Ill company is like a dog, who dirts those 
 most whom he loves best. 
 
 Oensm-e is the tax a man pays to the public 
 for being eminent. 
 
 Although men are accused for not knowing 
 their own weakness, yet perhaps as few know 
 their own strength. It is in men as in soils, 
 where sometimes there is a vein of gold which 
 the owner knows not of. 
 
 Invention is the talent of youth and judg- 
 ment of age; so that our judgment grows 
 harder to please when we have fewer things 
 to offer it : this goes through the whole com- 
 merce of life. Wlien we are old our friends 
 find it difficult to please us, and are less con- 
 cerned whether we be pleased or no. 
 
 No wise man ever wished to be younger. 
 
 An idle reason lessens the weight of the 
 good ones you gave before. 
 
 The motives of the best actions will not bear 
 too strict an inquiry. It is allowed that the 
 cause of most actions, good or bad, may be 
 resolved into the love of ourselves ; but the 
 self-love of some men inclines them to please 
 others ; and the self-love of others is wliolly 
 employed in pleasing themselves. This makes 
 the gieat distinction between vii-tue and vice. 
 Religion is the best motive of all actions, yet 
 religion is allowed to be the highest instance 
 of self-love. 
 
 Old men view best at a distance with the 
 eyes of their understanding as weU as with 
 those of nature. 
 
 Some people take more care to hide their 
 wisdom than their folly. 
 
 Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven re- 
 ceives, and the sincerest part of our devotion. 
 
 The common fluency of speech in many men 
 and most women is owing to a scarcity of 
 
 matter and a scarcity of words; for whoever is 
 a master of language, and hath a mind full of 
 ideas, will be apt in speaking to hesitate upon 
 the choice of both; whereas common speakers 
 have only one set of ideas and one set of words 
 to clothe them in ; and these are always ready 
 at the moutli : so people come faster out of a 
 church when it is almost empty, than when a 
 crowd is at the door. 
 
 Few are qualified to shine in company, but 
 it is in most men's power to be agreeable. The 
 reason therefore why conversation runs so low 
 at present, is not the defect of understanding, 
 but pride, vanity, ill nature, atfectation, sin- 
 gularity, positiveness, or some other vice, the 
 effect of a wrong education. 
 
 To be vain is rather a mark of humility than 
 pride. Vain men delight in telling what hon- 
 ours have been done them, what great company 
 they have kept, and the like, by which they 
 jDlainly confess that these honours were more 
 than their due, and such as their fi'iends would 
 not believe if they had not been told: whereas 
 a man truly proud thinks the greatest honours 
 below his merit, and consequently scorns to 
 boast. I therefore deliver it as a maxim, that 
 whoever desires the character of a proud man, 
 ought to conceal his vanity. 
 
 Law in a free country is, or ought to be, the 
 determination of the majority of those who 
 have property in land. 
 
 One argument used to the disadvantage of 
 providence, I take to be a very strong one in 
 its defence. It is objected that storms and 
 tempests, unfruitful seasons, serpents, spiders, 
 flies, and other noxious or troublesome animals, 
 with many more instances of the like kind, 
 discover an imperfection in nature, because 
 human life would be much easier without 
 them: but the design of providence may clearly 
 be perceived in this proceeding. The motions 
 of the sun and moon ; in short, the whole sys- 
 tem of the universe, as far as philosophers have 
 been able to discover and observe, are in the 
 utmost degree of regularity and perfection ; 
 but wherever God hath left to man the ]50wer 
 of interposing a remedy by thought or labour, 
 there he hath placed things in a stiite of im- 
 perfection, on purpose to stir up human in- 
 dustry, without which life would stagnate, or 
 indeed rather could not subsist at all: curis 
 acuunt mortalia corda. 
 
 Praise is the daughter of present power. 
 
 How inconsistent is man with himself ! 
 
 I have known several persons of gi-eat fame 
 for wisdom in public affairs and counsels, gov- 
 ei'ned by foolish servants.
 
 90 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 I have known great ministei-s, distinguished 
 foi- wit and learning, who preferred none but 
 dunces. 
 
 I have known men of great valour cowards 
 to their wives. 
 
 I have known men of the greatest cunning 
 perpetually cheated. 
 
 I knew three great ministers, who could 
 exactly compute and settle the accounts of 
 a kingdom, but were wholly ignorant of their 
 own economy. 
 
 The preaching of divines helps to preserve 
 well-inclined men in the course of virtue, but 
 seldom or never reclaims the vicious. 
 
 Princes usually make wiser choices than the 
 servants whom they trust for the disposal of 
 places : I have known a prince more than once 
 choose an able minister ; but I never observed 
 that minister to use his credit in the disposal 
 of an employment to a person whom he thought 
 the fittest for it. One of the gi-eatest in this 
 age^ owned and excused the matter from the 
 violence of parties, and the unreasonableness 
 of friends. 
 
 Small causes are sufficient to make a man 
 uneasy when great ones are not in the way : for 
 want of a block he will stumble at a straw. 
 
 Dignity, high station, or great riches are 
 in some sort necessary to old men, in order to 
 keep the younger at a distance, who are other- 
 wise too apt to insult them upon the score of 
 their age. 
 
 Every man desires to live long ; but no man 
 would be old. 
 
 Love of flattery in most men proceeds from 
 the mean opinion they have of themselves; in 
 women from the contrary. 
 
 If books and laws continue to increase as 
 they have done for fifty years past, I am in 
 some concern for future ages, how any man 
 will be learned, or any man a lawyer. 
 
 Kings are commonly said to have long 
 hands; I wish they had as long ears. 
 
 Silenus, the foster-father of Bacchus, is 
 always carried by an ass, and has horns on his 
 head. The moral is, that drunkards are led 
 by fools, and have a great chance to be cuck- 
 olds. 
 
 Venus, a beautiful, good-natured lady, was 
 the goddess of love; Juno, a terrible shrew, 
 the goddess of marriage : and they were always 
 mortal enemies. 
 
 Those who are against religion must needs 
 be fools ; and therefore we read that of all 
 animals, God refused the first-born of an ass. 
 
 I Harley is referred to here. 
 
 A very little wit is valued in a woman, aa 
 we are pleased with a few words spoken plain 
 by a parrot. 
 
 Apollo wai? held the god of physic and sender 
 of diseases. Both were originally the same 
 trade, and still continue. 
 
 There is a story in Pausanias of a plot for 
 betraying of a city, discovered by the braying 
 of an ass : the cackling of geese saved the 
 Capitol, and Catiline's couspii'acy was dis- 
 covered by a whore. These are the only thi'ee 
 animals, as far as I remember, famous in his- 
 tory for evidences and informers. 
 
 Most sorts of diversion in men, children, and 
 other animals is an imitation of fightintr. 
 
 Augustus meeting an arfs with a lucky name 
 foretold himself good fortune. I meet many 
 asses, but none of them have lucky names. 
 
 If a man makes me keep my distance, the 
 comfort is, he keeps his at the same time. 
 
 Who can deny that all men are violent lovers 
 of truth when we see them so positiv^e in their 
 errors, which they will maintain out of their 
 zeal to truth, although they contradict them- 
 selves every day of their lives? 
 
 That was excellently observed, say I, when I 
 read a passage in an author where his opinion 
 agrees with mine. When we diifer, there I 
 pronounce him to be mistaken. 
 
 Very few men, properly speaking, live at 
 present, but are providing to live another time. 
 
 As univei-sal a practice as lying is, and as 
 easy one as it seems, I do not remember to 
 have heai'd three good lies in all my conversa- 
 tion, even from those who were most celebrated 
 in that faculty. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 ON WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HALF-PENCE, 
 I. 
 
 When first tlie squire and tinker Wood, 
 Gravely consulting Ireland's good, 
 Together mingled in a mass 
 Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass; 
 The mixture thus by chimick art 
 United close in every part, 
 In fillets roH'd, or cut in pieces, 
 Appcar'd like one continu'd species; 
 And by the forming engine struck, 
 On all the same impression stuck.
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 91 
 
 So to confound tliis liated coin, 
 All parties and rcligion.s join; 
 WhigH, Tories, Trimmers, lianoverians, 
 Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians, 
 Scotch, Irish, English, French unite, 
 With equal int'rest, equal spite; 
 Together mingled in a lump. 
 Do all in one opinion jump; 
 And ev'ry one begins to find 
 The same impression on his mind. 
 
 A strange event ! whom gold incites 
 To blood and quarrels, brass unites: 
 So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff 
 Will serve for sodder well enough: 
 So, by the kettle's loud alarm 
 The bees are gather'd to a swarm: 
 So, by the brazen trumpet's bluster 
 Troops of all tongues and nations muster: 
 And so the harp of Ireland brings 
 Whole crowds about its brazen strings. 
 
 11. 
 
 There is a chain let down from Jove, 
 But fasten'd to his throne above; 
 So strong, that from the lower end, 
 They say, all human things depend: 
 This chain, as ancient poets hold. 
 When Jove was young, was made of gold, 
 Prometheus once this chain purloin'd, 
 Dissolv'd, and into money coin'd; 
 Then whips me on a chain of brass 
 (Venus was brib'd to let it pass). 
 
 Now while this brazen chain prevail'd, 
 Jove saw that all devotion fail'd; 
 No temple to his godship rais'd. 
 No sacrifice on altars blaz'd; 
 In short, such dire confusion follow'd, 
 Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd: 
 Jove stood amaz'd, but looking round, 
 With much ado the cheat he found; 
 'Twas plain he could no longer hold 
 The world in any chain but gold; 
 And to the god of wealth, his brother. 
 Sent Mercury to get another. 
 
 III. 
 
 Prometheus on a rock is laid, 
 Ty'd with the chain himself had made, 
 On icy Caucasius to shiver, 
 While vultures eat his growing liver. 
 
 Ye pow'rs of Grub Street, make me able 
 Discreetly to apply this fable. 
 Say, who is to be understood 
 By that old thief Prometheus? — Wood. 
 For Jove, it is not hard to guess him, 
 I mean his majesty, God bless him! 
 This thief and blacksmith was so bold. 
 He strove to steal that chain of gold 
 
 (Which links the subject to the king), 
 And change it for a brazen string. 
 But sure, if nothing else must pass 
 Between the king and us but bra.ss, 
 Altho' the chain will never crack, 
 Yet our devotion may grow slack. 
 
 But Jove will soon convert, I hope, 
 This brazen chain into a rope; 
 With which Prometheus shall be ty'd, 
 And high in air for ever ride; 
 Where, if we find his liver grows, 
 For want of vultures we have crows. 
 
 WISHES AND REALITIES. 
 
 IMITATED FROM HORACE. 
 
 I often wished that 1 had clear 
 For life, six hundred pounds a year, 
 A handsome house to lodge a friend, 
 A river at my garden's end, 
 A terrace walk, and half a rood 
 Of land set out to plant a wood. 
 
 Well, now 1 have all this and more, 
 I ask not to increase my store, 
 But should be perfectly content 
 Could 1 but live on this side Trent; 
 Nor cross the Channel twice a year, 
 To spend six months with statesmen here. 
 
 1 must by all means come to town, 
 'Tis for the service of the crown. 
 "Lewis, the Dean will be of use. 
 Send for him up, take no excuse." 
 The toil, the danger of the seas; 
 Great ministers ne'er think of these; 
 Or let it cost five hundred pound, 
 No matter where the money's found; 
 It is but so much more in debt. 
 And that they ne'er consider'd yet. 
 
 "Good Mr. Dean, go change your go>vn, 
 
 Let my lord know you're come to town. " 
 
 1 hurry me in haste away. 
 
 Not thinking it is levee-day; 
 
 And find his honour in a pound, 
 
 Hemm'd by a triple circle round. 
 
 Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green. 
 
 How should I thrust myself between? 
 
 Some wag observes me thus perplext, 
 
 And smiling, whispers to the next. 
 ' ' I thought the Dean had been too proud 
 
 To jostle here among a crowd." 
 
 Another in a surly fit 
 
 Tells me I have more zeal than wit. 
 "So eager to express your love. 
 
 You ne'er consider whom you shove,
 
 92 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 But rudely press before a duke." 
 I own I'm pleas'd with this rebuke, 
 And take it kindly meant to show 
 What I desire the world should know. 
 
 I get a whisper, and withdraw. 
 When twenty fools I never saw 
 Come with petitions fairly penn'd. 
 Desiring I would stand their friend. 
 
 This, humbly offers me his case — 
 That, begs my int'rest for a place — 
 A hundred other men's affairs 
 Like bees are humming in my ears. 
 
 "To-morrow my appeal comes on, 
 Without your help the cause is gone " — 
 The duke expects my lord and you. 
 About some great affair, at two — 
 
 "Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind 
 To get my warrant quickly sign'd: 
 Consider 'tis my first request " — 
 Be satisfied, I'll do my best: — 
 Then presently he falls to tease, 
 
 "You may for certain, if you please; 
 I doubt not, if his lordship knew" — 
 And Mr. Dean, one word from you — 
 
 'Tis (let me see) three years and more 
 (October next it will be four) 
 Since Harley bid me first attend. 
 And chose me for an humble friend; 
 Would take me in his coach to chat, 
 And question me of this and that; 
 As, ' ' What's a-clock ? " and " How's the wind ? " 
 "Whose chariot's that we left behind?" 
 Or gravely try to read the lines 
 Writ underneath the country signs; 
 Or, ' ' Have j'ou nothing new to-day 
 From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?" 
 Such tattle often entertains 
 My lord and me as far as Stains, 
 As once a week we travel down 
 To Windsor, and again to town, 
 Where all that passes inter nos 
 Might be proclaim'd at Charing Cross. 
 
 Yet some I know with envy swell. 
 Because they see me us'd so well: 
 
 " How think you of our friend the Dean? 
 I wonder what some people mean ; 
 My lord and he are grown so great, 
 Always together, tSte-d-tete : 
 What, they admire him for his jokes — 
 See but the fortune of some folks ! " 
 There flies about a strange report 
 Of some express arriv'd at court, 
 I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet. 
 And catechised in ev'ry street. 
 
 "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great; 
 Inform us, will the emp'ror treat? 
 Or do the prints and papers lie?" 
 
 Faith, sir, you know as much as I. 
 " Ah doctor, how you love to jest ! 
 
 'Tis now no secret " 1 protest 
 
 'Tis one to me. " Then tell us, pray, 
 
 When are the troops to have their pay ? " 
 And, tho' I solemnly declare 
 I know no more than my Lord-mayor, 
 They stand amaz'd, and think me grown 
 The closest mortal ever known. 
 
 Thus in a sea of folly toss'd. 
 My choicest hours of life are lost; 
 Yet always wishing to retreat. 
 Oh, could I see my country seat ! 
 There, leaning near a gentle brook. 
 Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; 
 And there in sweet oblivion drown 
 Those cares that haunt the court and town. 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY 
 PARSON. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF MARTIAL. 
 
 Parson, these things in thy possessing 
 Are better than the bishop's blessing. 
 A wife that makes conserves; a steed 
 That carries double where there's need: 
 October store, and best Virginia, 
 Tithe pig, and mortuary guinea: 
 Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd, 
 For which thy patron's weekly thank'd: 
 A large concordance (bound long since), 
 Sermons to Charles the First, when prince; 
 A chronicle of ancient standing ; 
 A Chrysostom to smooth thy baud in: 
 The polyglots— three parts — my text, 
 Howbeit — likewise — now to my next, 
 Lo here the Septuagint — and Paul, 
 To sum the whole — the close of all. 
 
 He that has these may pass his life, 
 Drink with the squire, and kiss his wife: 
 On Sundays preach, and eat his fill; 
 And fast on Fridays, if he will; 
 Toast church and queen, explain the news 
 Talk with church- ward ens about pews, 
 Pray heartily for some new gift. 
 And shake his head at Doctor Swift. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724. 
 
 As when a beauteous nymph decays 
 We say, she's past her dancing days; 
 So, poets lose their feet by time. 
 And can no longer dance in rhyme. 
 Your annual bard had rather chose
 
 JONATHAN SWII^T. 
 
 93 
 
 To celebrate your birth in prose; 
 
 Yet merry folks who want by chaiu-c 
 
 A pair to make a country tlance, 
 
 Call the old housekeeper, and get her 
 
 To fill a place, for want of better; 
 
 While Sheridan is off the hooks, 
 
 And friend Delany at his books. 
 
 That Stella may avoid disgrace 
 
 Once more the Dean supplies their place. 
 
 Beauty and wit, too sad a truth. 
 Have always been confin'd to youth; 
 The god of wit, and beauty's queen, 
 He twenty-one, and she fifteen; 
 No poet every sweetly sung 
 Unless he were, like Phwbus, young ; 
 Nor ever nymph inspir'd to rhyme. 
 Unless, like Venus, in her prime. 
 At fifty-six, if this be true. 
 Am I a poet fit for you? 
 Or at the age of forty-three. 
 Are you a subject fit for me? 
 Adieu bright wit, and radiant eyes ; 
 You must be grave, and I be wise. 
 Our fate in vain we would oppose, 
 But I'll be still your friend in prose; 
 Esteem and friendship to express. 
 Will not require poetic dress ; 
 And if the Muse deny her aid 
 To have them sung, they may be said. 
 
 But, Stella, say, what evil tongue 
 Reports you are no longer young? 
 That Time sits with his scythe to mow 
 Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; 
 That half your locks are turn'd to gray; 
 I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 
 'Tis true, but let it not be known. 
 My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown; 
 For nature, always in the right. 
 To your decays adapts my sight, 
 And wrinkles undistinguished pass, 
 For I'm asham'd to use a glass; 
 And till I see them with these eyes, 
 Whoever says you have them, lies. 
 
 No length of time can make you quit 
 Honour and virtue, sense and wit. 
 Thus you may still be young to me 
 While I can better hear than see: 
 Oh ne'er may fortune show her spite, 
 To make me deaf, and mend my sight. 
 
 IN SICKNESS.' 
 
 'Tis true, then why should I repine. 
 To see my life so fast decline? 
 But, why obscurely here alone, 
 
 1 Written soon after the author's coming to live in Ire- 
 land, upon the queen's death, October, 1714. 
 
 Where I am neither lov'd nor known? 
 
 My state of health none care to learn ; 
 
 My life is here no soul's concern : 
 
 And those with wiioni I now converse, 
 
 Without a tear will tend my hearse. 
 
 Remov'd from kind Arbuthnot's aid. 
 
 Who knows his art, but not hia trade, 
 
 Preferring his regard for me 
 
 Befure his credit, or his fee. 
 
 Some formal visits, looks, and words. 
 
 What mere humanity affords, 
 
 I meet perhaps from three or four. 
 
 From whom 1 once expected more ; 
 
 Which those who tend the sick for pay, 
 
 Can act as decently as they : 
 
 But no obliging tender friend 
 
 To help at my approaching end. 
 
 My life is now a burden grown 
 
 To others, ere it be my own. 
 
 Ye formal weepers for the sick. 
 In your last offices be quick : 
 And spare my absent friends the grief 
 To hear, yet give me no relief; 
 Expir'd to-day, iutomb'd to-morrow. 
 When known, will save a double sorrow. 
 
 THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S 
 MIND. 
 
 A set of phrases learned by rote, 
 A passion for a scarlet coat; 
 When at a play to laugh or cry. 
 Yet cannot tell the reason why; 
 Never to hold her tongue a minute. 
 While all she prates has nothing in it; 
 Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, 
 And take his nonsense all for wit; 
 His learning mounts to read a song, 
 But half the words pronouncing wrong; 
 Hath every repartee in store 
 She spoke ten thoui^and times before; 
 Can ready compliments supply 
 On all occasions cut and dry; 
 Such hatred to a parson's gown, 
 The sight will put her in a swoon; 
 For conversation well endued. 
 She calls it witty to be rude; 
 And placing raillery in railing. 
 Will tell aloud your greatest failing; 
 Nor makes a scruple to expose 
 Your bandy leg or crooked nose; 
 Can at her morning tea run o'er 
 The scandal of the day before; 
 Improving hourly in her skill 
 To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. 
 
 In choosing lace a critic nice, 
 Knows to a groat the lowest price;
 
 94 
 
 SAMUEL BOYSE. 
 
 Can in her female clubs dispute 
 What lining best the silk will suit; 
 What colours each complexion match, 
 And where with art to place a patch. 
 
 If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, 
 Can finely counterfeit a fright; 
 So sweetly screams if it comes near her, 
 She ravishes all hearts to hear her; 
 Can dext'rously her husband tease, 
 By taking fits whene'er she please; 
 By frequent practice learns the trick 
 At proper seasons to be sick; 
 Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, 
 At once creating love and pity; 
 If ilolly happens to be careless, 
 And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, 
 She gets a cold as sure as death, 
 And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; 
 Admires how modest women can 
 Be so robustious, like a man. 
 
 In party furious to her power; 
 A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; 
 Her arguments directly tend 
 Against the side she would defend; 
 Will prove herself a Tory plain. 
 From principles the AVhigs maintain; 
 And to defend the Whiggish cause, 
 Her topics from the Tories draws. 
 
 O yes! if any man can find 
 More virtues in a woman's mind. 
 Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding, 
 She'll pay the charges to a farthing: 
 Take notice, she has my commission 
 To add them in the next edition; 
 They may outsell a better thing: 
 So, holla, boys ! God save the king ! 
 
 LAWYERS. 
 
 I own the curses of mankind 
 
 Sit light upon a lawyer's mind; 
 
 The clamours of ten thousand tongues 
 
 Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs. 
 I own his conscience always free, 
 Provided he has got his fee: 
 Secure of con.stant peace within, 
 He knows no guilt who knows no sin- 
 Yet well they merit to be pitied. 
 By clients always overwitted : 
 And though the gospel seems to say 
 What heavy burdens lawyers lay 
 Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, 
 Nor lend a finger to the labour, 
 Always for saving their own bacon, 
 No doubt the text is here mistaken: 
 The copy's false, and sense is rackt; 
 To prove it I appeal to fact. 
 And thus by demonstration show 
 What burdens lawyers undergo. 
 With early clients at his door. 
 Though lie was drunk the night before. 
 And crop-sick with unclubb'd-for wine, 
 The wretch must be at court by nine; 
 Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag. 
 As ridden by a midnight hag; 
 Then from the bar harangues the bench. 
 In English vile, and viler French, 
 And Latin, vilest of the three, 
 And all for poor ten moidores' fee. 
 Of paper how is he profuse! 
 With periods long, in terms abstruse, 
 What pains he takes to be prolix ! 
 A thousand lines to stand for six; 
 Of common sense without a word in, 
 And is not this a grievous burden ! 
 The lawyer is a common drudge. 
 To fight our cause before the judge! 
 And, what is yet a greater curse, 
 Condemn'd to bear his client's purse. 
 While he, at ease, secure and light. 
 Walks boldly home at dead of night: 
 When term is ended leaves the town. 
 Trots to his country-mansion down, 
 And, disencumber'd of his load, 
 No danger dreads upon the road; 
 Despiseth rapparees, and rides 
 Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. ^ 
 
 SAMUEL BOYSE. 
 
 Born 1708 — Died 1749. 
 
 [Samuel Boyse is a glaring instance of how 
 readily a man of genius may be a fool in con- 
 duct, and how the grossest manners and most 
 unpardonable vices may co-exist with the most 
 wonderful talent. He is also a i)roof, if proof 
 were needed, that Bohemianism is a weakness 
 
 and not a strength, and that tliose who follow 
 it because men of genius have been Bohemians, 
 are about as wise as if they desired to be in- 
 
 1 Famous for the exploits of Redmond O'Hanlon, the 
 Irish Kobin Hood.
 
 SAMUEL BOYSE. 
 
 95 
 
 oculated with some foul disease because some 
 great poet or writer had one time suffered 
 from it. Boyse's life is indeed among the 
 saddest in all our long list of many-sided 
 and many-fated authors. 
 
 Boyse was born in Dublin in the year 17()8. 
 He was the son of a well-known Dissenting 
 minister of that day, one of whose sermons 
 was ordered to be burned by the Irish parlia- 
 ment in 1711. He received the rudiments 
 of his education at a private school, and at 
 eighteen w;is sent to the University of Glas- 
 gow, where, before completing his first year 
 of study, he married a tradesman's daughter. 
 The marriage was an unhappy one ; vice and 
 extravagance wedded to vice and extravagance. 
 However, though vexed at his marriage, the 
 foolish father of the foolish poet continued for 
 a whde to support him, but this at last ceasing, 
 Boyse moved to Edinburgh, where his genius 
 and talents soon procured him many friends. 
 Among these was the Countess of Eglinton, 
 to whom in 1731 he addressed his first volume 
 of poems. About this time also appeared his 
 elegy on Lady Stormount, entitled The Tears 
 of the Muses, which is still spoken of as a 
 graceful poem, and with which Lord Stor- 
 mount was so much pleased that he presented 
 Boyse with a handsome donation. 
 
 The success of these publications, as well as 
 the favour of those able to further him, might 
 well have been used by Boyse as a first step 
 towards fame and greatness. But his nature 
 was low and grovelling, and so soon as he 
 became possessed of a pound or two it was 
 spent in vulgar but costly luxuries and dissi- 
 pation. He soon fell into such a state of 
 wretchedness and contempt that he determined 
 to leave Edinburgh and try his fortune in the 
 great metropolis. This decision he made known 
 to the Duchess of Gordon, who, still believing 
 in his abilities, gave him a letter of recom- 
 mendation to Pope, and obtained him another 
 to Lord-chancellor King. However, on coming 
 to London he was too intlolent to make use of 
 the recommendations, and in a short time he 
 had fallen so low that he had no clothes to 
 appear in. Gibber says that he had neither 
 shirt nor coat nor any kind of apparel ; "the 
 sheets in which he lay were gone to the pawn- 
 broker's ; he was obliged to be confined to bed 
 with no other covering than a blanket; and 
 he had little support but what is got by writ- 
 ing letters to his friends in the most abject 
 style. His mode of studying and vnriting was 
 curious : he sat up in bed, with the blanket 
 wrapped about him, through which he had 
 
 cut a hole large enough to admit his arm, and, 
 jjlacing the paper on his knee, scribbled in the 
 best manner he could." 
 
 In 1742 he got thrown into a sponging- 
 house, but by some means obtained his liberty 
 ])efore long. About this time he wrote 
 several poems, " but these, though excellent of 
 their kind, were lost to the world by being 
 introduced with no advantage." He had also 
 constantly recourse to the meanest tricks to 
 procure donations or so-called loans. Some- 
 times he would cause his wife to appear in 
 tears and declare that he was on the point of 
 death, and when relieved by some one his 
 benefactor would probably be astonished by 
 meeting the dying man next day in the street. 
 In 1743 he published a successful ode on the 
 Battle of Dettingen, entitled Albion's Triumph. 
 In 1745 he was at Beading, engaged on a hack 
 work "An Historical Review of the Transac- 
 tions of Europe, from the Commencement of 
 the War with Spain in 1739, to the Insurrec- 
 tion in Scotland in 1745." This appeared in 
 1747, and, according to one of his biographers, 
 "is said not to be destitute of merit." 
 
 While at Reading his wife died, and on his 
 
 return to London Boyse for a time acted a little 
 
 more decently than usual. Reform, however, 
 
 was now almost too late: his health was iniined, 
 
 and he could only drag on a miserable career 
 
 until, in May, 1749, after a lingering illness, 
 
 he died in a low lodging in Shoe Lane, and was 
 
 buried by the parish authorities of St. Bride's. 
 
 In the two volumes of Boyse's works which 
 
 have been published many poems deserve to 
 
 rank very high. The Home of Content is 
 
 a poem which might have been written by 
 
 Akenside at his very best ; but The Glory of 
 
 the Deity is a noble poem, which Akenside 
 
 even at his best could never have written. 
 
 Harvey, no very great critic, by the way, 
 
 speaks of it as "a beautiful and instructive 
 
 poem;" and Fielding, a much more weighty 
 
 authority, gives a quotation from it which he 
 
 calls "a noble one, and taken from a poem 
 
 long since buried in oblivion; a proof that 
 
 good books, no more than good men, do not 
 
 always survive the bad." However, the poem 
 
 had not fallen into such oblivion as Fielding 
 
 imagined, for by 1752 a third edition of it had 
 
 appeared. The chief 1 )eauties of Boyse's poetry 
 
 are, strange to say, sublimity, elegance, and 
 
 pathos ; their chief defect a certain looseness 
 
 of constraction in places, caused by rapidity 
 
 of production and utter want of revision. His 
 
 poems were each flung upon the world to 
 
 serve some momentary ourpose, and when
 
 96 
 
 SAMUEL BOYSE. 
 
 this was effected he thought and cared no 
 more about them. In addition to the two 
 vohimes published, it is said there are enough 
 equally good to till four more such. Who will 
 look after them and give them to the world?] 
 
 HOPE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 "0 Life, vain joy, which mortals court, 
 The prey of death and fortune's sport, 
 Tell me, when so unkind to me. 
 Oh why should I be fond of thee? 
 
 ' ' When from the silent womb of space. 
 Struggling I broke to thy embrace, 
 My tears prophetic seem'd to tell 
 You meant not. Life, to use me well. 
 
 "The joys you gave my youth to taste 
 Were but like children's toys at best, 
 AVhich passion grasped with eager play. 
 But reason, frowning, threw away ! 
 
 "Yet, fond enchantress, still thy wile 
 Had power my senses to beguile, 
 Cheated, although the fraud I knew. 
 And pleased because it still was new. 
 
 "In vain I heard, in vain I read. 
 Of thousands by thy love betray'd ! 
 I listened to thy magic call. 
 And held thee dear in spite of all. 
 
 "Led by thy captivating hand 
 Through wanton pleasure's fairy land, 
 I cried, unskill'd in future harms, 
 Life, how lovely are thy charms ! 
 
 "But on the front of riper years 
 Advanced a train of sullen cares. 
 While giddy Fortune turned her head, 
 And Pleasure's golden prospects fled. 
 
 "'Twas then, of all recourse bereaved, 
 Too late I found myself deceived, 
 And wish'd, fond Life, with vain regret, 
 That thou and I had never met. " 
 
 But Life, who treats with high disdain 
 The worn-out slaves that drag her chain. 
 Regardless all my griefs survey'd. 
 And triumphed in the ills she made. 
 
 Abandoned thus to Fortune's rage. 
 Soon 1 was spied by trembling Age, 
 Who bid me calm my anxious breast, 
 For he would lead me soon to rest. 
 
 When Hope, a nymph of heav'nly race, 
 Addressed in smiles her cheerful face. 
 Soft interposed with friendly air, 
 To save me from the arms of Care. 
 
 "And what, unhappy, tempts thee so?" 
 She cried, "and whither wouldst thou go? 
 'Tis but a mark of weakness shown 
 To fly from life to ills unknown. 
 
 "Go ask the wretch in torture this. 
 Why courts he life if not a bliss? 
 Nor quits the partner Nature gave 
 For the cold horrors of the grave. " 
 
 Short I replied — "False nymph, forbear 
 With syren tales to soothe my ear; 
 Forbear thy arts, too often tried, 
 Nor longer thou shalt be my guide. 
 
 "Ten tedious years! — a space too long — 
 Still hast thou led, and led me wrong; 
 At least thy vain attendance cease. 
 And leave me here to die in peace." 
 
 To which she answered with a sigh, 
 "Thou hast thy wish ! if I comply 
 Death soon will ease thee, left alone. 
 For Life is lost when Hope is gone." 
 
 THE HOME OF CONTENT. 
 
 The tempest ceas'd — and all the sober night 
 
 Intent our course aerial we pursued, 
 
 Till, as Aurora dawn'd with ruddy light, 
 
 An island we perceived that stemm'd the flood. 
 
 No hills nor trees adorn'd the level soil 
 
 Where bleating flocks a plenteous herbage found; 
 
 Low lay the prospect of the bleating isle. 
 
 With here and there a spot of tillage ground 
 
 By which the humble village stood descry'd, 
 
 Where never entered arts, or luxury, or pride ! 
 
 O'er many a sea-green holm we wafted went. 
 
 Where undisturbed the feathered nations lay ! 
 
 Till, lighting on the plain with soft descent. 
 
 We saw a reverend form advance our way. 
 
 And now approaching with an easy pace. 
 
 The venerable sage before us stands: 
 
 White were his hairs, and cheerful was his face. 
 
 At once delights his aspect and commands. 
 
 I felt all care suspended at his view. 
 
 Whom better far than I his kindred goddess knew. 
 
 Of homespun russet was the garb he v.-ore. 
 
 Girt with a velvet seal's divided skin; 
 
 Of woollen yam the mittens which he wore.
 
 SAMUEL BOYSE. 
 
 97 
 
 To keep him from the breath of Boreas thin. 
 An easy path along the verdant ground 
 Soon to his hospitable cottage led; 
 Ere yet instructed, I my error found, 
 Nor knew the cause my first emotion bred 
 Till, as into his clean abode we went, 
 Kind Patience whispered me our host was called 
 Content. 
 
 Sweet was his earthen floor with rushes spread. 
 Sweet was each shell-wrought bowl and wooden 
 
 dish. 
 Sweet was the quilt composed his healthy bed, 
 Nor wanted he for fowl or sun-dried fish, 
 And milk of sheep, and turf, a plenteous store, 
 Which lay beneath his comfortable roof; 
 No storms, no accidents could make him poor. 
 He and his house, I ween, were weather-proof. 
 A bachelor he wonde, devoid of care. 
 Which made him now appear so healthy and so fair. 
 
 Long time with Patience fair discourse he held 
 (Oft had the goddess been his welcome guest), 
 Nor she the friendly intercourse repell'd, 
 But the good sire familiarly address'd. 
 Thus were we happily conversant set, 
 When from the neighbouring village rose a cry. 
 And drew our hasty steps where numbers met. 
 Like us, appear'd to know the reason — Why? 
 Nor needed answer: on the seaweed spray — 
 Too visible reply ! — the wave-toss'd body lay. 
 
 How stood I shock'd — when in the semblant face 
 
 (By death unalter'd, or the cruel flood) 
 
 I could of Lycidas each feature trace. 
 
 Young Lycidas, the learned and the good. 
 
 "0 Heaven !" cried 1, "what sorrows will he feel, 
 
 Debarr'd the promis'd hope of thy return; 
 
 Not all his skill the mental wound can heal, 
 
 Or cure a loss he must so justly mourn ! 
 
 How will he weep when in the ocean grave 
 
 He hears a brother lost he could have died to save. " 
 
 Here with observant eye, and look serene, 
 
 Thuscheck'd the good old man my plaintive speech : 
 
 "Best in submission piety is seen. 
 
 That lesson let thy kind conductress teach: 
 
 But lest the youth thy friend bewails should want 
 
 The rites departed merit ought to find, 
 
 Let these assembled natives kindly grant 
 
 The unpolluted grave, by Heaven assign'd; 
 
 A corpse that claim'd a due interment more 
 
 Yet never wafted wave to Faroe's guiltless shore I " 
 
 He said — obedient to his just commands 
 The zealous youth the breathless body bear; 
 Some form the sepulchre with careful hands, 
 While round the virgins drop the artless tear. 
 Such flowers as nature grants the ruder clime. 
 Such flowers around with pious care they shed, 
 Vol. I. 
 
 And sing the funeral dirge in Runic rhyme. 
 Allotted to the saue or warrior dead: 
 While as these fruitless honours are bestow'd, 
 Content, with sober speech, his purpose thus avow'd: 
 
 ' ' What boots thee now, lost youth ! that cross the 
 
 main 
 Thou spread the daring sail from pole to pole, 
 Wealth to acquire, and knowledge to attain, — - 
 Knowledge, the nobler treasure of thy soul. 
 Beneath the scorching of the medial line, 
 On Afric's sand, and India's golden coast. 
 Virtue gave thee with native truth to shine, 
 Drest in each excellence that youth could boast, 
 And now she gives thee from the wave to rise, 
 And reach the safer port prepared thee in the skies. 
 
 "Yet take these honours, thy deserv'd reward. 
 Call this untroubled spot of earth thy own, 
 Here shall thy ashes find a due regard. 
 And annual sweets around thy grave be thrown : 
 Directing Heaven ordain'd thy early end 
 From fraud and guilt to .save thy blameless youth; 
 To show that death no terrors can attend 
 W^here piety resides and holy truth. 
 Here take thy rest within this hallow'd ground. 
 Till the last trump emit the death-awakening 
 sound." 
 
 He ceas'd: attentive to the words he said. 
 In earth the natives place the honoured clay, 
 With holy rites they cover up his head, 
 A spotless grave where never mortal lay. 
 Charm'd with the simple manners of the isle, 
 I wish'd some further knowledge to receive; 
 Here could have dwelt with old Content awhile, 
 And learn'd of him the happiness to live! 
 When Patience from my side abruptly broke, 
 And starting at the loss I suddenly awoke! 
 
 THE GOLDEN RULE. 
 
 Honest friend ! say all you can, 
 In life still holds the golden rule: 
 
 That riches make a fool a man. 
 And poverty a man — a fool ! 
 
 JUSTICE, WHY BLIND? 
 
 Says Will to Mat — "W^hat cause can be assign'd 
 Why sacred Themis still is pictured blind?" 
 ' ' Because, " says W^ill, ' ' when towering vice prevails 
 She may excuse the error of her scales; 
 For most who know this present age agree, 
 Whate'er she thinks, — she does not care to see!" 
 
 7
 
 98 
 
 SIR HANS SLOANE. 
 
 SIR HANS SLOANE. 
 
 Born 1660 — Died 1752. 
 
 [Sir Hans Sloane, ever memorable as the 
 actual founder of the British Museum, was 
 born at Killyleagh in the county of Down, on 
 the 16th of April, 1660. His father was col- 
 lector of taxes for the county, and as such was 
 able to give his son a good education, in the 
 process of which the bent of his genius towards 
 the study of natural history disclosed itself. 
 At sixteen, owing to intense application, he 
 was attacked with a spitting of blood, and for 
 almost three years his life was despaired of. 
 At the end of this time he recovered, and 
 choosing physic for his profession at once 
 plunged into the study of chemistry and botany. 
 To acquire these thoroughly he removed to 
 London, where for four years he attended all 
 the public lectures on chemistry, anatomy, and 
 botany. During this time also he made the 
 aoquaintance of Boyle and Ray, to both of 
 whom he gave help, and from them received 
 advice and assistance. 
 
 At the end of his four years in London he 
 went to Paris, where he attended the hospitals, 
 and heard the lectures of Tournefort and 
 Duberney. From Tournefort he received 
 letters of introduction to the chancellor of the 
 University of Montpellier; by him he was in- 
 troduced to M. Magnol, an eminent botanist, 
 who accompanied him in many botanical ex- 
 cursions. After spending a whole year in 
 making collections around Montpellier he 
 made a journey through Languedoc with the 
 same object in view; and in 1684 returned to 
 London, where he intended to settle and follow 
 his profession of 2>hysic. In 1685 he was 
 elected a Fellow of the Royal Society, and in 
 1687 a Fellow of the College of Physicians. 
 From this time his London practice was very 
 lucrative, and a fortunate speculation in a 
 quantity of cinchona which he imported helped 
 to build up his fortune. 
 
 Before long, however, the prospects of mak- 
 ing new discoveries in natural history induced 
 him to go out to Jamaica as physician to the 
 Duke of Albemarle, then governor of that island . 
 Although he remained only some fifteen months 
 in Jamaica, yet when he returned to England 
 he brought with him a surprising collection of 
 plants as well as a rich collection of animal 
 specimens. In 1693 he was appointed secre- 
 tary to the Royal Society, and as his first work 
 
 in his new position revived the publication oi' 
 the Society's Transactions, which had been 
 interrupted. These he continued to edit till 
 1712, and in the volumes for this period will 
 be found many papers from his pen. In 1694 
 he was chosen physician to Christ's Hospital, 
 the money from which appointment he de- 
 voted entirely to the relief of poor patients in 
 the hospital. In 1695 he married, and in 1697 
 published his Catalogue of the Native Plants 
 of Jamaica. In 1701 his rich collections were 
 made still richer by a bequest from a friend, 
 Mr. "William Courten, who had spent the 
 greater part of his fortune and lifetime in 
 getting together the museum which he left 
 to Sloane. At this time his position nou 
 only as a scientific man but also as a phy- 
 sician was very high. He was constantly 
 consulted by Queen Anne, and attended her 
 during her last illness. On the accession of 
 George I. he was created a baronet, and made 
 physician-general; and in 1727 he was ap- 
 pointed physician to George II. In the same 
 year also, on the death of Newton, he was ap- 
 pointed president of the Royal Society ; and 
 in 1733, owing to growing years and labours, 
 he resigned the presidentship of the Royal 
 College of Physicians, to which he had been 
 elected in 1719. In 1740, at the age of eighty, 
 he resigned the presidentship of the Royal 
 Society and retired to Chelsea, where he had 
 established a botanic garden. Here he con- 
 tinued to receive the visits of learned men, 
 native and foreign, and, says his biogi-apher^ 
 "admittance was never refused to the poor, 
 who came to consult him concerning their 
 health." After an illness of only three days, 
 he died on the 11th of January, 1752, in his 
 ninety-second year. 
 
 In the will left by Sir Hans Sloane he be- 
 queathed a sum of money to every hospital in 
 Loudon ; he gave the Company of the Apothe- 
 caries the freehold of the botanical garden at 
 Chelsea, where a marble statue was afterwards 
 erected to his memory; and to the nation 
 he devised his museum, worth at least £80,000, 
 on the condition that £20,000 should be paid 
 to his family. The coins in the collection 
 were worth as bullion some £7000, and indeed 
 "the intrinsic value of the gold and silver 
 medals, the ores and precious stones, that were
 
 SIR HANS SLOANE. 
 
 99 
 
 found in it" was alone equal to the £2(),0(X). 
 Besides these rich specimens and the natural 
 history collections, the museum also contained 
 a library of more than 50,000 volumes, 3566 
 of which were manuscripts, and a large num- 
 ber very I'are and curious. The govei-nment 
 of course accepted the offer contained in the 
 will, and the museum was removed to Mon- 
 tagu House, Bloomsbury. It there formed 
 the nucleus of one of our noblest institutions, 
 the British Museum, which was opened in 
 1759 to the general public. 
 
 In addition to his Catalogue of Jamaica 
 Plants, Su- Hans Sloane wrote The Natural 
 History of Jamaica, which appeared in two 
 volumes folio in 1707 and 1725. He also wrote 
 a considerable number of papers, many of 
 which, as we have said, appeared in the Trans- 
 actions of the Royal Society. The larger work 
 has been highly commended, not only at the 
 time of its appearance, but frequently since 
 then, notably by Dr. Friend in his History of 
 Physic] 
 
 THE COCO TREE. 
 
 Pyrara de la Val, who Kved several years 
 in the Maldive Islands, and by his own ex- 
 perience knew more of this tree than any 
 writer I know of, tells that there it is called 
 Roul, in Malabar Tengua, in Guzaratte Nar- 
 quilly, by the Portuguese Palermo and fruit 
 Cocos ; it grows only in the torrid zone, tho' 
 there not everywhere ; more in the Maldives 
 than in any other jDart; they are forced to cut 
 them down to make room for houses, which 
 they suffer them not near, because the winds 
 sometimes blow them down on their houses 
 and kill the inhabitants in them. Rats eat 
 holes in them when green for meat and drink, 
 whereby they dry and fall, often killing those 
 about them, because of the height, with their 
 weight, so that in the desert isles the ground 
 is covered with them, but not so where the 
 isles are inhabited, because when so dried they 
 make good fuel. Ants make their tracks at 
 their feet, and carry the earth from them, 
 whence they fall. They grow twenty toises 
 high. The under half of the tree is good for 
 building and shipping. The under part, three 
 foot high where 'tis thickest, makes a trough 
 for honey or water. Cocos are sometimes in 
 a bunch ; a bunch comes every month ; it loves 
 moist and sandy gi'ound, and does not come 
 well within land ; if no water be in it and it 
 be too dry it will not grow. The whole fruit 
 
 must be planted, othei-wise it corrupts ; when 
 water shakes on striking on it or not it is a 
 sign of its being ripe or not. The middle rib 
 cleaves and makes laths and palisades; the 
 leaves serve for thatch; with stiles they write 
 on them as paper. They are used for sails, 
 mats, hats, panniers, and parasols, and every- 
 thing usually in Europe made of osier or wil- 
 low; little baskets, brooms, and coffers are 
 made of the middle ribs of it. Javelins are 
 made of the middle ribs tied together and 
 lacquered. They make pins of them likewise, 
 and steep the bark of the fruit or husk some- 
 what green peel'd from the nuts to make ropes 
 or oakum. It is to lie three weeks in the sea^ 
 water covered with sand, then the inhabitants 
 beat it as hemp or flax witli wooden mallets, 
 make match of it when the fruit is ripe, which 
 is not soaked and beat but spun with all its 
 substance, when they boil it with ashes and 
 use it for match all over the Indies, except 
 where cocos are scarce, where they use cotton. 
 Pots, spoons, and cups are made of the shell, 
 and forge coal. The kernel is eat as bread 
 with other victuals, and grated and pressed; 
 it gives milk, as sugared milk or almond milk, 
 and with honey or sugar is drank fasting, and 
 is their only purging medicine. This milk 
 boiled thickens and turns into oil fit for fri- 
 casees, &c., for lamps, and for curing ulcere. 
 The author was cured with it ; it is also good 
 for the itch. From a yellow oil it gi'ows a 
 white butter, being kept three months to be 
 used as oil. The marc or dry part of the 
 kernel, pressed with honey or sugar, is used 
 to make preserves; when very young h\isk and 
 all is eat like an apple, but this is only one 
 kind, which is not good when ripe. They 
 make quarts or measures of the spathes and 
 conserves of the flowers. The membrane be- 
 tween the leaves is good to make sacks and 
 also sieves to strain things through. The 
 Indians cut the flowering footstalk a foot 
 high, and get a sort of wine, a quart a day for 
 six months; they boil it with some clear white 
 stones found in the sea, and make it into honey 
 or sugar, and with other stones it is made 
 whiter; they make good arrack and good 
 vinegar of it. The drawing this liquor spoils 
 the fruit of the tree. The tender top, three 
 foot in length, is good to eat. The ripe fruit, 
 left in moist places or in the ground three 
 weeks or a month, the sprout or germen is 
 good meat and very tender. They dry the 
 kernel to send it to Arabia, by dividing the 
 nut in two and exposing it to the sun to di-y.
 
 100 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 
 
 Born 16G0 — Died 1746. 
 
 [Thomas Southerne, whom one of his bio- 
 gi'aphers calls "the great founder of our 
 modern school of dramatic production," was 
 born at Oxmanstown near Dublin, in, accord- 
 ing to Gibber, the year 1660. He was edu- 
 cated for a short time at the university in that 
 city, and in his eighteenth year quitted Ire- 
 land and went to Oxford. From Oxford he 
 removed to Middle Temple, London, where, 
 instead of law, he studied poetry, and devoted 
 himself to the Muses. Soon after this he 
 made the acquaintance of Dryden, and in 
 1682, when in his twenty- third year, his first 
 play. The Persian Prince, or Loyal Brothers, 
 appeared, with a prologue by the mighty 
 John. It was highly successful, and so pleased 
 the Duke of York, that on his accession to the 
 throne he gave Southerne a commission as 
 captain under himself. On James's abdication 
 the poet retired to his studies, and commenced 
 anew a successful career of play-writing. 
 Before this, however, he had in 1684 produced 
 The Disappointment, which was, like his first 
 play, a great success. His first work now to 
 appear was The Ramhling Lady , or Sir Anthony 
 Love, produced in 1690, and favoured by the 
 public like the others. In 1692 appeared The 
 Wives' Excuse, generally reckoned a better 
 play than any of the three previous ones, yet 
 it was badly received. On this Southerne 
 immediately printed the play with a copy of 
 commendatory verses by Dryden prefixed to 
 it. In these verses Dryden attributes the 
 failure of the play to the bad taste of the 
 audience and not to any defect in Southerne's 
 work ; and Southerne in his remarks stated 
 that Dryden, in speakijig of it, had said that 
 "the public had been kind to Sir Anthony 
 Love and were only required to be just to 
 this." 
 
 However, Southerne was not to be dis- 
 heartened, but rather learned a lesson by the 
 comparative failure of The Wives' Excuse, and 
 in 1693 ap])eared The Maid's Last Prayer. 
 In 1694 he produced his Isabella, or the Fatal 
 Marriage, a play which to this day keeps the 
 stage, and which, with his Oroonoko, must be 
 ranked among the first-class plays in our lan- 
 guage. Oroonoko appeared in 1696, and is 
 said by some to be the very best of his plays. 
 The editor of Cumberland's British Theatre 
 
 says that "as a poem it is nearly all that 
 criticism can desire," and he paints out several 
 passages in it which he considers " eminently 
 beautiful." In 1700 his Siege of Capua was 
 produced, and in 1713 a complete edition of 
 his then works appeared in two volumes, in- 
 cluding The Spartan Dame, which was not 
 acted till 1719. Finally, in 1726 appeared the 
 last of his plays, Money is the Mistress, and an 
 edition of his works, including this last play, 
 was published some time after in thi-ee vols. 
 12mo. 
 
 As we have indicated, Southerne's career as 
 a dramatist was a successful one. In his 
 preface to The Spartan Dame he acknowledges 
 having received ^150 for it from the book- 
 sellers, a price then thought very extraordi- 
 nary. To Dryden he once owned that he had 
 made £700 altogether by one of his plays, but 
 it must be confessed he had a business faculty 
 for pushing his wares that Dryden did not 
 possess, and might have thought it beneath 
 him to exercise. Pope speaks of him in his 
 kindly Epistle in 1742 as 
 
 " Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise 
 
 The price of prologues and of plays ". 
 
 Southerne lived several years after the pro- 
 duction of his last play. Oldys says of him 
 that " he lived near Covent Garden and used 
 often to frequent the evening prayers there, 
 always neat and decently dressed, commonly 
 in black, with his silver sword and silver 
 locks ; but latterly it seems he resided at 
 Westminster". Indeed, he lived there the 
 last ten years of his life, and " attended the 
 abbey service very constantly ; being, as it is 
 said, particularly fond of church music ". On 
 the 26th of May, 1746, he died at the patri- 
 archal age of eighty-five.] 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "OROONOKO". 
 
 [The story of this tragedy is, unhappily, true. 
 In the reign of Charles the Second an African 
 prince was stolen from his native kingdom of 
 Angola, and sold into slavery. The celebrated 
 dramatic writer Mrs. Ikhn, who at that time 
 resided with her family at Surinam, of which her 
 father was lieutenant-general, was intimately
 
 THOMAS SOUTH ERNE. 
 
 101 
 
 acquainted with Oroonoko and his Imoinda. On 
 her return to England whe publi.siied their me- 
 moirs. ] 
 
 Enter Blandford and his Party. 
 
 Bland. miserable sight ! help, 
 Assist me to free him from his chains. 
 
 [They help him up, and bring him 
 forward, looking doirn. 
 Most injured prince! how shall we clear ourselves? 
 We are not guilty of your injuries, 
 No waj' consenting to them; but abhor, 
 Abominate, and loathe this cruelty. 
 
 Oroo. If you would have me think you are 
 not all 
 Confederates, all accessary to 
 The base injustice of your governor; 
 If you would have me live, as you appear 
 Concern'd for me; if you would have me live 
 To thank and bless you, there is yet a way 
 To tie me ever to your honest love; 
 Bring my Imoinda to me; give me her. 
 To charm my soitows, and, if possible, 
 I'll sit down with my wrongs, never to rise 
 Against my fate, or think of vengeance more. 
 
 Bland. Be satisfied — you may depend upon us; 
 We'll bring her safe to you, and suddenly. 
 In the meantime 
 
 Endeavour to forget, sir, and forgive; 
 And hope a better fortune. 
 
 [Exeunt Blandford and his party. 
 
 Oroo. Forget ! forgive ! I must indeed forget. 
 When 1 forgive; but, while 1 am a man, 
 In flesh, that bears the living marks of shame, 
 The print of his dishonourable chains, 
 I never can forgive this governor. 
 This villain. 
 
 What shall I do? If I declare myself, 
 I know him, he will creep behind his guard 
 Of followers, and brave me in his fears; 
 " Else, lion-like, with my devouring rage, 
 I would rush on him, fasten on his throat, 
 Tear a wide passage to his treacherous heart, 
 And that way lay him open to the world. " 
 
 [Pajtsing. 
 If I should turn his Christian arts on him. 
 Promise him, speak him fair, flatter, and creep 
 With fiiwiiing steps to get within his faith, 
 I could betray him then, as he has me; 
 But, am I sure by that to right myself? 
 Lying's a certain mark of cowardice; 
 And, when the tongue forgets its honesty, 
 The heart and hand may drop their functions too. 
 And nothing worthy be resolved or done. 
 Honour should be concerned in honour's cause. 
 Let me but find out 
 An honest remedy, I have the hand, 
 A ministering hand, that will apply it home. 
 
 To honour bound! and yet a slave to love! 
 
 I am distracted by their rival powers, 
 
 And both will be obey'd. O, great revenge! 
 
 Thou raiser and restorer of fallen fame ! 
 
 Let me not be unworthy of thy aid, 
 
 For stopping in thy course: I still am thine. 
 
 But can't forget I am Imoinda's too. 
 
 She calls me from my wrongs to rescue her. 
 
 No man condemn me who has never felt 
 
 A woman's power, or tried the force of love: 
 
 Love, love will be 
 
 My first ambition, and my fame the next. 
 
 Enter Aboan, bloody. 
 
 Aboan. 1 have no name 
 That can distinguish me from the vile earth 
 To which I'm going: a poor abject worm, 
 That crawl'd a while upon the bustling world, 
 And now am trampled to my dust again. 
 
 Oroo. I see thee gash'd and mangled. 
 
 Aboan. Spare my shame. 
 To tell how they have used me: but believe 
 The hangman's hand would have been merciful. 
 Do not you scorn me, sir, to think I can 
 Intend to live under this infamy. 
 I do not come for pity, but for pardon. 
 
 Oroo. For pardon! wound me not with keener 
 anguish 
 Than yet I feel, by thinking thou canst need it; 
 Thou'st spent an honourable life with me; 
 The earliest servant of my rising fame. 
 
 Aboan. And would attend it with my latest care: 
 My life was yours, and so shall be my death. 
 You must not live; alas! you must not live: 
 Bending and sinking, I have dragg'd my steps 
 Thus far, to tell you that you cannot live; 
 To warn you of those ignominious wrongs. 
 Whips, rods, and all the instruments of death, 
 AVhich I have felt, and are prepar'd for you. 
 This was the duty that I had to pay. 
 'Tis done, and now I beg to be discharg'd. 
 
 Oroo. What shall I do for thee? 
 
 Aboan. My body tires. 
 And wo' not bear me off to liberty: 
 1 shall again be taken, made a slave. 
 A sword, a dagger, yet would rescue me. 
 I have not strength to go and find out death. 
 You must direct him to me. 
 
 Oroo. Here he is. [Gives him a dagger. 
 
 The only present I can make thee now: 
 I would bestow the honest means of death. 
 
 Aboan. 1 cannot stay to thank you. If there is 
 A being after this, I shall be yours 
 In the next world, your faithful slave again. 
 This is to try. {Slabs himself. ) I had a living 
 
 sense 
 Of all your royal favours, but this last 
 Strikes through my heart. I wo' not say farewell. 
 For you must follow me. [Dies. 
 
 Oroo. In life and death,
 
 102 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHERNE. 
 
 The guardian of my honour. Follow thee! 
 
 I should have gone before thee; then, perhaps, 
 
 Thy fate had been prevented. All his care 
 
 Was to preserve me from the barbarous rage 
 
 That worry'd him, only for being mine. 
 
 Why, why, ye gods! why am I so accurs'd, 
 
 That it must be a reason of your wrath, 
 
 A guilt, a crime sufficient to the fate 
 
 Of any one, but to belong to me ? 
 
 My friend has found it out, and my wife will soon : 
 
 My wife! the very fear's too much for life. 
 
 I can't support it. Where's Imoinda? Oh! 
 
 {Going out lie meets Imoinda, who 
 runs into his arms. 
 Thou bosom softness! Down of all my cares! 
 I could recline my thoughts upon this breast 
 To a forgetfulness of all my griefs. 
 And yet be happy; but it wo' not be. 
 Thou art disorder'd, pale, and out of breath! 
 If fate pursues thee, find a shelter here. 
 What is it thou wouldst tell me? 
 
 Imo. 'Tis in vain to call him villain. 
 
 Oroo. Call him governor; is it not so? 
 
 Imx). There's not another, sure. 
 
 Oroo. Villain's the common name of mankind 
 here, 
 But his most properly. What? what of him? 
 I fear to be resolv'd, and must inquire. 
 
 What could preserve thee? What deliver thee? 
 
 Imo. That worthy man, you us'd to call your 
 friend — 
 
 Oroo. Blandford ? 
 
 Imo. Came in, and sav'd me from his rage. 
 
 Oroo. He was a friend, indeed, to rescue thee ! 
 And, for his sake, I'll think it possible 
 A Christian may be yet an honest man. 
 
 Imo. Oil, did you know what I have struggled 
 through. 
 To save me yours, sure you would promise me 
 Never to see me forc'd from you again. 
 
 Oroo. I have run the race with honour, shall I 
 now 
 Lag, and be overtaken at the goal? 
 
 Imo. No. 
 
 Oroo. I must look back to thee. [Tenderly. 
 
 Imo. You sha' not need. 
 I am always present to your purpose; say, 
 Which way would you dispose me? 
 This dagger will instruct you. \Oives it him. 
 
 Oroo. Ha! this dagger! 
 Like fate, it points me to the horrid deed. 
 
 Imo. I'm ready. 
 
 Oroo. Oh, where shall I strike? 
 Is there the smallest grain of that lov'd body 
 That is not dearer to me than my eyes, 
 My bosom'd heart, and all the life-blood there? 
 Bid me cut off these limbs, hew off these hands. 
 Dig out these eyes, though I would keep them last 
 
 To gaze upon thee; but to murder thee? 
 The joy, and charm of ev'ry ravish'd sense, 
 My wife! forbid it, nature. 
 
 Imo. 'Tis your wife, 
 Who on her knees conjures you. Oh! in time 
 Prevent those mischiefs that are falling on us. 
 You may be hurry'd to a shameful death. 
 And I too dragg'd to the vile governor; 
 Then I may cry aloud. When you are gone, 
 Where shall I find a friend again to save me? 
 
 Oroo. It will be so. Thou unexampled virtue I 
 Thy resolution has recover'd mine: 
 And now prepare thee. 
 
 Imo. Thus, with open arms, 
 I welcome you and death. 
 
 [He drops the dagger as he looks on 
 her, and throws himself on the 
 ground. 
 
 Oroo. I cannot bear it. 
 Oh, let me dash against the rock of fate, 
 Dig up this earth, and tear her bowels out. 
 To make a grave, deep as the centre down. 
 To swallow wide and bury us together! 
 It wo' not be. Oh! then some pitying god 
 (If there be one a friend to innocence) 
 Find yet a way to lay her beauties down 
 Gently in death, and save me from her blood. 
 
 Imo. Oh, rise, 'tis more than death to see you 
 thus. 
 I'll ease your love, and do the deed myself — 
 
 [She takes up the dagger, he rises 
 in haste to take it from her. 
 
 Oroo. Oh ! hold, I charge thee, hold ! 
 
 Imo. Though I must own 
 It would be nobler for us both from you. 
 
 Oroo. Oh! for a whirlwind's wing to hurry us 
 To yonder cliff, which frowns upon the flood; 
 That in embraces lock'd we might plunge in, 
 And perish thus in one another's arms. 
 
 [Shouts heard. 
 
 Imo. Nay, then, I must assist you. 
 And since it is the common cause of both, 
 'Tis just that both should be emplcry'd in it. 
 Thus, thus 'tis finish'd, and I bless my fate, 
 
 [Stabs herself. 
 That, where I liv'd, I die in these lov'd arms. 
 
 [Dies. 
 Oroo. She's gone. And now all's at an end 
 with me. 
 Soft, lay her down. Oh, we will part no more. 
 
 [Th7-ou's himself by her. 
 But let me pay the tribute of my grief, 
 A few sad tears to thy lov'd memory, 
 And then I follow — 
 
 [ Weeps over her. Shouts heard. 
 But I stay too long. [A 7ioi,se again. 
 
 The noise comes nearer. Hold ! before I go. 
 There's something would be done. It shall be so, 
 And then, Imoinda, I'll come all to thee. [Bises.
 
 MATTHEW CONCANEN. 
 
 103 
 
 Enter Blandfokd and his Party, and the 
 Lieutenant -GOVEKNOB and his Party. 
 Swords dratvn. 
 
 Gov. You strive in vain to save him, he shall die. 
 
 Bland. Not while we can defend him with our 
 lives. 
 
 Gov. Where is he. 
 
 Oroo. Here's the wretch whom you would have. 
 Put up your swords, and let not civil broils 
 Engage you in the cursed cause of one 
 Who cannot live, and now entreats to die. 
 This object will convince you. 
 
 Bland. 'Tis his wife ! 
 
 [They gather about the body. 
 Alas ! there was no other remedy. 
 
 Gov. Who did the bloody deed ? 
 
 Oroo. The deed was mine; 
 Bloody I know it is, and I expect 
 
 Your laws shall tell me so. Thus self-condemn'd, 
 I do resign myself into your hands. 
 The hands of justice — but I hold the sword — 
 For you — and for myself. 
 
 [Stabs the governor and himself, 
 then throws himself by Imoinda's 
 body. 
 Oroo. 'Tis as it should be now; I have sent his 
 ghost 
 To be a witness of that happiness 
 In the next world, which he denied us here. 
 
 [Dies. 
 Bland. I hope there is a place of happiness 
 In the next world for such exalted virtue. 
 Pagan or unbeliever, yet he lived 
 To all he knew; and, if he went astray, 
 There's mercy still above to set him right. 
 But Christians, guided by the heavenly ray, 
 Have no excuse if they mistake their way. 
 
 MATTHEW CONCANEN. 
 
 Died 1749. 
 
 [The date of the birth of Matthew Concanen 
 we have been unable to discover, but certain 
 it is he was born in Ireland and there bred to 
 the law. While a young man he and a friend 
 named Stirling started for London to seek 
 their fortunes. Arrived in London he found 
 that his skill as a writer could best be turned 
 to account by dealing with politics, and he 
 accordingly at once became an advocate and 
 defender of government and its policy. For 
 some time he wrote for the British Joiirnal, 
 the London Journal, and the Speculatist, in 
 which he abused not only Bolingbroke but 
 Pope. The consequence was that Concanen 
 received a place in the Dunciad, which is sure 
 to keep his memory green should his works 
 fail to do so. In a pamphlet called A Sup- 
 plement to the Profound, he attacked Pope 
 fiercely, and somewhat unfairly, making im- 
 putations of a dishonouring kind, for which 
 his grounds seem to have been the merest 
 rumour and gossip of the poet's enemies. "His 
 wit and literary abilities, however," says one 
 biographer, "recommended him to the Duke 
 of Newcastle, through whose interest he ob- 
 tained the post of attorney-general of the island 
 of Jamaica, which office he filled with the ut- 
 most iutegi'ity and honour, and to the perfect 
 satisfaction of the inhabitants, for nearly seven- 
 teen years." Having acquired a considerable 
 fortune he longed to return home, and sailing 
 
 from Jamaica he reached London, where he 
 intended staying a short time before settling 
 permanently in Ireland. "But," says the same 
 biographer, "the difterenceof climate between 
 that metrojwlis and the place he had so long 
 been accustomed to, had such an efi"ect on his 
 constitution that he fell into a galloping con- 
 sumption, of which he died on January 22, 
 1749, a few weeks after his arrival in London." 
 Apart from his political writings, Concanen's 
 chief works are a play called \Vexford Wells, 
 and several fugitive songs and ballads. 
 The soncfs were at one time in considerable 
 vogue, and many of them are still worthy 
 of preservation. A number of them will be 
 found in The Musical Miscellany, 6 vols. 1729. 
 In Miscellaneous Poems by Several Hands,\1iA, 
 the greater number are by Concanen, who 
 was also engaged in transferring Broome's 
 Jovial Crew into a ballad opera, in which form 
 it kept the stage for a long time.] 
 
 THE ADVICE. 
 
 The lass that would know how to manage a man, 
 Let her listen and learn it from me: 
 
 His courage to quail, or his heart to trepan, 
 As the time and occasions agree, agree; 
 As the time and occasions a2,ree.
 
 104 
 
 MATTHEW CONCANEN. 
 
 The girl that has beauty, though small be her wit, 
 May wheedle the clown or the beau; 
 
 The rake may repel, or may draw in the cit. 
 By the use of that pretty word — No! 
 By the use of that pretty word — No ! 
 
 When a dose is contriv'd to lay virtue asleep, 
 
 A present, a treat, or a ball ; 
 She still must refuse, if her empire she'd keep, 
 
 And, No, be her answer to all; 
 
 And, No, be her answer to all. 
 
 But when Master Dapperwit offers his hand, 
 
 Her partner in wedlock to go; 
 A house, and a coach, and a jointure in land — 
 
 She's an idiot if then she says, No! 
 
 She's an idiot if then she says, No! 
 
 Whene'er she's attack'd by a youth full of charms, 
 Whose courtship proclaims him a man; 
 
 When press'd to his bosom, and clasp'd in his 
 arms, 
 Then let her say No, if she can; 
 Then let her say No, if she can.^ 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 I love thee, by Heaven, I cannot say more; 
 
 Then set not my passion a cooling; 
 If thou yield'st not at once I must e'en give thee 
 o'er; 
 
 For I'm but a novice at fooling. 
 
 I know how to love, and to make that love known; 
 
 But I hate all protesting and arguing; 
 Had a goddess my heart, she should e'en be alone. 
 
 If she made many words to a bargain. 
 
 I'm a Quaker in love, and but barely affirm 
 Whate'er my fond eyes have been saying; 
 
 Prythee be thou so too, seek for no better term, 
 But e'en throw thy yea or thy nay in. 
 
 I cannot bear love, like a Chancery-suit, 
 
 The age of a patriarch depending; 
 Then pluck up a spirit, no longer be mute, 
 
 Give it, one way or other, an ending. 
 
 Long courtship's the vice of a phlegmatic fool; 
 
 Like the grace of fanatical sinners, 
 Where the stomachs are lost, and the victuals grow 
 cool. 
 
 Before men sit down to their dinners. 
 
 iThisBong will Ite found set to music iu tlie Musical 
 MUcellany, vol. 1. 1729. 
 
 OCTOBER ALE. 
 
 (a song from "WEXFORD WELLS.") 
 
 How void of ease 
 He spends his days 
 Who wastes his time in thinking? 
 How like a beast, 
 That ne'er can taste 
 The pleasures of good drinking? 
 May curses light upon the sot 
 
 That ever kennels sober, 
 Or rises e'er without a pot 
 Of lovely brown October. 
 
 Let others raise 
 Their voice to praise 
 The Rhenish or the Sherry, 
 The sparkling white 
 Champaign so bright, 
 The Claret or Canary. 
 
 'Tis true they'd thaw the freezing blood, 
 
 And hinder our being sober; 
 But what for that was e'er so good 
 As lovely brown October? 
 
 What knaves are they 
 Who cross the sea 
 To bring such stuff among us? 
 How blind are we, 
 Who will not see 
 How grievously they wrong us? 
 
 They spoil the products of the land, 
 
 And of her coin disrobe her; 
 And yet their dregs can never stand 
 Against our brave October. 
 
 My jolly boys, 
 Let us rejoice. 
 And cast away all sorrow; 
 Let's never think. 
 While thus we drink, 
 What may fall out to-morrow. 
 
 Let's waste our wealth, enjoy content, 
 
 And never more live sober: 
 By Jove, the coin is rightly spent, 
 That's melted in October. 
 
 CUPID'S REVENGE. 
 
 As through the woods Panthea stray'd. 
 And sought in vain her wand 'ring sheep, 
 
 Beneath a myrtle's verdant shade 
 She found the god of love asleep. 
 
 His quiver underneath his head, 
 His bow unbent beside him lay.
 
 MATTHEW CONCANEN. 
 
 105 
 
 His golden arrows round him spread, 
 Toss'd by tlie winds in wanton play. 
 
 With terror struck the nymph recedes, 
 
 And softly on her tiptoes trod; 
 Malice at length to fear succeeds, 
 
 And she retunis and robs the god. 
 
 As to purloin his bow she tries, — 
 Of all his scatter'd shafts possess'd — 
 
 The beaming lustre of her eyes 
 
 Play'd on his face, and broke his rest. 
 
 Cupid awaking, scarce descry'd, 
 
 'Twixt slumber and surprise, the maid, 
 
 And rubb'd his drowsy lids, and cry'd, 
 
 Who thought the sun could pierce this shade ? 
 
 At length, recovered from his fright, 
 Thus his mistaken thoughts express'd, 
 "Art thou return'd, my soft delight? 
 
 Approach, my Psyche, to my breast." 
 
 The frighted virgin scarcely view'd, 
 
 Sprung from his sight with eager haste, 
 
 No trembling hare by hounds pursued, 
 Or fear'd so much, or fled so fast. 
 
 Seeking a shaft to stop her flight. 
 
 He found himself of all bereft; 
 His loss soon set his knowledge right, 
 
 And show'd the plunderer by the theft. 
 
 " Panthea, stop!" aloud he cries, 
 " Why wouldst thou, fair one, fly from me? 
 Restore my arrows, thy own eyes 
 
 Have darts, as sharp, enough for thee." 
 
 Unmov'd by this, her pace she mends, 
 
 Regardless of his pain or care, 
 Th' entreating god no more attends 
 
 Than it had been some lover's prayer. 
 
 Cupid, provok'd, for vengeance tries — 
 " My leaden shafts these are not lost; 
 Within my pow'r the method lies. 
 And thou shalt find it to thy cost. 
 
 "Enjoy thy plunder, use my darts. 
 
 Thy crime shall be thy punishment; 
 At random wound despairing hearts. 
 Nor, for the pangs you give, relent. 
 
 •'Beauty was made to be enjoy'd, 
 
 I'll mar the end for which 'twas giv'n, 
 Fill up with pride thy reasons void. 
 And useless make that gift of Heav'n. 
 
 "Still cruelty shall taint thy breast, 
 And all thy smiling hopes destroy; 
 
 In all my mother's beauty drest. 
 Be thou a stranger to her joy. 
 
 "Since all tiie shafts thy glances throw 
 Shall still be poison'd with disdain, 
 Nor shalt thou e'er the pleasure know 
 Of loving and being lov'd again. 
 
 "Secure in scorn thy charms shall lie. 
 Bloom uncnjoyed, untasted, fade, 
 Till thou at last repenting die. 
 
 An old, ill-natur'd, envious maid." 
 
 He said. — And from his quiver drew 
 A leaden, hate-procuring dart. 
 
 And brac'd his bow, from whence it flew 
 Unerring to the fair one's heart. 
 
 THE FOOTBALL MATCH. 
 
 MOCK-HEROIC. 
 
 The warlike leaders now their stations change, 
 And round the field their gallant forces range, 
 Big with their hopes, and fearless of the prize, 
 Lusk's champions their dishearten'd foe despise. 
 
 Unhappy mortals ! whose unthinking mind 
 Swells with the present, to the future blind; 
 Pleas'd without reason, vain without success; 
 Small joys exalt you, and small griefs depress. 
 Sudden these hopes shall be for ever crost. 
 And all your honours with the prize be lost. 
 
 First Paddy struck the ball, John stopt its 
 course. 
 And sent it backward with redoubl'd force; 
 Dick met, and meeting smote the Light machine. 
 Reptile it ran, and skimm'd along the green, 
 'Till Terence stopp'd — with gentle strokes he 
 
 trolls 
 (Th' obedient ball in short excursions rolls), 
 Then swiftly runs and drives it o'er the plain; 
 Follow the rest, and chase the flying swain. 
 
 So have I seen upon a frosty day 
 (By fowlers frighted, or in quest of prey). 
 Skim through the air, whole coveys of curlew. 
 One only leading, and the rest pursue. 
 
 Paddy, whose fleeter pace outstript the rest. 
 Came up, and caught the champion by the vest ; 
 Between his legs, an artful crook he twin'd, 
 And almost fell'd him ere he look'd behind. 
 Norah with horror saw the destin'd wile. 
 Grew pale, and blush'd, and trembled for awhile; 
 But when she saw him grasp the warrior's hand. 
 And face to face the grappling rivals stand. 
 What difFring pangs her anxious bosom tear, 
 Now flush'd with hope, now chill'd with sudden 
 
 fear? 
 Paddy, to see the champion disengaged,
 
 106 
 
 BISHOP BERKELEY. 
 
 For so well-form'd a trip, with fury rag'd, 
 Bounds to pursue the ball ; but Terence stopt, 
 Athwart him flung his leg, and down he dropt. 
 
 So some tall pine which many years has stood 
 The pride of trees, and mistress of the wood; 
 Braves for a while the strokes, and seems to foil 
 The piercing axe, and mock the peasant's toil; 
 'Till lopp'd at length by one fell dexterous wound, 
 It falls and spreads its ruins all around. 
 
 While others claim their well-contended prize, 
 Terence alone to his dear Norah flies. 
 Clasps the lov'd fair one in his eager arms. 
 And thus with softest elocution warms : — 
 " Joy of my life, and pleasure of my youth, 
 Behold this mark, this witness of my truth ! 
 No prize but you was worth such hard pursuit, 
 And for no other would your swain dispute; 
 For you all hardships I could learn to bear. 
 For you, with joy, I'll leap the stools next year. 
 
 Then quickly yield, nor kill me with delay. 
 For love and life are fleeter than the day. " 
 
 Silent she stood. The pressing, lovely swain 
 Gaz'd on her eyes, and read her meaning plain; 
 He saw the passion which she could not speak 
 Pant on her breast, and flush upon her cheek. 
 Thence takes the hint, pursues his first intent, 
 And from her silence argues her consent ; 
 Leads to the nuptial bow'r the willing maid, 
 No jointure sfettled, and no portion paid; 
 No glowing jewels from her bosom glare. 
 Shine on her hands, or glitter in her hair ; 
 No robes of white her native charms adorn, 
 Nor gaudy silks are by the virgin worn; 
 But sweetly artless, innocently gay. 
 Her sparkling eyes a cheerful light display; 
 The crimson blushes on her cheeks outvie 
 The golden streaks that paint the western sky. 
 
 What monarch's envy might not Terence move. 
 So crown'd with conquest, and so blest with love ? 
 
 BISHOP BERKELEY, 
 
 BoEN 1684— Died 1753. 
 
 [George Berkeley, D.D., Bishop of Cloyne, 
 was born at Desert Castle, Kilcrin, near 
 Thomastown, in the county of Kilkenny, on 
 the 12th of March, 1684. His family is said to 
 have been originally a branch of that of which 
 the earls of Berkeley were heads; but at any 
 rate it had been settled in Ireland for at least 
 a couple of generations before the birth of the 
 great philosopher. At an early age he went 
 to school at Kilkenny, where he obtained the 
 rudiments of his education. At fifteen he 
 was admitted a pensioner of Trinity College, 
 Dublin, under Dr. Histon. Afterwards he 
 was placed under Dr. Hall, and in 1707 he 
 was chosen a fellow of the university. In that 
 year appeared his first work. Arithmetic absque 
 Algebra aut Euclid demonstrata, in which he 
 attempted to demonstrate arithmetic without 
 the help of either Euclid or algebra. The 
 work had been written some years before, and 
 is chiefly interesting as showing how early in 
 life he had begun to free himself from the 
 shackles of generally-received opinions. 
 
 In 1709 appeared his Theory oj Vision, a 
 work that at once placed him among the 
 philosophers. Of course objectors to it were 
 found, and in 1733 the author published a 
 vindication. 
 
 In 1710, while philosophers were yet busy 
 over the Theory of Vision, appeared The 
 
 Principles of JJurnan Knowledge, a work that 
 startled them all as if out of a sleep. In 
 1713 he went over to London, and published 
 a defence and extension of his theory under 
 the title of Dialogues of Hylas and Philonous, 
 which drew upon him the attention of Steele 
 and Swift. Both the original work and its 
 defence were written in opposition to scep- 
 ticism and atheism, yet Hume says of them 
 that they " form the best lessons of scepticism 
 which are to be found either among the 
 ancient or modern philosophers, Bayle not 
 excepted ". 
 
 In a short time Berkeley became well 
 known, not only to Steele and Swift, but to 
 Pope and others of the same company. By 
 Swift he was introduced to the Earl of Peter- 
 borough, by whom he was carried into Italy 
 as secretary and chaplain when that nobleman 
 became ambassador to Sicily and the Italian 
 states. In 1714 he returned to England in 
 company with Lord Peterborough, and, seeing 
 no prospect of pi-eferment, consented to ac- 
 company the son of the Bishop of Clogher on 
 a tour through Europe. For over four years 
 he continued his travels, arriving again in 
 London in the year 1721, in the midst of the 
 miseries caused by the South Sea Scheme. 
 Turning his mind to a study of the events 
 immediately before him, he wrote and pub-
 
 BISHOP BERKELEY. 
 
 107 
 
 lished in the same year An Essay towards 
 preventing the Ruin of Great Britain, which 
 may be found among his Miscellaneous Tracts. 
 Soon after his return to England he was in- 
 troduced by Pope to Lord Burlington, who 
 recommended him to the Duke of Grafton. 
 The duke, being Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, 
 appointed him one of his chaplains, and 
 took him over to Ireland before the end of 
 the year. About this time also he had the 
 degrees of Bachelor and Doctor in Divinity 
 conferred on him, and in the following year 
 he received an unexpected increase of fortune 
 by the death of Miss Vanhomrigh, to whom 
 he had been introduced by Swift. In May, 
 1724, he at last received the promotion he 
 deserved by being appointed to the deanery 
 of Derry, worth iJllOO per annum. 
 
 In 1725 Berkeley published his Proposal 
 for Converting the Savage Americans to Chris- 
 tianity, the scheme of which seems to have 
 occupied his thoughts for several years. He 
 was so persuaded of the wisdom of his plan, 
 and so enthusiastic in seeing it carried out, 
 that he offered to resign his preferment and 
 devote the remainder of his life to teaching 
 the American youth on a payment of £100 
 a year. In this he was overruled, but he 
 proceeded so far as to obtain a charter for a 
 college in Bermuda, and the promise of £10,000 
 from the ministry for the purchase of lands, 
 &c. Furthermore, in September, 1728, amonth 
 after his marriage with the daughter of John 
 Forster, speaker of the Irish House of Com- 
 mons, he actually set sail for Rhode Island. 
 After residing at Newport for a couple of 
 years he saw that his scheme had failed, 
 chiefly through the coolness and hoUow- 
 heartedness of the ministry, and, sick at his 
 failure, he returned again to Ireland. 
 
 In 1732 appeared one of the most masterly 
 of Berkeley's works. The Minute Philosopher. 
 In the following year, 1733, he was made 
 Bishop of Cloyne, from which post he was 
 afterwards offered preferment at Clogher, 
 but declined it. 
 
 In 1735 appeared his discourse called The 
 Analyst, addressed as to an infidel mathema- 
 tician, and his defence of it under the title of 
 A Defenee of Freethinking in Mathematics. In 
 the same year also appeared Tlie Querist, to 
 most modern readers a quaint production ; 
 and in 1744 the celebrated and curious work, 
 "xSms, a Chain of Philosophical Enquiries and 
 Reflections concerning the Virtues of Tar 
 Water ". His motive for producing this work 
 was a benevolent one. Finding great benefit 
 
 himself from the use of tar water in an 
 attack of nervous colic, by the publication of 
 its virtues he desired to benefit others, and 
 he declared that the work cost him more 
 time and pains than any other he had ever 
 been engaged in. A second edition of it, with 
 additions and corrections, appeared in 1747, 
 and this was followed in 1752 by Further 
 Thoughts on Tar Water. 
 
 In July of this year Berkeley, with his 
 wife and family, moved to Oxford, diawn 
 thither by the facilities it possessed for study. 
 Before leaving Cloyne he provided that out 
 of the £1000, which was all his see produced 
 him, £200 per annum should during his life 
 be distributed among the poor householders 
 of Cloyne, Youghal, and Aghadoe. He would 
 readily have given up the bishopric for a 
 canonry at Oxford, but this was not per- 
 mitted. Soon after his arrival at Oxford he 
 collected together and published, in one vol- 
 ume 8vo, all his smaller pieces. This was 
 his last work as an author, for on Sunday 
 evening, January 14, 1753, while in the midst 
 of his family, listening to a sermon being read 
 to him by his wife, he was seized with palsy 
 of the heart and expired almost instantly. 
 He was buried at Christ Church, Oxford.] 
 
 ON AMERICA. 
 
 The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
 
 Barren of every glorious theme, 
 In distant lands now waits a better time 
 
 Producing subjects worthy fame : 
 
 In happy climes, wherefrom the genial sun 
 And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 
 
 The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
 And fancied beauties by the true. 
 
 In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
 Where nature guides and virtue rules ; 
 
 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
 The pedantry of courts and schools ; 
 
 There shall be sung another golden age, 
 
 The rise of empire and of arts, 
 The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
 
 The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 
 
 Not such as Europe breeds in her decay — 
 Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
 
 When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
 By future poets shall be sung. 
 
 Westward the course of empire takes its way, 
 
 The four first acts already past ; 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day — 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last.
 
 108 
 
 LAETITIA PILKINGTON. 
 
 LAETITIA PILKINGTON. 
 
 Born 1712— Died 1750. 
 
 [Laetitia Pilkington, daughter of Dr. Van 
 Lewen of Dublin, was born there in tlie year 
 1712. Very early in life she displayed a taste 
 for poetry and reading generally, and while 
 yet very young showed her precocity by the 
 production of verses anything but contempt- 
 ible. After rejecting many admirers she mar- 
 ried the Rev. Matthew Pilkington, a person 
 who had some claim to the title of author, 
 having published a volume of miscellanies 
 under the care of Dean Swift. There is no 
 doubt the reverend gentleman was rather a 
 miserable sort of a fellow, for before they 
 were long married, and before he had any 
 cause, he began to be jealous of his wife. 
 This, it seems, was not only a jealousy of her 
 person, which perhaps might be excused, but 
 chiefly an envious jealousy of her poetry, 
 which he could not equal. While one of these 
 fits was on him, in 1732, he went into Eng- 
 land as chaplain to Mr. Barber, Lord-mayor 
 of London, leaving behind him a young, and 
 lovely, and disenchanted wife who had scarcely 
 completed her twentieth year. In his case 
 absence made his heart grow fonder, and after 
 a time he wrote her a letter full of kindness, 
 in which he praised her verses as marked by 
 elegance and beauty. He informed her that 
 he had shown some of them to Pope, who was 
 very anxious to see her, and that he himself 
 heartily wished her in London. Obedient to 
 his wish she went to London, and was so well 
 received that the jealousy returned upon him 
 strongly, finally leading to a complete rupture 
 between them. 
 
 In London, by the help of CoUey Gibber, 
 she made known her story, and many friends 
 and great people came to her assistance. How- 
 ever, before long she was thrown into the 
 Marshalsea ; but Gibber, again acting as a 
 friend, solicited subscriptions for her and had 
 her released. Once free and finding herself 
 possessed of five guineas, she determined to be 
 no longer a beggar, but to employ her little 
 capital in some business. Accordingly she 
 took a small shop in St. James's Street, and 
 stocked it with pamphlets and such things. 
 Here she continued some time, and here she 
 produced some of her best work, until, by the 
 "liberality of her friends and the bounty of 
 her subscribers, she was set above want, and 
 
 the autumn of her days was like to be spent 
 in peace ".^ In this better state of affairs she 
 moved to Dublin ; but the quiet autumn which 
 she fondly looked forward to she was not des- 
 tined to see. She died on the 29th of August, 
 1750, in the thirty-ninth year of her age. 
 
 Mrs. Pilkington's principal works are The 
 Roman Father, a tragedy of considerable 
 power; The Turkish Court: or, London Ap- 
 prentice, a comedy; and her Memoirs, which 
 are written with great sprightliness and wit, 
 and through which are scattered many beau- 
 tiful little pieces written in the true spirit of 
 poetiy. " Gonsidered as a writer," says the 
 work from which we have already quoted, 
 " she holds no mean rank."] 
 
 MRS. PILKINGTON'S PATRONS. 
 
 (fkom "memoirs".) 
 
 [Mrs. Pilkington was advised to apply to a 
 Mr. Meade, who had sixty thousand pounds 
 left him to distribute in charity, and as she 
 was in great poverty she wrote him asking 
 assistance. He promised to assist her, but 
 apparently forgot his promise. She wrote 
 him a poem, and the result was Dr. Meade 
 asked her to call upon him at his house. Her 
 visit there she thus describes.] 
 
 Now were my hopes high raised, high as 
 the spring-tide, to which the ebb quickly suc- 
 ceeds, as it did with me; I fancied, vainly 
 fancied, at least ten guineas in my pocket, 
 and had, like the man with his basket of 
 glasses, turned them into trade, and purchased 
 in my mind an easy subsistence for life; but 
 I was a little mistaken in the matter, as the 
 sequel will show. I dressed myself very 
 neatly, and waited on the doctor; when I 
 knocked at his door a footman with his mouth 
 very full and a bone in his hand opened it, 
 and in an Irish accent demanded my busi- 
 ness. I told him I wanted to speak to the 
 doctor. 
 
 " By my shoul," said he, " my masther will 
 not be spoke to by nobody." 
 
 " Well then, friend, if you please to let him 
 
 iJVezfl and General Biographical Dictionary, 15 vols. 
 London, 1798.
 
 LAETITIA PILKINGTON. 
 
 109 
 
 know Mrs. Meade ^ is here, I believe he will 
 speak to me." 
 
 " Mishtress Maide," replied he, " arrah, are 
 you wantin charity, an' takes up my masther's 
 name to claim kin with him; well, stay there, 
 I'll teU him." 
 
 So he went into a back parlour, but was quite 
 confounded when the doctor instantly came out 
 and gave hira a severe reprimand for letting 
 me stand in the hall ; and I am very certain 
 had I thought it worth my while to acquaint 
 the doctor with his insolence he would have 
 been discharged. A proper caution to livery- 
 wearing fellows to speak with civility to every- 
 body. 
 
 The doctor showed me into a handsome 
 street parlour, adorned with several curiosities, 
 of which here needs no account. He asked 
 me for Sir John Meade, whom, because he 
 remembered, he expected I should, though 
 he died two years before I was born. When 
 I told him so he seemed displeased. And 
 really I remember that good Mr. Gibber, in 
 his pleasant way, scolded me once for not 
 remembering King Charles the Second, though 
 my father was born in the reign of King 
 William. 
 
 As my answers to the doctor with relation 
 to tlie whole family of the Meades were suf- 
 ficient to convince him I was not an impostor, 
 he asked me how he could serve me. I told 
 him I had some poems to publish, but for 
 want of a little money to pay for the jjrinting 
 of them I could not proceed." 
 
 " Poems," returned he ; " why, did you ever 
 know any person get money by poetry?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, several ; Mr. Pope in parti- 
 cular." 
 
 "Oh Lud, Lud," said he, grinning hor- 
 ribly, and squinting hideously, " what vanity 
 thou hast ! Can you write like him?" 
 
 I was quite abashed, and really knew not 
 what to say for some moments, for my reader 
 may easily perceive I could not but be sensible 
 I had made a foolish speech, unaware to my- 
 self; however, upon recollection I assured 
 him I did not presume to put myself in any 
 degree of comi:)arison with so justly an ad- 
 mired writer, but that perhaps on account of 
 my sex I might find a little favour. 
 
 " Well," said he, " there are a couple of 
 guineas for you." 
 
 This, though far short of my expectations, 
 was a little present relief, and as the gentle- 
 man was under no obligation to reward or 
 
 1 Til is was Mrs. I'ilkington's nom de plume. 
 
 encounige me, I very gratefully accepted them, 
 and yet 
 
 " Proud was the Muse I served, unbred to wait 
 A willing stranger at a great man's gate ! " 
 
 And here, gentle reader, give me leave to 
 trespass a moment on your patience to make 
 one remark, which is, that, amongst all the 
 persons who are celebrated for being chari- 
 table, I never met one really so ; and the most 
 humane and beneficent are those whose char- 
 acters have been attacked for their humanity, 
 so that at last they have even been ashamed 
 of well-doing. 
 
 I remember Dr. Swift told me he saw a 
 beggar attack a bishop, who charitably, from 
 his abundance, sjiared him a halfpenny, and 
 said, God bless you; presently after he attacked 
 Brigadier Groves, who threw half-a-crown to 
 him with an oath. " Which," said he, "do you 
 think the beggar prayed for at night?" 
 
 But as I have mentioned Dr. Meade, who 
 was so much in love with Mr. Pope for saying, 
 
 "And books for Meade, and rarities for Sloane," 
 
 I think I must give them also a sketch of 
 Sir Hans, to whom the doctor advised me 
 to apply as an encourager of arts. I tra- 
 velled down to Chelsea to wait upon him ; it 
 snowed violently, insomuch that I, who had 
 only a chintz gown on, was wet to the skin. 
 The porter, memorandum, better bred than 
 his master, to whom I had sent up a com- 
 pliment, which as he did not deserve I shall 
 not do him the honour to insert, invited me 
 into his lodge, where, after about two hom-s' 
 attendance, I was at length permitted to enter 
 to his supreme majesty; but sure the Holy 
 Father himself in all his iDontifical robes never 
 was half so proud. I was conducted by an 
 escort through six or seven rooms, one of which 
 was entirely wainscotted, if I may so term it, 
 with china; but like the idol to whom a stately 
 temple was consecrated, in which a traveller, 
 atti-acted by its outward magnificence, thought 
 to find an adorably deity, and on search found 
 a ridiculous monkey ; so I saw an old fellow, 
 whom I am very well convinced never saw 
 me, for he did not even vouchsafe to turn his 
 eyes ofi" a paper he was writing to see who 
 came in, till at last a beggar-woman entered 
 with a sore -eyed child, the inside of whose 
 eyelids he very charitably tore out with a 
 beard of corn, under which cruel operation the 
 girl fainted, but he said that was good for her. 
 It may be so, for by two-headed Janus nature 
 has framed strange doctors in her time. . . .
 
 110 
 
 LAETITIA PILKINGTON. 
 
 Of this latter sort was Sir Hans. Though I 
 had sent him up a letter, which lay before 
 him, lie asked me what 1 wanted ! If I had 
 bad eyes he said he would brush them up for 
 charity ; but as they happened to be tolerably 
 good, I excused myself by telling him I had 
 brought him that letter; and indeed I was 
 quick -sighted enough to find out that his 
 honour (as the beggar-woman called him) was 
 a conceited, ridiculous, impei'ious old fool. He 
 then considered my letter over, and finding 
 by the contents Dr. Meade had recommended 
 me to him, said, " Poor creature ! I suppose 
 you want charity. There is half-a-crown for 
 you." 
 
 I could hardly resist a strong inclination 
 I had to quoit it, as Falstaff says, into his 
 face like a threepenny shovel-groat ; and was 
 only constrained by the consideration that I 
 had never a shilling in my pocket, and that, 
 little as it was, I could eat for it. 
 
 I have here done with the great Sir Hans 
 Sloane. . . . 
 
 However, as I was obliged to live by my 
 wits, which indeed were almost at an end, I 
 formed a scheme to write a j^anegyric on 
 
 P p Lord H k, then newly created 
 
 Lord High-chancellor of England. I did not 
 address him in the manner I had done a 
 great many of the nobility, that is with my 
 own poem, which I sent all round, like the 
 bishop's pastoral letter ; it was as Swift 
 says — 
 
 In another reign 
 Change but the name 'twill do again. 
 
 I wrote a fine new one for himself, which 
 was really paying him a higher compliment 
 than he deserved, as my readers may perceive 
 hereafter. I had completed the poem, and 
 sent it to him ; he desired me to come to him 
 on Sunday, that being his only leisure time. 
 
 Accordingly, I waited on him at eight o'clock 
 on Sunday morning ; the house had rather the 
 appearance of desolation and poverty than 
 that of the lord-chancellor of Britain. He 
 had complaisance enough to send his mace- 
 bearer to keep me company till such time as 
 a pair of folding doors flew open, and my lord 
 appeared in his robes ready to go to church ; 
 lie bowed down to the ground to mo, and 
 asked me if I would drink a dish of chocolate 
 with him? which you may not doubt I ac- 
 cepted of ; and was surprised to find myself, 
 though sunk in the most abject poverty, sitting 
 with 80 great a man. 
 
 So, for my labour I got a dish of chocolate. 
 
 which I now return with the utmost humility 
 to his lordship again,^ 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 God, since all thy ways are just. 
 Why does thy heavy hand 
 So sore afflict the wretched dust 
 Thou didst to life command? 
 
 Thou speak'st the word, the senseless clay 
 Was quickened with thy breath, 
 Cheerless to view the beams of day, 
 And seek the shades of death. 
 
 Through every scene of life distressed, 
 As daughter, mother, wife. 
 When wilt thou close my eyes in rest, 
 And take my weary life? 
 
 To thee past, present, and to come 
 Are evermore the same; 
 Thou knew'st of all my woes the sum 
 E'er I my thoughts could frame. 
 
 'Twas thou gav'st passion to my soul, 
 And reason also gave : 
 Why didst thou not make reason rule. 
 And passion be its slave? 
 
 pardon me, thou Pow'r Divine, 
 That thus I dare presume 
 At thy correction to repine, 
 Or murmur at my doom. 
 
 Lord, give me penitence sincere 
 For ev'ry error past. 
 And though my trials are severe, 
 give me peace at last ! 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 I envy not the proud their wealth. 
 Their equipage and state; 
 Give me but innocence and health, 
 I ask not to be great. 
 
 I in this sweet retirement find 
 A joy unknown to kings, 
 For sceptres to a virtuous mind 
 Seem vain and empty things. 
 
 1 The word chocolate was used by Mr. Foote, the 
 comedian, for satire.
 
 JOHN BOYLE, EAEL OF CORK. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Great Cincinnatus at his plough 
 With brighter lustre shone 
 Than guilty Cffisar e'er could show, 
 Though seated on a throne. 
 
 Tumultuous days and restless nights 
 Ambition ever knows, 
 A stranger to the calm delights 
 Of study and repose. 
 
 Then free from envy, care, and strife. 
 Keep me, ye powers divine. 
 
 And pleased when ye demand my life. 
 
 May I that life resign. 
 
 WRITTEN ON HER DEATH-BED. 
 
 My Lord, my Saviour, and my God, 
 I bow to thy correcting rod; 
 Nor will I murmur or complain 
 Though ev'ry limb be fiU'd with pain, 
 Though my weak tongue its aid denies. 
 And daylight wounds my wretched eyes. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE, EARL OF CORK. 
 
 Born 1707 — Died 1762. 
 
 [John Boyle, Earl of Cork aud Orrery, was 
 the only son of Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, 
 and was born on the 2d of January, 1 707. At 
 the age of seven he was placed in the charge 
 of Feuton the poet, with whom he remained 
 until he was thirteen yeare of age. Then he 
 was sent to "Westminster School, after passing 
 through which he entered Christ Church, Ox- 
 ford. At the age of twenty-one he married 
 Lady Harriet Hamilton, a daughter of the 
 Earl of Orkney. Soon afterwards the two 
 earls fell out, and Boyle, siding with his wife's 
 father, exasperated his own parent so much, 
 tliat he made a will in which he bequeathed 
 his valuable library to the university. A 
 reconciliation, howevei', took place later on, 
 and the old earl was about to alter his will 
 when he was stopped by death. 
 
 In 1732 Boyle took his seat in the House of 
 Peers, where he distinguished himself by his 
 opposition to Walpole. In the same year he 
 went to live in Ireland, and there became 
 acquainted with Swift. There also his wife 
 died, and in 1733 he returned to England 
 and took up his abode at an old family seat 
 near Marston in Somersetshire. Here he 
 amused himself in building, gardening, plant- 
 ing, and getting into shape his edition of the 
 dramatic works of his grandfather Roger 
 Boyle, and collecting and arranging his State 
 Letters. 
 
 In 1738 he went to live in a house in Duke 
 Street, Westminster, and in June of the same 
 year he married Margaret Hamilton, an Irish 
 lady, "in whom the loss of his former countess 
 was repaired." In 1739 he produced his edition 
 of Roger Boyle's dramatic works in two vols. 
 
 8vo, and in 1742 his State Letters. In 1746 
 he went to reside with his father-in-law at Cale- 
 don in Ireland, and there passed four happy 
 years. In 1751 appeared his translation of 
 Pliny's Letters, with observations on each 
 letter, and an essay on Pliny's life. This ran 
 through several editions in a few years. Its 
 success, no doubt, caused him to hurry the 
 preparation of his Remarks on the Life and 
 Writings of Swift, which was also very suc- 
 cessful. In December, 1753, he succeeded 
 to the title of Earl of Cork, and in September, 
 1754, he and his family entered upon a tour 
 to Italy. In Florence he resided nearly a 
 year, during which he busied himself in col- 
 lecting materials for a history of Tuscany. 
 This he intended to write in the form of a 
 series of letters, but he lived to write only 
 twelve, which appeared after his death. In 
 1758 he lost his second wife, and in 1759 his 
 eldest son. These events affected him deeply 
 and hurried him towards his end, which hap- 
 pened on the 16th November, 1762, in the 
 fifty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 In addition to the works already mentioned 
 Boyle wrote Letters from Italy, which were 
 published in 1774, aud Memoirs of Robert Cary, 
 Earl of Monmoiith, 1759. He also contributed 
 several papers to The World aud Connoisseur. 
 The work by which he is best knovfn. Remarks 
 on the Life of Swift, \s his worst from a literary 
 point of view. It is weak, loose, and blunder- 
 ing in point of style, full of errors of taste and 
 of fact, and marked all through by proofs that 
 the author was "willing to wound, and yet 
 afraid to strike." His translation of Pliny is 
 not without merit, and his history of Tuscany,
 
 112 
 
 JOHN BOYLE, EARL OF CORK. 
 
 had he lived to finish it as begun, would have 
 given him legitimate claims to a fair position 
 among successful historians. His contribu- 
 tions to The World and The Connoisseur are 
 read by those who still cling to that class of 
 literature, and some of them are not without 
 humour of a kind which no doubt was ap- 
 proved of in their time.] 
 
 MRS. MUZZY ON DUELLING.^ 
 
 As my grandfather, Sir Josiah Pumpkin, 
 had made a considerable figure in King 
 Charles's court, his only son Ralph, my hon- 
 oured father, was no less conspicuous for his 
 valour towards the latter end of King William's 
 reign. Although the race of kings was changed, 
 the laws of honour still remained the same. 
 But my grandfather had retired with his 
 family to Pumpkin Hall about a year and a 
 half before the Revolution, much discontented 
 with the times, and often wishing that Judge 
 Somebody, I forget his name, had been a 
 militia colonel, that he might have run him 
 through the body, or have cut off one of his 
 cheeks with a broadsword. In the same 
 strain he often wished Father Peters a Life- 
 guard-man, that he might have caned him 
 before the court-gate of Whitehall. . . . My 
 grandmother, Lady Pumpkin, was a prudent 
 woman, and, not without some difficulty, per- 
 suaded Sir Josiah to content himself with 
 drinking constant bumpers to "prosperity to 
 the church and state", without fighting duels 
 or breaking heads in defence of the British 
 constitution. Indeed, he might well be con- 
 tent with the glory he had obtained, having 
 been once shot through the leg, and carrying 
 the marks of seven-and-twenty wounds in 
 difi'erent parts of his body, all boldly acquired 
 by single combats, in defence of nominal lib- 
 erty and real loyalty during King Charles 
 the Second's reign. 
 
 My father was returned for a borough in 
 Wales in the second parliament of King 
 William. This drew him every winter to 
 London, and he never took his leave of Sir 
 Josiah without receiving a strict command to 
 do some brave act becoming a man of honour 
 and a Pumpkin. As he was remarkably an 
 obedient son, and indeed as we were all, not 
 only as Pumpkins, but as old Britons, very 
 choleric and fiery, my father scarce ever re- 
 turned home without some glorious achieve- 
 
 iFrom Number 47 of The World, November 22, 1763. 
 
 ment, the heroism of which generally reached 
 Pumpkin Hall before the hero. Of his several 
 exploits give me leave only to mention three ; 
 not so much in regard to his honour, as that 
 they carry in them some particular and re- 
 markable circumstances. 
 
 There was an intimacy between my father 
 and Major John Davis of the Foot-guards. 
 Their first acquaintance and friendship had 
 begun when the major was quartered at a 
 market-town near Pumpkin Hall. Their re- 
 gards had continued towards each other with 
 the greatest strictness for several years ; when 
 one day at dinner with a large company at a 
 tavern my father jocularly in discourse said, 
 "Ah, Major ! Major ! you still love to ride the 
 fore-horse,"alIuding tohis desireof being fore- 
 most in all parties of pleasure. Major Davis 
 immediately changed colour, and took the ear- 
 liest opportunity of calling Mr. Pumpkin aside 
 and demanding satisfaction. My father asked 
 for what? The major made no reply but by 
 drawing his sword. They fought, and the 
 major was soon disarmed. "Now, Jack," says 
 my father, "pray tell me what we fought for?" 
 "Ah ! Ralph," replied the major, "why did you 
 reproach me with having been a postilion ? It 
 is true I was one, but by what means did you 
 know it? why would you hint it to the com- 
 pany by saying that I still loved to ride the 
 fore-horse ? " My father protested his ignor- 
 ance of the fact, and consequently his innocence 
 of intending any affront. The two friends 
 were immediately reunited as strongly as be- 
 fore ; and the major ever afterwards was par- 
 ticularly cautious how he discovered his origin, 
 or blindly followed the folly of his own sus- 
 picions. 
 
 One of my father's tavern companions. 
 Captain Shadow, who was very young, very 
 giddy, and almost as weak in body as in mind, 
 challenged him on a supposed affront, in not 
 receiving the return of a bow which he had 
 made to my father in the playhouse. They 
 were to fight in Hyde Park ; but as the captain 
 was drawing his sword with the fiercest indig- 
 nation, it luckily occurred to his thoughts that 
 the provocation might possibly be undesigned, 
 or if otherwise, that the revenge he had medi- 
 tated was of too cruel and bloody a nature ; he 
 therefore begged pardon of his adversary and 
 made up the affair. 
 
 I wish this had been the last of my father's 
 combats, but he was unhappily engaged in a 
 duel with a French officer who had taken the 
 wall of him ; and in that duel he received a 
 wound, which after throwing him several
 
 JOHN MACDONNELL. 
 
 113 
 
 months intoa languishing niiserablecondition, 
 at last proved fatal by ending in a mortifica- 
 tion. He bore his long illness with amazing 
 fortitude ; but often expressed an abhorrence 
 
 of these polite and honourable murders and 
 wished that he might have lived some years 
 longer only to have shown that he dui'st not 
 fight. 
 
 JOHN MACDONNELL. 
 
 Born 1691 — Died 1754. 
 
 [John MacDonnell, one of the most eminent 
 of our later Irish bards, was born near Charle- 
 ville, in the county of Cork, in the year 1691. 
 He has generally been called MacDonnell 
 Claragh, from Claragh the name of the resid- 
 ence of his family. O'Halloran in his History 
 of Ireland speaks of him as "a man of gi-eat 
 erudition, and a profound Irish antiquarian 
 and poet," and says that he "had made 
 valuable collections, and was writing in his 
 native tongue a History of Ireland," which fail- 
 ing health, however, prevented him completing. 
 He also proposed translating Homer's Riad 
 into Irish, and had at least proceeded so far as 
 to produce several highly praised specimens of 
 what his work would be. But this, as well as 
 the History of Ireland, was put a stop to by 
 his illness and death, and MacDonnell's fame 
 must now rest on his poems alone. He died 
 in the year 1754, and was interred in the 
 churchyard of Ballyslough, near Charleville. 
 
 Hardiman, in speaking of MacDonnell, 
 gives him a very high place as a genius and a 
 poet. Indeed, he ranks him in Irish as 
 equal to Pope in English, and believes that 
 had he lived to complete his translation of the 
 Iliad it would have been as successful in a 
 literary sense as was that of Pope. " If," he 
 continues, " the latter had been an Irishman, 
 and had written in the language of the country, 
 it would be a matter of difficulty to determine 
 which would be entitled to the prize. But 
 fortunately for his genius and fame Pope was 
 born on the right side of the Channel." Fur- 
 thermoi'e, he tells us that the following descrip- 
 tion of a hero is in the original Irish no way 
 inferior to any passage in the Iliad: — 
 
 To crush the strong — the resolute to quell — 
 Daun sweeps the battlefield, a deadly spell 
 
 1 This ballad celebrates a real historical scene, the visit 
 of the famous Grace O'Malley to Queen Elizabeth. In 
 the Anthologia Hibernica the visit is thus described:— 
 "The queen, surrounded by her ladies, received her in 
 g^eat state. Grana was introduced in the dress of her 
 country : a long uncouth mantle covered her head and 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Begirt with hosts, a terrible airay, 
 
 Blood paints his track, and havock strews his way — 
 
 The lion's courage and the lightning's speed 
 
 His might combines : from each adventurous deed 
 
 With haughtier swell dilates the conqueror's soul, 
 
 Like volum'd thunders deep'ning as they roll : 
 
 Bards from his prowess learn a loftier song, 
 
 And glory lights him through the ranks along. 
 
 MacDonnell was, it seems, a " rank Jaco- 
 bite " in politics, and poet and genius though 
 he was, had often by hasty flights to save his 
 life from the hands of the "hunters of the 
 bards."] 
 
 GRANU WAIL AND QUEEN 
 ELIZABETH.' 
 
 Mild as the rose its sweets will breathe, 
 The' gems all bright its bloom en wreathe; 
 Undeck'd by gold or diamond rare, 
 Near Albion's throne stood Grana fair. 
 
 The vestal queen in wonder view'd 
 The hand that grasp'd the falchion rude — 
 The azure eye, whose light could prove 
 The equal power in war or love. 
 
 "Some boon," she cried, "thou lady brave, 
 From Albion's queen in pity crave: 
 E'en name the rank of countess high, 
 Nor fear the suit I'll e'er deny." 
 
 "Nay, sister-queen," the fair replied, 
 "A sov'reign, and an hero's bride: 
 No fate shall e'er of pride bereave — 
 I'll honours give, but none receive. 
 
 " But grant to him — whose infant sleep 
 Is luU'd by rocking o'er the deep — 
 
 body ; her hair was gathered on her crown, and fastened 
 with a bodkin ; her breast was bare, and she had a yellow 
 bodice and petticoat. The court stared with surprise at 
 so strange a figure."— " Granu Wail" or "Grana T'ile" 
 was one of the typical names of Ireland, and, as Lover 
 remarks, the mere playing of the air with that name has 
 still a poUtical significance. 
 
 S
 
 114 
 
 JOHN MACDONNELL. 
 
 Those gifts, which now for Erin's sake 
 Thro' pride of soul I dare not take. " 
 
 The queen on Grana gazed and smil'd, 
 And honour'd soon the stranger child 
 With titles brave, to grace a name 
 Of Erin's isle in herald fame. 
 
 CLARAGH'S LAMENT. 
 
 (FROM HARDIMAN'S "IRISH MINSTRELSY.") 
 
 The tears are ever in my wasted eye. 
 My heart is crushed, and my thoughts are sad; 
 For the son of chivalry was forced to fly. 
 And no tidings come from the soldier lad. 
 
 Chorus. — My heart it danced when he was near. 
 My hero! my Caesar! my Chevalier! 
 But while he wanders o'er the .sea 
 Joy can never be joy to me. 
 
 Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo, 
 Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy; 
 Their tears fall heavy as the .summer's dew 
 For the lord of their hearts — the banished boy. 
 
 ]\Iute are the minstrels that sang of him. 
 The harp forgets its thrilling tone; 
 The brightest eyes of the land are dim, 
 For the pride of their aching sight is gone. 
 
 The sun refused to lend his light. 
 And clouds obscured the face of day; 
 The tiger's whelps preyed day and night, 
 For the lion of the forest was far away. 
 
 The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier, 
 Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay; 
 His sword in battle flashes death and fear. 
 While he hews through falling foes his way. 
 
 O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine 
 Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf; 
 Mars and Cupid all in him combine. 
 The blooming lover and the godlike chief. 
 
 His curling locks in wavy grace, 
 Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow, 
 Flit wild and golden o'er his .speaking face, 
 .\nd down his ivory shoulders flow. 
 
 Like Engus is he in his youthful days. 
 Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows, 
 Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise. 
 Who hung like fate on their routed foes. 
 
 Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race, 
 Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire, 
 
 Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais, 
 The chief of the Red Branch — Lord of the Lyre. 
 
 The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale, 
 Nor the cry of the hounds in tlie nutty grove. 
 Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale, 
 Since far — far away is the youth of our love. 
 
 The name of my darling none must declare. 
 Though his fame be like sun.shine from shore to 
 
 shore; 
 But, oh, may Heaven — Heaven hear my prayer! 
 And waft the hero to my arms once more. 
 
 Chorus. — My heart — it danced when he was near, 
 Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier; 
 'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know. 
 That he should be banish'd by a rightles* 
 foe. 
 
 OLD ERIN IN THE SEA. 
 
 (TRANSLATED BY W. B. GUINEE, OF BUTTETANT.) 
 
 Who sitteth cold, a beggar old 
 
 Before the prosperous lands, 
 With outstretched palms that asketh alms 
 
 From charitable hands? 
 Feeble and lone she maketh moan — 
 
 A stricken one is she. 
 That deep and long hath suffered wrong, 
 
 (Jld Erin in the sea! 
 
 How art thou lost, how hardly crost. 
 
 Land of the reverend head ! 
 And, dismal Fate, how harsh thy hate 
 
 That gives her lack of bread ! 
 Though broad her fields, and rich their yields, 
 
 From LiflTey to the Lee, 
 Her grain but grows to flesh the foes 
 
 Of Erin in the sea! 
 
 'Tis but the ban of ruthless man 
 
 That works thy wretchedness; 
 What Nature bears with thee she shares, 
 
 And genial .seasons bless. 
 The very waves that kiss the caves 
 
 Clap their huge hands for glee, 
 That they should guard so fair a sward 
 
 As Erin by the sea ! 
 
 Her vales are green, her gales serene. 
 
 Hard granite ribs her coast, 
 God's fairest smile is on the isle, 
 
 Alas! and bootless boast; 
 No land more curst hath Ocean nurst 
 
 Since first a wave had he; 
 No land whose grief had less relief 
 
 Than Erin in the sea!
 
 JOHN MACDONNELL. 
 
 115 
 
 Can this be she whose history 
 
 Is in the mist of years, 
 AVhose kings of old wore crowns of gold, 
 
 And led ten thousand spears? 
 Kot so I wis; no land like this 
 
 Could know such bravery, 
 Or change is wrought, or lore is nought 
 
 For Erin in the sea! 
 
 Ah! truly change most sad and strange — 
 
 Her kings have passed away; 
 Her sons, the same in outward frame, 
 
 Full false and tame are they — 
 Each hating each, alone they teach. 
 
 And but in this agree: 
 To work thy pains, and bind thy chains, 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 Where are the men, by tower and glen. 
 
 Who held thee safe of j'ore? 
 Full oft that gave their foes a grave 
 
 On thine insulted shore. 
 Galglach and Kerne, full sure and stern, 
 
 They did good fight for thee; 
 Alas! they sleep, and thou must weep. 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 Soft may they rest within her breast, 
 
 That for their country died; 
 And where they lie may peace be nigh. 
 
 And lasting love abide! 
 Ye grace them well ; for them that fell 
 
 And her that nourished ye. 
 For them ye bled, she holds ye dead — 
 
 Old Erin of the sea! 
 
 And in your place a wretched race 
 
 Upon the soil have grown, 
 TJnfearing shame, and in the name 
 
 Like to their sires alone. 
 They shun the claim of patriot fame. 
 
 And cringe the servile knee 
 To kiss the yoke their fathers broke 
 
 In Erin in the sea! 
 
 W^ould they unite in valorous fight 
 
 For her that gave them breath. 
 As they for her — the conqueror. 
 
 Whose direful touch is death. 
 No more the blight of traitorous might 
 
 On sacred right should be, 
 But peace, delight, and strength bedight 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 Pillage and pest her vales infest, 
 Strange tongues her name revile; 
 
 Where prayed her saints, false doctrine taints, 
 And godless rites defile. 
 
 Be they reviled, be they defiled. 
 More dear are they to me — 
 
 The verdant plains, the holy fanes. 
 Of Erin in the sea! 
 
 Thine is the page, all rimed with age. 
 
 In mighty deeds sublime — 
 The proud records of willing swords, 
 
 And storied lays of time; 
 An empire thou, while she that now. 
 
 By Heaven's harsh decree, 
 Holds thee disgraced, was wild and waste, 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 Would this were all ! Not thine the fall 
 
 By force and battle rush, 
 Not men more brave hold thee for slave, 
 
 Nor stouter hearts that crush; 
 But vengeful ire of son with sire. 
 
 Thy children's perfidy — 
 Theirs is the strife that slays thy life. 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 Ye bards of song, ye warriors strong ! 
 
 Of high heroic deeds, — 
 All dust are ye, by mount and lea. 
 
 While she, your mother, bleeds. 
 And cold the blood, by fort and Hood, 
 
 That ran in veins as free 
 As she was then, when ye were men, 
 
 Old Erin in the sea! 
 
 CLARAGH'S DREAM. 
 
 (TRANSLATED BY J. C. MANGAN.) 
 
 I lay in unrest — old thoughts of pain. 
 
 That I struggled in vain to smother, 
 Like midnight spectres haunted my brain — 
 
 Dark fantasies chased each other, 
 When lo! a figure — who might it be? 
 
 A tall, fair figure stood near me ! 
 Who might it be? An unreal Banshee? 
 
 Or an angel sent to cheer me? 
 
 Though years have rolled .since then, yet now 
 
 My memory thrillingly lingers 
 On her awful charms, her waxen brow, 
 
 Her pale translucent fingers; — 
 Her eyes, that mirrored a wonder world. 
 
 Her mien, of unearthly wildness; 
 And her waving raven tresses that curled 
 
 To the ground in beautiful wildness. 
 
 "Whence comest thou. Spirit?" I asked me- 
 thought; 
 
 "Thou art not one of the banished?" 
 Alas, for me! she answered nought, 
 
 But rose aloft and vanished; 
 And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed 
 
 In the light she left behind her; 
 Long time I wept, and at last me-dreamed 
 
 I left my shieling to find her.
 
 116 
 
 CHARLES MOLLOY. 
 
 And first I turned to the thund'rous north, 
 
 To Gruagach's mansion kingly; 
 Untouching the earth, I then .sped forth 
 
 To Inver-Iough, and the shingly 
 And shining strand of the fishful Erne, 
 
 And thence to Croghan the golden, 
 Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 
 
 So many a marvel olden ! 
 
 I saw the Mourna's billows flow— 
 
 I passed the walls of Shenady, 
 And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe, 
 
 Embossed amid greenwoods shady; 
 And visited that proud pile that stands 
 
 Above the Boyne's broad waters, 
 Where iEngus dwells with his warrior bands 
 
 And the fairest of Ulster's daughters ; 
 
 To the halls of Mac-Lir, to Creevroe's height, 
 
 To Tara, the glory of Erin, 
 To the fairy palace that glances bright 
 
 On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, 
 I vainly hied. I went west and east — 
 
 I travelled seaward and shoreward — 
 But thus was I greeted in field and at feast — 
 
 "Thy way lies onward and forward !" 
 
 At last I reached, I wist not how, 
 
 The royal towers of Ival, 
 Which under the clifFs gigantic brow 
 
 Still rise without a rival. 
 
 And here were Thomond's chieftains all, 
 With armour, and swords, and lances, 
 
 And here sweet music filled the hall. 
 And damsels charmed with dances. 
 
 And here, at length, on a silvery throne 
 
 Half seated, half reclining, 
 With forehead white as the marble stone, 
 
 And garments so starrily shining, 
 And features beyond the poet's pen — 
 
 The sweetest, saddest features — 
 Appeared before me once again 
 
 That fairest of living creatures! 
 
 "Draw near, O mortal !" she said with a sigh, 
 
 "And hear my mournful story; 
 The guardian spirit of Erin am I, 
 
 But dimmed is mine ancient glory. 
 My priests are banished, my warriors wear 
 
 No longer victory's garland; 
 And my child, my son. my beloved heir 
 
 Is an exile in a for land ! " 
 
 I heard no more — I saw no more — 
 
 The bands of slumber were broken. 
 And palace, and hero, and river, and shore, 
 
 Had vanished and left no token. 
 Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will 
 
 And my fancy thus for a season: 
 But a sorrow, therefore, hangs over me still, 
 
 Despite of the teachings of reason ! 
 
 CHARLES MOLLOl^. 
 
 Born 1706 — Died 1767. 
 
 [Charles Molloy was born in Dublin in the 
 year 1706, his father and mother being both de- 
 scendants of good families. He was educated at 
 Trinity College, of which he ultimately Ijecame 
 a fellow. Soon after passing out of his teens 
 he moved to England and entered himself at 
 the Middle Temple. There, before long, he 
 began to mix in literary matters, and contri- 
 buted largely to a periodical paper entitled 
 Fog^s Journal. He also became a play-writer, 
 and in 1715 produced The Perplexed Couple, 
 which, as a first attempt, was fairly successful. 
 This was followed in 1718 by The Coquet,Siud 
 til is again in 1720 by Half -pay Officers. 
 
 After this he became sole editor, and 
 almost sole author, of the well-known perio- 
 dical paper called Common Sense, the only 
 other writers of importance being Dr. King, 
 Lord Chesterfield, and Lord Lyttleton. His 
 papers "give testimony of strong abilities, 
 
 great depth of understanding, and clearness of 
 reasoning." About this time large offers were 
 made to him to write in defence of Sir Robert 
 Walpole, which he refused ; but whenWalpole's 
 opponents came into office in 1742, he was 
 entirely neglected and overlooked, and were it 
 not that he liad married a rich wife, he might 
 have starved so far as those wliom he had 
 benefited were concerned. As it w;is, however, 
 he could afford to laugh at their ingratitude 
 and treat their jiatriotic mouthings with con- 
 tempt. For many years after this he lived 
 without taking any active part in either liter- 
 ary or political matters. His death took place 
 on the 16th July, 1767. 
 
 This author must not be confounded with 
 bis namesake Charles Molloy, who was also 
 1 lorn in Ireland, and was :i lawyer of the Inner 
 "^remple. He wrote a standard Latin work, 
 De Jure Maritimo et NavaH, or a Treatise on
 
 CHARLES xMOLLOY. 
 
 117 
 
 Maritime Law. He was born in 1640, and 
 died in 1()9(), sixteen years before our author 
 and dramatist was boin.] 
 
 MISER AND MAID. 
 
 (KUOM "THK PEUPLEXED COUPLE.") 
 
 [Leonora, advised by her maid Isabella, 
 manages to disgust by her apparent affectation 
 tlie miser her father wishes her to marry.] 
 
 Leon. My father on a sudden grew cold in 
 his behaviour towai-ds Octavio, and at length 
 forbid me to see him more; in the meantime a 
 business of importance calls Octavio into the 
 country, and now I find my father has been 
 upon a treaty with this usurer, and 'tis that 
 has induced him to forfeit his word and honour. 
 
 Isab. A very Jewish reason truly. 
 
 Leon. What shall I do to kindle compassion 
 in a breast possessed by avarice, a stranger to 
 all social virtues'? I've nothing to oppose to 
 his cruelty but tears, the defenceless arms of 
 innocence oppress'd. 
 
 Isab. Defenceless, indeed ! besides, madam, 
 they spoil the complexion — but you'll find 
 'twill do more service to cross the old fellow 
 that he mayn't fall in love too fast. 
 
 Leon. I shall think myself happy if I can 
 but create in him an aveision to my person, 
 for I resolve to give myself as many airs to 
 make him hate me, as ever vain coquet did to 
 gain a lover. 
 
 /s«6. Here they come. 
 
 Morecraft {her father, aside to Leonora). — 
 Here's my friend, I met him just at the door; 
 now stand upon your guard and gild your face 
 with a smile. 
 
 Jsab. What have we here? A mummy 
 wrapt up in flannel ? 
 
 Morec. Come, old boy, this is your wife that 
 is to be; here's flesh and blood for ye, the 
 blood of the Morecrafts. Here's vermilion 
 and roses enough to raise desire in fourscore 
 and ten, a better receipt to restore youth than 
 Medea's kettle. 
 
 Ster/inff. Neighbour, you need not take such 
 pains to set off your ware, I see what the young 
 woman is. 
 
 Morec. Attack her briskly, impudently, man. 
 Impudence never fails of success with women; 
 it passes for wit, humour, nay and courage 
 too, in young fellows, and why not in old ? 
 
 Sterl. What I shall do — I shall do without 
 your help. 
 
 Morec. Ha! hal^Say'st thou so, old Fru- 
 L,'ality; od, I'm glad to hear you can do with- 
 out help. I believe you're gi'own young again; 
 well, since you're so stout upon't, I shall leave 
 you to make the most of your time, for fathei-s 
 do but spoil company among young lovers. 
 
 {Exit Morecraft and Isabella. 
 
 Sterl. You see, young lady, I come by the 
 encouragement of a father, which I take to 
 be the honestest pretence a man can make to 
 a lady's affections. 
 
 Leon. O hideous ! what a strange opinion 
 that is, I think it the worst pretence. 'Tis 
 beginning where one .should end ; 'tis the last 
 thing to be considered. 
 
 Sterl. Assuredly, according to all laws, a 
 parent has a right to disjjose of his child. 
 
 Leon. What, would you confine love to laws ? 
 He that comes upon that presumption, and 
 brings no pretensions of his own, is to me no 
 better than a ravisher. 
 
 Sterl. Assuredly, a man of good sense and 
 good estate can't want pretensions. 
 
 Leon. O al)ominable ! what a mechanic 
 notion is that ! What woman of any tiiste 
 could endure an odious creature that had not 
 one good quality to recommend him but good 
 sense and a good estate ! 
 
 Sterl. Pray, lady, what qualifications would 
 you expect in a husband ? 
 
 Leon. A thousand, a thousand, sir. I'll give 
 you a short detail of 'em. Now for the first 
 broadside. {Aside.) Why, there's the de- 
 licatess d'esprit, the belle air, and a certain 
 jene sais quoi of mien and motion. There's 
 something in it so elegantly genteel, so amor- 
 ously inspiring, that may be better understood 
 than expressed. 
 
 Sterl. I don't understand you, I never heard 
 of such strange things before. 
 
 Leon. Then you must give me leave to in- 
 struct you. 
 
 Sterl. Really, young woman, I'm too old to 
 be taught, and too wise to stoop to such 
 follies. 
 
 Leon. I see then how it is, your purpose is 
 to engage my innocei>t, unwary heai't, on pur- 
 pose to betray it. Uidiappy as I am, what has 
 love brought me to ! {Seems to weep. 
 
 Sterl. Poor innocent creature, I see she's 
 fond of me, therefore I'll humour her a little. 
 {Aside.) Well, dry your eyes, dry your pretty 
 eyes, and I will hear what you have to say. 
 
 Leon. Then you must not speak to me of 
 love or marriage for at least six months, unless 
 it be in the language of your eyes; but when 
 the happy time of declaration comes, do it
 
 118 
 
 CHARLES MOLLOY. 
 
 ■with such a dying softness in your eyes and 
 voice as may charm my enamoured senses 
 into a belief of all you say. With dear delight 
 I'll catch the flying accents from those withered 
 lips, and in a kind confusion own the soft 
 anguish of my soul which virgin modesty had 
 hitherto forbid me to declare — 
 
 . I need not 
 tell you what scenes of happiness must con- 
 sequently ensue. 
 
 Steii. I thought it had been fairer to be 
 downright and sincere. 
 
 Leon. Sincere ! O hideous ! {cries out). — 
 What a thing have you named; no, no, sir, 
 well-bred peoj^le are never sincere; 'tis modish 
 to flatter, lie, and deceive. I hate your out-of- 
 fashioned good qualities . Sincerity's alto- 
 gether of vulgar extraction. 
 
 Sterl. Look ye, young woman, all this is 
 wide of the purpose. I come here to talk of 
 the time and place of our intended marriage, 
 which your father desires may be soon. 
 
 Zeo?i. There you're out again; 'tis time enough 
 to talk of that after a hundred adventures in 
 time of courtship. A lover must make his 
 ajiproaches to his mistress as regularly as a 
 general does against a fortified town; for you 
 are to supj^ose that we women are fortified 
 with pride, dissimulation, artifice, cunning, 
 and so forth. In a word, we should never 
 think of marrying till we begin to hate one 
 another. 
 
 SterJ. Hov^^s that ? Hate one another, say 
 you/ 
 
 Leon. And another thing, I never wiU siu-- 
 render unless I'm taken in form. 
 
 Sterl. Then I must tell you once for all that 
 the things you've been speaking of are not for 
 a man of my gravity. 
 
 Leon. You may see I like your person by 
 the pains I take to instruct you to win my 
 heart. So, sir, I think we've been long enough 
 together for the first visit. I take my leave, 
 and am your humble servant. \_Exit Leonora. 
 
 Sterl. I, fakins, I don't know what to think; 
 she seems very wild, and that I don't like. 
 I doubt she'll prove an extravagant wife, and 
 that I don't like ; I'll go home and consider 
 better on't Ijefore I jjroceed. 
 
 Enter Morecraft. 
 
 Morec. Well, my old Nestor, what and how? 
 Od,you look devilish young to-day and devilish 
 handsome. Od, you've stole the girl's heart, 
 I'm sure — ay, ay, ha, ha ! T laugh at your 
 young Ijlockheads; we old fellows are the men 
 for business at last. Now, a young coxcomb 
 would have been sighing and dying and 
 
 making mouths at his mistress for a month 
 before he'd venture to tell her what he woidd 
 be at, but an old cock jumps overall ceremony 
 and comes to the point at once ; — but tell me 
 what's the result of this visit? 
 
 Sterl. The result of this visit your daughter 
 can inform you as well as I. — I'm going away 
 about business. 
 
 Morec. Stay, man, tell me what she said; how 
 did she receive your addresses ? 
 
 Sterl. I did not undei-stand a word she said. 
 First let me ask you what religion your 
 daughter is of ? 
 
 Morec. Religion ! why, the religion of all 
 women, I think ; she loves money, liberty, and 
 fine clothes, and goes to church to be admired; 
 but she shall be of any religion to please you; 
 you know the standing argument that makes 
 female converts. 
 
 Sterl. You're imposed upon; she talked in 
 an unknown tongue. We'll confer upon this 
 matter the next time we meet. 
 
 [Exit Sterling. 
 
 A CANDID BEAUTY. 
 
 (from "the coquette.") 
 
 Enter Bellamy and Julia to Mademoiselle 
 Fantast the coquette, icith La Jupe 
 her maid. 
 
 Fan. Have you been paying your levy, sir, 
 to my cousin's toilet, and oflfering your weighty 
 advice in point of dress? 
 
 Bel. I do pretend, madam, to tmdei'stand 
 something of the art of dress. 
 
 Fan. It requires much study and a vast 
 genius. Pray, sir, how do you like my coiff'eur ? 
 Is it modell'd to your taste ? 
 
 Bel. The air is gallant and free, but me- 
 thinks it stands too forward; too much of 
 your face cannot be seen. 
 
 Fan. How does the air of my cousin's 
 please you ] 
 
 Bel. Infinitely ! 'Tis the exact model of a 
 beautiful well-dressed head. 
 
 Fan. Foolish enough ! How dull this crea- 
 ture is ! Pray, sir, give me leave to ask you 
 one question : Were you ever in love ? 
 
 Bel. Yes, madam. 
 
 Fan. Impossible ! Who would believe it ! 
 AYas it in your own country, sir? 
 
 Bel. In my travels, madam. 
 
 Fan. Pray, sir, describe the nymph that 
 made so great a conquest.
 
 MRS. BARBER. 
 
 119 
 
 Bel. If you would have a description of her 
 person, I must recollect my ideas and summon 
 all my fancy to my aid. I ought to be in- 
 sj)ired to find out images to represent her 
 matchless form. [^Looking at Julia. 
 
 Fan. First as to her complexion. 
 
 Bel. A little darker than yours, madam. 
 
 Fan. O hideous ! then she wjis too dark. 
 
 Bel. Pardon my mistake, I mean a little 
 faiier. 
 
 Fan. O hideous ! then she was too fair. 
 You might as well have had a passion for a 
 piece of chalk. 
 
 Bel. O glorious Vanity ! How happy dost 
 thou make thy votaries ! 
 
 Fan. Your English ladies have good faces. 
 
 Bel. So all travellers are pleased to say. 
 
 Fan. But though my dress, sir, had the 
 misfortune to fall under your displeasure, I 
 hope you'll have a more extensive complais- 
 ance for my face. How do you like my colour? 
 Does this red I wear please you ? 
 
 Bel. This side appears with a beautiful 
 vermilion; it puts nature out of countenance. 
 But here methinks your pencil has but lazily 
 performed its oflfice. 
 
 Fan. Pray let me see. {Pulls out a glass.) 
 O frightful ! Why, I ha'u't put on half my 
 face to-day. How could you be so barbarous 
 not to tell me on't sooner? La Jupe, fly and 
 bring me my things ; I must mend it imme- 
 diately. \_Exit La Jupe. 
 
 Julia. I think your English ladies use no 
 helps to beauty. 
 
 Bel. The better bred do, madam, but 'tis 
 secretly. 
 
 Fan. I find they're very apt to be modest 
 where they should not. 'TLs something odd 
 that a woman .should be industrious to conceal 
 her own ingenuity. For my part I may say 
 without vanity that I've a change of fine 
 features for every day in the week. 
 
 Enter La Jupe with paint. 
 
 Oh, come ! Now, sir, I'll see what you're good 
 for. Exercise your gallantry a little. Here, 
 hold the glass for me, sir, your servant. I'll 
 begin with a touch here — a little there won't 
 be amiss. {Paints.) I must move this patch 
 or I shall look like my lady What-do-you-call 
 her, that always charges her magnificent nose 
 with three large patches. Pray, sir, take a 
 patch out of that box and put it me upon this 
 dimple. — There, very well, sir, your servant. 
 Now, I think my face is uniform. But pray, 
 sir, do you handle the pencil and give an ad- 
 ditional touch where you think it may want. 
 Let's see, have you any fancy? 
 
 Bel. Nothing can mend what you have so 
 well performed. You have a very fine hand, 
 madam. 
 
 Fan. Yes, I think I need not blush for what 
 I've done to-day. 
 
 Julia. No, and if she should she has taken 
 care it should not be seen. 
 
 Fan. If a bashful Englishwoman were to do 
 this, she'd hide herself in her closet, and bar 
 the door as if it were to keep out the enemy, 
 and nobody is in the secret but some chere 
 contidente, though as soon as ever she shows 
 her face 'tis visible by the clumsiness on't that 
 'tis all of her own making. 
 
 MRS. BARBER. 
 
 BoBN 1712 — Died 1757. 
 
 [Mrs. Barber wa-s well known in her own 
 day as a member of the female coterie that 
 gathered round and made an idol of Dean 
 Swift. She was a woman of pleasant manners 
 and considerable talents, but these were wasted 
 to a great extent, as was then the fashion, in 
 unfruitful wit combats, and in the production 
 of ephemeral pettinesses in verse. Her birth 
 took place in 1712, and early in life she mar- 
 ried a person in business, a quiet and estim- 
 able man, who gave her very much her own 
 way in ever3rthing. In 1734 she published a 
 
 volume of poems under the patronage of 
 Dean Swift and Lord Oi'rery, which was 
 well received; and in 1755, when she was 
 a widow, produced another volume of Poems 
 hy Eminent Ladies, the greater part of which 
 is from her own pen. It was the age of the 
 blue-stocking, and learned ladies were plen- 
 tiful in that circle, to which wit was the 
 key for even the wife of a plain business 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. Barber's poems are not of a very high 
 order of merit, but they were, like herself,
 
 120 
 
 MES. BAEBEE. 
 
 pleasant and not inelegant. She seems to 
 have rhymed with great ease, and for this very 
 reason no doubt she took little if any trouble 
 to revise her work. Consequently common- 
 place expi'essions at times may be found in 
 the midst of her best passages. On the whole, 
 however, her verses possess the merit of 
 naturalness, — a merit often vainly sought in 
 the too refined productions of more pretentious 
 poets. For this reason, and because of the 
 reputation which yet clings to her name, she 
 deserves to be remembered here. 
 
 Her death occurred in 1757 in the forty- 
 sixth year of her age.] 
 
 APOLOGY FOR THE RICH. 
 
 All-bounteous Heav'n, Caatalio cries, 
 With bended knees and lifted eyes. 
 When shall 1 have the power to bless, 
 And raise up merit in distress? 
 
 How do our hearts deceive us here! 
 He gets ten thousand pounds a year. 
 With this the pious youth is able 
 To build and plant, and keep a table; 
 But then the poor he must not treat: 
 Who asks the wretch, that wants to eat? 
 Alas! to ease their woes he wishes. 
 But cannot live without ten dishes: 
 Tho' six would serve as well, 'tis true; 
 But one must live as others do. 
 He now feels wants unknown before, 
 AVants still increasing with his store. 
 The good Castalio must provide 
 Brocade and jewels for his bride; 
 Her toilet shines with plate embossed, 
 What sums her lace and linen cost! 
 The clothes that must his person grace 
 Shine with embroidery and lace. 
 The costly pride of Persian looms, 
 And Guide's paintings, grace his rooms; 
 His wealth Castalio will not waste. 
 But must have everything in taste: 
 He's an economist confest. 
 But what he buys must be the best; 
 For common use a set of plate, 
 Old china when he dines in state; 
 A coach and six to take the air, 
 Besides a chariot and a chair. 
 All these important calls supplied — 
 Calls of necessity, not pride — 
 His income's regularly spent. 
 He scarcely saves to pay his rent. 
 No man alive would do more good, 
 Or give more freely if he could. 
 He grieves whene'er the wretched sue. 
 But what can poor Castalio do? 
 
 Would Heav'n but send ten thousand more. 
 He'd give — just as he did before. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE IVY. 
 
 An oak with spreading branches crowned 
 
 Beheld an ivy on the ground, 
 
 Exposed to every trampling beast 
 
 That roam'd around the dreary waste. 
 
 The tree of Jove in all his state 
 
 With pity viewed the ivy's fate, 
 
 And kindly told her she should find 
 
 Security around his rind: 
 
 Nor was that onlj' his intent, 
 
 But to bestow some nourishment. 
 
 The branches saw, and grieved to see. 
 
 Some juices taken from the tree. 
 "Parent," say they in angry tone, 
 "Your sap should nourish us alone; 
 
 Why should you nurse this stranger plant 
 
 With what your sons in time may want? — 
 
 May want to raise us high in air. 
 
 And make us more distinguished there." 
 "'Tis well," the parent tree replied; 
 "Must I, to gratify your pride, 
 
 Act only with a narrow view 
 
 Of doing good to none but you ? 
 
 Know, sons, though Jove hath made me great^ 
 
 I am not safe from storms of fate; 
 
 Is it not prudent then, I pray. 
 
 To guard against another day? 
 
 Whilst I'm alive you crown my head. 
 
 This graces me alive and dead. " 
 
 STELLA AND FLA VIA. 
 
 Stella and Flavia every hour 
 Unnumbered hearts surprise; 
 
 In Stella's soul lies all her power. 
 And Flavia's in her eyes. 
 
 More boundless Flavia's conquests are. 
 And Stella's more confined; 
 
 All can discern a face that's fair. 
 But few a lovely mind. 
 
 Stella, like Britain's monarch, reigns 
 
 O'er cultivated lands; 
 Like Eastern tyrants Flavia deigns 
 
 To rule o'er barren sands. 
 
 Then boast, fair Flavia, boa.st your face. 
 
 Your beauty's only store; 
 Your charms will every day decrease. 
 
 Each day gives Stella more.
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 121 
 
 LAURENCE STEENE. 
 
 Born 1713 — Died 1768. 
 
 [Although a bi-anch of the family of Sterne 
 had been for several generations settled in 
 Ireland, Laurence Sterne was an Irishman by 
 accident more than anything else. His father 
 was an officer in the English army, and was 
 stationed at Clonmel in Ireland for a short 
 time. There his wife joined him, and a few 
 days after her arrival gave birth to Laurence. 
 About the same time the regiment in which his 
 father served was disbanded, and so soon as the 
 infant was able for the journey his parents took 
 him with them to the family seat at Elvington 
 in Yorkshire. In about ten months time the 
 regiment was re-formed, and, as Sterne him- 
 self says, the " household decamped with bag 
 and baggage for Dublin." After some years' 
 knocking about, chiefly in Ireland, he was in 
 1722 sent to a school at Halifax in Yorkshire. 
 Here he continued till 1731, in which year his 
 father died. While he was there an incident 
 occurred which he himself describes thus — " He 
 (the schoolmaster) had the ceiling of the school- 
 room new whitewashed ; the ladder remained 
 there; I one unlucky day mounted it, and 
 wrote with a brush in Large capital letters, 
 Lau. Stern'e, for which the usher severely 
 whipped me. My master was very much hurt 
 at this, and said before me that never should 
 tliat name be effaced, for I was a boy of genius, 
 and he was sure that I should come to prefer- 
 ment. This expression made me forget the 
 stripes I had received." 
 
 In the year 1732 a cousin took him in charge 
 and sent him to the University of Cambridge, 
 where he was admitted to Jesus College on 
 the 6th July, 1733. In March, 1735, he ma- 
 triculated, and in January, 1736, he received 
 the degree of B.A. After this he went to 
 York, where his uncle Dr. Jaques Sterne 
 resided, and by the interest of this relative he 
 was presented with the living of Sutton. At 
 York he made the acquaintance of the lady 
 whom he married in 1741. After his mar- 
 riage his uncle also procured him the pre- 
 bendary of York, " but," says Sterne, " he 
 quarrelled with me afterwai'ds, because I 
 would not write paragraphs in the newspaper; 
 though he was a party man, I was not, and 
 detested such dirty work, thinking it beneath 
 me. From that period he became my bitterest 
 enemy." However, Sterne soon also acquired 
 
 by his wife's means the living of Stillington, 
 and " remained near twenty years at Sutton, 
 doing duty at both places." " I had then very 
 good health," he says. "Books, painting, 
 fiddling, and shooting were my amusements." 
 
 In 1760 he took a house at York, in which 
 he placed his family, while he himself went 
 up to London to publish the first two volumes 
 of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, 
 Gent. The success of these was almost enough 
 to tm-n his head ; and fortune still favouring 
 him he was the same year presented with the 
 curacy of Coxwold, " a sweet retirement in com- 
 parison of Sutton." Hei-e he resided for some 
 years at Shandy Hall in the village, and here 
 also he finished his Tristram Shandy and other 
 works. In 1 762 he went to France, the outcome 
 of his journey thither being the Sentimental 
 Journey. In 1764 we find him at Montpellier, 
 where his physicians almost poisoned him with 
 " what they call bouillons refraichissants; it is 
 a cock flayed alive and boiled with poppy 
 seeds, then pounded in a mortar, afterwards 
 passed through a sieve. There is to be one 
 crawfish in it, and I was gi-avely told it 
 must be a male one ; a female would do me 
 more hurt than good." In the summer of 
 1767 the Sentimental Journey was wi-itten at 
 Coxwold, and about the end of the year he 
 went up to Loudon to have it published. By 
 this time the disease with which he had been 
 afflicted for some time, consumption of the 
 lungs, took a firmer hold of him. However, 
 he still kept up his spirits and visited his 
 friends as usual, being no way frightened at 
 the approach of death. He also wrote sevend 
 lettei-s to his beloved daughter, in a vein 
 which shows the weightier side of liis char- 
 acter, and proves him to have been, not a 
 mere jester, but a true philosopher, who fre- 
 quently, like Figaro, made haste to laugh lest 
 he should be forced to cry. These letters she 
 published in three volumes, with a short auto- 
 biography of her father, in 1775. On the 18th 
 March, 1768, after a short struggle his spirit 
 parted from his worn-out body at his lodgings 
 in Bond Street. 
 
 Sterne's works were published in the fol- 
 lowing order: — The Case of Elijah and the 
 Widow of Zarephath Considered, a sermon, 
 1747; The Abuses oj Conscience, a sermon,
 
 122 
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 1750; Tristram Shandy, vols. i. ii. 1759; iii. iv. 
 1761; V. vi. 1762; vii. viii. 1765; ix. 1767; 
 Sermons, vols. i. ii. 1760; iii. iv. v. vi. 1766; 
 and A Sentimental Journey, 1768. His other 
 and lesser works appeared after his death. In 
 1808 his complete works, with life and plates, 
 by Stothard and Thurston, were published. 
 
 Sterne's great work Tristram Shandy has 
 drawn forth very opposite opinions from 
 good authorities. " If I were requested to 
 name the book of all others which com- 
 bined wit and humour under their highest 
 appearance of levity with the profoundest 
 wisdom, it would be Tristram Shandy," says 
 Leigh Hunt. " At present nothing is talked 
 of, nothing admired, but what I cannot help 
 calling a very insipid and tedious performance," 
 says Horace Walpole : " it is a kind of novel 
 called The Life and Opinions of Tristram 
 Shandy, the great humour in which consists 
 in the whole narration going backward. It 
 makes one smile two or three times at the be- 
 ginning, but in recompense makes one yawn 
 for two hours. The characters are tolerably 
 kept up, but the humour is for ever attempted 
 and missed." This extraordinary work begins 
 with a relation of the birth of Tristram 
 Shandy and the circumstances connected with 
 it. His father and his uncle Toby are char- 
 acters in whom "he has managed to oppose 
 with equal felicity and originality," says Haz- 
 litt, " pure intellect and pure good nature." 
 Uncle Toby is a simple-minded Christian 
 gentleman, and his servant Corporal Trim a 
 man both good and honest, but with one fault 
 — he must give advice. The baptism of 
 Tristram is signalized by a blunder of the 
 maid Susannah, by which the child is so 
 named instead of Trismegistus, as his father 
 had intended. Dr. Slop and Yorick are both 
 inimitable creations, and "the story of Le 
 Fevre," says Hazlitt, "is perhaps the finest 
 in the English language;" and for Uncle 
 Toby he says, " of his bowling-green, his 
 sieges, and his amours, who would think any- 
 thing amiss?" The Widow Wadman, in her 
 determined siege of Uncle Toby, at length 
 overreaching herself by her curiosity, shows 
 that Sterne had rather a low estimate of hu- 
 man nature in women of the Wadman type. 
 
 As to Sterne's position as a writer there have 
 been many acrimonious debates, but even his 
 greatest enemies acknowledge him possessed 
 of both wit and humour, a wonderfully vivid 
 style, and a power of reading and depicting 
 character far beyond that of any writer of his 
 day. As to his satirical powers all are not so 
 
 well agreed, and the sentimental portions of 
 his works have been frequently spoken of as 
 affectations and hypocrisies. There can be no 
 doubt that his position as a minister has been 
 the cause of much hurt to liis fame as an 
 author, many people not liking the combina- 
 tion of preacher with wit and humourist. We 
 are firmly persuaded that had he been a lay- 
 man his fame would stand much higher to-day 
 than it does, and that many pieces of bitter 
 biography written concerning him would never 
 have appeared. Garrick, who knew him well, 
 wrote the following epitajih for him: — 
 
 ' ' Shall pride a heap of sculptured marble raise, 
 Some worthless, unmourn'd, titled fool to praise ; 
 And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn 
 Where genius, wit, and humour sleep ^^•ith Sterne?''] 
 
 WIDOW WADMAN' S EYE. 
 
 (FROM "TRISTRAM SHANDY.") 
 
 I am half distracted, Captain Shandy, said 
 Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric hand- 
 kerchief to her left eye, as she approached the 
 door of my uncle Toby's sentry-box ; a mote, 
 — or sand,^ — or something, — I know not what, 
 has got into this eye of mine ; — do look into 
 it: — it is not in the white. 
 
 In saying which Mrs. Wadman edged her- 
 self close in beside my uncle Toby, and squeez- 
 ing herself down upon the corner of his bench, 
 she gave him an opportunity of doing it with- 
 out rising up. — Do look into it, said she. 
 
 Honest soul ! thou didst look into it with as 
 much innocency of heart as ever child looked 
 into a raree-show-box ; and 'twere as much a 
 sin to have hurt thee. 
 
 If a man will be peeping of his own accord 
 into things of that natui'e, I've nothing to say 
 to it. 
 
 My uncle Toby never did : and I will an- 
 swer for him that he would have sat quietly 
 upon a sofa from June to January (wliich, you 
 know, takes in both the hot and cold mouths) 
 with an eye as fine as the Thracian Rhodope's 
 beside him, without being able to teU whether 
 it was a black or a blue one. 
 
 The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to 
 look at one at all. 
 
 'Tis surmounted. And 
 
 I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous 
 in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it, — 
 looking, — and looking, — then rubbing his eyes, 
 —and looking again, with twice the good-
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 123 
 
 nature that ever Galileo looked for a spot in 
 the sun. 
 
 In vain! foi-, Ijy all the powera which ani- 
 mate the organ — Widow Wadman's left eye 
 shines this moment as lucid as her right; - 
 there is neither mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor 
 chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque matter 
 floating in it. — There is nothing, my dear 
 paternal uncle ! but one lambent delicious fire, 
 furtively shooting out from every part of it, 
 in all directions into thine. 
 
 If thou lookest, uncle Tol)y, in search of this 
 mote one moment longer, tliou art undone. 
 
 I protest, madam, said my uncle Toby, I 
 can see nothing whatever in your eye. 
 
 — It is not in the white, said Mrs. Wadman. 
 — My uncle Toby looked with might and main 
 into the pupil. 
 
 Now, of all the eyes which ever were created, 
 from your own, madam, up to those of Venus 
 herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair 
 of eyes as ever stood in a head, there never 
 was an eye of them all so fitted to rob my uncle 
 Toby of his rejaose as the very eye at which 
 he was looking. It was not, madam, a rolling 
 eye, — a romping, or a wanton one; — nor wa.s 
 it an eye sparkling, petulant, or imperious — 
 of high claims and terrifying exactions, which 
 would have curdled at once that milk of human 
 nature of which my uncle Toby was made up ; 
 ■ — but 'twas an eye full of gentle salutations, — 
 and soft responses, — speaking, — not like the 
 trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ, in which 
 many an eye I talk to, holds coarse converse, 
 but whispering soft, — like the last low accents 
 of an expiring saint, — "How can you live 
 comfortless, Captain Shandy, and alone, with- 
 out a bosom to lean your head on, — or trust 
 your cares to?" 
 
 It was an eye — 
 
 But I shall be in love with it myself, if I 
 say another word about it. 
 
 It did my uncle Toby's business. 
 
 THE BASTILE r. LIBERTY. 
 
 (from "a sentimental jouuney.") 
 
 — And here, I know, Eugeuius, thou wilt 
 smile at the remembrance of a short dialogue 
 which passed betwixt us, the moment I was 
 going to set out. — I must tell it here. 
 
 Eugenius, knowing that I was as little 
 subject to be overburthened with money as 
 
 thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate 
 me how much 1 had taken care for? Upon 
 telling him the exact sum, Eugenius shook 
 his head and said it would not do ; so pulled 
 out his purse, in order to empty it into mine. 
 I've enough, in conscience, Eugenius, said 
 I. Indeed Yorick, you have not, replied 
 Eugenius; I know France and Italy better 
 than you. But you don't consider, Eugenius, 
 said I, refusing his offer, that before I have 
 been three days in Paris, I shall take care to 
 say or do something or other for which I shall 
 get clapped up into the Bastile, and that I 
 shall live there a coujile of months entirely at 
 the King of France's expense. I beg pardon, 
 said Eugenius, drily ; really, I had forgot that 
 resource. 
 
 Now the event I had treated gaily came 
 seriously to my door. 
 
 Is it folly, or noyichalanee, or philosophy, or 
 pertinacity ;• — or what is it in me, that, after 
 all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and 
 I was quite alone, I could not bring down my 
 mind to think of it otherwise than I had then 
 spoken of it to Eugenius? 
 
 — And as for the Bastile — the teiTor is in 
 the word. — Make the most of it you can, said 
 I to myself, the Bastile is but another word 
 for a tower ; — and a tower is but another word 
 for a house you can't get out of. — Mercy on 
 the gouty ! for they are in it twice a year. — 
 But with nine livres a day, and pen and ink 
 and paper and patience, albeit a man can't get 
 out, he may do very well within,^ — at least for 
 a month or six weeks ; at the end of which, if 
 he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, 
 and he comes out a better and wiser man than 
 he went in. 
 
 I had some occasion (I forget what) to step 
 into the court-yard, as I settled this account; 
 and remember I walked down stairs in no 
 small triuni])!! with the conceit of my reason- 
 ing. — Beshrcw the sombre pencil! said I, 
 vauntingly — for I envy not its power, which 
 paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly 
 a colouring. The mind sits temfied at the 
 objects she has magnified herself, and black- 
 ened; reduce them to their proper size and 
 hue, she overlooks them. 'Tis true, said I, 
 correcting the proposition — the Bastile is not 
 an evil to be despised. But strip it of its 
 towers — fill up the foss — unbarricade the 
 doors — call it simply a confinement, and sup- 
 pose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper — and not 
 of a man, which holds you in it — the evQ 
 vanishes, and you bear the other half without 
 complaint.
 
 124 
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 I was interrupted iu the hey-day of tliis 
 soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of 
 a child, which complained " it could uot get 
 out." — I looked up and down the passage, and, 
 seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went 
 out without further attention. 
 
 In my return back through the passage, I 
 heard the same words repeated twice over; 
 and, looking up, I saw it wjis a starling hung 
 in a little cage. " I can't get out — I can't get 
 out," said the starling. 
 
 I stood looking at the bird ; and to every 
 person who came through the passage, it ran 
 fluttei-ing to the side towards which they 
 approached it, with the same lamentation of 
 its captivity, — " I can't get out," said the star- 
 ling. God help thee ! said I, — but I'll let 
 thee out, cost what it will ; so I turned about 
 the cage to get the door : it was twisted and 
 double twisted so fast with wire there was no 
 getting it open without pulling the cage to 
 pieces. — I took both hands to it. 
 
 The bird flew to the place where I was 
 attempting his deliverance, and, thrusting his 
 head through the trellis, pressed his breast 
 against it, as if impatient. I fear, poor crea- 
 ture, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. 
 " No," said the starling ; " I can't get out — I 
 can't get out." 
 
 I vow I never had my affections more ten- 
 derly awakened ; nor do I remember an inci- 
 dent in my life where the dissipated spirits, 
 to which my reason had been a bubble, were 
 so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the 
 notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were 
 they chanted, that in one moment they over- 
 threw all my systematic reasonings upon the 
 Bastile ; and I heavdy walked up stairs, un- 
 saying every word I had said iu going down 
 them. 
 
 Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, 
 said I, still thou art a bitter draught ! and, 
 thou'di thousands in all ages have been made 
 to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on 
 that account. — 'Tis thou, thrice sweet and 
 gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, 
 whom all, in ])ublic or in private, worship, 
 whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, 
 till Nature herself shall change. No tint of 
 words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor cliymic 
 power turn thy sceptre into iron ; — with thee, 
 to smile ujjon him as he eats his crust, the 
 swain is happier than his monarch, from 
 whose court thou art exiled. — Gracious Hea- 
 ven ! cried I, kneeling down upon tlie last 
 step but one in my ascent, grant me but 
 health, thou gi'eat Bestower of it, and give 
 
 me but this fair goddess as my companion,- 
 and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good 
 unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads 
 which ai-e aching for them ! 
 
 THE STORY OF IcORICK. 
 
 (FROM "TRISTRAM SHANDY.") 
 
 Yorick was this parson's name, and, what 
 is very remarkable in it (as appears from a 
 most ancient account of the family, wrote upon 
 strong vellum, and now in perfect preserva- 
 tion), it had been exactly so spelt for near — 
 I was within an ace of saying nine hundred 
 years ;— but I would not shake my credit in 
 telling an improbable trvith — however indis- 
 putable iu itself ; — and, therefore, I shall con- 
 tent myself with only saying — It had been 
 exactly so sj^elt, without the least variation or 
 transposition of a single letter, for I do not 
 know how long ; which is more than I would 
 venture to say of one half of the best sui-names 
 in the kingdom ; which, in a course of years, 
 have generally undergone as many chops and 
 changes as their ownei-s. — Has this been 
 owing to the pride, or to the shame, of the 
 respective proprietors? — In honest truth, I 
 think sometimes to the one and sometimes to 
 the other, just as the temptation has wrought. 
 But a villainous affair it is, and will one day 
 so blend and confound us altogether that no 
 one shall be able to stand up and swear "That 
 his own gi-eat-grandfather was the man who 
 did either this or that." 
 
 This evil has been sufficiently fenced against 
 by the prudent care of the Yorick family, and 
 their religious preservation of these records I 
 quote; which do farther inform us that the 
 family was originally of Danish extraction, 
 and had been transplanted into England as 
 early as in the reign of Horwendilus, king of 
 Denmark, in whose court, it seems, an ancestor 
 of this Mr. Yorick, and from whom he was 
 lineally descended, held a considerable post to 
 the day of his death. Of what nature this 
 considerable post was this record saith not — 
 it only adds that, for near tw^o centuries, it 
 had been totally abolished as altogether un- 
 necessary, not only in that court, but in every 
 other court of the Christian world. 
 
 It has often come into my head that this 
 post could be no other than that of the king's 
 chief jester;— and that Hamlet's Yorick, in 
 our Shakspere, many of whose plays, you know,
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 125 
 
 are founded upon authenticated facts, was 
 certainly the very man. 
 
 I have not the time to look into Saxo- 
 Grammaticus's Danish history to know the 
 certainty of this; — but, if you have leisure, 
 and can easily get at the book, you may do it 
 full as well yourself. 
 
 I had just time, in my travels through Den- 
 mark with Mr. Noddy's eldest son, whom, in 
 the year 1741, I accompanied as governor, 
 riding along with him at a prodigious rate 
 through most pai'ts of Eui-ope, and of which 
 original journey, perfonued by us two, a most 
 delectable narrative will be given in the jjro- 
 gress of this work ; I had just time, I say, and 
 that was all, to prove the truth of an observa- 
 tion made by a long sojourner in that country 
 — namely, "That nature was neither very 
 lavish, nor was she was very stingy, in her 
 gifts of genius and capacity to its inhabitants; 
 — but, like a discreet parent, was modex'ately 
 kind to them all; observing such an equal 
 tenour in the distribution of her favours as to 
 bring them, in those points, pretty near to a 
 level with each other; so that you will meet 
 with few instances in that kingdom of refined 
 parts, but a great deal of good plain household 
 understanding, amongst all ranks of people, 
 of which everybody has a share;" — which is, 
 I think, very right. 
 
 With us, you see, the case is quite different: 
 — we are all ups and downs in this matter ; — 
 you are a gi-eat genius; — or, 'tis fifty to one, 
 sir, you are a great dunce and a blockhead; — 
 not that there is a total want of intermediate 
 steps; — no, — we are not so irregular as that 
 comes to ; — but the two extremes are more 
 common, and in a gi-eater degree, in tliis 
 unsettled island, where Nature, in her gifts 
 and dispositions of this kind, is most whimsi- 
 cal and capricious ; Fortune hei-self not being 
 more so in the bequest of her goods and chat- 
 tels than she. 
 
 This is all that ever staggered my faith in 
 regai'd to Yorick's extraction, who, by what I 
 can remember of him, and by all the accounts 
 I could ever get of him, seemed not to have 
 had one single drop of Danish blood in his 
 whole crasis — in nine hundred years it might 
 possibly have all run out : — I will not philoso- 
 phize one moment with you about it; for, 
 happen how it would, the fact was this, — that, 
 instead of that cold phlegm and exact regu- 
 larity of sense and humours you would have 
 looked for in one so extracted — he was, on the 
 contrary, as mercurial and sublimated a com- 
 position — as heteroclite a creature in all his 
 
 declensions — with as much life and whim, and 
 gaite de cceur about him, as the kindliest cli- 
 mate could have engendered and put together. 
 With all this sail poor Yorick carried not one 
 ounce of ballast ; he was utterly unpractised 
 in the world; and, at the age of twenty-six, 
 knew just about as well how to steer his 
 course in it as a romping, unsuspicious girl of 
 thirteen : so that upon his first setting out, 
 the brisk gale of his sj)irits, as you will ima- 
 gine, ran him foul ten times in a day of some- 
 body's tackling; and as the grave and more 
 slow-paced were oftenest in his way, you may 
 likewise imagine it was witli such he had 
 generally the ill-luck to get the most entangled. 
 For aught I know, there might be some mix- 
 ture of unlucky wit at the bottom of such 
 fracas: — for, to speak the truth, Yorick had 
 an invincible dislike and oj)position in his 
 nature to gravity; — not to gravity as such: — 
 for, where gravity was wanted, he would be 
 the most grave or serious of mortal men for 
 days and weeks together; — but he was an 
 enemy to the aff'ectatiou of it, and declared 
 open war against it only as it a2:)peared a cloak 
 for ignorance or for folly : and then, whenever 
 it fell in his way, however sheltered and pro- 
 tected, lie seldom gave it much quarter. 
 
 Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he 
 would say that gravity was an arrant scoun- 
 drel, and he would add — of the most dan- 
 gerous kind too, — because a sly one; and that, 
 he verily believed, more honest, well-meaning 
 people were bubbled out of their goods and 
 money by it in one twelvemonth than by 
 pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. In 
 the naked temper which a merry heart dis- 
 covered, he would say there was no danger — 
 but to itself: — whereas the very essence of 
 gravity was design, and consequently deceit : 
 —it was a taught trick to gain credit of the 
 world for more sense and knowledge than a 
 man was worth; and that, with all its preten- 
 sions, it was no better, but often woi-se, than 
 what a French wit had long ago defined it, 
 viz. A mysteriov,s carnage of the body to cover 
 the defects of the mind; — which definition of 
 gravity Yorick, with great imprudence, would 
 say deserved to be written in lettei-s of gold. 
 
 But, in plain truth, he was a man unhack- 
 neyed and unpractised in the world, and was 
 altogether as indiscreet and foolish on every 
 other subject of discouree where policy is wont 
 to impress restraint. Yorick had no impres- 
 sion but one, and that was what arose from 
 the nature of the deed spoken of; which im- 
 pression he would usually translate into plain
 
 126 
 
 LAUEENCE STEENE. 
 
 English, without any periphrasis ; and too oft 
 -without much distinction of either person, 
 time, or place ; so that when mention was 
 made of a pitiful or an ungenerous proceeding 
 — he never gave himself a moment's time to 
 reflect who was the hero of the piece, what 
 his station, or how fai- he had power to hurt 
 him hereafter ; — but if it was a dirty action, 
 — without more ado, The man was a dirty 
 fellow, — and so on. And as his comments 
 had usually the ill fate to be terminated either 
 in a bon mot, or to be enhvened throughout 
 with some drollery or humour of expression, 
 it sjave win us to Yorick's indiscretion. In a 
 word, though he never sought, yet, at the 
 same time, as he seldom shunned, occasions of 
 saying what came uppermost, and without 
 much ceremony — he had but too many temp- 
 tations in life of scattering his wit and his 
 humour, his gibes and his jests, about him. — 
 They were not lost for want of gathering. 
 
 What were the consequences, and what was 
 Yorick's catastrophe thereupon, you will read 
 in the next chapter. 
 
 The mortgager and mortgagee diifer, the 
 one from the other, not more in length of purse 
 than the jester and jestee do in that of memory. 
 But in tins the comparison between them runs, 
 as the sclioliasts call it, upon all-four ; — which, 
 by the by, is upon one or two legs more than 
 some of the best of Homer's can pretend to; — 
 namely. That the one raises a sum, and the 
 other a laugh, at your expense, and thinks no 
 more about it. Interest, however, still runs 
 on in both cases; — the periodical or accidental 
 payments of it just serving to keep the 
 memory of the affair alive ; till, at length, in 
 some evil hour, pop comes the creditor upon 
 each, and by demanding principal upon the 
 spot, together with full interest to the very 
 day, makes them both feel the full extent of 
 their obligations. 
 
 As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a 
 thorough knowledge of human natiure, I need 
 not say more to satisfy him that my hero 
 could not go on at this rate without some 
 slight experience of these incidental mementos. 
 To speak the truth, he had wantonly involved 
 liimself in a multitude of small book-debts of 
 this stamp, which, notwithstanding Eugenius's 
 frequent advice, he too much disregarded; 
 thinking that, as not one of them was con- 
 tracted through any malignancy — but, on the 
 contrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere 
 jocundity of humour, they would all of them 
 be crossed out in course. 
 
 Eugenius would never admit this; and 
 would often tell him that, one day or other, 
 he would certainly be reckoned with; — and 
 he would often add — in an accent of sorrowful 
 apprehension ^ — to the uttermost mite. To 
 which Yorick, with his usual carelessness of 
 heart, would as often answer with a pshaw ! — 
 and if the subject was started in the fields, — 
 with a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it; 
 but, if close pent-up in the social chinniey- 
 corner, where the culprit was barricadoed in, 
 with a table and a couple of arm-chairs, and 
 could not so readily fly off in a tangent, 
 Eugenius would then go on with his lecture 
 upon discretion in words to this purpose, 
 though somewhat better put together : 
 
 " Trust me, dear Yoiick, this unwary plea- 
 santry of thine will sooner or later bring thee 
 into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit 
 can extricate thee out of. — In these sallies, too 
 oft, I see it happens that a person laughed at 
 considers himself in the light of a person in- 
 jured, with all the rights of such a situation 
 belonging to him; and when thou viewest him 
 in that light too, and reckonest up his friends, 
 his family, his kindred and allies — and dost 
 muster up, with them, the many recruits 
 which will list under him from a sense of 
 common danger — 'tis no extravagant arith- 
 metic to say that, for eveiy ten jokes, thou 
 hast got a hundred enemies; and till thou 
 hast gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps 
 about thine ears, and art half stung to death 
 by them, thou wilt never be convinced it 
 is so. 
 
 " I cannot suspect it, in the man whom I 
 esteem, that there is the least spur from spleen 
 or malevolence in these sallies. — I believe and 
 know them to be truly honest and sportive — 
 but consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot 
 distinguish this, and that knaves will not ; and 
 that thou knowest not what it is either to pro- 
 voke the one, or to make merry with the other; 
 — whenever they associate for mutual defence, 
 depend upon it, they will carry on the war in 
 such a manner against thee, my dear friend, 
 as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy 
 life too. 
 
 " Eevenge, from some baneful corner, shall 
 level a tale of dishonour at thee, which no in- 
 nocence of Iieai't, nor integrity of conduct, 
 sliall set right. — The fortunes of thy house 
 shall totter, — thy character, which led the way 
 to them, shall bleed on every side of it, — thy 
 faith questioned, — thy woi-ds belied, — thy wit 
 forgotten, — thy leai^ning trampled on. To wind 
 up the last scene of thy tragedy. Cruelty and
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 127 
 
 Cowardice, twin-ruffians, hired and set on by 
 Malice in the dark, shall strike together at all 
 tiiy iiitirinities and mistakes : -the best of us, 
 my dear lad, lie open there; — and trust me — 
 trust me, Yorick, when, to gratify a private 
 appetite, it is once resolved upon that an inno- 
 cent and a helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 
 'tis an easy matter to pick uj) sticks enough 
 from any thicket where it has strayed to make 
 a fire to offer it up with." 
 
 Yorick scarce ever heard this sad vaticina- 
 tion of his destiny read over to him but with 
 a tear stealing from his eye, and a promissory 
 look attending it that he was resolved, for the 
 time to come, to ride his tit with more sobriety. 
 — But, alas, too late! — a grand confederacy, 
 with * * * and * * * at the head of it, was 
 formed before the fii'st prediction of it. — The 
 whole plan of attack, just as Eugenius had 
 foreboded, was put in execution all at once, — 
 with so little mercy on the side of the allies, — 
 and so little suspicion on Yorick of what was 
 carrying on against him — that, when he 
 thought, good easy man ! — full surely, prefer- 
 ment was o'rij^ening, — they had smote his 
 root, — and then he fell, as many a worthy man 
 had fallen before him. 
 
 Yorick, however, fought it out, with all 
 imaginable gallantry, for some time ; till over- 
 powered by numbers, and worn out at length 
 by the calamities of the war — but more so by 
 the ungenerous manner in which it was carried 
 on, — he threw down the sword ; and, though 
 he kept up his spirits in appearance to the 
 last — he died, nevertheless, as was generally 
 thought, quite broken-hearted. 
 
 What inclined Eugenius to the same opinion 
 was as follows : — 
 
 A few hours before Yorick breathed his 
 last, Eugenius stept in with an intent to take 
 his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon 
 his drawing Yorick's cui-tain, and asking how 
 he felt himself, Yorick, looking up in his face, 
 took hold of his hand — and, after thanking 
 him for the many tokens of his friendship to 
 him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to 
 meet hereafter, he would thank him again 
 and again, — he told him he was within a few 
 hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever. 
 I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears 
 trickling down his cheeks, and with the ten- 
 derest tone that ever man spoke, — I hope not, 
 Yorick, said he. Yorick replied, with a look 
 up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius's hand, 
 and that was all ; — but it cut Eugenius to his 
 heart. Come, come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius, 
 wiping his eyes, and summoning up the man 
 
 within him, my dear lad, be comforted, — let 
 not all thy spirits and fortitude foisake thee 
 at this crisis, when thou most wautest them ; 
 — who knows what resources are in store, and 
 what the power of God may yet do for thee? 
 Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and 
 gently shook his head. For my part, con- 
 tinued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he uttered 
 the words, — I declare I know not, Yorick, 
 how to part with thee,— and would gladly 
 flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, cheering 
 up his voice, that there is still enough left of 
 thee to make a bishop, and that I may live 
 to see it. I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth 
 Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well ;us he 
 could with his left hand, — his right being stUl 
 grasped close in that of Eugenius,— I beseech 
 thee to take a view of my head. I see nothing 
 that ails it, replied Eugenius. Then, alas ! 
 my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you that it 
 is so bruised and misshapened with the blows 
 which * * * and * * *, and some others, 
 have so unhandsomely given me in the dark, 
 that I might say, with Sancho Panza, that 
 should I recover, and "mitres thereuj)on be 
 suffered to rain down from heaven as thick as 
 hail, not one of them would fit it." Yorick's 
 last breath was hanging upon his trembling 
 lips, ready to depart, as he uttered this ; — yet 
 still it was uttered with something of a Cer- 
 vantic tone ; — and, as he spoke it, Eugenius 
 could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted 
 up for a moment in his eyes — faint picture of 
 those flashes of his spirit which (as Shakspere 
 said of his ancestoi') were wont to set the table 
 in a roar ! 
 
 Eugenius was convinced from this that the 
 heail of his friend was broken ; he squeezed 
 his hand — and then walked softly out of the 
 room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed 
 Eugenius with his eyes to the door;— he then 
 closed them, — and never opened them more. 
 
 He lies buried in a corner of his churchyard, 
 
 in the parish of , under a plain marble 
 
 slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of 
 his executoi-s, laid upon his grave, with no 
 more than these three words of inscription, 
 serving both for his epitaph and elegy : 
 
 ^las, poor |)orirli! 
 
 Ten times in a day has Yorick's ghost the 
 
 consolation to hear his monumental inscription 
 
 read over, with such a variety of plaintive 
 
 ! tones as denote a general pity and esteem for 
 
 I him — a footway crossing the churchyai'd close
 
 128 
 
 LAUEENCE STEENE. 
 
 by the side of his grave, — not a passenger goes 
 by without stopping to cast a look upon it, — 
 and sighing, as he walks on, 
 
 Alas, poor YOEICK! 
 
 THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 
 
 (from "TRISTRAM SHANDY.") 
 
 It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked 
 the ashes out of his third pipe that Corporal 
 Trim returned from the inn, and gave him 
 the following account : — 
 
 — I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of 
 being able to bring back your honour any 
 kind of intelligence concerning the poor sick 
 Lieutenant. — Is he in the army, then] said my 
 uncle Toby. — I'U tell your honour, replied the 
 Corporal, everything straight forwards, as I 
 learnt it. — Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, 
 said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee 
 till thou hast done ; so sit down at thy ease. 
 Trim, in the window-seat, and begin thy story 
 again. — The Corporal made his old bow, which 
 generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak 
 it, Your honour is good: — and having done 
 that, he sat down, as he was ordered, and 
 began the story to my uncle Toby over again 
 in pretty near the same words. 
 
 I desi^aired at first, said the Corporal, of 
 being able to bring back any intelligence to 
 your honour, about the Lieutenant and his 
 son; — for, when I asked where his servant 
 was, from whom I made myself sure of know- 
 ing everything which was proper to be asked, 
 — [That's a right distinction. Trim, said my 
 uncle Toby] — I was answered, an' please your 
 honour, that he had no servant with him ; 
 that he had come to the inn with hired horses, 
 which, upon finding himself unable to proceed 
 (to join, I suppose, the regiment), he had dis- 
 missed the morning after he came. — If I get 
 better, my dear, said he, as he gave his pui-se 
 to his son to pay the man, we can hire horses 
 thence. — But alas! the poor gentleman will 
 never go hence, said the landhidy to me, for I 
 heard the death-watch all night long; and, 
 when he dies, the youth, his son, will cer- 
 tainly die with him, for he is broken-hearted 
 already. 
 
 I was hearing this account, continued the 
 Corporal, when the youth came into the kit- 
 chen, to order the thin toast the landlord 
 spoke of :— But I will do it for my father my- 
 self, said the youth. — Pray let me save you 
 
 the trouble, young gentleman, said I, taking 
 up a fork for the purpose, and ofi'ering him 
 my chair to sit down upon by the fire, whilst 
 I did it. — I believe sir, said he, very modestly, 
 I can please him best myself. — I am sure, said 
 I, his honour will not like the toast the worse 
 for being toasted by an old soldier. — The 
 youth took hold of my hand, and instantly 
 burst into tears. — Poor youth ! said my uncle 
 Toby ; he has been bred up from an infant in 
 the army ; and the name of a soldier. Trim, 
 sounded in his ears like the name of a friend ! 
 — I wish I had him here. 
 
 ■ — I never, in the longest march, said the 
 Corporal, had so great a mind for my dinner, 
 as I had to cry with him for company. What 
 could be the matter with me, an' please your 
 honour? — Nothing in the world, Trim, said 
 my uncle Toby, blowing his nose, but that 
 thou art a good-natured fellow. 
 
 — When I gave him the toast, continued 
 the Corporal, I thought it was proper to tell 
 him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and that 
 your honour (though a stranger) was extremely 
 concerned for his father; and that if there 
 was anything in your house or cellar — [And 
 thou might'st have added my purse, too, said 
 my uncle Toby] — he was heartily welcome to 
 it. — He made a very low bow (which was 
 meant to your honour) but no answer ; — for 
 his heart was full ; — so he went up stairs with 
 the toast. — I warrant you, my dear, said I, as 
 I opened the kitchen-door, your father will be 
 well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking 
 a pipe by the kitchen fire ; but said not a 
 word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. — I 
 thought it wrong, added the Corporal. — I 
 think so too, said my uncle Toby. 
 
 —When the Lieutenant had taken his glass 
 of sack and toast, he felt himself a little 
 x-evived, and sent down into the kitchen to 
 let me know that, in about ten minutes, he 
 should be glad if I would step up staire. — I 
 believe, said the landlord, he is going to say 
 his prayers ; for there was a book laid upon 
 the chair by his bed-side, and, as I shut the 
 door, I saw his son take up a cushion. 
 
 — I thought, said the Curate, that you 
 gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said 
 your prayers at all. — I heard the poor gentle- 
 man say his prayere last night, said the land- 
 lady, very devoutly, and with my own eara, 
 or I could not have believed it. — Are you sure 
 of it? replied the Curate. — A soldier, an' 
 please your reverence, said I, prays as often 
 (of his own accord) as a parson ; and when he 
 is fighting for his king, and for his own life,
 
 LAURENCE STERNE. 
 
 129 
 
 and for his honour too, he has the most re;uson 
 to pray to God of any one in the wliole world. 
 — 'Twas well said of thee, Trim, said my uncle 
 Toby.— But when a soldier, said I, an' please 
 your reverence, has been standing for twelve 
 hours together in the trenches, up to his knees 
 in cold water — or engaged, said I, for months 
 together in long and dangerous marches; — 
 harassed, perhaj^s, in his rear to-day ; — harass- 
 ing others to-morrow; — detached here;— coun- 
 termanded there ; — resting this night out 
 upon his arms ; — beat up in his shirt the 
 next; — benumbed in his joints; — perhaps 
 without straw in his tent to kneel on ; — he 
 must say his prayers how and when he can. — I 
 believe, said I,— for I was piqued, quoth the 
 Corporal, for the reputation of the army — I 
 believe, an' please your reverence, said I, that 
 when a soldier gets time to pray — he prays as 
 heartily as a parson — though not with ail his 
 fuss and hypocrisy. — Thou shouldest not have 
 said that. Trim, said my uncle Toby — for 
 God only knows who is a hypocrite, and 
 who is not. At the gi'eat and general review 
 of us all, Corporal, at the day of judgment 
 (and not till then) it will be seen who have 
 done their duties in this world, and who 
 have not; and we shall be advanced. Trim, 
 accordingly. — I hope we shall, said Trim. — It 
 is in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby ; and 
 1 will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean 
 time we may depend upon it, Trim, for our com- 
 fort, said my uncle Toby, that God Almighty 
 is so good and just a Governor of the world 
 that, if we have but done our duties in it, it 
 will never be inquired into whether we have 
 done them in a red coat or a black one. — I 
 hope not, said the Corjwral. — But go on, 
 Trim, said my uncle Toby, with thy story. — 
 
 When I went up, continued the Corporal, 
 into the Lieutenant's room, which I did not 
 do till the expiration of the ten minutes, — he 
 was lying in his bed, with his head raised 
 upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pil- 
 low, and a clean white cambric handkerchief 
 beside it. The youth was just stooping down 
 to take up the cushion, upon which I supposed 
 he had been kneeling; — the book was laid 
 upon the bed ; — and, as he arose, in taking up 
 the cushion with one hand, he reached out his 
 other to take it away at the same time. — Let 
 it remain there, my dear, said the Lieuten- 
 ant. — 
 
 He did not oflFer to speak to me till I had 
 
 walked up close to his bed-side. — If you are 
 
 Captain Shandy's servant, said he, you must 
 
 present my thanks to your master, with my 
 Vol. I. 
 
 little boy's thanks along with them, for his 
 coui-tesy to me. If he was of Leven's said 
 the Lieutenant. — I told him your honour was. 
 — Then, said he, I served three campaigns 
 with him in Flanders, and remember him ; 
 but 'tis most likely, as I had not the honour 
 of any acquaintance with him, that he knows 
 nothing of me. You will tell liim, however, 
 that the peraon his good-nature luus laid under 
 obligations to him is one Le Fevre, a Lieu- 
 tenant in Angus's; — but he knows me not, 
 said he, a second time, musing; possibly he 
 may my story, added he. — Pray tell the Cap- 
 tain I was the ensign at Breda whose wife 
 was most unfortunately killed with a musket- 
 shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent. — I 
 remember the story, an' please your honour, 
 said I, very well. — Do you so? said he, wip- 
 ing his eyes with his handkerchief, — then well 
 may I. — In saying tliis, he drew a little ring 
 out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a 
 black riband about his neck, and kissed it 
 twice. — Here, Billy, said he; the boy flew 
 across the room to the bed-side, and falling 
 down upon his knee, took the ring in his 
 hand, and kissed it too, then kissed his 
 father, and sat down upon the bed and wept. 
 
 I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep 
 sigh, I wish, Trim, I was asleep. 
 
 Your honour, replied the Corporal, is too 
 much concerned — Shall I pour your honour 
 out a glass of sack to your pipe ? — Do, Trim, 
 said my imcle Toby. — 
 
 I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing 
 again, the story of the ensign and his wife, 
 with a circumstance his modesty omitted ; — 
 and particularly well that he, as well as she, 
 upon some account or other (I forget what) 
 was universally pitied by the whole regiment ; 
 — but finish the story thou art upon. — 'Tis 
 finished already, said the Corporal, — for I 
 could stay no longer; so wished his honour 
 good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off 
 the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the 
 stairs ; and, as we went down together, told 
 me that they had come from Ireland, and 
 were on their route to join the regiment in 
 Flanders. — But alas ! said the Corporal, the 
 Lieutenant's last day's march is over ! — Then 
 what is to become of his poor boy ? cried my 
 uncle Toby. 
 
 It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour, 
 
 — though I tell it only for the sake of those 
 
 who, when cooped in betwixt a natural and a 
 
 positive law, know not, for their souls, which 
 
 way in the world to turn themselves, — that, 
 
 9
 
 130 
 
 LAUKENCE STERNE. 
 
 notwithstanding my uncle Toby was warmly 
 engaged at that time in carrying on the siege 
 of Dendermond, parallel with the Allies, who 
 pressed theirs on so vigorously that they scarce 
 allowed him time to get his dinner: — that 
 nevertheless he gave up Dendermond, though 
 he had already made a lodgment upon the 
 counterscarp; — and bent his whole thoughts 
 towards the private distresses at the inn ; and, 
 except that he ordered the garden gate to be 
 bolted up, by which he might be said to have 
 turned the siege of Dendermond into a block- 
 ade — he left Dendermond to itself — to be 
 relieved or not by the French king, as the 
 French king thought good; and only con- 
 sidered how he himself should relieve the poor 
 Lieutenant and his son. 
 
 — That kind Being, who is a friend to the 
 friendless, shall recompense thee for this — 
 
 Thou hast left this matter short, said my 
 vmcle Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting 
 him to bed, — and I will tell thee in what, 
 Trim. — .In the first place, when thou madest 
 an offer of my services to Le Fevre, — as sick- 
 ness and travelling are both expensive, and 
 thou knewest he was but a poor lieutenant, 
 with a son to subsist as well as himself out of 
 his pay, that thou didst not make an offer to 
 him of my pui-se ; because, had he stood in 
 need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as 
 welcome to it as myself. — Your honour knows, 
 said the Corporal, I had no orders. — True, 
 quoth my uncle Toby, tliou didst very right, 
 as a soldier — but certainly very wrong as a 
 man. 
 
 In the second jilace, for which, indeed, thou 
 hast the same excuse, continued my uncle 
 Toby, — when thou offeredst him whatever was 
 in my house — thou shouldst have offered him 
 my house too. A sick brother-oihcer should 
 have the best quarters. Trim ; and if we had 
 him with us, we could tend and look to him. 
 Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim ; 
 and what with thy care of him, and the old 
 woman's, and his boy's, and mine togethei', we 
 might recruit him again at once, and set him 
 upon his legs. 
 
 In a fortnight or three weeks, added my 
 uncle Toby, smiling, he might mai'ch. — He 
 will never march, an' please your honour, in 
 this world, said the Corporal. — He will march, 
 said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side 
 of the bed with one shoe off. — An' please your 
 honour, said the Corporal, he will never march 
 but to his grave. — He shall march, cried ray 
 uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a 
 shoe on, though without advancing an inch, 
 
 he shall march to his regiment. — He cannot 
 stand it, said the Corporal. — He shall be sup- 
 ported, said my uncle Toby. — He'll drop at 
 last, said the Corporal, and what will become 
 of his boy? — He shall not drop, said my uncle 
 Toby, firmly. — A well-a-day ! do what we 
 can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, 
 the poor soul will die. — He shall not die, hy 
 G — , cried my uncle Toby. 
 
 — The accusing spirit, which flew up to Hea- 
 ven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he 
 gave it in; — and the recording angel, as he 
 wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, 
 and blotted it out for ever. 
 
 The sun looked bright the morning after, 
 to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and 
 his afflicted son's ; the hand of death pressed 
 heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could 
 the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle 
 — when my uncle Toby, who had risen up an 
 hour before his wonted time, entered the 
 Lieutenant's room, and, without preface or 
 apology, sat himself down upon the chair by 
 the bed-side, and opened the curtain in the 
 manner an old fi'iend and brother -officer 
 would have done it ; and asked him how he 
 did, — how ha had rested in the night, — what 
 was his complaint, — where was his pain, — and 
 what he could do to help him ; — and, with- 
 out giving him time to answer any one of 
 these enquiries, went on, and told him of the 
 little plan which he had been concerting with 
 the Corporal the night before for him. 
 
 — You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, 
 said my uncle Toby, to my house, — and we'll 
 send for a doctor to see what's the matter ; — 
 and we'll have an apothecary ; and the Cor- 
 poral shall be your nurse ; and I'll be your 
 servant, Le Fevre. — 
 
 Before my uncle Toby had half finished 
 the kind offers he was making to his father, 
 had the son insensibly pressed up close to his 
 knees, and had taken hold of the breast of 
 his coat, and was pulling it towards him. 
 The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which 
 were waxing cold and slow within him, and 
 were retreating to their last citadel, the 
 heart, rallied back, — the film forsook his eyes 
 for a moment ;— he looked up wistfully in my 
 uncle Toby's face ; — then cast a look upon his 
 boy ;— and that ligament, fine as it was — was 
 never broken ! — 
 
 Nature instantly ebb'd again ;— the film re- 
 turned to its place ; — the pulse fluttered ; — 
 stopped ; — went on, — throbbed, — stopped.
 
 MY UNCLH TOBY SAT HIMSELF DOWiN UPON THE CHAIR 
 
 BY THE BEDSIDE
 
 PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 131 
 
 PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 Born 1719 — Died 1773. 
 
 . [Philip Francis, so well known as a translator 
 of Horace, was born in Dublin in 1719. His 
 father, tlie Rev. Jolm Francis, D.D., a man 
 of some ability, was for a time rector of St. 
 Mary's, Dublin, and afterwards Dean of Lis- 
 more. In due course young Philip entered and 
 graduated at Trinity College. After this he 
 took holy orders; and in 1750 removed to Eng- 
 land, where he set up an academy at Esher in 
 Surrey, in which, among other pupils, he had 
 his son, afterwards Sir Philip, and Gibbon the 
 celebrated historian. After a time, by the 
 influence of Lord Holland, he obtained the 
 rectory of Barrow in Suffolk, and, as a reward 
 for some literary support he had rendered the 
 government, he was appointed to the chap- 
 laincy of Chelsea Hospital. Two years after 
 his arrival in England appeared his first work 
 of any importance, Eugenia, a tragedy; and in 
 1754 this was followed by Constantine, a tra- 
 gedy. Both plays are carefully and correctly 
 written, but are wanting somewhat in the fire 
 of frenius. About this time he was a constant 
 visitor at Holland House, and was appointed 
 chaplain to Lady Holland. 
 
 In 1743 appeared his great work, which 
 still stands first among translations of Horace. 
 It was received not only with favour but en- 
 thusiasm by the whole learned and read- 
 ing world, and Dr. Johnson in speaking of it 
 said, " The lyrical part of Horace can never 
 be properly translated ; so much of the ex- 
 cellence is in the numbers and the expression. 
 Francis has done it the best. I'll take his, 
 five out of six, against them all." Soon after 
 this appeared his translation of Demosthenes, 
 which was also successful, but not to the same 
 extent as Horace. This was his last extant 
 work, for the rest of his life produced nothing 
 except political ephemera in the intei-est of 
 Henry Fox and his party, which of course are 
 not now recognizable, and we fear not of much 
 value if recognized. He was also one of the 
 editors of the daily Gazette in the pay of the 
 government, and in 1761 he was appointed rec- 
 tor of Chilham in Kent. He suftered severely 
 from palsy for several years before his death, 
 which took place at Bath, in March, 1773. 
 
 The most available edition of Francis's 
 Horace is that issued by A. & J. Valpy, in two 
 volumes, in the Family Classical Library.'] 
 
 HORACE'S EPISTLE to ARISTIUS FUSCUS 
 IN PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 To Fuscus, who in city sports delights, 
 A country hard with gentle greetings writes: 
 In this we diffev, but in all beside, 
 Like twin-born brothern, are our souls allied, 
 And as a pair of fondly constant doves. 
 What one dislikes the otlicr disapproves. 
 You keep the nest, I love the rural mead, 
 The brook, the mossy rock, and woody glade, 
 In short, I live and reign whene'er I fly 
 The joys you vaunt with rapture to the sky, 
 And like a slave from the priest's service fled, 
 I nauseate honey'd cakes, and long for bread. 
 
 Would you to nature's laws obedience yield; 
 Would you a house for health or pleasure build, 
 Where is there such a situation found 
 As where the country spreads its blessings round? 
 Where is the intemperate winter less severe? 
 Or, when the sun ascending fires the year. 
 Where breathes a milder zephyr to assuage 
 The Dog-star's fury or the Lion's rage? 
 Where do less envious cares disturb our rest? 
 Or are the fields, in nature's colours dress'd, 
 Less grateful to the smell, or to the sight, 
 Than the rich floor with inlaid marble bright? 
 Is water purer from the bursting lead, 
 Than gently murmuring down its native bed? 
 Among your columns, rich with various dyes. 
 Unnatural woods with awkward art arise: 
 You praise the house whose situation yields 
 An open prospect to the distant fields; 
 For Nature, driven out with proud disdain, 
 All-powerful goddess, will return again. 
 Return in silent triumph to deride 
 The weak attempts of luxury and pride. 
 
 The man who cannot, with judicious ej-e, 
 Discern the fleece that drinks the Tyrian dye 
 From the pale Latian; yet shall ne'er sustain 
 A loss so touching, of such heartfelt pain, 
 As he who can't, Avith sense of happier kind, 
 Distinguish truth from falsehood in the mind. 
 
 They who in fortune's smiles too much delight, 
 Shall tremble when the goddess takes her flight; 
 For if her gifts our fonder passions gain. 
 The frail possession we resign with pain. 
 
 Then fly from grandeur and the haughty great, 
 The cottage offers a secure retreat, 
 Where you may make that heartfelt bliss your 
 
 own. 
 To kings and favourites of kings unknown. 
 A lordly stag, arm'd with superior force,
 
 132 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Drove from their common field a vanquished horse, 
 Who for revenge to man liis strength enslaved, 
 Took up his rider, and the bit received; 
 But though he conquer'd in the martial strife, 
 He felt his rider's weight, and champed the bit 
 for life. 
 So he who poverty with horror views, 
 Nor frugal Nature's bounty knows to use, 
 Who sells his freedom in exchange for gold 
 (Freedom for mines of wealth too cheaply sold), 
 Shall make eternal servitude his fate. 
 
 And feel a haughty master's galling weight. 
 
 Our fortunes and our shoes are near allied, 
 Pinched in the strait, we stumble in the wide. 
 Cheerful and wise, your present lot enjoy. 
 And on my head your just rebukes employ. 
 If e'er, forgetful of my former self, 
 I toil to raise unnecessary pelf 
 Gold is the slave or tyrant of the soul, 
 Unworthy to command, it better brooks control. 
 
 These lines behind Vacuna's fane I penn'd. 
 Sincerely blessed, but that I want my friend. 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 BoBN 1729 — Died 1773. 
 
 [John Cuimingbam was the son of a well- 
 knowai wine merchant of Dublin, and was 
 born in that city in 1729. At a very early 
 age, indeed before he completed his twelfth 
 year, his poetical genius began to be apparent, 
 and he wrote several pieces which ajjpeared 
 in the Dublin papers. These displayed such 
 ability that he was soon a hero in at least 
 his own circle, and they ai-e yet occasionally 
 sung by the lower classes of Dublin and its 
 neighbourhood, though the name of the author 
 is unknown to the singer. At the age of 
 seventeen he produced a farce entitled Love in 
 a Mist, which was successful so far as Dublin 
 was concerned, and which Garrick is said to 
 have plagiarized to jjroduce his Ljjing Valet. 
 Before twenty Cunningham became an itiner- 
 ant player, in which occupation he passed many 
 years of his life. In his wanderings he be- 
 came closely attached to Newcastle-on-Tyue, 
 where lie had always been weU received, and 
 which he learned to speak of as his " Home." 
 Thither he I'etired after leaving the stage in 
 1763, and there he issued his volume of poems, 
 "chiefly pastoral," a style of composition in 
 which he excelled, and which he was encour- 
 aged to cultivate by Shenstone. The pastorals 
 have the delicate artificiality which belongs 
 to their species, and withal a true and pure 
 note of poetry. The book was successful, and 
 highly praised by competent judges. John- 
 son says of it, " His poems have peculiar 
 sweetness and elegance; his sentiments are 
 generally natural, and his language simple 
 and appropriate to his subject." After pro- 
 tracted suffering the poet died, September 
 18tli, 1773, in the forty-fourth year of his 
 age.] 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 In the barn the tenant cock, 
 Close to Partlet perched on high, 
 Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock), 
 Jocund that the morning's nigh. 
 
 Swiftly from the mountain's brow 
 Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire: 
 And the peeping sunbeam, now, 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 
 Philomel forsakes the thorn. 
 Plaintive where she prates at night. 
 And the lark, to meet the morn, 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 
 
 From the low-roofd cottage ridge 
 See the chatt'ring swallow spring; 
 Darting through the one-arched bridge, 
 Quick she dips her dappled wing. 
 
 Now the pine-tree's waving top 
 Gently greets the morning gale: 
 Kidlings, now, begin to crop 
 Daisies in the dewy dale. 
 
 From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd 
 (Restless till her task be done). 
 Now the busy bee's employ'd 
 Sipping dew before the sun. 
 
 Trickling tlirough the creviced rock 
 Where the limpid stream distils, 
 Sweet refreshment waits the flock 
 When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 Colin, for tlie promis'd corn 
 (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe), 
 Anxious hears the huntsman's horn 
 Boldly sounding, drown his pipe.
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 133 
 
 Sweet, — sweet the warbling tlirong 
 Ou the white embloHsom'd wpray! 
 Nature's universal song 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Fervid on the glitt'rini^ flood, 
 Now the noontide radiance glows : 
 Dropping o'er its infant bud, 
 Not a dewdrop's left the rose. 
 
 By the brook the shepiicrd dines; 
 From the fierce meridian heat 
 Sheltered by the branching pines, 
 Pendent o'er his grassy seat. 
 
 Now the flock forsakes the glade, 
 Where, uncheck'd, the sunbeams fall. 
 Sure to find a pleasing shade 
 By the ivy'd abbey wall. 
 
 Echo, iu her airy round. 
 O'er the river, rock, and hill. 
 Cannot catch a single sound 
 Save the clack of yonder mill. 
 
 Cattle court the zephyrs bland, 
 Where the streamlet wanders cool, 
 Or with languid silence stand 
 Midway in the marshy pool. 
 
 But from mountain, dell, or stream, 
 Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs. 
 Fearful lest the noontide beam 
 Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 
 
 Not a leaf has leave to stir. 
 Nature's lull'd — serene — and still; 
 Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur. 
 Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 
 
 Languid is the landscape round. 
 Till the fresh descending shower, 
 Grateful to the thirsty ground, 
 Kaises every fainting flower. 
 
 NoAV the hill — the hedge — is green, 
 Now the warbler's throat's in tune! 
 Blithsome is the verdant scene. 
 Brightened by the beams of noon! 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Now he hides behind the hill, 
 Sinking from a golden sky. 
 Can the pencil's mimic skill 
 Copy the refulgent dye ? 
 
 Trudging as the plowmen go 
 (To the smoking hamlet bound), 
 Giant-like their shadows grow, 
 licngthened o'er the level ground. 
 
 Where the rising forest spreads. 
 Shelter for the lordly dome. 
 To their high-built airy beds. 
 See the rooks returning home! 
 
 As the lark, with varied tune, 
 Carols to the evening loud, 
 Mark the mild resplendent moon 
 Breaking through a parted cloud! 
 
 Now the hermit howlet peeps 
 From the barn or twisted brake; 
 And the blue mist swiftly creeps. 
 Curling on the silver lake. 
 
 As the trout in speckled pride 
 Playful from its bosom springs, 
 To the banks a ruflled tide 
 Verges in successive rings. 
 
 Tripping through the silken grass, 
 O'er the path-divided dale, 
 Mark the rose-complexion'd lass. 
 With her well-poised milking-pail. 
 
 Linnets, with unnumber'd notes, 
 And the cuckoo bird with two. 
 Tuning sweet their mellow throats, 
 Bid the setting sun adieu. 
 
 O'er the heath the heifer strays 
 Free; — the furrow'd task is done, 
 Now the village windows blaze, 
 Burnished by the setting sun. 
 
 THE ANT AND THE CATEEPILLAR. 
 
 A KABLE. 
 
 As an Ant, of his talents superiorly vain. 
 Was trotting with consequence over the plain, 
 A Worm, in his progress remarkably slow, 
 Cry'd — "Bless your good worship wherever you 
 
 go; 
 I hope your great miglitiness won't take it ill, 
 I pay my respects with a hearty good-will." 
 With a look of contempt and impertinent pride, 
 "Begone, you vile reptile!" his antship replied; 
 "Go — go and lament your contemptible state, 
 But first— look at me — see my limbs how com- 
 plete! 
 I guide all my motions with freedom and ease, 
 Run backward and forward, and turn when 1 
 please :
 
 134 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Of Nature (grown weary) you shocking essay! 
 I spurn you thus from me — crawl out of my way. " 
 
 The reptile, insulted and vexed to the soul, 
 Crept onwards and hid himself close in his hole; 
 But Nature, determined to end his distress, 
 Soon sent him abroad in a Butterfly's dress. 
 
 Ere long the proud Ant, as repassing the road 
 (Fatigued from the harvest, and tugging his load), 
 The beau on a violet bank he beheld, 
 Whose vesture in glory a monarch's excell'd; 
 His plumage expanded — 'twas rare to behold 
 So lovely a mixture of purple and gold. 
 
 The Ant, quite amazed at a figure so gay, 
 Bow'd low with respect, and was trudging away. 
 "Stop, friend," says the Butterfly— "don't be 
 
 surprised, 
 I once was the reptile you spurn'd and despis'd; 
 But now I can mount, in the sunbeams I play. 
 While you must for ever drudge on in your way." 
 
 Moral. 
 
 A wretch, though to-day he's o'erloaded with 
 sorrow, 
 
 May soar above those that oppresa'd him — to- 
 morrow. 
 
 THE HOLIDAY GOWK 
 
 In holiday gown, and my new-fangled hat, 
 Last Monday I tript to the fair, 
 I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what, 
 Brisk Roger I guess'd would be there. 
 
 He woos me to marry whenever we meet. 
 There's honey sure dwells on his tongue: 
 He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet, 
 I'd wed — if I were not too young. 
 
 Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy 
 (The vixen would vain be his bride), 
 Some token she claim'd, either ribbon or toy, 
 And swore that she'd not be deny'd: 
 
 A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green; 
 Pert Susan was cruelly stung: 
 I hate her so much, that, to kill her with spleen, 
 I'd wed — if 1 were not too young. 
 
 He whispered such soft, pretty things in mine ear! 
 He flattered, he promised, and swore! 
 Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and gear. 
 That, trust me, — my pockets ran o'er: 
 
 Some ballads he bought me, the best he could 
 
 find. 
 And sweetly their burthen he sung; 
 
 Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty, and kind, 
 I'd wed — if I were not too young. 
 
 The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire 
 (Our cottage was distant a mile), 
 I rose to begone — Ro er bow'd like a squire. 
 And handed me over the stile: 
 
 His arm he threw round me — love laughed in his 
 
 eye, 
 He led me the meadows among. 
 There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh, 
 To wed — for 1 was not too young. 
 
 A PASTOEAL. 
 
 Her sheep had in clusters crept close by the 
 
 grove. 
 To hide from the rigours of day; 
 And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove. 
 Among the fresh violets lay: 
 A youngling, it seems, had been stole from its 
 
 dam 
 ('Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot). 
 That Corydon might, as he searched for his lamb, 
 Arrive at this critical spot. 
 
 As through the gay hedge for his lambkin he 
 
 peeps, 
 He saw the sweet maid with surprise; 
 "Ye gods, if so killing," he cried, "when she 
 
 sleeps, 
 I'm lost when she opens her eyes! 
 To tarry much longer would hazard my heart, 
 I'll onwards my lambkin to trace:" 
 In vain honest Corydon strove to depart. 
 For love had him nail'd to the place. 
 
 "Hush, hush'd be these birds, what a bawling 
 
 they keep," 
 He cried, "you're too loud on the spray. 
 Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's 
 
 asleep; 
 You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day: 
 How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet 
 
 maid! 
 Her cheek he mistakes for the rose; 
 I'd put him to death, if 1 was not afraid 
 My boldness would break her repose." 
 
 Young Phillis look'd up with a languishing smile, 
 
 " Kind shepherd," she said, "you mistake; 
 
 1 laid myself down just to rest me awhile, 
 
 But, trust me, have still been awake." 
 
 The shepherd took courage, advanc'd witli a bow, 
 
 He placed himself close by her side, 
 
 .\nd managed the matter, I cannot tell how, 
 
 But yesterday made her his bride.
 
 PATRICK DELANY. 
 
 135 
 
 PATRICK DELANY. 
 
 Born 1686 — Dikd 1768. 
 
 [Patrick Delany, D.D., celebrated as a wit 
 and man of learning, fit to sit side by side 
 with Swift and day, Pope and Steele, was 
 born of luunble parents in the year 1686. 
 His father was at firet a dome.stic in the house 
 of Sir John Reunel, an Irish judge, but after- 
 wards becoming a tenant farmer in a small 
 way, used every effort to have his son educated. 
 In this he succeeded, and had the satisfaction 
 of seeing his beloved Patrick at the proper 
 age enter as a sizai- in Trinity College. In 
 due course young Delany took the usual de- 
 grees, and wju? after a time chosen a fellow of 
 the college. Before this he had become ac- 
 quainted with Swift, who, with a strong recom- 
 mendation, introduced him to Lord Cai'teret 
 on that nobleman's arrival in Ireland as lord- 
 lieutenant. Lord Carteret soon became so 
 pleased with the charm of Delany's manner 
 and conversation that he had him almost 
 constantly at the castle. At this time his 
 fellowship and the fees of his pu2)ils brought 
 him in about XIOOO a year, but, being of a 
 hot temper, he got into a dispute in which 
 he took the weaker side, and wa.s forced to 
 apologize to the provost of the college. This 
 made his position irksome, and he would gladly 
 have accepted a place with less emolument. 
 In 1725 he was presented to the parish of 
 St. John, and a royal dispensation became 
 necessary to enable him to hold the benefice 
 along with his fellowship. Here the Arch- 
 bishop of Dublin and Primate Boulter, worked 
 on by his enemies, interfered, and the dispen- 
 sation was refused. However, in 1727 he 
 resigned his fellowship, and the university 
 presented him with a living in the north. Lord 
 Carteret promoted him to the chancelloi-ship 
 of Christ Church, and in 1730 gave him a 
 ])rebend in St. Patrick's Cathedral. 
 
 In 1729, a year before this last event, 
 Delany began a paper called The Tribune, 
 which was continvied for some twenty nuni- 
 l)ers. In 1731 he visited London to arrange 
 for the publication of his most important work. 
 Revelation Examined with Candour, the fii-st 
 volume of which appeared in 1732. Wliile in 
 London he married Mrs. Tenison, a widow 
 lady of his own country with a large fortune. 
 On his return to Dublin he showed his love 
 for the university by presenting its authorities 
 
 with a sum of money sufficient to enable them 
 to distribute £20 a year among the needier 
 students. In 1734 appeared the second volume 
 of his Revelation Examined, which was so well 
 received that a third edition had to be issued 
 before the end of 1735. In 1738 appeared his 
 most curious work, '^'■Reflections on Polygamy, 
 and the Encouragement given to that Practice 
 in the Scriptures of the Old Testament." His 
 next work was A n Historical A ccount of the Life 
 and Reign of David, King of Israel, the fii-st 
 volume of which appeared in 1740, and the 
 second and third in 1742. 
 
 In 1741 Delany's first wife died, and in 
 1743 he married Mrs. Pendarves, the charm- 
 ing and never-to-be-forgotten Mrs. Delany 
 of the Memoirs. In 1744 he was preferi'ed 
 to the Deanery of Down, and the same year 
 published sermons on the Social Duties of Life. 
 A second edition was called for in 1747, when 
 he added to the original fifteen sermons five 
 more on the Vices. In 1748 appeared his 
 pamphlet on the Divine Original of Tythes, 
 after the production of which he seems to have 
 rested for a time, as if its dialectic subtleties 
 had been rather much for him. He was drawn 
 from his retirement by the publication of the 
 Earl of Orrery's Remarks on the Life aiid 
 Writings of Swift, a work contemptible in point 
 of style, and in which the great dean was 
 assailed all through as if by one who wished 
 yet feared to strike. He immediately issued 
 a pamphlet, Critiques on Orrery^s Life of 
 Sivift, in defence of his friend, which was 
 highly successful, and in which a better idea 
 of the dean and his works can be obtained 
 than in any work previous to the capital life 
 by Sir Walter Scott. In this year (1754) he 
 published another volume of sermons, chiefly 
 practical. These were considered highly valu- 
 able, two of them on the folly, guilt, and ab- 
 surdity of duelling being frequently quoted 
 and reprinted. In 1757 he began a periodical 
 called The Humanist, which ended with the 
 fifteenth number, and in 1761 he published 
 several additional sermons and a tract entitled 
 An Humble Apology for Christian Orthodoxy. 
 In 1763, after the long interval of nearly 
 thirty years fi'om the appearance of the first 
 volume of Revelation Examined witlt Candour, 
 he completed and published the third and
 
 136 
 
 PATRICK DELANY. 
 
 final volume of that work. In 1766 he j^ub- 
 lished his last work, Eighteen Discourses, many 
 of which were republished in 1791 in a popular 
 work, entitled Family Lectures. In 1768 Dr. 
 Delany was at Bath for the benefit of his 
 health, and there, in May of that year, he died, 
 iu the eighty-third year of his age. 
 
 In private life Dr. Delany was remarkable 
 for the wit, simplicity, hospitality, and gen- 
 erosity of his character. Of liis works one 
 critic says that they are " too fanciful and 
 si^eculative to be useful to the cause of religion. 
 His style also," continues this critic, " was too 
 florid and declamatory, more likely to dazzle 
 than to convince." Another critic says that 
 the third volume of his great work exhibits 
 " numerous instances of the prevalence of im- 
 agination over judgment." Tlie same critic, 
 however, in speaking of his Life of David, 
 says that " it is an ingenious and learned per- 
 formance. It is written with spirit; there 
 are some curious and valuable criticisms in it, 
 and many of the remarks in answer to Boyle 
 are well founded." The work on revelation 
 is, however, still studied and esteemed; and 
 even if it were not, Delany deserves to be 
 remembered for Swift's saying that " he was 
 one of the very few within my knowledge on 
 whom an access of fortune hath made no 
 change." His wife, whom he regarded with 
 adoration, survived him twenty years.] 
 
 THE DUTIES OF A WIFE.^ 
 
 First, she is to love her husband, and that 
 upon the same principles, and for the very 
 same reason, that he is to love her. First, be- 
 cause they are one flesh; for this cause shall 
 a man leave father and mother and cleave 
 unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh. 
 And in truth, they are joined together upon 
 terms of as entire and thorough a communion 
 as if they were one soul and one body. And, 
 secondly, because their interests are in all 
 respects j)erfectly the same, which is the truest 
 foundation of friendship. The husband's hap- 
 piness naturally tends to make the wife happy 
 at the same time, and his misery to make her 
 miserable ; his riches make her rich ; and his 
 poverty makes her poor. It is always their 
 interest to wish and avoid, to desire and to 
 dete.st the same things; and surely to have the 
 
 1 This and tlie fullowing extract are from Family Lec- 
 tures, containing his latest sermons, republished in 1791. 
 
 very same interest, the same desires and 
 aversions, to be happy in each other's happiness, 
 and miserable in each other's misery, are the 
 strongest engagements, and the surest founda- 
 tions of entire friendship and perfect afiectiou, 
 that can possibly be imagined. 
 
 Secondly, she is to be faithful to him; and 
 as the reasons of fidelity are the same both iu 
 the husband and iu the wife, the crime of in- 
 fidelity is more shameful and scandalous in 
 the woman ; because it is committed against 
 the rules of a more reserved and virtuous 
 education, and against the natural decency and 
 modesty of the sex, and, at the .same time, is 
 of far worse consequence to the honour of 
 families, because it brings a lasting stain of 
 infamy along with it; and what is worse 
 than all this, it often robs the right heir of 
 his inheritance, and substitutes a spurious 
 offspring into his place — an injury that is the 
 more to be dreaded and avoided, because 
 when once it is committed it is impossible to 
 be repaired. 
 
 Thus much, however, may be said in honour 
 of that sex, that this crime is less frequent 
 among them, and rarely committed till the 
 husband's infidelity or ill conduct hath first 
 provoked to it. And this is the true reason 
 why the infidelity of the wife reflects so much 
 scandal and dishonour upon the husband, be- 
 cau.se (generally speaking) his own vices and 
 ill conduct have brought the evil upon him. 
 And, therefore, the only true way of secuiing 
 your own reputation in this point, as well as 
 your wife's virtue and the honour of your 
 family, is to behave yourself with so much 
 fidelity and tenderness towards her as may 
 entirely engage her afi'ections, as well as her 
 conscience, to you and you only. 
 
 And, indeed, let any man reflect seriously 
 upon the treatment the generality of wives 
 meet with from their husbands, and then 
 think impartially whether they have not too 
 much reiison to be provoked at their rudeness 
 and neglect. Before marriage they are adored 
 and preferred before all the world ; but soon, 
 very soon after, they are slighted and dis- 
 regarded, as if they were unworthy of common 
 esteem ; and they are slighted for the very 
 same reasons for which they should be respect- 
 fully and tenderly treated. They observe at 
 the same time that their husbands can still 
 treat other women with respect and com- 
 ]ilaisance, and that other men still continue 
 to use them with respect and conijjlaisance, 
 and none but the husband slights and despises 
 them, as if marriage, which is the strongest
 
 PATRICK DELANY. 
 
 137 
 
 eutrafreraeiit to tenderness and affection, were 
 but a privilege for conteni])t and iiideness. 
 This is in truth provoking ; and I am satisfied 
 the generality of those women who have been 
 so unhappy, and so wicked, jus to violate the 
 marriage vow, have been provoked to it by the 
 rudeness and neglect of their husljands, or 
 urged to it in revenge of their prior false- 
 hood. 
 
 It is not, indeed, to be imagined that men 
 should treat their wives with the same reserve 
 and formal comj)laisance after marriage ; that 
 the freedom and ea.se of friendship forbids ; 
 but why friendship and freedom should be a 
 reason for ill treatment, I must own I cannot 
 conceive. I am sure they should be reasons 
 of a very ditfei-ent conduct, and I believe there 
 is not a rigliter rule in life, or of more import- 
 ance for the preservation of friendship, never 
 to let familiarity exclude respect. 
 
 But after all, wives that are so unhappy as 
 to be too much provoked by the ill treatment 
 of their husbands, should always remember 
 that their husl^ands' guilt doth not justify 
 theirs, and much less will neglect or rudeness 
 in the husband justify infidelity in the wife. 
 There are arts of decency and good behaviour 
 which have inexpressible charms; and if a 
 woman can but have constancy enough to 
 practise these, and to continue in well-doing, 
 they are almost irresistible, and it is scarcely 
 possible to imagine any husband so brutal 
 as not to be at last reclaimed by them. And 
 women would be more solicitous to reclaim 
 their husbands in this manner, by a course of 
 good behaviour, if they considered that in so 
 doing they consulted their own real interest, 
 and the interest of their children, and greatly 
 recommended themselves and their concerns to 
 the favour and protection of Almighty God, 
 and at the same time saved a soul alive. 
 Whereas the contrary behaviour can tend to 
 nothing but the utter ruin of their children, 
 and their own mutual destruction, both of body 
 and soul. 
 
 And here I cannot but reflect with concern 
 upon the unhaj^py methods which have ob- 
 tained in the world in relation to the educa- 
 tion of women. One of the first things that 
 takes possession of their minds is the hopes 
 of a husband ; but how to become a faithful 
 friend, and an agreeable amiable companion 
 in the married state, are lessons rarely taught, 
 and more rarely learned. Superficial and showy 
 accomplishments are indeed inculcated with 
 sufficient care ; but how to acquire solid worth 
 
 and useful knowledge makes for the most 
 part but a small part of parental solicitude. 
 By this means a woman becomes everything 
 to a husband but what she should be — a social 
 friend and a useful ;issistant. Forgetting that 
 the interest of all men makes that one essential 
 part of the character of a good wife, laid down 
 by Solomon, that she openeth her mouth with 
 wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kind- 
 ness. That is, us she hath acquired habits (jf 
 prudence and discretion from study and obser- 
 vation, so she hath made it a fixed rule to 
 herself, not to be imjjerious or jjresummg 
 upon her knowledge, but rather to make it a 
 reason of constant cheerfulness and good hu- 
 mour, together with a ready, a rational, and 
 an affectionate assistance in every exigency, 
 and on every occasion ; in her tongue is the 
 law of kindness. And surely wisdom so sea- 
 soned and sweetened is amiable and delight- 
 ful beyond expression. And therefore this 
 character is crowned by Solomon with that 
 noble encomium, " Many daughters have done 
 virtuously, but thou excellest them all." That 
 is, many other women may be as virtuous; 
 but virtue thus recommended, virtue that is 
 adorned with all the graces of prudence and 
 good humour, is virtue in its highest and love- 
 liest perfection ; thou excellest them all. And 
 again, "Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain ; 
 but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall 
 be praised." That is, the regard that ariseth 
 from colour and complexion is transient and 
 unsteady ; beauty is deceitful ; a fair face may 
 cover a deformed mind, and is at best a short 
 and uncertain recommendation; but piety and 
 virtue are sure and lasting perfections, which 
 will always entitle the woman that is blessed 
 with them to eternal veneration and esteem. 
 
 But further, a good wife is in many instances 
 to do yet more than this ; she is not only to 
 relieve her husband under his household cares 
 by the goodness of her humour and sprightli- 
 ness of her conversation, but she is likewise to 
 lighten those cares, by dividing them with 
 him and bearing her pai-t in the burden. 
 And therefore the least that is to be expected 
 ! from a wife is, that whilst the husband is 
 busied abroad, or in affaii-s that call off his 
 attention from the care of his family, that 
 cai-e be sup])lied by her, and this constitutes 
 the true character of a good wife, at least that 
 part of it which is of principal and most uni- 
 versal use in life. . . . 
 
 The care and good economy of a family is a 
 business of a very distinct nature from that 
 of making a provision for the support of it.
 
 138 
 
 PATEICK DELANY. 
 
 The care of providing for a family for the 
 most part resteth upon the husband, because 
 tliat is a business of more labour and fatigue 
 than women are ordinarily able to undergo; 
 but then the administration of what is so pro- 
 vided is the woman's province. Thus is the 
 labour of life divided ; and if either fail in 
 their proper business, the affairs of the family 
 are in a ruinous way, and upon this is founded 
 that known observation, That a man must ask 
 his wife whether he shall be rich, forasmuch 
 as few men are able to take sufficient care 
 both abroad and at home, and foreign care 
 will be of small use if the domestic be ne- 
 glected. And therefore it is that Solomon, in 
 the chai'acter of a good wife, tells us that the 
 heart of her husband shall safely trust in her, 
 so that he shall have no need of spoil. That 
 is, she will manage his household affairs with 
 so much prudence and fidelity, that her hus- 
 band shall need no indirect methods of fraud 
 or oppression to support her luxury or extrava- 
 gance. Again he tells us that she looketh 
 well to the ways of her own household, and 
 eateth not the bread of idleness. Indeed he 
 adds many other circumstances of great in- 
 dustry, such as her rising up by night and 
 plying the spindle and distaff, and providing 
 clothes for her husband and family; but these 
 being circumstances of industry peculiar to a 
 country life, and better adapted to the simpler 
 ages of the world, when trades were not suf- 
 ficiently settled and distributed into their dis- 
 tinct classes, I think them not necessaiy to be 
 insisted on in this place. 
 
 THE DUTY OF PAYING DEBTS. 
 
 In a former discourse upon these words I 
 laid down the duty of paying debts, together 
 with the evils which attend the neglect of it, 
 lioth as they regard the debtor and as they 
 regard the creditor :— The evils to the debtor 
 of being imposed upon either in the quantity 
 or value of what they take up upon trust, and 
 the great evil of making expense easy, and in 
 consequence of that, ruin insensible and in- 
 evitable : — to the creditor the delay of pay- 
 ment in due time draws endless inconveniences 
 and evils after it ; loss of time, and trade, and 
 credit, and in consequence of these, it may be, 
 inevitable, and, it may be, extensive and com- 
 plicated ruin. I now proceed to make some 
 application of what has been said, to all orders 
 
 and degrees of men that allow themselves in 
 the violation or neglect of this duty. And 
 first, let me ask the thoughtless spendthrift 
 once again, what can be the consequence of 
 his running in debt with all the world but 
 utter ruin, both to himself and others? If 
 the persons you deal with are honest and in- 
 digent, how can you answer it to your hu- 
 manity to bring misery and destruction upon 
 the most pitiable and the most deserving part 
 of the creation ? to destroy those by your ex- 
 travagance which even cruelty and tyranny 
 would be tender of i "What is most provoking, 
 and indeed insufferable upon this head, is, 
 that those who allow themselves in this con- 
 duct often pass upon the woi'ld under the char- 
 acter of good-natured men, and you shall often 
 hear it said of such a one, that he is nobody's 
 enemy but his own. But the real truth is, 
 that every vicious man, whatever he may be 
 in his intentions, is in effect an enemy to the 
 society he lives in, and more particularly a 
 vicious good -nature is one of the crudest 
 charactei-s in life. It is kind only where it 
 ought not ; it is kind to every vice and every 
 villany; it is indulgent to everything but 
 honesty and innocence, and those it is sure to 
 sacrifice wherever it comes. 
 
 A good-natured villain will surfeit a sot 
 and gorge a glutton, nay, will glut his horses 
 and his hounds with that food for which the 
 vendors are one day to starve to death in a 
 dungeon ; a good-natured monster will be gay 
 in the spoils of widows and orphans. 
 
 Good-nature separated from virtue is abso- 
 lutely the worst quality and character in life ; 
 at least, if this be good-nature, to feed a dog, 
 and to murder a man. And, therefore, if you 
 have any pretence to good-nature, pay your 
 debts, and in so doing clothe those poor fami- 
 lies that are now in rags for your finery, feed 
 him that is starving for the bread you eat, 
 and redeem him from misery that rots in gaol 
 for the dainties on which you fared deliciously 
 every day. And besides the good you will do 
 to others by those acts of honesty, you will do 
 infinite good to yom-selves by them. Pny- 
 ing of debts is, next to the grace of God, the 
 best means in the world to deliver you from 
 a thousand temptations to sin and vanity. 
 Pay your delits, and you will not have where- 
 withal to purchase a costly toy or a pernicious 
 l)leasure. Pay your debts, and you will not 
 have wherewithal to feed a number of useless 
 horses or infectious harlots. In one word, pay 
 your debts, and you will of necessity abstain 
 from many fleshly lusts that war against the
 
 PATRICK DELANY. 
 
 139 
 
 spirit and bring you into captivity to sin, and 
 cannot fail to end in your utter destruction 
 both of soul and body. 
 
 On the other hand, if the men you deal 
 with and are indebted to are rich anil wily, 
 consider they supply your extravagance with 
 no other view but to undo you, as men pour 
 water into a pump to draw more from it. 
 Consider they could not atFord to trust you if 
 they did not propose to make excessive gain 
 by you; and if you think at all, think what it 
 is to lose a fortune by folly, to purchase super- 
 fluous and pernicious vanities for a short 
 season, at the hazard of wanting necessaries 
 for the tedious remainder of a misspent life. 
 Time, which sweetens all other afflictions, will 
 perpetually sharpen and inflame this ; as the 
 gaiety and giddiness of youth go off the wants 
 of age will become more sharp and more in- 
 consolable to the last day of our lives, and 
 severe reflection will double every calamity 
 that befalls 3'ou. And therefore the son of 
 Sirach well advises, "Be not made a beggar by 
 banqueting upon borrowing, for thou shalt lie 
 in wait for thy own life." And again the 
 same wise man most excellently observes, 
 "That he that buildeth his house with other 
 men's money is like one that gathereth him- 
 self stones for the tomb of his burial;" he 
 erects a sure monument not only of his folly 
 but of his ruin; and the consequence is the 
 same from extravagance of every kind, but 
 with this difference, that the rain derived from 
 wine and women is the most dreadful of all 
 others, as it involves you at once in the double 
 distress of disease and want. Who amongst 
 you can at once bear the united racks of hunger, 
 and infection, and an evil conscience? And 
 yet this is what you must feel, although it be 
 what you cannot bear; the torments of hell 
 anticipated ; to be deprived of every blessing 
 and to be immersed in misery. 
 
 Thus much for the vouthful extravafjant. 
 In the next place, let me apply myself to the 
 man of quality that is guilty of this vice, 
 although these are too often the same persons. 
 If ye will not consider what ye owe your 
 creditors and how to pay them, I beseech you 
 calmly to reflect and consider what ye owe 
 to yourselves, to your family, to your country, 
 to your king. "Was it for this that ye were 
 distinguished above others of the same rank, 
 only to be more eminent in infamy? Was 
 nobility bestowed upon your ancestors as a 
 rewai'd of virtue, and do ye use it only as a 
 privilege for vice ? Is superior worth degene- 
 rated into superior villany? If ye had any 
 
 remains of modesty ye would renounce the 
 titles and the fortunes of your ancestors with 
 the virtues that attained them. Ye would 
 blush to take place of a beggar that had virtue. 
 Will ye yet pretend to be better men than 
 others, when ye have renounced your hu- 
 manity, when ye are no longer men but mon- 
 sters? It is not expected of you that you 
 should perform acts of heroism and generosity, 
 that you should reward virtue, and support 
 merit in distress. Alas ! these expectations 
 are long since vanished, and seem only the 
 boasts of fabulous antiquity. But methinks 
 it might still be expected of you that you 
 should do common justice, that you should 
 not be worse than the rest of mankind, be- 
 cause you think yourselves better — at lea.st, 
 exjject to be called so and treated as such. 
 Surely it might still be expected of you that 
 you should pay your debts and keep your 
 promises; and, in truth, ye would not be void 
 either of dignity or of dependants if ye did 
 even this. Mankind are already too much 
 prejudiced in your favour, and would not fail 
 to pay you sufiicient regard and reverence, 
 even if you did them no good, provided you 
 did them no mischief. But if ye expect to be 
 esteemed, not only without generosity but 
 even without justice, ye are indeed unreason- 
 able, and will be sure to be disappointed. 
 
 In the next place, let me apply myself to the 
 wealthy and covetous ; these are of all others 
 the most inexcusable in not paying their debts; 
 men that have made or improved their own 
 fortune by industry are utterly unpardonable 
 in oppressing the industry of othei-s; the least 
 that might be exjjected from increase of wealth 
 is to do justice with our abundance. This was 
 the express direction of the prophet Elisha, 
 when he had mii-aculously mcreased the 
 widow's oil ; he commanded her first to pay 
 her debts out of her abundance. "Go," saith 
 he, " sell the oil, and j)ay thy debt, and live 
 thou and thy children of the rest." And the 
 reason of this is evident: the money we owe is 
 not ours; it is the property of other men in our 
 keeping, and we have no more right to it than 
 we have to the money in their pockets; and 
 although we should make no return to God for 
 his blessings upon ovir industry, in alms and 
 acts of goodness, surely the least we c;in do is 
 to do justice to men. What a dreadful reflec- 
 tion is it to turn the blessings of Providence 
 into a curse to ourselves, and all we have to 
 deal with ! Men of this character are in the 
 condition of those malignant insects who fret 
 and make sores wherever they come, and then
 
 140 
 
 PATEICK DELANY. 
 
 feed upon them; they thrive upou the miseries 
 of mankind, which is absolutely the most de- 
 testable character upon earth ! and is, next to 
 that of a fiend, the very worst and vilest that 
 can be imagined. "Woe unto him," saith the 
 prophet Jeremiah, "that buildeth his house by 
 unrighteousness, and his chambers by wrong !" 
 "Woe unto them," saith Isaiah, "that join house 
 to house, that lay field to field, till there be 
 no place, that they may be placed alone in the 
 midst of the eax'th ! " living in that character of 
 cruelty which is best suited to a beast of prey 
 that scatters ruin and desolation all around 
 him. One would think the apostle's precepts 
 were reversed to these men, and that they 
 thought themselves bound in conscience to 
 owe every man everything in the world but 
 love and good- will. And after all, to what pur- 
 pose is all this oppression and iniquity of 
 avarice ? to heap up ill-got riches for a curse 
 upon themselves and their posterity, and leave 
 a memory and a carcass equally odious and 
 offensive behind them. " They are exalted for 
 a little while," as it is finely expressed in the 
 twenty-fourth chapter of Job. "They are ex- 
 alted for a little while, but are gone and 
 brought low ; they are taken out of the way 
 as all other, and cut off as the tops of the ears 
 of corn." They are permitted by the divine 
 providence to fill up at once the measure of 
 their wealth and their inicjuity, and as soon 
 as ever they are ripe for ruin, they are cut 
 off in the fulness of their pride and fortune; 
 and the wealth they have hoarded is like 
 the full ear of coi'n, which, instead of being 
 gathered into the barn, is trampled under foot 
 and scattered over the face of the earth, and 
 so becomes a prey to rocks and swine and 
 vermin. 
 
 In the last place, let me apply myself to 
 traders themselves, and desire them to reflect 
 how they pay their own debts; I am afraid 
 some of them very badly. I have heard of a 
 most wicked practice amongst them of jjaying 
 their journeymen and underlings in goods ; I 
 call this wicked, because, if those goods are 
 rated at tlie shop ])rice, the journeyman is 
 plainly defrauded, since he hath no allowance 
 for the time and trouble he must take, and 
 the hazard he must run in vending those 
 goods. And wheroa.s he had a right to ready 
 money for his labour, his necessities now 
 oblige him to sell those goods at any price he 
 can get, to the discredit of trade in general, 
 and the real injury of that very person who 
 laid liini under a necessity of so doing, wlio must 
 of necessity suffer by having his goods sold at 
 
 an under rate. So that this practice is as ill- 
 judged in the shopkeeper, and lis weak with 
 regard to his own interest, as it is wicked with 
 regard to his poor underling ; and indeed all 
 bad payment to those they have to deal with, 
 especially the poorer sort, is manifestly in- 
 jurious to men in business; for the clamour of 
 bad pay, and the discredit that necessarily 
 attends it, genendly speaking, begins there, 
 and therefore Solomon's precepts ought always 
 to be strictly observed by them of all man- 
 kind — "Withhold not good from them to whom 
 it is due, when it is in the power of thine 
 hand to do it. Say not unto thy neighbour. 
 Go and come again, and to-morrow I will give, 
 when thou hast it by thee." Although the 
 men you deal with do not know your wants, 
 nor consider your labour and loss of time in 
 seeking your due, and are consequently re- 
 gardless of you and your necessities, yet you 
 well know the wants of the poor people you 
 deal with, and the injur}'^ you do them in 
 making them lose their time in attending 
 upon you ; and therefore you are utterly in- 
 excusable in not relieving them from those 
 hardships, when you can do so barely by 
 doing justice. How can you expect a blessing 
 from God upon your own endea^'ours when 
 you are guilty of so much cruelty and injus- 
 tice to others ? when you are guilty of so 
 much injustice to the very men by whose 
 labour ye are supported ? " A poor man that 
 oppresseth the poor (saith Solomon) is like a 
 sweeping rain, which leaveth no food." Natm-e 
 hath formed us to compassionate the calami- 
 ties we endure, and therefore a poor man 
 should as naturally expect aid and consola- 
 tion from his brethren in the same condition, 
 as the parched and impoverished earth expects 
 relief from the showere of heaven. Conse- 
 quently, when, instead of being aided, he is 
 oppressed by his brethien, and the little re- 
 mains of his substance are torn from him; he 
 is then in the condition of the earth, ravaged 
 and ruined by the very means appointed by 
 providence to refresh and make it fruitful, and 
 all its seed, all the means and hopes of a future 
 hiirvest, swept away with its best mould. A 
 poor man that o})presseth the poor is the 
 cruelest monster in nature ; and it is the just 
 judgment of Almighty God,' that with what 
 me;usure you mete it should be measured unto 
 you again. " He that doth wrong," saith the 
 apostle, "shall receive for the wrong which he 
 hath done ;" as he hatli done it shall be done 
 unto him; his reward shall return u])on his 
 own head.
 
 FRANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 141 
 
 FRANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 Born 1724 — Died 1766. 
 
 [Frances Sheridan, originally Frances C'ham- 
 berlayne, was born in the year 1724. Her 
 father was Dr. Philip Chamberlayiie, a cele- 
 brated and eccentric wit and dignitary of the 
 Irish Church. Among his many rules for the 
 good conduct of life was one which forbade 
 his daughters to learn to write, as such a know- 
 ledge could only lead, he declared, to " the 
 multiplication of love-letters." However, the 
 result was as might be expected, for his 
 daugliter Frances not only learned that ac- 
 compHshment, but also became a good Latin 
 and Greek scholar. 
 
 Soon after passing out of her teens she pro- 
 duced her fii-st work, a novel entitled Eugenia 
 and Adelaide, said to be afterwards adapted 
 to the stage by her daughter, and acted with 
 success. She next tried her hand at sermon- 
 writing, and published a couple out of the 
 many that she produced in MS. This, how- 
 ever, was too slow-going work for her sharji 
 intellect and vivid imagination, and when 
 Thomas Sheridan, manager of the Theatre 
 Royal, was in one of his troubles, she boldly 
 ado])ted his cause and wrote a pamphlet in his 
 defence. The work was not only clever but 
 well-timed, and necessarily attracted the atten- 
 tion of Mr. Sheridan, who tried to discover 
 the author. This after a time he accomplished 
 only by accident, and a friendship springing 
 uj) l)etween them, a marriage ensued. 
 
 After her marriage Mrs. Sheridan devoted 
 herself chiefly to her pen ; but, on account of 
 ill health, the results of her labours were fewer 
 than the world would wish. After lincferin"' 
 for years in a weak state, she died at Blois in 
 the south of France, in the year 1766-7. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan's principal works are Memoirs 
 of Miss Sidney Biddulph, extracted from her 
 own Journal, which "may be ranked with the 
 fii-st productions of that class in oui"s, or in any 
 other language;" N'ourjahad, a. romance full of 
 imaginative and picturesque writing; The Dis- 
 covery, a comedy considered by Garrick, who 
 played in it, to be one of the best plays he had 
 ever read ; The Dupe, another clever comedy; 
 and The Trip to Bath, a play never acted nor 
 published, but supposed to have been utilized 
 by her son in his comedy The Rivals. In 
 addition she wrote a considerable amount of 
 verse, some of which is yet to be found in 
 
 Dyce's Specimens of British Poetesses. A me- 
 moir of her life and writings has been written 
 by her grand-daughter Mrs. Lefanu. Tliere 
 can be little doubt that her son Richard Brins- 
 ley Sheridan inherited from her a hirge jjor- 
 tion of his wonderful genius.] 
 
 ODE TO PATIENCE. 
 
 Unaw'd by tlireats, unmov'd by force, 
 My steady soul pursues her course, 
 
 Collected, calm, resign'd; 
 Say, you who search with curious eves 
 The source whence human actions rise, 
 
 Say whence this turn of mind ? — 
 
 'Tis Patience — lenient goddess, hail ! 
 Oh ! let thy votary's vows prevail, 
 
 Thy threatened flight to stay; 
 Long hast thou been a welcome guest, 
 Long reign'd an inmate in this breast, 
 
 And rul'd with gentle sway. 
 
 Through all the various turns of fate, 
 Ordained me in each several state 
 
 My wayward lot has known. 
 What taught me silently to bear, 
 To curb the sigh, to check the tear, 
 
 When sorrow weigh'd me down? — 
 
 'Twas Patience — Temperate goddess, stay ! 
 For still thy dictates I obey, 
 
 Nor yiekl to passion's power; 
 Tho', by injurious foes borne down, 
 My fame, my toil, my hopes o'erthrown 
 
 In one ill-fated hour; 
 
 When, robb'd of what I held most dear, 
 My hands adorned the mournful bier 
 
 Of her I loved so well; 
 What, when mute sorrow chained my tongue 
 As o'er the sable hearse I hung, 
 
 Forbade the tide to swell? — 
 
 'Twas Patience — goddess ever calm! 
 Oh ! pour into my breast thy balm, 
 
 That antidote to pain; 
 Which, flowing from the nectar'd um, 
 By chemistry divine can turn 
 
 Our losses into gain. 
 
 AVhen, sick and languishing in bed, 
 Sleep from my restless couch had fled
 
 142 
 
 FEANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 (Sleep which even pain beguiles), 
 What taught me calmly to sustain 
 A feverish being rack'd with pain, 
 
 And dress'd my looks in smiles? — 
 
 'Twas Patience— Heaven-descended maid ! 
 Implor'd, flew swiftly to my aid. 
 
 And lent her fostering breast, 
 Watched my sad hours with parent care, 
 Eepell'd the approaches of despair. 
 
 And sooth'd my soul to rest. 
 
 Say, when dissever'd from his side, 
 My friend, protector, and my guide, 
 
 When my prophetic soul. 
 Anticipating all the storm, 
 Saw danger in its direst form, 
 
 What could my fears control ? — - 
 
 'Twas Patience — gentle goddess, hear ! 
 Be ever to thy suppliant near. 
 
 Nor let one murmur rise; 
 Since still some mighty joys are given, 
 Dear to her soul, the gifts of Heaven, 
 
 The sweet domestic ties. 
 
 A WONDERFUL LOVER. 
 
 (from "the discovery.") 
 
 Scene, Lord Medwat's Study. Enter Sir 
 Anthony Branville and Lord Med- 
 WAY, meeting. 
 
 Lord Med. Sii- Anthony, I am glad to see 
 you ; I was really in great pain for you yester- 
 day, when I was obliged to leave you in the 
 magic circle of Mrs. Kiiightly's charms: I 
 wish you joy of your escape. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. My lord, I humbly thank you; 
 'tis a felicity to me, I acknowledge ; for, my 
 lord, there never was such a Syren, such a 
 Circe ! — Sylla and Charybdis (of whom we 
 read in fable) were harmless innocents to her! 
 — but Heaven be praised, I am my own man 
 again. — And now, my lord, I am come, agree- 
 ably to the intimation I gave you before, to 
 make a most respectful offering of my heart 
 to the truly deserving and fair lady Louisa. 
 
 Lord Med. Sir Anthony, I have already told 
 you T shall be proud of your alliance, and my 
 daughter, I make no doubt, is sensible of your 
 worth ! — Therefore, Sir Anthony, the shorter 
 we make the wooing — women are slippery 
 things you undeistand me. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Your lordship's insinuation, 
 though derogatory to the honour of the fair 
 
 sex (which I very greatly reverence), has, I am 
 apprehensive, a little too much veracity in it. 
 I have found it so to my cost — for, would you 
 believe it, my lord, this cruel woman (Mrs. 
 Knightly, I mean, begging her pardon for the 
 epithet) is the eighth lady to whom I have 
 made sincere, humble, and passionate love, 
 within the space of these last thirteen years. 
 
 Lord Med. You surprise me, Sir Anthony; 
 is it possible that a gentleman of your figure 
 and accomplishments could be rejected by so 
 
 many 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I do not positively affirm, 
 my lord, that I was rejected by them all ; no, 
 my lord, that would have been a severity not 
 to be survived. 
 
 Lord Med. How was it then ? 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Blemishes, my lord, foibles, 
 imperfections in the fair ones, which obhged 
 me (though reluctantly) to withdraw my heart. 
 
 Lord Med. Ho, ho ! why then the fault 
 was yours. Sir Anthony, not theirs. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I deny that, my lord, with 
 due submission to your better judgment, it was 
 their fault ; for the truth is, I never could get 
 any of them to be serious. There is a. levity, 
 my lord, a kind of (if I may so caU it) insta- 
 bility which runs through the gentler sex 
 (whom, nevertheless, I admire) which I assure 
 you has thus long deterred me from wedlock. 
 
 Lord Med. Then, Sir Anthony, I find you 
 have been peculiarly unfortunate in the ladies 
 whom you have addressed. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Supremely so, my lord ; for, 
 notwithstanding that they all received my 
 devoirs most indulgently, yet I do not know 
 how it was, in the long run they either abso- 
 lutely refused making me happy, or else were 
 so extremely unguarded in their conduct, even 
 before my face, that I thought I could not, 
 consistently with honour, confer the title of 
 Lady Branville on any one of them. 
 
 Lord Med. Your lot has been a little hard, 
 I must confess. I hope, however, that honour 
 hiis been reserved by fate for my daughter. 
 She is your ninth mistress, Sir Anthony, and 
 that, you know, is a propitious number. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. My lord, I take the liberty of 
 ho])ing so too ; and that she is destined to 
 recompense me for the disappointments and 
 indignities I have received from the rest of 
 womankind. 
 
 Lord Med. Why then, Sir Anthony, I sup- 
 pose I may now present you to her in the 
 character of a lover. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. My lord, I pant for that hap- 
 piness.
 
 FRANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 143 
 
 Lord Med. I'll call her, Sir Anthony — 
 
 Sir A. Bran. As your lordship pleases — but, 
 my lord, this widow Knightly — 
 
 Lord Med. Was there ever such a jthleg- 
 matic blockhead ! {Aside.) What of her, Sir 
 Anthony ? 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I own I loved her better than 
 any of her predecessors in my heai't. — Matters 
 indeed had gone fai'ther between us, for, my 
 lord (not to injure a lady's re])utation), I must 
 tell you a secret — I have more than once 
 pressed her hand with these lips. 
 
 Lord Med. Really ! 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Fact, upon my veracity; I 
 hope your lordship don't think me vain : and 
 as she had indulged me such lengths, could I 
 be censured for raising my wishes to the pos- 
 session of this beauty ? 
 
 Lord Med. By no means, Sir Anthony; but 
 then her ill behaviour to you — 
 
 Sir A . Bran. Oh, my lord, it has blotted, 
 and, as I may say, totally erased her image 
 from my breast — 
 
 Lord Med. Well, sir, I'll bring my daughter 
 to you, whose image, I hope, will supply hers 
 in your breast. \_Exit. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I hope this tender fair one 
 will not be too easily won — that would debase 
 the dignity of the passion, and deprive me of 
 many delightful houi-s of languishment. — 
 There was a time when a lover was allowed 
 the pleasure of importuning his mistress, but 
 our modern beauties will scarce permit a man 
 that satisfaction. Pray Heaven, my intended 
 bride may not be one of those. — If it should 
 prove so, I tremble for the consequences ; — 
 but here she comes — the condescending nymph 
 approaches. 
 
 Enter Louisa, led in hy Lord Medway. 
 
 Lord Med. Louisa, you are no stranger to 
 Sir Anthony Branville's merit. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Oh, my lord ! [^Bowing loiv. 
 
 Lord Med. That he is a gentleman of family 
 and fortune, of most unblemished honour, and 
 very uncommon endowments. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Oh, my good lord, ordinary, 
 slight accomplishments. 
 
 Lord Med. You are therefore to think your- 
 self happy in being his choice preferably to 
 any other lady. And now. Sir Anthony, I'll 
 leave you to pursue your good fortune. 
 
 [^Exit Lord Medway. 
 
 Lou. Sir, won't you please to sit? 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Miss Medway, madam — hav- 
 ing obtained my lord your father's permission, 
 I humbly presume to approach you in the 
 
 delightful hope, that after having convinced 
 
 you of the excess of my love — 
 
 Lou. I hope. Sir Anthony, you will allow 
 me a reasonable time for this convicticjii ! 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Madam, I should hold myself 
 utterly abandoned if I were capable at the 
 first onset (notwithstanding what passes here) 
 of urging a lady on so nice a point. 
 
 Lou. I thank you, sir ; but I could expect 
 no less from a gentleman whom all the world 
 allows to be the very pattern of decorum. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. 'Tis a character that I have 
 always been ambitious of supporting, whatever 
 struggles it may cost me from my natural fer- 
 vour; for let me tell you, madam, a beautiful 
 object is a dangerous enemy to decorum. 
 
 Lou. But your great ])rudence, Sir Anthony, 
 leaves me no room to susi)ect — 
 
 *S'i> A. Bran. I am obliged to call it to my 
 aid, I do assure you, madam; for, spite of the 
 suggestions of passion, I by no means approve 
 of those rash and impetuous lovers, who, with- 
 out regard to the delicacy of the lady, would 
 (having obtained consent), as it were, rush at 
 once into her arms. You'll pardon me, madam, 
 for so grossly expressing my idea. 
 
 Lou. Oh, Sir Anthony, I am charmed with 
 your notions, so refined ! so generous ! and, I 
 must add (though it may appear vain), so cor- 
 respondent with my own. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Madam, I am transported to 
 hear you say so ! I am at this minute in an 
 absolute ecstasy ! Will you permit me, dear 
 madam, the ravishing satisfaction of throwing 
 myself at your feet ? 
 
 Lou. By no means. Sir Anthony ; I could 
 not bear to see a gentleman of your dignity in 
 so humble a posture; I will suppose it done, if 
 you please. 
 
 Sir A. Brayi. I prostrate myself in imagina- 
 tion, I assure you, madam. 
 
 Lou. Now, Sir Anthony, as you see my 
 papa is impatient for the honour of being 
 related to you, and that I am bound to an im- 
 plicit obedience, I am afraid, unless your pru- 
 dence interposes, that we shall both be hurried 
 into wedlock with a precipitancy very incon- 
 sistent with propriety. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I declare, madam, I am of 
 your ladyship's opinion, and am almost appre- 
 hensive of the same thing — 
 
 Lou. How is this to be avoided, sir? 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Be assured, madam, I too well 
 know what is due to vii'gin modesty, to pro- 
 ceed with that rapidity which my lord (with 
 whom I have not the honour of agi-eeing in 
 this particular) seemeth to recommend.
 
 144 
 
 FRANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 Lou. You are very kind, Sir Anthony. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Oh, madam, I should pay 
 but an ill compliment to your transcending 
 merit if I did not think it worth sighing for a 
 considerable time longer, I assure you. 
 
 Lou. That's very noble in you, Sir Anthony 
 • — So passionate ! and yet so nice — if all lovers 
 were but like you ! 
 
 Sir A. Bran. The world, I will presume to 
 say, would be the better, madam — but then I 
 hope your rigours will not extend too far, my 
 dear lady — a few mouths or so — longer than 
 that I should be very near tempted to call 
 cruel, I can tell you. 
 
 Lou. As my passionate lover seems so well 
 disposed to wait, I may chance to escape him. 
 (^Aside^ Your extraordinary merit. Sir An- 
 thony, will undoubtedly shorten your time of 
 probation — Meanwhile, as I hinted to you 
 before, that my papa is rather in haste to call 
 you son, I would not have him imagine that 
 I gave any delay to this union. He may call 
 my duty in question, which he expects should 
 keep pace with his own wishes — you appre- 
 hend me, sir \ 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Perfectly, my dear madam, 
 and if I may presume to interpret what you 
 have so charmingly insinuated to my appre- 
 hension, you would have me just hint to my 
 lord that you are not quite averse to honour- 
 ing me with your fair hand. 
 
 Lou. That I am ready to do so, if you 
 please, Sir Anthony. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Very good, but at the same time 
 I shall give him to understand that I am not as 
 yet entitled to receive that very great happiness. 
 
 Lou. To that purpose, sir, for I would not 
 have this necessary delay appear to be of my 
 choosing. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. You little know, madam, 
 the violence I do myself to repress the ardour 
 of my flames ; but patience is a prime virtue 
 in a lover, and Scipio himself never practised 
 self-denial with moi-e success than I have 
 tlone. 
 
 Lou. I rely entirely on your discretion. Sir 
 Anthony, to manage this affair with my papa. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Oh, madam, I shall convince 
 my lord that it is from very sublime motives 
 I submit to postpone my felicity. 
 
 Lou. I am much obliged to you. Sir An- 
 thony, for this generous proof of your passion- 
 ate regard to me. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. You'll find, madam, I do not 
 love at the ordinary rate — l>ut T must not in- 
 dulge myself too long on the tender subject. 
 I doubt it is not safe. 
 
 Lou. {Rising.) Sir, I won't detain you. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I must absolutely tear myself 
 from you, madam, for gazing on so many 
 charms I may grow unmindful of the danger. 
 
 Lou. Sir, I will no longer trespass on your 
 time. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I must fly, madam, lest I 
 should be temjsted to transgi-ess those rigid 
 bounds I have prescribed to myself. 
 
 Lou. Sir, you have my consent to retire. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. I am so overpowered with 
 transport, madam, that I hold it necessary to 
 withdraw. — 
 
 Lou. 'Tis the best way, sir. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Dear madam, vouchsafe one 
 gracious smile to your adorer. 
 
 Lou. Sir Anthony, your humble servant. 
 
 [^Smiles and curtsies. 
 
 Sir A. Bran. Madam, your most devoted — 
 oh dawning of ecstatic bliss ! \^E.vit. 
 
 Lou. Ha, ha, ha ! I think I may now go, 
 and very safely assure my papa that I am 
 ready to take my adorer whenever he pleases 
 — this is fortunate beyond hopes. [^Exit, 
 
 A ROMANTIC LOVE-MATCH. 
 
 (from "SIDNEY BnDDULPH.") 
 
 We have had a wedding to-day in our neigh- 
 bourhood. It seems this pair had been fond of 
 each other from their childhood, but the girl's 
 fortune put her above her lover's hopes. 
 
 However, as he has for a good while been 
 in a very gieat business, and has the reputa- 
 tion of being better skilled than any one in 
 the country in his profession, he was in hopes 
 that his character, his mistress's aflFection for 
 him, and his own constancy would have some 
 little weight with her family. Accordingly 
 he ventured to make his application to the 
 young woman's brother, at whose disposal she 
 was, her father having been dead for some 
 years; but he was rejected with scorn, and 
 forbid the house. 
 
 The girl's father, it seems, had been a humor- 
 ist, and left her the fortune under a severe 
 restriction, for if ever she married without 
 her brother's consent she was to lose it, so 
 that, in that particular instance of disjiosing 
 of her pereon, she was never to be her own mis- 
 tress. In the disposal of her fortune, however, 
 he did not so tie her up, for after the age of 
 one-and-twenty she had the power of bequeath- 
 ing her fortune by will to whom she pleased.
 
 FRANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 145 
 
 The brother, who is a very honest man, had 
 no motive but a regard to his sister's interest 
 in refusing poor Mr. Main ; a man of a good 
 fortune had proposed for her, whom the 
 brother importuned her to accept of ; but she 
 was Hrm to her first attachment. 
 
 The young lover found means to convey a 
 letter to his mistress, in which he told her 
 that as he was in circumstances to support her 
 genteelly, if she would venture to accept of 
 his hand he would never more bestow a 
 thought on her fortune. This proposal the 
 prudent young woman declined on her own 
 part, but advised him to make it to her brother, 
 as she was not then without suspicions that he 
 wished to retain her fortune in the family, 
 and that it was only to save appearances he 
 hatl proposed a match to her, of which he was 
 sure she would not accept. But in this opinion 
 she injured him. She thought, however, the 
 experiment might be of use, in giving the 
 better colour to her marrying aftei-wards the 
 man whom she loved. 
 
 But it was an ill-judged attempt, and suc- 
 ceeded accordingly ; for if the brother should 
 have given his consent he could have no pre- 
 tence for withholding her portion; or, if he 
 did so by mutual agreement, his motive for 
 denying his consent before must appear too 
 obviously to be a bad one. 
 
 The young people not considering this suf- 
 ficiently, resolved to make the trial ; accord- 
 ingly Mr. Main wrote to the brother a very 
 submissive letter, telling him he would in the 
 most solemn manner relinquish all claim to his 
 sister's fortune, if he would make him happy by 
 consenting to their marriage ; without which, 
 he said, the young lady's regard for her brother 
 would not siiflFer her to take such a step. 
 
 This letter had no other effect than that of 
 making the brother extremely angry. He sent 
 a severe message to the young man to acquaint 
 him that he looked upon his proposal as a 
 most injurious affront to his character; but 
 that he was ready to convince him, and every- 
 body else, that he had no designs upon his 
 sister's fortune, as he would not refuse his 
 consent to her marriage with any other man in 
 the country but himself. This was a thunder- 
 clap to the poor lover ; he comforted himself, 
 however, with the hopes that his mistress's 
 heart would determine her in his favour, not- 
 withstanding the severity of the brother. 
 
 There had been, it seems, besides this gentle- 
 man not thinking Main a suitable match for 
 his sister, some old family pique between him 
 
 and Mr. Main's father. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 These transactions happened sometime be- 
 fore I came to the country. Just about that 
 juncture the poor girl had the misfortune to 
 receive a hurt in her breast by falling against 
 the sharp corner of a desk from a stool on 
 which she had stood in order to reach down a 
 book that was in a little case over it. This 
 accident threw her into a fit of illness, which 
 put a stop to all correspondence between her 
 and her lover. 
 
 In this illness a fever, which was her 
 apparent complaint, was the only thing to 
 which the physician paid attention, and the 
 hurt in her breast wasnot inquired after;sothat 
 by the time she was tolerably recovered from 
 the former, the latter was discovered to be in 
 a very dangerous way, and required the im- 
 mediate assistance of a surgeon. You may be 
 sure poor Main was not the person pitched 
 upon to attend her, another was called in of 
 less skill, but not so obnoxious to the family. 
 
 By this bungler she was tortured for near 
 three months; at the end of which time, 
 through improper treatment, the malady was 
 so far increased that the operator declared the 
 breast must be taken off, as the only possible 
 means of saving the life. 
 
 The young gentlewoman's family were all 
 in the greatest affliction, she herself seemed 
 the only composed person amongst them. She 
 appointed the day when she was to undergo 
 this severe trial of her fortitude : it was at 
 the distance of about a week. The surgeon 
 objected to the having it put off so long, but 
 she was peremptory and at last prevailed. 
 
 On the evening preceding the appointed day 
 she conjured her brother in the most eai-nest 
 manner to permit Mr. Main to be present at 
 the operation. The brother was unwilling to 
 comply, as he thought it might very much dis- 
 compose her, but she was so extremely press- 
 intr that he was constrained to yield. 
 
 The attending surgeon was consulted on the 
 occasion, who having declared that he had no 
 objection to Mr. Main's being present, that 
 I young man was sent to. He had been quite 
 inconsolable at the accounts he received of the 
 ' danserous state in which his mistress was, and 
 went with an aching heart to her brothei^'s 
 house in the morning. 
 
 He was introduced into her chamber, where 
 he found the whole chirurgical apparatus 
 ready. The young woman herself was in her 
 closet, but came out in a few minutes with a 
 countenance perfectly serene. She seated her- 
 self in an elbow-chair, and desired she might 
 
 be indulged for a quarter of an hour to speak 
 
 10
 
 146 
 
 FEANCES SHERIDAN. 
 
 a few words to her brother before they pro- 
 ceeded to their work. Her brother was im- 
 mediately called to her, when, taking him by 
 the hand, she requested him to sit down by her. 
 
 " You have," said she, " been a father to me 
 since I lost my own ; I acknowledge your 
 tenderness and youi- care of me with gratitude. 
 I believe your refusal of me to Mr. Main was 
 from no other motive but yoiu- desire of see- 
 intr me matched to a richer man. I therefore 
 freely forgive you that only act in which you 
 ever exercised the authority my father gave 
 you over me. My life, I now apprehend, is in im- 
 minent danger, the hazard nearly equal whether 
 I do or do not undergo the operation; but as 
 they tell me there is a chance in my favour on 
 one side, I am determined to submit to it. 
 
 " I put it off to this day on account of its 
 being my birthday. I am now one-and-twenty, 
 and as the consequence of what I have to go 
 through may deprive me of the power of doing 
 what I intended, I have spent this morning 
 in making my will. You, brother, have an 
 ample fortune ; I have no poor relations ; I 
 hope, therefore, I shall stand justified to the 
 world for having made Mr. Main my heir." 
 Saying this she pulled a paper from under her 
 gown, which she put into her brother's hand 
 that he might read it. It was her will, wi-ote 
 by herself, and regularly signed and witnessed 
 by two servants of the family. 
 
 " Sir," said she, turning to the other sur- 
 geon, " I am ready for you as soon as my 
 brother is withdrawn." 
 
 You may imagine this had various effects 
 on the different persons concerned. The 
 brother, however displeased he might have 
 been at this act of his sister's, had too much 
 humanity to make any animadversions on it 
 at that time. He returned the paper to his 
 sister without speaking, and retired. 
 
 Poor Main, who had stood at the back of 
 her chair from his first coming in, had been 
 endeavouring to suppress his tears all the 
 time, but at this proof of his mistress's ten- 
 derness and generosity it was no longer in his 
 power to do so, and they burst from him with 
 the utmost violence of passion. 
 
 The other surgeon desired him to compose 
 himself, for that they were losing time, and 
 the lady would be too much ruffled. 
 
 The heroic young woman, with a smiling 
 countenance, begged of him to dry his eyes. 
 " Perhaj)s," said she, " I may recover." Then 
 fixing herself firmly in the chair, she pro- 
 nounced with much composure, " I am ready." 
 Two maid-servants stood, one on each side of 
 
 her, and the surgeon drew near to do his 
 painful work. He had uncovered her bosom 
 and taken off the dressing when Mr. Main, 
 casting his eyes at her breast, begged he 
 might have leave to examine it before they 
 proceeded. The other surgeon, with some in- 
 dignation, said his doing so was only an un- 
 necessary delay, and had already laid hold of 
 his knife when Mr. Main, having looked at 
 it, said he was of opinion it might be saved 
 without endangering the lady's life. The 
 othei', with a contemptuous smile, told him 
 he was sorry he thought him so ignorant of 
 his profession, and without much ceremony, 
 putting him aside, was about to proceed to 
 the operation, when Mr. Main, laying hold of 
 him, said that he never should do it in his 
 presence, adding with some wai'mth that he 
 would engage to make a pei'fect cure of it in a 
 month without the pain or hazard of amputation. 
 
 The young lady, who had been an eye-wit- 
 ness of what passed, for she would not suffer 
 her face to be covered, now thought it proper 
 to interpose. She told the unfeeling operator 
 that he might be sure she would embrace any 
 distant hoi^e of saving herself from the pain, 
 the danger, and the loss she must sustain if 
 he pursued the method he intended. She was 
 not, however, so irresolute, she said, as to 
 desire either to avoid or postpone the opera- 
 tion if it should be found necessary; but as 
 there was hope given her of a cure withovit it, 
 she thouffht it but reasonable to make the ex- 
 periment, and should, therefore, refer the 
 decision of her case to a third person of skill 
 in the profession, by whose opinion she would 
 be determined. 
 
 The two women-servants, who are always 
 professed enemies to chirurgical operations, 
 readily joined in her sentiments, and saying 
 it was a mortal sin to cut and hack any 
 Christian, they made haste to cover up their 
 young lady again. 
 
 The disappointed surgeon hardly forbore 
 rude language to the women, and telling Mr. 
 Main he would make him know what it was 
 to traduce the skill of a practitioner of his 
 standing, marched off in a violent passion, 
 saying to his patient, if she had a mind to kill 
 herself, it was nothing to him. 
 
 The modest young man, delighted to find 
 the case of his beloved not so desperate as he 
 had supposed it to be, begged she would per- 
 mit him to apply some j)roper dressings to the 
 afflicted part, and conjuring her to call in the 
 aid of the ablest surgeon that could be pro- 
 cured, took his leave.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 147 
 
 The brother of the lady being apprised of 
 wliat had passed, lost no time in sending an 
 express to Bath, and by a very handsome 
 gratuity induced a surgeon of great eminence 
 to set out immediately for his house, who 
 airived early the next morning. But in the 
 meantime poor Main had like to liave paid 
 dear foi' his superior skill in his profession. The 
 other suri^eou had no .sooner got home than 
 he sent hina a challenge to meet him that even- 
 ing, in a field at some distance from the town. 
 
 They met : Main had the good fortune after 
 wounding to disarm his antagonist, but fix'st 
 received himself a dangerous wound. 
 
 This accident was kept from the knowledge 
 of his mistress; but on the arrival of the sur- 
 geon from Bath, as he would not take off the 
 dressings but in the presence of the person who 
 put them on, it was thought proper that both 
 Mr. Main and the other man should be sent for. 
 
 The latter was not by any means in a con- 
 dition to attend, but the former, though very 
 ill and feverish, desired that he might be 
 carried to the house. The Bath surgeon hav- 
 ing in his and the brother's presence examined 
 the case, declared it as his opinion that the 
 complaint might be removed without amputa- 
 tion, adding that it was owing to wrong man- 
 agement that the grievance had gone so far. 
 He consulted with Main in the presence of 
 the family as to his intended method of treat- 
 
 ing it for the future ; he agreed with him 
 entirely with regard to the propriety of it, 
 and having assured the friends of the girl that 
 he thought him a skilful and ingenious young 
 man, took his leave, being obliged to return 
 directly home. 
 
 The testimony of this gentleman, whose 
 skill wa.s undoubted and whose impartiality 
 must be so too, having never seen any of the 
 parties concei'ned in his life before, wrought 
 so much on the brother of the lady that he 
 did not hesitate to put his sister under the 
 care of her lover. 
 
 Poor Main, though scarce able to leave his 
 bed for some time, was nevertheless carried to 
 his patient every day, at the hazard of his 
 life. His skill, his tenderness, and his a.ssi- 
 duity, were all exerted in a particular manner 
 on the present occasion, and in less than five 
 weeks lie had the pleasure to see his mistress 
 restored to pei'fect health. 
 
 The consequence of this incident was veiy 
 happy for them both. The brother, exceedingly 
 pleavsed at his whole behaviour, told him he 
 was an honest generous fellow, and since he 
 was convinced it was his sister's person and 
 not her fortune he was attached to, he would 
 with all his heart bestow both on him ; and 
 accordingly Mr. Arnold and I had this day 
 the satisfaction of seeing this worthy young 
 pair united in marriage. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 Born 1728 — Died 1774. 
 
 [Oliver Goldsmith — the poet, dramatist, his- 
 torian, essayist, and novelist, who has left us 
 models of style in everything he attempted — 
 the author who above all others creejis into 
 the hearts of his readers as a friend — was 
 born on the 10th of November, 1728, at 
 Pallas or Pallasmore, in the county of Long- 
 ford. His father, with the amiable impro- 
 vidence which seems to have belonged to the 
 family, married very young, and, as Irving 
 puts it, "starved along for several years on 
 a small country curacy and the assistance 
 of his wife's friends." Two years after Oli- 
 ver's birth, however, a change for the better 
 occurred. The uncle of Mi-s. Goldsmith dying, 
 her husband succeeded to the rectory of Kil- 
 kenny "West, and the family removed to Lissoy, 
 in the county of Westmeath. There also a 
 
 farm of about seventy acres was rented, whicli 
 afterwards brought in about forty pounds a 
 year. 
 
 In Lissoy Goldsmith's youth was passed, 
 and from it he drew most of his pictures of 
 rural and domestic life. There is little 
 doubt that it also furnished the original of 
 " Auburn " in The Deserted Village. At six 
 years of age he became pupil to the village 
 schoolmaster, Thomas Byrne, an old veteran 
 who had fought in the Spanish wars, and 
 one likely to prove a capital tutor for a poet. 
 From him Goldsmith acquired an extensive 
 knowledge of faii-y lore, fable, romance, and 
 adventure, and by him was encouraged in 
 scribbling verses, which he had generally the 
 sense to commit to the flames. Some of 
 them, howevei", reached Oliver's mother, who,
 
 148 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 good easy woman, at once concluded that her 
 son was a genius and a poet. In liis eighth 
 year an attack of sniallijox nearly cost him 
 his life, and left his face cruelly pitted. On 
 his recovery lie was sent to the Rev. Mr. Griffin 
 of Elphin, a master the very opposite of poor 
 Byrne, and the worst that could be chosen for 
 wayward, wai'm-hearted, romantic Goldsmith. 
 At this school his disfiguretl face and rather 
 ungainly figure soon made him the victim of 
 sneering and depreciation — a fate which to a 
 certain extent followed him all his days. From 
 Eljshin Goldsmith was in a short time moved 
 to another school at Athlone, and thence 
 after two years to one at Edgeworthstown, 
 kept by the Rev. Patrick Hughes. In none of 
 these did he display any great ability except 
 in spurts, and, great master of style as he after- 
 wards became, it was at this early period 
 mai'ked by confusion and awkwardness. 
 
 On the 11th June, 174.5, Goldsmith, then 
 not quite seventeen years of age, entered 
 Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar, his father's 
 means not allowing him any higher ]X)sition. 
 In 1747 his father died, and he was reduced 
 to the very lowest state of poverty. The gifts 
 which he had from his kind-hearted uncle Con- 
 tarine were utterly insufficient for his wants, 
 and an exhibition which he won only brought 
 him thirty shillings. To supplement these 
 sums he pawned his books, borrowed small 
 sums from his fellow-students, and wrote street 
 ballads at five shillings apiece. Poor Gold- 
 smith, in addition to his poverty, had to suffer 
 from the cajirice, violence, and vidgar brutality 
 of his tutor, one Wilder, who even in class 
 made him, his face and his ways, the constant 
 object of contempt and vituperation. But the 
 spring of 1749 terminated his college life, for 
 on the 27th February of that year he received 
 the degree of Bachelor of Ai'ts, and was re- 
 leased from Wilder's tyranny and scoffs. " As 
 he passed oiit for the last time through the 
 wicket in that massive gate," says Dr. Waller, 
 " beside which he so often loitered, how little 
 did he think that the time would come when 
 he should stand there, in the mimic bronze, 
 for ever, — no loiterer now, friendless, name- 
 less, neglected — but honoured and admired: 
 one of the gi-eat names that fill all lands, and 
 ennoble their own."^ 
 
 For two years after this Goldsmith passed 
 a lounging life, spending part of his time at 
 his uncle's and j),irt with his elder brother 
 
 ' An admirable statue of Goldsmith, by J. H. Foley, K. A. . 
 was erected before the gate of Trinity College iu 1864. 
 
 Henry, who Mas living in the old house at 
 Lissoy. At the end of this time he presented 
 himself before the bishop to be admitted into 
 holy orders, but was instantly rejected, chiefly 
 because he had clothed his nether limbs in a 
 pair of scarlet breeches. After this rebuff he 
 started for America, but met with such a 
 series of mishaps before reaching the coast 
 that he returned home. Next he tried to join 
 the bar, but was inveigled into play in Dublin 
 and lost the whole of the fifty pounds his 
 uncle had provided him with. Notwithstand- 
 ing this his uncle again took him into favour, 
 and in the autumn of 1 752 fui-nished him with 
 sufficient funds to enter Edinburgh University 
 as a medical student. In Edinburgh he re- 
 mained till the spring of 1754, when he started 
 for the Continent and arrived at Leyden in 
 May. For a year he continued his studies at 
 Leyden under heavy and galling difficulties, 
 after which he started for a tour through 
 Europe on foot. This occupied him nearly 
 two years, during which he saw much of cities 
 and men, and jirobably learned more than in 
 any similar period of his life. At Padua, 
 where he remained some months, he received 
 his medical degree. 
 
 In February, 1756, he arrived in England, 
 and for nearly three years lived in gloom and 
 misery which we may not penetrate. Gold- 
 smith himself seems always to have shi-unk 
 from any full revelations of them. It is 
 said he was \jy turns a strolling player, an 
 usher in a country school, and a corrector 
 of the press in the printing establishment of 
 Richardson, author of Clarissa Harlowe. It 
 is, however, more certain that he served as a 
 chemist's shopman, and that Dr. Milner em- 
 ployed him once or twice as assistant in his 
 school at Peckham. Afterwards he attempted 
 to become a surgeon's mate in the navy, but 
 on examination, 21st December, 1758, was 
 "found not qualified." 
 
 Before this, however, that is, in February, 
 1757, Griffiths, pi-oprietor of The Monthly 
 Review, met him at Dr. ISIilner's table, and, 
 being struck by his shrewdness and width of 
 view, engaged him to write criticisms. For 
 this he was to receive a smaU salary and board 
 in the house of the publisher. At the end of 
 seven months a quarrel between author and 
 publisher occurred. Griffiths charged Gold- 
 smith with being proud and indolent ; Gold- 
 smith declared that he had been half-starved, 
 treated uncivilly, and had his writings muti- 
 lated and falsified. However, a complete 
 breach did not take place, and Goldsmith con-
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 After the Painting by SIR JOSHUA KEYXOLDS
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 149 
 
 tiiiued to sui)ply the publishei- with odds aud 
 ends of contributions, until in 1759 he was 
 regularly engaged by Smollett to contribute to 
 his new venture, The British Magazine. Al- 
 ready, in April of this year, had appeared his 
 Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learn- 
 ing in Europe, an essay written with spirit, 
 and full of knowledge and shrewd observa- 
 tion, thougli far from fidtilling the promise of 
 its title. This year also saw the production of 
 The Bee, a short-lived periodical, yet full of 
 lively and clever wi-iting. In 1760 he was 
 employed by Mr. Newbery to contribute to 
 The Public Ledger, and on the 12th of January 
 of that year appeared in its pages the first of 
 a series of essays or sketches which were in 
 themselves enough to stamp him as a man of 
 genius and a wise philosopher. These were 
 The Chinese Letters, which were continued 
 thi'ough the year with gi-eat success. They 
 comprise in all one hundred aud twenty-three 
 letters, and were afterwards published as The 
 Citizen of the World, or Letters from a Chinese 
 Philosopher residing in London to his Friends 
 in the East. Never before or since has any 
 satirist exposed more clearly, and with less 
 cynicism and bitterness, the evils of society — 
 evils which are ever present ; and seldom has 
 any author excelled his pictures of character 
 displayed in Beau Tibbs and Mrs. Tibbs, and 
 the inimitable humorist the Man in Black. Mr. 
 Foreter says of tlie work "that the occasions 
 were frequent on which the Chinese Citizen 
 so lifted his voice, that only in a later genera- 
 tion could he find his audience; and they were 
 not few in which he has failed to find one 
 yet." Indeed, in this yeai' Goldsmith may be 
 looked upon as having established his fame, 
 and the first result of his easier position which 
 ensued was his removal from the squalid and 
 miserable lodgings in Green Arbour Court to 
 respectable rooms in Wine Office Court, Fleet 
 Street. 
 
 Soon after moving into his new lodgings 
 Goldsmith began to receive his friends, among 
 whom were Murphy, Smart, and Bickerstaffe. 
 On the 31st of May he gave a party, to which 
 Dr. Johnson was invited, and came accom- 
 panied by Dr. Percy. The acquaintance thus 
 begun ripened into intimacy and friendship, 
 and exercised an enormous influence both 
 for good and evil on the future career of 
 Goldsmith. During 1761 Goldsmith worked 
 hard, but on temporary jobs for Newbery and 
 ephemeral contributions to the periodicals. 
 During this time he wrote a Life of Beau 
 Nash, and revised and remodelled his Chinese 
 
 Letters for appearance as The Citizen of the 
 World. In 1762 he was ill for a time, and 
 visited some of the watering-places. In 17G3 
 he wrote a good deal of a fugitive kind, and 
 produced his Histori/ of England, in a Series of 
 Letters from a Nobleman to his Son. This work, 
 which has been declared to be " the most 
 finished and elegant summary of Englisli his- 
 tory in the same compass that has been or is 
 likely to be written," was, like most of the au- 
 thor's early works, issued anonymously, and was 
 attributed by different people to Lord Chester- 
 field, to Loiil Orrery, and to Lord Lyttleton. 
 This year also (1763) he made the acquaintance 
 of Boswell, an acquaintanceshiji which has 
 done more to lessen the proper appreciation 
 of his genius, and to lower his character as a 
 man, than all that has been effected by his 
 bitterest enemies from then till now. About 
 this time, too, his debts, which had always 
 troubled liim,let him earn how much he might, 
 became almost unbearable. Before long a 
 crisis occurred, and Johnson, in answer to " a 
 message from poor Goldsmith," went to him 
 and found that "his landlady had arrested 
 him for his rent, at which he was in a violent 
 passion." After some talk Goldsmith drew 
 from his desk a novel, the evergreen Vicar of 
 Wakefield, which had been written in odds 
 and ends of time, and presented it to Johnson. 
 Johnson glanced thi'ough the MS. and at once 
 carried it to Francis Newbery, and sold it to 
 him for sixty pounds. With the defective 
 literary apjjreciation of too many peojile who 
 deal in literature, Newbery rather doubted 
 the value of his invaluable purchase, and kept 
 it unpublished for nearly two yeai-s. The 
 sixty pounds, however, served to get Gold- 
 smith out of his difficulty, and enabled him to 
 give the last final touches to The Traveller, or 
 a Prospect of Society, which, on being shown 
 to Johnson, he declai-ed to be "a poem to which 
 it would not be easy to find anything equal 
 since the death of Pope." In December, 1764, 
 the poem appeared, and its author at once 
 stood on the top rung of the ladder of fame. 
 This was the first work to which Goldsmith 
 attached his name. Its effect upon the club 
 to wdiich he and Johnson belonged was, it 
 seems, absolutely ludicrous. "They were lost 
 in astonishment that a'newspaper essayist' and 
 'bookseller's drudge' should have written such 
 a poem;" perha])S even more astonished to find 
 that the butt on whom they had poured their 
 too often feeble wit was a man of sound good 
 sense — a giant, indeed, who stood intellectually 
 a head and shoulders taller than even their
 
 150 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 dictator the mighty Johnson. At this crisis 
 Johnson acted si)Ieudidly, and warmly defended 
 his friend in his absence. "I was glad," ob- 
 served Reynolds at one meeting, " to hear 
 Charles Fox say it was one of the finest poems 
 in the English language." "Why wasyou glad ?" 
 asked the languid Langton, "you surely had no 
 doubt of this before?" "No," interposed 
 Johnson decisively ; "the merit of The Traveller 
 is so well established that Mr. Fox's praise 
 cannot augment it, nor his censure diminish it." 
 Before the end of a year the poem had passed 
 through several editions ; but though, in the 
 words of Washington Irving, "it produced a 
 golden harvest to Mr. Newbery, all the re- 
 muneration on record doled out by his niggard 
 hand to the author was twenty guineas." 
 
 Soon after the success of The Traveller 
 Goldsmith moved into chambers in the Temple, 
 as being more genteel than even the Wine 
 Office Court apartments. However, he still 
 had to work hard at all kinds of jobs for New- 
 bery and the other jjublishers, and it was 
 about this time that he wrote for the former 
 the famous nui-sery story Goody Two Shoes. 
 About this time also he practised a little as a 
 doctor, but the restraints and duties of the 
 profession soon became irksome to him, and 
 he abandoned it after being defeated in a dis- 
 pute with a chemist as to the proper quantity 
 of medicine to be administered in a certain 
 case. The patient, a lady friend, sided with 
 the chemist, "and Goldsmith flung out of the 
 house in a passion." " I am determined hence- 
 forth," said he to Topham Beauclei'C, " to leave 
 off prescribing for friends." " Do so, my dear 
 doctor," was the reply; " whenever you under- 
 take to kill, let it be only your enemies." 
 
 In 1765 an edition of Goldsmith's essays 
 collected from different periodicals appeared, 
 and for this reprint, owing to his increased 
 reputation, he received as much as for The 
 Traveller itself. In February, 1766, The Vicar 
 of Wakefield was given to the world, and 
 before the end of August three editions of it 
 had been sold off. In December of same year 
 he received five guineas for " writing a short 
 English grammar." In this year, too, he com- 
 menced to work at his comedy The Oood- 
 natured Man, the time spent over it being the 
 few hours which he could spare now and then 
 from hack work, then as now necessary to 
 keep the pot boiling. In the eaily part of 
 1767 the comedy was completed, and negotia- 
 tions entered into with Garrick as to its pro- 
 duction. Garrick, who had an old spite 
 against the author, was anything but enthu- 
 
 siastic in the matter, and having a comedy by 
 Hugh Kelly offered him, at once proceeded to 
 produce it so as to delay The Good-natured 
 Man. To further this move he himself touched 
 up Kelly's play and wrote both prologue and 
 epilogue for it. He also arranged with Colman 
 at Covent Garden, into whose hands Gold- 
 smith's jjlay had passed, that it should not be 
 brought forward until after Kelly's had been 
 ^aroduced. 
 
 At this other crisis in Goldsmith's affairs 
 Johnson again acted well. " He attended the 
 rehearsals ; he furnished the prologue accord- 
 ing to promise ; he pish'd and pshaw'd at any 
 doubts and fears on the part of the author, but 
 gave him sound counsel, and held him up with 
 a steadfast and manly hand." Johnson's pro- 
 logue, however, was too solemn, and threw a 
 gloom over the audience which was not wholly 
 removed till the fourth act. On the whole the 
 first night's performance was not a success, 
 and Goldsmith left the theatre cruelly disap- 
 pointed. The play ran for ten nights only; 
 then fitfully appeared at intervals, and despite 
 of its merits never became a stock piece for 
 the stage, though it has ever been a favourite 
 with the reader. 
 
 Notwithstanding its comparative failure. 
 The Good-natured Man brought in its author 
 £500— £400 from the theatre and £100 from 
 the publisher. Immediately he changed his 
 chambers for more ample ones, the lease of 
 which he purchased for £400. He also spent 
 a good sum upon furniture, curtains, mirrors, 
 and carpets, and this done gave dinners to his 
 friends of note and supper-parties to young 
 folks. This kind of thing soon emptied him 
 of all the proceeds of the play, and forced him 
 again to drudge hard. To assist him in this 
 he removed for the summer to a little cottage 
 out of town on the Edgeware Road. There 
 he worked hard at his Roman History until 
 his return to town in October. In May, 1769, 
 the history appeared, and though announced 
 with no pretence was at once a success. 
 Johnson was in raptures with the work, and 
 placed it deservedly far above anything of the 
 same kind then existing. Of course it was 
 only a compilation, and laid no claim to 
 originality of information; but in "its ease, 
 perspicuity, good sense, and delightful sim- 
 plicity of style" it still remains a model to all 
 historians. Shortly before the api)oarauce of 
 the history he had already arranged for the 
 production of another great work, the History 
 of the Earth and Animated Nature. Johnson 
 prophesied that he would make this work "as
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 151 
 
 entertaining as a Persian tale," a prophecy 
 that turned out quite true. The work was to 
 be in eight vohinies of 400 pages, and fur each 
 volume Goldsmith was to receive one hundred 
 guineas. Long before the work was coni- 
 jjleted the author had drawn the whole of the 
 payment. On the 2Gth May, 1770, appeared 
 his Deserted Village, one of the sweetest and 
 most pathetical poems of the kind in the Eng- 
 lish language. By August a fifth etlition had 
 appeared, and the poem stormed tlie hearts of 
 the public, though not of all the criti&s, more 
 successfully than even The Traveller had done. 
 Soon after the ai)j)earance of The Deserted 
 Village one of his hack jobs, a Life of Parnell, 
 a])peared, and a little later Goldsmith made 
 an ex[)etlition to Paris, which no doubt again 
 emptied his pockets and landed liim deeper in 
 debt. After his return to London he wrote 
 The Haunch of Venison in return for a present 
 of game sent him by Lord Clare. He also 
 entered into an agreement with Davies to 
 write a short life of Lord Bolingbroke, and to 
 prepare an abridgment of his History of Rome. 
 The life appeared in December of the same 
 year, and was mai-ked by Goldsmith's purity 
 of style and freedom from party bias. In 
 August, 1771, his History of England was 
 published anonymously, and was, like the 
 History of Rome, a complete success. " Never 
 before," declared a critic, "had English his- 
 tory been so usefully, so elegantly, and so 
 agreeably epitomized."' During 1772 Gold- 
 smith worked hard at his Animated Nature, 
 besides contributing several things to the 
 magazines. In this year also he began to 
 feel a decline in his health, yet more than ever 
 he launched out into a course of social dissi- 
 pation. He was constantly dining and sup- 
 ping out, and as constantly letting his hard- 
 earned money slip through his fingers in at- 
 tempts to keep up his social position. " He is 
 a guest with Johnson at Mrs. Thrale's, . . . 
 a lion at Mrs. Vesey's and Mrs. Montagu's." 
 Meanwhile all the money for Animated Nature 
 has been received and spent, and .£250 which 
 he soon after receives for a History of Greece 
 only stops the mouths of his creditoi-s for a 
 •while. To worry him all the more the pro- 
 duction of his new comedy, finished long 
 before, was unaccountably delayed, and it was 
 only after Johnson interfered that a final 
 arrangement was come to. At length, in 
 March, 1773, She Stoops to Conquer apjieared, 
 and was successful even beyond the expec- 
 tations of Johnson and his truest friends. 
 But, notwithstanding its success, the clouds 
 
 gather thicker and thicker round Gold.sniith. 
 He had not the courage to withdraw hoiw the 
 expensive friendships of the Literary ('lub, 
 and by clinging to them he only plunged 
 himself dee]>er and deeper into the morass of 
 difficulties. While appearing before his friends 
 like a gentleman of fashion he had tt> drudge 
 hard in his lodgings, and worst of all, much of 
 the work he did had already been paid for, 
 and could produce him nothing more. While 
 he felt his heart sink and his courage fail, his 
 outward gaiety increased, and even Johnson 
 had no suspicion of the agonies he endured. 
 At last he determined to retire from the 
 gaieties of society, and after making arrange- 
 ments for the sale of his interest in the Temple 
 Chambers he moved to " country quarters at 
 Hyde, there to devote himself to toil." Before 
 long, however. Goldsmith's health grew so bad 
 that he was forced to return to town. For a 
 short time he seemed to improve, and his 
 poem Retaliation had reached a point in the 
 portrait of Reynold, " by flattery unspoiled," 
 when he was stricken down, and his pen wrote 
 no more. Rapidly he grew worse, but his 
 friends were still hoping for his recovery when, 
 on Sunday night the 3d of April, he wakened 
 from a deep sleep and fell into strong con- 
 vulsions, which continued until he died at 
 five o'clock in the morning of the 4th of April, 
 1774, in the forty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 Goldsmith has been lucky and unlucky in 
 his biographers beyond most other authoi-s. 
 For many years writei-s on his life as well aa 
 his readers accepted the estimate of him to 
 be found in Boswell's pages, and even when 
 Prior's biogi'aphy of him appeared it did little 
 to remove the general impression that the 
 author of The Traveller was a kind of inspired 
 idiot. In later years, however, he has been 
 treated with greater justice, and the lives of 
 him by Washington Irving and Mr. Forster 
 have caused him to l.te spoken of in a different 
 tone. He is still to us " poor Goldsmith;" but 
 while we use the expression now there is in it 
 nothing of contempt or depreciation, but only 
 of love for one who suffered much and was 
 lost too soon — of regret that he who was first 
 among his fellows should have been too often 
 their butt, while through weakness of char- 
 acter, not of intellect, he had not power to seize 
 and hold his true position. In this, however, 
 he was but one of a too numerous band, and 
 there are authors alive to-day to whom might 
 reasonably be apj^lied all that we feel when 
 we say "poor Goldsmith." 
 
 Of the many editions of Goldsmith's Vicar
 
 152 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 of Wakefield one is particularly deserving of 
 notice, published in 1843, with thirty-two illus- 
 trations by his eminent countryman William 
 Mulready, R.A. An edition of his Poetical 
 ^yorks edited by the Rev. R. H. Newell, B.D., 
 in which the locality of The Deserted Village 
 is traced, and tlie poem illustrated by seven 
 engravings from drawings taken on the spot 
 by Mr. Aitkin, published in 1811, is worthy 
 of admiration. A richly illustrated edition of 
 his Earth and Animated Nature, with exten- 
 sive notes, has been published by the Messrs. 
 Blackie of Glasgow. The editions of Grold- 
 .smith's Works are legion; but the appearance 
 of Prior's edition in 1836 threw those published 
 previously into the shade ; and Cunningham's 
 edition of 1854, which formed the first issue 
 of Murray's British Classics, in turn eclipsed 
 Prioi-'s. Of the numerous lives of Goldsmith, 
 that by Washington Irving, and Life and 
 Adventures by John Foreter, stand first.] 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 "Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring 
 
 swain; 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please; 
 How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm, — 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring 
 
 hill; 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have 1 bless'd the cominc; day. 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 l^ed up their sports beneath the spreading'- tree! 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey 'd; 
 .\nd many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round; 
 .\nd still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 By holding out to tire each other down; 
 The swain, mistrustlcss of Ins smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
 
 The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
 prove. 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 
 these, 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 
 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence, 
 shed, 
 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are 
 fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms witlidrawn; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
 And desolation saddens all thy green: 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 But choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
 Along thy glades a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 
 Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; 
 For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain: 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose: 
 And every want to luxury allied. 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
 Those healthful spots that graced the peaceful scene. 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour. 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 153 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 1 still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flames from wasting by repose: 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill; 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreat from cares that never must be mine, 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
 Xor surly porter stands in truilty state. 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate: 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
 While resignation gently slopes the way; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 
 There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes came soften'd from below: 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young. 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school, 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering 
 
 wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale; 
 Xo busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled: 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring'; 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild; 
 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his 
 
 place; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
 Far other aims his heart had leanit to prize. 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
 AVept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and showed how fields were 
 
 won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to 
 
 glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call. 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and fell for all. 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. 
 To tempt its new-fledged oflTspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay 'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoflF, remain'd to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man. 
 With steady zeal each honest rustic ran; 
 E'en children foUow'd with endearing wile. 
 And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's 
 
 smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares dis- 
 
 tress'd. 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaveji. 
 As some tall cliff" that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the stoi-m,
 
 154 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside j'on straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule. 
 The village master taught his little school; 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
 Convey 'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew, 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge: 
 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 
 For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thund'ring 
 
 sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics ranged around; 
 And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
 
 inspir'd. 
 Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd; 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
 found. 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place; 
 The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
 The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
 The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Kangcd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall. 
 Obscure it sinks, nor .shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Kelax his pond'rous strengtli, and lean to hear;; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train. 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born swayj 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfined. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain: 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supply 'd: 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their 
 
 growth; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
 .Vround the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies: 
 While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrow'd cliarm that dress supplies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are 
 
 frail, 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd: 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 But verging to decline, its splendoui-s rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 155 
 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
 And while he sinks without one arm to save, 
 Tiic country blooms — a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah! where shall poverly reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And e'en the bare- worn common is deny'd. 
 
 If to the city sped — What waits him there? 
 To see profusion that he must not share; 
 To see ten tiiousaiul baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxurj' and thin mankind; 
 To see each Joy the sons of pleasure know 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 
 
 display. 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight 
 
 reign. 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train: 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine 
 
 eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 
 Now lost to all. her friends, her virtue fled, 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
 And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 
 
 shower. 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
 train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
 E'en now perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 Ah no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far diflferent there from all that charm'd before. 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore; 
 Those Ijlazing suns that dart a downward ray. 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
 Tliose matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
 
 Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance 
 
 crown'd. 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men more murderous still than they; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
 Mingling tiie ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far diflerent these from every former scene. 
 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
 That only shclter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that part- 
 ing day, 
 That call'd them from their native walks away; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 
 
 last. 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main; 
 And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And clasp 'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O Luxury I thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own: 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun, 
 And lialf the business of destruction done; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pondering here 1 stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
 Pass from the .shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
 
 156 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And piety with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade: 
 Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart or strike for honest fame; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride : 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; 
 Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell, and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
 AVhether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
 Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 
 Teach him that states, of native strength possess'd 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 SWITZERLAND AND FRANCE. 
 
 (from "the traveller.") 
 
 Turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display; 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread. 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
 But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 
 lledress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though 
 
 small ; 
 He .sees his little lot the lot of all; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal. 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal; 
 liut calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil; 
 Checrf\il at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
 Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way. 
 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labour sped 
 He sits him down, the monarch of a shed; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks that brighten at the blaze; 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard. 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board; 
 And haply, too, some pilgrim thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart. 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 
 And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar. 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
 Yet let them only share the praises due; 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few: 
 For every want that stimulates the breast. 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd; 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies. 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies; 
 Unknown to them when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 
 
 flame, 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
 Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; 
 Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year. 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire. 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss exj^ire. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, nnimprov'd, the manners run; 
 And Love's and Friendship's finely-pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons, cowering on the nest; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 
 
 the way, 
 These, far dispersed on timorous pinions fly. 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social case. 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 
 jdease!
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 157 
 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring liOire! 
 Where shailing elms along the margin grew, 
 And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew; 
 Ami haply, thougli my harsh touch faltering still, 
 But niock'd all tunc, and marr'd the dancer's 
 
 skill, 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages: dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful 
 
 maze ; 
 And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
 Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
 For honour forms the social temper here. 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current; paid from hand to hand. 
 It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land. 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise; 
 They please, are pleased; they give to get esteem. 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies, also, room to rise; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
 p]nfeebles all internal strength of thought; 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry heart, 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
 Here vanity as-sumes her pert grimace. 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year: 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S 
 BED-CHAMBER. 
 
 Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way. 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay; 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black cham- 
 pagne, 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane ; 
 There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 
 The Muse found Scroggen .=;tretch'd beneath a rug. 
 A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray. 
 That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
 The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; 
 The liumid wall with paltry pictures .spread; 
 The royal Game of Goose was there in view, 
 
 And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew ; 
 The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place. 
 And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black 
 
 face. 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: 
 With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
 And five cracked tea-cups dress'd the chimney- 
 board ; 
 .\ night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
 A cap by night a stocking all the day! 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 The wretch condemned with life to part, 
 
 Still ! still ! on hope relies; 
 And everj' pang, that rends the heart, 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 
 
 Adorns, and cheers the way: 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 THE BUDDING PvOSE. 
 
 Have you e'er seen, bathed in the morning dew, 
 The budding rose its infant bloom display? 
 
 AVhen first its virgin tints unfold to view, 
 
 It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. 
 
 So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came. 
 
 Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; 
 
 I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame. 
 Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion 
 weak. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM 'THE GOOD-NATURED 
 MAN." 
 
 A71 Apartment in Yming Honeywood's house. 
 
 Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 
 
 Sir W, Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
 this honest bluntuess. Fidelity like yours is 
 the best excuse for every freedom. 
 
 Jar. I can't help being bluut, and being very 
 angry too, when I hear you talk of disinherit- 
 ing so good, so wortliy a young gentleman, as 
 your nephew, my master. All the world loves 
 him. 
 
 Sir W. Say, rather, that he loves all the 
 world; that is his fault. 
 
 Jar. I am sure there is no part of it more
 
 158 
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 dear to him than you are, though he has uot 
 seen you since he was a child. 
 
 Sir W. What signifies his atFection to me, i 
 or how can I be proud of a place in a heart 
 where every sharper and coxcomb iind an easy 
 entrance ] 
 
 Jar. I gi-ant you that he's rather too good- 
 natured; that lie's too much every man's man; 
 that he laughs this minute with one, and cries 
 the next with another; but whose instructions 
 may he thank for all this? 
 
 Sir ir. Not mine, sure ! My letters to him, 
 during my employment in Italy, taught him 
 only that j)hilosopliy which might prevent, 
 not defend, his errors. 
 
 Jar. Faith ! begging your honour's pardon, 
 this same philosophy is a good horse in the 
 stable, but an errant jade on a journey. 
 AVhenever I hear him mention the name on't, 
 I am always sure he is going to play the fool. 
 Sir W. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
 philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis; his 
 good-natiu-e ai-ises rather from his fears of 
 offending the importunate than his desire of 
 making tlie deserving happy. 
 
 Jar. Wliat it rises from I don't know ; but, 
 to be sure, everybody has it that asks it. 
 
 Sir W. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
 been now for some time a concealed spectator 
 of his follies, and find them as boundless as 
 his dissipation. 
 
 Jar. And yet, faith, he has some fine name 
 or other for them all. He calls his extra- 
 vagance generosity, and his trusting every- 
 body universal benevolence. It was but last 
 week he went security for a feUow whose face 
 he scarce knew, and that he called an act of 
 exalted mu — mu — munificence; — ay, that was 
 the name he gave it. 
 
 Sir ^y. And upon that I proceed, as my last 
 effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim 
 him. That very fellow has just absconded, 
 and I have taken up the security. Now my 
 intention is to involve him in fictitious dis- 
 tress, before he has plunged himself in real 
 calamity; to arrest him for that very debt, to 
 clap an officer upon him, and then let him see 
 which of his friends will come to his relief. 
 
 Jar. Well, if I could but any way see him 
 thoroughly vexed — yet, faith, I believe it is 
 impossible. I have tried to fret him myself 
 every morning these three years; but, instead 
 of being angry, he sits as calndy to hear me 
 scold, as he does to his hairdresser. 
 
 Sir W. We must try him once more, how- 
 ever; and I don't despair of succeeding; as, 
 by your means, I can have frequent oppor- 
 
 tunity of being about him, without being 
 known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any 
 man's good-will to others should produce so 
 much neglect of himself as to require correc- 
 tion; yet there are some faults so nearly allied 
 to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the 
 vice without eradicating the virtue. 
 
 [Miss Richland, who is an heiress, and loves 
 young Honeywood, has just been informed 
 that he is in the custody of two bailifi's in his 
 own house, and determines to see for herself. 
 She sets out for his house attended by her 
 maid Garnet.] 
 
 Scene— Young Hoiieywoods House. 
 Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Look ye, sir, I have arrested as good 
 men as you in my time ; no disparagement of 
 you neither. Men that would go forty guineas 
 on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town 
 to show a man in more genteeler practice than 
 myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Without all question, Mr. . I 
 
 forget your name, sir \ 
 
 Bailiff. How can you forget what you never 
 knew ? he, he, he ! 
 
 Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask yourname? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeyw. Then, pray, sir, what is your name ? 
 
 Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you; 
 he, he, he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say 
 among us that practise the law. 
 
 Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping 
 it a secret, perhaps. 
 
 Bailiff. The law does nothing without rea- 
 son. I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, 
 sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon a 
 special capus, that I should prove my name 
 — But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. 
 And, now you know my name, what have you 
 to say to that? 
 
 Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mi\ 
 Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, 
 that's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked 
 than gi-anted, as we say among us that prac- 
 tise tlie law. I have taken an oath against 
 granting favours. Would you have me per- 
 jure myself ? 
 
 Honeyv;. But my request will come recom- 
 mended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, 
 you'll have no scruple. {Pulling out his ptirse.) 
 Tlie thing is only this : I believe I sliall be 
 able to discharge this trifle in two or three 
 days at farthest ; but as I would not have the
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 159 
 
 affair knowu for the world, I have thought of 
 keeping you, and your good friend liere, about 
 me till the debt is tlischargedj for which 1 
 shall be properly grateful. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! that's another niaxum, and alto- 
 gether within my oath. For ceiiain, if an 
 honest man is to get anything by a thing, 
 there's no reason why all things should not be 
 done in civility. 
 
 Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, 
 Mr. Twitch, and yours is a necessary one. 
 (Gives him money.) 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! your honour; I hope your honour 
 takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing 
 but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can 
 say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentle- 
 man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was 
 a gentleman, I have taken money not to see 
 ]iim for ten weeks together. 
 
 Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I 
 love to see a gentleman with a tender heart. 
 I don't know, but I think I have a tender 
 heart myself. If all that I have lost by my 
 heart was put together, it would make a — but 
 no matter for that. 
 
 Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
 The ingi-atitude of the world can never deprive 
 us of the conscious happiness of having acted 
 with humanity ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better 
 than gold. I love humanity. People may say 
 that we in our way have no humanity ; but 
 I'U show you my humanity this moment. 
 There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with 
 a wife and four children, a guinea or two would 
 be more to him than twice as much to another. 
 Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, 
 I must beg you'll do it for me. 
 
 Honeyxo. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is 
 a most powerful recommendation. {Giving 
 money to the Follower.) 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you 
 know what to do with your money. But, to 
 business : we are to be with you hei-e as your 
 friends, I suppose. But set in case company 
 comes. — Little Flanigan here, to be sure, haa 
 a good face; a vex-y good face: but then, he is 
 a little seedy, as we say among us that prac- 
 tise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the 
 pocket-holes. 
 
 Iloneijio. Well, that shall be remedied with- 
 out delay. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a mo- 
 
 ment. We must improve, my good friend, 
 little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, 
 let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — 
 quick — the brown and silver — Do you hear] 
 
 Servant. That your honour gave away to 
 the begging gentleman that makes verses, 
 because it was as good as new. 
 
 Honeyw. The white and gold then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to 
 sell because it wa.s good for nothing. 
 
 Honeyxv. Well, the first that comes to hand 
 then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. 
 Flanigan will look best in blue. 
 
 \Exit Flanigan. 
 
 Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will 
 look well in anything. Ah, if your honour 
 knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd 
 be perfectly in love with him. Thei'e's not a 
 prettier scout in the four counties after a shy- 
 cock than he. Scents like a hound ; sticks 
 like a weasel. He was master of the cere- 
 monies to the black queen of ISIorocco when 
 I took him to follow me. \^Re-enter Flanigan.] 
 Hell, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I 
 don't care if I have a suit from the same place 
 for myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
 Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend 
 directions not to speak. As for yourself, I 
 know you will say nothing without being 
 directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me, I'll show the 
 lady that I have something to say for myself 
 as well as another. One man has one way of 
 talking, and another man has another, that's 
 all the difference between them. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and her Maid. 
 
 Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this 
 visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you 
 for choosing my little library. 
 
 Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, 
 as it was I that was obliged by your com- 
 mands. Chairs here. Two of my very good 
 friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, 
 gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 
 
 Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men 
 be ? I fear it is as I was informed. It must 
 be so. ]^Aside. 
 
 Bailiff {after a pause). Pretty weather, 
 very pretty weather, for the time of the year, 
 madam. 
 
 Folloicer. Very good circuit weather in the 
 country. 
 
 Honeyw. You officers are generally favour- 
 ites among the ladies. My friends, madam,
 
 160 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 have been upon very disagreeable duty, I 
 assure you. The fair should, in some measure, 
 recompense the toils of the brave. 
 
 Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve 
 every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine 
 service, I presume, sir? 
 
 Honeyw. Why, madam, they do — occasion- 
 ally serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous 
 service. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own, it has 
 often surprised me, that, while we have had so 
 many instances of bravery there, we have had 
 so few of wit at home to praise it. 
 
 Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets 
 have not written as our soldiers have fought; 
 but they have done all they could, and Hawke 
 or Amherst could do no more. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see 
 a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeyw. We should not be so severe against 
 dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the 
 dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French 
 critic who presumes to despise him. 
 
 Follower. D the French, the parle vous, 
 
 and all that belong to them ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! 
 
 Honeyiv. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan. 
 A true English officer, madam ; he's not con- 
 tented with beating the French, but he will 
 scold them too. 
 
 Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does 
 not convince me but that severity in criticism 
 is necessary. It was our first adopting the 
 severity of French taste that has brought 
 them in turn to taste us. 
 
 Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they 
 devour us. Give Monseers but a taste, and 
 they come in for a bellyful. 
 
 Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this. 
 
 Follower. But very true. What makes the 
 bread rising? the parle vous that devour us. 
 What makes the mutton five pence a pound? 
 the parle vous that eat it up. What makes 
 the beer three-pence halfpenny a pot — 
 
 Honeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues, all will be 
 out. {Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, 
 upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They 
 di-aw a jmrallel, madam, between the mental 
 taste and tliat of our senses. We are injured 
 aa much by French severity in the one, as by 
 French rapacity in the other. That's their 
 meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of 
 the parallel, yet, I'll own, that we should 
 sometimes j)ardon books, as we do our friends 
 that have now and then agreeable absurdities 
 to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only 
 can pardon, as the law says; for set in case 
 
 Honeyw. I'm quite of your oi^inion, sir. I 
 see the whole drift of your argument. Yes, 
 certainly our presuming to pardon any work, 
 is arrogating a power that belongs to another. 
 If all have j^ower to condemn, what writer can 
 be free ? 
 
 Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus 
 corpus can set him free at any time. For set 
 in case — 
 
 Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
 If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws 
 are so careful of a gentleman's person, sure we 
 ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, 
 his fame. 
 
 Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, 
 you know — 
 
 Honeyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever 
 you could not improve the last observation. 
 For my own part I think it conclusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, su", give me leave in this in- 
 stance to be positive. For where is the necessity 
 of censuring works without genius, which must 
 shortly sink of themselves : what is it, but 
 aiming our unnecessary blow against a victim 
 already under the hands of justice? 
 
 Bailiff. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you 
 talk about justice, I think I am at home there; 
 for, in a coui'se of law — 
 
 Honeyiv. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern 
 what you'd be at perfectly, and I believe the 
 lady must be sensible of the art with w^hich it 
 is introduced. I suppose you perceive the 
 meaning, madam, of his course of law? 
 
 Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I per- 
 ceive only that you answer one gentleman 
 before he has finished, and the other before 
 he has well begun. 
 
 Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, 
 and I will make the matter out. This hei-e 
 question is about severity and justice, and 
 pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain 
 the thing — 
 
 Honeyw. O ! curse your explanations. 
 
 \_Aside, 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to 
 speak with you upon earnest business. 
 
 Honeyw. That'slucky. (Aside.) Dearniadam, 
 you'll excuse me and my good friends here for 
 a few miimtes. There are books, madam, to 
 amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I 
 make no ceremony with such friends. After 
 you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must ; but 
 I know your natural politeness.
 
 (3LIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 161 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 
 
 Follower. Ay, ay ; before aud behind, before 
 and behind. 
 
 {Exeunt Honeyioood, Bailiff, and Follower. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 
 
 Gar. Mean, madam / Why, what should it 
 mean but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to 
 see? These people he calls officei-s are officers 
 sure enough — sheriffs ollioers. 
 
 Miss Rich . Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
 his perplexities are far from giving me plea- 
 sure, yet I own there's something very ridicu- 
 lous in them, and a just punishment for his 
 dissimulation. 
 
 Oar. Aud so they are. But I wonder, 
 madam, that the lawyer you just employed to 
 pay his debts and set him free has not done it 
 this time; he ought at least to have been here 
 before now. 
 
 Sir William Honeywood alone. 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Sir W. How now, Jarvis? Where's your 
 master, my nephew? 
 
 Jar. At his wit's end, I believe. He is 
 scarce gotten out of one scrape but he's running 
 his head into another. 
 
 Sir W. How so? 
 
 Jar. The house has but just been cleared 
 of the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging, 
 tooth and nail, in assisting old Croaker's son to 
 patch up a clandestine match with the young 
 lady that passes in the house for his sister. 
 
 Sir W. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jar. Ay, anybody but himself. The young 
 couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scot- 
 land, and he supplies them with money for 
 the journey. 
 
 Sir W. Money ! How is he able to supply 
 others, who has carce any for himself ? 
 
 Jar. Why, there it is; he has no money, 
 that's true ; but then, as he never said no to 
 any request in his life, he has given them a 
 bill drawn by a friend of his upon a merchant 
 in the city, which I am to get changed ; for 
 you must know that I am to go with them to 
 Scotland myself. 
 
 Sir W. How? 
 
 Jar. It seems the young gentleman is ob- 
 liged to take a different road from his mistress, 
 as he is to call upon an uucle of his that lives 
 out of the way, in order to prepare a place for 
 their reception when they return ; so they 
 have borrowed me from my master, as the 
 properest person to attend the young lady 
 down. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Sir W. To the laud of matrimony? A plea- 
 sant journey, Jarvis ! 
 
 Jar. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues 
 on't. 
 
 Sir W. Well, it may be shorter and less 
 fatiguing than you imagine. I know but too 
 much of the young lady's family and connec- 
 tions, whom I have seen abroad. I have also 
 discovered that Miss Richland is not indif- 
 ferent to my thoughtless nephew ; and will 
 endeavour, though I fear in vain, to establish 
 that connection. But come, the letter I wait 
 for must be almost finished ; I'll let you fur- 
 ther into my intentions in the next room. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 [Sir William and Jarvis by a well-con- 
 trived plot manage to bring all parties to- 
 gether at an inn, where old Croakei-'s son and 
 his intended wife, whom the nephew thought 
 to assist, are forced to remain because of the 
 bill being protested, and no money to be 
 had. They reproach young Honeywood with 
 trying to betray them. While he attempts 
 to explain, his Uncle and Miss Richland 
 appear. Sir William makes peace for the 
 runaways with the father, old Croaker. Miss 
 Richland and young Honeywood are to be 
 married, and all ends with this advice from 
 Sir William to his nephew.] 
 
 Sir W. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
 yourself. He who seeks only for applause 
 from without has all the happiness in an- 
 other's keeping. 
 
 Hon. Yes, sir ; I now too plainly perceive 
 my errors — my vanity, in attempting to please 
 all, by fearing to offend any ; my meanness in 
 approving folly, lest fools should disapprove. 
 Henceforth it shall be my study to reserve my 
 pity for real distress ; my friendship for true 
 merit ; and love for her who first taught me 
 what it is to be hap])y. 
 
 MKS. HAKDCASTLE. 
 
 (from " SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKR.") 
 
 [Mrs. Hardcastle is anxious for a match be- 
 tween her son the vulgar Tony, and her 
 handsome niece Constance Neville, who medi- 
 tates elopement with her lover Hastings.] 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by 
 Mrs. Hardcastle and Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for. Cousin 
 Con ? I wonder you're not ashamed to be so 
 very engaging. 
 
 11
 
 162 
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
 one's own relations, and not be to blame ] 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a rela- 
 tion you want to make me, though; but it 
 won't do. I tell you, Cousin Con, it won't do, 
 so I beg you'll keep your distance ; I want no 
 nearer relationship. 
 \&he follows, coquetting him to the hack scene. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr. Hastings, 
 you are very entertaining. There's nothing in 
 the world I love to talk of so much as London, 
 and the fashions, though I was never there 
 myself. 
 
 Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From 
 your air and manner I concluded you had 
 been bred all your life either at Eauelagh, St. 
 James's, or Tower Wharf. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh ! sir, you're only pleased to 
 say so. We country persons can have no 
 manner at aU. I'm in love with the town, 
 and that serves to raise me above some of our 
 neighbouring rustics; but who can have a 
 manner that has never seen the Pantheon, the 
 Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places 
 where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can 
 do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take 
 care to know every tete-^-tete from the Scan- 
 dalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as 
 they come out, in a letter from the two Miss 
 Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you 
 like this head, Mr. Hastings? 
 
 Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon 
 my word, madam. Your friseui" is a French- 
 man, I suppose? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I jjrotest I dressed it myself 
 from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum 
 Book for the last year. 
 
 Hast. Indeed ! such a head in a side-box, at 
 the play-house, would draw as many gazers as 
 my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began 
 there is no such thing to be seen as a plain 
 woman ; so one must dress a little particular, 
 or one may escape in the crowd. 
 
 Hast. But that can never be your case, 
 madam, in any dress. {Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yet what signifies my dressing 
 when I have such a piece of antiquity by my 
 side as Mr. Hardcastle ? All I can say will 
 not argue down a single button from his 
 clothes. I have often wanted him to throw 
 off his great flaxen wig, and where he was 
 bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, 
 with powder. 
 
 Hast. You are right, madam ; for as among 
 the ladies there are none ugly, so among the 
 men there are none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. But what do you thuik his 
 answer was? Why, with his usual Gothic 
 vivacity, he said, I only wanted him to throw 
 off his wig, to convert it into a tete for my 
 own wearing. 
 
 Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may 
 wear what you please, and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do 
 you take to be the most fashionable age about 
 town ? 
 
 Ha^t. Some time ago forty was all the mode ; 
 but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty 
 for the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Seriously ! then I shall be too 
 young for the fashion. 
 
 Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels 
 till she's past forty. For instance, Miss there, 
 in a polite circle, would be considered as a 
 child, as a mere maker of samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks her- 
 self as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, 
 as the oldest of us all. 
 
 Hast. Your niece, is she? and that young 
 gentleman a brother of yours, I should pre- 
 sume? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My sou, sir. They are con- 
 tracted to each other. Observe their little 
 sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, 
 as if they were man and wife already. (To 
 them.) Well, Tony, child, what soft things 
 are you saying to your cousin Constance this 
 
 evening? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things; 
 but that it's very hard to be followed about so. 
 Ecod, I've not a place in the house now that's 
 left to myself, but the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Never mind him. Con, my dear. 
 He's in another story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Nev. There's something generous in 
 my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces 
 to be forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a confounded— crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
 think they're like each other about the mouth, 
 Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a 
 T. They're of a size, too. Back to back, my 
 pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. 
 Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I 
 tell you. [Measuring. 
 
 Miss Nev. Oh ! he has almost cracked my 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, the monster ! For shame, 
 Tony. You a man, and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. 
 Ecod, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungiateful boy, all that
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 163 
 
 I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your 
 education ? I that have rocked you in your 
 cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a 
 spoon? Did Jiot I work that waistcoat to 
 make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for 
 you every day, and weep while the receipt 
 was operating i 
 
 Tony. Ecod, you hatl reason t(j weep, for 
 you have been dosing me ever since I was 
 born. I have gone through every receipt in 
 the Complete Huswife ten times over; and you 
 have thoughts of coursing me through Qiiincy 
 next spring. But, ecod, I tell you, I'll not be 
 made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Airs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, 
 viper \ Wasn't it all for your good ? 
 
 Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good 
 alone, then. Snubbing this way, when I'm in 
 spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come 
 of itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it 
 into one so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. That's false; I never see you 
 when you are in spirits. No, Tony, you then 
 go to the alehouse, or kennel. I'm never to 
 be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, 
 unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mamma, your own notes are 
 the wildest of the two. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like ! But I see 
 he wants to break my heart, I see he does. 
 
 Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture 
 the young gentleman a little. I'm certain I 
 can persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, 
 Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, 
 the wretchedness of my situation. Was ever 
 poor woman so plagued with a dear*, sweet, 
 pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ? 
 
 {Exeunt Mrs. Hard, and Miss Neville.) 
 
 Hastings. Tony. 
 
 Tony. (Singing.) 
 
 There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Rang do didlo dee. 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the com- 
 fort of her heart. I have seen her ami sister 
 cry over a book for an hour together; and 
 they said they liked the book the better the 
 more it made them cry. 
 
 Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
 find, my pretty yoimg gentleman. 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, 
 I dare answer : and yet she appears to me a 
 pretty, well-tempered girl. 
 
 7'ony. That's because you don't know her 
 jis well as 1. Ecod, I know every inch about 
 her, and there's not a more bitter, cantanker- 
 ous toad in all Christendom. 
 
 Hast. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement this 
 for a lover. 
 
 Tony. 1 have seen her since the height of 
 that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a 
 thicket, or a colt the firet day's breaking. 
 
 Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when 
 she's with her playmates she's as loud as a hog 
 in a gate. 
 
 Hast. But there is a meek modesty about 
 her that chanus me. 
 
 Tony. Yes ; but curb her never so little, she 
 kicks up, and you're flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little 
 beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 
 
 To7iy. Bandbox ! She's all a made up thing, 
 num. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer, 
 of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. 
 Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and 
 cheeks as broad and red as a puljiit cushion. 
 She'd make two of she. 
 
 Hast. AVell, what say you to a friend that 
 woidd take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anon ! 
 
 Hast. Would you thank him that would 
 take Miss Neville, and leave you to hapijiness 
 and your dear Betsy ? 
 
 Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend ? 
 for who would take her? 
 
 Hast. 1 am he. If you but assist me, I'll 
 engage to whij) her off to France, and you 
 shall never hear more of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will to the last 
 drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses 
 to your chaise that shall trundle you off in 
 a twinkling; and may be, get you a jiart of 
 her fortiu beside, in jewels, that you little 
 dream of. 
 
 Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad 
 of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall see 
 more of my spirit before you have done with 
 me. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. 
 
 (from "the citizen of the world.") 
 
 I am just returned from Westminster, the 
 place of sepulture for the philosophei-s, heroes, 
 and kings of England. "What a gloom do 
 monumental inscriptions and all the venerable
 
 164 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 remains of deceased merit inspire ! Imagine 
 a temple marked with the hand of antiquity, 
 solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the 
 magnificence of barbarous profusion, dim win- 
 dows, fretted pillars, long colonnades, and 
 dark ceilings. Think, then, what were my 
 sensations at being introduced to such a scene. 
 I stood in the midst of the temple, and threw 
 my eyes round on the walls, filled with the 
 statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments 
 of the dead. 
 
 Alas, I said to myself, how does pride 
 attend the puny child of dust even to the 
 grave ! Even humble as I am, I possess moie 
 consequence in the present scene than the 
 greatest hero of them all; they have toiled 
 for an hour to gain a transient immortality, 
 and are at length retired to the grave, where 
 they have no attendant but the worm, none to 
 flatter but the ejDitaph. 
 
 As I was indulging such reflections a gentle- 
 man, dressed in black, perceiving me to be a 
 stranger, came up, entered into conversation, 
 and politely offered to be my instructor and 
 guide through the temple. "If any monu- 
 ment," said he, "should particularly excite 
 your curiosity, I shall endeavour- to satisfy 
 youi" demands." I accepted with thanks the 
 gentleman's offer, adding, that " I was come 
 to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the 
 justice of the English in conferring rewards 
 upon deceased merit. If adulation like this 
 (continued I) be properly conducted, as it can 
 noways injure those who are flattered, so it 
 may be a glorious incentive to those who are 
 now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of 
 every good government to turn this monu- 
 mental pride to its own advantage ; to become 
 strong in the aggregate from the weakness of 
 the individual. If none but the truly great 
 have a place in this awful repository, a temple 
 like this will give the finest lessons of morality, 
 and be a strong incentive to true merit." The 
 man in black seemed impatient at my observa- 
 tions ; so I discontinued my remarks, and we 
 walked on together to take a view of every 
 particular monument in order as it lay. 
 
 As the eye is naturally caught by the finest 
 objects, I coidd not avoid being particularly 
 curious about one monument, which appeared 
 more beaiitifiil than the rest : " That," said I 
 to my guide, " I take to be the tomb of some 
 very great man. By the peculiar excellence 
 of the workmanship and the magnificence of 
 the design tliis must be a trophy raised to the 
 memory of some king who has saved his 
 country from ruin, or lawgiver who has re- 
 
 duced his fellow-citizens from anarcliy into 
 just subjection." — " It is not requisite," replied 
 my companion, smOing, " to have such quali- 
 fications in order to have a very fine monu- 
 ment here. More humble abilities will suf- 
 fice." — " What ! I suppose, then, the gaining 
 two or three battles, or the taking half a score 
 towns, is thought a suflficient qualification?" 
 — " Gaining battles or taking towns," replied 
 the man in black, " may be of service : but a 
 gentleman may have a very fine monument 
 here without ever seeing a battle or a siege." — 
 " This, then, is the monument of some poet, I 
 presume ; of one whose wit has gained him 
 immortality ! " — " No, sir," replied my guide ; 
 " the gentleman who lies here never made 
 verses, and as for wit, he despised it in others, 
 because he had none himself." — " Pray tell me 
 then in a word," said I, peevishly, " what is 
 the great man who lies here particularly re- 
 markable for?" — "Remarkable, sir!" said my 
 companion, " why, sir, the gentleman that lies 
 here is remarkable, very remarkable — for a 
 tomb in Westminster Abbey." — " But, head of 
 my ancestors ! how has he got here ! I fancy 
 he could never bribe the guardians of the 
 temple to give him a place. Should he not be 
 ashamed to be seen among company where 
 even moderate merit would look like infamy?" 
 — " I suppose," replied the man in black, "the 
 gentleman was rich, and his friends, it is usual 
 in such a case, told him he was great. He 
 readily believed them ; the guardians of the 
 temple, as they got by the self-delusion, were 
 ready to believe him too : so he paid his money 
 for a fine monument, and the workman, as 
 you see, has made him one of the most beauti- 
 ful. Think not, however, that this gentleman 
 is singular in his desire of being buried among 
 the great ; there are several others in the 
 temple, who, hated and shunned by the great 
 while alive, have come here, fvdly resolved to 
 keep them company now they are dead." 
 
 As we walked along to a ])articular part of 
 the temple, " There," says the gentleman, 
 pointing with his finger, — " that is the poet's 
 corner; there you see the mouvunents of Shak- 
 spere, and Milton, and Prior, and Drayton." 
 ■ — "Drayton!" I replied, "I never heard of 
 him before ; but I have been told of one Pope, 
 — is he there?" — "It is time enough," replied 
 my guide, " these hundred years ; he is not 
 long dead ; people have not done hating him 
 yet." — " Strange," cried T ; " can any be found 
 to hate a man whose life was wholly spent in 
 entertaining and instructing his fellow-crea- 
 tures?" — "Yes," says my guide, "they hate
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 165 
 
 him for that very reason. There are a set of men 
 called answerers of books, who take upon them 
 to watch the republic of lettei-s, and distribute 
 reputation by the sheet ; they somewhat re- 
 semble the eunuchs in a seraglio, wlio are in- 
 capable of giving pleasure themselves, and 
 hinder those that would. These answerers 
 have no other employment but to cry out 
 'dunce,' and 'scribbler,' to praise the dead 
 and revile the living ; to grant a man of con- 
 fessed abilities some small share of merit; to 
 applaud twenty blockheads, in order to gain 
 the reputation of candour ; and to revile the 
 moral character of the man whose writings 
 they cannot injure. Such wretches are kept in 
 pay by some mercenary bookseller, or more fre- 
 quently the bookseller himself takes this dirty 
 work otf their hands, as all that is required is 
 to be very abusive and very dull. Every poet 
 of any genius is sure to find such enemies : he 
 feels, though he seems to despise, their malice; 
 they make him miserable here; and in the 
 pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains solid 
 anxiety." 
 
 " Has this been the case with every poet I 
 see here I" cried I. — " Yes, with every mother's 
 son of them," replied he, " except he happened 
 to be born a mandarin. If he has much money 
 he may buy reputation from your book- 
 answeiers, as well as a monument from the 
 guardians of the temple." 
 
 " But are there not some men of distinguished 
 taste, as in China, who are willing to patronize 
 men of merit, and soften the rancour of male- 
 volent dulness?" 
 
 " I own there are many," replied the man 
 in black ; " but, alas ! sir, the book -answerers 
 crowd about them, and call themselves the 
 writers of books; and the patron is too in- 
 dolent to distingiaish : thus poets are kept at 
 a distance, while their enemies eat up all their 
 rewards at the mandarin's table." 
 
 Leaving this part of the temple, we made 
 up to an iron gate, through which my com- 
 panion told me we were to pass in order to see 
 the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I 
 marched up without farther ceremony, and 
 wa.s going to enter, when a person who held 
 the gate in his hand, told me I must pay first. 
 I was surprised at such a demand, and asked 
 the man, " whether the peo])le of England 
 kept a show? whether the paltiy sum he de- 
 manded was not a national reproach ? whether 
 it was not more to the honour of the country 
 to let their magnificence or their antiquities 
 be openly seen, than thus meanly to tax a 
 curiosity which tended to their own honour?" 
 
 " As for your questions," replied the gate- 
 keeper, " to be sure they may be very right, 
 because I don't understand them : but as for 
 that threepence, I farm it from one who rents 
 it from another, who hires it from a third, wlio 
 leases it from the guardians of the temple ; 
 and we all must live." I expected upon pay- 
 ing here to see something extraordinary, since 
 what I had seen for nothing filled me with 
 so much surprise ; but in this I was dis- 
 appointed ; there was little more within than 
 black coffins, rusty armour, tattered standards, 
 and some few slovenly figures in wax. I was 
 sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself by 
 considering it would be my last payment. A 
 person attended us, who, without once blush- 
 ing, told a hundred lies : he talked of a lady 
 who died by pricking her finger; of a king 
 with a golden head, and twenty such pieces of 
 absurdity. — " Look ye there, gentlemen," says 
 he, pointing to an old oak chair, "there's a 
 curiosity for ye : in that chair the kings of 
 England were crowned ; you see also a stone 
 underneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow." 
 I could see no curiosity either in the oak chair 
 or the stone : could I, indeed, behold one of 
 the old kings of England seated in this, or 
 Jacob's head laid upon the other, there might 
 be something curious in the sight ; but in the 
 present case there was no more reason for my 
 surprise than if I should pick a stone from 
 their streets, and call it a curiosity, merely be- 
 cause one of the kings happened to tread upon 
 it as he passed in a procession. 
 
 From hence our conductor led us thi'ough 
 several dark walks and winding ways, utter- 
 ing lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a 
 wand which he held in his hand. He reminded 
 me of the black magicians of Kobi. After we 
 had been almost fatigued with a viu-iety of 
 ol)jects, he at last desired me to consider 
 attentively a certain suit of armour, wliich 
 seemed to show nothing remarkable. " This 
 armour," said he, "belonged to General Monk." 
 — "Very surprising, that a general should 
 wear- anuour !"— " And pray,'" added he, " ob- 
 serve this cap ; this is General Monk's caj)."' 
 — " Very strange indeed, very strange, that a 
 general should ha\-e a cap also ! Pray, friend, 
 what might this cap have cost originally?" — 
 " That, sir," says he, " I don't know ; but this 
 cap is all the wages I have for my trouble." — 
 " A very small recompense, truly," said I. — 
 " Not so very small," replied he, " for every 
 gentleman puts some money into it, and I spend 
 the money." — " AVhat ! more money ! Still 
 more money!" — "Every gentleman gives
 
 166 
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 something, sir." — " I'll give thee uothing," re- 
 turned I : " the guardians of the temi^le should 
 pay your wages, friend, and not permit you to 
 squeeze thus fi'om every sjjectator. When we 
 pay our money at the door to see a show, we 
 never give more as we are going out. Sure 
 the guardians of the temple can never think 
 they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay 
 longer I may probably meet with more of those 
 ecclesiastical beggars." 
 
 Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I re- 
 turned to my lodgings, in order to ruminate 
 over what was great, and to despise what was 
 mean, in the occm-rences of the day. 
 
 ADVICE TO THE LADIES, 
 
 WITH AN ILLUSTRATIVE INDIAN TALE. 
 
 (FROM "THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.") 
 
 As the instruction of the fair sex in this 
 countxy is entirely committed to the care of 
 foreigners, as their language-masters, music- 
 masters, hair-frizzex's, and governesses are all 
 from abroad, I had some intentions of opening 
 a female academy myself, and made no doubt, 
 as I was quite a foreigner, of meeting a favour- 
 able reception. 
 
 In this I intended to instruct the ladies in 
 all the conjugal mysteries ; wives should be 
 taught the art of managing husbands, and 
 maids the skill of properly choosing them ; I 
 would teach a wife how far she might venture 
 to be sick without giving disgust ; she should 
 be acquainted with the gi-eat benefits of the 
 cholic in the stomach, and all the thorough- 
 bred insolence of fashion ; maids should learn 
 the secret of nicely distinguishing every com- 
 petitor ; they should be able to know the 
 difference between a pedant and a scholar, a 
 citizen and a prig, a 'squire and his horse, a 
 beau and his monkey ; but chiefly, they should 
 be taught the art of managing their smiles, 
 from the contemptuous simper to the long 
 lalx)rious laugh. 
 
 But I have discontinued the project; for 
 what would signify teaching ladies the manner 
 of governing or choosing husbands, when mar- 
 riage is at present so much out of fashion, 
 that a lady is very well off who can get any 
 husband at all. Celibacy now prevails in every 
 rank of life ; the streets are crowded with old 
 bachelors, and the houses with ladies who have 
 refused good offers, and are never likely to 
 receive any for the future. 
 
 The only advice, therefore, I could give the 
 fair sex, as things stand at present, is to get 
 husbands as fast as they can. There is cer- 
 tainly nothing in the whole creation, not even 
 Babylon in ruins, more truly deplorable, than 
 a lady in the virgin bloom of sixty -three, or a 
 battered unmarried beau, who squibs about 
 from place to place, showing his pig-tail wig 
 and his ears. The one appears to my imagina- 
 tion in the form of a double night-cap or a 
 roll of pomatum, the other in the shajie of an 
 electuary or a box of jjills. 
 
 I would once more, therefore, advise the 
 ladies to get husbands. I would desire them 
 not to discard an old lover without very suf- 
 ficient reasons, nor treat the new with ill- 
 nature, till they know him false ; let not prudes 
 allege the falseness of the sex, coquettes the 
 pleasm-es of long courtship, or parents the 
 necessary preliminaries of penny for penny. 
 I have reasons that would silence even a casuist 
 in this particular. In the first place, there- 
 fore, I divide the subject into fifteen heads, 
 and then, " sic argumentor" — bvit not to give 
 you and myself the spleen, be contented at 
 present with an Indian tale. 
 
 In a winding of the river Amidar, just be- 
 fore it falls into the Caspian Sea, there lies an 
 island unfrequented by the inhabitants of the 
 continent. In this seclusion, blessed with all 
 that wild uncultivated nature could bestow, 
 lived a princess and her two daughters. She 
 had been wrecked upon the coast while her 
 children as yet were infants, who, of conse- 
 quence, though grown up, were entirely unac- 
 quainted with man. Yet, unexperienced as 
 the young ladies were in the opposite sex, both 
 early discovered symptoms, the one of prudery, 
 the other of being a coquette. The eldest was 
 ever learning maxims of wisdom and discre- 
 tion from her mamma, while the youngest 
 employed all her hours in gazing at her own 
 face in a neighbouring fountain. 
 
 Their usual amusement in this solitude was 
 fishing ; their mother had taught them all the 
 secrets of the art; she showed them which 
 were the most likely places to throw out the 
 line, what baits were most proper for the 
 various seasons, and the best manner to draw 
 up the finny prey, when they had hooked it. 
 In this manner they spent their time, easy and 
 innocent, till one day the princess, being indis- 
 posed, desired them to go and catch her a 
 sturgeon or a shark for supper, which she 
 fancied might sit easy on her stomach. The 
 daughters obeyed, and clapping on a gold fish, 
 the usual bait on these occasions, went and sat
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 167 
 
 upon one of the rocks, letting the gilded hook 
 glide down with the stream. 
 
 On the oj)posite shore, further down, at the 
 mouth of the river, lived a diver for pearls, a 
 youth, who, by long habit in his trade, wa.s 
 almost grown amphibious ; so that he could 
 remain whole hours at the bottom of the water, 
 without ever fetching breath. He happened 
 to be at that very instant diving, when the 
 ladies were fishing with the gilded hook. 
 Seeing therefore the bait, which to him had 
 the appearance of real gold, he was resolved 
 to seize the prize, but both hands being already 
 tilled with pearl oysters, he found himself 
 obliged to snap at it with his mouth : the con- 
 sequence is easily imagined ; the hook, before 
 unperceived, was instantly f;istened in his jaw; 
 nor could he, with all his efforts or his flounder- 
 ing, get free. 
 
 " Sistei-," cries the youngest princess, " I 
 have certainly caught a monstrous fish; I 
 never perceived anything struggle so at the 
 end of ray line before ; come, and help me to 
 draw it in." They both now, therefore, as- 
 sisted in fishing up the diver on shore ; but 
 nothing could equal their surprise upon seeing 
 him. " Bless my eyes," cries the prude, " what 
 have we got here ; this is a very odd fish to be 
 sure ; I never saw anything in my life look so 
 queer ; what eyes ! what terrible claws ! what 
 a monstrous snout ! I have read of this mon- 
 ster somewhere before, it certainly mvist be a 
 tanglang, that eats women ; let us thi'ow it back 
 into the sea where we found it." 
 
 The diver in the meantime stood upon the 
 beach, at the end of the line, with the hook in 
 his mouth, using every art that he thought 
 could best excite pity, and particularly looking 
 extremely tender, which is usual in such cir- 
 cumstances. The coquette, therefore, in some 
 measure influenced by the innocence of his 
 looks, ventured to contradict her companion. 
 " Upon my word, sister," says she, " I see 
 nothing in the animal so very ten-ible as you 
 are pleased to apprehend ; I think it may serve 
 well enough for a change. Always sharks, and 
 sturgeons, and lobsters, and crawfish make me 
 quite sick. I fancy a slice of this nicely gril- 
 laded,and dressed up with shrimp-sauce, would 
 be very pretty eating. I fancy mamma would 
 like a bit with pickles above all things in the 
 world : and if it should not sit easy on her 
 stomach, it will be time enough to discontinue 
 it when found disagreeable, you know." — 
 " Horrid," cries the prude, " would the girl be 
 poisoned. I tell you it is a tanglang; I have 
 read of it in twenty places. It is everywhere 
 
 described as the most pernicious animal that 
 ever infested the ocean. I am certain it is the 
 most insidious ravenous creature in the world ; 
 and is certain destruction if taken internally." 
 The youngest sister was now therefore obliged 
 to submit : both assisted in drawing the hook 
 with some violence from the diver's jaw ; and 
 he, finding himself at liberty, bent his breast 
 against the broad wave, and disappeared in an 
 instant. 
 
 Just at this juncture the mother came down 
 to the beach, to know the cause of her daugh- 
 ter' delay ; they told her every circumstance, 
 describing the monster they had caught. The 
 old lady was one of the most discreet women 
 in the woi'ld ; she was called the black-eyed 
 princess, from two black eyes she had received 
 in her youth, being a little addicted to boxing 
 in her liquor. "Alas, my children!" cries 
 she, " what have you done? the fish you caught 
 was a man-fish ; one of the most tame domestic 
 animals in the world. We could have let him 
 run and play about the garden, and he would 
 have been twenty times more entertaining 
 than our squirrel or monkey." — " If that be 
 all," says the young coquette, " we will fish for 
 him again. If that be all, I will hold three 
 tooth-picks to one pound of snuff, I catch him 
 whenev^er I please." Accordingly they threw 
 in their line once more, but, with all their 
 gilding, and paddling, and assiduity, they could 
 never after catch the diver. In this state of 
 solitude and disappointment they continued 
 for many years, still fishing, but without 
 success ; till at last, the genius of the place, in 
 pity of their distress, changed the prude into 
 a shrimp, and the coquette into an oyster. 
 Adieu. 
 
 THE VICARS HOME. 
 
 (KROM "THE VICAB OF WAKEFIELD.") 
 
 When the morning arrived on which we 
 were to entertain our young landlord, it may 
 be easily supposed what provisions were ex- 
 hausted to make an apjiearance. It may be 
 also conjectured that my wife and daughters 
 expanded their gayest plumage on this occa- 
 sion. Mr. Thoi'nhill came with a couple of 
 friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, 
 who were numerous, he politely ordered to the 
 next alehouse ; but my wife, in the triumph 
 of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; 
 for which, by the bye, our family was pinched 
 for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had
 
 168 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 hinted to us the day before that he was 
 making some proposals of marriage to Miss 
 Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this 
 a good deal damped the heartiness of his 
 reception : but accident in some measure re- 
 lieved our embarrassment, for one of the com- 
 pany happening to mention her name, Mr. 
 Thornhill observed with an oath that he never 
 knew anything more absurd than calling such 
 a fright a beauty: "For, strike me ugly," 
 continued he, " if I should not find as much 
 pleasure in choosing my mistress by the infor- 
 mation of a lamp under the clock of St. Dun- 
 stan's." At this he laughed, and so did we : 
 the jests of the rich are ever successful. 
 Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud 
 enough to be heard, that he had an infinite 
 fund of humour. 
 
 After dinner, I began with my usual toast, 
 the Church; for this I was thanked by the 
 chaplain, as he said the church was the only 
 mistress of his afi^ections. " Come, tell us 
 honestly, Frank," said the squire, with his 
 usual archness, " suppose the church, your pre- 
 sent mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves on one 
 hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about 
 her on the othei', which would you be for?" — 
 "For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. 
 " Right, Frank," cried the squire ; " for may 
 this glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth 
 all the priestcraft in the creation ; for what 
 are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a 
 confounded imposture? and I can prove it." — 
 "I wish you would," cried my son Moses; 
 " and I think," continued he, " that I should 
 be able to answer you." — "Very well, sir," 
 cried the squire, who immediately smoked 
 him, and winked on the rest of the company 
 to prepare us for the sport : " if you are for a 
 cool argument ujwn the subject, I am ready to 
 accept the challenge. And first, whether are 
 you for managing it analogically or dialogic- 
 ally?" — "I am for managing it rationally," 
 cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted 
 to dispute. " Good again," cried the squire : 
 "and, firstly, of the first, I hope you'll not 
 deny that whatever is, is : if you don't grant 
 me that I can go no further." — " Why," re- 
 turned Moses, " I think I may grant that, and 
 make the best of it." — " I hope, too," returned 
 the other, " you will grant that a part is less 
 than the whole." — " I grant that too," cried 
 Moses, " it is but just and reasonable." — " I 
 hojie," cried the squire, " you will not deny 
 that the three angles of a triangle are equal to 
 two right ones." — " Nothing can be plainer," 
 returned t'other, and looked round him with 
 
 his usual importance. " Vei-y well," cried the 
 squire, speaking very quick ; " the premises 
 being thus settled, I proceed to observe that 
 the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding 
 in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally pro- 
 duce a problematical dialogism, which, in some 
 measure, proves that the essence of spiritu- 
 ality may be referred to the second predicable." 
 —"Hold, hold!" cried the other, "I deny that. 
 Do you think I can thus tamely submit to 
 such heterodox doctrines ? " — " What," replied 
 the squire, as if in a passion, " not submit ! 
 Answer me one plain question. Do you think 
 Ai'istotle right when he says that relatives 
 are related?" — "Undoubtedly," replied the 
 other. — " If so, then," cried the squire, ".answer 
 me dii-ectly to what I propose : Whether do 
 you judge the analytical investigation of the 
 first part of my enthymem deficient secundum 
 quoad, or quoad minus? and give me your 
 reasons, I say, directly." — " I protest," cried 
 Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force 
 of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one 
 single proposition, I fancy it may then have 
 an answer." — "O, sir," cried the squire, "I am 
 your most humble servant ; I find you want 
 me to furnish you with argument and intel- 
 lects too. No, sii- ! there, I protest, you are 
 too hard for me." This effectually raised the 
 laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only 
 dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor 
 did he offer a single syllable more during the 
 whole entertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it 
 had a very different effect upon Olivia, who 
 mistook it for humour, though but a mere act 
 of the memory. She thought him, therefore, 
 a very fine gentleman : and such as consider 
 what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine 
 clothes, and fortune are in that character will 
 easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwith- 
 standing his real ignorance, talked with ease, 
 and could expatiate upon the common topics of 
 conversation with fluency. It is not surpris- 
 ing, then, that such talents should win the affec- 
 tions of a girl, who, by education, was taught 
 to value an appearance in herself, and, conse- 
 quently, to set a value upon it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure we again entered into 
 a debate upon the merits of our young land- 
 lord. As he directed his looks and conversa- 
 tion to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but 
 that she was the object that induced him to 
 be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much 
 displeased at the innocent raillery of her 
 brother and sister upon this occasion. Even 
 Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 169 
 
 the day, and exulted iu her daughter's victory 
 as if it were her own. " And now, my dear," 
 cried she to me, " I'll fairly own that it wius I 
 that instructed my girls to encourage our 
 landlord's addresses. I had always some am- 
 bition, and you now see that I was riglit ; for 
 who knows how this may end?" — "Ay, who 
 knows that, indeed!" answered I, with a 
 groan: "for my part, I don't much like it: 
 and I could have been better plea.sed with one 
 that w;is poor and honest than this tine gentle- 
 man with his fortune and infidelity; for, 
 depend on't, if he be what I suspect liim, no 
 freethinker shaU ever have a child of mine." 
 
 " Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too 
 sevei-e in this ; for Heaven will never arraign 
 him for what he thinks, but for what he does. 
 Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, 
 which arise without his power to suppress. 
 Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary 
 with this gentleman; so that allowing his 
 sentiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely 
 passive in his assent, he is no more to be 
 blamed for his errors than the governor of a 
 city without walls for the shelter he is obliged 
 to afford an invading enemy." 
 
 " True, my son," cried I : " but if the gover- 
 nor invites the enemy there he is justly cul- 
 pable ; and such is always the case with those 
 who embrace error. The vice does not lie in 
 assenting to the proofs they see, but in being 
 blind to many of the proofs that offer. So 
 that, though our erroneous opinions be in- 
 voluntary when formed, yet, as we have been 
 wilfully corrupt, or very negligent, in forming 
 them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or 
 contempt for o>ir folly." 
 
 My wife now kept viji the conversation, 
 though not the argument; she observed that 
 several very prudent men of our acquaintance 
 were freethinkei's, and made very good hus- 
 bands ; and she knew some sensible girls that 
 had had skill enough to make converts of their 
 spouses : " And who knows, my dear," con- 
 tinued she, " what Olivia may be able to do ? 
 The girl has a great deal to say upon every 
 subject, and, to my knowledge, is very well 
 skilled in controversy." 
 
 " Why, my dear, what controversy can she 
 have read?" cried I. "It does not occur to 
 me that I ever put such books into her hands; 
 you cei-tainly overrate her merit." — " Indeed, 
 papa," replied Olivia, " she does not ; I have 
 read a great deal of controversy. I have read 
 the disputes between Thwackum and Square ; 
 the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and 
 Friday the savage ; and I am now employed 
 
 in reading the controversy in Religious Court- 
 ship." — " Very well," cried 1, " that's a good 
 girl; I find you are perfectly (pialified for 
 making converts, and so go help your mother 
 to make the gooseberry-pie." 
 
 MOSES AT THE FAIR. 
 
 (FROM "THE VICAR OK WAKEKIELD.") 
 
 When we were returned liome, the night 
 was dedicated to schemes of future conquest. 
 Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjectur- 
 ing which of the two girls was likely to have 
 the best place, and most oj)portunities of see- 
 ing good company. The only obstacle to our 
 preferment was in obtaining the squire's re- 
 commendation ; but he had already shown us 
 too many instances of his friendship to doubt 
 of it now. Even in bed my wife kept up the 
 usual theme : " Well, faith, my dear Charles, 
 between ourselves I think we have made an 
 excellent day's work of it."—" Pretty well," 
 cried I, not knowing what to say. — " What, 
 only pretty well ! " returned she ; " I think it is 
 very well. Suppose the girls should come to 
 make acquaintances of taste in town ! This 
 I am assured of, that London is the only place 
 in the world for all manner of husbands. 
 Besides, my dear, stranger things happen 
 every day, and as ladies of quality are so taken 
 with my daughters, what will not men of 
 quality be ! Entre nous, I protest I like my 
 Lady Blarney vastly — so very obliging. How- 
 ever, Miss Carolina Wilelmiua Amelia Skeggs 
 has ray warm heart. But yet, when they 
 came to talk of i)laces in town, you saw at 
 once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, 
 don't you think I diil for my children there?" 
 — " Ay," returned I, not knowing weU what 
 to think of the matter : " heaven grant they 
 may be both the better for it this day three 
 months ! " This was one of those observations 
 I usually made to impress my wife with an 
 opinion of my sagacity : for if the girls suc- 
 ceeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but 
 if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might 
 be looked upon as a j^rophecy. All this con- 
 versation, however, was only preparatory to 
 another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. 
 This was uotliing less than that, as we were 
 now to hold up our heads a little higher in 
 the world, it would be proper to sell the colt, 
 which was grown old, at a neighbouring 
 fair, and buy us a horse that would carry
 
 170 
 
 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 single or double upon au occasion, and make 
 a {)retty appearance at church or upon a visit. 
 This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was as 
 stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, 
 my antagonist gained strength, till at last it 
 was resolved to part with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, 
 I had intentions of going myself; but my 
 wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and 
 nothing could prevail upon her to permit me 
 from home. " No, my dear," said she, " our 
 son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and 
 sell to very good advantage ; you know all our 
 great bargains are of his purchasing. He 
 always stands out and higgles, and actually 
 tires them till he gets a bargain." 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence 
 I was Avilliug enough to intrust him with this 
 commission; and the next morning I per- 
 ceived his sistei's mighty busy in fitting out 
 Moses for the fair; trimming his hair, brush- 
 ing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. 
 The business of the toilet being over, we had 
 at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted 
 upon the colt, with a deal-box before him to 
 bring home groceries in. He had on a coat 
 made of that cloth called thunder and light- 
 ning, which, though grown too short, was 
 much too good to be thrown away. His 
 waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters 
 had tied his hair with a broad black riband. 
 We all followed him several paces from the 
 door, bawling after him, " Good luck ! good 
 luck!" till we could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarcely gone when Mr. Thornhill's 
 butler came to congratulate us upon our good 
 fortune, saying that he overheard his young 
 master mention our names with gi-eat com- 
 mendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come 
 alone. Another footman from the same family 
 followed, with a card for my daughters import- 
 ing that the two ladies had received such 
 l)leasing accounts from Mr. Thondiill of us all, 
 that after a few previous inquiries they hojied 
 to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried my 
 wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to get 
 into the families of the great; but when one 
 once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go 
 to sleep." To this piece of humour, for she 
 intended it for wit, my daughters assented 
 with a loud laugh of jjlejusure. In short, such 
 was her satisfaction at this message that she 
 actually put her hand in her jjocket and gave 
 the messenger sevenpence-halfpenny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting day. The next 
 that came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at 
 
 the fair. He brought my little ones a penny- 
 worth of gingerbread each, which my wife 
 undertook to keep for them and give them by 
 lettera at a time. He brought my daughters 
 also a couple of boxes, in which they might 
 keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, 
 when they got it. My wife was usually fond 
 of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky; 
 but this by the bye. We had still a regard 
 for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude be- 
 haviour was in some measure displeasing ; nor 
 could we now avoid communicating our happi- 
 ness to him and asking his advice : although 
 we seldom followed advice we were all ready 
 enough to ask it. When he read the note 
 from the two ladies he shook his head, and 
 observed that an affair of this sort demanded 
 the utmost circumspection. This air of diffi- 
 dence highly displeased my wife. " I never 
 doubted, sir," cried she, " j'our readiness to be 
 against my daughters and me. You have more 
 circumspection than is wanted. However, I 
 fancy when we come to ask advice we shall 
 apply to persons who seem to have made use 
 of it themselves." — " Whatever my own con- 
 duct may have been, madam," replied he, " is 
 not the present question; though as I have 
 made no use of advice myself, I should in con- 
 science give it to those that will." As I was 
 apprehensive this answer might draw on a 
 repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted 
 in wit, I changed the subject by seeming to 
 wonder what could keep our son so long at the 
 fair, as it was now almost nightfall. " Never 
 mind our son," cried my wife, " depend upon 
 it he knows what he is about ; I'll waiTant 
 we'll never see him sell his hen on a rainy 
 day. I have seen him bviy such bargains as 
 would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story 
 about that, that will make you split your sides 
 with laughing. But as I live, yonder comes 
 Moses,without a horse and the box at his back." 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, 
 and sweating under the deal-box, which he 
 had strapped round his shoulders like a jiedlar. 
 " Welcome ! welcome, Moses ! well, my boy, 
 what have you brought us from the fair?" — 
 " I have brought you myself," cried Moses, 
 with a sly look, and resting the box on the 
 dresser. " Ay, Moses," cried my wife, " that 
 we know, but where is the horse?" — " I have 
 sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds five 
 shillings and twopence." — "Well done, my 
 good boy," returned she, " I knew you would 
 touch them off. Between ourselves, three 
 pound.s five shillings and twopence is no bad 
 day's work. Come, let us have it then." — "I
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 171 
 
 have brought back no money," cried Moses 
 again; "I have laid it all out in a bargain, and 
 here it is," pulling out a bundle from his 
 bre;ist ; " here they are ; a gross of green spec- 
 tacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases."— 
 " A gross of green spectacles ! " repeated my 
 wife in a faint voice. "And you have parted 
 with the colt, and brought us back nothing 
 but a gross of green paltry spectacles ! " — 
 "Dear mother," cried the boy, "why won't 
 you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bar- 
 gain or I should not have bought them. The 
 silver rims alone will sell for double the 
 money." — "A fig for the silver rims!" cried 
 my wife in a passion : " I dare swear they 
 won't sell for above half the money at the rate 
 of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." — 
 " You need be under no uneasiness," cried I, 
 "about selling the rims, for they are not worth 
 sixpence, for I perceive they are only copper 
 varnished over." — "What," cried my wife, 
 "not silver! the rims not silver!" — "No," 
 cried I, " no more silver than your saucepan." 
 — "And so," returned she, "we have parted 
 with the colt, and have only got a gi-oss of 
 gi-eeu spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen 
 cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. The 
 blockhead has been imposed upon, and should 
 have known his company better ! " — "There, 
 my dear," cried I, " you are wrong ; he should 
 not have known them at all." — " Marry, hang 
 the idiot!" i-e turned she, "to bring me such 
 stuff; if I had them I would throw them in 
 the fire." — " There again you are wrong, my 
 dear," cried I; "for though they be copper, 
 we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, 
 you know, are better than nothing." 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was 
 undeceived. He now saw that he had indeed 
 been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, 
 who, observing his figure, had marked him 
 for an easy prey. I therefore asked him the 
 circumstances of his deception. He sold the 
 horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search 
 of another. A revei'end-lookiug man brought 
 him to a tent, under pretence of having one 
 to sell. " Hei'e," continued Moses, " we met 
 another man, very well dressed, who desired 
 to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying 
 that he wanted money, and would dispose of 
 them for a third of their value. The first gen- 
 tleman, who pretended to be my friend, whis- 
 pered me to buy them, and cautioned me not 
 to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mi-. 
 Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely 
 as they did me ; and so at last we were per- 
 suaded to buy the two gross between us." 
 
 A CITY NIGHT PIECE. 
 
 (FROM "THE BEE.") 
 
 lUe dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet. 
 
 The clock just sti-uck two, the expiring taper 
 rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman 
 forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious and 
 the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but 
 meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The 
 drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl, 
 the robber walks his midnight round, and the 
 suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own 
 sacred person. 
 
 Let me no longer waste the night over the 
 page of antiquity, or the sallies of contem- 
 porary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, 
 where vanity, ever changing, but a few hours 
 past walked before me — where she kept up the 
 pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems 
 hushed with her own importunities. 
 
 What a gloom hangs all around ! The dying 
 lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam ; no sound 
 is heard but of the chiming clock, or the dis- 
 tant watch-dog. All the bustle of human 
 pride is forgotten: an hour like this may well 
 display the emptiness of human vanity. 
 
 There will come a time when this temporary 
 solitude may be made continual, and the city 
 itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave 
 a desert in its room. 
 
 Wliat cities, as great as this, have once tri- 
 umphed in existence, had their victories as 
 great, joy as just and as unbounded; and, with 
 short-sighted presum])tion, promised them- 
 selves immortality ! — Posterity can hardly trace 
 the situation of some : the soitow^uI traveller 
 wanders over the awf id ruins of others ; and 
 as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the 
 transcience of every sublunary possession. 
 
 " Here," he cries, " stood their citadel, now 
 grown over with weeds; there their senate- 
 house, but now the haunt of every noxious 
 reptile ; temj^les and theatres stood here, now 
 only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They 
 are fallen, for luxury and avarice firet made 
 them feeble. The rewards of the state were con- 
 ferred on amusing, and not on usefid membei-s 
 of society. Their riches and opidence invited 
 the invaders, who, though at fii-st repulsed, 
 returned again, conquered by perseverance, 
 and at last swept the defendants into undis- 
 tinguished destruction." 
 
 How few appear in those sti-eets which but 
 some few houi-s ago were crowded ! and those 
 who appear, now no longer wear their daily
 
 172 
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or 
 tlieir misery. 
 
 But who are those who make the streets 
 their couch, and find a short repose from 
 wretchedness at the doore of the opulent? 
 These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, 
 whose circumstances are too humble to expect 
 ledress, and whose distresses are too great even 
 for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather hor- 
 ror than pity. Some are without the covering 
 even of rags, and others emaciated with disease; 
 the world has disclaimed them; society turns its 
 back upon their distress, and has given them 
 up to nakedness and hunger. These poor 
 shivering females have once seen happier days, 
 and been flattered into beauty. They have 
 been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, 
 and are now turned out to meet the severity 
 of winter. Perhaps, now lying at the doore 
 of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose 
 hearts are insensible, or debauchees who may 
 cui'se, but will not relieve them. 
 
 Why, why was I born a man, and yet see 
 the sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve ! 
 Poor houseless creatures ! the world will give 
 you reproaches, but will not give you relief. 
 The slightest misfortunes of the great, the 
 most imaginary uneasiness of the rich, ai'e 
 
 aggravated with all the power of eloquence, 
 and held up to engage our attention and sym- 
 pathetic sorrow. The poor weep unheeded, 
 persecuted by every subordinate species of 
 tyranny; and every law which gives others 
 security becomes an enemy to them. 
 
 Why was this heart of mine formed with so 
 much sensibility ? or why was not my f ortime 
 adapted to its impulse? Tenderness, without 
 a capacity of relieving, only makes the man 
 who feels it more wretched than the object 
 which sues for assistance. 
 
 But let me turn from a scene of such dis- 
 tress to the sanctified hypocrite, who has been 
 " talking of virtue till the time of bed," and 
 now steals out, to give a loose to his vices 
 under the protection of midnight — vices more 
 atrocious because he attempts to conceal them. 
 See how he pants down the dark alley, and, 
 with hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in 
 every face. He has passed the whole day in 
 company he hates, and now goes to prolong 
 the night among company that as heartily 
 hate him. May his vices be detected ! may 
 the morning rise upon his shame ! Yet I wish 
 to no purpose : viUany, when detected, never 
 gives up, but boldly adds impudence to im- 
 posture. 
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 Born 1739 — Died 1777. 
 
 [When a new series of "The Pursuit of Know- 
 ledge under Difficulties" comes to be written, 
 the name of Hugh Kelly ought not to be 
 omitted from it. He is as good an instance 
 as any that can be found of a person raising 
 himself by his own eff'orts from a position of 
 ignorance and poverty to one of education and 
 comparative affluence, all the while living in 
 the midst of temptations which wreck so 
 many of those who meet them. His birth 
 took place in the year 1739, either in Killar- 
 ney or Dublin, the latter being the most likely 
 ])lace, as very soon after we find his father, 
 who had fallen from a better estate, in the 
 position of a tavern-keeper in that city. Here 
 as the boy grew up he was constantly meeting 
 with theatrical folk who frequented the house, 
 and from them obtained a taste for the stage. 
 What his ta.stes might be, however, was of 
 little moment to his father, who took him 
 early from school and bound him apprentice 
 
 to a stay-maker, an apprenticeship which he 
 faithfully fulfilled, though he still continued 
 to cultivate and extend his acquaintance with 
 the players. 
 
 Shortly after the completion of his service 
 the flatteries of the playei-s, for whom he had 
 written one or two things, induced him to 
 leave Dublin and venture upon the troubled 
 sea of London life. Arrived in London he 
 very wisely continued to work at his trade, 
 but this beginning to fail him, he engaged 
 himself as a co]3ying-clerk to an attorney. 
 While working at the lawyer's desk he wrote 
 occasional articles and jiaragraphs for the 
 newspapers. This enabled him after a time 
 to give up legal copying and to engage as a 
 paragraph writer on one of the daily papers, 
 in which position he soon gained the confi- 
 dence and esteem of his employer. Gradually, 
 as his style improved, he took to higher m- ork, 
 and obtained engagements on The Ladies'
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 173 
 
 Museum and The Court Magazine, besides 
 writing several pamphlets for the publisher 
 Pottinger. About this time, being only two- 
 and-twenty, he married, " merely for love," 
 and found that he had done wisely. Spurred 
 on by his new responsibilities he continued 
 to extend his labours, and while he read and 
 studied busily to imj)rove himself, lie wrote a 
 series of essays for Owen's Weekly Chronicle, 
 afterwards reprinted as The Babbler. He also 
 produced about this time, Louisa Mildmay, or 
 the History of a Magdalen, a novel which had 
 a very considerable success, and is " in general 
 prettily and pathetically told." 
 
 In 1707 his notoriety, if not his fame, was 
 considerably increased by the publication of 
 his theatrical poem Thespis, the satire of 
 which gave great offence to many. But the 
 power it displayed atti^acted the attention of 
 Garrick, and led to the production, a year 
 later, of Kelly's first comedy, False Delicacy, at 
 Drury Lane. This play had more than the 
 usual success, and was declared with pardon- 
 able exaggeration by his friends to be "the 
 best first comedy ever written." It also — and 
 this the author thought more important — pro- 
 duced him a profit of about ^700, and was 
 translated into several languages. 
 
 In 1769 he entered himself as a member of 
 the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple; 
 but though very acceptable to the students, 
 and giving eveiy sign of being a clever lawj'er, 
 he was at first refused admittance to the bar. 
 In 1770 he brought .out his comedy A Word 
 to the Wise; but as some persons believed 
 (wrongly) that he was writing in government 
 pay, a cabal was formed and the play attacked 
 each night until withdrawn. However, out of 
 evil came good, for on publishing the play 
 Kelly received over £800 in subscriptions, 
 besides the profits of the general sale. 
 
 In 1771, when his next play, Clementina, a 
 tragedy, was produced, his name was withheld 
 to avoid the opposition likely to arise. The 
 piece proved no great success, however, and w;is 
 withdrawn after the ninth nif^ht. In 1774 he 
 still thought it wise to withliold his name from 
 his new comedy, A Schoo' for Wives. Not 
 only did he do this, but he prevailed u]jon 
 Mr. Addington to stand father for his ofi"- 
 spring, by which means his enemies were 
 completely misled, and the play, being 
 judged without prejudice, wiis a great success. 
 After the ninth night Mr. Addington, very 
 much to the chagrin of Kelly's foes, anuouncetl 
 the real author in a letter in the papere. Soon 
 after this he produced an afterpiece, entitled 
 
 The Romance of an Hour, which attained a 
 fair measure of success. In 1776 appeared his 
 comedy of The Man of Reason, which was in 
 most respects a failure, and wa.s definitely 
 " damned " on the firet night. This so affected 
 Kelly that, having received his call to the bar, 
 he resolved to a.ssume the character of barrister 
 juid write no more for the stage. In this there 
 is no doubt he made a mistake. His wiitings 
 for the stage were producing him aT)Out a 
 thousand a year, while as a barrister he would 
 most likely have to wait long and work hard 
 for half the sum. Besides, having reached a 
 certain scale of expenditure, it was hard for 
 him to reduce it, and the result was that though 
 fairly successful as a beginner he fell into 
 debt, and his peace of mind left him never to 
 return. The mental worry soon began to un- 
 dermine his health, and in the latter part of 
 January, 1777, an abscess opened in his side, 
 which he at first neglected. When consulted, 
 his physicians advised the hot bath, and 
 he was carried in a sedan-chair to Newgate 
 Street Bagnio, but soon after his return to his 
 house in Gough Square he became speechless, 
 and next morning, the 3d of February, 1777, 
 he died, not having completed his thirty- 
 eighth year. 
 
 As a husband and father Kelly was be- 
 yond rejiroach ; as a man of the world he was 
 ever ready to help the afflicted; and as a 
 writer " his crenius was such that had his 
 education been better, and fortune easier, so 
 as to have enabled him to select and polish 
 his works, it probably might have given his 
 name a niche among the first dramatic poets 
 of this country."] 
 
 IN DEBT AND IN DANGERS 
 
 Leeson!s Chambers in the Temple. 
 Enter Leeson. 
 Lee. Where is this clerk of mine \ Con- 
 nolly ! 
 
 Con. {Behind.) Here, sir. 
 Lee. Have you copied the marriage-settle- 
 ment, as I corrected it? 
 
 Enter Connolly, ^vith pistols. 
 
 Con. Ay, honey; an hour ago. 
 Lee. What, you have been trying those 
 pistols \ 
 
 Con. By my soul I have been firing them 
 
 1 This and the next scene are from The School for Wives.
 
 174 
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 this half hour, without once being able to 
 make them go otf. 
 
 Lee. They are plaguy dirty. 
 
 Con. In troth ! so they are ; I strove to 
 brighten them up a little, but some misfortune 
 attends everything I do; for the more I clane 
 them, the dirtier they are, honey. 
 
 Lee. You have had some of our usual daily 
 visitors for money, I suppose? 
 
 Con. You may say that ; and three or four 
 of them are now hanging about the door, that 
 I wish handsomely hanged anywhere else, for 
 bodering i;s. 
 
 Lee. No joking, Connolly; my present situa- 
 tion is a very disagreeable one. 
 
 Con. 'Faith ! and so it is; but who makes it 
 disagreeable ? Your aunt Tempest would let 
 you have as much money as you please, but 
 you won't condescend to be acquainted with 
 her, though people in this country can be very 
 intimate friends without seeing one another's 
 faces for seven years. 
 
 Lee. Do you think me base enough to receive 
 a favour from a woman who has disgraced her 
 family, and stoops to be a kept mistress ? You 
 see, my sister is already ruined by a coimec- 
 tion with her. 
 
 Con. Ah ! sir, a good guinea isn't the worse 
 fijr coming through a bad hand ; if it was, 
 what would become of us lawyers \ And, by 
 my soul, many a high head in London would 
 at this minute be very low if they hadn't 
 received favours even from much worse people 
 than kept mistresses. 
 
 Lee. Others, Connolly, may prostitute their 
 honour as they please ; mine is my chief pos- 
 session, and I must take particular care of it. 
 
 Con. Honour, to be sure, is a very fine thing, 
 sir, but I don't see how it is to be taken care 
 of without a little money; your honour, to my 
 knowledge, hasn't been in your own possession 
 these two years, and the devil a crum can you 
 honestly swear by till you get it out of the 
 hands of your creditors. 
 
 Lee. I have given you a license to talk, Con- 
 nolly, because I know you faithful; but I 
 haven't given you a liberty to sport with my 
 misfortunes. 
 
 Con. You know I'd die to serve you, sir; but 
 of what use is your giving me leave to spake, 
 if you oblige me to Imuld my tongue? 'TIS out 
 of pure love and afl'ection that I put you in 
 mind of your misfortunes. 
 
 Zee. Well, Connolly, a few days will, in all 
 probability, enable me to redeem my honour, 
 and to reward your fidelity; the lovely Emily, 
 you know, has half consented to embrace the 
 
 first opportunity of flying with me to Scotland, 
 and the jjaltry trifles I owe will not be missed 
 in her fortune. 
 
 Con. But, dear sir, consider you are going 
 to fight a duel this very evening ; and if you 
 should be kilt, I fancy you will find it a little 
 difiicult to run away afterwards with the lovely 
 Emily. 
 
 Lee. If I fall there will be an end to my 
 misfortunes. 
 
 Con. But sm-ely it will not be quite genteel 
 to go out of the world without paying your 
 debts. 
 
 Lee. But how shall I stay in the world, Con- 
 nolly, without punishing Belville for ruining 
 my sister ? 
 
 Con. Oh ! the devil fly away with this honour; 
 an ounce of common sense is worth a whole 
 shipload of it, if we must pi'efer a bullet or a 
 halter to a fine young lady and a great fortune. 
 
 Lee. We'll talk no more on the subject at 
 present. Take this letter to Mr. Belville; 
 deliver it into his own hand, be sure, and 
 bring me an answer ; make haste, for I shall 
 not stir out till you come back. 
 
 Con. By my soul, I wish you may be able to 
 stir out then, honey. Oh ! but that's true — 
 
 Lee. What's the matter? 
 
 Con. Why, sir, the gentleman I last lived 
 clerk with died lately and left me a legacy of 
 twenty guineas. 
 
 Lee. What ! is Mr. Stanley dead ? 
 
 Con. 'Faith ! his friends have behaved very 
 unkindly if he is not, for they have buried 
 him these six weeks. 
 
 Lee. And what then? 
 
 Con. Why, sir, I received my little legacy 
 this morning ; and if you'd be so good as to 
 keep it for me, I'd be much obliged to you. 
 
 Lee. Connolly, I understand you, but I am 
 already shamefully in your debt. You've had 
 no money from me this age. 
 
 Con. Oh, sir ! that does not signify ; if you 
 
 are not kilt in this d d duel, you'll be able 
 
 enough to pay me ; if you are, I sha'n't want it. 
 
 Lee. Why so, my poor fellow ? 
 
 Con. Because, though I am but your clerk, 
 and though I think fighting the most foolish 
 thing upon earth, I'm as much a gintleman as 
 yourself, and have as much right to commit 
 a murder in the way of duelling. 
 
 Lee. And what then? You have no quarrel 
 with Mr. Belville? 
 
 Con. I shall have a d d quarrel with him 
 
 though if you're kilt ; your death shall be 
 revenged, depend upon it, so let that content 
 you.
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 175 
 
 Lee. My dear Connolly, I hope I sha'n't 
 want such a proof of your affection. How he 
 distresses me ! {Aside.) 
 
 Con. You will want a second, I .suppose, in 
 this affair; I stood second to my own brother, 
 in the Fifteen Acres ; and though that ha.s 
 made me detest the very thought of duelling 
 ever since, yet if you want a friend I'll attend 
 you to the field of death with a great deal of 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Lee. I thank you, Connolly, but I think it 
 extremely wrong in any man who has a quarrel 
 to expose his friend to difficulties; we shouldn't 
 seek for redress if we were not equal to the 
 task of fighting our own battles; and I choose 
 you particularly to carry my letter, because 
 you may be supposed ignorant of the contents, 
 and thought to be acting in the ordinary 
 course of your business. 
 
 Con. Say no more about it, honey ; I will be 
 back with you presently. {Going, returns.) I 
 put the twenty guineas in your pocket befoi-e 
 you were up, sir; and I don't believe you'd 
 look for such a thing there if I wasn't to tell 
 you of it. [Exit. 
 
 Lee. This faithful, noble-hearted creature ! — 
 but let me fly from thought; the business I 
 have to execute will not bear the test of re- 
 flection. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Connolly. 
 
 Con. As this is a challenge, I shoiddn't go 
 without a sword; come down, little tickle- 
 pitcher. ( Takes a sword.) Some people may 
 think me very conceited now; but as the 
 dii'tiest blacklegs in town can wear one with- 
 out being stared at, I don't think it can sutler 
 any disgrace by the side of an honest man. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [Leeson saved his life, and his honour too, his 
 adversary confessing himself in the wrong. 
 However, he ultimately had liis revenge, as 
 the Emily whom he afterwards eloped with 
 was, unknown to him, sister to his adveraary. 
 At length all parties consented to the marriage, 
 anil all ended well.] 
 
 A HOLLOW VICTORY. 
 
 [General Savage has a son. Captain Savage, 
 in love with Miss Walsingham, who returns 
 his love. The general himself takes a fancy 
 for the young lady, however, and goes a woo- 
 ing, — she imagining he speaks for his son.] 
 
 Enter General Savage. 
 
 Gen. Your hall-door standing open. Spruce, 
 and none of your sentinels being on guard. I 
 have surprised your camp thus far without 
 resistance. Where is your master ? 
 
 Sfruce (a servant). Just gone out with Cap- 
 tain Savage, sir. 
 
 Gen. Is your lady at home? 
 
 Spruce. No, sir; but Miss Walsingham is at 
 home ; shall I inform her of your visit ? 
 
 Gen. There is no occasion to inform her of it, 
 for here she is. Spruce. [Exit Spruce. 
 
 Enter Miss Walsingham. 
 
 Miss W. General Savage, your most huniV>le 
 servant. 
 
 Gen. My dear Miss Walsingham, it is rather 
 cruel that you should be left at home by your- 
 self, and yet I am greatly rejoiced to find you 
 at present without company. 
 
 Miss W. I can't but think myself in the best 
 company when I have the honour of your 
 convereation, general. 
 
 Ge7i. You flatter me too much, madam; yet 
 I am come to talk to you on a serious affair, 
 Miss Walsingham ; an affair of importance to 
 me and to yourself. Have you leisure to fa- 
 vour me with a short audience, if I beat a 
 parley ? 
 
 Miss W. Anything of importance to you, sir, 
 is always sufficient to command my leisure. 
 'Tis as the captain suspected. {Aside.) 
 
 Gen. You tremble, my lovely girl, but don't 
 be alarmed ; for though my business is of an 
 imjiortant nature, I hoj)e it won't be of a dis- 
 agreeable one. 
 
 Miss W. And yet I am gi-eatly agitated. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Gen. Soldiers, Miss Walsingham, are siud 
 to be generally favoured by the kind partiality 
 of the ladies. 
 
 Miss W. The ladies are not without grati- 
 tude, sir, to those who devote their lives pecu- 
 liarly to the service of their country. 
 
 Gen. Generously said, madam; then give me 
 leave, without any marked battery, to ask if 
 the heart of an honest soldier is a prize at all 
 worth your acceptance ? 
 
 Miss W. Upon my word, sir, there's no 
 masked battery in this question. 
 
 Gen. I am as fond of a coup de main, madam, 
 in love, as in war. I hate the method of sap- 
 ping a town when there is a possibility of en- 
 tering sword in hand. 
 
 Miss W. Why, really, sir, a woman may as
 
 176 
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 well know her own mind when she is first 
 summoned by the trumpet of a lover, as when 
 she undergoes all the tiresome formality of a 
 siege. You see, I have caught your own mode 
 of conversing, general. 
 
 Gen. And a very great compliment I con- 
 sider it, madam ; but now that you have can- 
 didly confessed an acquaintance with your own 
 mind, answer me with that frankness for 
 which everybody admires you much. Have 
 you any objection to change the name of Wal- 
 singham ? 
 
 Miss IF. Why, then, frankly, General Savage, 
 I say. No. 
 
 Gen. Ten thousand thanks to you for this 
 kind declaration. 
 
 Miss W. I hope you won't think it a forward 
 one. 
 
 Gen. I'd sooner see my son run away in the 
 day of battle ; I'd sooner think Lord Russell 
 was bribed by Louis XIV., and sooner vilify 
 the memory of Algernon Sydney. 
 
 Miss W. How unjust it was ever to suj^pose 
 the general a tyrannical father ! {Aside.) 
 
 Gen. You have told me condescendingly, 
 Miss Walsingham, that you have no objection 
 to change your name ; I have but one more 
 question to ask. 
 
 Miss W. Pray propose it. 
 
 Gen. Would the name of Savage be dis- 
 agreeable to you? Speak frankly again, my 
 dear girl ! 
 
 Miss W. Why, then, again, I frankly say, No. 
 
 Gen. You make me too happy ; and though 
 I shall readily own that a proposal of this 
 nature would come with more propriety from 
 my son — 
 
 Miss W. I am much better pleased that you 
 make the proposal youreelf, sir. 
 
 Gen. You are too good to me. Torrington 
 thought that I should meet with a repulse. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Miss W. Have you communicated this busi- 
 ness to the captain, sir? 
 
 Gen. No, ray dear madam, I did not think 
 that at all necessary. I have always been 
 attentive to the captain's happiness, and I 
 propose that he shall be married in a few 
 days. 
 
 Miss W. What, whether I will or no? 
 
 Gen. Oh ! you can have no objection. 
 
 Miss l-F. I must be consulted, however, about 
 the day, general; but nothing in my power shall 
 be wanting to make him happy. 
 
 Gen. Obliging loveliness ! 
 
 Miss W. You may imagine that if I were not 
 previously impressed in favour of your pro- 
 
 posal, it would not have met my concurrence 
 so readily. 
 
 Gen. Then you own that I had a previous 
 friend in the garrison? 
 
 Miss W. I don't blush to acknowledge it, 
 when I consider the accomplishments of the 
 object, sir. 
 
 Gen. Oh ! this is too much, madam ; the 
 principal merit of the object is his passion for 
 Miss Walsingham. 
 
 Miss W. Don't say that, general, I beg of 
 you; for I don't think there are many women 
 in the kingdom who could behold him with 
 indifference. 
 
 Gen. Ah ! you flattering — flattering angel ! 
 and yet, by the memory of Marlborough, my 
 lovely girl, it was the idea of a jjrepossession 
 on your part which encouraged me to hope for 
 a favourable reception. 
 
 Miss W. Then I must have been very indis- 
 creet, for I laboured to conceal that prepos- 
 session as much as possible. 
 
 Gen. You couldn't conceal it from me ; you 
 couldn't conceal it from me. The female heart 
 is a field which I am thoroughly acquainted 
 with, and which has, more than once, been a 
 witness to my victories, madam. 
 
 Miss W. I don't at all doubt your success 
 with the ladies, general; but as we now under- 
 stand one another so perfectly, you will give 
 me leave to retire. 
 
 Gen. One word, my dear creature, and no 
 more; I shall wait upon you sometime to-day, 
 with Mr. Toi-rington, about the necessaiy 
 settlements. 
 
 Miss W. You must do as you please, general; 
 you are invincible in everything. 
 
 Gen. And if you please, we'll keep every- 
 thing a profound secret till the articles are all 
 settled, and the definitive treaty ready for 
 execution. 
 
 Miss W. You may be sure that delicacy will 
 not suffer me to be communicative on the sub- 
 ject, sir. 
 
 Gen. Then you leave everything to my man- 
 agement. 
 
 Miss ^V. I can't trust a more noble nego- 
 tiator. [Exit. 
 
 Cew. The day's my own. {Sings.) "Britons, 
 strike home ; strike home ! Revenge," &c. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [However, the day was not his own, and he 
 was soon made sensible of his mistake. But 
 he put a good face upon the matter, and handed 
 over the lady to his son with the utmost 
 generosity.]
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 177 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THESPIS." 
 
 Bold is his talk in this discerning age, 
 
 When every witling prates about the stage, 
 
 And some pert title arrogantly brings 
 
 To trace up nature through her noblest springs; 
 
 Bold in such times his talk must be allow'd, 
 
 Who seeks to form a judgment for the crowd; 
 
 Presumes the public sentiment to guide. 
 
 And speaks at once to prejudice and pride. 
 
 Of all the studies in these happier days, 
 
 By which we soar ambitiously to praise. 
 
 Of all the fine performances of art, 
 
 Which charm the eye or captivate the heart, 
 
 None like the stage our admiration draws, 
 
 Or gains such high and merited applause ; 
 
 Yet has this art unhappily no rules 
 
 To check the vain impertinence of fools, 
 
 To point out rude deformity from grace. 
 
 And strike a line 'twixt acting and grimace. 
 
 High as the town with reverence we may name. 
 And stamp its general sentiments to fame; 
 Loud as perhaps we echo to its voice, 
 And pay a boundless homage to its choice; 
 Still, if we look minutely we shall find 
 Each single judge so impotent or blind, 
 That even the actor whom we most admire 
 For ease or humour, dignity or fire. 
 Shall often blush to meet the ill-earned bays, 
 And pine beneath an infamy of praise. 
 
 ALL HER OWN WAY. 
 
 (from "the romance of an hour.") 
 
 Ladt Di Strangewats and Sir Hector 
 her Husband. 
 
 Sir Hector. An impudent puppy, to pester 
 me with his fees of honour ! I tliought that 
 at court it was not honourable to pay any- 
 thing. 
 
 Ladi/ Di. But, Sir Hector Strange ways — 
 
 Sir Hector. But, Lady Di Strangeways, I 
 tell you again that if I had all the wealth of 
 ihe Spanish galleons, I would not part with 
 a single piece of eight upon this occasion. I 
 did not ask them to knight me, and they may 
 unknight me again if they like it ; for I value 
 the broad pendant on the Dreadnought mast- 
 head above any title which they can splice, — 
 to all the red, or green, or blue rags in Chris- 
 tendom. 
 
 Lady Di. Well, my dear, but though an 
 
 admiral's uniform is a very pretty thing, there 
 
 is something inexpressibly attracting in a 
 Vol. I. 
 
 star ; and if I could only persuade you to wear 
 a bag-wig, that red ribbon would give a world 
 of brilliancy to your complexion. 
 
 Sir Hector. My complexion ! Zounds, wife, 
 don't make me mad ! A weather-beaten sailor 
 of fifty ought to be mightily concerned about 
 the brilliancy of his complexion. 
 
 Lady Di. Lord ! Sir Hector, you are not so 
 old by lialf a year; and if you'd follow my 
 advice about the bag, you'd look as young as 
 Billy Brownlow — 
 
 Sir Hector. Avast, Di ! — avast ! I have al- 
 ready suffered you to crowd too much canvas, 
 and to make a puppy of me sufficiently. 
 
 Lady Di. I beg, Sir Hector, that you will 
 soften the coarseness of your jihraseology, 
 and use a little less of the quarter-deck dia- 
 lect. 
 
 Sir Hector. Zounds I madam, 'tis your own 
 fault if the gale blows in your teeth ; I might 
 have been out with the squadron in the Medi- 
 ten-anean hadn't I humoured your fancy, and 
 foolishly stayed to be piped in at the installa- 
 tion. However, there's some chance yet, — the 
 admiral appointed is attended by three doctors, 
 and if they heave him over I have a promise 
 of succeeding in the command. There's a 
 cable of comfort for you to snatch at. Lady Di. 
 
 Lady Di. Yes, you cruel ! and for fear bad 
 news should not reach me soon enough, you 
 have ordered an express to be sent up directly 
 from Portsmouth the moment the poor admiral 
 is gathered to his progenitors. 
 
 Sir Hector. Yes, the moment his anchor is 
 a-peak ; and I'll take yom- son Orson with me, 
 too, for I shall have him turned into a monkey 
 if he stays much longer ashore. 
 
 Lady Di. Surely you won't be such a brute, 
 my love. The boy is quite a sea monster al- 
 ready, and I must keep him close under my 
 own eye, to give him some little touches of 
 humanity. 
 
 »SY?' Hector. Oreon is wild, I grant, but he 
 is well-meaning; and therefore I forbid all 
 lessons of good-breeding that are likely to 
 make a heel in his principles. 
 
 Orson enters. 
 
 Orson. Huzza ! father, huzza ! 
 
 Sir Hector. What do you cheer at, lad? 
 
 Orson. Here's an advice-boat that Colonel 
 Ormsby has just made London, and will take 
 a berth with us before the evening ffiin is 
 fired. 
 
 Lady Di. How often must I tell you, child, 
 that it is exceedingly vulgar to appear either 
 surprised or overjoyed at anji;hing? 
 
 12
 
 178 
 
 HUGH KELLY. 
 
 Sir Hect07\ Don't desire the boy to slacken 
 his sails in a cliase of good-nature. 
 
 Ladi/ Di. Why, what is the fool in raptures 
 for? he never saw Colonel Ormsby since the 
 moment of his existence. 
 
 Orson. No, mother; but I know that he is 
 my uncle Brownlow's friend ; that he has 
 weathered my uncle from many a bitter blast, 
 and is to be married to the sweet young lady 
 my uncle lately brought us home from Bengal. 
 
 Sir Hector. And has anybody carried the 
 news to Zelinda? 
 
 Lady Di. The Lady Zelinda, my dear; you 
 know that her father was an Indian orurah, 
 or nobleman of great authority ! 
 
 Orson. I sent Bussora aloft with the news, 
 and the poor fellow was as much rejoiced as 
 a man of war on short allowance would be in 
 sight of the Downs. 
 
 Sir Hector. I do love that Bussora, he's so 
 faithful a creature, and has a heart as sound 
 as a biscuit. 
 
 Lady Di. I don't wonder that he's so great 
 a favourite with his lady, for he's extremely 
 intelligent, and would, I dare say, readily 
 hazard his life in her service. 
 
 Orson. Zounds ! I'd stand a broadside for 
 her myself at any time. 
 
 Sir Hector. D you, sirrah, do you swear? 
 
 One would think that your ship was sinking, 
 and that you expected every moment to be 
 launched into the next world, you young 
 rascal ! 
 
 Lady Di. Ay, this is your blessed system of 
 sea education. 
 
 Sir Hector. Hark'ee, 'scapegrace, mind your 
 hits, if you'd avoid a rope's-end ; and remem- 
 ber to keep your wickedness under hatches 
 till you come to years of discretion, you puppy. 
 
 Lady Di. Mercy upon us ! and is he then 
 to let it appear above-board. Fine doctrine 
 truly, that our vices are to be excused in pro- 
 portion as we acquire consciousness of their 
 enormity. You should study my mode of ex- 
 pression. Sir Hector. 
 
 Orson. Why, I meant no harm, tho' I've 
 raised such a squall. Everybody loves Miss 
 Zelinda, and many a heavy heart has it given 
 me, since she cast anchor in this house, to see 
 her so melancholy, poor soul ! 
 
 Sir Hector. She's a delightful girl, that's the 
 truth of it, and I hope that the arrival of 
 Ormsby will prevent the worms of her sorrow 
 from eating into the planks of her constitu- 
 tion. 
 
 Lady Di. Lord, my dear, do you think that 
 a mind so delicate as hers can be destitute of 
 
 gratitude, or indifferent about a man who not 
 only repeatedly saved her father's life in the 
 commotions of the East, but, what was still 
 more, preserved the ladies of his family? 
 
 Sir Hector. Come, come, Ormsby is a noble 
 fellow. 
 
 Orson. As ever stepped from stem to stern, 
 my uncle Brownlow says. 
 
 Sir Hector. And Zeliuda's father behaved 
 nobly to him when his dead-lights were hung 
 out. 
 
 Lady Di. I suppose you mean by bequeath- 
 ing him his only daughter in his last moments, 
 who is mistress of so large a fortune. 
 
 Sir Hector. Why, is not she an Acapulco 
 vessel in herself, to say nothing of her being 
 ballasted with rupees and pagodas? 
 
 Lady Di. And could her father, who loved 
 the English extremely, who married her 
 mother an English woman, and who knew 
 the colonel's worth so well, act more prudently, 
 in the distracted state of his country, than in 
 giving his child to a man who was not only 
 able to protect her against all dangers, but 
 calculated besides to make her an admirable 
 husband ? 
 
 Sir Hector. Why, your brother tells me that 
 Abdalla had none of his country superstition 
 on board his mind. 
 
 Orson. Wasn't he a heathen, father? 
 
 Sir Hector. Yes, lad ; but for all tliat he 
 steered his course very sensibly, and knew 
 that the chart of a good conscience would bring 
 a shi}> of any nation to safe moorings in what 
 our Methodist boatswain calls the river of 
 Jordan. 
 
 Orson. Lord, father; boatswain says that 
 the river runs by some town called the New 
 Jerusalem, but I never could find either of 
 them in the map. 
 
 Lady Di. You may easily judge the liber- 
 ality of Abdalla's mind by the accomplish- 
 ments of Zelinda. 
 
 Sir Hector. Wliy, she speaks English, French, 
 and Italian. 
 
 Lady Di. Like her vernacular tongue. 
 
 Orson. Yes, she has a rare knack at her 
 tongue, and I don't believe that there's ever a 
 foreign merchantman in the whole Thames 
 but she's able to hail in her own lingo. 
 
 Sir Hector. Then she sings so sweetly. 
 
 Orso7i. Yes, father ; but she sings always 
 mournful, like the mad negro that died in 
 love for the ale-house girl at Portsmouth. 
 
 Lady Di. Like the mad negro i Mercy upon 
 me, what a thing am I a mother to ! 
 
 Sir Hector. Doesn'tshe dance charmingly, Di ?
 
 JAMES DELACOUR. 
 
 170 
 
 Lady Di. Divinely ! — I know but one wo- 
 man in England who is her superior in that 
 accomplishment. 
 
 Sir Hector. And slie is no more to be com- 
 pared to that woman in anything than one 
 of the royal yachts to a bum-boat upon the 
 Thames. 
 
 Lady Di. I am always certain of a compli- 
 ment fi-om you, Sir Hector. 
 
 Orson. Lord, mother, sure it wasn't your- 
 self that you were weighing up with Miss 
 Zelinda \ 
 
 Lady Di. You odious sea-calf, — quit the 
 room — ([uit the room, you detestable porpoise! 
 
 Sir Hector. Who runs foul of politeness now, 
 Di? 
 
 Orson. We had best cut and run, father. 
 
 Lady Di. And you, Sir Hector, to stand by 
 find see me treated in this manner. 
 
 Sir Hector. Slip the cables, lad. This is 
 damnable weather, and will speedily Itlow a 
 hurricane. \_Exit Sir Hector and Orson. 
 
 Lady Di. The brutes — the abominable 
 Itrutes I No woman surely had ever such a 
 husband, or such a son. But I deserve it all 
 for having the least connection with an ele- 
 ment where the utmost the very best can 
 arrive at is to be so many respectable Hotten- 
 tots? My sufferings should teach ladies of 
 beauty and birth not to throw their persona 
 away. Yet I should not have been thrown 
 away myself, if any lover had offered of a 
 more eligible character than this barbarian 
 here. 
 
 JAMES DELACOUR. 
 
 BoBN 1709 — Died 1781. 
 
 [James Delacour, or De la Court, as he some- 
 times signed himself, was born in the county 
 of Cork in the year 1709. He was second son 
 of a gentleman of considei-able means and 
 descended from an old and highly respected 
 family. His university education he received 
 at Trinity College, but while there the writ- 
 ings of Pope made such an impression on him 
 that the Muses of learning were too often 
 neglected for those of poetry. While in his 
 twentieth year he produced his first poem of 
 importance, Ahelard to Eloisa, a kind of an- 
 swer to and imitation of Pope's Eloisa to 
 Ahelard. This poem was considered not un- 
 worthy of its subject, though of course inferior 
 to its prototype. During the next year or two 
 he produced a considerable number of sonnets 
 and short pieces, which were well received; 
 and in 1733 his principal work, The Prospect of 
 Poetry. " This poem," says the WTiterof "Talkie 
 Talk" in The European Magazine, "though 
 partly didactic, abounds in many beautiful 
 descriptions of the proper subjects for poetry, 
 ornamented with much classical taste, and 
 above all ijolished to a degree of harmony 
 which at once reached perfection." Thomson 
 was so pleased with it that he addressed to 
 him a commendatory set of verses. 
 
 When the nine days' gossip over his poem 
 had died out Delacour entered into holy 
 ordei-s, but here again his heart was not in his 
 work. Instead of studying sermons he studied 
 
 rhymes, and he preferred to spend his time in 
 genial company rather tlian in visiting his 
 parishioners. This soon led him to a love for 
 the bottle ; never, however, to such an abuse 
 of it as might lead to actual degradation. 
 Being no hyj^ocrite, all his acts were ojien 
 to the world. This seemed so eccentric to 
 those around him that he soon began to be 
 called " the mad parson." The graver kind of 
 people began to avoid him, the lighter-headed 
 sought his company " for the sake of the fun." 
 In the end, as dissipation grew on him. his brain 
 really became affected, and he imagined him- 
 self, like Socrates, accompanied by a familiar 
 demon that enabled him to foretell the 
 future. One or two lucky hits caused not only 
 himself but a great number of the public to 
 become convinced of his powei", and though 
 he made many mistakes, one success was suf- 
 ficient to w'ipe away the memory of a hundred 
 failures. Meanwhile his early love remained 
 strong upon him, and in his character as a 
 prophet he did not forget that he was also a 
 poet. Verses flowed from his pen as regularly 
 as when he was in the heyday of youth and 
 mental vigour. Strange to say, these verses 
 gave few signs of his derangement, if we ex- 
 cept an occasional badly constructed line, pos- 
 sibly the result of carelessness as much as of 
 an}'thing else. 
 
 Towards the latter part of his life he was 
 forced, for self-preservation's sake, to sell what
 
 180 
 
 JAMES DELACOUR. 
 
 little property he had to his brother, by whom 
 he was afterwards lodged and boarded, and 
 paid a small sum yearly. This small sum 
 frequently dwindled almost to nothing, owing 
 to a system which the poet adopted of having 
 himself fined a shilling for every night he 
 stayed out of doors after twelve. 
 
 Delacour died in the year 1781, at the 
 age of seventy-two, regretted by the poorer 
 people, and spoken of as " one who hurt no- 
 body but himself." He left behind him a 
 considerable number of poems which have 
 never seen the light.] 
 
 HOW LOVE WAS BORN. 
 
 Here in the bower of beauty newly shorn, 
 
 Let Fancy sit, and sing how Love was born; 
 
 Wrapt up in roses. Zephyr found the child. 
 
 In Flora's cheek when first the goddess smiled; 
 
 Nurst on the bosom of the beauteous Spring, 
 
 O'er her white breast he spread his purple wing. 
 
 On kisses fed, and silver drops of dew. 
 
 The little wanton into Cupid grew; 
 
 Then armed his hand with glittering sparks of fire, 
 
 And tipt his shining arrows with desire: 
 
 Hence, joy arose upon the wings of wind, 
 
 And hope presents the lover always kind; 
 
 Despair creates a rival for our fears, 
 
 And tender pity softens into tears. 
 
 EUPHRATES. 
 
 Like some smooth mirror see Euphrates glide 
 Through Dura's plains, and spread his bosom wide; 
 On whose broad surface wat'ry landscapes lie. 
 And bending willows shade the downward sky; 
 There floating forests mixt with meadows move, 
 And the green glass reflects the flowers above; 
 Shepherds and sheep along the picture stray, 
 And with the water seem to slide away. 
 In the blue gleam, the park and walls appear. 
 And gilded barges, mixt with grazing deer; 
 The huntsman sounds — the frighted shadow flies. 
 Through flocks, greens, shepherds, barges, hounds, 
 and skies. 
 
 A MOONLIT NIGHT. 
 
 As on a moonlit niglit when Neptune calls. 
 
 His finny coursers from their coral stalls; 
 
 From some white clift, whose brow reflects the 
 
 deep. 
 He leads them forth, and bids the billows sleep; 
 
 The waves obey: so still a silence reigns. 
 That not a wrinkle curls the wat'ry plains; 
 Like floating mercury the waves appear, 
 And the sea whitens with a heav'n so clear: 
 Before him Triton blows his twisted shell. 
 And distant sea-nymphs know the signal well; 
 In long procession the cserulean train, 
 With joy confess the sovereign of the main: 
 Such were the raptures of the sea-green race, 
 When sweet Arion cross'd the wat'ry space; 
 When first his fingers felt the music rise, 
 And mix'd in melody the seas and skies. 
 On land Amphion swells the magic song. 
 And round his fingers moving mountains throng. 
 
 HOW TO PRAISE. 
 
 Fine is the secret, delicate the part, 
 
 To praise with prudence, and address with art; 
 
 Encomium chiefly is that kind of wit, 
 
 Where compliments should indirectly hit; 
 
 From different subjects take their sudden rise, 
 
 And least expected, cause the more surprise: 
 
 "For none have been with admiration read. 
 
 But who beside their learning were well bred." 
 
 Such suit all tastes, on every tongue remain, 
 
 Forbid our blushes, and prevent our pain; 
 
 Such subjects best a Boyle might understand. 
 
 These call, my lord, for an uncommon hand; 
 
 To turn the finer features of the soul. 
 
 To paint the passions, sparkling as they roll: 
 
 The power of numbers, the superior art. 
 
 To wind the .springs that move the beating heart, 
 
 With living words to fire the blood to rage, 
 
 Or pour quick fancy on the glowing page : 
 
 This be thy praise, nor thou tliis praise refuse 
 
 From no unworthy, nor ungrateful muse; 
 
 A muse as yet unblemished, as unknown 
 
 Who scorns all flattery, and who envies none: 
 
 Of wrongs forgetful, negligent of fame. 
 
 Who found no patron, and who lost no name; 
 
 Indifferent what the world may think her due, 
 
 Whose friends are many, though her years are few. 
 
 THE POOR POET. 
 
 Poor is an epithet to poets given. 
 Yet David was a bard, and loved by Heaven. 
 Where's the foundation? For past times explore, 
 You'll surely find the lesser number poor; 
 Great Maro, Flaccus, Lucan, Ovid rich. 
 And though untitled, of no vulgar pitch; 
 Nay, our own times examples may afford 
 Of genius meeting in a duke or lord ! 
 Fam'd Dorset, Surrey, Halifax were earls.
 
 WILLIAM HAVARD. 
 
 181 
 
 And Orrery and Chesterfield are pearls: 
 Hear Uochewter, Ro.scommon, Laiisdown sing, 
 Bright Buckingham and Falkland touch thestring; 
 Soft Sedley, Dcnham, Butler, Steele were knights; 
 And Addison, though secretary, writes; 
 His excellency Prior tun'd the lyre, 
 And Congreve, though commissioner, had fire; 
 Lo! Pope and Swift, the wonder of our days. 
 Were far from poor, and yet they dealt in bays. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis wit itself has given the slur. 
 
 And bards too often act the cabin-cur; 
 
 Thus wits to coxcombs still new weapons send. 
 
 Who beat us with the very sticks we lend. 
 
 Strange each profession to itself adheres. 
 
 Fools herd together, foplings walk in pains, 
 
 But wits still straggling scatter at this rate, 
 
 By congregated fools are easy beat; 
 
 Some have of wit, and some of wealth have siore, 
 
 But envied by the idiot, and the poor; 
 
 'Twixt wit and folly there's eternal war, 
 
 As heat and cold cause thunder in the air. 
 
 ON SEEING A LADY AT AX OPPOSITE 
 WINDOW. 
 
 Whilst on forbidden fruit I gaze, 
 
 And look my heart away, 
 Behold my star of Venus blaze. 
 
 And smile upon the day. 
 
 Fair as (he purple blushing hours 
 Tliat paint the muorning's eye. 
 
 Or cheek of evening after showers 
 That fresh the western sky. 
 
 I send a sigh with every glance, 
 
 Or drop a softer tear, 
 Hard fate not further to advance, 
 
 And yet to be so near! 
 
 So Moses from fair Pisgah's height 
 
 The Land of Promise ey'd; 
 Surveyed the regions of delight, — 
 
 He saw, came down, and dy'd. 
 
 WILLIAM HAVARD. 
 
 Born 1710 — Died 1778. 
 
 [William Havard, a clever actor as well as 
 successful author, was born iu Dublin in the 
 year 1710. His father was a viutner in that 
 city, and was in such a position as to give his 
 son a university education. Young Havard 
 was intended foi' a surgeon, and proceeded 
 so far in his studies as to acquire the neces- 
 sary dijjlomas. His heart, however, was 
 not in the work, but inclined altogether to 
 the stage, and before attempting to commence 
 practice he left home for London. There 
 he found a first engagement in Goodman's 
 Fields Theatre, from which he moved after- 
 wards to the Theatre Royal. His success 
 as an actor was soon acknowledged, his chief 
 characteristic being good sense, both in public 
 and private. In 1733 appeai-ed his first play, 
 Scanderbeg, which at once made him as much 
 esteemed as an author as he was already as an 
 actor. The drama was to some extent founded 
 on Lillo's Christian Hero, but in every respect 
 surpassed the original. Though it was suc- 
 cessful Havard seems to have been in no hurry 
 to produce another, and it was only after an 
 interval of nearly four years, and at the ear- 
 nest solicitation of the manager of the company 
 of Lincoln's Inn Fields that he took up his 
 pen again. So soon as he consented to write 
 
 a drama the manager, as Campbell recounts, 
 " invited him to his house, took him up to one 
 of its airiest apartments, and there locked him 
 up for so many hours every day; . . . nor 
 released him . . . till the unfortunate bard 
 had repeated through the keyhole a certain 
 number of new speeches in the progi-essive 
 tragedy." King Charles the First, the drama 
 produced under these strange circumstances, 
 was a complete success, and, had Havard been 
 a vain or an ambitious man, it might have 
 been made the stepping-stone to a great career. 
 As it was, however, he continued in his easy- 
 going amiable way of life, and a period of 
 seven yeai-s elapsed before the appearance of 
 his third, and in some respects best drama, 
 Reguhis, in 1774. So far as the theatre-going 
 {)ublic was concerned this ])lay was not so suc- 
 cessful as its predecessors, though far from 
 being a failure. Several years again elapsed 
 before his next and final play, a farce called 
 The Elopement, appeared. This also was a 
 success in one sense, but was jilayed only at 
 the author's benefit. After this Havai-d 
 wrote no more, contenting himself with hold- 
 ing the almost unique position of a dramatist 
 wlio has never produced a failure. 
 
 Six years afterwards he began to feel him-
 
 182 
 
 WILLIAM HAVAED. 
 
 self growing old, and immediately decided on 
 quitting the stage. At a beneiit in his favo\ir, 
 and in which Garrick played, he took leave 
 of the public in a formal epilogue written by 
 himself, and delivered after the play of Zara. 
 After this he lived nearly nine years, dying 
 on the 20th February, 1778. He was buried 
 in Covent Garden churchyard, and Garrick 
 wrote an epitaph for him under the title of 
 "A Tribute to the Memory of a Character 
 long known and respected." Fielding had a 
 high idea of Havard's talents as an actor, and 
 declared that, " except Mr. Garrick I do not 
 know that he hath any superior in tragedy at 
 that house" (Covent Garden Theatre). 
 
 Of Havard's dramas his first ami least per- 
 fect work, Scandei'beg, is still acted occasion- 
 ally in countiy theatres, but we believe we 
 are safe in saying that the others are utterly 
 neglected. They, however, deserved better 
 treatment, being full of truly dramatic scenes, 
 and in some places marked by writing of 
 rather a high order. Regulus is a drama fit 
 to rank with some of the best of Sheridan 
 Knowles', and King Charles the First is cer- 
 tainly superior to anything on the same sub- 
 ject since attempted.] 
 
 CHAHLES 1. IN PRISON.! 
 
 Charles (alone). 
 
 What art thou, Life, so dearly lov'd by all? 
 What are thy charms that thus the great desire 
 
 thee — 
 And to retain thee part with pomp and titles? 
 To buy thy presence the gold-watching miser 
 Will pour his bags of mouldy treasure out, 
 And grow at once a prodigal. The wretch, 
 Clad with disease and poverty's thin coat, 
 Yet holds thee fast, tho' painful company. 
 Life! thou universal wish, what art thou? — 
 Thou'rt but a day — a few uneasy hours: 
 Thy morn is greeted by the flocks and herds, 
 And every bird that flatters with its note 
 Salutes thy rising sun; thy noon approaching, 
 Then haste the flies and every creeping insect 
 To bask in thy meridian: that declining 
 As quickly they depart, and leave thy evening 
 To mourn the absent ray: night at hawl, 
 Then croaks the raven conscience, time misspent; 
 The owl despair screams hideous, and the bat 
 Confusion flutters up and down- 
 Life's but a lengthened day not worth the waking 
 
 for. 
 
 1 This and the following extract are from King Charles 
 the First. 
 
 Enter the Quken. 
 My dearest queen, 
 
 I have been summing up th' amount of life, 
 But found no value in it, till you came. 
 
 Queen. Do not perplex yourself with thoughts 
 like these. 
 Ill-fortune at the worst returns to better, 
 At least we think so as it grows familiar. 
 
 King. No, I was only arming for the worst. 
 I have try'd the temper of my inmost soul, 
 And find it ready now for all encounters; 
 Death cannot shake it. 
 
 Queen. Do not talk of death: 
 
 The apprehension shakes my tender heart; 
 Ages of love, I hope, are yet to come 
 Ere that black hour arrives: such chilling thoughts 
 Disgrace the lodging of that noble breast. 
 
 King. What have I not to fear? Thus close 
 confined, 
 To-morrow forc'd to trial. Will those men 
 Who insolently drag me to the bar 
 Stop in the middle of their purpose? No. 
 I must prepare for all extremities 
 (And be that Power ador'd that lends me comfort). 
 I feel I am — Oh do not weep, my queen, 
 Rather rejoice with me, to find my thoughts 
 Outstretch the painful verge of human life. 
 And have no wish on earth — but thee! 'tis there 
 Indeed I feel: peace and resignation 
 Had wander'd o'er the rooms of every thought 
 To shut misfortune out, but left this door 
 Unclos'd, thro' which calamity 
 Has entered in thy shape to seize my heart. 
 
 Queen. Be more yourself, my lord; let majesty 
 Take root within thy heart, nor meanly bend 
 Before ill-fortune's blast. 
 
 King. doubt me not ! 
 
 'Tis only on the side where you are placed 
 That I can know a fear. For Charles' self 
 Let fierce encounter with the sword of danger 
 Bring him to bloodiest proof; and if he shrinks, 
 Despise him. Here I glory in my weakness. 
 He is no man whom tenderness not melts, 
 And love so soft as thine. Let us go in. 
 And if kind Heav'n deigns me longer stay 
 On this frail earth, I shall be only pleased 
 Because I have thy presence here to crown me; 
 But if it destines my immediate end 
 (Hard as it is, my queen, to part with thee), 
 I say farewell, and to the blow resign 
 That strikes me here — to make me more divine. 
 
 FAIRFAX AND CROMWELL. 
 
 Fairfax (alone). 
 
 Why did I conquer — to repent of conquest? 
 Who, though I fought for liberty alone,
 
 WILLIAM HA YARD. 
 
 183 
 
 Will yet acquit me of the guilt that follows? 
 Will future ages, when they read my page 
 (Tho' Charles himself absolves me of the deed), 
 Spare me the name of regicide? no ! 
 I shall be blacken'd with my party's crimes, 
 And damn'd with my full share, tho' innocent. 
 In vain then 'gainst oppression have I warr'd, 
 In vain for liberty uprear'd the sword; 
 Posterity's black, curse shall brand my name. 
 And make me live in infamy for ever. 
 
 Now valour, break thy sword, thy standard, 
 victory, 
 Furl up thy ensigns, bold hostility. 
 And sink into inaction, since, alas ! 
 One tainted heart, or one ambitious brain, 
 Can turn the current of the noblest purpose, 
 And spoil the trophies of an age's war. 
 But see where, to my wish, stern Cromwell comee. 
 Now urge him strongly for the life of Charles, 
 And if entreaty fails, avow thy purpose. 
 
 Cromwell {entering). 
 
 Fairfax in thought! My noble lord, good day. 
 
 Fair/ax. To make it good, let Cromwell grant 
 my prayer, 
 So mercy and the sun shall shine together. 
 
 Cromivell. Still on this paltry subject! Fairfax, 
 why. 
 Why will you wrong entreaty by this cause? 
 Faii'fax is wise, and should not ask of Cromwell 
 To grant what justice stops; yours are not years 
 When childhood prattles, or when dotage mopes: 
 Pardon the expression. 
 
 Fairfax. I forgive you all, 
 
 All you can think, but rigour to the king. 
 
 Cromwell. Pr'ythee no more : this mercy that 
 you pray for 
 As ill becomes the tongue as my severity; 
 Nay, worse, would you obstruct the law 
 In its due office? nor permit the axe 
 To fall upon offenders such as Charles? 
 Would you see tyranny again arise, 
 And spread in its foundation? Let us then 
 Seize on our general. Liberty, who still 
 Has in the front of battle fought our cause, 
 And led us on to conquest; let us bind him 
 In the strong chains of rough prerogative, 
 And throw him helpless at the feet of Charles: 
 He will absolve us then, and praise our folly. 
 
 Fairfax. This is a sophistry too weak for reason; 
 You would excuse the guilt of Charles' death 
 By showing me the opposite extreme; 
 But can you find no mean, no middle course, 
 Steering between the danger of the last 
 And horror of the first? I know you can. 
 
 Cromwell. It is not to be done: would Fairfax 
 now. 
 When he has labour'd up the steep ascent. 
 And wasted time and spirits, would he now, — 
 When but one step exalts him to the summit, 
 
 Wliere to his eye the fair horizon stretches. 
 And every pro.spect greatness can command, — 
 Would he now stop, let go his fearful hold, 
 And tumble from the height? 
 
 Fairfax. I aim at none. 
 
 Damn'd be all greatness that depraves the heart. 
 Or calls one blush from honesty — no more, 
 I shall grow warm to be thus trifled with: 
 Think better, Cromwell — 1 have given my promise 
 That Charles shall live. 
 
 Cromwell. A promise may be broke; 
 
 Nay, start not at it — 'Tis an hourly practice; 
 The trader breaks it — yet is counted honest; 
 The courtier keeps it not — yet keeps his honour; 
 Husband and wife in marriage promise much. 
 Yet follow sep'rate pleasures, and are — virtuous. 
 The churchmen promise too, but wisely, they 
 To a long payment stretch the crafty bill. 
 And draw upon futurity. A promise ! 
 'Tis the wise man's freedom, and the fool's re- 
 straint, 
 It is the ship in which the knave embarks. 
 Who rigs it with the tackle of his conscience. 
 And fails with every wind. Regard it not. 
 
 Fairfax. Can Cromwell think so basely as he 
 speaks? 
 It is impossible; he does but try 
 How well fair speech becomes a vicious cause. 
 But I hope scorns it in the richest dress. 
 Yet hear me on. It is our interest speaks. 
 And bids us spare his life; while that continues. 
 No other title can annoy our cause. 
 And him we have secure; but grant him dead. 
 Another claim starts up, another king. 
 Out of our reach. This bloody deed perhaps 
 May rouse the princes of the Continent 
 (Who think their persons struck at in this blow), 
 To shake the very safety of our case. 
 
 Cromivell. When you consult our interest speak 
 with freedom. 
 It is the turn and point of all design; 
 But take this answer, Fairfax, in return: 
 Britain, the queen of isles, our fair possession, 
 Secur'd by nature, laughs at foreign force; 
 Her ships her bulwark, and the sea her dyke, 
 Sees plenty in her lap, and braves the world; 
 Be therefore satisfied, for Charles must die. 
 
 Fairfax. Wilt thou be heard, though at thy 
 utmost need. 
 Who now art deaf to mercy and to prayer? 
 curst Ambition — thou devouring bird, 
 How dost thou from the field of honesty 
 Pick every grain of profit and delight. 
 And mock the reaper. Virtue ! Bloody man ! 
 Know that I still have power, have still the means 
 To make that certain which I .stoop to a-sk; 
 And fix myself against thy black design. 
 And tell thee dauntless that he shall not die. 
 
 Cromwell. Will Fairfax turn a rebel to the cause. 
 And shame his glories?
 
 184 
 
 KANE O'HARA. 
 
 Fairfax. I abjure the name; 
 
 I kuow no rebel on the side of virtue. 
 This I am sure of: he that acts unjustly 
 Is the worst rebel to himself, and though now 
 Ambition's trumpet and the drum of power 
 May drown the sound, yet conscience will one day 
 3peak loudly to him, and repeat that name. 
 
 Cromwell. You talk as 'twere a murder, not a 
 justice. 
 Have we not brought him to an open trial? 
 Does not the general cry pronounce his death? 
 Come, Fairfax dares not. 
 
 Fairfax. By yon heaven I will : 
 
 I know thee resolute, but so is Fairfax. 
 You see my purpose, and shall find I dare. 
 
 [Going. 
 
 Cromwell. Fairfax, yet stay; I would extend 
 my power 
 To its full stretch to satisfy your wish. 
 Yet would not have you think that I should grant 
 That to your threats which I deny'd your pray'r: 
 Judge not so meanly of yourself and me; 
 Be calm and hear me — What is human nature 
 When the intemperate heat of passion blinds 
 The eye of reason, and commits her guidance 
 To headlong rashness? He directs her steps 
 Wide of success, to error's pathless way, 
 And disappointments wild; yet such we are, 
 So frail our being, that our judgment reaches 
 Scarce farther than our sight. Let us retire, 
 And in this great affair entreat his aid 
 Who only can direct to certainty. 
 There is I know not what of good presage 
 That dawns within, and lights to happy issue. 
 
 Fairfax. If Heav'n and you consider it alike, 
 It must be happy. 
 
 Cromwell. An hour or two of pray'r 
 
 Will pull down favour upon Charles and us. 
 
 Fairfax. I am contented, but am still resolved 
 That Charles shall live. I shall expect your 
 
 answer 
 With the impatience of desiring lovers, 
 
 Who swell a moment's absence to an age. [Exif. 
 Cromwell. This was a danger quite beyond my 
 view, 
 Which only this expedient could prevent; 
 Fairfax is weak in judgment, but so brave. 
 That set determination by his side 
 And he ascends the mountain top of peril. 
 Now time is gain'd to ward against his power. 
 Which quickly must be thought on. — To my wish. 
 
 Enter Ireton. 
 
 Ire. I but this instant met the general, Fairfax, 
 Who told me his entreaty had prevailed 
 To save the life of Charles: 'Tis more than wonder — 
 
 Cromwell. Ireton, thy presence never was more 
 timely; 
 I would disclose — but now each moment's loss 
 Is more than the neglect of future years: 
 Hie thee in person to St. James's, Ireton, 
 And warn the officer, whose charge leads forth 
 The king to execution, to be sudden. 
 Let him be more than punctual to the time; 
 If his respect to us forerun his warrant. 
 It shall win greatness for him; so inform him: — 
 That done, repair o' th' instant to the army, 
 And see a chosen party march directly 
 (Such as can well be trusted), post them, Ireton, 
 Around the scaffold; my best kinsman, fly. 
 
 [Exit Ireton. 
 Why now, I think, I have secured my point: 
 I set out in the current of the tide, 
 And not one wind that blows around the compa.ss 
 But drives me to success. Ambition now 
 Soars to its darling height, and eagle-like 
 Looks at the sun of power, enjoys its blaze. 
 And grows familiar with the brightness; now I see 
 Dominion nigh. Superiority 
 Beckons and points me to the chair of state; 
 There, grandeur robes me : now let Cromwell 
 
 boast. 
 That he has reft the crown from Charles's brow. 
 To make it blaze more awful on his own. [Exit. 
 
 KANE O'H ABA, 
 
 Died 1782. 
 
 [Very little is known of the life of Kane 
 O'Hara, beyond that he was a younger brother 
 of a family moving in the fashionable world 
 of Dublin. It is generally supposed that he 
 was born somewhere between 1715 and 1720, 
 but one biographer gives 1743 as the date — 
 wrongly, as we conclude. His manner and 
 style of talk are said to have been anything 
 
 but wliat is usually associated with men of 
 wit and fancy, and to liave given little sign of 
 the humour found in his writings. He was, 
 however, possessed of varied talent, and had 
 a perfect knowledge of music as well as a 
 refined taste in its application. 
 
 In January, 1764, the first of his burlesques 
 — for he confined himself entirely to that kind
 
 KANE CyHARA. 
 
 185 
 
 of writing — was produced at the Crow Street 
 Theatre in Dublin. This was the well-known 
 Midas, which on the first night appeared rather 
 long and tedious, but on being cut down to its 
 present size became a great success. In Feb- 
 ruary it was reproduced at Covent Garden 
 Theatre, London, and was repeated nine times 
 during the season. 
 
 In 1773 his next work, The Golden Pippin, 
 was produced at the same house with success, 
 chiefly owing to the acting of Nan Catley, and 
 her singing of one of its songs, " Push about 
 the Jorum." In 1775 appeared the Two Misers, 
 and in 1777, at the Haymarket, Ap}-il Day. 
 At Covent Garden, on the 3d of October, 1780, 
 that " tragedy of tragedies," Tom Thumb, was 
 produced, which at first appeared without the 
 songs which are now always given with it. 
 The work is founded on Fielding's T'ojji Thumb, 
 but is in many respects superior. Mrs. Pil- 
 kiugton in her Memoirs declares that Dean 
 Swift assured her he had never laughed but 
 about twice in his life, "once at some trick by 
 a raerry-andrew, and the other time at the cir- 
 cumstance of Tom Thumb killing the ghost." 
 
 On the 17th of June, 1782, less than two 
 years after the appearance of Tom Thumb, 
 O'Hara died, leaving behind him a reputation 
 which to-day may possibly seem greater than 
 his works deserve. But such is often the fate 
 of burlesque literature, — to be over-estimated 
 while fresh, and afterwards to be unduly de- 
 preciated.] 
 
 A MOST TRAGICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 (from "TOM THUMB.") 
 
 Ehter King Arthur, Queen Dollalolla, Prin- 
 cess HUNCAMUNCA, DoODLE, PlUMANTE, 
 
 Frizaletta, and Attendants. 
 
 King. Open the prisons, set the wretched free! 
 And bid our treasurer disburse five guineas 
 To pay their debts. Let our arch necromancer, 
 Sage Merlin, straight attend us; we the while 
 Will view the triumph of our son-in-law. 
 
 Hiinc. Take note, sir, that on this our wedding- 
 day 
 Two victories hath my gallant husband won. 
 
 Enter Noodle. 
 
 Nood. Oh! monstrous, dreadful, terrible! oh, 
 
 oh! 
 King. What means the blockhead? 
 Nood. But to grace my tale with decent horror; 
 Tom Thumb's no more. 
 
 A huge red cow, larger than the largest size, just 
 
 now i' th' open street, 
 Before my eyes devour'd the great Tom Thumb! 
 
 (A general groan.) 
 
 King. Shut, shut again the prisons: 
 Let our treasurer 
 
 Not issue out three farthings. Hang all the cul- 
 prits. 
 And bid the schoolmasters whip all their little 
 boys. 
 
 Nood. Her majesty the queen is in a swoon. 
 
 Queen. Not so much in a swoon, but to have still 
 Strength to reward the messenger of ill. 
 
 {Qufifu kills Noodle.) 
 
 Friz. My lover kdl'd! His death I thus revenge. 
 
 (Kills the Queen. ) 
 
 Hunc. Kill my mamma! Oh, base assassin! there! 
 
 (Kills Frizaletta.) 
 
 Dood. For that, take this! (Kills Hunca.) 
 
 Plum. And thou take that! (Kills Doodle.) 
 
 King. Die, murderers vile! (Kills Plumante.) 
 Ah! death makes a feast to-day. 
 And but reserves ourselves for his hon houche. 
 So, when the boy, whom nurse from danger guards. 
 Sends Jack for mustard with a pack of cards! 
 Kings, queens, and knaves, tip one another down, 
 Till the whole pack lie scatter'd and o'erthrown. 
 Thus all our pack upon the floor is cast, 
 And my sole boast is, that I will die the last. 
 
 (Stabs himself. They all lie on the stage dead. ) 
 
 Merlin 7-ises. 
 ( Thunder and lightning. ) 
 Mer. Blood! what a scene of .slaughter's here! 
 But I'll soon shift it, never fear. 
 Gallants, behold! one touch of Merlin's magic 
 Shall to gay comic change this dismal tragic. 
 
 ( Waves his wand.) 
 
 ( The Cow discovered. ) 
 
 First, at my word, thou horned cannibal. 
 Return our England's Hannibal. ( Thunder.) 
 
 Thumb is thrown out oj the Cow's mouth, and 
 starts fiercely. 
 Next to you, king, queen, lords, and commons, 
 I issue my hell-bilking summons. 
 
 INCANTATION. 
 
 Arise, ye groups of drunken sots ; 
 
 Who deal out deaths, you know not why; 
 No more of porter pots, or plots, 
 
 Your senseless jealousy lay by. 
 
 Your souls cannot as yet be far 
 
 Upon their way to dreary night, 
 My power remands them. 
 
 (The dead all start up as Merlin touches them. ) 
 
 Here ends jar, 
 Live, love, and all this will be ri^ht.
 
 186 
 
 THOMAS LELAND. 
 
 Mer. Now love and Mve, and live and love, 
 All. Sage Merlin's in the right on't ; 
 Mer. Each couple prove like hand in glove: 
 All. Agreed. 
 Queen. 'Fore George! we'll make a night on't. 
 
 All. 
 
 Let discord cease ; 
 
 Let all in peace 
 Go home and kiss their spouses ; 
 
 Join hat and cap 
 
 In one loud clap, 
 And wish us crowded houses. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 PAN'S SONG TO APOLLO. 
 
 (from "MIDAS.") 
 
 A plague on your pother about thi.-s or that; 
 Your shrieking or .squeaking, a sharp or a flat; 
 I'm sharp by my bumpers, you're a flat, master 
 
 Pol; 
 So here goes a set-to at toll-de-roU-loll. 
 
 When Beautyherpackof poor loverswould hamper! 
 And after Miss Will o' th' Wisp the fools scamper; 
 Ding dong, in sing song, they the lady extol: 
 Pray, what's all this fuss for, but — but toll-de- 
 roll-loll. 
 
 Mankind are a medley — a chance-medley race; 
 All .start in full cry, to give dame Fortune chase: 
 There's catch as catch can, hit or miss, luck is allj 
 And luck's the best tune of life's toll-de-roll-loll. 
 
 I've done, please your worship, 'tis rather too long; 
 
 Midas. Not at all. 
 
 Pan. I only meant — life is but an old song: 
 The world's but a tragedy, comedy, droll; 
 Where all act the scene of toll-de-roll-loll. 
 
 PUSH ABOUT THE JORUM. 
 
 (from "the golden pippin.") 
 
 When bickerings hot 
 To high words got. 
 
 Break out at Gamiorum; 
 The flame to cool, 
 My golden rule 
 
 Is— push about the jorum. 
 With fist on jug. 
 Coifs who can lug, 
 
 Or show me that glib speaker, 
 Who her red rag 
 In gibe can wag, 
 
 With her mouth full of liquor. 
 
 THOMAS LELAND. 
 
 Born 1722 - Died 1785. 
 
 [Thomas Leiand was bom in Dublin in the 
 year 1722, and was educated at the school 
 of Dr. Sheridan, grandfather of the famous 
 Richard Briusley Sheridan. At the age of 
 fifteen he entered Trinity College, and in his 
 nineteenth year obtained a scholarship. lu 
 174.5 he was unsuccessful in an attempt to 
 procure a fellowship, but next year gained it 
 easily. In 1748 he entered into holy orders, 
 and the same year published the result of his 
 anxious meditation on the duties of the min- 
 istry, under the title of Tfie Ilel-ps and Im- 
 pediments to the Acquisition of Knowledge in 
 Religious and Moral Subjects. This essay was 
 much admired on its a]>pearance, but it is 
 believed to be not now extant. 
 
 Some time after this he was requested by 
 the university to produce a new edition of 
 Demosthenes, and in ]7.'>4 the first volume of 
 his celebrated translation aj>peared. This was 
 completed in two more volumes, the last of 
 
 which was issued in 1770. This translation, 
 together with the critical notes which accom- 
 panied it, at once established his reputation in 
 England as a scholar. It was therefore with 
 warm anticipations of success that his Life and 
 Reign of Philip King of Macedon was received 
 in 1758. These were not doomed to disappoint- 
 ment, for the work was at once successful, and 
 continues to this day the best on the subject. 
 In 1763 he was appointed professor of oratory 
 in Trinity College, and soon after published 
 The Principles of Human Eloquence, which 
 was fiercely attacked by Warburton and Hurd. 
 To tliem he replied with great force, obtaining 
 a complete victory over both, as the best 
 critics acknowledge. 
 
 After this, Leiand turned his attention to 
 the study of Irish history, and in a compara- 
 tively short time produced his History of Ire- 
 land, a work which is written in the best 
 historical manner and graced with a pui-e
 
 THOMAS LELAXD. 
 
 187 
 
 style. This work, though highly successful 
 from a critical poriit of view. w;is too im|)artial 
 to be accepted by either of the two pai'ties into 
 which Ireland was then divided, and the author 
 had consequently to be content with its praise : 
 and purchase by men of sense, a limited class 
 in any nation. However, as yeai-s passed on j 
 the work grew in favour even with parti- | 
 sans, and to-day no library devoted to Irish 
 matters is complete without it. The work had j 
 also a fair success in England, where party 
 spirit did not run so high. 
 
 By this time Leland had not only established 
 his position as a winter, but also as an elo- 
 quent preacher, and when Viscount Towns- 
 hend became loi-d-lieuten;uit, in October, 1767, 
 it was expected that he would be rewarded 
 with some rich preferment. Preferment did 
 indeed come to him, but not such as his friends 
 expected. Eai-ly in 176S he was appointed to 
 the vicarage of Bray together with the pre- 
 bend of Rathmichael, and soon after settled 
 down to pai'ochial work. After passing a quiet 
 evening of life he died in the yeai- 17S5. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF AUGHEIM. 
 
 (FROM "THE HISTORY OF IRELAND.") 
 
 The fate of Ireland w;\s now ready to be 
 decided. Whether the English power was to be 
 at length unalterably established in this har- 
 assed country, or whether it was to be once 
 more exposed to the calamities of a tedious 
 intestine wai-, seemed to depend on the event 
 of a few days, and the minds of all men were 
 in consequence sti-ained to a painful pitch of 
 anxiety and exjiectation. On the 10th day 
 of Jime Ginckle marched fi'om Athlone. 
 and encamped along the river Sue, in the 
 county of Eoscommon. a pa.-^s which the Irish 
 might have maintained with advantage; but 
 it soon appeared that they had taken their sta- 
 tion to greater advantage, about three miles 
 further to the south-west. Their camp ex- 
 tended more than two miles along the heights 
 of Kilcommeden. with a ri\tilet on their left 
 running between hills ;\nd morasses, and these 
 again skirted by a large bog. in breadth almost 
 a mile ; on the side of which stood the ruins 
 of an old castle, ttilled by the name of the 
 neighbouring village Aughrim, entrenched 
 and oecujiied by infantry, and commanding 
 the only pass on that siile to the Irish camp. 
 All along the front, at a distance of about 
 
 half a mile from their encampment, the bog 
 extended to their right, where wa.s another 
 pass through a range of small hills ojjening 
 into •wider gi-ouud. The sloj)e of Kikonuuedeu, 
 even to the edge of the bog, was intei-sected 
 bv hedges and ditches communicating with 
 each other, ;vnd lined with Irish musketeers. 
 Ginckle, with 18,(XX) men, was now to attack 
 an enemy amoimting to 25,OCHt thus posted, 
 and who wanted only an additional number 
 of cannon to t;\ke the full advantage of theii* 
 situation. St. Ruth, from his eminence, had 
 a fuU %-iew of the motions of the English ; he 
 saw them cross the river and prepare to give 
 him battle; he drew out his main army in 
 front of his camp. He rode to everj" squad- 
 ron and battalion ; he reminded the Irish 
 officei^s that theii* future fortime depended 
 upon the issue of one encounter; that they 
 were now to fight for their honour, their 
 liberty, and their estates ; that they were now 
 to establish their religion, for which he him- 
 self had displayed an extraoixiinaiy zeal, on 
 such a firm basis as the powei-s of hell and 
 heresy should never shake ; that the dearest 
 interests and most honourable engagements of 
 this life, and the ravishing prospect of eternal 
 happiness, called for a vigorous exertion of 
 that valour which their enemies alTected to 
 deny them. The priests ran tkrough the 
 ranks. Labouring to inspire the soldiers with 
 the same sentiments ; and, we are told, obliged 
 them to swear on the s;\crament that they 
 would not desert their coloui-s. 
 
 On the 12th day of July at noon (for the 
 fogs of the morning had hitherto prevented 
 them) the English army advanced in as good 
 order as their broken ami uneven gromid 
 would permit. It was in the fii-st place deemed 
 necessaiy to gain the pass on the right of the 
 enemy. A small party of Danes sent to force 
 it. fled instantly at the appeaa-jinee of a still 
 smaller pai-ty of the enemy. Some English 
 dragoons were next employed, were boldly 
 opposed, were sustained by other boilies ; the 
 enemy retreated; as the ;issailants pressed 
 forward they found themselves encountered 
 by new parties, but after an obstinate contest 
 of an hour they forced theii- way beyond the 
 bog ; nor possibly was St. Ruth displeased to 
 have an opportunity of lighting one wing of 
 the English separately in a jilace where, if 
 defeated, their reti-eat must prove fatal. The 
 skirmish served to convince Ginckle both of 
 the sjnrit and of the advantages of the enemy. 
 It was now debated whether the battle should 
 not be deferred to the next morning; and, with
 
 188 
 
 THOMAS LELAND. 
 
 difficulty, resolved to prevent the enemy from 
 decamping in the night and prolonging the war, 
 by an immediate renewal of the engagement. 
 By the advice of General Mackay it was re- 
 solved to begin the attack on the enemy's 
 right wing, which would oblige St. Ruth to 
 draw off some forces from his left, so that the 
 passage by Aughrim Castle would be rendered 
 less dangerous for the English horse, and the 
 whole army be enabled to engage. About the 
 hour of five in the evening the left wing of 
 the English, both horse and foot, advanced 
 boldly against the enemy, who obstinately 
 maintained their posts. The musketeers, sup- 
 ported by their cavalry, received and returned 
 the English fire, defending: their ditches until 
 the muskets of each side closed with the other; 
 then retiring by their lines of communication, 
 flanked their assailants, and charged them 
 with double fury. The engagement was thus 
 continued for one hour and a half, when St. 
 Ruth, as was foreseen, found it necessary to 
 draw a considerable part of the cavalry from 
 his left to support his right wing. Mackay 
 seized the favourable moment, and while the 
 cavalry were in motion to gain the pass by 
 Aughrim Castle, several regiments of infantry 
 in the centre were ordered to march through 
 the bog extending along the front and to post 
 themselves on the lowest ditches, until the 
 horse should gain the passage, and wheel from 
 the right to support their charge. The in- 
 fantry plunged into the bog and were instantly 
 sunk to their middle in mire and water ; they 
 floundered on unmolested, but no sooner had 
 they gained the opposite side than they re- 
 ceived a furious fire from the hedges and 
 trenches occupied by the enemy. They ad- 
 vanced still undismayed ; the Irish retired on 
 purpose to draw them forward ; transported 
 with ardour, they forgot their orders, and 
 pursued almost to the main battle of the Irish. 
 Both horse and foot now poured down upon 
 them, assailed them in front and in flank, forced 
 them from their ground, drove some of them 
 back into the bog, pursued them with slaughter, 
 and took several prisoners of note ; while St. 
 Ruth exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, " Now 
 will I drive the English to the very walls of 
 T)u])lin." 
 
 His attention was soon diverted to the 
 English cavalry on his left, commanded by 
 Talmash, who, seeing the alarming disorder of 
 the centre, jjiislied with incredible ardour close 
 by the walls of the ciustle, through all the fire 
 of the enemy, forcing their way through a 
 nanow and dangerous pass, to the amazement 
 
 of St. Ruth, who asked what the English 
 meant? "To force their way to our left," 
 replied his officers. " They are brave fellows ! " 
 said the general, " it is a pity they should be 
 so exposed." 
 
 Mackay, Talmash, Rouvigny now gradually 
 pressed forward from the right, bearing down 
 all opposition; the infantry of the centre rallied, 
 advanced, and regained their former ground ; 
 the left wing fought bravely and was bravely 
 opposed. St. Ruth saw that the fortune of the 
 day depended on making an imjiression on the 
 enemy's cavalry in their rapid progress from 
 the right. He rode down from his station on 
 the hill, and having directed one of his bat- 
 teries where to point their fire, led a body of 
 horse against them. In this critical moment 
 a cannon-ball deprived him of life. His body 
 was conveyed away, and the intelligence of 
 his death ran through the lines. His cavalry 
 halted, and as they had no orders, returned 
 toward their former station. The Irish beheld 
 this retreat with dismay; they were con- 
 founded and disordered ; their disorder in- 
 creased ; Sarsfield, upon whom the command 
 devolved, had been neglected by the proud 
 Frenchman ever since their altercation at 
 Athlone. As the order of battle had not been 
 imparted to him, he could not support the 
 dispositions of the late general. The English 
 in the meantime pressed forward, drove the 
 enemy to their cam]), pursued their advantage 
 until the Irish, after an engagement supported 
 with the fairest prospect of success while they 
 had a general to direct their valour, fled pre- 
 cipitately, — the foot to a bog, the horse towards 
 Loughrea. 
 
 During the heat of this action some Danish 
 forces stationed at the extremity of the left 
 wing kept several bodies of the enemy in awe. 
 When they perceived the advantage at length 
 gained by the battalion in the centre they 
 charged their opponents, to prevent their fall- 
 ing back to the relief of their associates. The 
 Irish received them intrepidly, and continued 
 the co)itest for some time ; but on the general 
 rout of the army, fled with their countrymen. 
 In the battle and in a bloody i)ursuit of three 
 miles 7000 of the Irish army were slain. The 
 luirelenting fury of the victors appeared 
 in the number of their prisonera, which 
 amounted oidy to 450. On their side 700 fell, 
 1000 were wounded. All the cannon, ammu- 
 nition, tents, and baggage of the enemy were 
 taken, with a great quantity of small arms, 
 eleven standards, and thirty-two colours, 
 destined as a present to the queen.
 
 HENRY BROOKE. 
 
 189 
 
 HENRY BROOKE. 
 
 Born 1706 — Died 1783. 
 
 [Henry Brooke, a Goldsmith in versatility if 
 not in genius, was born at Eantavan, in tlie 
 county of Cavan, in 1706. His fatlier, a man 
 of talent and amiability, was rector of four 
 parishes, his mother was a Digby. The rudi- 
 ments of liis education he obtained from Dr. 
 Sheridan, and he was sent for a short time 
 to Trinity College. In his seventeenth year he 
 was entered at the Temple, and soon became 
 acquainted with every one in London worth 
 knowing, Pope and Swift being of the num- 
 ber. " Swift prophesied wondex's of him," says 
 a writer in The Eiiropean Magazine; "Pope 
 affectionately loved him." 
 
 Returning to Ireland he was called to the 
 bai-, though he did not practise, and on the 
 death of an aunt he became guardian to her 
 only child, Catherine Meares, a beautiful girl. 
 In a short time love sprang up between the 
 young guardian and the still younger ward, 
 and the two were secretly married while as 
 yet the young lady was in her fourteenth year. 
 Strange to say the match was a happy one, 
 and remained so to the very end. In 1732, 
 at the pressing solicitations of his friends, he 
 went again to London, to continue his studies 
 and enter regularly upon his profession. But 
 poetry was as fatal to him there as love had 
 been in Ireland. Law was neglected for the 
 Muses, and in the same year appeared his first 
 poem. Universal Beauty^ which Pope looked 
 upon as a wonderful first production. Soon 
 after he was obliged to return to Ireland, and 
 there for some time he devoted himself to his 
 profession as a chamber counsel. In 1737 he 
 went again to London, where he was received 
 with enthusiasm by Pope, while Lord Lyttle- 
 ton sought his acquaintance, and Mr. Pitt 
 spoke of him and treated him with affectionate 
 friendship. Before this he had published 
 (in 1738) a gi\'iceful and spirited translation 
 of the first three books of Tasso. Gustavus 
 Vasa gave offence to the authorities, and its 
 production was disallowed. This, however, 
 only helped to add to his fame, for his friends 
 rallied round him, the play was printed, and 
 he sold 5000 copies at 5s. each, his pecuniary 
 reward being more than it would probably 
 have been had the authorities not interfered. 
 
 Soon after his return to Ireland lie received 
 the appointment of barrack-master fi-om Lord 
 Chesterfield, and while in this post resumed 
 his pen to a certain extent. He wrote the 
 Farmer's Letters, something after the style of 
 the Drapier Letters, and in the same year 
 (1745) his tragedy The Earl of Westmoreland 
 appeared. In 1747 four fables by him were 
 printed in Moore's Fables foi' the Fejnale Sex, 
 and in 1748 his di'amatic opera Little John 
 and the Giants was peiformed in Dublin. 
 In 1749 his tragedy The Earl of Essex was 
 performed at Dublin with great success, and 
 also afterwards at Drury Lane. After this 
 for a long time he remained in retirement at 
 his ancestral home, having clustered round 
 him not only his own family, but the almost 
 equally numerous family of his only and be- 
 loved brother. In 1762 he again appealed 
 before the world with his plea for the repeal 
 of the penal laws, under the title of The Trial 
 of the Roman Catholics. In 1766 he issued 
 his first novel, The Fool of Quality, a woik 
 of unequal merit, but marked by wonderful 
 flashes of genius in the midst of much that 
 is mystical. In 1772 his poem Redemption 
 appeared, and in 1774 his second novel, Juliet 
 Greville. In 1778 a great number of his 
 works were published, most of which had 
 evidently been written in the apparently blank 
 years of his retirement. These were : The Last 
 Speech of John Good; and Antony and Cleo- 
 patra, The hnpostor, Cymbeline, Montezuma, 
 The Vestal Virgin, five tragedies; The Con- 
 tending Brothers, The Charitable Association, 
 The Female Officer, The Marriage Contract, 
 four comedies ; and Ruth, an oratorio. Finally, 
 in 1779, appeared the Fox Chase, a poem. 
 From the time of his wife's death he com- 
 pletely secluded himself from society, and 
 spent his remaining years with his beloved 
 daughter Charlotte, who was to render so 
 invaluable a service to Irish litei'ature in the 
 years to come. On the 10th October, 1783, 
 he passed away, leaving of a numerous family 
 but two to mourn his loss. 
 
 As to Brooke as a man, the writer in The 
 European Magazine says that his "feelings 
 were even beyond those of female nature, soft,
 
 190 
 
 HENRY BROOKE. 
 
 and exquisitely tender. His wife used often 
 to conceal from him the death of a cottager, 
 lest the grief of the survivors should affect 
 him too much. His temper was meek almost 
 to a fault ; it was nearly impossible to provoke 
 him to resentment. . . . Once, when asked 
 what he thought of a humorous but false and 
 malicious libel, in which he with several 
 others was included, his answer was, ' Why, 
 sir, I laughed at the wit and smiled at the 
 
 malice of it.' " 
 
 As to his works, no student of them can 
 have any doubt that they are not nearly so well 
 known as they ought to be. Gustavus Vasa 
 still keeps the stage, it is true, and The Fool of 
 Quality was I'eissued under the editorship of, 
 and with a biographical preface by, the Rev. 
 Charles Kingsley ; but except Juliet Greville, 
 how few of his other works are knowji to the 
 majority of readers even by name ! Yet they 
 are full of splendid passages, sufficient to start 
 many a modern poet or writer on the road 
 to fame. His plays, with scarce an exception, 
 are marked by force and clearness. His poems 
 are not so brilliant as those of Pope, nor so 
 sweet in diction as those of Goldsmith, but 
 they are full of solid beauties and just senti- 
 ment. Hoole, in his preface to his own trans- 
 lation of Tasso, speaking of Brooke's repro- 
 duction of the first three books, says, " Mr. 
 Brooke's in particular is at once so harmonious 
 and so spirited, that I think an entire trans- 
 lation of Tasso by him would not only have 
 rendered my task unnecessary, but have dis- 
 couraged those from the attempt whose poetical 
 abilities are much superior to mine." 
 
 Brooke's poetical works were collected by 
 his daughter Charlotte, who added some few 
 things not mentioned here, and published 
 them at Dublin in 1792 in one volume 8vo. A 
 new edition properly edited is urgently needed.] 
 
 ESSEX AND ELIZABETH.i 
 
 Essex. Health to the virgin majesty of England ! 
 Your servant, your true soldier. 
 Queen of monarchs ! 
 
 For the first time now trembles to approach you, 
 As being here in conscious disobedience 
 Of your dread orders. Yet, when I have shown 
 That 'twas the last, necessity compel I'd me 
 (Thanks to the artful malice of my foes) 
 To this now seemingly unduteous act; 
 
 I This and the next two scenes are from The Earl of Essex. 
 
 When I liave shown that no alternative 
 Was left me, but to seem, or disobedient 
 Or bear a traitor's name ; I shall rely 
 Upon your majesty's accustomed grace. 
 Weighing the jealous honour of the soldier, 
 To palliate, if not clear, the subject's fault — 
 1 am charged with guilt, with being false, disloyal. 
 False to my queen, to England false — could Essex 
 Bear such a charge, and live? No — swift as 
 
 thought. 
 And bold as innocence, fearless of danger. 
 Of death — or what is worse, his queen's displea- 
 sure, 
 He comes to front his foes ; even to the teeth 
 Of malice comes he, to assert his honour, 
 And claim due reparation of his wrongs. 
 
 Queen. Cecil, are those petitions answered yet, 
 Which late I gave in charge? 
 
 Cecil. They are, an't please you. 
 
 Essex. What, not a word, a look? — not one 
 blest look 
 Of wonted influence, whose kindly warmth 
 Might chase these envious and malignant clouds, 
 With which your servant is begirt? Nay, then — 
 My night comes on apace — I see — I see 
 The birds of dark and evil omen round me ; 
 Cecils and Raleighs: how they scent their feast — 
 Sagacious ravens, how they snuff from far 
 The promised carcass. Be it so; for Essex 
 Is but the creature of imperial favour. 
 By his queen's voice exalted into greatness. 
 And by her breath reduced again to nothing. 
 
 Queen. Ha ! that's mournful 
 
 I must not listen to that well-known voice; 
 I feel the woman rising in my breast. — 
 But rouse thee, queen of Britain, be thyself! 
 
 [Aside. 
 What, does the traitor still abide our presence? 
 All who have truth or fealty to their queen 
 Forsake that faithless wretch, and follow me. 
 
 ESSEX AND NOTTINGHAM. 
 
 The Countess of Nottingham visits Essex, 
 a prisoner in the Toiver. 
 
 Essex. Fair visitant, to whom maj' 
 Essex stand indebted for this grace? 
 
 Nott. Chiefly, my lord. 
 To the queen's majesty, and some .small matter 
 To one, who, loving well, tho' most unhapjiily. 
 Has not yet learned entirely to erase 
 The fond impression. 
 
 Essex. Your reproof is gentle — 
 Were Rutland to be born, I must admit 
 All hearts had then been Nottingham's. 
 
 Nott. Your pardon — 
 No more of hearts, I pray — but for your friendship,
 
 HENKY BEOOKE. 
 
 191 
 
 I will dispute it even with her who claims 
 Possession of your love. — The queen, my lord, 
 Commends the value of her pity to you; 
 And kindly asks if you have aught to offer 
 In mitigation of your sentence? 
 
 Easex. Nothing. 
 
 Nott. Some light exception, touching law or 
 form — 
 Apparent malice in the prosecution — 
 Error of judgment — but the slightest hinge, 
 Whereon to hang her mercy ? 
 
 Essex. Not the slightest — 
 Tell her, most fair and charitable messenger. 
 My course of trial has been free and equal; 
 I stand self-censured in my guiltiness: 
 And mercy — what in mercy may ensue — 
 Is all her own, unpleaded. 
 
 Hott. How, my lord. 
 No more than so? this cannot, must not be. 
 The appointed time is on you; this short hour 
 May seal your doom — Oh let me beg, implore you. 
 As if for my own life, to use the means 
 Arc left you to preserve yourself, your friend — 
 Say, have you not a further plea? — You hesitate — 
 A further cause for hope ?— You have, I know it — 
 Intrust me with it; by yon heaven I swear 
 I will not leave the queen till she has granted 
 My utmost wish. 
 
 Essex. I have not merited 
 This kind concern; but yet your generous warmth 
 Demands my confidence. Behold this signet ! 
 It is a talisman, and bears a charm. 
 By royal bi'eath infused, of power to save 
 Even from the jaws of death. 
 
 Nott. let me catch it, 
 That I may fly— 
 
 Essex. Hold, generous fair one ! first 
 Hear my request. Present this to the queen 
 From dying Essex. Say, her dying Essex 
 Adjures her by the virtue of this ring 
 To save his friend, to spare Southampton's ^ life. 
 And he shall fall content. 
 
 Nott. O stint not thus 
 The royal bounty; do not circumscribe 
 The bounds of mercy. By the same request, 
 By the same breath, a life more precious far 
 May be preserved — it must — it shall. 
 
 Essex. I dare not 
 Urge such a suit. Yet if my gracious mistress 
 Still thinks me worth preserving, 1 am not 
 So weary of the world, but I would take 
 The boon with grateful heart, and live to thank her. 
 But 0, be sure you urge my other suit; 
 Save my Southampton's life, let him not fall 
 A victim to my crimes : alas ! he knows 
 No guilt, but friendship. So may conscious peace 
 Sweeten your days, and brighten your last mo- 
 ments. [Exit Essex. 
 
 1 Who was implicated with him 
 
 Nott. Now he is mine — at least in death my own, 
 For ever sealed -tho' not for love's light rapture, 
 For hatred, full as joyous — deeper far. 
 And more enduring! Now to take him sudden, 
 When the full tide, returning fraught with hope, 
 Lifts him elate, to plunge him down at once 
 To the eternal iiottom ! This, aye this 
 Alone can satiate; 'tis the luxury 
 Of eager-eyed revenge. The queen — no matter — 
 1 am prepared. Be but my vengeance safe. 
 And for the rest, events are equal all. 
 
 GONE TO DEATH. 
 
 Queen. Is he then gone? — To death? Essex to 
 death ! 
 And by my order? — now perhaps — this moment! — 
 Haste, Nottingham, despatch — 
 
 Nottingham. What would your majesty ! 
 Queen. I know not what — 1 am in horrors, 
 Nottingham. 
 In horrors worse than death ! — Does he still live? 
 Run, bring me word — yet stay — can you not save 
 
 him 
 Without my bidding? Read it in my heart — 
 In my distraction read— 0, sure the hand 
 That saved him would be as a blest angel's 
 Pouring soft balm into my rankling breast — 
 
 Nott. If it shall please your majesty to give 
 Express commands, I shall obey them straight — 
 The world will think it strange. — But you are 
 queen. 
 Queen. Hard-hearted Nottingham ! to arm my 
 pride, 
 
 Enter Rutland, irife of Essex. 
 
 My shame, against my mercy. — Ha! what's here! 
 
 A sight to strike resentment dead, and rouse 
 
 Soft pity even in a barbarous breast — 
 
 It is the wife of Essex ! 
 
 Rise, Rutland, come to thy repentant mistress: 
 
 See, thy queen bends to take thee to her bosom 
 
 And foster thee for ever ! — Rise. 
 
 Rutland. Which way ? 
 Do you not see these circling steeps? — 
 Not all the fathom lines that have been loos'd 
 To sound the bottom of the faithless main 
 Could reach to draw me hence. Never was dug 
 A grave so deep as mine ! — Help me, kind friend, 
 Help me to put these little bones together — 
 These are my messengers to yonder world. 
 To seek for some kind hand to drop me down 
 A little charity. 
 
 Queen. Heart-breaking sounds! 
 
 Rut. These were an infant's bones — But hush — 
 don't tell— 
 Don't tell the queen —
 
 192 
 
 HENRY BROOKE. 
 
 An unborn infant's— may be, if 'tis known, 
 They'll say I murder'd it — Indeed I did not — 
 It was the axe — how strange soe'er 'tis true ! 
 Help me to put them right, and then they'll fly — 
 For they are light, and not like mine, incumber'd 
 With limbs of marble, and a heart of lead. 
 
 Queen. Alas ! her reason is disturbed ; her eyes 
 Are wild and absent— Do you know me, Eutland? 
 Do you not know your queen ? 
 
 Rutland. yes, the queen! — 
 They say you have the power of life and death — 
 
 — Poor queen ! 
 They flatter you. — You can take life away, 
 But can you give it back? No, no, poor queen! — 
 Look at these eyes — they are a widow's eyes — 
 Do you know that ? — Perhaps, indeed, you'll say, 
 A widow's eyes should weep, and mine are dry: 
 That's not my fault ; tears should come from the 
 
 heart, 
 And mine is dead — I feel it cold within me. 
 Cold as a stone. — But yet my brain is hot — 
 fj-e upon this head, it is stark naught ! 
 Beseech your majesty to cut it off. 
 The bloody axe is ready — say the word, 
 (For none can cut off heads without your leave) 
 And it is done — I humbly thank your highness 
 You look a kind consent. I'll but just in. 
 And say a prayer or two. 
 
 From my youth upwards I still said my prayers 
 Before 1 slept, and this is my last sleep. 
 Indeed 'tis not through fear, nor to gain time — 
 Not your own soldier could meet death more 
 
 bravely; 
 You shall be judge yourself. — We must make haste; 
 I pray, be ready. — If we lose no time 
 I shall o'ertake and join him on the way. 
 Queen. Follow her close, allure her to some 
 chamber 
 Of privacy ; there soothe her frenzy, but 
 Take care she go not forth. Heaven grant I may 
 
 not 
 Require such aid myself! for sure I feel 
 A strange commotion here. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. May it please your majesty. 
 The Earl, as he address'd him to the block. 
 Requested but the time to write these lines ; 
 And earnestly conjured me to deliver them 
 Into your royal hands. 
 
 Queen. Quick. — What is here! — Just heaven! 
 Fly, take this signet. 
 Stop execution — fly with eagle's wings — 
 What art thou ? Of this world? 
 
 NottvKjham. Ha! I'm discovered — 
 Then be it so. — Your majesty may spare — 
 
 Queen. Stop, stop her yell ! — Hence to some 
 dun.'rcon hence — 
 Deep sunk from day! In horrid silence there 
 Let conscience talk to thee, infix its stings; 
 
 Awake remorse and desperate penitence. 
 And from the torments of thy conscious guilt 
 May hell be all thy refuge ! 
 
 Enter Cecil, Raleigh, <i:c. 
 
 Cecil. Gracious madam, 
 I grieve to say your order came too late; 
 We met the messenger on our return 
 From seeing the Earl fall. 
 
 Queen. fatal sound — 
 Ye bloody pair ! accurs'd be your ambition, 
 For it was cruel.— 
 
 Rutland, sister, daughter, fair forlorn ! 
 No more thy queen, or mistress, here I vow 
 To be for ever wedded to thy griefs — 
 A faithful partner, numbering sigh for sigh, 
 And tear for tear; till our sad pilgrimage 
 Shall bear us where our Essex now looks down 
 With pity on a toiling world, and sees 
 What trains of real wretchedness await 
 The dream of power and emptiness of state. 
 
 NATURE'S SKILL AND CARE.* 
 
 With deepest art her skilful plan she lays, 
 With equal scale the least advantage weighs; 
 How apt, foi' time, place, circumstance, and use, 
 She culls all means, that to all ends conduce! 
 Nice to a point, each benefit selects ; 
 As prudent, every mischief she rejects; 
 In due proportions, time, and motion, metes 
 Advances to a hair, and to a hair retreats: 
 Constant to good, for that alone she veers. 
 And with the varying beam her offspring cheers; 
 Cools all beneath her equinoctial line, 
 And gives the day throughout the world to shine; 
 The nitre from the frozen pole unseals, 
 And to the tropic speeds the pregnant gales; 
 Here leaves the exhausted fallow to recruit, 
 Here plumps and burnishes the ripening fruit; 
 Superfluous hence withdraws the sultry beam, 
 Here drinks anew the vivifying flame; 
 Returns still faithful to the labouring steer- 
 Wide waves the harvest of the golden year; 
 Trades universal on from pole to pole. 
 Inspires, revives, and cultivates the whole; 
 Frugal, where lack, supplies with what redounds, 
 And here bestows what noxious there abounds; 
 This with the gift, and that with giving, blest, 
 Alike, throughout, of every wish possest. 
 Wrapt in her airy car the matron glides, 
 And o'er the firmament ascending rides; 
 The subtle mass its copious mantle spreads; 
 Its mantle wove of elemental threads. 
 The elastic flue of fluctuating air. 
 Transfused invisible, enfolds the sphere, 
 
 ' From the poem On Universal Beauty.
 
 FRANCIS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 193 
 
 With poignance delicate pervades the whole, 
 Its ear, eye, breath, and animating soul; 
 Active, serene, coniprcst, rare, cool'd or warm'd. 
 For life, health, comfort, pleasure, business, form'd 
 Useful around, throuiihout, above, beneath ! 
 By this the quadrupeds the reptiles breathe; 
 This gives the bloom of vegetative life; 
 Corrects the seeds of elemental strife; 
 Broods o'er the eggs, in airy caverns laid, 
 Warmed in the down of their ethereal bed, 
 Gives motion to the swimmers of the flood; 
 Gives music to the warblers of the wood; 
 Rebounds in echo from the doubling vale. 
 And wafts to heaven the undulating gale: 
 Here hushed, translucid, smiles the gentle calm; 
 And here impearl'd, sheds meek the showery balm; 
 Salubrious here, a lively rapture claims. 
 And winnows pure the pestilential steams; 
 
 Here buoys the bird high on the crj'stal wave, 
 
 Whose level plumes the azure concave shave; 
 
 Here sits voluptuous in the swelling sail, 
 
 The vessel dancing to the sprightly gale; 
 
 Its varied power to various uses tends. 
 
 And qualities occult achieve contrarious ends; 
 
 With generative warmth fomenting breed, 
 
 Or alimental with nutrition feed; 
 
 In opposition reconciled to good 
 
 Alike the menstruum, as sustaining food: 
 
 Or here restorative, destructive here, 
 
 Here nature's cradle, here her funeral bier; 
 
 With keen despatch on all corruption preys, 
 
 And grateful, from our aching sense conveys, 
 
 Returns the bane into its native eartli, 
 
 And there revives it to a second birth, 
 
 Renew'd and brightened like the minted ore, 
 
 To shoot again to life, more gorgeous than before ! 
 
 FRANCIS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Born 1728 — Died 1784. 
 
 [Fi-aucis Gentleman, who, like many another 
 Irishman, played the threefold part of actor, 
 author, and soldier, was born in York Street, 
 Dublin, on the 23d of February, 1728. His 
 father was a major in the army, and when his 
 son reached fifteen he obtained for him a com- 
 mission in his own regiment. However, on 
 the regiment being reduced at the conclusion 
 of the war in 1748, Francis left the service, 
 and, being powerfully drawn towards the 
 stage, a})peared at the Theatre Royal, Dublin, 
 in the part of Aboan in Southerne's play of 
 Oroonoko. He was favourably received, though 
 possessing anything but a noble figure, his 
 good sense and intelligence probably making 
 up for his deficiency in that respect. Soon 
 after this he went to London, not to continue 
 acting, but in the hope of proving his claim 
 to some property left by a deceased relative. 
 In this he failed, and having spent all he 
 possessed was forced to return to the stage. 
 For some time he played at Bath, then for a 
 time at Edinburgh, and later on at Manchester 
 and Liverpool. After this he settled at Mal- 
 ton near York, where he mai-ried. In 1770 
 he returned once more to the stage, being 
 engaged by Foote for the Haymarket, where 
 he played three seasons. In this year also 
 appeared two of his plays, The Stratford Ju- 
 bilee, and The Sultan, or Love and Fame, his 
 Sejanus having already ajipeared in 1751. In 
 1771 he produced 2'he Tobacconist, a fai-ce; 
 Vol. I. 
 
 in 1772, Cupid's Revenge; in 1773, The Pan- 
 theonites and The Modish Wife. In this latter 
 year he left the Haymarket and returned to 
 Dublin, where for the last six or seven yeai-s 
 of his life he sutfered from want and sickness. 
 His death took place on the 21st December, 
 1784. 
 
 In addition to the works already named, 
 Gentleman wrote several othei-s which were 
 never published, comprising the plays Os- 
 man, 1751; Zaphira, 1754; Richard II., 
 1754; The Mentalist, 1759; The Fairy Court, 
 1760; TJie Coxcombs, 1771 ; and Orpheus and 
 Eurydice, 1783. He also wrote and published 
 The Dramatic Censor; Royal Fables — "poeti- 
 cal productions of very considerable merit;" 
 and Characters, an Epistle. His best work is 
 generally said to be The Modish TPi/e.] 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY. 
 
 (from "royal fables.") 
 
 The morn was come, the brilliant mom 
 
 On which fame said my Lord was born; 
 
 The courtly sun — who more polite? — 
 
 Contributed unusual light; 
 
 The vegetable world was seen 
 
 Exhibiting more vivid green; 
 
 The feathcr'd songsters tuned their throats 
 
 To louder and more jocund notes; 
 
 13
 
 194 
 
 FRANCIS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 All nature smiled and look'd more gay 
 To honour the auspicious day; 
 Nor could she, reason must confess, 
 Do for a titled mortal less, 
 Whom twenty-one indulgent years 
 Had ripen'd for the House of Peers. 
 
 At such an era custom pays 
 A world of compliments and praise, 
 Mere phantoms of external show. 
 Which from the lip of int'rest flow; 
 For, let the self-same wondrous man. 
 So worshipp'd by a servile clan. 
 Be stripp'd of titles and estate. 
 He's then no longer good nor great. 
 
 The birth-day levee now was come. 
 And, marshall'd in the drawing-room, 
 A medley of most curious creatures. 
 As diflferent in designs as features. 
 
 Here fawning priests with looks demure, 
 In hopes to get a better cure, 
 Appear'd to grace the friendly crowd. 
 And very low, for livings, bow'd. 
 
 On t'other side, the sons of law 
 Their rev'rence make with distant awe. 
 No counsel sure would ever grudge 
 A scrape or two — to be a judge. 
 
 Ev'n thy disciples, Mars, beset 
 The youthful rising coronet. 
 
 But where is he the race can shun. 
 When thou. Preferment, bid'st him run? 
 Thy magic spur can quicken all 
 To circle round this earthly ball. 
 To combat dangers, cares, and strife, 
 Nay, some to hazard fame with life. 
 
 Amongst the rest one suitor came, 
 A stranger, scarcely known by name. 
 Who, acting on a different plan. 
 Declared himself the honest man. 
 
 This rustic blade approached the peer, 
 " I've reached," he said, "my ninetieth year. 
 Threescore of which, young lord, have I 
 Been tenant to your family. 
 Then, let me first with kindness prove 
 Your patronage and noble love; 
 Tho' plain my coat, my heart, I trust, 
 Hath ever been in action just. 
 I boldly ask what these conceal. 
 And hope to win what they would steal. 
 Your favour, — not for selfish end, 
 But more to show myself your friend. 
 
 "I ask not wealth, for common sense 
 Hath made me rich in competence; 
 
 I ask not titles, they must shame 
 Jly humble parts and humble name. 
 But ask a boon which you may grant, 
 Nor for another suit or want. 
 Age bows my body to the grave. 
 Remaining time 1 wish to save; 
 Thus hasting off this stage of strife. 
 Will you bestow some years of life?" 
 
 The youthful peer, whose heart was good, 
 And full as noble as his blood. 
 In sentiments as rank sublime. 
 Perhaps the Carlisle of his time — 
 Eeplied, " I understand thee not; 
 AVhat power have I to change thy lot 
 Of life or death ? Yet what is mine 
 I promise freely shall be thine. 
 I've heard thy worth, and dare afford 
 To bind it with my solemn word." 
 
 "0 noble youth," returned the sire, 
 "May Heav'n thy virtuous mind inspire; 
 Each worthy deed of thine will be 
 A year of added life to me. 
 Thus I may ask without a crime 
 To lengthen out with joy my time." 
 
 His lordship heard with smiling face. 
 Then rush'd into a kind embrace. 
 And cried, "Good father, thy request 
 Shall live for ever in this breast. 
 And far as mortal frailty reaches 
 I'll practise what thy wisdom teaches; 
 Nor will I specious show regard, 
 But worth in honest men reward. 
 And keep my favours there confined, 
 Where virtues ornament the mind." 
 
 He said, — the levee shrunk away. 
 Like night before the rising day. 
 
 TWO OPPOSITES. 
 
 (FROM "THE STRATFORD JUBILEE.") 
 
 Sir John. What! no lottery gudgeons in 
 this town? 
 
 Scrapeall. No, no, Sir John ; I could pick 
 up nothing but a premium of ten shillings for 
 number forty-five — they are all jubilee gud- 
 geons here. When I asked a bookselling 
 fellow who dabbles a little that way whether 
 he wanted any tickets, he answered : Shak- 
 speare is to be crowned to-morrow ; and his 
 wife, before I could open my mouth again, 
 said there was to be a masquerade to-morrow, 
 which everybody would be at. For my part.
 
 FRANCIS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 195 
 
 I think they are all Shakspeare mad, and I 
 Avish we were fairly out of the town. 
 
 .S'iV John. Body o' me, why so \ Can't people 
 be merry and wise ? For my own part I should 
 like to stay and see the fun ; ay, and we will, 
 old True-penny. When it is over, I'll take you 
 to such gardens, groves, and j)urling streams 
 in Yorkshire as shall make you young again. 
 
 Scrapeall. With your leave, Sir John, I had 
 leather go back to London. Pray, where can 
 you find a garden of equal value to that of 
 Covent Garden ? — Where can you match the 
 golden grove of Lombard Street? — Where 
 meet more delightful retreats than the arbours 
 of the Alley? — Where more comfortable walks 
 than those of the Exchange, or a stream equal 
 to the Thames between Bridge and Deptford ? 
 Besides, I am very uneasy about my girl, she's 
 at the ticklish age of nineteen, has twenty 
 thousand pounds at her own disposal when of 
 age, besides the inheritance of all my estate. 
 
 Sir John. What then, friend, touch and 
 take ; ten to one, do aU you can, she'll jDlease 
 herself at last, and throw herself away upon 
 some poverty-struck lord, who, being out at 
 elbows, will marry her money to mend bad 
 circumstances ; then keep a mistress to please 
 his inclinations. 
 
 Scrapeall. Ah ! why had not I a son ? by 
 this time he might have been thoroughly 
 educated in those schools of useful knowledge, 
 Lloyd's and Jonathan's. I might have lived 
 to see him double my fortune. 
 
 Sir John. Why then, old boy, since you 
 can't be sure who will get it, or how it may 
 go, take my advice and regale yourself with a 
 little of it before you are shipped off for the 
 other world. Now I am here I'm resolved to 
 see what sort of an affair this jubilee is, though 
 I suppose it won't be half so good as a country 
 feast or a fox-chase. 
 
 Scrapeall. No, nor half so fine as my lord- 
 mayoi-'s show, which may be seen for nothing 
 into the bargain. 
 
 Sir John. Nothing ! prithee don't grumble 
 so in the gizzard — it is my humour to see what 
 all this bustle's about, and if you'll promise to 
 throw off your melancholy face, body o' me, 
 I'll bring you off scot free — I'll pay for both ; 
 I have three hundred pounds a qxiarter, and 
 don't wish to save a shilling of it. 
 
 Scrapeall. As you please, Sir John. (Aside.) 
 What a prodigal old fool it is ! 
 
 Sir John. Besides, man, I never saw a coro- 
 nation in my life, and, for aught I know, the 
 crowning of King Shakspeare may be as pretty 
 a piece of diversion as the crowning of any 
 
 other king; so brush up your phiz, and we'll 
 sally forth to see what's stirring. 
 
 Scrapeall. I follow. Sir John. I wish 1 
 knew how Ea-st India stock was done to-day, 
 and what news there is from the Nabobs. 
 
 Sir John and Scrapeall arrive at the 
 Masquerade Shop. 
 
 Sir John. So we have reached the place at 
 last, and now we'll see what they have got. 
 
 Scrapeall. Ay, ay ; foolery enough, I war- 
 rant. 
 
 Sir John. {To atte^idant Sleekem.) AVhatare 
 all these? 
 
 Sleekein. Masks to cover the faces, and mark 
 characters. 
 
 Scrapeall. Characters ! I believe you deal 
 in very suspicious charactei-s. Why, these 
 baubles can only be fit for such as aie, or 
 should be, ashamed to show their faces. 
 
 Sir John. Body o' me, here's one grins like 
 a monkey ; and there's so many, I don't know 
 how to choose. 
 
 Sleekem. If you please to walk that way, 
 gentlemen, my master will help you to a 
 choice immediately. 
 
 Sir John. Well said, lad. Come, old Mul- 
 tiplication. 
 
 Scrapeall. Ah ! stocks must fall at this rate. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [Emmeline, Scrapeall's daiighter, whom he 
 had left safe at home, has come to the jubilee 
 with her maid Jackouet, for the purpose of 
 meeting her lover Sir Charles Planwell, and 
 they are now in purchasing dresses for the 
 masquerade, intending after the fun to fly to 
 Scotland and get married.] 
 
 Sir Charles. My dear Emmeline, the cordial 
 punctuality of this meeting has confirmed me 
 yours for ever. 
 
 Emmeline. I assure you. Sir Charles, Jack- 
 onet has been an active and steadfast friend in 
 your favour. 
 
 Sir Charles. I hope I have not been un- 
 grateful; and if she has an inclination to 
 foUow your example, madam, I'll endeavour to 
 procure her a good husband. 
 
 Jackonet. I thank you, sir ; but, according 
 to the old proverb, I must please my eyes 
 though I plague my heart. 
 
 Sir Charles. Then to our business. Here, show 
 your book of dresses, young man. [Retires. 
 
 Sir John and Scrapeall enter. 
 
 Scrapeall. Positively, Sir John, I'll stay no 
 longer. What ! six guineas for two dresses 
 one night? Why, it is absolute robbery.
 
 196 
 
 THOMAS SHERIDAN. 
 
 EmmeHne. ( Who has 7iot noticed her father.) 
 I think, Sii- Charles, this infinitely pretty. 
 
 Scrapeall. Bless me, what's this ! my Emmy ] 
 
 Emmeline. Oh ! papa ! what — what shall I 
 do? 
 
 Scrapeall. Pretty ! ay, it is pretty, hussey, 
 to meet you here without my consent, with- 
 out my knowledge, without my Od, I 
 
 have lost all patience. And who is this 
 fellow? I'll make an example of him for 
 running away with an heiress. 
 
 Jackonet. Why, don't you think she's able 
 and willing enough to run away with herself, 
 sir? 
 
 Scrapeall. Is she so, Mrs. Prate-a-pace ? 
 Ay, you're a hopeful maid of her aunt's pro- 
 viding. I know you well, sauce-box, and I'll 
 turn over a new leaf. But who are you, scape- 
 grace? 
 
 Sir Charles. I am a gentleman, sir, and not 
 used to abusive language. To speak of my- 
 self may not be so proper, but my father, Sir 
 Robert Planwell, was generally know^n and 
 esteemed in the north of England. 
 
 Sir John. What ! are you Bob PlanweU's 
 son of Lincolnshire? As honest a fellow, 
 cousin Scrapeall, as ever tossed off a tankard ! 
 
 Scrapeall. But did he know anything of the 
 Alley? 
 
 Sir Charles. If he did not, I do, sir ; I have 
 employed all my spare cash these five yeai-s in 
 the stocks. Why, sir, I have written two 
 letters, dated India, to come overland by Hol- 
 land, one of which will raise that stock twenty 
 per cent., and the other fall it thirty. Now, 
 sir, if you will countenance my pretensions to 
 your daughter, I'll kill Hyder Ali, and make 
 him conquer Madras, as often as you please to 
 sell out or buy in. 
 
 Scrapeall. Nay, if that's the case, you may 
 be a hopeful young fellow : but I hate a title. 
 However, if you can make what you say 
 appear — 
 
 Sir Charles. If not, sir, I request no favour. 
 
 Sir John. Wliy, that's honest; and since 
 you have all met together, I'll take care to 
 bring you to a right understanding. I wear 
 a title myself, and I am no rogue for all that. 
 We'll see what's to be seen here, and then 
 all for Yorkshire, where we'll be as merry as 
 grigs. But, d'ye hear, no more objections to 
 titles, for 
 
 Titled or plain, still judge upon this plan, 
 That the heart only manifests the man. 
 
 THOMAS SHERIDAN. 
 
 BOBN 1721 — Died 1788. 
 
 [Thomas Sheridan, son of Dr. Thomas She- 
 ridan the famous schoolmaster, and husband 
 of Frances Sheridan already noticed in this 
 volume, was born at Quilca, in the county of 
 Cavan, in 1721. His earlier education was 
 conducted by his father, but while yet young 
 he was sent to Westminster School, whei'e for 
 merit alone he was elected a king's scholar. 
 Leaving Westminster after a time, he returned 
 to Dublin, and entered Trinity College as a 
 sizar. In 1738 he obtained a scholai'ship, and 
 in 1739 graduated B.A. In 1743, having 
 formed and abandoned several schemes of life, 
 and the death of his father leaving him with- 
 out resources, he finally chose the stage, and 
 made his first appearance on the boards of 
 Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin, in January of 
 that year. In 1744 he appeared in London at 
 Covent Oarden, and in 1745 at Drury Lane in 
 company with Garrick. In 1746 he became 
 manager of the Theatre Royal, Dublin, which 
 
 post he occupied successfully for eight years. 
 Though so closely connected with the stage, 
 and though wielding a clever pen, Sheridan 
 did not produce many dramatic works. They 
 comprise: Captain O' Blunder, a farce, 1754; 
 Coriolanus, a tragedy, 1755; Royal Subject, 
 an alteration from Beaumont and Fletcher; 
 and an alteration of Romeo and Juliet. Of his 
 other works the principal are his Lectures on 
 the Art of Reading; British Education; Ad- 
 dress on the Stage; Bijficidties of English; 
 A General Dictionary of the English Language, 
 to which a" Rhetorical Grammar "was prefixed; 
 Life of Swift, prefixed to an edition of Swift's 
 works ; and many miscellaneous ai'ticles of a 
 high order of merit on the subjects of oratory 
 and education. All his works show a scholarly 
 hand, and most of them have been successful, 
 especially his dictionary, which still has a 
 phonetic if not a philological value. His 
 Lectures on the Art of Reading is a book which
 
 THOMAS SHERIDAN. 
 
 197 
 
 may still be studied with advantage, as may 
 also one of his snudler treatises on the manner 
 of reading the liturgy of the Church of Eng- 
 land.] 
 
 CAPTAIN O'BLUNDEK: A FARCE. 
 
 [Lucy, and Betty her maid. Cheatwell, a 
 lover of Lucy. His meeting with the Irish 
 captain, whom Lucy's father has desired her 
 to receive. Sconce, Cheatwell's man.] 
 
 iMcy. Well, this barbarous will of parents 
 is a great drawback on the inclinations of 
 young people. 
 
 Betty. Indeed, and so it is, mem. For my 
 part I'm no heiress, and therefore at my own 
 disposal. . . . But la ! mem, I had forgot to 
 acquaint you, I verily believe that I saw your 
 Irish lover the Captain ; and I conceits it was 
 he and no other, so I do ;— and I saw him go 
 into the Blue Postices, so I did. 
 
 Lucy. My Irish lover. Miss Pert ! I never 
 so much as saw his face in all my born days, 
 but I hear he's a strange animal of a brute. — 
 Pray had he his wings on? I suppose they 
 saved him his passage. 
 
 Betty. Oh ! mem, you mistakes the Irishmen. 
 I am told they are as gentle as doves to our 
 sex, with as much politeness and sincerity as 
 if born in our own country. 
 
 Cheatwell enters. 
 
 Cheatwell. Miss! your most humble and 
 obedient — I come to acquaint you of our 
 danger : om- common enemy is just imported 
 hither, and is inquiring for your father's house 
 through every street. — The Irish ca])tain, in 
 short, is come to London. Such a figure! and 
 so attended by the rabble ! 
 
 Lucy. I long to see him ; and Irishmen, I 
 hear, ai-e not so despicable ; besides, the Cap- 
 tain may be misrepresented. {Aside.) Well, 
 you know, my father's design is to have as 
 many suitors as he can, in order to have a 
 choice of them all. 
 
 Cheatwell. I have nothing but your profes- 
 sions and your sincerity to depend upon. O 
 here's my trusty Mercury. 
 
 Sconce enters. 
 
 Well, Sconce, have you dogged the Captain? 
 
 Sconce. Yes, yes, I left him snug at the 
 Blue Pots, devouring a large dish of potatoes 
 and half a sirloin of beef for his breakfast. 
 
 He's just pat to our purpose, easily humm'd, 
 as simple and a.s undesigning as we would have 
 liim. Well, and what do you propose? 
 
 Cheatwell. Propose, why to drive him back 
 to his native bogs as fa.st as possible. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! Mr. Cheatwell. Pray let's have 
 a sight of the creature. 
 
 Cheatwell. Oh! female curiosity.— Wliy, 
 child, he'd frighten thee ;— he's above six feet 
 high. 
 
 Sconce. A great huge back and shoulders, 
 wears a great long sword, which he calls his 
 sweetlips. 
 
 Lucy. I hear the Irish are naturally brave. 
 Sconce. And carries a large oaken cudgel, 
 which he calls his shillela. 
 
 Lucy. Which he can make use of on occa- 
 sions, I suppose. 
 
 Sconce. Add to this a great pair- of jack- 
 boots, a Cumberland pinch to his hat, an old 
 red coat, and a d— — d potato face. 
 Lucy. He must be worth seeing truly. 
 Cheatwell. Well, my dear girl, be constant; 
 wish me success, for I shall so humbug, so 
 roast, and so banter this same Irish captain 
 that he'll scarce wish himself in London again 
 these seven years to come. 
 
 Lucy. About it then. Adieu ! I hear my 
 father. 
 
 [Sconce manages to lodge the Irish captain 
 in a mad-house, which he introduced him to 
 as his cousin's : Drs. Clyster and Gallypot ex- 
 amine him.] 
 
 Captain. Faith, my cousin's house is a brave 
 large place, tho' it is not so very well fur- 
 nished ; but I suppose the maid was cleaning 
 out the rooms. So, who are these now? some 
 acquaintance of my cousin's, to be sure. Gen- 
 tlemen, your most humble servant; but where's 
 my cousin? 
 
 Dr. Clyster. His cousin! What does he 
 mean ? 
 
 Dr. Gallypot. What should a madman 
 mean? Sir, we come to treat you in a regulai- 
 manner. 
 
 Captain. O, dear gentlemen, 'tis too much 
 trouble; you need not be over regular; a 
 single joint of meat and a good glass of ale 
 will be a very good treat, without any need- 
 less expenses. 
 
 Dr. Clyster. Do you mind that symptom — 
 the canine appetite? 
 
 Captain. Nine appetites ! No, my jewel, I 
 have an appetite like other people ; a couple 
 of pounds will serve me if I was ever so hungry. 
 What the devil do they talk of nine appetites?
 
 198 
 
 THOMAS SHERIDAN. 
 
 do they think I'm a cat, that have as many 
 stomachs as lives ? 
 
 Gallypot. He looks a little wild, brother. 
 
 Captain. What! are you brothei-s1 
 
 Clyster. Pray, sir, be seated ; we shall ex- 
 amine methodically into the nature of your 
 case. 
 
 Captain. What the devil do they mean by 
 taking me by the wi-ists? Maybe 'tis the 
 fashion of compliment in London. 
 
 Gallypot. First, brother, let us examine the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Captain. By my soul, the fellows are fools ! 
 
 Clyster. Pray, sir, how do you rest? 
 
 Captain. In a good feather-bed, my jewel, 
 and sometimes I take a nap in an arm-chair. 
 
 Clyster. But do you sleejj sound '] 
 
 Captain. Faith, I sleep and snore all night, 
 and when I awake in the morning I find my- 
 self fast asleep. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 O ally pot. How do you eat, sir? 
 Captain. With my mouth. How the devil 
 should I eat, do you think l 
 
 Gallypot. Do you generally drink much? 
 
 Captain. Oh, my jewel, a couple of quarts 
 of ale and porter wouldn't choke me. But 
 what the devil magnifies so many questions 
 about eating and driiaking? if you have a 
 mind to ordei' anything, do it as soon as you 
 can, for I am almost famished. 
 
 Clyster. I am for treating him regularly, 
 methodically, and secundum artem. 
 
 Captain. Secundum artum ! I don't see any 
 sign of treating at all. Ara, my jewels, send 
 for a mutton chop, and don't trouble your- 
 selves about my stomach. 
 
 Clyster. I shall give you my opinion con- 
 cerning this case, brother. Galen says. . . . 
 Galen is of opinion that in all adust com- 
 plexions — ■ 
 
 Captain. Well, and who has a dusty com- 
 plexion ? 
 
 Clyster. A little patience, sir. 
 
 Captain. I think I have a great deal of 
 patience, that people can't eat a morsel with- 
 out so many impertinent questions. 
 
 Clyster. 
 
 Qui habet vultum adustum 
 Habet caninum gustum. 
 
 Captain. I'm sure 'tis an ugly custom to 
 keep a man fasting so long, after pretending 
 to treat him. 
 
 Gallypot. Ay, brother, but Hippocrates 
 differs from Galen in this case. 
 
 Captain. Well but, my jewels, let there be 
 no difference nor falling out between brothers 
 about me, for a small matter will serve my 
 turn. 
 
 Clyster. Sir, you break the thread of our 
 discourse ; I was observing that in gloomy 
 opaque habits the frigidity of the solids 
 causes a continual friction in the fluids, which 
 by being constantly impeded grow thick and 
 glutinous, by which means they cannot enter 
 the capillary vessels, nor the other finer rami- 
 fications of the nerves. 
 
 Gallypot. Then, brother, from your position 
 it will be deducible that the primce vite are 
 first to be cleared, which must be effected by 
 frequent emetics. 
 
 Clyster. Sudorifics. 
 
 Gallypot. Cathartics. 
 
 Clyster. Pneumatics. 
 
 Gallypot. Eestoratives. 
 
 Clyster. Corrosives. 
 
 Gallypot. Narcotics. 
 
 Captain. How naturally they answer one 
 another, like the parish minister and the 
 clerk ; by my soul, jewels, this gibberish will 
 never fill a man's belly. 
 
 Clyster. And thus to speak, summatim and 
 articulatim, or categorically to recajjitulate the 
 several remedies in the aggregate, the emetics 
 will clear the first passages and restore the 
 viscera to their pristine tone, and regulate 
 their lost peristaltic or vermicular motion, so 
 that from the oesophagus to the rectum I am 
 for potent emetics. 
 
 Gallypot. And next for sudorifics, as they 
 open the pores, or rather the porous continuity 
 of the cutaneous dermis and epidermis, thence 
 to convey the noxious and melancholy humoura 
 of the blood. 
 
 Clyster. With cathartics to purge him. 
 
 Gallypot. Pneumatics to scourge him. 
 
 Clyster. Narcotics to dose him. 
 
 Gallypot. Cephalics to pose him. 
 
 Captain. These are some of the dishes they 
 are to treat me with. Why, my jewels, thei-e's 
 no need for all this cookery ; upon my soul, 
 this is to be a grand entertainment. Well, 
 they'll have their own way. 
 
 Clyster. Supjwse we use phlebotomy, and 
 take from him thirty ounces of blood. 
 
 Captain. Phlebotomy, d'ye say? 
 
 Gallypot. His eyes roll, call the keepers. 
 
 [The keepers enter and strive to seize the 
 Cai)tain, when he catches up a chair and rushes 
 at them like a madman. They fly for their
 
 GENEEAL BURGOYNE. 
 
 199 
 
 lives, and he, following them, gains the sti-eet 
 in a few minutes. On reachinjf his lodginjxs 
 he dresses and presents himself at the house 
 of Mr. Trader, Lucy's father. He finds the 
 house in confusion, Mr. Trader having just 
 learned that he is ruined by a failure in busi- 
 ness.] 
 
 Trader. O Captain, I'm ruined, undone — 
 broke — 
 
 Captain. Broke ! what have you broke? 
 
 Trader. Oh ! sir, my fortune's broke, I am 
 not a penny above a beggar. ... So 
 now, Captain, I have not concealed my mis- 
 fortune from you, you are at liberty to 
 choose a happier wife, for my poor child is 
 miserable. 
 
 Captain. I thought your ribs was broke; 
 I'm no surgeon ; but if it is only a little money 
 that broke you, give me this sweet lady's lily- 
 white hand, and as far as a good estate in land 
 and stock will go, I'll share it with her and 
 with yourself. 
 
 Cheatwell. {Enters.) Gentlemen, I beg 
 pardon for this intrusion. 
 
 Captain. Oh ! by my soul this is my friendly 
 cousin, that bid the old conjurors phlebotomize 
 me. 
 
 Cheatwell. Sir, I beg yovir pardon in par- 
 ticular, and I hope you'll grant me it ; nothing 
 but necessity was the cause of my ungenteel 
 behaviour. This lady I had an esteem for; 
 but since things have turned out as they have, 
 my pretensions are without foundation ; and 
 I, therefore (turning to Trader), raised the 
 report of your ships being lost at sea, in hopes 
 that this gentleman would decline his ad- 
 dresses to your daughter when he found she 
 had no fortune. 
 
 Captain. Oagh ! my dear, we play no such 
 dirty tricks in our country. 
 
 Cheatwell. And now, Captain, I hope you'll 
 grant me your pardon, and look upon me in 
 
 the light of an unfortunate rather than a bad 
 man. 
 
 Captain. Faith, my dear cousin, since love 
 is the cause of your mourning, I forgive you 
 with all my heart. 
 
 Lucy {to the Captain). Sir, your generous 
 behaviour, so frankly shown on so melancholy 
 an accident, has entirely gained my heart, nor 
 do I value your estate when set in comparison 
 with your noble soul. 
 
 [The Irish captain is so delighted with the 
 turn affairs have taken that he volunteers a 
 song.] {Sings.) 
 
 THE BRAVE IRISHMAN'S SONG. 
 
 Wherever I'm going, and all the day long, 
 Abroad and at home, or alone in a throng, 
 I find that my passion's so lively and strong, 
 That your name, when I'm silent, still runs in my song. 
 Ballynamony, ho ro, &c. 
 
 Since the first time I saw you I take no repose, 
 I sleep all the day to forget half my woes, 
 So strong is the flame in my bosom that glows, 
 By St. Patrick, I fear it will burn through my clothes, 
 Ballynamony, ho ro, &c. 
 
 By my soul, I'm afraid I shall die in my grave. 
 Unless you'll comply, and poor Phelim will save ; 
 Then grant the petition your lover doth crave, 
 Who never was free till you made him your slave. 
 Ballynamony, ho ro, &c. 
 
 On that happy day when I make you my bride, 
 With a swinging long sword how I'll strut and I'll 
 
 stride. 
 In a coach and six horses with honey I'll ride, 
 As before you I walk to the church by your side. 
 Ballynamony, ho ro, &c. 
 
 [The Captain and Lucy get married, and aa 
 a consolation Cheatwell marries the maid 
 Betty, after finding that she has saved a nice 
 little fortune.] 
 
 GENERAL BURGOYNE. 
 
 Born about 1728 — Died 1792. 
 
 [John Burgoyne is generally said to have 
 been a natural son of Lord Bingley. He 
 served with the 16th Light Dragoons at Belle 
 Isle, fought in an expedition against Spain 
 with credit, and wrote his first play in 1774. 
 
 In the following year (1775) he went on 
 
 active service to America, and in 1777 he was 
 
 appointed to the command of the force that 
 captured Ticonderoga, but was ultimately ob- 
 liged to capitulate to Genei'al Gates at Sara- 
 toga. On his return to England he was treated 
 rather harshly, but he defended himself with
 
 200 
 
 GENEEAL BUEGOYNE. 
 
 spirit, and demanded a court-martial, which 
 was refused. On this he resigned all his ap- 
 pointments, but when a change of ministry 
 occurred he was made commander-in-chief in 
 Ireland. This post he held for two years, 
 when he resigned it and devoted himself en- 
 tirely to literature. He had already produced 
 in 1780 the comic opera Lord of the Manor, 
 and now he contributed to The Rolliad the 
 " Ode to Dr. Prettyman " and " Westminster 
 Guide." In 1786 he ventured into a new 
 field of literature, and, guided by higher art 
 than hitherto, produced 21ie Heiress, a comedy 
 on which his fame as an author chiefly rests. 
 This play, which might have been written by 
 Congreve in his best mood, was a great suc- 
 cess, and was soon followed by Richard Coeur 
 de Lion, an operatic piece adapted from the 
 French. On the occasion of the trial of 
 Hastings, Burgoyne was appointed one of 
 its managers. He did not live to see the end 
 of this celebrated trial, however, as he died 
 of gout on the 4th of June, 1792, and was 
 buried privately in a cloister of Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 There is no doubt that had the author of 
 The Heiress devoted the better days of his life 
 instead of its odds and ends to literature, he 
 would have attained a high position. As it 
 is he has done enough to deserve a place in 
 the rank and file of the shining battalion of 
 men of talent.] 
 
 THE LADY AND THE CYNIC* 
 
 An Apartment in Sir Cle^nent Flint's House. 
 
 Lady Emily Gayville and Clifford dis- 
 covered at chess. Sir Clement sitting at 
 a distance, pretending to read a parch- 
 ment, hut slyly observing them. 
 
 Lady E. Check ! If you do not take care 
 you are gone the next move. 
 
 Clif. I confess. Lady Emily, you are on the 
 point of complete victory. 
 
 Lady E. Pooh ! I would not give a far- 
 thing for victory without a more spirited de- 
 fence. 
 
 Clif. Then you must engage with those (if 
 those there are) that do not find you irre- 
 sistible. 
 
 Lady E. I could find a thousand such ; but 
 
 » This and the scene th;it follows are from The Heiress. 
 
 I'll engage with none whose triumph I could 
 not submit to with pleasure. 
 
 Sir C. {Apart.) Pretty significant on both 
 sides. I wonder how much farther* it will go. 
 
 Lady E. Uncle, did you speak? 
 
 Sir C. {Reading to himself.) " And the par- 
 ties to this indenture do further covenant and 
 agree, that all and every the said lands, tene- 
 ments, hereditaments — um — um." How use- 
 ful, sometimes, is ambiguity. 
 
 {Loud enough to he heard.) 
 
 Clif. A very natural observation of Sir Cle- 
 ment's upon that long parchment. {Pauses 
 again upon the chess-hoard.) To what a dil- 
 emma have you reduced me, Lady Emily ! If 
 I advance, I perish by my temerity, and it is 
 out of my power to retreat. 
 
 Sir C. {Apart.) Better and better ! To talk 
 in cipher is a cm-ious faculty. 
 
 Clif Sir! 
 
 Sir C. {Still reading.) " In witness whereof, 
 the said parties have hereunto, interchangeably, 
 set their hands and seals, this — um — um — um 
 — day of — um— um — " 
 
 Lady E. Come, I trifle with you too long. 
 There's your coup de grace. Uncle, I have 
 conquered. {Both rise from the table.) 
 
 Sir C. Niece, I do not doubt it ; and in the 
 style of the gi^at proficients, without looking 
 upon the board. Clifford, was not your mother's 
 name Charlton? {Rises.) 
 
 Clif. It was, sir. 
 
 Sir C. In looking over the writings Alscrip 
 has sent me, preparatory to his daughter's 
 settlement, I find mention of a conveyance from 
 a Sir William Charlton, of Devonshire. Was 
 he a relation? 
 
 Clif My grandfather, sir. The plimder of 
 his fortune was one of the first materials for 
 raising that of Mr. Alscrip, who was steward 
 to Sir William's estate, then manager of his 
 difficulties, and, lastly, his sole creditor. 
 
 Sir C. And no better monopoly than that 
 of a needy man's distresses. Alscrip has had 
 twenty such, or I should not have singled out 
 his daughter to be Lord Gayville's wife. 
 
 Clif. It is a compensation for my family 
 losses that, in the event, they will conduce to 
 the interest of the man I most love. 
 
 Sir C. Heyday ! Clififord, take care, don't 
 trench upon the blandish ; your cue, you know, 
 is sincerity. 
 
 Clif. You seem to think, sir, there is no 
 such quality. I doubt whether you believe 
 there is an honest man in the world. 
 
 Sir C. You do me great injustice ; several, 
 several; and upon the old principle, that
 
 GENERAL BURGOYNE. 
 
 201 
 
 '' honesty is the best policy." Self-interest is 
 the great end of life, says human nature. 
 Honesty is a better agent than craft, says the 
 proverb. 
 
 Clif. But, as for ingenuous, or purely dis- 
 interested motives — 
 
 Sir C. Clifford, do you mean to laugh at 
 me? 
 
 Clif. What is your opinion, Lady Emily? 
 
 Ladij E. That there may be such, but it's 
 odds they are troublesome or insipid. Pure 
 ingenuousness, I take it, is a rugged sort of 
 thing, which scarcely will bear the polish of 
 common civility; and for disinterestedness, 
 young people sometimes set out with it; but 
 it is like travelling upon a broken spring, one 
 is glad to get it mended at the next stage. 
 
 Sir C. Emily, I protest, you seem to study 
 after me; proceed, child, and we will read 
 together every character that comes in our 
 way. 
 
 Lady E. Read one's acquaintance, delight- 
 ful ! What romances, novels, satires, and 
 mock heroics present themselves to my im- 
 agination ! Our young men are flimsy essays; 
 old ones, political pamphlets ; coquettes, fugi- 
 tive pieces ; and fashionable beauties, a com- 
 pilation of advertised perfumeiy, essence of 
 pearl, milk of roses, and Olympian dew. 
 Lord, I should now and then, though, tui-n 
 over an acquaintance with a sort of fear and 
 trembling. 
 
 Clif. How so? 
 
 Lady E. Lest one should pop, unawares, 
 upon something one should not, like a naughty 
 speech in an old comedy ; but it is only skip- 
 ping what would make one blush. 
 
 Sir C. Or if you did not skip, when a wo- 
 man reads by herself, and to herself, there are 
 wicked philosophers who doubt whether her 
 blushes are very troublesome. 
 
 AN OLD RASCAL. 
 
 Alscrip's Room of Business. 
 
 Alscrip and Rightly discovered. 
 
 Right. Upon all these matters, Mr. Alscrip, 
 I am authorized by my client, Sir Clement 
 Flint, to agree. There remains nothing but 
 your favouring me with the inspection of the 
 Chai-lton title-deeds, and your daughter's 
 settlements may be engrossed. 
 
 Als. I cannot conceive, my friend Rightly, 
 
 any such inspection to be requisite. Have not 
 I been in constant, quiet pos.session ? 
 
 Right. Sir Clement insists ujjon it. 
 
 Als. A client insist ! And you, an old prac- 
 titioner, suffer such a demur to your infalli- 
 bility ! Ah ! in my practice I had the sure 
 means of disappointing such dabblers and 
 divers into their own cases. 
 
 Right. How, pray? 
 
 Als. I read his writings to him myself. I 
 was the best reader in Chancery Lane for set- 
 ting the understanding at defiance. Drew 
 breath but once in a quarter of an hour, always 
 in the wrong place, and made a single sentence 
 of six skins of parchment. Shall I give you a 
 specimen ? 
 
 Right. I have no doubt of your talent. 
 
 Als. Then return to Sir Clement and fullow 
 my example. 
 
 Right. No, Mr. Alscrip; though I acknow- 
 ledge your skill I do not subscribe to your 
 doctrine. The English law is the finest system 
 of ethics, as well as government, that ever the 
 world produced, and it cannot be too generally 
 understood. 
 
 Als. Law understood ! Zounds ! would j-ou 
 destroy the profession? 
 
 Right. No, I would raise it. Had every 
 man of sense the knowledge of the theory, to 
 which he is competent, the practice would 
 revert to the purity of its institution ; main- 
 tain the rights, and not promote the knavery 
 of mankind. 
 
 Als. {Aside.) Plaguy odd maxims ! Sure, he 
 means to try me. Brother Rightly, we know 
 the world, and are alone. I have locked the 
 door. {Li a half whisper.) 
 
 Right. A very useless precaution. I have 
 not a principle nor a proceeding that I would 
 not proclaim at Charing Cross. 
 
 Als. (Aside.) No! Then I'll pronoimce you 
 the most silly or the most impudent fellow of 
 the fraternity. 
 
 Right. But where are these writings? You 
 can have no difficulty in laying your hand 
 upon them, for I perceive you keep things in 
 a distinguished regularity. 
 
 Als. Yes; I have distinct repositories for 
 all papers, and especially title-deeds. Some 
 in drawers, some in closets — (aside)— a.nd a 
 few undergi'ound. 
 
 Miss Als. (Rattling at the door.) What makes 
 you lock the door, sir? I must speak to you 
 this instant. 
 
 Als. One moment, child, and I'll be ready 
 for you. (Turning again to Rightly, as to 
 
 dissuade him.)
 
 202 
 
 GENERAL BUEGOYNE. 
 
 Right. If the thoughts of the wedding-day 
 make any part of the young lady's impatience, 
 you take a bad way, Mr. Alscrip, to satisfy it; 
 for I tell you plainly, our business cannot be 
 completed till I see these writings. 
 
 Als. (Aside.) Confound the old hound, how 
 he sticks to his scent ! (Miss Alscrip still at 
 the door.) I am coming, I tell you. (Opens a 
 bureau in a confused hurry, shuffles papers 
 about, and puts one into Rightly's hand.) 
 There, if this whim must be indulged, step 
 into the next room. You, who know the ma- 
 terial parts of a parchment lie in a nut-shell, 
 will look over it in ten minutes. 
 
 (Puts Rightly into another room.) 
 
 Miss Als. ( Without.) I won't wait another 
 instant, whatever you are about. Let me in. 
 
 Als. (Opening the door.) Sex and vehemence! 
 What is the matter now ? 
 
 Enter Miss Alscrip, in the most violent 
 emotion. 
 
 Miss Als. So, sir — yes, sir — you have done 
 finely by me, indeed; you are a pattern for 
 fathers. A precious match you had provided ! 
 
 Als. What tlie devil's the matter? 
 
 Miss Als. (Running o)i.) 1, that with fifty 
 thousand independent pounds left myself in 
 a father's hands — a thing unheard-of — and 
 waited for a husband with unparalleled 
 patience till I was of age. 
 
 Als. What the devil's the matter? 
 
 Miss Als. (Followijig him about.) I, that at 
 fourteen might have married a French mar- 
 quis — my governess told me he was, for all he 
 was her brother. 
 
 ^4^5. Gad-a-mercy! Governess? 
 
 Miss Als. And as for commoners, had not I 
 the choice of the market? And the handsome 
 Irish colonel at Bath, that had carried off six 
 heiresses before, for himself and friends, and 
 would have found his way to Gretna Green 
 blindfolded? 
 
 Als. (Aside.) 'Gad ! I wish you were there 
 now, with all my heart. What the devil is at 
 the bottom of all this? 
 
 Miss Ah. Why, Lord Gayville is at the 
 bottom; and your hussy, that you was so sweet 
 upon this morning, is at the bottom, a trea- 
 cherous minx ! I sent her, only for a little 
 innocent diversion, as my double — 
 
 ^^5. Your what? 
 
 Miss Als. Why, my double ; to vex him. 
 
 Als. Double! This is the most useless attend- 
 ant you have had yet. 'Gad ! I'll start you 
 single-handed in the art of vexation against 
 any ten women in England. 
 
 Miss Als. I caught them, just as I did you 
 with your — 
 
 Als. Is that all? 'Gad! I don't see much 
 in that. 
 
 Miss Als. Not much? What, a woman of 
 my fortune and accomplishments turned off — 
 rejected — renounced ! 
 
 Als. Renounced? Has he broke the con- 
 tract ? Will you jjrove he has broken the con- 
 tract? 
 
 Miss Als. Ay, now, my dear papa, you take 
 a tone that becomes you; now the blood of 
 the Alscrip rises; rises as it ought. You mean 
 to fight him directly, don't you. 
 
 Als. Oh, yes ! I'm his man. I'U show you 
 a lawyer's challenge : sticks and staves, guns, 
 swords, daggers, poniards, knives, scissors, and 
 bodkins. I'll put more weapons into a bit of 
 paper six inches square than would stock the 
 armoury of the Tower. 
 
 Miss A Is. Pistols ! don't talk to me of any- 
 thing but pistols. My dear papa, v/ho shall 
 be your second? 
 
 Als. I'll have two ; John Doe and Richard 
 Roe — as pretty fellows as any in England, to 
 see fair play, and as used to the differences of 
 good company. They shall greet him with 
 their Ji ere facias; so don't be cast down, Molly; 
 I'll answer for damages to indemnify our loss 
 of temper and reputation. He shall have a 
 fl-fa before to-morrow night. 
 
 3fiss Als. Fiery faces and damages ! What 
 does your Westminster Hall gibberish mean? 
 Are a woman's feelings to be satisfied with a 
 fie-fa? You old insensible ! you have no sense 
 of family honour — no tender affections. 
 
 Als. 'Gad ! you have enough for us both, 
 when you want your father to be shot through 
 the head; — but stand out of the way, here's a 
 species of family honour more necessary to be 
 taken care of. If we were to go to law, this 
 would be a precious set-off against us. (Takes 
 up the deed, as if to lock it up.) This ! — why, 
 what the devil ! — I hope I don't see clear. 
 Curse and confusion ! I have given the wrong 
 one. Hei-e's fine work ! here's a blunder ! 
 here's the effect of a woman's impetuosity ! 
 
 Miss Als. Loi'd ! what a f\iss you are in ! 
 what is in the old trumpery scroll ! 
 
 Als. Plague and parchment! old Rightly 
 will find what's in it, if I don't interrupt him. 
 Mr. Rightly, Mr. Rightly, Mr. Rightly ! 
 
 (Going to t/ie door Rightly went out at.) 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, Mr. Rightly is gone. 
 Als. Gone ! whither?
 
 GENERAL BURGOYNE. 
 
 203 
 
 Ser. Home, I believe, sir. He came out at 
 the door into the liall, and he bade me tell 
 your honour you might depend upon his read- 
 ing over the deed with jiai'ticular care. 
 
 Als. Fire and fury ! my hat and cane. [^Exit 
 iSe?'.] Here, my hat and cane. 
 
 Miss Als. Sir, I expect, before you come 
 home — 
 
 Als. Death and devils ! expect to be ruined. 
 This comes of listening to you. The sex hold 
 the power of mischief by prescrijitiou. Zounds ! 
 Mischief — mischief is the common law of 
 woman-kind. \_Exeunt. 
 
 [And mischief was done, too, from Alscrip's 
 point of view, for in his confusion he had 
 handed Mr. Rightly the wrong paper, which 
 jiroved what his employer Sir Clement Flint 
 had suspected, that part of the fortune which 
 belonged to Clitford by right was held by 
 Alscrip wrongfully. Of course the fortune 
 was restored, and Lady Emily and Clifford 
 married.] 
 
 RURAL SIMPLICITY. 
 
 (FEOM "THE MAID OF THE OAKS.") 
 
 [Dupely invited to the fete-champetre by 
 his friend Sir Harry Groveby, who is about to 
 be married. Lady Bab Lardoon, a woman of 
 fashion, determines to fool Dupely, who has 
 just returned from abroad. For this purpose 
 in her fete dress as a shepherdess she wanders 
 in the garden.] 
 
 A Flower-garden. 
 
 Enter Lady Bab Lardoon, dressed as a shep- 
 herdess, Oldworth following. 
 
 Old. Hist, hist ! Lady Bab ! Here comes 
 your prize ; for the sake of mirth, and the 
 revenge of your sex, don't miss the oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Ladij B. Not for the world ; you see, I am 
 dressed for the purpose. Step behind that 
 stump of shrubs, and you shall see what an 
 excellent actress I should have made. Away, 
 away ! [Exit Oldworth, Lady B. retires. 
 
 Enter Dupely. 
 
 Dupe. Where the devil is Sir Hany ? This 
 is certainly the place where I was appointed 
 to find him ; but I suppose I shall spring him 
 and his bride from under a rose-bush by-and- 
 by, like two pheasants in pairing time. {Ob- 
 
 serving Lady B.) Ha ! Ls that a dress for the 
 day, or is she one of the natives of this ex- 
 traordinary region ] Oh, I see now, it is all 
 pure Arcadian ; her eyes have been used to 
 nothing but daisy-hunting ; — but what a neck 
 she has ! How beautifully nature works when 
 she is not spoiled by a d d town stay- 
 maker ! What a pity she is so awkward ! I 
 hope she is not foolish. 
 
 {During this observation he keeps his eyes 
 fixed upon her ; Lady B. looks first at 
 him, then at herself; unpins her nosegay, 
 and, with an air of naivete, presents it 
 to him.) 
 
 Lady B. You seem to wish for my nosegay, 
 sir ; it is much at your service. 
 
 {Offers the flowers, and curtseys awhcardly.) 
 
 Dupe. Oh ! the charming innocent ! A 
 thousand thanks, my fair one ; I accept it as 
 a faint image of your own sweets. To whom 
 am I so much obliged? 
 
 Lady B. To the garden-man, to be sui'e ; he 
 has made flowers to grow all over the garden, 
 and they smell so sweet ! — pray smell 'em ; 
 they are charming sweet, I assure you, and 
 have such fine colours ! La ! you are a fine 
 nosegay yourself, I think. 
 
 {Simpers, and looks at hi7n.) 
 
 Dupe. Exquisite simplicity ! {Aside.) Ah ! 
 I knew at firet glance you were a compound 
 of innocence and sensibility. 
 
 Lady B. Lack-a-daisy heart ! How could 
 you hit upon my temjjer so exactly? 
 
 Dupe. By a certain instinct I have; for I 
 have seen few or none of the sort before. 
 But, my dear girl, what is youi' name and 
 situation ? 
 
 Lady B. Situation ! 
 
 Dupe. Ay — what are you? 
 
 Lady B. I am a bridemaid. 
 
 Dupe. But when you are not a bridemaid, 
 what is your way of life ? How do you pass 
 your time ? 
 
 Lady B. I rise with the lark, keep my hands 
 always employed, dance upon a holiday, and 
 eat brown bread with content. 
 
 Dupe. Oh, the delicious description ! — beech- 
 en shades, bleating flocks, and pipes and 
 pastorals. What an acquisition to my fame, 
 as well as pleasure, to carry off this quint- 
 essence of champcire! I'll do it. {Aside^ 
 
 Lady B. {Examines him.) And, pray, what 
 may you be ? for I never saw anything so out 
 of the way in all my life — He, he, he ! 
 
 {Simpering.) 
 
 Dupe. I, my dear? I am a gentleman. 
 
 Lady B. What a fine gentleman ! Bless
 
 204 
 
 GENERAL BURGOYNE. 
 
 me .' what a thing it is ! Ha, ha, ha ! I never 
 saw anything so comical in all my life. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! And this is a fine gentleman, of which 
 I have heard so much. 
 
 Dupe. What is tlie matter, my dear? Is 
 there anything ridiculous about me, that makes 
 you laugh / What have you heard of fine 
 gentlemen, my sweet innocence? 
 
 Lady B. That they are as gaudy as pea- 
 cocks, as mischievous as jays, as chattering as 
 magpies, as wild as hawks. 
 
 Dupe. And as loving as sparrows. 
 
 Lady B. I know you are very loving — of 
 yourselves. Ha, ha, ha ! You are a sort of 
 birds that flock but never pair. 
 
 Dupe. Why, you are satirical, my fairest ; 
 and have you heard anything else of fine 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Lady B. Yes, a great deal more ; that they 
 take wives for fortunes, and mistresses for 
 show; squander their money among tailors, 
 barbers, cooks, and fiddlers; pawn their honour 
 to sharpers and theu' estates to Jews ; and, at 
 last, run to foreign countries to repair a pale 
 face, a flimsy carcass, and an empty pocket : — 
 that's a fine gentleman for you ! 
 
 Dupe. Pray, my dear, what is really your 
 name ? {Surprised. ) 
 
 Lady B. My name is Philly. 
 
 {Resuming her simplicity.) 
 
 Dupe. Philly! 
 
 Lady B. Philly Nettletop, of the vale. 
 
 Dupe. And pray, my sweet Philly, where 
 did you learn this character of a fine gentle- 
 man? 
 
 Lady B. Oh ! I learnt it with my catechism. 
 Mr. Oldworth has taught it to all the young 
 maidens hereabout. 
 
 Dupe. So it is from Mr. Oldworth, is it, my 
 charming innocence, that you have learnt to 
 be so afraid of fine gentlemen? 
 
 {Significantly.) 
 
 Lady B. No, not at all afraid ; I believe 
 you are perfectly harmless if one treats you 
 right, as I do our young mastifl" at home. 
 
 Dupe. And how is that, pray? 
 
 Lady B. Why, while one keeps at a dis- 
 tance he frisks, and he flies, and he barks, 
 and tears, and grumbles, and makes a sad rout 
 about it. Lord ! you'd think he would devour 
 one at a mouthful ; but if one does but walk 
 boldly up and look him in the face, and ask 
 him what he wants, he drops his eai's and runs 
 away directly. 
 
 Drcpe. Well said, rural simplicity, again. 
 Well, but, my dear heavenly creature, don't 
 commit such a sin as to waste your youth and 
 
 your charms upon a set of rustics here. Fly 
 with me to the true region of pleasure. My 
 chaise and four shall be ready at the back gate 
 of the park, and we will take the opportunity, 
 when all the servants are drunk, as they cer- 
 tainly will be, and the company is gone tired 
 to bed. 
 
 Lady B. {Fondly.) And would you really 
 love me dearly now, Saturdays, and Sundays, 
 and all? 
 
 Dupe. Oh ! this will do, I see. {Aside.) 
 
 Lady B. You'll forget all this prittle-prattle 
 gibberish to me now, as soon as you see the 
 fine strange ladies, by-and-by; there's liady 
 Bab Lardoon, I think they caU her, from 
 London. 
 
 Dupe. Lady Bab Lardoon, indeed ! I should 
 as soon be in love with the figure of the great 
 mogul at the back of a pack of cards ; if she 
 has anything to do with hearts, it must be 
 when they are trumps, and she pulls them 
 out of her pocket. ^ No, sweet Philly; thank 
 heaven, that gave me insight into the sex, and 
 reserved me for a woman in hei- native charms; 
 here alone she is to be found, and paradise is 
 on her lips. {Struggling to kiss her.) 
 
 Enter Hurry, a servant. 
 
 Hiwry. Oh ! Lady Bab, I come to call your 
 ladyshiiD — Lord ! I thought they never kissed 
 at a wedding till after the ceremony. 
 
 {Going. Dupery stares. Lady B. laughs.) 
 
 Dupe. Stay, Huny. Who were you looking 
 for? 
 
 Hurry. Why, I came with a message for 
 Lady Bab Larder, and would have carried her 
 answer, but you stopped her mouth. 
 
 Dupe. Who — what — who? This is Philly 
 Nettletop. 
 
 Hurry. Philly Fiddlestick ! 'Tis Lady Bab 
 Larder, I tell you. Do you think I don't 
 know her because she has got a new dress. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dupe. Lady Bab Lardoon ! 
 
 Lady B. No, no ; Philly Nettletop. 
 
 Dupe. Here's a d d scrape! {Aside^ 
 
 Lady B. In every capacity, sir, a rural in- 
 nocent, Mr. Oldworth 's mistress, or the great 
 mogul, equally grateful for your favourable 
 opinion. ( With a low curtsey.) 
 
 Enter Oldworth, master of the house, an^ 
 Sir Harry Groveby, laughing. 
 
 Mr. Oldworth, give me leave to present to you 
 
 1 She was said to be particularly fond of the gaming 
 talile.
 
 CHARLOTTE BROOKE. 
 
 205 
 
 a gentleman remarkable for second sight. He 
 knows all women by instinct — 
 
 Sir H. From a princess to a tigiirante, from 
 a vintage to a may -pole ; I am rejoiced I came 
 in time for the catastrophe. 
 
 Lady B. Mr. Oldworth, there is your trav- 
 elled man for you, and I think I have given a 
 pretty good account of him. 
 
 {Pointing at Dupely, who is disconcerted.) 
 
 Old. Come, come, my good folks, you have 
 both acquitted youreelves admirably. Mr. 
 Dupely must forgive the innocent deceit ; and 
 
 you, Lady Bab, like a generous conqueror, 
 should bear the triumph moderately. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Encompa.s.s'd in an angel's frame, 
 
 An angel's virtues lay; 
 Too .soon did heav'n a.ssert the claim, 
 
 And call its own away. 
 
 My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms, 
 
 Must never more return ! 
 What now shall fill the.se widow'd armst 
 
 Ah me ! my Anna's urn. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BROOKE 
 
 Born 1740 — Died 1793. 
 
 [Charlotte Brooke was the daughter of 
 Henry Brooke author of Oustavus Vasa, and 
 was born in 1740. At an early age she ex- 
 hibited a passion for books, which for a time 
 was interrupted by a desire to go upon the 
 stage. Luckily her father prevailed upon 
 her to forego this intention, and returning 
 once more to her books she studied more pas- 
 sionately than ever. Frequently, while the 
 rest of the family were in bed, she would 
 steal down stairs to the study, there to lose 
 herself in her beloved antiquities. In this 
 way she was led to the study of the Irish 
 language, and in less than two years from 
 commencing she found herself mistress of 
 it. From reading Irish poetry and admir- 
 ing its beauties, she proceeded to translate it 
 into English, one of her earliest efforts being 
 a song and monody by Cai'olan, which ap- 
 peared in Walker's Historical Memoirs of the 
 Irish Bards. These were widely admired, 
 and encouraged by this, and by the advice 
 of friends, she set herself to collect and trans- 
 late such works of Irish ])oets as she could 
 procure and were found worthy of apjiearing in 
 an English dress. The result was her Reliques 
 of Irish Poetrt/, which appeared in 1788. 
 This work may well take rank with Percy's 
 Reliques, not only for its intrinsic worth, but 
 because of the influence it has had on the 
 study of the almost forgotten poets who had 
 written in the Irish language. 
 
 Miss Brooke's other works wei'e : Dialogue 
 between a Lady and her Pupils; The School 
 for Christians, 1791 ; Natural History, <&c., 
 1796; Emma or the Foundling of the Wood, 
 a novel, 1803 ; and Belesarius, a tragedy.] 
 
 TO A WAllRIOR. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE OLD IRISH. 
 
 Resistless as the spirit of the night, 
 
 In storms and terrors drest, 
 Withering the force of every hostile breast, 
 
 Rush on the ranks of fight! — 
 Youth of fierce deeds and noble soul ! 
 
 Rend, scatter wide the foe ! 
 Swift forward rush, and lay the waving pride 
 
 Of yon high ensigns low I 
 Thine be the battle, thine the sway ! 
 
 On — on to Cairbre hew thy conquering way, 
 And let thy deathful arm dash safety from his side I 
 
 As the proud wave, on whose broad back 
 
 The storm its burden heaves, 
 
 Drives on the scattered wreck 
 
 Its ruin leaves; 
 So let thy sweeping progress roll, 
 Fierce, resistless, rapid, .strong; 
 Pour, like the billow of the flood, o'erwhelming 
 might along. 
 
 OH, GIVE ME SIGHT! 
 
 Like Bartimeus, liOrd, 1 came. 
 To meet thy healing word; 
 
 To call upon thy gracious name. 
 And cry to be restored. 
 
 Across thy path my limbs I laid. 
 With trembling hope elate, 
 
 And there in conscious rags array'd 
 A poor blind beggar sate.
 
 206 
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 I did not ask the alms of gold. 
 
 For sight alone I cried ; 
 Sight ! sight a Saviour to behold ! 
 
 And feel his power applied. 
 
 The more the crowd rebuked my prayer 
 
 And gave it to the wind, 
 The more I cried thy grace to share, 
 
 Thy mercy to the blind. 
 
 At length I heard a pitying voice, 
 Pilgrim, he calls, "Arise!" 
 
 Poor pilgrim, let thy heart rejoice, 
 He hears thee and replies. 
 
 Up at the word with joy I bound 
 
 (My cure in hope begun), 
 And cast my garment on the ground, 
 
 That faster I may run. 
 
 But the "What wilt thou?" yet delays. 
 
 Nor yet I view the li^ht. 
 Till faith once more with fervour prays, 
 
 give me, give me sight ! 
 
 Transport ! 'tis done ! I view that face ! 
 
 That face of love divine, 
 I gaze the witness of his grace, 
 
 And see a Saviour mine. 
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 Born 1732 — Died 1791. 
 
 [Henry Flood, one of that illustrious group 
 of Irish orators who flourished in the latter 
 half of the eighteenth century, was the son of 
 the Right Hon. "Warden Flood, Chief-justice 
 of the Coui-t of King's Bench in Ireland, and 
 was born in 1732, in the family mansion near 
 Kilkenny. He was early sent to school, on 
 leaving which he entered Trinity College, 
 Dublin, where he stayed but a short time, and 
 about 1749 was sent to Oxford. Here, how- 
 ever, he made little progress in his education. 
 His handsome figure and agreeable manners, 
 coupled with the expectation of succeeding to 
 a large fortune, gave him easy access to a 
 certain jDortion of fashionable society, and left 
 him too much inclined to neglect the mental 
 culture which could alone fit him to occu2:)y an 
 honourable position in the world. His tutor 
 Dr. Markham, afterwards Archbishop of York, 
 endeavoured to stimulate his pupil's ambition 
 in the right direction by introducing him 
 among men of education, where he might be- 
 come sensible of his inferiority. The plan was 
 successful : the young man's amour-propre was 
 touched, and he now devoted the greater part 
 of his time to real work with so much assiduity 
 and success, that ere long he could take a share 
 in those literary discussions which before he 
 had dreaded. To the study of the exact 
 sciences he added that of the Greek and Latin 
 authors, more especially of the orators. At 
 the end of two years he graduated, and im- 
 mediately after entered his name in theTemj)le, 
 where he remained for several years engaged 
 in the study of the law. 
 
 Flood's parliamentary career began in 1760, 
 when he returned to Ireland and took his seat 
 
 in the Irish House of Commons as member for 
 Kilkenny, his native county — a seat which he 
 exchanged for that of Callan, in the same 
 county, in the new parliament of 1761. The 
 time of his enti'ance on political life was a 
 critical one in the history of his country. 
 Bribery and corruption were rife, and the house 
 was so much under the control of the British 
 government that its independence was only in 
 name. Flood took a bold stand against this 
 state of afl'airs, and he soon formed a party 
 who advocated the freedom of the Irish Parlia- 
 ment, and sought to overthrow the prevailing 
 system of bribery. He became eminently dis- 
 tinguished for his eloquence, and the zeal and 
 perseverance with which he advocated every 
 measure that he regarded as beneficial to his 
 country. He endeavoured to obtain the repeal 
 of a law dating from the time of Henry VII., 
 called Poynings' law, by which the British 
 government had the power of altering or re- 
 jecting all the bills of the Irish legislature. 
 He succeeded in carrying the octennial bill, 
 by which the duration of any parliament was 
 limited to eight years, a reform which was 
 considered of great jDolitical advantage to Ire- 
 land ; and he strenuously advocated the estab- 
 lishment of a native militia in Ireland as a 
 balance against the presence of a standing army. 
 After leading the opposition for some years, 
 Flood changed his tactics, alternately support- 
 ing or opjjosing the measures brought for^'ard 
 by successive administrations up to 1780, 
 as he considered them beneficial or otherwise; 
 and this line of conduct no doubt frequently 
 drew upon nim the charge of political incon- 
 sistency. In 1774 he had accepted the lucra-
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 207 
 
 tive post of one of the Vice-treasurers of Ire- 
 land, but it was only on condition of maintain- 
 ing his principles, and when he found this no 
 longer possible he resigned in 1781, and ap- 
 peared once more as the opponent of govern- 
 ment. But the old fervour of his eloquence, 
 so long dormant, seemed slow to rouse, and 
 he is said never to have spoken again with the 
 power he had shown in earlier days. About 
 this time Yelverton brought in a bill for the 
 repeal of Poynings' law, and Flood, while 
 supporting the measure, complained that "after 
 a service of twenty years in the study of this 
 particular question," it had now been taken 
 out of his hands. "The honourable gentleman 
 is erecting a temple of Liberty," he said ; "I hope 
 that at least I shall be allowed a niche in the 
 fane." Yelverton replied by reminding him 
 that in law "if a man should separate from his 
 wife, desert, and abandon her for seven years, 
 another might then take her and give her his 
 protection." 
 
 The opposition in the Irish House of Com- 
 mons was now possessed of two leaders, and 
 the natural result ensued. Flood and Grat- 
 tan quarrelled : the more violent of the party 
 sided with Flood, the more moderate with 
 Grattau, and several passages of arms took 
 place in the house. One of these occurred 
 in 1783, and was carried to a degree of ani- 
 mosity seldom equalled. Grattan, fixing his 
 eyes upon Flood, exclaimed, " You have great 
 talents, but you have infamously sold them ! 
 for years you have kept silence that you might 
 make gain ! I declare before your country, 
 before the whole world, before yourself, that 
 you are a dishonest man !" Flood replied, but 
 such was the strain of his invective that the 
 speaker interfered, and only allowed his justi- 
 fication to be made several days afterwards. 
 
 After this period the party adhering to Grat- 
 tan gradually gained ascendency, and Flood 
 tui-ned his thoughts to England. Through 
 the influence of the Duke of Chandos he be- 
 came member for Winchester, and took his seat 
 in the British House of Commons in December, 
 1783. Owing to the reputation which he 
 had acquired in Ireland, gi-eat things were ex- 
 pected from him. But his first appearance 
 proved a failure, and this ever after crippled 
 his success. Entering the house towards the 
 end of an important debate on Mr. Fox's East 
 India Bill, and when tired by a long journey, 
 he was imprudent enough to attempt to speak 
 on a subject of which at the very outset he 
 confessed himself ignorant. His vigour failed 
 him ; his speech was tedious and awkward in 
 
 I delivery, though correct enough in diction; 
 I his eloquence seemed utterly to have left him, 
 and he could only produce dry worn-out argu- 
 ments, Ijased on general principles, and not on 
 warm living facts. 
 
 Soon after this, and before he had time to 
 recover his reputation, a dissolution of parlia- 
 ment took i^lace, and the Duke of Chandos 
 refusing his support. Flood betook himself to 
 the borough of Seaford. In the new parlia- 
 ment he made sevend weighty and succe.ssful 
 speeches, and was fast acquiring a good position 
 in the house, Avhen in 1790 he made the false 
 move of introducing a reform bill. The time 
 was most inopportune, as revolution and not 
 reform was what was hoped for on one side 
 and feared on the other. As a consequence 
 the two great parties coml lined against him at 
 the next election, and he was left without a 
 seat. Stung to the quick, and suffering at the 
 same time from an attack of gout, he retired 
 to his estate of Farmley near Kilkenny. At this 
 place a fire broke out, and, though still suffer- 
 ing from illness, in the excitement he exposed 
 himself, and w;vs attacked by pleurisy, which 
 carried him off on the 2d of December, 1791. 
 
 In 1 763 Flood had married Lady Frances Ber- 
 esford, a lady who brought him fortune as weU 
 as a wide and influential connection. In 1769, 
 whilst member for Callan, he had an unfor- 
 tunate dispute with his colleague Mr. Agar, 
 and in a duel which ensued the latter was 
 killed. For this Flood Avas tried and acquitted 
 at the spring assizes of 1770 in Kilkenny. By 
 his wiU he bequeathed property to the value 
 of £5000 to the University of Dublin, but this 
 bequest was ultimately set aside by an appeal 
 to the law of mortmain, and his descendants 
 now hold the property. 
 
 As an orator Flood has been as highly 
 praised by his friends as he has been fiercely 
 blamed by his enemies ; but there must have 
 been no small charm in his eloquence when it 
 made his audience forget his rasping voice and 
 irritating habit of lowering it at the end of his 
 sentences. On this point an old biographer 
 says, " The eloquence of Flood was remarkable 
 for the force of its reasoning, for the purity 
 and richness of its style, full of images and 
 of classic allusions. He showed to more ad- 
 vantage in reply than in attack : woe indeed 
 to the adversary who provoked his sarcasm ! " 
 However famous he was in his native parlia- 
 ment, there can be no doubt that he was there 
 soon overshadowed by the towering figure of 
 Grattan, between whom and Flood there were 
 few things in common. Grattau's moving
 
 208 
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 power was an enthusiastic love of country and 
 a poetic nature, while Flood's was to a great 
 extent vanity, although it must be admitted 
 that he was a warm and uudeviating lover of 
 truth and honesty. As an author Flood at 
 intervals dallied with the muses. While at 
 Oxford he wrote a poem on the death of 
 Frederick, Prince of Wales, one stanza of 
 which was afterwards echoed by Gray in his 
 Elegy. His Pindaric Ode to Fame is nervous 
 and vigorous, and his poem on the discovery 
 of America contains several good passages. 
 In addition to original work, he also translated 
 two speeches of ^schiues, and the Crown 
 Oration of Demosthenes, after the latter of 
 whom he tried to model his own style. 
 
 Mr. W. E. H. Lecky, in his Leaders of 
 Public Opinion in Ireland, says of Flood : — 
 "There is something inexpressibly melancholy 
 in the life of this man. . . . Though he attained 
 to a position which, before him, had been 
 unknown in Ireland ; though the unanimous 
 verdict of his contemporaries pronounced him 
 to be one of the greatest intellects that ever 
 adorned the Irish Parliament; and though 
 there is not a single act of his life which 
 may not be construed in a sense perfectly in 
 harmony with honour and with patriotism, 
 yet his career presents one long series of dis- 
 appointments and reverses. At an age when 
 most statesmen are in the zenith of their 
 influence he sunk into political impotence. 
 The i>arty he had formed discarded him as its 
 leader. The reputation he so dearly prized 
 was clouded and assailed; the principles he 
 had sown germinated and fructified indeed, 
 but others reaped their fruit ; and he is now 
 scarcely remembered except as the object of a 
 powerful invective in Ireland, and as an ex- 
 ample of a deplorable failure in England. A 
 few pages of oratory, which probably at best 
 only represent the substance of his speeches, 
 a few youthful poems, a few laboured letters, 
 and a biography so meagre and unsatisfactory 
 that it scarcely gives us any insight into his 
 charactei", are all that remain of Henry 
 Flood."] 
 
 FLOOD'S EEPLY TO GRATTAN'S 
 INVECTIVE.' 
 
 I rise, sir, in defence of an injured charac- 
 ter; and when I recall the aspersions of that 
 night, — while I despise them, they shall be 
 
 1 A speech delivered in tlic Irish jiarliament in 1783 in 
 reply to the attack on him by -Mr. Grattan. 
 
 recalled only to be disproved. As I have 
 endeavoured to defend the rights of this 
 country for four-and-twenty years, I hope the 
 house will permit me to defend my reputation. 
 My public life, sir, has been divided into three 
 parts — and it has been despatched by three 
 epithets. The first part, that which preceded 
 Lord Harcourt's administration; the next, 
 which passed between Lord Harcoui't's and 
 Lord Carlisle's; and the third, which is subse- 
 quent. The first has a summary justice done 
 it by being said to be "intemperate," — the 
 second is treated in like manner by being said 
 to be " venal," — and the conduct of the third 
 is said to be that of an " incendiary." . . . 
 
 With respect to that period of my life which 
 is despatched by the word "intemperate," I 
 beg the house would consider the difiicult 
 situation of public men if such is to be their 
 treatment. That period takes in a number of 
 administrations, in which the public were 
 pleased to give me the sentence of their appro- 
 bation. Sir, it includes, for I wish to speak 
 to facts, not to take it up on epithets, the ad- 
 ministrations of the Duke of Bedford, Lord 
 Halifax, the Duke of Northumberland, Lord 
 Hertford, and Lord Townshend. Now, sir, 
 as to the fact of "intemperate," I wish to 
 state to you how that stands, and let the 
 honourable member see how jilain a tale will 
 put him down. Of those five administrations 
 there were three to which I was so far from 
 giving an " intemperate " opposition, that I 
 could not be said in any sense of the word to 
 oppose them at all — I mean the three first. 
 I certainly voted against the secretary (Mr. 
 Hamilton) of the day, but oftener voted with 
 him. In Lord Hertford's administration I 
 had attained a certain view, and a decided 
 oj^inion of what was fit in my mind to be done 
 for Ireland. I had fixed on three gi'eat objects 
 of public utility. I endeavoured to attain 
 them with that spirit and energy with which 
 it is my character and nature to act and to 
 speak, — as I must take the disadvantages of 
 my nature, I will take the advantages of it 
 too, — they were resisted by that administra- 
 tion. Wliat was the consequence? A conflict 
 arose between that administration and me : 
 but that conflict ought not to be called oppo- 
 sition on my part ; no, it ought rather to be 
 called opposition on theirs. I was the pro- 
 pounder— they resisted my propositions. This 
 may be called a conflict with, not an opposi- 
 tion to that administration. What were those 
 three great objects? One was to prove that 
 the constitution of parliament in this kingdom
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 209 
 
 did still exist; that it had not been taken 
 away by the law of poynings, but that it was 
 by an infamous perversion of that statute by 
 which the constitution had suffered. The 
 second was the establishment of a constitu- 
 tional milit^iry force in superadd ition to that 
 of a standing aruiy,- — the only idea that ever 
 occurred in England, or in any free country 
 in Eui'ope, was that of a constitutional militia. 
 The third great object I took up, as necessary 
 for Ireland, was a law for limiting the dura- 
 tion of parliaments in this country. These 
 were three great, salutary, and noble projects, 
 worthy of an enlarged mind. I pursued them 
 with ardour, I do not deny it, but I did not 
 pursue them with intemperance. I am sure 
 I did not appear to the public to do so, since 
 they gave my exertions many flattering testi- 
 monies of their approbation ; there is another 
 proof, however, that I was not "intemperate" 
 — I was successful. Intemperance and mis- 
 carriage are apt to go together, but temperance 
 and success are associated by nature. This is 
 my plain history with regard to that period. 
 The clumsiness or virulence of invective may 
 require to be sheathed in a brilliancy of 
 figures, but plain truth and plain sense are 
 best delivered in simple language. 
 
 I now come to that period in which Lord 
 Harcourt governed, and which is stigmatized 
 by the woi'd " venal." If every man who 
 accepts an office is "venal" and an "apostate," 
 I certainly cannot acquit myself of the charge, 
 nor is it necessary. If it be a crime univer- 
 sally, let it be universally ascribed ; but it is 
 not fair that one set of men should be treated 
 by that honourable member as great friends 
 and lovers of their country, notwithstanding 
 they are in office, and another set of men 
 should be treated as enemies and apostates. 
 What is the truth? Everything of this sort 
 depends on the principles on which office is 
 taken, and on which it is retained. With 
 regard to myself let no man imagine I am 
 preaching up a doctrine for my own con- 
 venience ; there is no man in this house less 
 concerned in the propagation of it. ... I beg 
 leave to state briefly the manner in which I 
 accepted the vice-treasurership : — 
 
 It was offered me in the most honourable 
 manner, with an assurance not only of being a 
 placeman for my own profit, but a minister 
 for the benefit of my country. My answer 
 was that I thought in a constitution such as 
 the British an intercourse between the prince 
 and the subject ought to be honourable. The 
 circumstance of being a minister ought to 
 Vol. I. 
 
 redound to a man's credit, though I lament to 
 say it often happens otherwise ; men in office 
 frequently forget those principles which they 
 maintained before. I mentioned the public 
 principles which I held, and added, if con- 
 sistently with them, from an atom of which I 
 could not depart, I could be of service to his 
 majesty's government, I was ready to render 
 it. I now speak in the presence of men who 
 know what I say. After the appointment 
 had come over to this kingdom, I sent in 
 writing to the chief governor that I could not 
 accept it unless on my own stipulations. Thus, 
 sir, I took office. . . . 
 
 In Lord Harcourt's administration what 
 did I do ! I had the board of commissioners 
 reduced to one, by which a saving of twenty 
 thousand pounds a year was effected. I went 
 further, I insisted on having every altered 
 money bill thrown out, and privy-council bills 
 not defended by the crown. Thus, instead of 
 giving sanction to the measures I had opposed, 
 my conduct was in fact to register my princi- 
 ples in the records of the court — to make the 
 privy-council witness the privileges of a par- 
 liament, and give final energy to the tenets 
 with which I commenced my public life. The 
 right honourable member who has censured 
 me, in order to depreciate that economy said, 
 " that we had swept with the feather of econ- 
 omy the pens and paper off our table:" a 
 pointed and brilliant expression is far from a 
 just argument. This country had no reason 
 to be ashamed of that species of economy, 
 when the great nation of Britain had been 
 obliged to descend to a system as minute ; it 
 was not my fault if infinitely more was not 
 done. If administrations were wrong on the 
 abse7itee-tax, they were wi-ong with the pre- 
 judices of half a century — they were wrong 
 with every great writer that has treated of 
 Irish afi'airs. . . . To show that I was not 
 under any imdue influence of office, when the 
 disposition of the house was made to alter on 
 the absentee-tax, and when the administration 
 yielded to the violence of parliament, I appeal 
 to the consciousness and public testimony of 
 many present whether I did veer and turn 
 with the secretary, or whether I did not make 
 a manly stand in its favour. After having 
 pledged myself to the public I would rather 
 break with a million of administrations than 
 retract; I not only adhered to that principle, 
 but, by a singular instance of exertion, found 
 it a second time under the consideration of 
 this house. . . . 
 
 The third, commencing with Lord Carlisle's 
 
 14
 
 210 
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 
 administration, in which my conduct has been 
 slandered as " incendiary." There was not a 
 single instance in which the honourable gen- 
 tleman (Mr. Grattan) did not co-operate. If 
 I am an incendiary, I will gladly accept of the 
 society of that right honourable member, 
 under the same appellation. If I was an in- 
 cendiary it was for moving what the parlia- 
 ments of both kingdoms have since given their 
 sanction to. If that is to be an incendiary, 
 God grant that I may continue so. Now, sir, 
 I do not know that my dismission from office 
 was thought any disgrace to me ; I do not 
 think this house or the nation thought me 
 dishonoured. The first day I declared those 
 sentiments for which I was dismissed I thought 
 it was my honour. Many very honourable 
 and worthy gentlemen, one of whom is since 
 dead, except in the grateful memory of his 
 country — one who thought me so little the 
 character of an " incendiary," that he crossed 
 the house, together with others, to congratulate 
 me on the honour of my conduct, and to em- 
 brace me in open parliament. At that moment 
 I surely stood free of the imputation of an 
 "incendiary!" But this beloved character 
 (Mr. Burgh), over whose life nor over whose 
 grave envy never hovered — He was a man 
 wishing ardently to serve his country, but not 
 to monopolize the service — wishing to partake 
 and to communicate the glory of what passed ! 
 — He gave me in his motion for "free-trade," a 
 full participation of the honour. On a subse- 
 quent occasion he said, — I remember the words 
 well, they are traced with a pencil of giatitude 
 oia my heart, — " That I was a man whom the 
 most lucrative office of the land had never 
 warped in point of integrity." The words were 
 marked, and I am sure I repeat them fairly ; 
 they are words I should be proud to have 
 inscribed on my tomb. Consider the man 
 from whom they came ; consider the situation 
 of the persons concerned, and it adds and mul- 
 tiplies the honour. My noble friend — I beg 
 pardon, he did not live to be ennobled by 
 patent, but he was ennobled by nature — was 
 thus situated : he had found himself obliged 
 to surrender his oifice and enter into active 
 opposition to that government from whom he 
 had obtained it ; at the same time I remained 
 in office, though under the circumstance of 
 having sent in my resignation. That he did 
 not know, but, careless to everything save 
 honour and justice, he gave way to those 
 sentinientH of his heart, and he approved. 
 
 I have received this day from the united 
 delegates of the province of Connaught an 
 
 approbation, " with one voice," as they em- 
 phatically express it, of that conduct that has 
 been slandered by the epithet of " incendiary." 
 An assemblage not one of whom I have ever 
 seen, not one of whom I have even a chance 
 of doing a service for, and, therefore, could 
 have nothing in contemplation but the doing 
 an act of justice. Sir, I had a similar expres- 
 sion of approbation from another province — 
 Ulster. Therefore, if I am an incendiary, all 
 Connaught are incendiaries — all Ulster are 
 incendiaries ! With two pro%ances at my 
 back, and the parliament of England in my 
 favour (by the act of remuneration), I think 
 I need not fear this solitary accusation. . . . 
 
 It has been said by the right honourable 
 member (Mr. Grattan) that " I am an outcast 
 of government and of my prince;" it was 
 certainly, sir, an extraordinary transaction, 
 but it likewise happened to Mr. Pultney and 
 the Duke of Devonshire ; therefore it is not 
 a decisive proof of a reprobated or factious 
 character, and it is the first time it has been 
 mentioned to disadvantage. . . . Sir, you 
 have heard the accusation of the right hon- 
 ourable member. I appeal to you if I am 
 that supposititious character he has drawn, if 
 I am that character in any degi'ee. I do not 
 deprecate your justice, but I demand it. I 
 exhort you for the honour of this house, I 
 exhort you for the honour of your country, to 
 rid yourselves of a member who would be un- 
 worthy to sit among you. 
 
 A DEFENCE OF THE VOLUNTEERS.^ 
 
 Sir, I have not mentioned the biU as being 
 the measure of any set of men or body of 
 men whomsoever. I am as free to enter into 
 the discussion of the bill as any gentleman in 
 this house, and with as little prepossession of 
 what I shall propose. I prefer it to the house 
 as the bill of my right honourable friend who 
 seconded me, — will you receive it from ils? 
 
 (After a short pause Mr. Flood continued:) 
 In the la.st j)arliament it was ordered " That 
 leave be given for the more equal representa- 
 tion of the people in parliament;" this was in 
 the Duke of Portland's administration, an ad- 
 ministration the right honourable gentleman 
 (Mr. Yelverton) professes to admire, and 
 which he will not suspect of overturning the 
 constitution. 
 
 1 A speech delivered in the Irish parliament in 1783.
 
 HENEY FLOOD. 
 
 211 
 
 I own, from the turn which has been given 
 to this question, I enter on it with the deepest 
 anxiety, armed with the authority of a prece- 
 dent I did not think any one would be so 
 desperate as to give such violent opposition to 
 tlie simple introduction of a bill. I now rise 
 for the first time to speak to the subject, 
 and I call on every man, auditor or spectatoi-, 
 in the house or in the galleries, to remember 
 this truth, — tliat if the volunteers are intro- 
 duced in this debate, it is not I who do so. 
 The right honourable gentleman says, " If the 
 volunteere have approved it he will oppose it ; " 
 but I say I bring it in as a member of this 
 house supported by the powerful aid of my 
 right honourable friend (Mr. Brownlow) who 
 sits behind me. We bring it in as mem- 
 bers of parliament, never mentioning the 
 volunteers. I ask you, will you receive it 
 from us — from us, your members, neither in- 
 tending by anything within doors or without 
 to intimidate or overawe you? I ask, will 
 you— will you receive it as our bill, or will you 
 conjure uj) a military phantom of interposition 
 to affright yourselves? 
 
 I have not introduced the volunteers, but 
 if they are aspersed I will defend their char- 
 acter against all the world. By whom were 
 the commerce and the constitution of this 
 country recovered ?— By the volunteers ! 
 
 Why did not the right honourable gentle- 
 man make a declaration against them when 
 they lined our streets— when parliament passed 
 through the ranks of those virtuous armed 
 men to demand the rights of an insulted na- 
 tion ? Are they different men at this day, or 
 is the right honourable gentleman different? 
 He was then one of their body, he is now their 
 accuser ! He who saw the streets lined, who 
 rejoiced, who partook in their glory, is now 
 their accuser ! Are they less wise, less brave, 
 less ardent in their country's cause, or has their 
 admirable conduct made him their enemy? 
 May they not say. We have not changed, but 
 you have changed? The right honourable 
 gentleman cannot bear to hear of volunteers ; 
 but I will ask him, and I will have a starling 
 taught to lialloo in his ear — Who gave you the 
 free-trade? who got you the free constitution? 
 who made you a nation ? The volunteers ! 
 
 If they were the men you now describe 
 them, why did you accept of their service? 
 why did you not then accuse them ? If they 
 were so dangerous, why did you pass through 
 their ranks with your speaker at your head 
 to demand a constitution ? why did you not then 
 fear the ills you now apprehend? 
 
 ON A COMMERCIAL TREATY WITH 
 FRANCE.' 
 
 One thing at least I think is clear, that 
 France is one of the last countries in Europe 
 with which you ought to have engaged ; yet 
 by this treaty you will make her the first, 
 though she has taken care not to make you 
 so. What is the consequence ? She can now do 
 against you what you cannot retaliate against 
 
 her. She can use her influence with Spain 
 
 Is she not doing it?— With America— Is slie 
 not doing it?— and in every other country 
 with which she communicates, to prevent 
 them from entering into engagements with 
 you. How easily can she prevail on them to 
 insist upon preliminaries to which you cannot 
 accede, and yet to which, if you do not accede, 
 they will not negotiate. What follows? A 
 decline of communication between you and 
 those powers. And what follows from that ? 
 That what those powers must import from 
 you they will choose to import indirectly 
 through France rather than directly from you. 
 Thus for so much she would become the 
 medium and carrier of your trade, a circum- 
 stance in my mind devoutly to be deprecated. 
 What is at present your confidence as to 
 America? Is it not that she must return to 
 you for the sake of that long credit which 
 France cannot afford to her. But what will 
 be the operation of this treaty ? It will give 
 English credit to France in the first instance, 
 and in the second France can give it to 
 America. Thus it will deprive you of your 
 ' only advantage as to America, and transfer it 
 : to your rival, who has every other advantage. 
 Thus it will cement the connection between 
 France and America, and perpetuate the dis- 
 connection between those states and Great 
 : Britain, whilst in Europe it will rivet the 
 confederacy between France and Spain, and 
 i unrivet that between Great Britain and Portu- 
 i gal, if it does not even add it as a link to the 
 chain of the house of Bourbon. As to Ireland, 
 what is its policy? It shows more favour to 
 France than was shown the other day to Ire- 
 land. And what does it do next ? It sends 
 France into Ireland to colonize in her towns, 
 to line her western coast and the Atlantic, 
 to become the medium between certain classes 
 of her people and America, to encom-age 
 emigration in peace and separation in war. 
 
 1 From a speech delivered in the British parliament 
 (1787), in reply to Mr. Pitt, whose commercial system 
 Flood combated.
 
 212 
 
 HENEY FLOOD. 
 
 Now turn your eyes to the East. What did 
 France do in 1748? She made the treaty of 
 Aix-la-Chapelle, and the day after she fortified 
 in America. The day after this treaty she will 
 fortify in Asia. What will follow 1 If she can- 
 not rival your cotton manufacture in Europe, 
 she will undo it in Asia. She will admit 
 Asiatic cottons free from duty. She can do it 
 without even an infraction of this treaty, for 
 even that has not been guarded against by 
 your negotiator. But she cannot do it with- 
 out the ruin of your European manufactures. 
 Would not this be an acceptable aneasure in 
 Asia, I ask? If she were to contend with you 
 for Bengal (which one day she will), could she 
 do it upon a better foundation? With her 
 intrigues among the Asiatic powers ; with the 
 connivance or co-operation of the Dutch, re- 
 cruited and fortified as she then v/oidd be, 
 might not your Asiatic Empire tremble ? Is 
 it so secure in its nature as to bid defiance to 
 assault? Or is any man so credulous as to 
 believe that to the glory of having stripped 
 you of America, she would not wish to accu- 
 mulate the renown of depriving you of Asia 
 too? I am no revilerof France. I honour her 
 genius, I honour her activity ; but whilst I 
 honour France I am devoted to Great Britain. 
 Time and circumstances have made us rivals ; 
 let us be as generous rivals as you will ; but 
 let us not be counterfeiting friends. 
 
 No man glories more than I do in the 
 mighty exertions of this great nation in the 
 last war, whilst no man more regrets the prin- 
 ciple and the event of it. But I am not so 
 credulous as to believe that our failure has 
 rendered us more formidable to France. On 
 the other hand, I see no reason to despond. 
 For if Queen Elizabeth, amidst all her dis- 
 tresses, could place this country at the head 
 of Europe, as the common friend to justice 
 and as the common enemy to oppression ; if 
 Oliver Cromwell, with the stain of usurper on 
 his liead, could continue this kingdom in the 
 situation in which it had been placed by Eliza- 
 beth ; and if both of them could do this with- 
 out the aid of America, I do not see why we 
 should despond now. 
 
 With these glories before my eyes, and 
 remembering how nobly tliey have been aug- 
 mented witliin these hundred years, I stand 
 in astonishment at tlie preamble of this treaty, 
 which calls on us, in a tone of triumph, to 
 reverse the system of that century. I cannot 
 help asking myself who these men are wlio 
 thua summon a mighty nation to renounce its 
 
 honours and to abdicate its superiority. But 
 be they who they may, if they ask me to de- 
 pose Great Britain, and to put France into the 
 throne of Europe, I answer. No. If they ask 
 me to repeal the revolution, I answer. No. Or 
 the liberty that came with it, or the glory that 
 followed it, or the maxims of government that 
 have cherished and adorned them both, I 
 continue to answer by a reiterated negative. 
 I confide that you will do the same, and I 
 conclude. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "PINDARIC ODE 
 TO FAME." 
 
 mighty Fame ! 
 Thou for whom Ceesar restless fought, 
 And Regulus his godlike suffering sought : 
 
 What can the sense of mortals tame, 
 
 And nature's deepest murmurings hush, 
 
 That thus on death they rush; 
 That horror thus, and anguish they control, 
 Lull'd by thy airy power which lifts the daring 
 soul. 
 
 The female spirit still, 
 
 And timorous of ill, 
 In softest climes, by thy almighty will, 
 Dauntless can mount the funeral pyre. 
 
 And by a husband's side expire; 
 No unbecoming human fear 
 
 The exalted sacrifice delays. 
 In youth and beauty's flowering year, 
 
 Serene she mingles with the blaze. 
 
 The Indian on the burning iron bound. 
 By busy tortures compass'd round, 
 
 Beholds thee, and is pleased, 
 
 With towering frenzy seized; 
 Tells them they know not how to kill, 
 Demands a torment fit for man to feel, 
 And dictates some new pang, some more enven- 
 om'd wound. 
 
 The hall of Odin rang. — 
 
 Amidst the barbarous clang 
 Of boastful chiefs and dire alarms, 
 The warrior hears thy niagic cry, 
 
 Thundering — " To arms ! to arms !" 
 Struck by the sound, behold him fly, 
 O'er the steep mountain's icy bar, 
 And drive before him Shout and Pain, 
 .\nd Slauuhtcr mad, the dogs of war; 
 
 Then of his bootless trophies vain. 
 
 Back to the hall of Death return, 
 And brood upon the name which Ins wide ruina 
 earn.
 
 CHAELES MACKLIN. 
 
 213 
 
 Hence that unquenched lust, 
 In noblest minds the noblest deeds to dare; 
 
 That, should they sink in dust. 
 Their memory may renounce this fleeting doom : 
 
 And, shaking oft the tomb. 
 May wander through the living air, 
 And traverse earth with their renown. 
 And eternize their date, by an immortal crown. 
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 Born 1690 — Died 1797. 
 
 [Cliarles Macklin, or Maclaughlin, as he 
 ought j)roijerly to be called, was born iu 
 Westmeath in the year 1690. Foote states 
 that his parents were so poor that he never 
 was taught to read ; but iu this the comedian 
 was probably only gratifying the spitefulness 
 of liis nature, for Macklin's biographer Kirk- 
 man distinctly states that his parents were 
 respectable and possessed of considerable pro- 
 perty, most of which, however, they afterwards 
 lost through the confusion of the times. In 
 1704 his father died, and in 1707 his mother 
 "married a second husband, who opened a 
 tavern in Werburgh Street," Dublin. Macklin 
 was at this time at a boarding-school at Island 
 Bridge, not far from Dublin; but in 1708, 
 being infected with a love for the stage, he 
 and two other youths ran off to London. From 
 Loudon he was brought back to Dublin by 
 his mother, and for a time he acted as 
 badgeman to Trinity College. Again, how- 
 ever, he went to London, this time in com- 
 pany with a friend, who intended to pro- 
 vide for him, but he abruptly left his friend 
 and joined a company of low players who 
 performed at Hockly-in-the-Hole. Again 
 he was sought out and brought home by his 
 mother, but the roving propensity was too 
 strong in him, and he left home once more and 
 joined a strolling company at Bristol. After 
 this, for about a dozen years he followed the 
 life of a strolling player, enduring all its hard- 
 ships and wisely learning the lessons it had to 
 teach. In 1725 he came to London and was 
 engaged by Mr. Eich in Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 but was dismissed after one season because 
 his tone w£is too natural and not of the tragic 
 kind. In 1730 he was again engaged in this 
 theatre for a short time ; during the winter of 
 1733 he appeared at Drury Lane, and at the 
 commencement of the season in 1734 he was 
 engaged by the new manager, and his theatrical 
 career, so far as the public were concerned, 
 really began. In 1735 he had a dispute with 
 a fellow-actor, whom in the heat of passion he 
 
 wounded in the eye. The actor died, and 
 Mackhn was tried and found guilty of man- 
 slaughter. In January, 1736, however, he 
 resumed his post in the theatre, and for 
 some years thereafter continued to perform 
 in that house with satisfaction to both man- 
 ager and public. In 1743 the irregularities 
 of the manager caused Gamck, Macklin, and 
 the other actors to engage to stand by each 
 other tiU all had justice done them, binding 
 themselves to enter into no agreement or com- 
 promise separately. After a time, however, 
 the majority acceiited the managei-'s tenns, and 
 a little later Garrick very shabbily deserted 
 his companion in the light and followed their 
 example. Macklin was thus left alone to be 
 the scape-goat of the I'est, and he and his wife 
 were dismissed from all their engagements. 
 Before this time he had established his repu- 
 tation as an actor by his natural performance 
 of Shylock, which had hitherto been played 
 farcically by a low comedian. It is said that 
 once while he was performing this character a 
 gentleman in the pit exclaimed, " This is the 
 Jew which Shakspere drew." Deprived of 
 his employment, he now collected together a 
 number of novices in the art, including Foote 
 and Hill, and opened the Haymarket Theatre, 
 with their help, iu February, 1744. For four 
 or five months he kept this theatre open, but 
 afterwards he made his peace with the man- 
 ager of Druiy Lane and was again engaged. 
 
 In January, 1746, Macklin made his fii-st 
 appearance as an author in a hastily written 
 tragedy entitled King Heiiry the Seventh. 
 The play was almost if not altogether a fail- 
 ure, yet in April of the same year he had 
 the courage to appear before the public again 
 with a farce entitled A Will or No Will; or, a 
 Bone for the Lawyers. In April, 1748, he pro- 
 duced The Club of Fortune Hunters; or, the 
 Widow Beivitched. This, like its predecessors, 
 was anything but a success. At the end of the 
 season he accepted an engagement from Sheri- 
 dan in Dublin Theatre at a high figure, but
 
 214 
 
 CHAKLES MACKLIN. 
 
 they soon disagreed, and he returned to Eng- 
 land and was for a time manager of a com- 
 pany of comedians at Chester. In the winter 
 of 1750 he returned to London, and was at 
 once engaged at Covent Garden. For three 
 seasons he performed at Covent Garden, and 
 on the 20th December, 1753, he took his fare- 
 well of the stage, having determined, old as 
 he was, to adopt a new career in life. 
 
 This was the establishment of a tavern in 
 Covent Garden on a new principle. Ladies 
 were invited to attend it, lecture - rooms 
 were fitted up, and lectures on subjects in 
 arts, sciences, history, literature, &c., were 
 delivered. At first the novelty of the thing 
 caused it to appear successful, but after a 
 time its utter failure became only too appar- 
 ent, and Macklin had to return to the stage. 
 In 1757 he went to Ireland with Barry. On 
 December 28, 1758, his wife died, and in 
 December, 1759, he returned to Drury Lane. 
 Soon after this appeared tlie first of his 
 really successful plays. Love d la Mode. This 
 met with opposition for a night or two, but it 
 forced its way into favour, and was afterwards, 
 according to a writer in The European Maga- 
 zine, " received with unbounded applause." 
 
 Still continuing on the stage, in 1761 he 
 produced The Married Lihertine,& comparative 
 failure; and 1764 his master-piece The True- 
 horn Scotchman, afterwards called The Man 
 of the Wo7-ld. In November, 1767, appeared 
 his farce The Irish Fine Lady, which lived 
 only a single night. On the 28th of Novem- 
 ber, 1788, while performing in the character 
 of Sir Pertinax MacSycophant, his memory 
 failed him. On the 10th January, 1789, the 
 same thing happened while he was engaged 
 with Shylock, but after an afiiecting speech to 
 the audience he recovered himself and com- 
 pleted his part. On the 7th of May following 
 he attempted to perform Shylock in his own 
 benefit, but another actor had to take his 
 place, and he was led ofi" the stage never to 
 appear on it again. At the age of almost a 
 hundred he was thus thrown upon the world, 
 but his friends stood by him, and a subscrip- 
 tion was started for the publication of his two 
 popular pieces, Love a la Mode and The Man 
 of the World. This produced altogether over 
 .£2600, with which an annuity was purchased 
 and his more immediate wants supi)Iied. For 
 the remainder of his life he visited tlie tlieatre 
 almost every night, where he sat unable to 
 liear and apparently unconscious of anything. 
 At last, at the great age of a hundred and 
 seven years, his life flickered out on tlie 11th 
 
 of July, 1797. He was buried in St. Paul's, 
 Covent Garden. 
 
 Of Mackliu's writings only his Love a la 
 Mode and The Man of the World have lived, 
 and these are almost as well known to-day as 
 when the author died. Their language is plain 
 and natural in the extreme, and the deline- 
 ation of character which they contain is of 
 the highest kind. In all the wide field of 
 dramatic literature we know of nothing to 
 excel Sir Pertinax MacSycophant, a character 
 which the people of Scotland have long ago 
 wisely refused to look on as a satire of them- 
 selves, but as a type of a class of men that 
 may be found in every nation under the sun. 
 Sir Archibald MacSarcasm in Love a la Mode 
 is also a capital character; as are also Sii' 
 Callaghan O'Brallaghan and the little Jew 
 Mordecai. Betty too, the sly mischief -makei-, 
 so vii'tuous, yet so full of evil innuendos, is also 
 true to nature ; and, indeed, scarcely a charac- 
 ter in the two plays but is worthy of careful 
 study and first-class acting.] 
 
 A MISCHIEr-MAKER.1 
 
 [Sidney is a chaplain in the house of Sir 
 Pertinax MacSycophant. Constantia is a poor 
 dependant of the family whom everybody, in- 
 cluding Charles Egerton the son of Sir Per- 
 tinax, likes so well that the maid Betty deter- 
 mines to find some fault in her, and now she 
 at length thinks she has good foundation for 
 a story which she tells the chaplain as follows.] 
 
 Sidney solus. Enter Bktty. 
 
 Betty. {Running up to Sidney.) I beg pardon 
 for my intrusion, sir ; I hope, sir, I don't dis- 
 tui'b your reverence. 
 
 Sid. Not in the least, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Betty. I humbly beg you will excuse me, 
 sir ; but I wanted to break my mind to your 
 honour about a scruple that lies upon my con- 
 science ; and indeed I should not have pre- 
 sumed to trouble you, sir, but that I know 
 you are my j'oung master's friend, and my 
 old master's friend, and, indeed, a friend to 
 the whole family {curtsying very low); for, to 
 give you your due, sir, you are as good a 
 preacher as ever went into a pulpit. 
 
 Sid. Ha, ha, ha ! do you think so. Mi's. 
 Betty I 
 
 Betty. Ay, in truth do I ; and as good a 
 
 1 This and the next scene are from The Man of the 
 World.
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 215 
 
 gentleman, too, as ever came into a family, 
 and one that never gives a servant a bad word, 
 nor that does any one an ill turn, neither be- 
 hind their back nor before their face. 
 
 Sid. Ha, ha, ha ! why, you are a mighty 
 well-spoken woman, Mrs. Betty ; and I am 
 mightily beholden to you for your good char- 
 acter of me. 
 
 Betty. Indeed, it is no more than you de- 
 serve, anil what all the world and all the ser- 
 vants say of you. 
 
 Sid. I am much obliged to them, Mrs. Betty; 
 but, pray, what are your commands with me? 
 
 Betty. Why, I'll tell you, sir ; — to be sure, 
 I am but a servant, as a body may say, and 
 every tub should stand upon its own bottom ; 
 but — (sAe looks about cautiously) — my young 
 master is now in the china-room, in close con- 
 ference with Miss Constantia. I know what 
 they are about, but that is no business of 
 mine ; and, therefoi'e, I made bold to listen a 
 little ; because, you know, sir, one would be 
 sure, before one took away anybody's reputa- 
 tion. 
 
 Sid. Very true, Mrs. Betty; very true, in- 
 deed. 
 
 Betty. O ! heavens forbid that I should take 
 away any young woman's good name^ unless 
 I had a good reason for it ; but, sir {with great 
 solemnity), if I am in this place alive, as I 
 listened with my ear close to the door I heard 
 my young master ask Miss Constantia the 
 plain marriage question ; upon which I stai'ted 
 and trembled, nay, my very conscience stirred 
 within me so, that I could not help jjeeping 
 through the key-hole. 
 
 Sid. Ha, ha, hal and so your conscience 
 made you peep through the key-hole, Mrs. 
 Betty? 
 
 Betty. It did, indeed, sir; and there I saw 
 my young master upon his knees — Lord bless 
 us ! and what do you think he was doing ] — 
 kissing her hand as if he would eat it; and 
 protesting and assuring her he knew that you, 
 sir, would consent to the match ; and then the 
 tears ran down her cheeks as fast — 
 
 Sid. Ay! 
 
 Betty. They did indeed. I would not tell 
 your reverence a lie for the world. 
 
 Sid. I believe it, Mrs. Betty; and what did 
 Constantia say to all this? 
 
 Betty. Oh ! — oh ! she is sly enough ; she 
 looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth; 
 but all is not gold that glitters ; smooth water, 
 you know, sir, runs deepest. I am sorry my 
 young master makes such a fool of himself; 
 but, um ! — take my word for it, he is not the 
 
 man; for, though she looks as modest as a 
 maid at a christening — {hesitating) — yet — ah ! 
 — when sweethearts meet in the dusk of the 
 evening, and stay together a whole hour in the 
 dark grove, and embrace, and kiss, and weep 
 at parting — why, then, you know, sir, it is 
 easy to guess all the rest. 
 
 Sid. Why, did Constantia meet anybody in 
 this manner? 
 
 Betty. {Starting with surprise.) O ! heavens ! 
 I beg, sir, you will not misapprehend me ; for 
 I assure you I do not believe they did any 
 harm ; that is, not in the grove ; at least not 
 when I was there ; and she may be honestly 
 married for aught I know. O ! lud, sir, I 
 would not say an ill thing of Miss Constantia 
 for the world. I only say that they did meet 
 in the dark walk ; and I think I know what's 
 what, when I see it, as well as another. 
 
 Sid. No doiibt you do, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Betty. {Going and returning.) I do indeed, 
 sir; and so, your servant, sir. But I hope 
 your worship won't mention my name in this 
 business, or that you had an item from me. 
 
 Sid. I shall not, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Betty. For indeed, sir, I am no busybody, 
 nor do I love fending nor proving ; and I 
 assure you, sir, I hate all tittling and tattling, 
 and gossiping, and backbiting, and taking 
 away a person's good name. 
 
 Sid. I observe you do, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Betty. I do indeed, sir; I am the farthest 
 from it in the world. 
 
 Sid. I dare say you are. 
 
 Betty. I am indeed, sir; and so your humble 
 servant. 
 
 Sid. Your servant, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Betty. {Aside, in great exidtation.) So ! I 
 see he believes every word I say- — that's charm- 
 ing. I'll do her business for her, I'm resolved. 
 
 [E.vit. 
 
 [But he did not believe her, and it turned 
 out that the gentleman Constantia met in the 
 gi'ove was her father, returned after a long 
 absence, and hiding from his creditors.] 
 
 HOW TO GET ON IN THE WORLD. 
 
 [Sir Pertinax lectures his son Charles Eger- 
 ton on his conduct toAvards Lord Lumbercourt, 
 whose daughter he intends him to marry.] 
 
 Scene, a Library. 
 Enter Sir Pertinax and Egerton. 
 Sir P. {In warm resentment.) Zounds ! sir.
 
 216 
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 I will not hear a word about it : I insist upon 
 it you are wi^ong ; you should have paid your 
 court till my lord, and not have scrupled swal- 
 lowing a bumper or twa, or twenty till oblige 
 him. 
 
 Eger. Sir, I did drink his toast in a bumper. 
 
 Sir P. Yes, you did; but how, how? just 
 as a bairn takes physic; with aversions and 
 wry faces, which my lord observed : then, to 
 mend the matter, the moment that he and the 
 colonel got intill a drunken dispute about reli- 
 gion, you slyly slunged away. 
 
 Eger. I thought, sir, it was time to go when 
 my lord insisted upon half- pint bumpers. 
 
 Sir P. Sir, that was not levelled at you, but 
 at the colonel, in order to try his bottom; but 
 they aw agreed that you and I should drink 
 out of sma' glasses. 
 
 Eger. But, sir, I beg pardon: I did not 
 choose to drink any more. 
 
 Sir P. But, zoons ! sir, I tell you there was 
 a necessity for your drinking more. 
 
 Eger. A necessity ! in what respect, pray, 
 sir? 
 
 Sir P. Why, sir, I have a certain point to 
 carry, independent of the lawyers, with my 
 lord, in this agreement of your marriage; 
 about which I am afraid we shall have a warm 
 squabble ; and therefore I wanted your assis- 
 tance in it. 
 
 Eger. But how, sir, could my drinking con- 
 tribute to assist you in your squabble ? 
 
 Sir P. Yes, sir, it would have contributed 
 — and greatly have contributed to assist me. 
 
 Eger. How so, sir? 
 
 Sir P. Nay, sir, it might have prevented 
 the squabble entirely ; for as my lord is proud 
 of you for a son-in-law, and is fond of your 
 little French songs, your stories, and your bon- 
 mots when you are in the humour; and guin 
 you had but staid, and been a little jolly, and 
 drank half a score bumpers with him, till 
 he had got a little tipsy, I am sure, when we 
 had him in that mood, we might have settled 
 the point as I could wish it among ourselves, 
 before the lawyers came : but now, sir, I do 
 not ken what will be the consequence. 
 
 Eger. But when a man is intoxicated, would 
 that have been a seasonable time to settle 
 business, sir? 
 
 Sir P. The most seasonable, sir ; for, sir, 
 when my lord is in his cups his suspicion is 
 asleep, and his heart is aw jollity, fun, and 
 guid fellowship; and, sir, can there be a hap- 
 pier moment than that for a bargain, or to 
 settle a dispute with a friend ? What is it you 
 shrug up your shoulders at, sir? 
 
 Eger. At my own ignorance, sir ; for I under- 
 stand neither the philosophy nor the morality 
 of your doctrine. 
 
 Sir P. I know you do not, sir ; and, what is 
 worse, you never wull understand it, as you 
 proceed; in one word, Charles, I have often 
 told you, and now again I tell you, once for 
 aw, that the manoeuvres of pliability are as 
 necessary to rise in the world as wrangling 
 and logical subtlety are to rise at the bar: 
 why, you see, sir, I have acquired a noble for- 
 tune, a princely fortune : and how do you 
 think I raised it? 
 
 Eger. Doubtless, sir, by your abilities. 
 
 Sir P. Doubtless, sir, you are a blockhead : 
 nae, sir, I'll tell you how I raised it; sir, I 
 raised it — by booing {boics ridiculously low), 
 by booing : sir, I never could stand straight 
 in the presence of a great mon, but always 
 booed, and booed, and booed — as it were by 
 instinct. 
 
 Eger. How do you mean by instinct, sir? 
 
 Sir P. How do I mean by instinct ! Why, 
 sir, I mean by — by — by the instinct of interest, 
 sir, which is the universal instinct of mankind. 
 Sir, it is wonderful to think what a cordial, 
 what an amicable — nay, what an infallible in- 
 fluence booing has upon the pride and vanity 
 of human nature. Charles, answer me sin- 
 cerely, have you a mind to be convinced of 
 the force of my doctrine by example and de- 
 monstration ? 
 
 Eger. Certainly, sir. 
 
 *S'iV P. Then, sir, as the greatest favour I 
 can confer upon you, I'll give you a short 
 sketch of the stages of my booing, as an ex- 
 citement, and a landmark for you to boo by, 
 and as an infallible nostrum for a man of the 
 world to rise in the world. 
 
 Eger. Sir, I shall be proud to profit by your 
 experience. 
 
 Sir P. Vary weel, sir ; sit ye down, then, 
 sit you down here. {They sit down.) And 
 now, sir, you must recall to your thoughts 
 that your grandfather was a mon whose penu- 
 rious income of captain's half -pay was the sum 
 total of his fortune ; and, sir, aw my provision 
 fra him was a modicum of Latin, an expert- 
 ness in arithmetic, and a short system of 
 worldly counsel, the principal ingredients of 
 which were, a persevering industry, a rigid 
 economy, a smooth tongue, a pliability of 
 temper, and a constant attention to make 
 every mon well pleased with himself. 
 
 Eger. Very prudent advice, sir. 
 
 Sir P. Therefore, sir, I lay it before you. 
 Now, sir, with these materials I set out a raw-
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 217 
 
 boned stripling fra the north, to try my for- 
 tune with them here in the south ; and my 
 first step in the world was a liej^oarly clerk- 
 ship in Sawney Gordon's counting-house, here 
 in the city of London: which you'll say afforded 
 but a barren sort of a prospect. 
 
 Eger. It was not a very fertile one, indeed, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir P. The reverse, the reverse : weel, sir, 
 seeing myself in this unprofitable situation, I 
 reflected deeply; I cast about my thoughts 
 morning, noon, and night, and marked every 
 mon, and every mode of prosperity ; at last I 
 concluded that a matrimonial adventure, pru- 
 dently conducted, would be the readiest gait 
 I could gang for the bettering of my condi- 
 tion ; and accordingly I set about it. Now, 
 sir, in this pursuit, T)eauty ! beauty ! ah ! beauty 
 often struck my een, and played about my 
 heai't, and fluttered, and beat, and knocked, 
 and knocked, but the devil an entrance I ever 
 let it get; for I observed, sir, that beauty is, 
 generally, — a proud, vain, saucy, expensive, 
 impertinent sort of a commodity. 
 
 Eger. Very justly observed. 
 
 Sir P. And therefore, sir, I left it to pro- 
 digals and coxcombs, that could aff'ord to pay 
 for it ; and in its stead, sir, mark ! — I looked 
 out for an ancient, weel- jointured, super- 
 annuated dowager; a consumptive, toothless, 
 phthisicy, wealthy widow ; or a shrivelled, 
 cadaverous piece of deformity, in the shape of 
 an izzard, or an appersi-and — or, in short, 
 aiuything, ainything that had the siller — the 
 siller — for that, sir, was the north star of my 
 aff'ections. Do you take me, sir] was nae that 
 right? 
 
 Eger. O ! doubtless, doubtless, sir. 
 
 Sir P. Now, sir, where do you think I 
 ganged to look for this woman with the siller ? 
 nae till court, nae till playhouses or assemblies; 
 nae, sir, I ganged till the kirk, till the Ana- 
 baptist, Independent, Bradlonian, and Muggle- 
 tonian meetings; tiU the morning and even- 
 ing service of churches and chapels of ease, 
 and till the midnight, melting, conciliating 
 love-feasts of the Methodists ; and there, sir, 
 at last I fell upon an old, slighted, antiquated, 
 musty maiden, that looked — ha, ha, ha! she 
 looked just like a skeleton in a surgeon's glass 
 case. Now, sir, this miserable object was 
 religiously angry with hei-self and aw the 
 world : had nae comfort but in metaphysical 
 visions and supernatural deliriums — ha, ha, 
 ha ! Sir, she was as mad — as mad as a Bed- 
 lamite. 
 
 Eger. Not improbable, sir : there are num- 
 
 bers of poor creatures in the same condi- 
 tion. 
 
 ^'iV P. O ! numbers— numbers. Now, sir, 
 this cracked creature used to pray, and sing, 
 and sigh, and gi'oan, and weep, and wail, and 
 gnash her teeth constantly morning and even- 
 ing at the tabernacle in Moorfields. And as 
 soon as I found she had the siller, aha ! good 
 traith, I plumped me down upon my knees, 
 close by her — cheek by jowl — and prayed, and 
 sighed, and sung, and groaned, and gnashed 
 my teeth Jis vehemently ;us she could do for 
 the life of her; ay, and turned up the whites 
 of mine een, till the strings awmost cracked 
 again. I watched her motions, handed her 
 till her chair, waited on her home, got most 
 religiously intimate with her in a week : 
 married her in a fortnight, buried her in a 
 month, touched the siller, and with a deep 
 suit of mourning, a melancholy port, a sorrow- 
 ful visage, and a joyful heart, I began the 
 world again (rises) ; and this, sir, was the first 
 boo, that is, the first effectual boo, I ever made 
 till the vanity of human nature. Now, sir, do 
 you understand this doctrine? 
 
 Eger. Perfectly well, sir. 
 
 Sir P. Ay, but was it not right ? was it not 
 ingenious, and weel hit off? 
 
 Eger. Certainlj^ sir : extremely well. 
 
 Sir P. My next boo, sir, was till your ain 
 mother, whom I ran away with fra the board- 
 ing-school ; by the interest of whose family I 
 got a guid smart place in the treasury ; and, 
 sir, my vary next step was intill parliament, 
 the which I entered with as ardent and as 
 determined an ambition as ever agitated the 
 heart of Caesar himself. Sir, I booed, and 
 watched, and hearkened, and ran about, back- 
 wards and forwards, and attended, and dangled 
 upon the then great mon, till I got into the 
 vary bowels of his confidence ; and then, sir, 
 I wriggled, and wrought, and wriggled, till I 
 wriggled myself among the very thick of 
 them. Ha ! I got my snack of the clothing, 
 the foraging, the contracts, the lottery tickets, 
 and all the political bonuses, till at length, sir, 
 I became a much wealthier man than one 
 half of the golden calves I had been so long 
 a-booing to : and was nae that booing to some 
 purpose ? 
 
 Eger. It was indeed, sir. 
 
 Sir P. But are you convinced of the guid 
 effects and of the utility of booing? 
 
 Ega: Thoroughly, sir. 
 
 Sir P. Sir, it is infallible. But, Cliarles, 
 ah ! while I was thus booing, and wriggliug, 
 and raising this princely fortune, ah ! I met
 
 218 
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 with many heartsores and disappointments 
 fra the want of literature, eloquence, and other 
 popular abeeleties. Sir, guin I could but have 
 spoken in the house, I should have done the 
 deed in half the time, but the instant I opened 
 my mouth there they aw fell a-Iaughing at 
 me ; aw which deficiencies, sir, I determined, 
 at any expense, to have supplied by the polished 
 education of a son, who I hoped would one 
 day raise the house of MacSycophant till the 
 highest pitch of ministerial ambition. This, 
 sir, is my plan : I have done my part of it, 
 nature has done hers; you are popular, you 
 are eloquent, aw parties like and respect you, 
 and now, sir, it only remains for you to be 
 directed — completion follows. 
 
 [Egerton, however, was not to be directed 
 to please his father, but married Constantia, 
 after some plotting and counter-plotting among 
 the principal parties concerned.] 
 
 A BEVY OF LOVERS. 
 
 (from "love a la mode.") 
 Charlotte solus. Enter Mordecai. 
 
 Mor. {Singing an Italian air, and address- 
 ing Charlotte fantasticallij.) Voi sete molto 
 cortese ! anima mia ! Here let me kneel and 
 pay my softest adoration ; and thus, and thus, 
 in amorous transport, breathe my last ! 
 
 {Kisses her hand.) 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha ! softly, softly ! You 
 would not, surely, breathe your last yet, Mr. 
 Mordecai ? 
 
 Mor. Why, no, madam ; I would live a little 
 longer for your sake. {Bowing very low.) 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha ! you are infinitely polite; 
 but a trvice with your gallantry. Why, you 
 are as gay as the sun; I think T never saw 
 anything better fancied than that suit of yours, 
 Mr. Mordecai. 
 
 Mor. Ha, ha ! — a- well enough ; just as my 
 tailor fancied. Ha, ha, ha ! Do you like it, 
 madam ? 
 
 Char. Quite elegant ! I don't know any 
 one about town deserves the title of beau 
 better than Mr. Mordecai. 
 
 Mor. Oh ! dear madam, you are very oblig- 
 ing. 
 
 Char. I think you are called Beau Mor- 
 decai by everybody. 
 
 Mor. Yes, madam ; they do distinguish me 
 
 by that title, but I don't think I merit the 
 honour. 
 
 Char. Nobody more ; for I think you are 
 always by far the finest man in town. But, 
 do you know that I never heard of your ex- 
 traordinary court, the other night at the opera, 
 to Miss Sprightly ? 
 
 Mor. Oh, heavens ! madam, how can you be 
 so severe ? That the woman has designs, I 
 steadfastly believe ; but as to me — oh ! 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha ! Nay, nay, you must not 
 deny it, for my intelligence is from very good 
 hands. 
 
 Mor. Pray, who may that be ? 
 
 Char. Sir Archy MacSarcasm. 
 
 Mor. Oh, shocking ! the common Pasquin of 
 the town ; besides, madam, you know he's my 
 rival, and not very remarkable for his veracity 
 in his narrations. 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha ! I cannot say he's a reli- 
 gious observer of truth, but his humour always 
 amends for his invention. You must allow he 
 has humour, Mr. Mordecai. 
 
 Mor. O cuor mio ! How can you think so? 
 Bating his scandal, dull, dull as an alderman 
 after six pounds of turtle, four bottles of port, 
 and twelve pipes of tobacco. 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha 1 Oh ! surfeiting, surfeit- 
 ing! 
 
 J/or. The man, indeed, has something droll, 
 something ridiculous in him ; his abominable 
 Scots accent, his grotesque visage almost 
 buried in snuff, the roll of his eyes and twist 
 of his mouth, his strange, inhuman laugh, his 
 tremendous periwig, and his manner alto- 
 gether, indeed, has something so caricaturely 
 risible in it, that — ha, ha, ha ! — may I die, 
 madam, if I don't take him for a mountebank- 
 doctor at a Dutch fair. 
 
 Char. Oh, oh ! what a picture has he drawn ! 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir Archy MacSarcasm is below, madam. 
 
 Char. Show him up. \_Exit servant. 
 
 Mor. Don't you think, madam, he is a horrid, 
 foul-mouthed, uncouth fellow? He is woi-se 
 to me, madam, than assafoetida, or a tallow- 
 chandler's shop in the dog-days; his filthy 
 high -dried poisons me, and his scandal is 
 grosser than a hackney news-writer's ; madam, 
 he is as much despised by his own country- 
 men as by the rest of the world. The better 
 sort of Scotland never keep him company; 
 but that is entre nous, entre nous. 
 
 Sir A. ( Without.) Randol, bid Sawney be 
 here wi' the chariot at aught o'clock exactly.
 
 CHARLES MACKLIN. 
 
 219 
 
 Enter Sir Archy MacSarcasm. (Mordecai 
 runs up to embrace him.) 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! my chield o' circumcLsiou, gie's a 
 wag o' yer loof ; hoo d'ye do, my bonny Ees- 
 raelite? 
 
 Mor. Always at your service, Sir Archy. 
 He stinks worse than a Scotch snutf-shop. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Sir A. Weel, Mordecai, I see you are as 
 deeligent in the service o' yer mistress as in 
 the service o' yer leuking-glass, for yer face 
 and yer tlioughts are a' turned upon the ane 
 or the itlier. 
 
 Mor. And I see your wit, Sir Archy, Uke 
 a lawyer's tongue, will never retain its usual 
 politeness and good-nature. 
 
 Char. {Coming forward.) Ha, ha, ha ! Civil 
 and witty on both sides, Sir Archy, your most 
 obedient. {Curtseys.) j 
 
 Sir A. Ten thoosand pardons, madam, I 
 didna observe ye ; I hope I see yer ladyship 
 weel. Ah ! ye look like a diveenity. 
 
 {Bowing awkwardly and loio.) 
 
 Char. Sir Archy, this is immensely gallant. 
 
 Sir A. "Weel, madam, I see my friend 
 Mordecai here is determined to tak' awa' the 
 prize frae' us a'. Ha, ha, ha ! He is tricked 
 out in a' the colours o' the rainboo. 
 
 Char. ]VIr. Mordecai is always well dressed. 
 Sir Archy. 
 
 Sir A. Upon honour, he is as fine as a jay. 
 Turn about, mon, turn about ; let us view yer 
 finery ; stap alang, and let us see yer shapes ; 
 he has a bonny march wi' him ; vary weel, 
 vary elegant. Ha, ha, ha ! Guid troth ! I 
 think I never saw a tooth - drawer better 
 dressed in a' my life. 
 
 {Admiring Mordecai^s dress.) 
 
 Char. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mor. You are very polite, sir. 
 
 Char. But, Sir Archy, what has become of 
 my Irish lover, your friend Sir Callaghan ? I 
 hope he dines here. 
 
 Sir A. Ah, ha ! guid faith, will he ! I hae 
 brought him alang wi' me. 
 
 Sir C. ( Without.) Is Sir Archibald MacSar- 
 casm and the lady this way, do you say, young 
 man ? 
 
 Servant. { Without.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir C. { Without.) Then, I'll trouble you with 
 no further ceremony. 
 
 Enter Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan. 
 
 Madam, I am your most devoted and most 
 obedient hum])le servant, and am proud to 
 
 have the honour of kissing your fair hand this 
 morning. {Salutes Charlotte.) 
 
 Char. Sir Callaghan, your humble servant. 
 I am sorry to hear we are likely tu lose you. 
 I was in hop;3S the campaign had been quite 
 over in Germany for this wintei-. 
 
 Sir C. Yes, madam, it was quite over, but 
 it began again : a true genius never loves to 
 quit the field till he has left himself nothing 
 to do; for then, you know, madam, he can 
 keep it with more safety. 
 
 Sir A. Well, but. Sir Callaghan, just as ye 
 entered the apartment the lady was urging 
 she should like it mightily gin ye wad favour 
 her wi' a slight narrative of the late transac- 
 tions and battles in Germany. 
 
 Char. If Sir Callaghan would be so obliging. 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! dear madam, don't ax me. 
 
 Char. Sir, I beg pardon ; I would not press 
 anything that I thought might be disagi-ee- 
 able to you. 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! dear madam, it is not for that ; 
 but it rebuts a man of honour to be talking 
 to ladies of battles, and sieges, and skirmages ; 
 it looks like gasconading and making the fan- 
 faron. Besides, madam, I give you my honour, 
 there is no such thine; in nature as makinsj a 
 true description of a battle. 
 
 Char. How so, sir? 
 
 Sir C. Why, madam, there is much doing 
 everywhere, there is no knowing what is done 
 anywhere ; for every man has his own part to 
 look aftei', which is as much as he can do, 
 without minding what other jjeople are about. 
 Then, madam, there is such drumming and 
 trumpeting, firing and smoking, fighting and 
 rattling everywhere ; and such an u]iroar of 
 com^age and slaughter in every man's mind ; 
 and such a delightful confusion altogether, that 
 you can no more give an account of it than 
 you can of the stars in the sky. 
 
 Sir A. As I shall answer it, I think it a 
 very descriptive account that he gives of a 
 battle. 
 
 Char. Admirable ! and very entertaining. 
 
 Mor. Oh, delightful ! 
 
 Sir A. Mordecai, ask him some questions; 
 to him, to him, mon ! hae a little fun wi' him; 
 smoke him, smoke him ; rally him, mon, rally 
 him. {Apart to Mordecai.) 
 
 Mor. I'll do it, I'll do it ; yes, I will smoke 
 the captain. {Apart.) Well, and pray. Sir 
 Callaghan, how many might you kill in a 
 battle? 
 
 *SiV C. Sir? 
 
 Afor. I say, sir, how many might you have 
 killed in any one battle ?
 
 220 
 
 WALTER HUSSEY BURGH. 
 
 Sir C. Kill ! Hum ! Why, I generally kill 
 more in a battle than a coward would choose 
 to look upon, or than an impertinent fellow 
 would be able to eat. Ha ! are you answered, 
 Mr. Mordecai? 
 
 Mor. Yes — yes, sir, I am answered. He is 
 a devilish droll fellow ; vastly queer. 
 
 Sir A. Yes, he is vary queer. But ye were 
 vary sharp upon him. Odswuns ! at him 
 again, at him again; have another cut at 
 him. [Apart. 
 
 Mor. Yes, I will have another cut at him. 
 
 \_Apart. 
 
 Sir A. Do, do. He'll bring himsel' intill a 
 d d scrape presently. [Aside. 
 
 Mor. {Going to Sir C. and sneering at him.) 
 He, he, he ! But, harkye ! Sir Callaghan — he, 
 he, he ! — give me leave to tell you now, if I 
 were a general — 
 
 Sir C. You a general ! 'Faith ! then, you 
 would make a very pretty general. {Turns 
 Mordecai about.) Pray, madam, look at the 
 general. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 All. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! my dear Mr. Mordecai, be 
 advised, and don't prate about generals ; it is 
 a very hard trade to learn, and requires being 
 in the field late and early, a great many frosty 
 nights and scorching days, to be able to eat 
 and drink, and laugh, and rejoice, with danger 
 on one side of you and death on the other ; 
 and a hundred things beside, that you know no 
 more of than I do of being high-priest of a 
 synagogue; so hold your tongue about generals, 
 Mr. Mordecai, and go and mind your lottery- 
 tickets, and your cent, per cent, in Change 
 Alley. 
 
 AU. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Sir A . Ha, ha, ha ! He hath tickled up the 
 Eesraelite : he has gi'eu it the Moabite o' baith 
 sides o' his lugs. 
 
 Char. But, Sir Callaghan, sure, you must 
 have been in imminent danger in the variety 
 of actions you must have gone through ? 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! to be sure, madam ; who would 
 
 be a soldier without danger? Danger, madam, 
 is a soldier's greatest glory, and death his best 
 reward. 
 
 Mor. Ha, ha, ha ! That is an excellent bull. 
 Death a reward ! Pray, Sir Callaghan, no 
 offence, I hope ; how do you make death being 
 a reward 1 
 
 Sir C. How ! Wliy, don't you know that ? 
 
 Mor. Not I, upon honour ! 
 
 Sir C. Why, a soldiei's death in the held of 
 battle is a monument of fame, that makes him 
 as much alive as Caesar, or Alexander, or any 
 dead hero of them all. 
 
 All. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Char. Very well explained, Sir Callaghan. 
 
 Sir C. Why, madam, when the history of 
 the English campaigns in America comes to be 
 written, there is your own brave young general, 
 that died in the field of battle before Quebec, 
 will be alive to the end of the world. 
 
 Char. You are right. Sir Callaghan ; his vir- 
 tues, and those of his fellow-soldiers in that 
 action, will be remembered by their country 
 while Britain or British gratitude has a being. 
 
 Sir A. Oh ! the Highlanders did good ser- 
 vice in that action ; they cut them, and slashed 
 them, and whapt them aboot, and played the 
 vary dee\ il wi' them, sir. There's nae sic thing 
 as standiiig a Highlander's Andrew Ferara; 
 they will slaughie aff a fallow's head at a dash 
 slap : it was that did the business at Quebec. 
 
 Sir C. I dare say they were not idle, for 
 they are tight fellows. Give me your hand, 
 Sir Archy ; I assm-e you, your countrymen are 
 good soldiers ; ay, and so are ours, too. 
 
 Char. Well, Sir Callaghan, I assure you, I 
 am charmed with your heroism, and greatly 
 obliged to you for your account. Come, Mr. 
 Mordecai, we will go down to Sir Theodore, 
 for I think I heard his coach stop. 
 
 Mor. Madam, I attend you with pleasure ; 
 will you honour with the tip of your ladyship's 
 wedding-finger? Sir Callaghan, your servant; 
 yours, yours ; look here — here. 
 
 [Exit with Char. 
 
 WALTER HUSSEY BURGH. 
 
 Born 1742 — Died 1783. 
 
 [W;ilter Hussey Burgh, an eminent lawyer 
 and distinguished member of the Irish parlia- 
 ment under the leadership of Grattan, was 
 bom in the county of Kildare on the 23d of 
 
 August, 1742. Although a man of great 
 eloquence, refinement, and wit, and one wlio 
 sacrificed preferment in office to the love of 
 country, yet scarcely anything of his has
 
 WALTER HUSSEY BURGH. 
 
 221 
 
 come down to us except a few poems and para- 
 graphs fi'om his speeches scattered through the 
 memoirs of the leading men of his time. 
 
 The date of his entering Dublin University 
 is unknown, but he was distinguished during 
 his college course for his classical proficiency 
 as well as pure literary taste and poetic talent. 
 On the death of a maternal uncle he in- 
 herited his estates in county Limerick, and 
 added the name of Hussey to his own. In 
 1768 he was called to the Ijur, and shortly 
 afterwards nominated by the Duke of Leinster 
 to a borough in his gift, and as a member of 
 the Irish parliament he took a leading part 
 in the opposition to the government of Lord 
 Townshend. His early oratory was too full 
 of classical imagery and his style too ornate ; 
 but in a short time, as he began to thi'ow his 
 heart more earnestly into his work, these de- 
 fects entirely disappeared. 
 
 Under the administration of Lord Bucking- 
 ham he obtained the rank of prime sergeant 
 or first law-officer of Ireland, an office which 
 his popularity at the bar, in parliament, and 
 among the peoi^le peculiarly fitted him to fill. 
 In 1779 he was returned as member for the 
 University of Dublin, shortly before the dis- 
 cussion on free-trade was brought before the 
 Irish parliament. The Irish were contending 
 for thfi right of trading directly from their own 
 ports to the British colonies and to countries 
 with which England was at peace. The Eng- 
 lish law at the time compelled Irish mer- 
 chants to send their goods to England, to be 
 there shipped from her ports and in her ships 
 to their foreign destinations. " No human 
 foresight could have predicted," says Sir Jonah 
 Bai'rington in his Rise and Fall of the Irish 
 Nation, " the blow which the British cabinet 
 was about to receive by one single sentence, 
 or have foreseen that that single sentence 
 would be the composition of the first law- 
 officer of the Irish government." The speech 
 of the lord-lieutenant was of a temporizing 
 character and cautiously worded, so as neither 
 entirely to crush the hope of free-trade nor 
 compromise the British government. Grattan 
 proposed in a lengthy address that a re])re- 
 sentation should be made to his majesty of 
 the state of the country in consequence of the 
 want of free -trade. Some of the members 
 opposed this motion. Then Mr. Hussey Burgh 
 rose and declared that "the high office he 
 possessed could hold no competition with his 
 principles and his conscience, and that he 
 should consider the relinquishment of his gown 
 only a just sacrifice upon the altar of his 
 
 country." After some further representations 
 he concluded a stirring debate by the mem- 
 orable words, " It is not by temporary expedi- 
 ents, but by free-trade alone, that this nation 
 is now to be saved from impending ruin." 
 "The effect of this speech," says Sir Jonah 
 Barrington, "was altogether indescribable; . . . 
 the character, the talents, the eloquence of 
 this great man bore down every symptom of 
 further resistance ; many of the usual sup- 
 porters of government, and some of the 
 viceroy's immediate connections, instantly 
 followed his example, and in a moment the 
 victory was decisive ; not a single negative 
 could the minister procure, and Mr. Burgh's 
 amendment passed unanimously amidst a 
 tumult of joy and exultation." 
 
 The same year (1779), while the subject of 
 free-trade was still held a matter of debate, 
 a member proposed that the annual grant 
 towards the general expenses of the empire, 
 in return for free-trade, should be limited 
 to six months, and spoke of Ireland as being 
 at peace. Hussey Biirgh answered, " Talk 
 not to me of peace. Ireland is not at jjeace, 
 it is smothered in war. England has sown 
 her laws as dragons' teeth, and they have 
 sprung up as armed men." " Never yet," saya 
 Mr. Froude, "had Grattan so moved the 
 Irish House of Commons as it was moved at 
 these words. From the floor the applause 
 rose to the gallery. From the gallery it was 
 thundered to the crowd at the door. From 
 the door it rung through the city. As the 
 tumult calmed down Hussey Burgh rose again, 
 and, amidst a renewed burst of cheers, declared 
 that he resigned the office he held under the 
 crown." 
 
 In the social reunions which were so common 
 during the last century in Ireland Hussey 
 Burgh took a prominent place. His wit 
 would enliven the dullest subject, and his 
 eloquence create interest in the coldest listener. 
 He was also a member of that jovial commu- 
 nity "The Monks of the Screw" ^ at the time 
 Curran was prior, and the meetings held in 
 Kevin Street, Dublin. Notwithstanding his 
 opposition to government his professional 
 character stood so high that in 1782 he was 
 appointed chief -baron of the exchequer ; but 
 he did not long enjoy this position, for he died 
 on the 29th September in the following year, 
 aged forty-one. His poetical pieces have never 
 been collected, and except a few stray speci- 
 mens are now lost. 
 
 1 See the notice of J. I'. Curran on p. 4, vol. ii.
 
 222 
 
 WALTER HUSSEY BURGH. 
 
 Burgh's one notable fault seems to have been 
 a love of display. He used to ride out in an 
 equipage drawn by six horses with three out- 
 riders, and in consequence of this and other 
 forms of extravagance his family were left in 
 embarrassment. Grattan, however, obtained 
 a grant from parliament for their relief. Of 
 his gi'eat rectitude in times of bribery and 
 coiTui^tion Lord Temple says : " No one had 
 more decidedly that inflexible and constitu- 
 tional integrity which the times and circum- 
 stances peculiarly called for." " He did not 
 live to be ennobled by patent, he was ennobled 
 by nature," said Flood. Mr. Grattan thus 
 portrays him : " He was a man singularly 
 gifted — with great talent, great variety, wit, 
 oratory, and logic; he, too, had his weakness — 
 but he had the jjride of genius also ; he strove 
 to raise his country along with himself, and 
 never sought to build his elevation on the 
 degradation of Ireland. I moved an amend- 
 ment for a free export; he moved a better 
 amendment, and he lost his place. I moved 
 a declaration of right. ' With my last breath 
 will I support the right of the Irish parlia- 
 ment,' was his note to me when I aj^plied to 
 him for his support. He lost the chance of re- 
 covering his place, and his way to the seals, 
 for which he might have bartered. The gates 
 of promotion ivere shut on him as those of glory 
 opened."] 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SPEECH 
 
 DELTV'ERED IN IRISH HOUSE OF COMMONS, NOV. 1779. 
 
 You have but two nights ago declared 
 against new taxes by a majority of 123, and 
 have left the ministers supported only by 47 
 votes ; if you now go back and accede to the 
 proposed grant for two years, your compliance 
 will add insult to the injuries already done to 
 your ill-fated country ; you strike a dagger 
 into your own bosom, and destroy the fair 
 prospect of commercial hope, because if the 
 minister can, in the course of two days, render 
 void the animated spirit and patriotic stability 
 of this house, and procure a majority, the 
 British minister will treat our applications for 
 free-ti-ade with contempt. When the interests 
 of the government and the people are contrary 
 they secretly operate against each other; such 
 a state is but smothered war. I shall be a 
 friend alike to the minister and the people, 
 according as I find their desires guided by 
 justice ; but at such a crisis as this the people 
 must be kept in good temper, even to the 
 
 indulgence of their caprices. The usurped 
 authority of a foreign parliament has kejjt up 
 the most wicked laws that a jealous, monopo- 
 lizing, ungrateful spirit could devise, to restrain 
 the bounty of Providence and enslave a nation 
 whose inhabitants are recorded to be a brave, 
 loyal, and generous people ; by the code of 
 English laws, to answer the most sordid views, 
 they have been treated with a savage cruelty; 
 the words penalty, ^junishment, and Ireland 
 are synonymous, they are marked in blood on 
 the margin of their statutes; and though time 
 may have softened the calamities of the nation, 
 the baneful and destructive influence of those 
 laws have borne her down to a state of 
 Egyptian bondage. Talk not to me of peace. 
 Ireland is not at peace, it is smothered in war. 
 England has sown her laws as dragons' teeth, 
 and they have sprung up as armed men. 
 
 THE WOUNDED BIRD. 
 
 The wounded bird! the wounded bird! 
 
 With broken wing and blood-stained feather, 
 
 Where'er its plaintive cry is heard, 
 
 With levelled guns the fowlers gather; 
 
 Along the reedy shore it creeps. 
 
 With startled eye and head low bending, 
 
 Or dives amid the silver deeps, 
 
 To '.scape the dreadful death impending. 
 
 Alas! alas! its wiles are vain, 
 
 Its life-stream flows in ruddy rain. 
 
 ily love-struck heart! my love-struck heart! 
 Thou, too, like the poor bird art wounded. 
 Within thee rankles love's keen dart. 
 And with love's snares thou art surrounded. 
 Bird-like I plunge amid life's sea, 
 But, like the fowler, love pursuing 
 Mocks all my schemes for liberty, 
 And hurls new darts my soul subduing; 
 Like thee, poor bird, my heart is ta'en. 
 Like thine, its hopes of flight are vain. 
 
 SEE: WICKLOW'S HILLS. 
 
 See! Wicklow's hoary hills are white with snow; 
 Scarce can the labouring woods the weight sus- 
 tain ; 
 
 The rivers cease to flow, 
 Curbed with an icy chain. 
 
 Revive that dying blaze, and never spare 
 
 Your choicest flask of vintage " 'fifty-.seven;" 
 To drink shall be our care — 
 The rest we leave to Heaven.
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 223 
 
 Let not the morrow's ills thy thoughts employ, 
 But count the passing hours for present gains; 
 Nor shun love's gentle joy, 
 Whilst rosy youth remains. 
 
 THE TOUPEE. 
 
 Canst thou, too, Alice, condescend, 
 
 That monstrous height of head to wear; 
 
 And tresses, such as thine, to blend, 
 Dear injured locks! with foreign hair? 
 
 The efforts of the nicest art 
 
 iiut hide some native grace in thee; 
 Then let thy charms control the heart, 
 
 In their own sweet simplicity. 
 
 In rocks and wilds the arbutus grows — 
 What flowers unsown the fields display; 
 
 The stream, untaught, how well it knows 
 To trace the windings of its way. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 Born 1730 — Died 1797. 
 
 [Edmund Burke — one of Ireland's greatest 
 sons, illustrious as a statesman, orator, and 
 writer — was born in Ai-ran Quay, Dublin, 
 on the 1st of January, 1730. His father was 
 an attorney in large practice and good 
 reputation. His mother was a Nagle of 
 Castletown Roche in the county of Cork, and 
 held firmly to the Roman Catholic religion of 
 her family, while his father was a Protestant, 
 in which religion Edmund was brought up. 
 There can be no doubt, however, that the dif- 
 ference in religion between the parents, which 
 has so often been the cause of unmitigated 
 evil, had in his case a beneficial effect, allay- 
 ing bigotry and opening his mind to broader 
 views on the question of opposing religious 
 opinions. 
 
 In his early youth Burke was of a sickly 
 constitution, and being unable to take exercise 
 like other children, he read a great deal, and 
 so got far in advance of those of his own age. 
 He first attended a village school at Castletown 
 Roche, kept by one O'Halloran, who brought 
 him on so far as to read the Latin grammar. 
 At twelve he was sent to the school of a 
 Quaker named Shackleton, at Ballytore, in 
 county Kildare. Here he distinguished him- 
 self by a close study of the classical writers 
 ancient and modern, and at fourteen, when he 
 entered Trinity (I^oUege, he was unusually well 
 read for a boy of that age. In his college 
 career Buike did not distinguish himself 
 beyond ordinary students, though in 1746, or 
 two years after entry, he obtained a scholar- 
 ship. He was discursive in his reading, and 
 given to sudden and impulsive changes in his 
 studies, being at one time devoted to history, 
 at another to mathematics, now to metaphysics. 
 
 and again to poetry. This fitfulness, though 
 it may have interfered with the success of his 
 academic career, doubtless made him aU the 
 better suited for the wide stage on which he 
 was to play so great a part in after life. 
 
 On the 21st of April, 1747, a club was formed 
 of four members, Burke being one of them. 
 This was the germ of the celebrated Historical 
 Society, and here he put forth his opinions on 
 historic characters, paintings, and the wide 
 range of subjects of which he was master, 
 without fear of the judgment or criticism of 
 his audience, and thus gained that very bold- 
 ness which afterwards rendered him so un- 
 manageable in debate. In 1748 he took his 
 degree of Bachelor of Arts, and soon after 
 left the university. In 1750 he proceeded to 
 London, his name having already been entered 
 as a student at the Middle Temjjle. But, 
 instead of studying for the law, he paid visits 
 to the House of ('ommons as if drawn there 
 by some powerful instinct, made speeches at 
 the Robin Hood Society, and contributed to 
 the pei'iodicals so as to eke out the small 
 allowance granted him by his father. At this 
 last occupation he worked so hard that his 
 health, never very good, began to suffer. His 
 physician Dr. Nugent advised rest and quiet, 
 and invited him to his own house. There he 
 received the kindest treatment ; and, more 
 important still, an attachment sprang up be- 
 tween him and the physician's daughter, re- 
 sulting in a marriage which pi'oved excep- 
 tionally happy. This resulted no doubt from 
 Mrs. Burke's character, which, we are told, was 
 " soft, gentle, reasonable, and obliging." She 
 was also noted for managing her husband's 
 affairs with prudence and discretion. No
 
 224 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 wonder Burke declared that, in all the most 
 anxious moments of his public life, every care 
 vanished the moment he entered his own 
 house. 
 
 Though contributing largely to the period- 
 icals of the day the first of his essays, so far 
 as is kuown, that attained to any great dis- 
 tinction was his Vindication of Natural 
 Society, which appeared anonymously in the 
 spring of 1756. This work exhibited so com- 
 plete though ironical an imitation of Lord 
 Bolingbroke's style that many persons were 
 deceived by it, not perceiving Burke's inten- 
 tion, which was to prove that the same argu- 
 ments which were employed by his lordship 
 for the destruction of religion might be em- 
 ployed with equal success for the subver- 
 sion of government. Before the end of the 
 same year Burke published his celebrated 
 work, A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin 
 of our Ideas of the Siihlime and Beautiful, 
 which, by the elegance of its language and the 
 spii'it of philosophical investigation displayed 
 in it, advanced him to a first place among 
 writers on taste and criticism. Johnson 
 praised it highly, and Blair, Hume, Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, and other eminent men sought the 
 friendship of the gifted author. His father, 
 who had been indignant at his son's desertion 
 of the law, was so pleased with the work that 
 he sent him a present of £100 as a proof 
 of his admiration and approval. In 1758, 
 still devotedly attached to the study of his- 
 tory, he proposed to Dodsley the publica- 
 tion of the Annual Register, and the proposal 
 being entertained, an arrangement was made 
 under which Burke wrote the historical part 
 of the work for many years. 
 
 In 1761 his political career properly com- 
 menced. In that year he went to Ireland as 
 private secretary to William Gerard Hamilton 
 (of single-speech memory), who was at the 
 time chief secretary to the lord-lieutenant. 
 For his services he was rewarded with a pen- 
 sion of X'300, but after a time he threw it up 
 as inconsistent with his personal indepen- 
 dence. In 1765 he returned to London, and 
 in the same year was introduced to the Mar- 
 quis of Rockingham, who, on becoming prime 
 minister, appointed him private secretary. 
 In 1766, through the influence of Lord Verney, 
 he became member for the borough of Wend- 
 over, and took his seat in that house which he 
 was aft<;rwards so greatly to influence and 
 adorn. His first speech was on American 
 affairs, and was praised by Pitt. In it he 
 advised the Rockingham administration to 
 
 repeal the stamp act which so irritated the 
 Americans, but at the same time to pass an 
 act declaratory of the right of Great Britain 
 to tax her colonies. The compromise which 
 he advised was carried out ; but the ministry 
 soon after resigned to give place to Mr. Pitt. 
 ! Upon this Burke wrote his Short Account of 
 a Late Short Administration. In this year 
 (1768) Mr. Burke thus writes to a friend: "I 
 have purchased a house (Beaconsfield) with an 
 estate of about 600 acres of land in Bucking- 
 hamshire, twenty-four miles from London, 
 where I now am. It is a place exceedingly 
 pleasant, and I propose (God willing) to be- 
 come a farmer in good earnest. You who are 
 classical will not be displeased to hear that it 
 was formerly the seat of Waller the poet, 
 whose house, or part of it, makes at present 
 the farmhouse within a hundred yards of me." 
 During the Wilkes excitement he opposed the 
 violent measures adopted against the fire- 
 brand, and in 1770 he published his Thoughts 
 on the Caiises of the Present Discontents, which 
 contains a copious statement of his ideas on 
 the English constitution. He also took a pro- 
 minent part in the debates on the Uberty of 
 the press, strongly supporting those who 
 wished to curtail the power of the crown. In 
 1774 he was chosen member for Bristol, and 
 it is to his credit that he subsequently ven- 
 tured to give oflFence to his Bristol friends by 
 his support of the Irish petition for free- 
 trade and for moderating the penal statute, 
 which was felt so intolerable by his country- 
 men. On the 19th of April in this year he 
 made a powerful speech on the repeal of the 
 tea duty in America. This speech was " one 
 of the greatest to which any assembly had 
 ever listened, replete with philosophy, and 
 adi^rned with the most gorgeous diction," and 
 it raised Burke at once into the position of 
 first orator in the house. 
 
 In March, 1775, he introduced his famous 
 " Thirteen Propositions for Quieting the Trou- 
 bles in America," and delivered another 
 great speech, in which he pointed out how, 
 on the grounds of expediency alone, conces- 
 sion to the colonists' demands was the wiser 
 course. In 1777 he again appeared in advo- 
 cacy of the cause of the colonies; but the hour 
 for conciliation was past, and his speeches on 
 the subject were only able reasoning and elo- 
 quence wasted. In 1783 Lord Rockingham 
 again came into power, and Burke was ap- 
 pointed to the well-paid post of paymaster- 
 general, together with a seat at the council 
 board. On the death of Rockingham lie
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 After the Painting by G. HOMNEY
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 225 
 
 resigned his post and joined the coalition 
 with Fox and North. This coalition defeated 
 Shelburne, who had taken Rockingham's place, 
 and on the 2d of April entered office, Burke 
 becoming once more paymaster-general. But 
 the ministry was short-lived, being defeated 
 on the India bill in December of the same 
 year, and Mr. Pitt succeeded to the helm of 
 state. 
 
 In 1784 Burke, who had for a long time 
 viewed the cai-eer of Warren Hastings in 
 India with indignation, commenced his famous 
 attack upon that individual. No sooner had 
 Hastings retux-ued to England than Burke took 
 steps towards his impeachment. He had 
 studied Indian atfaii's with assiduous care, and 
 was thus enabled to make the great speeches 
 with which he began his attack not only elo- 
 quent, but full of information such as no other 
 member of the house could impart. How- 
 ever, for a time he made little way against the 
 large majority opposed to him, and it was the 
 13th February, 1788, before the great trial 
 commenced. As every one knows it lasted 
 for six yeai^s, and was the cause of some of the 
 most eloquent speeches by Burke and othei-s 
 ever uttered in "Westminster Hall. The 
 trial brought Burke increase of fame as an 
 orator, but rather lessened him in the popular 
 opinion, and the final result was the acquittal 
 of the "haughty criminal." 
 
 In 1789 and 1790 Burke vigorously opposed 
 the extreme views of the men who in France 
 were apparently dragging the whole fabric of 
 society to ruin. In November of the latter 
 year he published his famous pamphlet Reflec- 
 tions on the French Revolution. It exhibits 
 both the merits and defects of the writer, and 
 contains much justness of argi;ment, profun- 
 dity of observation, and beauty of style, but it 
 is equally obvious that he commits the very 
 fault which he intended to reprobate in his 
 Vindication of Natural Society, by making 
 his arguments applicable to the defence of all 
 establishments, however tyrannical, and the 
 censure of every popular struggle for libei-ty, 
 whatever the oppression. The pamphlet had 
 an unprecedented sale. Within one year 
 19,000 copies were sold in England, and about 
 as many more, translated into French, on the 
 Continent. Its richness of diction and felicity 
 of illustration caused it to be read by thou- 
 sands who would have cared nothing for a 
 dry philosophical treatise. But while it had 
 multitudes of enthusiastic admirers, it met also 
 with several formidable critics, and brought 
 forth in reply Sir James Mackintosh's Vin- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 diciae Gallicae and Thomas Paine's famous 
 Rights of Man. Burke followed it up by a 
 Letter to a Member of the National Assembly, 
 in 1791, An Appeal from the New Whigs to 
 the Old, and Thoughts on a Regicide Peace. The 
 publication of his views on the proceedings of 
 the French revolutionists was of course highly 
 j distiistefid to their English sympathizers, and 
 ' soon brought about a complete esti-angemeut 
 between Burke and his former political friends 
 Fox and Sheridan. In May, 1791, the cele- 
 brated scene between him and Fox in the 
 House of Commons took place, which resulted 
 in a breach never again repaired. In 1792 he 
 published a Letter to Sir Hercules Langrishe 
 on the Propriety of Admitting Roman Catholics 
 to the Elective Franchise, and in 1794 withdrew 
 from parliament, being succeeded in the repre- 
 sentation of Maltou by his only son, a youth 
 of great promise. This son died soon after, 
 and the shock was so great that Burke never 
 fully recovered from it. At the express wish 
 of the king, who with his coui't had assumed 
 a very friendly attitude towards Burke, be- 
 cause of his views on the French revolution, 
 a pension of £3700 per annum was settled 
 upon him in 1795. For the acceptance of 
 this he was fiercely attacked in the House of 
 Lords. His Letter to a Noble Lord, full of 
 biting sarcasm, and at the same time lofty 
 resentment, was in answer to this attack. 
 
 The remaining two years of his life were 
 spent in retirement, but his pen was not idle. 
 Educational and philanthropic measures were 
 noted and commented on, and his latest pub- 
 lication was on the aff^airs of his native land, 
 at that time fast approaching a crisis. In the 
 February of 1797 his health began to decline, 
 and a visit to Bath was ordered. After a 
 sojourn of about four months, no visible 
 change for the better was effected, and in 
 May he returned to his family seat at Bea- 
 consfield, where he died on July 8th of the 
 same year. His remains were buried at 
 Beaconsfield by his own desire, as he said, 
 "near to the bodies of my dearest brother 
 and my dearest son, in all humility praying 
 that as we have lived in perfect unity together, 
 we may together have a part in the resurrec- 
 tion of the just." 
 
 Macaulay distinctly pronounces Burke, "in 
 aptitude of comprehension, and richness of 
 imagination, superior to every orator, ancient 
 or modern." " With the exception of his writ- 
 ings upon the French revolution," says Lord 
 Brougham, " an exception itself to be qualified 
 and restricted, it would be difficult to find any 
 
 15
 
 226 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 statesman of any age whose opinions were 
 more habitually marked by moderation ; by 
 a constant regard to the result of actual ex- 
 perience, as well as the dictates of an enlarged 
 reason ; by a fixed determination always 
 to be practical, at the time he was giving 
 scope to the most extensive general views ; 
 by a cautious and prudent abstinence from all 
 extremes, and especially from those towards 
 which the general complexion of his political 
 principles tended, he felt the more necessity 
 for being on his guard against the seduction." 
 " As a writer he was of the first class, and ex- 
 celled in every kind of prose composition, the 
 extraordinary depth of his detached views, 
 the penetrating sagacity which he occasionally 
 applies to the affairs of men and their motives, 
 and the curious felicity of expression with 
 which he unfolds principles, and traces re- 
 semblances and relations, are separately the 
 gift of few, and in their union probably with- 
 out an example. When he is handling any 
 one matter we perceive that we are conversing 
 with a reasoner and a teacher to whom almost 
 every other branch of knowledge is familiar. 
 His views range over all the cognate subjects ; 
 his reasonings are derived from principles ap- 
 plicable to other matters as well as the one in 
 hand; arguments pour in from all sides as 
 well as those which start up under ovir feet, 
 the natural growth of the path he is leading 
 lis over; while to throw light around our 
 steps, and either explore its darker places, 
 or serve for our recreation, illustrations are 
 fetched from a thousand quarters; and an 
 imagination marvellously quick to descry un- 
 thought of resemblances pours forth the stores 
 which a lore yet more marvellous has gathered 
 from all ages and nations, and arts and 
 tongues. We are, in respect of the argument, 
 reminded of Bacon's multifarious knowledge, 
 and the exuberance of his learned fancy; while 
 the many-lettered diction recalls to mind the 
 first of English poets and his immortal verse, 
 rich with the spoils of all sciences and all times. 
 . . . He now moves on with the composed air, 
 the even dignified pace of the historian ; and 
 unfolds his facts in a nan-ative so easy, and 
 yet so correct, that you plainly perceive he 
 wanted only the dismissal of other pursuits to 
 have rivalled Livy or Hume. But soon this 
 advance is interrupted, and he stops to display 
 his powers of description, when the boldness 
 of his design is only matched by the beauty 
 of his colouring. He then skirmishes for a 
 space, and puts in motion all tin; lighter arms 
 of wit; sometimes not unraingled with drol- 
 
 lery, sometimes bordering upon farce. His 
 main l)attery is now opened, and a tempest 
 bursts forth of every weapon of attack, in- 
 vective, abuse, irony, sarcasm, simile drawn 
 out to allegory, allusion, quotation, fable, par- 
 able, anathema." The great statesman Fox 
 says : " If I were to put all the political infor- 
 mation that I have ever gained from books, 
 and all that I have learned from science, or 
 that the knowledge of the world and its 
 aftairs have taught me, into one scale, and the 
 improvement I have derived from the con- 
 versation and teachings of Edmund Burke into 
 the other, the latter would preponderate." 
 
 Within the massive railings in front of 
 Trinity College, Dublin, stand on either side 
 the magnificent statues of Edmund Burke 
 and Oliver Goldsmith, both executed by the 
 eminent sculptor J. H. Foley, R.A. An edi- 
 tion of Burke's works and correspondence, we 
 believe the most complete published, appeared 
 in 1852 in eight volumes.] 
 
 GRADUAL VARIATION.! 
 
 But as pei-fectly beautiful bodies are not 
 composed of angular parts, so their parts never 
 continue long in the same right line. They 
 vary their dii-ection every moment, and they 
 change under the eye by a deviation con- 
 tinually carrying on, but for whose beginning 
 or end you will find it diihcult to ascertain 
 a point. The view of a beautiful bird will 
 illustrate this observation. Here we see the 
 head increasing insensibly to the middle, from 
 whence it lessens gradually until it mixes 
 with the neck ; the neck loses itself in a larger 
 swell, which continues to the middle of the 
 body, when the whole decreases again to the 
 tail ; the tail takes a new direction ; but it 
 soon varies its new course; it blends again 
 with the other parts; and the line is per- 
 petually changing, above, below, upon every 
 side. In this description I have before me 
 the idea of a dove ; it agrees very well with 
 most of the conditions of beauty. It is smooth 
 and downy; its parts are (to use that expres- 
 sion) melted into one another; you are pre- 
 sented with no sudden protuberance through 
 the whole, and yet the whole is continually 
 changing. Observe that part of a beautiful 
 woman where she is perhaps the most beautiful, 
 
 1 This extract is from Essay on the Sublime a»id Beau- 
 tiful.
 
 EDMUND EURKE. 
 
 2-27 
 
 about the neck and breasts ; the smootliness ; 
 the softness ; the easy and insensible swell ; the 
 variety of the surface, which is never for the 
 smallest space the same : the deceitful maze, 
 through which the unsteady eye slides giddily, 
 without knowing where to fix or whither it is 
 carried. Is not this a demonstration of that 
 change of surface, continual, and yet hardly 
 perceptible at any point, which forms one of 
 the great constituents of beauty ] It gives me 
 no small pleasure to find that I can strengthen 
 my theory in this point by the opinion of the 
 very ingenious Mr. Hogarth, whose idea of 
 the line of beauty I take in general to be ex- 
 tremely just. But the idea of variation, 
 without attending so accurately to the manner 
 of the variation, has led him to consider an- 
 gular figures as beautiful : these figures, it is 
 true, vary greatly ; yet they vary in a sudden 
 and broken manner; and I do not find any 
 natural object which is angular and at the 
 same time beautiful. Indeed few natural 
 objects are entirely angular. But I think 
 those which approach the most nearly to it are 
 the iigliest. I must add too, that, so far as I 
 could observe of nature, though the varied 
 line is that alone in which complete beauty is 
 found, yet there is no particular line which is 
 always found in the most completely beautiful, 
 and which is therefore beautiful in preference 
 to all other lines. At least I never could 
 observe it. 
 
 QUEEN MARIE ANTOINETTE, 
 
 It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I 
 saw the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, 
 at Versailles; and sui'ely never lighted on 
 this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a 
 more delightful vision. I saw her just above 
 the horizon, decorating and cheering the ele- 
 vated sphere she just began to move in, — 
 glittering like the morning-star, full of life, 
 and splendour, and joy. Oh ! what a revolu- 
 tion ! and what an heart must I have, to con- 
 template without emotion that elevation and 
 that fall ! Little did I dream when she added 
 titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, 
 distant, respectful love, that she should ever 
 be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against 
 disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little did I 
 dream that I should have lived to see such 
 disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant 
 men, in a nation of men of honour and of 
 cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords 
 
 must have leaped from their scabbards to 
 avenge even a look that threatened her with 
 insidt. But the age of chivalry is gone. That 
 of sophisters, economists, and calculators has 
 succeeded ; and the glory of Europe is extin- 
 guished for ever. Never, never more, shall 
 we behold that generous loyalty to rank and 
 sex, that proud submission, that dignified 
 obedience, that subordination of the heart, 
 which kept alive, even in .servitude itself, 
 the spirit of an exalted freedom. The im- 
 bought grace of life, the cheap defence of na- 
 tions, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic 
 enterprise is gone ! It is gone, that sensi- 
 bility of principle, that chastity of honour, 
 which felt a stain like a wound, which in- 
 spired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, 
 which ennobled -whatever it touched, and 
 under which vice itself lost half its evil by 
 losing all its grossness. 
 
 This mixed system of opinion and sentiment 
 had its origin in the ancient chivalry; and the 
 principle, though varied in its api)earance by 
 the varying state of human affairs, subsisted 
 and influenced through a long succession of 
 generations, even to the time we live in. If 
 it should ever be totally extinguished, the loss 
 I fear will be great. It is this which has 
 given its character to modern Europe. It is 
 this which has distinguished it under all its 
 forms of government, and distinguished it to 
 its advantage, from the states of Asia, and 
 possibly from those states which flourished in 
 the most brilliant periods of the antique world. 
 It was this which, without confounding ranks, 
 had produced a noble equality, and handed it 
 down through all the gradations of social life. 
 It was this opinion which mitigated kings 
 into companions, and raised private men to be 
 fellows with kings. Without force or opposi- 
 tion it subdued the fierceness of pride ;nid 
 power ; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the 
 soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern 
 authority to submit to elegance, and gave a 
 dominating vanquisher of laws to be subdued 
 by mannei's. 
 
 But now all is to be changed. All the 
 pleasing illusions, which made ])Ower gentle 
 and obedience liberal, which harmonized the 
 diffei'ent shades of life, and which, by a bland 
 assimilation, incorporated into politics the 
 sentiments which beautify and soften private 
 society, are to be dissolved by this new con- 
 quering empire of light and reason. All the 
 decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn ofl^. 
 All the superadded ideas, furnished from the 
 wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the
 
 228 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 heart owns and the understanding ratifies as 
 necessary to cover the defects of our naked 
 shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in 
 our own estimation, are to be exploded as a 
 ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPEACHMENT 
 OF WARREN HASTINGS. 
 
 Hastings, the lieutenant of a British mon- 
 arch, claiming absolute dominion ! From 
 whom, in the name of all that was strange, 
 could he derive, or how had he the audacity 
 to claim, such authority ? He could not have 
 derived it from the East India Company, for 
 they had it not to confer. He could not have 
 received it from his sovereign, for the sove- 
 reign had it not to bestow. It could not have 
 been given by either house of parliament — for 
 it was unknown to the British constitution ! 
 Yet Mr. Hastings, acting under the assump- 
 tion of this power, had avowed his rejection of 
 British acts of parliament, had gloried in the 
 success which he pretended to derive from 
 their violation, and had on every occasion at- 
 tempted to justify the exercise of arbitrary 
 power in its greatest extent. Having thus 
 avowedly acted in opposition to the laws of 
 Great Britain, he sought a shield in vain in 
 other laws anei other usages. Would he appeal 
 to the Mahomedan law for his justification? 
 In the whole Koran there was not a single 
 text which could justify the power he had 
 assumed. Would he appeal to the Gentoo 
 code 1 Vain there the effort also ; a system of 
 stricter justice, or more pure morality, did not 
 exist. It was, therefore, equal whether he 
 fled for shelter to a British court of justice or 
 a Gentoo pagoda ; he in either instance stood 
 convicted as a daring violator of the laws. 
 And what, my lords, is opposed to all this 
 practice of tyrants and usurpers, which Mr. 
 Hastings takes for his rule and guidance? 
 He endeavours to find deviations from legal 
 government, and then instructs his counsel to 
 say that I have asserted there is no such thing 
 as arbitrary power in the East. But, my 
 lords, we all know that there has been arbi- 
 trary power in India ; that tyrants have 
 usurped it; and that in some instances princes, 
 otherwise meritorious, have violated the liber- 
 ties of the people, ajid have been lawfully 
 dej)Osed for such violation. I do not deny 
 that there are robljeries on Hounslow Heath ; 
 that there are such things as forgeries, bur- 
 
 glaries, and murders ; but I say that these 
 acts are against law, and whoever commits 
 them commits illegal acts. When a man is to 
 defend himself against a charge of crime, it is 
 not instances of similar violation of law that 
 are to be the standard of his defence. A man 
 may as well say, " I robbed upon Hounslow 
 Heath, but hundreds robbed there before me :" 
 to which I answer, " The law has forbidden 
 you to rob there, and I will hang you for hav- 
 ing violated the law, notwithstanding the 
 long list of similar violations which you have 
 produced as precedents." No doubt princes 
 have violated the laws of this country; they 
 have suffered for it. Nobles have violated 
 the law : their privileges have not protected 
 them from punishment. Common 2:)eople 
 have violated the law ; they have hanged for 
 it. I know no human being exempt from the 
 law. The law is a security of the people of 
 England ; it is the security of the people of 
 India ; it is the security of every person that 
 is governed, and of every person that governs. 
 There is but one law for all, namely, that law 
 which governs all law, the law of our Creator, 
 the law of humanity, justice, equity — the law 
 of nature and of nations. So far as any laws 
 fortify this primeval law, and give it more 
 precision, more energy, more effect by their 
 declarations, such laws entei' into the sanctu- 
 ary, and participate in the sacredness of its 
 character. But the man who quotes as pre- 
 cedents the abuses of tyrants and robbera, 
 pollutes the very fountain of justice, destroys 
 the foundation of all law, and thereby removes 
 the only safeguard against evil men, whether 
 governing or governed — the guard which pre- 
 vents governors from becoming tyrants, and 
 the governed from becoming rebels. 
 
 Debi Sing and his instruments suspected, 
 and in a few cases they svispected justly, that 
 the country people had purloined from their 
 own estates, and had hidden in secret places 
 in the circumjacent deserts, some small reserve 
 of their own grain to maintain themselves 
 during the unproductive months of the year, 
 and to leave some hope for a future season. 
 But the under tyrants knew that the demands 
 of Mr. Hastings would admit no plea for delay, 
 much less for subtraction of his bribe, and 
 that he would not abate a shilling of it to 
 the wants of the whole human race. These 
 lioards, real or supposed, not being discovered 
 by menaces and imprisonment, they fell upon 
 the last resource, the naked bodies of the 
 people. And here, my lords, began such a
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 229 
 
 scene of cruelties and tortures, as I believe no 
 history has ever presented to the indignation 
 of the world ; such as I am sure, in the most 
 barbarous ages, no politic tyranny, no fanatic 
 persecution has ever yet exceeded. Mr. Pat- 
 terson, the commissioner appointed to inquire 
 into the state of the country, makes his own 
 ajK)logy and mine for opening this scene of 
 horrors to you in the following words : "That 
 the punishments inflicted ujion the ryots both 
 of Ilungjjore and Dinagepore for non-payment 
 were in many instances of such a nature that 
 I would rather wish to draw a veil over them 
 than shock your feelings by the detail. But 
 that, however disagreeable the task maybe to 
 myself, it is absolutely necessary for the sake 
 of justice, humanity, and the honour of govern- 
 ment that they shoidd be exposed, to be pre- 
 vented in future." 
 
 My lords, they began by winding cords 
 round the fingei's of the unhappy freeholder 
 of those provinces, until they clung to and 
 were almost incorporated with one another; 
 and then they hammered wedges of iron be- 
 tween them, until, regardless of the cries of 
 the sufferers, they had bruised to pieces, and 
 for ever crippled those poor, honest, innocent, 
 laborious hands, which had never been raised 
 to their mouths but with a penurious and 
 scanty proportion of the fruits of their own 
 soil ; but those fruits (denied to the wants of 
 their own children) have for more than fifteen 
 years past furnished the investment for our 
 trade with China, and been sent annually out, 
 and without recompense, to purchase for us 
 that delicate meal, with which your lordships, 
 and all this auditory, and all this counti-y have 
 begun every day for these fifteen years at their 
 expense. To those beneficent hands that 
 labour for our benefit the return of the Bri- 
 tish government has been cords and wedges. 
 But there is a place where these crippled and 
 disabled hands will act with resistless power. 
 What is it that they will not pidl down, when 
 they are lifted to heaven against their op- 
 pressoi-s ? Then what can withstand such 
 hands ? Can the power that crushed and de- 
 stroyed them ? Powerful in prayer, let us at 
 least deprecate, and thus endeavour to secure 
 oui-selves from the vengeance which these 
 mashed and disabled hands may pull down 
 upon us. My lords, it is an awful considera- 
 tion. Let us think of it. 
 
 But to pursue this melancholy but neces- 
 sary detail. I am next to open to your lord- 
 ships what I am hereafter to prove, that the 
 most substantial and leading yeomen, the re- 
 
 sponsible farmers, the parochial magistrates 
 and chiefs of villages, were tied two and two 
 by the legs together; and their tormentore 
 throwing them with their heads downwards 
 over a bar, beat them on the soles of the feet 
 with ratans, until the nails fell from their toes; 
 and then attacking them at their heads, as 
 they hung downward as before at their feet, 
 they beat them with sticks and other instru- 
 ments of blind fury, until the blood gushed 
 out at their eyes, mouths, and noses. 
 
 Not thinking that the ordinary whips and 
 cudgels, even so administered, were sufficient, 
 to othei-s (and often also to the same, who had 
 suffered as I have stated) they applied, instead 
 of ratan and bamboo, whips made of the 
 branches of the bale-tree — a tree full of sharp 
 and strong thorns, which tear the skin and 
 lacerate the flesh far worse than ordinary' 
 scourges. 
 
 For others, exploring with a searching 
 and inquisitive malice, stimulated by an in- 
 satiate rapacity, all the devious jjaths of nature 
 for whatever is most unfriendly to man, they 
 made rods of a plant highly caustic and 
 poisonous, called bechettea, every wound of 
 which festers and gangrenes, adds double and 
 treble to the present torture, leaves a crust of 
 leprous sores upon the body, and often ends 
 in the destruction of life itself. 
 
 At night these poor innocent suft'erers, those 
 martyrs of avarice and extortion, were brought 
 into dungeons; and in the season when nature 
 takes refuge in insensibility from all the 
 miseries and cares which wait on life, they 
 were three times scourged and made to reckon 
 the watches of the night by periods and in- 
 tervals of torment. They were then led out 
 in the severe depth of winter — which there at 
 cei-tain seasons would be severe to any, to the 
 Indians is most severe and almost intolerable 
 — they were led out before break of day, and 
 stiff and sore as they were with the bruises 
 and wounds of the night, were plunged into 
 water ; and whilst their jaws clung together 
 with the cold, and their bodies were rendered 
 infinitely more sensible, the blows and stripes 
 were renewed upon their backs; and then de- 
 livering them over to soldiers, they were sent 
 into their farms and villages to discover where 
 a few handfuls of grain might be found con- 
 cealed, or to extract some loan from the rem- 
 nants of compassion and courage not subdued 
 in those who had reason to fear that their own 
 turn of torment would be next, that they 
 should succeed them in the same punishment, 
 and that their very humanity, being taken as
 
 230 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 a proof of their wealth, woukl subject them 
 (as it did in many cases subject them) to the 
 same inhuman tortures. After this circuit of 
 the day through their plundered and ruined 
 villages, they were remanded at night to the 
 same prison; whipped as before at their return 
 to the dungeon, and at morning whipped at 
 their leaving it ; and then sent as before to 
 purchase, by begging in the day, the reitera- 
 tion of the torture in the night. Days of 
 menace, insult, and extortion — nights of bolts, 
 fetters, and flagellation — succeeded to each 
 other in the same round, and for a long time 
 made up all the vicissitudes of life to these 
 miserable people. 
 
 But there are persons whose fortitude 
 could bear their own sufl'ering; there are men 
 who are hardened by their very pains ; and 
 the mind, strengthened even by the torments 
 of the body, rises with a strong defiance 
 against its oppressor. They were assaulted on 
 the side of their sympathy. Children were 
 scourged almost to death in the jDresence of 
 their parents. This was not enough. The sou 
 and father were bound close together, face to 
 face, and body to body, and in that situation 
 cruelly lashed together, so that the blow which 
 escaped the father fell upon the son, and the 
 blow which missed the son wound over the 
 back of the parent. The circumstances were 
 combined by so subtle a cruelty, that every 
 stroke which did not excruciate the sense 
 should wound and lacei'ate the sentiments and 
 affections of nature. 
 
 On the same principle, and for the same 
 ends, virgins who had never seen the sun were 
 drao;<jed from the inmost sanctuaries of their 
 houses. . . . Wives were torn from the arms 
 of their husbands, and suffered the same flagi- 
 tious wrongs, which were indeed hid in the 
 bottoms of the dungeons, in which their hon- 
 our and their liberty were buried together. 
 
 The women thus treated lost their caste. 
 My lords, we are not here to commend or 
 blame the institutions and prejudices of a 
 whole race of people, radicated in them by a 
 long succession of acjes, on which no reason or 
 argument, on which no vicissitudes of things, 
 no mixture of men, or foreign conquests have 
 been able to make the smallest impression. 
 The aboriginal Gentoo inhabitants are all dis- 
 persed into tribes or castes, each caste, born 
 to have an invariable rank, rights, and de- 
 scriptions of employment; so that one caste 
 cannot by any means pass into another. With 
 the Gentoos certain impurities or disgraces, 
 though without any guilt of the party, infer 
 
 loss of caste; and when the highest caste (that 
 of the Brahmin, which is not only noble but 
 sacred) is lost, the person who loses it does 
 not slide down into one lower but reputable — 
 he is wholly driven from all honest society. 
 All the relations of life are at once dissolved. 
 His parents are no longer his parents; his wife 
 is no longer his wife; his children, no longer 
 his, are no longer to regard him as their father. 
 It is something far worse than complete out- 
 lawry, complete attainder, and universal ex- 
 communication. It is a pollution even to 
 touch him, and if he touches any of his old 
 caste they are justified in putting him to death. 
 Contagion, leprosy, plague, are not so much 
 shunned. No honest occupation can be fol- 
 lowed. He becomes an Halichore, if (which 
 is rare) he survives that miserable degradation. 
 Your lordships will not wonder that these 
 monstrous and oppressive demands, exacted 
 with such tortures, threw the whole province 
 into despair. They abandoned their crops on 
 the ground. The people in a body would have 
 fled out of its confines ; but bands of soldiers 
 invested the avenues of the province, and 
 making a line of circumvallation, drove back 
 those wretches, who sought exile as a relief, 
 into the prison of theii- native soil. Not suf- 
 fered to quit the district, they fled to the many 
 wild thickets which oppression had scattered 
 through it, and sought amongst the jungles 
 and dens of tigers a refuge from the tyrannj- 
 of Warren Hastings. Not able long to exist 
 here, pressed at once by wild beasts and famine, 
 the same despair drove them back ; and seek- 
 ing their last resource in arms, the most quiet, 
 the most passive, the most timid of the human 
 race rose up in an universal insurrection, and 
 (what will always happen in popular tumults) 
 the eftects of the fury of the people fell on the 
 meaner and sometimes the reluctant instru- 
 ments of the tyranny, who in several places 
 were massacred. The insurrection began in 
 Rungpore, and soon spread its fire to the 
 neighbouring provinces, which had been 
 harassed by the same person with the same 
 oppressions. The English chief in that pro- 
 vince had been the silent witness, most pro- 
 bably the abettor and accomplice, of all these 
 horrors. He called in first irregular, and then 
 regular troops, who by dreadful and universal 
 military execution got the better of the im- 
 ])otent resistance of unarmed and undiscip- 
 lined despair. I am tii'ed with the detail of 
 tlie cruelties of peace. I spare you those of a 
 cruel and inhuman war, and of the executions 
 which, without law or process, or even the
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 231 
 
 shadow of authority, were ordered by the 
 English revenue chief in tliat province. 
 
 In the name of the Commons of England, I 
 char^ije all this villany upon Warren Hastings, 
 in this last nionient of ray application to you. 
 
 My lords, what is it that we want here to 
 a great act of national justice ? Do we want 
 a cause, my lords ? You have the cause of 
 oppressed princes, of undone women of the 
 iirst rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted 
 kingdoms. 
 
 Do you want a criminal, my lords? When 
 was there so much iniquity ever laid to the 
 charge of any one ? No, my lords, you must 
 not look to punish any other such delinquent 
 from India. Warren Hastings has not left 
 substance enough in India to nourish such 
 another delinquent. 
 
 ]\Iy lords, is it a prosecutor you want? 
 You have before you the Commons of Great 
 Britain as prosecutors, and I believe, my lords, 
 that the sun in his beneficent progress round 
 the world does not behold a more glorious 
 sight thai! that of men, separated from a 
 remote people by the material bonds and bar- 
 riers of nature, united by the bond of a social 
 and moral community — all the Commons of 
 England resenting as their own the indignities 
 and cruelties that are offered to all the people 
 of India. 
 
 Do we want a tribunal ? My lords, no 
 example of antiquity, nothing in the modern 
 world, nothing in the range of human imagi- 
 nation, can supply us with a tribunal like this. 
 IMy lords, here we see virtually in the mind's 
 eye that sacred majesty of the crown, under 
 whose authority you sit, and whose power you 
 exercise. We see in that invisible authority, 
 what we aU feel in reality and life, the bene- 
 ficent powers and protecting justice of his 
 majesty. We have here the heir-apparent to 
 the crown, such as the fond wishes of the 
 people of England wish an heir-apparent to 
 the crown to be. We have here all the branches 
 of the royal family in a situation between 
 majesty and subjection, between the sovereign 
 and the subject, offering a pledge in that situa- 
 tion for the support of the rights of the crown 
 and the liberties of the people, both which 
 extremities they touch. My lords, we have a 
 great hereditary peerage here — those who have 
 their own honour, the honour of their ances- 
 tors and of their posterity, to guard, and who 
 will justify, as they always have justified, that 
 provision in the constitution by which justice 
 is made an hereditary office. My lords, we 
 
 have here a new nobility, who have risen and 
 exalted themselves by various merits, Ijy great 
 military services, which have extended the 
 fame of this country from the rising to the 
 setting sun; we have those who, by various 
 civil merits and various civil talents, have been 
 exalted to a situation which they well deserve, 
 and in which they will justify the favour of 
 their sovereign and the good opinion of their 
 fellow-subjects, and make them rejoice to see 
 those virtuous characters, that were the other 
 day upon a level with them, now exalted above 
 them in rank, but feeling with them in sym- 
 pathy what they felt in common with them 
 before. We have persons exalted from the 
 practice of the law— from the place in which 
 they administered high though subordinate 
 justice — to a seat here, to enlighten with their 
 knowledge and to strengthen with their votes 
 those principles which have distinguished the 
 courts in which they have presided. 
 
 My lords, you have here also the lights of 
 our religion; you have the bishops of England. 
 . . . You have the representatives of that re- 
 ligion which says that their God is love, that the 
 very vital sjjirit of their institution is charity 
 — a religion which so much hates oppression, 
 that when the God whom we adore ajjpeared 
 in human form, he did not appear in a form of 
 greatness and majesty, but in sympathy with 
 the lowest of the people, and thereby made it 
 a firm and ruling principle that their welfare 
 was the object of all government, since the 
 Person who was the Master of nature chose 
 to appear himself in a subordinate situation. 
 These are the considerations which influence 
 them, which animate them, and will animate 
 them, against all oppression, knowing that He 
 who is called first among them and first among 
 us all, both of the flock that is fed and of those 
 who feed it, made himself the servant of all. 
 
 My lords, these are the securities which 
 we have in all the constituent parts of the 
 body of tliis house. We know them, we reckon, 
 rest, upon them, and commit safely the in- 
 terests of India and of humanity into your 
 hands. Therefore it is with confidence that, 
 ordered by the Commons, 
 
 I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of 
 hicrh crimes and misdemeanoui-s. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of all the Com- 
 mons of Great Britain in Parliament assem- 
 bled, whose parliamentary trust he has be- 
 trayed. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the Com- 
 mons of Great Britain, whose national char- 
 acter he has dishonoured.
 
 232 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the people 
 of India, whose laws, rights, and liberties he 
 has subverted, whose properties he has de- 
 stroyed, whose country he has laid waste and 
 desolate. 
 
 I impeach him in the name and by virtue 
 of those eternal laws of justice which he has 
 violated. 
 
 I impeach hira in the name of human 
 nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, 
 injured, and oppressed in both sexes, in every 
 age, rank, situation, and condition of life. 
 
 CHATHAM AND TOWNSHEND. 
 
 (FROM THE SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION, 
 DELIVERED APRIL, 1774.) 
 
 I have done with the third period of your 
 policy, that of your repeal, and the retui-n of 
 your ancient system and your ancient tran- 
 quillity and concord. Sir, this period was not 
 as long as it was happy. Another scene was 
 opened, and other actors appeared on the stage. 
 The state, in the condition I have described 
 it, was delivered into the hands of Lord 
 Chatham — a great and celebrated name ; a 
 name that keeps the name of this country 
 respectable in every other on the globe. It 
 may be truly called, 
 
 Clarum et venerabile nomen 
 Gentibus, et multum nostrse quod proderat urbi. 
 
 Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his 
 merited rank, his superior eloquence, his splen- 
 did qualities, his eminent services, the vast 
 space he fills in the eye of mankind, and, 
 more than all the rest, his fall from power, 
 which, like death, canonizes and sanctifies a 
 great character, will not sulfer me to censure 
 any part of his conduct. I am afraid to 
 flatter him ; I am sure I am not disposed to 
 blame him. Let those who have betrayed 
 him by their adulation insult him with their 
 malevolence. But what I do not presume to 
 censure I may have leave to lament. For a 
 wise man he seemed to me at that time to be 
 governed too much by general maxims. I 
 speak with the freedom of history, and I hope 
 without offence. One or two of these maxims, 
 flowing from an opinion not the most indul- 
 gent to our unhapi)y species, and surely a little 
 too general, led him into measures that were 
 greatly mischievous to himself, and for that 
 reason, among others, perhaps fatal to his 
 
 country; measures the efi'ects of which, I am 
 afraid, are for ever incurable. He made an 
 administration so checkered and speckled, he 
 put together a piece of joinery so crossly in- 
 dented and whimsically dovetailed ; a cabinet 
 so variously inlaid ; such a piece of diversified 
 mosaic; such a tesselated pavement without 
 cement ; here a bit of black stone and there a 
 bit of white ; patriots and courtiers, king's 
 friends and republicans; whigs and tories; 
 treacherous friends and open enemies ; that it 
 was indeed a very curious show, but utterly 
 unsafe to touch, and unsure to stand on. The 
 colleagues whom he had assorted at the same 
 boards stared at each other, and were ob- 
 liged to ask. Sir, your name ? — Sir, you have 
 the advantage of me — Mr. Such-a-one — I beg 
 a thousand pardons. — I venture to say, it did so 
 happen that persons had a single office divided 
 between them who had never spoken to each 
 other in their lives, mitil they found them- 
 selves, they knew not how, pigging together, 
 heads and points, in the same truckle-bed. 
 
 Sir, in consequence of this arrangement, 
 having put so much the larger part of his 
 enemies and opposers into power, the con- 
 fusion was such that his own principles could 
 not possibly have any eff"ect or influence in the 
 conduct of aff"airs. If ever he fell into a fit of 
 the gout, or if any other cause withdrew him 
 from public cares, principles directly the con- 
 trary were sure to predominate. When he 
 had executed his plan he had not an inch of 
 ground to stand upon. When he had accom- 
 plished his scheme of administration he wa.s 
 no longer a minister. 
 
 When his face was hid but for a moment 
 his whole system was on a wide sea without 
 chart or compass. The gentlemen, his parti- 
 cular friends, who with the names of various 
 departments of ministry were admitted to 
 seem as if they acted a jmrt under him, with 
 a modesty that becomes all men, and with a 
 confidence in him which was justified even in 
 its extravagance by his superior abilities, had 
 never in any instance presumed upon any 
 opinion of their own. Deprived of his guid- 
 ing influence they were whirled about, the 
 sport of every gust, and easily driven into any 
 port ; and as those who joined with them in 
 manning the vessel were the most directly 
 opposite to his opinions, measures, and char- 
 acter, and far the most artful and powerful of 
 the set, they easily prevailed so as to seize upon 
 the vacant, unoccupied, and derelict minds of 
 his friends ; and instantly they turned the 
 vessel wholly out of the course of his policy.
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 23.} 
 
 As if it were to insult as well as betray him, 
 even loug before the close of the fii-st session 
 of his administration, when everything was 
 publicly transacted, and with great parade, in 
 his name, they made an act declaring it highly 
 just and expedient to raise a revenue in 
 America. For even then, sir, even before this 
 splendid orb was entirely set, and while the 
 western horizon was in a blaze with his de- 
 scending glory, on the opposite quarter of the 
 heavens arose another luminary, and for his 
 hour became lord of the ascendant. 
 
 This light too is passed and set for ever. 
 You understfind, to be sure, that I speak of 
 Charles Townshend, officially the reproducer 
 of this fatal scheme ; whom I cannot even now 
 remember without some degree of sensibility. 
 In truth, sir, he was the delight and orna- 
 ment of this house, and the charm of every 
 private society which he honoured with his 
 presence. Perhaps there never arose in this 
 country, nor in any country, a man of a more 
 pointed and finished wit ; and (where his 
 passions were not concerned) of a more refined, 
 exquisite, and penetrating judgment. If he 
 had not so great a stock, as some have had 
 who flourished formerly, of knowledge long 
 treasured up, he knew better by far than any 
 man I ever was acquainted with how to bring 
 together within a short time all that was 
 necessary to establish, to illustrate, and to 
 decorate that side of the question he sup- 
 ported. He stated his matter skilfully and 
 powerfully. He particularly excelled in a 
 most luminous explanation and display of his 
 subject. His style of argument was neither 
 trite nor vulgar, nor subtle and abstruse. He 
 hit the house just between wind and water. 
 And not being troubled with too anxious a 
 zeal for any matter in question, he was never 
 more tedious or more earnest than the pre- 
 conceived opinions and present temper of his 
 hearers required ; to whom he was always in 
 perfect unison. He conformed exactly to the 
 temper of the house ; and he seemed to guide, 
 because he was always sure to follow it. 
 
 THE DESOLATION OF THE CARNATIC.i 
 
 Wlien at length Hyder Ali found that he had 
 to do with men who either would sign no 
 convention, or whom no treaty and no signa- 
 ture could bind, and who were the determined 
 
 1 From the speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts, de- 
 livered February, 1785. 
 
 enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed 
 to make the country ])osst'H.sL'd by tliese incor- 
 rigible and predestinated criminals a memor- 
 able example to mankind. He resolved, in 
 the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of such 
 things, to leave the whole Camatic an ever- 
 lasting monument of vengeance ; and to put 
 perpetual desolation as a barrier between him 
 and those against whom the faith which holds 
 the moral elements of the world together was 
 no protection. He became at length so confi- 
 dent of his force, so collected in his might, 
 that he made no secret whatsoever of his 
 dreadful resolution. Having terminated his 
 disputes with every enemy and every rival, 
 who buried their mutual animosities in their 
 common detestation against the creditors of 
 the nabob of Arcot, he drew from every 
 quarter whatever a savage ferocity could ad<l 
 to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction; 
 and compounding all the materials of fury, 
 havoc, and desolation into one black cloud, 
 he hung for a while on the declivities of the 
 mountains. Whilst the authors of all these 
 evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this 
 menacing meteor, which blackened all their 
 horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down 
 the whole of its contents upon the plains of 
 the Carnatic- — Then ensued a scene of woe 
 the like of which no eye had seen, no lieaii, 
 conceived, and which no tongue can adequately 
 tell. All the horrors of war before known or 
 heard of were mercy to that new havoc. A 
 storm of universal fire blasted every field, 
 consumed every house, destroyed every temple. 
 The miserable inhabitants flying from their 
 flaming villages in part were slaughtered ; 
 others, without regard to sex, to age, to the 
 respect of rank, or sacredness of function ; 
 fathers torn from children, husbands from 
 wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, 
 and amidst the goading spears of di'ivers, and 
 the trampling of pui-suing horses, were swept 
 into captivity in an imknown and hostile land. 
 Those who were able to evade this tempest 
 fled to the walled cities. But escaping from 
 fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jav s 
 of famine. 
 
 The alms of the settlement in this dreadful 
 exigency were certainly liberal ; and all was 
 done by charity that private charity could do: 
 but it was a people in beggary; it was a 
 nation which stretched out its hands for food. 
 For months together these creatures of suflfer- 
 ance, whose very excess and luxury in their 
 most plenteous days had fallen short of the 
 allowance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient.
 
 234 
 
 ELIZABETH RYVES. 
 
 resigned, without sedition or disturbance, al- 
 most without complaint, perished by an hun- 
 dred a day in the streets of Madras; every 
 day seventy at least laid their bodies in the 
 streets, or on the glacis of Tan j ore, and ex- 
 pired of famine in the granary of India. I 
 was going to awake your justice towards this 
 unhappy part of our fellow-citizens, by bring- 
 ing before you some of the circumstances of 
 this plague of hunger. Of all the calamities 
 which beset and waylay the life of man this 
 comes the nearest to our heart, and is that 
 wherein the proudest of us all feels himself 
 to be nothing more than he is : but I find my- 
 self unable to manage it with decorum ; these 
 details are of a species of horror so nauseous 
 and disgusting ; they are so degrading to the 
 suiTerers and to the hearers; they are so 
 humiliating to human nature itself, that, on 
 better thoughts, I find it more advisable to 
 throw a pall over this hideous object, and to 
 leave it to your general conceptions. 
 
 For eighteen months without intermission 
 this destruction raged from the gates of Madras 
 to the gates of Tan j ore ; and so completely did 
 these masters in their art, Hyder Ali and his 
 more ferocious son, absolve themselves of their 
 impious vow, that when the British armies 
 traversed, as they did, the Carnatic for hun- 
 dreds of miles in all directions, through the 
 whole line of their march they did not see one 
 man, not one woman, not one child, not one 
 four-footed beast of any description whatever. 
 One dead uniform silence reigned over the 
 whole region. With the inconsiderable ex- 
 ceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few 
 forts, I wish to be understood as speaking 
 literally. I mean to produce to you more than 
 
 tliree witnesses, above all exception, who 
 will support this assertion in its full extent. 
 That hurricane of war passed through every 
 part of the central provinces of the Carnatic. 
 Six or seven districts to the north and to the 
 south (and these not wholly untouched) es- 
 caped the general ravage. 
 
 The Cai'natic is a country not much in- 
 ferior in extent to England. Figure to your- 
 self, Mr. Speaker, the land in whose repre- 
 sentative chair you sit, figure to yourself the 
 form and fashion of your sweet and cheerful 
 country, from Thames to Trent north and 
 south, and from the Irish to the German Sea 
 east and west, emptied and embowelled (may 
 God avert the omen of our crimes !) by so 
 accomplished a desolation. Extend your im- 
 agination a little further, and then suppose 
 your ministers taking a survey of this scene 
 of waste and desolation ; what would be your 
 thoughts if you should be informed, that they 
 were computing how much had been the 
 amount of the excises, how much the customs, 
 how much the land and malt tax, in order 
 that they should charge (take it in the most 
 favourable light) for public service, upon the 
 relics of the satiated vengeance of relentless 
 enemies, the whole of what England had 
 yielded in the most exuberant seasons of peace 
 and abundance? What would you call it? 
 To call it tyranny, sublimed into madness, 
 would be too faint an image ; yet this very 
 madness is the principle upon which the min- 
 isters at your right hand have proceeded in 
 their estimate of the revenues of the Cai'natic, 
 when they were providing, not supply for the 
 establishments of its protection, but rewards 
 for the authors of its ruin. 
 
 ELIZABETH RYVES. 
 
 Died 1797. 
 
 [Of the early days of EHzabeth Ryves little 
 or nothing is known beyond the fact that she 
 was of a good Irish family. While young she 
 lost her property through some trick of the 
 law, and, having received a good education, 
 determined to earn her living by her pen. 
 With this view she removed to London, wheie 
 in 1777 she wrote her fii-st work. The Prude, 
 a comic opera. The piece was a good one, 
 but through want of proper introductions or 
 from some other cause, it was not acted. In- 
 
 deed, it is possible that the originality and 
 high tone of the piece may have stood in its 
 way. Miss Ryves' next work was The Debt 
 of Honour; but the manager to whom she sent 
 it kept it for some years, when he returned it 
 to her, and it met with no greater success than 
 her previous attempts. 
 
 Turning from tlie unpaying walk of drama- 
 tic literatui'e she took to writing verses, a 
 volume of which she published; but finding 
 that she could get any amount of them
 
 ELIZABETH RYVES. 
 
 235 
 
 printed yet with small pay for the beat, she 
 turned her back upon poetry as upon the 
 drama, and took to hack-work of another 
 kind. In a garret at Islington she produced 
 in lapid succession translations of Rousseau's 
 Social Compact, Raynal's Letter to the National 
 Assembly, and De la Choix's Review of the Con- 
 stitutions of Europe. Once again financial 
 success failed to attend her, and leaving Isling- ! 
 ton she returned to London. Though bi'oken I 
 down in health and for a time dispirited, she 
 now engaged on a translation of Froissart, I 
 but again had little profit for her labour. 
 Still bearing up under her misfortunes she 
 turned to another field, and in 1794 published 
 The Hermit of Snowden, a novel of high merit 
 and deeply pathetic. 
 
 When Dodsley gave up the management of 
 The Annual Register, Miss Ryves, being well 
 known as a person of wide reading and attain- 
 ments, was engaged to conduct the historical 
 and political departments. Notwithstanding 
 this last engagement, however, she began to 
 find it impossible to earn as much as would 
 keep clothes on her body, a roof over her head, 
 and sufficient food to eat. In her there must 
 have been something of the generous impro- 
 vidence of Goldsmith, for it is said that on one 
 occasion she spent what money she had in buy- 
 ing a joint of meat for a destitute family that 
 lodged in a room above her, while she herself 
 went dinnerless. Desperate and absolute want 
 at last brought on her end, which occurred in 
 Store Street, London, on the 29thof April, 1797. 
 
 In tribute to affliction's claim, 
 Or envied merit'M wounded fame. 
 Let Stoics scoff"! I'd rather be 
 Thus curst with sensibility, 
 Than share their boasted apathy. 
 
 ODE TO SENSIBILITY.! 
 
 The sordid wretch who ne'er has known 
 
 To feel for miseries not his own, 
 
 Whose lazy pulse serenely beats 
 
 Wliile injured worth her wrongs repeats; 
 
 Dead to each sense of joy or pain, 
 
 A useless link in nature's chain 
 
 May boast the calm which I disdain. 
 
 Give me a generous soul, that glows 
 AVith others' transports, others' woes. 
 Whose noble nature scorns to bend, 
 Tho' Fate her iron scourge extend, 
 But bravely bears the galling yoke, 
 And smiles superior to the stroke 
 With spirits free and mind unbroke. 
 
 Yet by compassion touched, not fear, 
 Sheds the soft sympathizing tear 
 
 I This and the following pieces are from Poems on Seve- 
 ral Occasions. 
 
 ODE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Fond Love witii all his winning wiles 
 Of tender looks and flatterin,' smiles, 
 Of accents that might Juno charm. 
 Or Dian's colder ear alarm; 
 No more shall play the tyrant's part, 
 No more shall lord it o'er my heart. 
 
 To Friendship (sweet benignant power!) 
 I consecrate my humble bower, 
 My lute, my muse, my willing mind, 
 And fix her in my heart enshrined; 
 She, heaven-descended queen, shall be 
 My tutelar divinity. 
 
 Soft Peace descends to guard her reign 
 From anxious fear and jealous pain; 
 She no delusive hopes displays, 
 But calmly guides our tranquil days; 
 Refines our pleasure, soothes our care. 
 And gives the joys of Eden here. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tho' love and each harmonious maid 
 To gentle Sappho lent their aid, 
 Yet, deaf to her enchanting tongue, 
 Proud Pliaon scorned her melting song. 
 
 Mistaken nymph! hadst thou adored 
 Fair Fortune, and her smiles implored; 
 Had she indulgent owned thy claim. 
 And given thee wealth instead of fame; 
 
 Tho' harsh thy voice, deformed and old, 
 Yet such th' omnipotence of gold, 
 The youth had soon confe.ss'd thy charms, 
 And flown impatient to thy arms. 
 
 THE SYLPH LOVER 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Here in this fragrant bower I dwell, 
 And nightly here repose, 
 
 My couch a lily's snowy bell, 
 My canopy a rose. 
 
 The honey-dew each morn I sip 
 
 That hangs upon the violet's lip,
 
 236 
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 And like the bee, from flower to flower 
 I careless rove at noontide hour. 
 
 Regardless as I lately strayed 
 
 Along the myrtle grove, 
 Enchanting music round me played, 
 
 Soft as the voice of love. 
 Thus its sweet murmurs seem'd to say: 
 "Fond, thoughtless wanton, come away, 
 For while you rove a rival's charms 
 Wins thy Myrtilla to his arms." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THE HERMIT OF 
 SNOWUEN." 
 
 [D'Israeli says in his Calamities of Authors, 
 that " iu the character of Lavinia our author- 
 ess, with all the melancholy sagacity of genius, 
 foresaw and has described her own death : the 
 di-eadful solitude to which she was latterly 
 condemned when in the last stage of her 
 poverty, her fnigal mode of life, her acute 
 sensibility, her defrauded hopes, and her ex- 
 alted fortitude."] 
 
 Lavinia's lodgings were about two miles 
 from town, in an obscure situation. I wjis 
 shown up to a mean apartment, where Lavinia 
 was sitting at work, and in a dress which indi- 
 cated the greatest economy. I inquired what 
 success she had met with in her dramatic pur- 
 suits. She waved her head with a melancholy 
 smile, replied " that her hopes of ever bring- 
 ing any piece on the stage were now entirely 
 over, for she found that more interest was 
 necessary for the purpose than she could com- 
 mand, and that she had for that reason laid 
 ;uside her comedy for ever. While she was 
 tiilking came in a favourite dog of Lavinia's 
 which I had used to caress. The creature 
 sprang to my arms, and I received him with 
 my usual fondness. Lavinia enileavoured to 
 conceal a tear that trickled down her cheek. 
 Afterward she said, " Now that I live entirely 
 alone, I show Juno more attention than I 
 used to do formerly ; the heart wants some- 
 thing to be kind to, and it consoles us for the 
 loss of society to see even an animal derive 
 happiness from the endearments we bestow 
 upon it." 
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 BoRX 1763— Died 1798. 
 
 [Theobald Wolfe Tone was the central figui'e 
 in the Society of United Irishmen formed in 
 Belfast in 1791, and was known as one of the 
 most daring revolutionary leader's among such 
 men as Emmet, O'Conner, Russell, Neilson, 
 Keogh, and others. He was born in Dublin, 
 20th June, 1763. His father was a coach- 
 maker in good business ; but the inheritance 
 of a jiroperty in county Kildare, which, he let 
 to a younger brother, gave rise to an unfor- 
 tunate lawsuit, which almost ruined him. Theo- 
 bald tells us that his brothers as well as him- 
 self were remarkable for a wild daring spirit 
 and love of adventure; and when he was sent 
 to a school kept by a Mr. Darling, his master 
 acknowledged that he possessed very remark- 
 able talents coml)ined with much want of ap- 
 plication. Nothing could induce him to work 
 but his great love of distinction, which even 
 at tills early age was a marked feature in his 
 character. By the advice of this master Theo- 
 bald was removed to the school of the Rev. 
 W. Craig for the purpose of ])re))aring for a 
 university course, in which it w;u3 decided he 
 
 would be sure to gain distinction. This de- 
 manded a sacrifice on the part of his father, 
 who was now a poor man. It seems that the 
 boy found he could master his week's lessons 
 in three days, and with a number of the senior 
 boys who adopted the same course he was in 
 the habit of spending his spare time in attend- 
 ing the field-days, parades, and reviews of the 
 soldiers in the Phoenix Park. Here he gained 
 that love of a soldier's life which clung to him 
 ever afterwards. 
 
 As the time ajDpi'oached for his entering the 
 university his reluctance to do so increased, and 
 only the firmness and determination of his 
 father, combined with his refusal to assist him 
 in any other course, at length prevailed. He 
 was in his eighteenth year when he entered 
 Trinity College, and he relates that although 
 he worked with a will to prepare for his first 
 examination, yet he happened to be examined 
 by " an egregious dunce, who, instead of 
 giving me the premium, which, as the best 
 answerer, I undoubtedly merited, awarded it 
 to another." He now determined to abandon
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 237 
 
 his studies, and urged his father to furnish 
 him with means to take part in the American 
 war. His father refused, and he says that, in 
 revenge, for about twelve months he did not 
 " go near the college, or oj)en a book that was 
 not a military one." But at length the per- 
 suasions of his friends, w^hom his rare chai-m 
 of manner had attracted to him in his short 
 college experience, had the desired effect, and 
 he returned to his university, where, notwith- 
 standing loss of time and occasional inatten- 
 tion, he gained in 1784 three premiums and a 
 scholarship. About this time he made the ac- 
 quaintance of a young lady named Matilda 
 Witherington. She was very pretty, scarcely 
 sixteen, and the heiress of her grandfather 
 the Rev. Mr. Fanning, with whom she lived. 
 They soon became mutually attached, and 
 Tone asked the consent of her friends to their 
 union. This was refused, and in 1785 they 
 eloped and were married. The forgiveness of 
 friends soon followed this step, and Tone now 
 determined to adopt the law as a settled profes- 
 sion. In 1786 he graduated B.A., resigned his 
 scholarship, and resolved to proceed to London 
 for the purpose of prosecuting his law studies 
 at the Temple. During his college career he 
 had been elected to the highly honourable 
 position of auditor in the Historical Society; 
 he delivered one of the closing speeches from 
 the chair, and gained several of the society's 
 medals. Leaving his wife and child with his 
 father, he arrived in London in January, 1 787, 
 and immediately entered his name as a stu- 
 dent at law on the books of the Middle Temple ; 
 but this, he says, was all the progress he ever 
 made in his profession. He endeavoured to 
 maintain himself at tliis period by contributing 
 to periodical literature, but was frequently 
 indebted to the generosity of his friends for 
 the means of support. 
 
 His brother William, who had been a ser- 
 vant of the East India Company, joined him 
 the year after his arrival in London, and about 
 this time Tone, in his then desperate circum- 
 stances, formed a plan which he thought might 
 put him in the way to fame and fortune. 
 This was the establishment of a military colony 
 on one of the islands in the South Seas lately 
 discovered by Cook. He drew up a state- 
 ment of his plan and laid it before Mr. Pitt, 
 giving as a reason for the proposed settlement 
 that it would tend to "put a bridle on Spain 
 in time of peace, and to aimoy her grievously 
 in that qixarter in time of war." The great 
 statesman, however, took no notice of this 
 communication, which slight so annoyed Tone 
 
 as to lead him to declare: "I made some- 
 thing like a vow, that if I ever had the oppoi"- 
 tunity, I would make Mr. Pitt soiTy, and per- 
 ha])s fortune may enable me to fulfil that 
 resolution." A complaining letter from his 
 father further irritated him, and he attempted 
 to enlist in the Indian service. He was too 
 late at that time, but was promised a chance in 
 the following year. He did not wait for this, 
 however, but returned to Dublin, and in 1789 
 was called to the bar, although almost entirely 
 ignorant of law. His wife's gi-andfather pre- 
 sented him with £500, and to make up for his 
 deficiency in law one of his first acts was to 
 I)urchase £100 worth of law-books out of this 
 timely gift. His legal career was short, and 
 although he had wide acquaintance among 
 the members of the 2>rofession, and batl 
 achieved a tolerable measure of success, yet 
 his hati-ed of it increased, and he turned to 
 politics as a relief. His first political essay 
 was a pamphlet in defence of the Whig Club. 
 This was highly successful ; the club had it 
 reprinted, and elected Mr. Tone a member. 
 About this time he made the acquaintance of 
 Thomas Russell, an ensign, whose "identity of 
 sentiment" formed a tie between them which 
 lasted for life. Tone's devotion to politics now 
 led to the discovery, which he says he might 
 have found in the pages of Swift or Molyneux, 
 "that Ireland would never be either free, j^ro- 
 sperous, or happy, until she was independent, 
 and that independence was unattainable while 
 the connection with England existed." 
 
 In the summer of 1790 he took a little 
 cottage at a place called Irishtown on the sea- 
 coast. Here he spent some pleasant months 
 in the society of his family and his friend 
 Russell. An appearance of disturbance from 
 Spain led Russell to advise him again to lay 
 his proposal for the military colony before 
 sovernment. This time he was treated with 
 some consideration, but nothing resulted from 
 it. Tone thus speaks of the intention of Russell 
 and himself had the plan been adopted : " We 
 were both determined on going out with the 
 expedition, in which case, instead of planning 
 revolutions in our own country, we might be 
 now perhaps carrying on a privateering war 
 (for which I think we both have talents) on 
 the coast of Spanish America." In the winter 
 of this year Tone and his friends formed a 
 political and literary club in Belfast ; and, 
 among other pamphlets written at this time, 
 he published An Argument on Behalf of the 
 Catholics oj Ireland. In this he pleaded for 
 equal rights and the advisability of a union
 
 238 
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 for the common cause, such as he afterwards 
 effected in the Society of United Irishmen. This 
 work brought him into notice, which resulted 
 in his election as paid secretary of the Catholic 
 committee. About the same time he visited 
 Belfast " in order to assist in framing the first 
 club of United Irishmen." This body, which 
 soon spread itself all over Ireland, was osten- 
 sibly pledged to union in pursuit of reform; 
 but the real design, for a long time only known 
 to the leaders, was to effect a revolution and 
 establish a republic. The progress of the 
 French revolution stirred up the minds of the 
 people more and more; the Kev. William 
 Jackson came over as an emissary from the 
 French government to sound the Irish people 
 and find how far they were prepared for re- 
 bellion. Tone was in close communication 
 with him from the first, and offered to under- 
 take a mission to France to arrange matters; 
 Jackson, however, revealed his object to an 
 English attorney named Cockayne, who be- 
 trayed him to government, and in April, 1794, 
 he was arrested. Tone was also implicated ; 
 but by the intervention of Lord Kilwarden 
 and other powerful friends, he was pei-mitted 
 to leave Ireland so soon as he could arrange 
 his ati'airs. The Catholic committee presented 
 him with ^'300, with which he paid his debts, 
 and in June, 1795, he sailed with his wife, sister, 
 and three children for America. The voyage 
 was not without adventure; they were boarded 
 by a British cruiser, and fifty of the passen- 
 gers and all but one of the seamen pressed 
 into the naval service. Only the entreaties of 
 Tone's wife and sister prevented him being 
 carried ofi" with the others. They arrived 
 safely at Philadelphia. Here he met Hamilton 
 Rowan and Dr. Reynolds. By the former he 
 was presented to Citizen Adet, the French 
 ambassador at Philadelphia. He at once laid 
 before him his plan for the invasion of Ireland, 
 which was favourably received, and at the am- 
 bassador's request he drew up a memorial for 
 presentation to the French government. 
 
 Tone now seems to have had some idea of set- 
 tling down as an American farmer; but in the 
 autumn he received letters from Keogh, Rus- 
 sell, and others, detailing the great progress of 
 the cause in Ireland, and urging him to pro- 
 ceed to France at once, and endeavour to secure 
 her aid in the impending struggle. Mrs. Tone, 
 instead of tin-owing obstacles in his way, en- 
 couraged him to proceed in his duty to his 
 country, and so on the 1st of January, 1796, 
 he left for Paris with introduction to the 
 government from Adet. Arrived in Paris, he 
 
 found in the republican government the reali- 
 zation of his most sanguine dreams. He was 
 met on all sides with a flattering reception, and 
 was created a chefcU brigade. A f te !■ m ucli de 1 ay, 
 negotiations, and an interview with Bona- 
 parte, the details of the invasion were settled. 
 He embarked on the 16th Decembei-, 1796, in 
 the Indomitable, one of a fleet of forty-tliree 
 vessels carrying 15,000 troops and a large sup- 
 ply of arms and ammunition, — General Hoche 
 holding the military, and Admiral Morand 
 de Galles the naval command. But the 
 weather, which had so often befriended Eng- 
 land, again came to her aid; the ships were 
 scattered ; the admiral's vessel was separated 
 from the rest of the fleet, and dense fogs 
 seemed to protect the coast. On the 21st 
 they were oft" Cape Clear, and only thirty sail 
 to be seen. The intended descent on Bantry 
 was impossible, as violent snowstorms pre- 
 vented them communicating with the shore. 
 Tone anxiously ui-ged the French commander 
 to put him on shore in Sligo Bay, with the 
 Legion des Francs and as many officers as 
 would volunteer for the service. But the 
 commander would not consent to this, and 
 after the fleet had been tossed about for six 
 days within a few hundred yards of the shore, 
 and was now reduced to fourteen sail through 
 a perfect hurricane, the vessels made the best 
 of their way to Brest, where, after a highly 
 dangerous passage, they arrived on the 1st 
 January, 1797. Tone says in his journal, 
 "Well, England has not had such an escape 
 since the Spanish Armada; and that expedi- 
 tion, like ours, was defeated by the weather." 
 Tone was now raised to the rank of ad- 
 jutant-general to the army of the Sambre and 
 Meuse under the command of his friend 
 General Clarke. His wife and family, after 
 many difficulties, arrived in Paris, but he was 
 not long to enjoy the reimion. In 1798 the 
 news of the arrest of his friends and the 
 breaking out of the insurrection in Ireland 
 reached him. This caused intense excitement 
 among the Irish refugees in Paris, and Tone 
 made great eff"orts to organize an expedition. 
 In this critical state, while the French govern- 
 ment were considering, their general, Hum- 
 bert, with a thousand men, effected a landing 
 in Killala Bay. Matthew Tone (Theobald's 
 brother), Teeling, and Sullivan were the three 
 Irishmen who accompanied this expedition. 
 Humbert landed, stormed the town, and held it 
 till the appearance of General Lake with 20,000 
 men. After a gallant resistance they were 
 obliged to surrender as prisoners of war. Tone
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 239 
 
 and Teeling were executed in Dublin, and 
 Sullivan, who passed as a Frenchman, escaped. 
 Another attempt was made by tlie mass of the 
 United Irishmen in Paris with Nai)per Tandy 
 as leader. They managed to land at Rathlin 
 and issued a few jjroclamations; but, hearing 
 of the failure of Humbert's expedition, they 
 escaped to Norway. The third expedition, 
 commanded by General Hardy, consisted of 
 only one sail of the line and eight frigates, 
 containing 3000 men. Wolfe Tone had little 
 or no hoj^e of success; but although failure was 
 almost certain death to him, he set out with 
 this expedition, which started on the 20th of 
 September, 1798. He assured his wife on 
 parting that should death overtake him he 
 would never submit to die by the halter. The 
 admiral of the fleet, Bompart, to avoid the 
 British men-of-war, sailed to the north-east, 
 and after their number was reduced by con- 
 trary winds to the Hoclie, the admiral's ship, 
 in which Tone sailed, and three frigates, they 
 arrived in Lough Swilly on the 11th October, 
 1798. At daybreak the English fleet, which had 
 been on the look-out, was seen bearing down 
 upon them, and the tide having ebbed it was 
 impossible for the seventy-four to escape. The 
 admiral at once signalled to the smaller vessels 
 to fly, and urged Tone to save himself by going 
 on board one of them. He answered, "Shall it 
 be said that I fled while the French were 
 fighting the battles of my country 1 " The 
 Hoche was soon suiTOunded, and attacked by 
 the Robust and Magnanime, and shortly after 
 by three others. For six hours the engage- 
 ment continued, shot pouring in on all 
 sides. Tone commanded a battery and fought 
 with courage and bravery. At length, when 
 the Hoche could not reply with a single 
 gun, her masts, rigging, and hull shattered, 
 and 5 feet of water in her hold, she struck. 
 All the other vessels which had fled were 
 captured except two frigates and the Biche, 
 in which the admiral had urged Tone to escape. 
 The French officers who survived were 
 made prisoners, with Tone among them. He 
 had so completely identified himself in lan- 
 guage and manner with Frenchmen that he 
 was not at first recognized. The French offi- 
 cers were invited to breakfast with the Earl 
 of Cavan, and Sir George Hill, who had been a 
 fellow-student of Tone's in Trinity College, 
 recognized him, and gave information to Lord 
 Cavan. He was at once arrested, fettered, 
 and sent to Dublin, and on the 10th of Nov- 
 ember, 1798, he was tried by court-martial. 
 Tone neither objected to the court as illegal. 
 
 since he had no commission in the British 
 army, nor off"ered any defence, but fully 
 admitted " all the facts alleged." He made 
 one request : " I ask that the court shall ad- 
 judge me the death of a soldier, and let me 
 be shot by a platoon of grenadiers. I request 
 this indulgence rather in consideration of the 
 uniform I wear — the uniform of a chef de 
 brigade in the French army— than from any 
 pei-sonal regard to myself. In order to evince 
 my claim to this favour, I beg that the court 
 may take the trouble to peruse my commission 
 and letters of service in the French army." 
 Tone's request was, refused by Lord Corn- 
 wallis, and two days after he was sentenced 
 to be hanged within forty-eight hours. 
 
 Mr. Tone's friends, with the luirpose of gain- 
 ing time in hopes that the French government 
 might interfere, moved for a trial in the civil 
 courts. Through the influence of John Phil- 
 pot Curran, Lord Kilwarden granted a writ 
 of habeas corptcs to remove the prisoner from 
 the custody of the military. But all this was 
 rendered useless by Tone himself. He wrote 
 to his wife and to the French Directory, and 
 then severed a blood-vessel in his neck with 
 a penknife. On the morning appointed for 
 his execution he was found still living, but 
 weak from loss of blood. To the surgeon, who 
 was at once in attendance, he said, " I find 
 that I am but a bad anatomist." He lingered 
 for several days in agony, and when the sur- 
 geon told him that death would ensue on a 
 single movement, Tone at once answered, "I 
 can yet find words to thank you, sir. It is 
 the most welcome news you could give me. 
 What should I wish to live for?" These were 
 his last words; he instantly expired, 19th 
 November, 1798. His body was given to a 
 kinsman and buried in Bodenstown church- 
 yard, county Kildare. An ample record of 
 Tone's life is contained in the J/e«ioi>5, written 
 by himself and continued by his son, with his 
 political writings, published in Philadelphia 
 in 1826.] 
 
 ESSAY ON THE STATE OF IRELAND 
 IN 1720. 
 
 READ BEFORE THE POLITICAL CLUB FORMED IN 
 DUBLIN IN 1790. 
 
 In inquiring into the subject of this essay 
 I shall take a short view of the state of this 
 country at the time of her greatest abasement; 
 I mean about the time when she was supposed 
 to be fettered for ever by the famous act of
 
 240 
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 the 6th of George I., and I shall draw my 
 facts from the most indisputable authority, 
 that of Swift. 
 
 It is a favourite cant under which many 
 conceal their idleness, and many their corrui^- 
 tion, to cry that there is in the genius of the 
 people of this countiy, and particularly among 
 the lower ranks, a spirit of pride, laziness, 
 and dishonesty, which stifles all tendency to 
 improvement, and will for ever keep us a 
 suboi'dinate nation of hewers of wood and 
 drawers of water. It may be worth while a 
 little to consider this opinion, because, if it be 
 well founded, to know it so may save me and 
 other well-wishers to Ireland the hopeless 
 labour of endeavouring to excite a nation of 
 idle thieves to honesty and industry ; and if 
 it be not, it is an error the removal of which 
 will not only wipe away an old stigma, but 
 in a great degree facilitate the way to future 
 improvement. If we can find any cause, 
 different from an inherent depravity in the 
 people, and abundantly sufficient to account 
 for the backwardness of this country compared 
 with England, I hope no man will volunteer 
 national disgrace so far as to prefer that 
 hypothesis which, by degi-ading his country, 
 degrades himself. 
 
 Idleness is a ready accusation in the mouth 
 of him whose corruption denies to the poor 
 the means of labour. "Ye are idle," said 
 Pharaoh to the Israelites when he demanded 
 bricks of them and withheld the straw. . . . 
 
 Yet, surely misrule, and ignorance, and 
 oppression in the government are means suffi- 
 cient to plunge and to keep any nation in 
 ignorance and poverty, without blaspheming 
 Providence by imputing innate and immov- 
 able depravity to millions of God's creatures. 
 It is, at least, an hypothesis more honourable 
 to human nature ; let us try if it be not nu)re 
 consonant to the reality of things. Let us see 
 the state of Ireland in different periods, and 
 let us refer those periods to the maxims and 
 practice of her then government. 
 
 To begin with the first grand criterion of 
 the prosperity of a nation. In 1724 the popu- 
 lation of Ireland w;is 1,500,000, and in 1672 
 1,100,000, so that in fifty-two years it was in- 
 creased but one-third, after a civil war. The 
 rental of the whole kingdom was computed at 
 £2,000,000 annually, of which, by absentees, 
 about .£700,000 went to England. The revenue 
 was £400,000 per annum; the current cash 
 was £5()0,()()0, wliich in 1727 was reduced to 
 less than £200,000; and tlu; balance of trade 
 with England, the only nation to which we 
 
 could trade, was in our disfavour about 
 £1,000,000 annually. Such were the reaourcea 
 of Ireland in 1724. 
 
 Commerce we had none, or what was worse 
 than none, an exportation of raw materials for 
 half their value ; an importation of the same 
 materials wrought up at an immense profit to 
 the English manufacturer; the indispensable 
 necessaries of life bartered for luxuries for 
 our men and fopperies for our women; not 
 only the wine, and coffee, and silk, and cotton, 
 but the very com we consumed was imported 
 from England. 
 
 Our benches were filled with English law- 
 yers ; ovir bishoprics with English divines ; 
 our custom-house with English commissioners; 
 all offices of state filled, three deep, with 
 Englishmen in possession, Englishmen in re- 
 veraion, and Englishmen in expectancy. The 
 majority of these not only aliens, but ab- 
 sentees, and not only absentees, but busily 
 and actively employed against that country 
 on whose vitals and in whose blood they were 
 rioting in ease and luxury. Every proposal 
 for the advantage of Ireland was held a direct 
 attack on the interests of England. Swift's 
 pamphlet on the expediency of wearing our 
 own manufactures exposed the printer to a 
 prosecution, in which the jury were sent back 
 by the chief-justice nine times, till they were 
 brow-beaten, and bullied, and wearied into a 
 special verdict, leaving the printer to the 
 mercy of the judge. 
 
 The famous project of Wood is known to 
 every one; it is unnecessary to go into the 
 objections against it, but it is curious to see 
 the mode in which that ruinous plan was 
 endeavoured to be forced down our throats. 
 Immediately on its promulgation the two 
 Houses of Parliament, the privy-council, the 
 merchants, the traders, the manufacturers, the 
 grand- juries of the whole kingdom, by votes, 
 resolutions, and addresses testified their dread 
 and abhorrence of the plan. What was the 
 conduct of the English minister 1 He calls a 
 committee of the English council together; 
 he examines Mr. Wood on one side, and two 
 or three prepared, obscure, and interested 
 witnesses on the other; he nonsuits the whole 
 Irish nation; thus committed with Mr. William 
 Wood, he puts forth a proclamation, com- 
 manding all persons to I'eceive his halfpence 
 in payment, and calls the votes of the Houses 
 of Lords and Commons and the resolutions of 
 the Privy-council of Ireland a clamour. But 
 Swift had by this time raised a spirit not to 
 be laid by the anathema of the British minister;
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 241 
 
 the project was driven as far as the verge of 
 civil war; tliere it was stopped; and this was i 
 the first signal triumph of the virtue of the 
 people in Ireland. 
 
 In one of his inimitable letters on the 
 subject of Wood's halfpence, Swift, with a 
 daring and a generous indignation worthy 
 of a better age and country, had touched 
 on the imaginary dependence of Ireland on 
 Enfflaiid. The bare mention of a doubt on 
 the subject had an instantaneous effect on 
 the nerves of the English government here. 
 A proclamation was issued offering £300 for 
 the author ; the printer was thrown into jail ; 
 the grand-jury were tampered with to present 
 the letter, and, on their refusing to do so, 
 were dissolved in a rage by the chief- justice, 
 a step without a precedent, save one, which 
 happened in the time of James II., and was 
 followed by an immediate censure of the 
 House of Commons of England. Yet all that 
 Swift had said was that, " under God, he 
 could be content to depend only on the king 
 his sovereign, and the laws of his own country; 
 that the Parliament of England had sometimes 
 enacted laws binding Ireland, but that obedi- 
 ence to them was but the result of necessity, 
 inasmuch as eleven men well armed will cer- 
 tainly subdue one man in his shirt, be his 
 ciiuse ever so righteous, and that, by the laws 
 of God, of nature, and of nations. Irishmen 
 were, and ought to be, as free as their brethren 
 in England " We, who live at this day, see 
 nothing like sedition, privy conspiracy, or 
 rebellion in all this ; and we may bless God 
 for it ; but in 1724 the case was very different. 
 The printer was prosecuted, and died in jail; 
 Swift escaped, because it was impossible to 
 bring it home to him; and so little were the 
 minds of men prepared for such opinions, that, 
 in a paper addressed to the gi-and-jury who 
 were to sit on the bdls of indictment. Swift is 
 obliged to take shelter imder past services, 
 and admit that the words which were taken 
 up by government as offensive were the result 
 of inadvertency and unwariness. 
 
 The famous act of the 6th of George I., Swift, 
 with all his intrepidity, does no more than 
 obscurely hint at, a crying testimony to the 
 miserable depression of spii'it in this country, 
 when the last rivet, driven into her fetters and 
 clenched, as England hoped, for ever could not 
 excite more than an indistinct and half-sup- 
 pressed murmur. 
 
 From this brief sketch it appeai-s that no 
 prospect could be more hopeless than that the 
 star of liberty should again arise in Ireland. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 If, notwithstanding the impenetrable cloud in 
 which she seemed buried for ever, she has yet 
 broke forth with renovated splendour, and 
 again kindled the spirit of the people, surely 
 it is a grand fact, overbearing at once the 
 efforts of thousands of corrupt cavillers, who 
 cry out that this is not a nation capable of 
 political virtue or steady exertion. 
 
 INTERVIEWS WITH BUONAPARTE. 
 
 (EXTRACTS FROM TONE'S JOURNAL, DECEMBER, 1797.) 
 
 General Desaix brought Lewines and me 
 this morning and introduced us to Buonaparte, 
 at his house in the Rue Chanteraine. He lives 
 in the greatest simplicity ; his house is small, 
 but neat, and all the furniture and ornaments 
 in the most classical taste. He is about five 
 feet six inches high, slender, and well made, 
 but stoops considerably ; he looks at least ten 
 years older than he is, owing to the great 
 fatig\ies he underwent in his immortal cam- 
 paign of Italy. His face is that of a 2:)rofound 
 thinker, but bears no mark of that great en- 
 thusiasm and unceasing activity by which he 
 has been so much distinguished. It is rather, 
 to my mind, the countenance of a mathema- 
 tician than of a general. He has a fine eye, 
 and a great firmness about his mouth ; he 
 speaks low and hollow. So much for his 
 manner and figure. We had not much dis- 
 course with him, and what little there was, 
 was between him and Lewines, to whom, as 
 our ambassador, I gave the 'pas. We told 
 him that Tenuant was about to depart for 
 Ireland, and was ready to charge himself with 
 his orders if he had any to give. He desired 
 us to bring him the same evening, and so we 
 took our leave. In the evening we returned 
 with Tennant, and Lewines had a good deal 
 of conversation with him ; that is to say, he 
 insensed him a good deal into Irish affairs, of 
 which he appears a good deal uninformed ; 
 for example, he seems convinced that our 
 population is not more than two millions, 
 which is nonsense. Buonaparte listened, but 
 said very little. When all this was finished, 
 he desired that Tennant might put off his 
 departure for a few days, and then, turning to 
 me, asked whether I was not an adjutant- 
 general. To which I answered, that I had 
 the honour to be attached to General Hoche 
 in that capacity. He then asked me where I 
 had learned to speak French. To which I 
 
 16
 
 242 
 
 THEOBALD WOLFE TONE. 
 
 replied, that I had learned the little that I 
 knew since my arrival in France, about twenty 
 months ago. He then desired us to return 
 the next evening but one, at the same hour, 
 and so we parted. As to my French I am 
 ignorant whether it was the pvirity or barbar- 
 ism of my diction which drew his attention, 
 and as I shall never inquire it must remain 
 as an historical doubt, to be investigated by 
 the learned of future ages. 
 
 January 6th. — Saw Buonaparte this evening 
 with Lewines, who delivered him a whole 
 sheaf of papers relative to Ireland, including 
 my two memorials of 1795, great part of which 
 stands good yet. After Lewines had had a 
 good deal of discourse with him, I mentioned 
 the atfair of M'Kenna, who desires to be em- 
 ployed as secretary. Buonaparte observed 
 that he believed the world thought he had 
 fifty secretaries, whereas he had but one; 
 of course there was an end of that business ; 
 however, he bid me see what the man was fit 
 for, and let him know. I took this oppor- 
 tunity to mention the desire all the refugee 
 United Irishmen, now in Paris, had to bear a 
 part in the expedition, and the utility they 
 would be of in case of a lauding in Ireland. 
 He answered that they would all be undoubt- 
 edly, and desired me to give him in, for that 
 purpose, a list of their names. Finally, I spoke 
 of myself, telling him that General Desaix 
 had informed me that I was carried on the 
 tableau of the Armee d' Angleterre ; he said I 
 was. I then observed that I did not pretend 
 to be of the smallest use to him whilst we 
 were in France, but that I hoped to be service- 
 able to him on the other side of the water ; 
 that I did not give myself at all to him for a 
 military man, having neither the knowledge 
 nor the experience that would justify me in 
 charging myself with any function. "Mais 
 vous etes brave" said he, interrupting me. I 
 replied that, when the occasion presented it- 
 self, that would appear. " Eh Men," said he, 
 " cela suffit." We then took our leave. . . . 
 
 We have now seen the greatest man in 
 Europe three times, and I am astonished to 
 think how little I have to record about him. 
 I am sure I wrote ten times as much about 
 my first interview with Charles de la Croix, 
 but then I was a greenhorn ; I am now a httle 
 used to see great men, and great statesmen, 
 and great generals, and that has, in some 
 degree, broke down my admiration. Yet, 
 after all, it is a droll tiling that I should be- 
 come acquainted with Buonaparte. This time 
 twelve months I arrived in Brest from my 
 
 expedition to Bantry Bay. Well, the third 
 time, they say, is the charm. My next chance, 
 I hope, will be with t\\e Armee d" Angleterre. — 
 Allans! Vive la Republique ! 
 
 April 1st. — Lewines waited yesterday on 
 Merlin, who is President of the Directory for 
 this Trimestre, and presented him a letter of 
 introduction from Talleyrand. Merlin re- 
 ceived him with great civility and attention. 
 Lewines pressed him as far as he could with 
 propriety on the necessity of sending succours 
 to Ireland the earhest possible moment, es- 
 pecially on account of the late arrestations ; 
 and he took that occasion to imjjress him with 
 a sense of the merit and services of the men 
 for whom he interested himself so much on 
 every account, public and personal. Merlin 
 replied that, as to the time or place of succour 
 he could tell him nothing, it being the secret 
 of the state; that, as to the danger of his friends, 
 he was sincerely sorry for the situation of so 
 many brave and virtuous patriots ; that, how- 
 ever, though he could not enter into the details 
 of the intended expedition, he would tell him 
 thus much to comfort him, " That France 
 never would grant a peace to England on any 
 terms short of the independence of Ireland." 
 This is grand news. It is far more direct and 
 explicit than any assui-ance we have yet got. 
 Lewines made the proper acknowledgments, 
 and then ran off to me to communicate the 
 news. The fact is, whatever the rest of our 
 countrymen here may think, Lewines is doing 
 his business here fair and well, and like a man 
 of honour. I wish others of them whom I 
 covild name had half as good principles. 
 
 May 20th. — During my stay in Paris I read 
 in the English papers a long account from the 
 Dublin Journal of a visitation held by the 
 chancellor in Trinity College, the result of 
 which was the expulsion of nineteen students, 
 and the suspension for three years of my friend 
 Whitley Stokes. His crime was, having com- 
 municated to Sampson, who communicated to 
 Lord Moira, a paper which he had previously 
 transmitted to the lord-lieutenant, and which 
 contained the account of some atrocious enor- 
 mities committed by the British troops in the 
 south of Ireland. Far less than that would 
 suffice to destroy him in the chancellor's opin- 
 ion, who, by-the-by, has had an eye upon him 
 this long time ; for I remember he summoned 
 Stokes before the secret committee long before 
 I left Ireland. I do not know whether to be 
 vexed or pleased at this event, as it regards 
 Whitley ; I only wish he had taken his part 
 more decidedly; for, as it is, he is destroyed
 
 CHARLES JOHNSTONE. 
 
 243 
 
 with one party, and I am by no means clear 
 that he is saved with the other. He, like 
 Parsons and Moira, have either their consci- 
 ences too scrupulous, or their minds too little 
 enlarged, to embrace the only line of conduct 
 
 in times like ours. They must be with the 
 people or against them, and that for the whole, 
 or they must be content to go down without 
 the satisfaction of serving or pleasing any 
 party. 
 
 CHARLES JOHNSTONE. 
 
 Born 1719 — Died 1800. 
 
 [Charles Johnstone, a satirist of such power 
 as to be called by Sir Walter Scott " a prose 
 Juvenal," was born in the county of Limerick 
 in the year 1719, and is said to have been 
 descended from the Johnstones of Annandale 
 in Scotland. Of his early career little is 
 known, except that he had the benefit of a 
 classical education, that he studied for the 
 bar, and that on being called he chose to prac- 
 tise in England. Being affected with a degi'ee 
 of deafness he was principally engaged as a 
 chamber counsel, and was comparatively suc- 
 cessful. Notwithstanding his defect of hear- 
 ing, in general society he was welcomed as a 
 lively and companionable man. 
 
 About 1759, while on a visit to Lord Mount 
 Edgecumbe in Devonshire, Johnstone amused 
 his leisure hours by the production of a 
 rude sketch of his first work. This appeared 
 in 1760 under the title of Chrysal; or, The 
 Adventures of a Gxunea, and is a political 
 romance not unlike the Diahle Boiteux. As 
 it set forth in strong colours the secret history 
 of some political intrigues on the Continent, 
 and contained piquant sketches of celebrated 
 living characters, it became at once a success, 
 and a second edition, with additions, was 
 produced and disposed of almost immediately. 
 In 1761 a third edition, with such further 
 additions as increased the work to four vol- 
 umes, was issued and disposed of. 
 
 Encouraged by this success Johnstone con- 
 tinued to use his pen, and in 1762 published 
 another satire entitled The Reverie, or a 
 Flight to the Paradise of Fools. This was 
 followed in 1774 by The History of Arsaces, 
 Prince of Betlis, a sort of politicid romance. 
 In 1775 appeared The Pilgrim, or a Picture of 
 Life; and in 1781, The History of John Juniper , 
 Esquire, alias Juniper Jack, a romance of low 
 life, as its name would almost indicate. 
 
 By this time, as was to be expected, the in- 
 tei-est in his satirical works had somewhat 
 subsided, and his other works having been 
 
 only moderately successful, Johnstone deter- 
 mined to try his fortune in another part 
 of the world, and accordingly in 1782 started 
 for India. On his way thither he was shi]i- 
 wi'ecked, but his life was saved, and he finally 
 reached Bengal. In India, as at home, he still 
 continued to write, but there his work was 
 chiefly for newspapers, and appeared over the 
 signature of " Onciropolos." In a short time 
 he became one of the joint proprietors of a 
 Bengal paper, and acquired a considerable for- 
 tune before his death, which occurred in 1800. 
 In a comparison of Johnstone and Le Sage 
 Sir Walter Scott has the followiiig remarks : — 
 " As Le Sage renders vice ludicrous, Johnstone 
 seems to paint even folly as detestable as well 
 as ludicrous. His Herald and Auctioneer are 
 among his lightest characters, but their deter- 
 mined roguery and greediness render them 
 hateful even while they are comic." In an- 
 other place Scott says of Johnstone : " His 
 language is firm and energetic, his power of 
 personifying character striking and forcible, 
 and the persons of his narrative move, breathe, 
 and speak in all the freshness of life. His 
 sentiments are in general those of the bold, 
 high-minded, and indignant censor of a loose 
 and corrupted age ; yet it cannot be denied 
 that Johnstone, in his hatred and contempt 
 for the more degenerate vices of ingratitude, 
 avarice, and baseness of every kind, shows but 
 too much disposition to favour Churchill and 
 other libertines, who thought fit to practise 
 open looseness of manners, because, they said, 
 it was better than hypocrisy."] 
 
 POET AND PUBLISHER! 
 
 My new master was one of those aspiring 
 geniuses whom desperate circumstances drive 
 to push at everything, and court consequences 
 
 1 This extract is from Chrysal.
 
 244 
 
 CHARLES JOHNSTONE. 
 
 the bare apprehension of which terrifies men 
 who have some character and foitune to lose 
 out of their senses. He was that evening to 
 meet at a tavern an author the boldness and 
 beauty of whose writings had for some time 
 engaged the public attention in a particular 
 manner, and made his numerous admirers 
 tremble for his safety. 
 
 As he happened to outstay his time, my 
 master's importance took offence at a freedom 
 which he thought so much out of character. 
 
 " This is very pretty, truly !" (said he, walk- 
 ing back and forward in a chafe), "that I 
 should wait an hour for an author. It was 
 his business to have been here first and waited 
 for me, but he is so puffed up of late that he has 
 quite forgot himself. Booksellers seldom meet 
 with such insolence fiom authox's. I should 
 serve him right to go away and disappoint 
 him. But would not that disappoint myself 
 moi'e? He is come into such vogue lately 
 that the best man in the trade would be glad 
 to get him. "Well, if he does not do what I 
 want, I know not who can ! Fools may be fright- 
 ened at the thoughts of a cart's tail or a pillory, 
 I know better things. Where they come in a 
 popular cause nothing sets a man's name up to 
 such advantage, and that's the first step towards 
 making a fortune ; as for the danger, it is only 
 a mere bugbear while the mob is on my side. 
 And therefore I will go on without fear, if I 
 am not bought off". A pension or a pillory is 
 the word." 
 
 These heroic meditations were interrupted 
 by the entrance of the author, who, throwing 
 himself carelessly into a chair, " I believe 
 I have made you wait," said he, " but I could 
 not help it. I was obliged to stay to kick a 
 puppy of a printer who had been impertinent; 
 as I am to meet company directly, so let me 
 hear what you have to say." 
 
 " I thought, sir," answered my master with 
 an air of offended importance, "you had ap- 
 pointed me to meet you here on business, and 
 business, you know, cannot be hurried over 
 so soon." 
 
 " Don't mention business to me, I hate the 
 very name of it, and as to any that can pos- 
 sibly be between you and me, it may be 
 done in five minutes as well as five years; 
 so speak directly, and without further pre- 
 amble, for all your finesse could have no 
 effect upon me, even if I would submit to let 
 you try it." 
 
 " Finesse, sir ! 1 do not know what you 
 mean ! I defy the world to charge me with 
 ever having been guilty of any. The business 
 
 I desired to meet you upon was about a poem 
 I was informed you had ready for the press, 
 and which I shoiUd be glad to treat with you 
 for."— 
 
 " Well, sir, and what will you give me for 
 it? Be quick, for I cannot wait to make 
 many words." 
 
 "What! before I have seen it I It is im- 
 possible for me to say till I have looked it 
 over and can judge what it is, and how much 
 it will make." 
 
 " As to your judging what it is, that must 
 depend upon inspiiation, which I imagine you 
 will scarcely make pretence to till you turn 
 Methodist at least ; but for what it will make 
 here it is, and you may judge of that while I 
 <ro down stairs for a few minutes." 
 
 Saying which he gave him a handful of loose 
 papers and left the room. 
 
 The first thing my master did when left 
 thus to form his judgment of a work of genius 
 was to number the pages, and then the lines 
 in a page or two, by the time he had done 
 which the author returned, and, taking the 
 papers out of his hand, " Well, sir," said he, 
 "and what is the result of your judgment?" 
 
 " Why, really, sir," answered my master 
 after some jxxuse, "I hardly know what to say; 
 I have cast off the copy, and do not think that 
 it will make more than a shilling, however 
 pompously printed." 
 
 " What you think it will make is not the 
 matter, but what you will give me for it. I 
 sell my work by the quality, not the quan- 
 tity." 
 
 " I do not doubt the quality of them in the 
 least ; but considering how much the trade is 
 overstocked at present, and what a mere drug 
 poetry has long been, I am a good deal at a 
 loss what to offer, as I should be unwilling to 
 give you or any gentleman offence by seeming 
 to undervalue your works. Wliat do you 
 think of five guineas? I do not imagine 
 that moi-e can be given for so little, nor, in- 
 deed, should I be fond of giving even that but 
 in compliment to you ; I have had full twice 
 as much for two many a time." 
 
 " Much good may your bargain do you, sir ; 
 but I will not take less than fifty for mine in 
 compliment to you, or any bookseller alive; 
 and so, sir, I desire to know without more 
 words (for I told you before that your elo- 
 quence would be thrown away u])on me!) 
 whether you will give that, as I am in haste 
 to go to company nmch more agreeable to me 
 than yours." — 
 
 "What, sir! fifty guineas for scarce five
 
 ISAAC BICKEESTAFF. 
 
 245 
 
 Imndred lines ! Such a thing was never heard 
 of in the trade." — 
 
 "Confound your trade, and you together! 
 Here, waiter ! what is to {)ay?" — 
 
 "But, dear sir! why will you be in such a 
 hurry? can you not give yourself and me time 
 to consider a little ? Perhaps we might come 
 nearer to each other !" — 
 
 " I have told you before, and I repeat it 
 again, that I will have so much, and that 
 without more words."' — 
 
 " You are very peremptory, sir, but you 
 know your own value, and therefore in hopes 
 you will let me have more for my money next 
 time, I will venture to give you your price 
 now, though really if it was not for your name 
 T could not possibly do it, but to be sure that 
 is wortli a shilling extraordinary, I own." 
 
 "Which is twelve pence more than yours 
 ever will be, unless to the ordinary of New- 
 gate. — But come ! give me the money, I want 
 to go to my company." — 
 
 " Well, sir, this is a hasty bargain, but I take 
 it upon your word, and don't doubt but there 
 is merit in it, to answer such a price. Satire, 
 sir! keen satire, and so plain that he who runs 
 may read, as the saying is, is the thing now 
 o' days. Where there is any doubt or difficulty 
 in the application it takes otf the plejisure from 
 the generality of readei's. That, sir, is your 
 great merit. Satire must be personal, oi' it 
 will never do." — 
 
 " Personal ! that mine never shall be. Vices, 
 not pei-sons, are the objects of my satire; 
 though, where I find the former, I never spare 
 the latter, l)e the rank and character in life 
 what it will." 
 
 My master had by this time counted out 
 his money (among which I was), which the 
 author took without telling over, and then 
 went to his company, leaving the bookseller 
 scarcely more pleased with his bargain than 
 mortified at the cavalier treatment he had met 
 in making it. 
 
 ISAAC BICKEESTAFF. 
 
 Born 1735 — Dikd 1800. 
 
 [Isaac Bickerstaflf, a name well known in 
 dramatic literature, was born of a respectable 
 family in the year 1735. In 1746 he became 
 page to Lord Chesterfield when that nobleman 
 was appointed Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, and 
 later on in life he was an officer of marines. 
 From this post he was dismissed for some 
 dishonourable action, when he left his country 
 and died abroad, the exact time and place 
 being both uncertain, although the date of his 
 death is generally said to be 1800. 
 
 Of comedies, farces, operas, &c., Bickerstatf 
 produced in his time some twenty-two, a large 
 proportion of which were highly successful. 
 His three good old-fashioned English comic 
 operas. Love in a Village, The Maid of the 
 Mill, and Lionel and Clarissa, are declared by 
 a clever yet sober critic to be " of the first 
 class, which will continue to be popular as 
 long as the language in which they are written 
 lasts." Love in a Village, which appeared in 
 1762, and was played frequently during its 
 first se;ison, had a success nearly as great 
 as The Beggar's Opera of an earlier period. 
 Its reputation is still high, and it is yet re- 
 tained as a stock piece on the English stage, 
 although it is said to be at best only a clever 
 
 compilation of scenes and incidents from a 
 number of other plays. But Bickerstatf saw 
 no harm in this, any more than our modern 
 adapters do in conveying from the French; and 
 if he stole, it must be said he dressed his 
 kidnapped children in better clothes than 
 they possessed before. 
 
 Of Bickerstafi's farces three at least. The 
 Padlock, The Sultan, and The Spoiled Child, 
 held the stage for a long time, and we our- 
 selves remember seeing The Padlock acted at 
 a country theatre. Though constantly pro- 
 ducing light musical pieces, and excelling in 
 them, BickerstafF only once attemjited ora- 
 torio. This piece was called Judith, set to 
 music by Dr. Arne, and performed first at 
 the Lock Hospital Chapel in February, 1764, 
 and afterwards revived at the church of Strat- 
 ford-on-Avon on the occasion of Garrick's 
 foolish "Jubilee in honour of the memory 
 of Shakspere," in 1769. In 1765 The Maid 
 of the Mill was produced at Covent Garden, 
 and ran the unusual period of thirty-five 
 nights. It is chiefly founded on Richardson's 
 novel Pamela, but "divested of the coarse 
 scenes and indecency by which that moral and 
 model lesson, as it has been called, is dis-
 
 246 
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 
 
 figured." His pieces The Plain Dealer and 
 The Hypocrite, both alterations of other plays, 
 the latter of C'olley Cibber's Nonjuror, are 
 well known, and still keep the stage. One 
 of Bickerstati's best comedies, 'Tis Well it's 
 no Worse, is founded on a Spanish original. 
 Indeed, of all his works, oiUy Lionel and Clar- 
 issa can be said to be thoroughly and com- 
 pletely original. Notwithstanding this, how- 
 ever, critics still continue to look on him as 
 one of the most successful writers for the stage, 
 an employment which he followed for over 
 twenty years.] 
 
 A NOBLE LORD. 
 
 (FROM "THE MAID OF THE MILL.") 
 
 [Patty has been educated and brought up 
 by Lord Aimworth's mother, who was very 
 fond of her, and his lordship is equally so.] 
 
 Lord Aimworth and Patty. 
 
 Lord Aim. I came hither, Patty, in con- 
 sequence of our conversation this morning, to 
 render your change of state as agreeable and 
 happy as I coiUd ; but your father tells me 
 you have fallen out with the farmer. Has 
 anything haj^pened since I saw you last to 
 alter your good opinion of him ] 
 
 Patty. No, my lord, I am in the same 
 opinion now with regard to the farmer that I 
 always was. 
 
 Lord A im. I thought, Patty, you loved him. 
 You told me — 
 
 Patty. My lord ! 
 
 Lord Aim. Well, no matter ; it seems I have 
 been mistaken in that particular. Possibly 
 your affections are engaged elsewhere. Let 
 me but know the man that can make you 
 happy and I swear — 
 
 Patty. Indeed, my lord, you take too much 
 trouble upon my account. 
 
 Lord Aim. Perhaps, Patty, you love some- 
 body so much beneath you you are ashamed 
 to own it, but your esteem confers a value 
 wherever it is placed. I was too harsh with 
 you this morning ; our inclinations are not in 
 our own power, they master the wisest of us. 
 
 Patty. Pray, jiray, my lord, talk not to me 
 in this style. Consider me as one destined by 
 birth and fortune to the meanest condition 
 and offices, who has unhappily been apt to 
 imbibe sentiments contrary to them ! Let me 
 conquer a heart where pride and vanity liave 
 usurped an improper rule ; and learn to know 
 
 myself, of whom I have been too long igno- 
 rant. 
 
 Lord Aim. Perhaps, Patty, you love some 
 one so much above you you are afraid to own 
 it. If so, be his rank what it will he is to be 
 envied: for the love of a woman of virtue, 
 beauty, and sentiment does honour to a mon- 
 arch. What means that downcast look, those 
 tears, those blushes? Dare you not confide in 
 me ? Do you think, Patty, you have a friend 
 in the world would sympathize with you more 
 sincerely than I? 
 
 Patty. What shall I answer ? No, my lord, 
 you have ever treated me with kindness, a 
 generosity of which none but minds like yours 
 are capable. You have been my instructor, 
 my adviser, my protector; but, my lord, you 
 have been too good ; when our superiors forget 
 the distance between us, we are sometimes led 
 to forget it too. Had you been less conde- 
 scending perhaps I had been happier. 
 
 Lord Aim. And have I, Patty, have I made 
 you unhappy ? I, who would sacrifice my own 
 felicity to secure yours? 
 
 Patty. I beg, my lord, you will suffer me to 
 be gone ; only believe me sensible of all your 
 favours, though unworthy of the smallest. 
 
 Lord A im. How unworthy ] You merit every- 
 thing ; my respect, my esteem, my friendship, 
 and my love ! Yes, I repeat, I avow it : your 
 beauty, your modesty, your underetanding, 
 have made a conquest of my heart ; but what 
 a world do we live in ! that while I own this; 
 while I own a passion for you, founded on the 
 justest, the noblest basis, I must at the same 
 time confess the fear of that world, its taunts, 
 its reproaches. 
 
 Patty. Ah ! sir, think better of the creature 
 you have raised than to suppose I ever enter- 
 tained a hope teiidiiig to your dishonour : 
 would that be a return for the favours I have 
 received ? Would that be a grateful reverence 
 for the memory of her? Pity and pardon the 
 disturbance of a mind that fears to inquire too 
 minutely into its own sensations. I am un- 
 fortunate, my lord, but not criminal. 
 
 Lord Aim. Patty, we are both unfortunate; 
 for my own part, I know not what to say to 
 you, or what to pi'opose to myself. 
 
 Patty. Then, my lord, 'tis mine to act as I 
 ouglit. Yet M'hile I am honoured with a jilace 
 in your esteem, imagine me not insensible of 
 so high a distinction, or capable of lightly 
 turning my thoughts towards another. 
 
 Lord Aim. How cruel is my situation ! I 
 am liere, Patty, to command you to marry the 
 man who has given you so much uneasiness.
 
 A NOBLE LORD
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 
 
 24: 
 
 Patty. My lord, I am coiiviiiceil it is for 
 your credit and my safety it should be so. I 
 hope I have not so ill profiteil by the lessons 
 of your noble mother but I shall be able to 
 do my duty whenever I am called to it ; this 
 will be my first support, time and reflection 
 will complete the work. 
 
 [The farmer refuses to marry Patty because 
 of hearing some scandal whispered ;xs to her 
 intimacy with Lord Aim worth. Fairfield, 
 Fatty's father, takes her up to the nobleman's 
 house to complain of the slight, much against 
 her will.] 
 
 Lord Aim. {On hearing it says.) I am soiTy, 
 Patty, you have had this mortification. 
 
 Patty. I am sorry, my lord, you have been 
 troubled about it, but really it was against my 
 consent. 
 
 Fair. Well, come, my child, we will not take 
 up his honour's time any longer; let us be 
 going towards home. Heaven prosper your 
 lordship; the prayers of me and my family 
 shall always attend you. 
 
 Lord Aim. Miller, come back. Patty, stay. 
 
 Fair. Has your lordship anything further 
 to command us? 
 
 Lord Aim. Why, yes. Master Fairfield, I 
 have a word or two still to say to you; in 
 short, though you are satisfied in this affair, 
 I am not ; and you seem to forget the promise 
 I made you, that since I had been the means 
 of losing your daughter one husband, I would 
 find her another. 
 
 Fair. Your honour is to do as you please. 
 
 Lord Aim. "What say you, Patty, will you 
 accept of a husband of my choosing? 
 
 Patty. My lord, I have no determinations ; 
 you are the best judge how I ought to act ; 
 whatever you command, I shall obey. 
 
 Lord Aim. Then, Patty, there is but one 
 person I can offer you, and I wish for your 
 sake he was more deserving. Take me. 
 
 Patty. Sir! 
 
 Lord Aim. From this moment our interests 
 are one, as o\u' heaits, and no earthly power 
 shall ever divide us. 
 
 Fair. "O the gracious!" Patty — my lord 
 — did T hear right ! You sir, you marry a 
 child of mine? 
 
 Lord A im. Yes, my honest old man, in me 
 you behold the husband designed for your 
 daughter ; and I am happy that by standing 
 in the place of fortune, who has alone been 
 wanting to her, I shall be able to set her merit 
 in a light where its lustre will be rendered 
 conspicuous. 
 
 Fair. But good noble sir, pray consider, 
 
 don't go to put upon a silly old man, my 
 daughter i.s unworthy. Patty, child, why don't 
 you speak ] 
 
 Patty. What can I say, father ! what answer 
 to such unlooked for, such unmerited, such 
 unbounded generosity ! — Yes, sir, as my father 
 
 I says, consider your noble friends, your rela- 
 tions ; it must not, cannot be. 
 
 Lord Aim. It mu.st, and shall. Friends I 
 relations I from henceforth I have none that 
 will not acknowledge you; and I am suie, 
 when they become acquainted with your per- 
 
 [ fections, those whose suffrage I most esteem 
 wUl rather admire the justice of my choice, 
 than wonder at its singularity. 
 
 HOIST WITH HIS OWN PETARD. 
 
 (FROM "LIONEL AND CLARISSA.") 
 
 [Harmau, who is a younger son of a good 
 family and poor, makes the acquaintance of 
 Colonel Oldboy's daughter Diana in London, 
 and they fall in love. Harman manages to 
 get an introduction from a friend, and comes 
 down to the Colonel's country-house. He tells 
 him aU about his being in love, and his dread 
 of the father refusing his consent because of 
 his poverty, but of course conceals the name 
 of the lady. On being pressed to name her 
 he says she does not live far distant. The 
 Colonel, who delights in a bit of intrigue, takes 
 the matter in hand and urges Harman on as 
 follows.] 
 
 Harman and Diana in conference. Diana 
 leaves by one door as Colonel Oldboy 
 enters hy anothei: 
 
 Col. Heyday ! What's the meaning of this? 
 Who is it went out of the room there ? Have 
 you and ray daughter been in conference, Mr. 
 Harman ? 
 
 Ear. Yes, faith, sir; she has been taking 
 me to task here very severely with regard to 
 this affair. And she has said so much against 
 it, and put it into such a strange light — 
 
 Col. A busy, impertinent baggage ! Egad I 
 I wish I had catched her meddling, and after 
 I ordered her not ! But you have sent to the 
 girl, and you say she is ready to go with you. 
 You must not disappoint her now. 
 
 Har. No, no, Colonel ; I always have polite- 
 ness enough to hear a lady's reasons ; but con- 
 stancy enough to keep a will of my own. 
 
 Col. Very well ; now let me ask you. Don't
 
 248 
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 
 
 you think it would be iJrojjer, upon this oc- 
 casion, to have a letter ready writ for the 
 father, to let him know who has got his daugh- 
 ter, and so forth? 
 
 Har. Certainly, sir; and I'll write it di- 
 rectly. 
 
 Col. You write it ! You be d d ! I won't 
 
 trust you with it ! I tell you, Harman, you'll 
 commit some cursed blunder if you don't 
 leave the management of this whole affair to 
 me. I have writ the letter for you myself. 
 Har. Have you, sir? 
 
 Col. Ay ! Here, read it. I think it's the 
 thing. However, you are welcome to make 
 any alteration. 
 
 Har. (Reads.) " Sir, I have loved your 
 daughter a great while secretly. She assures 
 me there is no hopes of your consenting to our 
 marriage ; I, therefore, take her without it. I 
 am a gentleman who will use her well. And, 
 when you consider the matter, I dare swear 
 you will be willing to give her a fortune ; if 
 not, you shall find I dare behave myself like 
 a man. A word to the wise. You must expect 
 to hear from me in another style." 
 
 Col. Now, sir, I will tell you what you must 
 do with this letter. As soon as you have got 
 off with the girl, sir, send your servant back 
 to leave it at the house, with orders to have it 
 delivered to the old gentleman. 
 
 Har. Upon my honour, I will. Colonel. 
 Col. But, upon my honour, I don't believe 
 you'll get the girl. Come, Harman; I'll bet 
 you a buck and six dozen of Burgundy that 
 you won't have spirit enough to bring this 
 affair to a crisis ! 
 
 Har. And I say, done first, Colonel. 
 Col. Then look into the court there, sir : a 
 chaise, with four of the prettiest bay geldings 
 in England, with two boys in scarlet and silver 
 jackets, that will whisk you along. 
 
 Har. Boys, Colonel ! Little cupids to trans- 
 port me to the summit of my desires ! 
 
 Col. Ay ; but, for all that, it mayn't be amiss 
 for me to talk to them a little out of the 
 window for you. Dick, come hither. You 
 are to go with this gentleman, and do what- 
 ever he bids you; and take into the chaise 
 whoever he pleases ; and drive like devils ; do 
 you hear? But be kind to the dumb beasts. 
 
 Har. Leave that to me, sir. And so, my 
 dear Colonel — [Boivs and exit. 
 
 [The result of the Colonel's advice is as fol- 
 lows. Mr. Jessamy is the Colonel's son, who 
 has been reared by an uncle, and whose name 
 he has adopteil.] 
 
 H7iter a Servant. 
 
 Col. How now, you scoundrel, what do you 
 want? 
 
 Ser. A letter, sir. 
 Col. A letter — from whom, sirrah? 
 Ser. The gentleman's servant, an't please 
 your honour, that left this just now in the 
 post-chaise; the gentleman my young lady went 
 away with. 
 
 Col. Your young lady, sirrah ! Your young 
 lady went away with no gentleman, you 
 dog. What gentleman? What young lady, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 Mr. Jes. There is some mystery in this. 
 With your leave, sir, I'll open the letter: I 
 believe it contains no secrets. 
 
 Col. What are you going to do, you jacka- 
 napes? You sha'n't open a letter of mine. 
 Di — Diana. Somebody call my daughter to 
 me there. (Reads.) " To John Oldboy, Esq. 
 Sir, I have loved your daughter a great while 
 secretly — consenting to our marriage — " 
 Mr. Jes. So, so. 
 
 Col. You villain ! you dog ! what is it you 
 have brought me here? 
 
 Ser. Please your honour, if you'll have 
 patience I'U tell your honour. As I told your 
 honoiu* before, the gentleman's servant that 
 went off just now in the post-chaise came to 
 the gate, and left it after his master was gone. 
 I saw my young lady go into the chaise with 
 the gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Jes. (Takes up the letter the Colonel has 
 thrown down.) Why, this is your own hand. 
 
 Col. Call all the servants in the house, let 
 horses be saddled directly ; every one take a 
 different road. 
 
 Ser. Why, your honour, Dick said it was by 
 your own orders. 
 
 Col. My orders ! you rascal ? I thought he 
 was going to run away with another gentle- 
 man's daughter. Di — Diana Oldboy. 
 
 [^Exit Servant. 
 Mr. Jes. Don't waste your lungs to no pur- 
 pose, sir ; your daughter is half a dozen miles 
 off by this time. 
 
 Col. Sirrah, you have been bribed to further 
 the scheme of a pickpocket here. 
 
 Mr. Jes. Besides, the matter is entirely of 
 your own contriving, as well as the letter and 
 spirit of this elegant epistle. 
 
 Col. You are a coxcomb, and I'll disinherit 
 you ; the letter is none of my writing ; it was 
 writ by the devil, and the devil contrived it. 
 Diana, Margaret, my lady Mary, William, 
 John— [Exit.
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 
 
 249 
 
 Mr. Jes. I am very glad of this; i)rodigiously 
 glad of it, upon my honour. He ! he ! he ! It 
 will be a jest this hundred years. {Dell rings 
 violently, on both sides.) What's the matter 
 now? Oh! her ladyship has lieard of it, and 
 is at her bell ; and the Colonel answers her. 
 A pretty duet ; but a little too much upon the 
 forte, methinks. It woiUd be a diverting thing, 
 now, to stand unseen at the old gentleman's 
 elbow. {^Exit. 
 
 Enter Colonel Oldboy, ivith orie boot, a great- 
 coat on his arm, d'c, folloioed by several 
 Servants. 
 
 Col. She's gone, by the Lord ! fairly stole 
 away, with that poaching, coney - catching 
 rascal! Howevei", I won't follow her; no, 
 
 d e ; take my whip, and my cap, and my 
 
 coat, and order the groom to unsaddle the 
 horses ; I won't follow her the length of a 
 spur-leather. Come here, you sir, and pull oflF 
 my boot {lohistles) ; she haa made a fool of me 
 once, she sha'n't do it a second time. Not but 
 I'll be revenged too, for I'll never give her 
 sixpence ; the disappointment will put the 
 scoundrel out of temper, and he'll thrash her 
 a dozen times a day. The thought pleases me; 
 I hope he'll do it. What do you stand gaping 
 and staring at, you impudent dogs ? Are you 
 laughing at me \ I'll teach you to be merry 
 at my expense — \^Exit in a rage. 
 
 [Ultimately the Colonel makes the best of 
 it, and forgives his daughter and Harman.] 
 
 MR. :mawworm.^ 
 
 Old Lady Lambert and Dr. Cantwell 
 in conference. 
 
 Enter Mawworm. 
 
 Old Lady L. How do you do, Mr. Maw- 
 worm ? 
 
 Maio. Thank your ladyship's axing, I'm but 
 deadly poorish, indeed ; the world and I can't 
 agree — I have got the books, doctor, and Mrs. 
 Grunt bid me give her sarvice to you, and 
 thanks you for the eighteenpence. 
 
 Dr. C. Hush ! friend Mawworm ! not a word 
 more; you know I hate to have my little 
 charities blazed about : a poor widow, madam, 
 to whom I sent my mite. 
 
 Old Lady L. Give her this. {Offers a purse 
 to Mawworm.) 
 
 J This is from The Hypocrite. 
 
 Dr. C. I'll take care it shall be given to her. 
 
 {Takes the purse.) 
 
 Old Lady L. But what is the matter with 
 you, Mr. Mawworm \ 
 
 Maw. I don't know wliiit's the matter with 
 me ; I'm breaking my heart ; I think it's a sin 
 to keep a shop. 
 
 Old Lady L. Why, if you think it's a sin, 
 indeed ; pray, what's your busines.s ] 
 
 Maw. We deals in grocery, tea, small-beer, 
 charcoal, buttei-, brick-dust, and the like. 
 
 Old Lady L. Well ; you must consult with 
 yom- friendly director here. 
 
 Maiv. I wants to go a-jn-eaching. 
 
 Old Lady L. Do you ? 
 
 Mav). I'm almost sure I have had a call. 
 
 Old Lady L. Ay ! 
 
 Maiv. I have made several sermons ah-eady. 
 I does them extrumpery, because I can't \\'rite; 
 and now the devils in our alley says as how 
 my head's turned. 
 
 Old Lady L. Ay, devils indeed ; but don't 
 you mind them. 
 
 Maw. No, I don't; I rebukes them, and 
 preaches to them, whether they will or not. 
 We lets our house in lodgings to single men, 
 and sometimes I gets them together, with one 
 or two of the neighbours, and makes them all 
 cry. 
 
 Old Lady L. Did you ever preach in public \ 
 
 Maw. I got up on Kennington Common the 
 last review day; but the boys threw brick- 
 bracks at me, and pinned crackers to my tail ; 
 and I have been afraid to mount, your lady- 
 ship, ever since. 
 
 Old Lady L. Do you hear this. Doctor? 
 throw brickbats at him, and pin crackers to 
 his tail ! Can these things be stood by ? 
 
 Maw. I told them so ; says I, I does nothing 
 clandecently ; I stands here cont^igious tu his 
 majesty's guards, and I charges you ujjon your 
 apparels not to mislist me. 
 
 Old Lady L. And it had no effect? 
 
 Maw. No more than if I spoke to so many 
 postesses ; but if he advises me to go a-preach- 
 ing, and quit ray shop, I'll make an excressance 
 farther into the country. 
 
 Old Lady L. An excursion you would say. 
 
 Maxo. I am but a sheep, but my bleating 
 shall be heard afar off, and that sheep shall 
 become a shei)herd ; nay, if it be only, as it 
 were, a shephei'd's dog, to bark the stray lambs 
 into the fold. 
 
 Old Lady L. He wants method, Doctor. 
 
 Dr. C. Yes, madam, but there is matter; and 
 I despise not the ignorant. 
 
 Maw. He's a saint.
 
 250 
 
 ISAAC BICKEKSTAFF. 
 
 Dr. C. Oh ! 
 
 Old Lady L. Oh ! 
 
 Maw. If ever there was a saint, he's oue. 
 'Till I went after him 1 was little better than 
 the devil ; my conscience was tanned with sin 
 like a piece of neat's leather, and had no more 
 feeling than the sole of my slioe; always a 
 roving after fantastical delights ; I used to go 
 every Sunday evening to the Three Hats at 
 Islington ; it's a public-house ; mayhap your 
 ladyship may know it. I was a great lover of 
 skittles too, but now I can't bear them. 
 
 Old Lady L. What a blessed reformation ! 
 
 Maw. I believe, Doctor, you never know'd 
 as how I was instigated one of the stewards of 
 the Reforming Society. I convicted a man of 
 five oaths, as last Thursday was a se'nnight, 
 at the Pewter Platter in the Borough; and 
 another of three, while he was playing trap- 
 ball in St. George's Fields; I bought this waist- 
 coat out of my share of the money. 
 
 Old Lady L. But how do you mind your 
 business? 
 
 Maxo. We have lost almost all our customers; 
 because I keeps extorting them whenever they 
 come into the shop. 
 
 Old Lady L. And how do you live? 
 
 Maw. Better than ever we did : while we 
 were worldly-minded, my wife and I (for I 
 am married to as likely a woman as you shall 
 see in a thousand) could hardly make things 
 do at all ; but since this good man has brought 
 us into the road of the righteous, we have 
 always plenty of everything; and my wife 
 goes as well dressed as a gentlewoman. We 
 have had a child too. 
 
 Old Lady L. Merciful ! 
 
 Maw. And yet, if you would hear how the 
 neighbours reviles my wife ; saying as how 
 she sets no store by me, because we have 
 words now and then : but, as I says, if such 
 was the case, would she ever have cut me 
 down that there time as I was melancholy, and 
 she found me hanging behind the door? I 
 don't believe there's a wife in the parish would 
 have done so by her husband. 
 
 Dr. C. I believe 'tis near dinner-time ; and 
 Sir John will require my attendance. 
 
 Maio. Oh ! I am troublesome ; nay, I only 
 come to you, Doctor, with a message from Mrs. 
 Grunt. I wish your ladyship heartily and 
 heartily farewell : Doctor, a good day to you. 
 
 Old Lady L. Mr. Mawworm, call on me 
 some time this afternoon ; I want to have a 
 little private discourse with you; and pray, 
 my service to your spouse. 
 
 Maw. I will, madam ; you are a malefactor 
 to all goodness ; I'll wait upon your ladyship; 
 I will indeed. {Going, returns.) Oh! Doctor, 
 that's true ; Susy desired me to give her kind 
 love and respects to you. [^Eodt. 
 
 TWO SONGS. 
 
 (from "THOMAS AND SALLY, OB THE SAILOR'S 
 RETURN.") 
 
 My time how liappy once and gay ! 
 
 Oh ! blithe I was as blithe could be ; 
 But now I'm sad, ah, well-a-day! 
 
 For my true love is gone to sea. 
 
 The lads pursue, I strive to shun ; 
 
 Though all their arts are lost on me ; 
 For I can never love but one, 
 
 And he, alas ! has gone to sea. 
 
 They bid me to the wake, the fair, 
 To dances on the neighb'ring lea: 
 
 But how can I in pleasure share, 
 While my true love is out at sea? 
 
 The flowers droop till light's return, 
 The pigeon mourns its absent she ; 
 
 So will I droop, so will I mourn. 
 
 Till my true love comes back from sea. 
 
 How happy is the sailor's life, 
 
 From coast to coast to roam ; 
 In every port he finds a wife, 
 
 In every land a home. 
 He loves to range, he's nowhere strange; 
 
 He ne'er will turn his back 
 To friend or foe; no, masters, no; 
 
 My life for honest Jack. 
 
 If saucy foes dare make a noise, 
 
 And to the sword appeal ; 
 AVe out, and quickly larn 'em, boys, 
 
 With whom they have to deal. 
 We know no craft but 'fore and aft, 
 
 Lay on our strokes amain; 
 Then, if they're stout, for 'tother bout, 
 
 We drub 'era o'er again. 
 
 Or fair or foul, let Fortune blow, 
 
 Our hearts are never dull ; 
 The pocket that to-day ebbs low, 
 
 To-morrow shall be full ; 
 For if so be, we want, d'ye see? 
 
 A pluck of this here stuff ; 
 In Indi — a, and Americ — a, 
 
 We're sure to find enough.
 
 THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 251 
 
 Then bless the king, and bless the state, 
 
 And bless our captains all ; 
 And ne'er may chance unfortunate 
 
 The British fleet belall. 
 But prosp'rous gales, where'er she sails, 
 
 And ever may she ride, 
 Of sea and shore, till time's no more. 
 
 The terror and the pride. 
 
 WHAT ARE OUTWARD FORMS? 
 
 What are outward forms and shows, 
 To an honest heart compared? 
 
 Oft the rustic, wanting those, 
 Has the nobler portion shared. 
 
 Oft we see the homely flower, 
 Bearing, at the hedge's side. 
 
 Virtues of more sovereign power 
 Than the garden's gayest pride. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope ! thou nurse of young desire, 
 
 Fairy promiser of joy. 
 Painted vapour, glow-worm fire, 
 
 Temp'rate sweet, that ne'er can cloy. 
 
 Hope ! thou earnest of delight. 
 
 Softest soother of the mind, 
 Balmy cordial, prospect bright, 
 
 Surest friend the wretched find. 
 
 Kind deceiver, flatter still, 
 Deal out pleasures unpossest, 
 
 With thy dreams my fancy fill, 
 And in wishes make me blest. 
 
 THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 Born 1775 — Died 1802 
 
 [Thomas Denuody, who in some respects 
 may be called the Chatterton of Ireland, was 
 the son of a schoolmaster of considerable at- 
 tainments, and was born at Ennis on the 
 ITtli of January, 1775. Pope wrote vei-ses at 
 twelve ; Cowley received the applause of his 
 friends at eleven; but young Dermody proved 
 himself even more precocious, for at the age 
 of ten he had accumulated more literary work 
 than he cared to let the public see. At this 
 early age, also, the boy had acquired a love 
 for the bottle, an evnl propensity which he is 
 said to have inherited from his father, and 
 which wrecked all his after life. This vice he 
 seemed to abandon for a time in 1785, when a 
 beloved brother died, and he himself deter- 
 mined to remain no longer at home. Whilst 
 on a visit with his father at a friend's house, 
 the young lad, without the least hint to any 
 one and with only two shillings in his pocket, 
 started otY for the Irish metropolis. Here 
 Dermody found himself in a new world, and 
 spent his time in strolling about the book- 
 stalls and booksellers' shops. One day, while 
 reaching out his hand for a book, he was ob- 
 served by the owner, who, fearful of a theft 
 rather than a bargain, hastened out. He found 
 Dermody poring over a Greek author, and 
 after questioning him asked him down into 
 his cellar. The man soon saw that he had 
 
 discovered a scholar, and invited him to dinner. 
 They dined together with mutual satisfaction, 
 and it occurred to the host that this learned 
 youth might teach his son Latin, a proposal 
 which Dermody readily accepted. But he was 
 not here long before his evil propensity began 
 to show itself. The good-natured bookseller 
 became anxious about him, and, feeling there 
 was no hope of reformation in his own house, 
 managed to procure for him another situa- 
 tion. In this new place he remained only a 
 short time, but in it he had made the ac- 
 quaintance of several collegians, notably Dr. 
 Houlton, into whose house he was received. 
 Here he remained for ten weeks. 
 
 It is impossible, and perhaps not desirable, 
 to enter into all the incidents and details of 
 Dermody's short and wretched life. He was 
 constantly making new friends and again 
 losing them. No sooner had he begun in some 
 new ]wsition to prove his ability, than he also 
 began to show his old evil habits. After 
 having exhausted the round of his friends in 
 domestic life, he managed to make the ac- 
 quaintance of some players, among whom was 
 Mr. Owenson, a gentleman distinguished by 
 his humanity, who at once set about planning 
 how to get for him an introduction to the 
 college. Thi'ough him he was introduced 
 to Dr. Young, who undertook the charge of
 
 252 
 
 THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 his studies. Soon, however, the devU seemed 
 again to get the vipper hand, and he began to 
 skulk his studies and to deceive his friends. 
 At last the truth came out, and Dermody was 
 once more left in destitution. Not for long, 
 however, for with rare good luck he was taken 
 in hand by the Rev. Mr. Austin, who took him 
 into his own house, introduced him to his 
 friends, and by their advice opened a sub- 
 scription for his future education and sup- 
 port. But at last he was discovered in some 
 misconduct at Mr. Austin's for the third or 
 fourth time, and the patience of that gentle- 
 man having been exhausted, he withdrew his 
 favour from the youthful jjoet. 
 
 Again Mr. Owenson stood his friend, and 
 introduced him to a Mr. Atkinson, who for a 
 long time befriended him. A little later, on 
 the recommendation of Mr. Atkinson, he was 
 noticed and adopted by that "glory of her 
 country " the Dowager Countess of Moira. 
 At her desire and ex23ense he was furnished 
 with all necessaries, and placed under the care 
 of the Rev. Mr. Boyd of Killeigh. Here he 
 remained two years, daring v/hich time he 
 greatly improved himself in the ancient lan- 
 guages, and acquired a competent knowledge 
 of French and Italian. The countess saw with 
 delight the progress being made by her pro- 
 tege, but folly was so ingrained in his nature 
 that he soon began to show himself as of old; 
 and at length Lady Moira in a letter informed 
 him that she could no longer be responsible 
 for his expenses, and presented him with one 
 last graceful donation. 
 
 Seeing that Killeigh was no longer a place 
 for him, Dermody at once started off for 
 Dublin. Here he began again his old course 
 of life, which was now less pardonable, seeing 
 that he was older and had added considerably 
 to his education. On all sides he applied for 
 contributions from his friends, and received 
 at irregular intervals sums sufficient to have 
 started him in life. Among others he applied 
 to Lady Moira, and in spite of his previous 
 misconduct he was received into partial favour 
 and presented with a sum of money. 
 
 But he sank lower and lower, until he was 
 again cast off by her ladyship and his other 
 friends. Turning to politics as a richer or 
 fresher field, he jiroduced in 1793 a pamphlet 
 entitled The Rights of Justice, or Rational 
 Liberty, to which he added a well-written 
 poem entitled "The Reform." Politics, how- 
 ever, he discovered to be of little or no use, 
 and at last he took to that most ignoble of all 
 callings the begging-letter writer. His posi- 
 
 tion soon became unbearable, and he was ou 
 the point of starvation when he was rescued 
 by Mr. Wolfe, then attorney -general and 
 afterwards Lord Chief-justice Kilwarden. 
 Through this gentleman he received many 
 introductions, and he actually engaged apart- 
 ments for him in the college, offered to pay 
 all his expenses there, and allow him in addi- 
 tion £30 a year. Seldom is there a brighter 
 chance for a youth of talent ; but Dermody 
 had come to love the gutter better than the 
 drawing-room, and refused the offer. After 
 this money began to come in slower and 
 slower, and he determined to retire to a soli- 
 tude and resign himself to despair; but he 
 changed his mind and proposed to try London. 
 Before getting away from Dublin, however, 
 he enlisted in the army, and was bought off 
 throufjh the kindness of a friend. He again 
 enlisted, and it was decided to leave him sub- 
 ject to the discipline of the ranks for some 
 months. No plan could be wiser, for this dis- 
 cipline had such an effect upon him that he 
 seemed to be quite reformed. In a short time 
 he was advanced to the rank of corporal, then 
 of sergeant, and in 1794 he embarked with the 
 regiment for England, being then nineteen 
 years of age, yet having more experience of 
 human life and his own frailties than thousands 
 at threescore and ten. In the short intervals of 
 repose from his duties he did not now turn to 
 the dram-shop, but found leisure to write " The 
 Retrospect," a poem of no mean order. On 
 arriving in England he came under the notice 
 of the Earl of Moira, who, having become 
 commander of the army destined for the coast 
 of France, appointed Dermody to a second 
 lieutenancy in the waggon corps. During the 
 expedition he acted fairly well, and on its 
 return he was put on the half-pay list. 
 
 He now determined to go to Loudon, re- 
 nounce his former follies, and begin a new 
 life. But his resolutions were short-lived ; 
 his debaucheries were renewed, and at last, in 
 despair, he took shelter in a miserable garret 
 rented by a cobbler in a wretched part of the 
 town. In January, 1800, he made known his 
 condition to his old friend J. Grant Ray- 
 mond, who afterwards wrote his biography. 
 This gentleman extended some help to him, 
 and impressed u])on him that he must com- 
 mence life as an author, and out of what he 
 had already written produce a book at once. 
 A volume was accordingly got together, for 
 which he received a lilieral sum. It was dedi- 
 cated to his former friend Lady Moira, and 
 contains among other poems " The Pursuit of
 
 THOMAS DERMODY 
 
 253 
 
 Patronage," in which he describes in pathetic 
 and masterly style the distresses of those elder 
 and illusti'ious sous of poesy whose writings 
 have ennobled English literature. The money 
 received for this work enabled him to live at 
 ease for some time; but all his experiences had 
 not given him prudence, and he was constantly 
 falling backwards into the slough of despond. 
 It is indeed sickening to follow the details of 
 a life like his ; friend after friend contributes 
 to his necessities without avail. Through the 
 influence of Mr. Pye he received several sums 
 of money from the Royal Literary Fund, but 
 his distress seemed to increase rather than 
 lessen, and his health to grow worse and worse. 
 By this time he had acquired fame as a poet ; 
 to this he now added the character of a power- 
 ful satirist by his " Battle of the Bards," an 
 heroic poem in two cantos, the subject being 
 a whimsical conflict in a bookseller's shop 
 between Mr. Gittard, author of tlie Baviad, 
 and the celebrated Peter Pindar. 
 
 His health was now so broken down that a 
 change of air was absolutely necessary to keep 
 him alive, and to attain this another volume 
 of poems which he had been preparing was 
 issued. The principal pieces in this collection 
 are "The Extravaganza," which the author 
 says "is perhaps the most original and fanci- 
 ful poem I ever had sufficient powers to com- 
 pose;" "The Pleasures of Poesy," which con- 
 tains many beautiful passages; and "The 
 Enthusiast," from which our extracts "Dan- 
 ger" and "Jealousy" are taken. But the profit 
 he derived from this volume was small, and 
 day by day matters grew worse. At last he 
 found his way to a hovel in Wells Road, Syden- 
 ham, from whence a letter reached his friend 
 Mr. Raymond, who visited him, and found him 
 in a most wretched condition. Immediately 
 the comforts which he required were ordei'ed, 
 and after some delay lodgings of a better kind 
 procured. Into these he was to be removed 
 the following day ; but the last efforts of his 
 kind friend were unavailing, for on that same 
 evening he died, at the age of twenty-seven 
 years and six months, a monument of genius 
 misapplied and golden opportunities thrown 
 away. He was buried in Lewisham church- 
 yard, where a monument to his memory may 
 yet be found, bearing a lengthy inscription. 
 
 The literary character of this extraordinary 
 youth is thus drawn by Mr. Raymond : " His 
 poetical powers may be said to have been 
 intuitive, for some of his best pieces were 
 composed before he had reached twelve yeai-s 
 of age. His language was nervous, polished, 
 
 and fluent. His wonderful classical knowledge, 
 added to a menioiy uncommonly pnwerful and 
 comprehensive, furnished him with allusions 
 that were appropriate, combinations that were 
 plejtsing, and sentiments that were dignified. 
 He had an inquisitive mind, but could never 
 resist the temptations which offereil to seduce 
 him from his studies. No one ever wrote with 
 gi'eater facility; his mind was stored with such 
 a fund of observation, such an accumulation 
 of knowledge gathered from science and f)om 
 nature, that his thoughts, when wanted, rushed 
 upon him like a tonent, and he could compose 
 with the rapjidity with which another could 
 transcribe. There is scarcely a style of com- 
 position in which he did not in some degi-ee 
 excel. The descriptive, the ludicrous, the 
 didactic, the sublime, — each, when occasion 
 required, he treated with skill, with acute 
 remark, imposing humour, profound reflec- 
 tion, and lofty magnificence."] 
 
 WHEN I SAT BY IVIY FAIR. 
 
 When I sat by my fair, and she tremblingly told 
 
 The soft wishes and doubts of her heart, 
 How quickly old Time, then, delightfully rolled, 
 
 For love lent the plume from his dart! 
 From the blush of her cheek, liow my bosom 
 
 caught flame. 
 And her eyes spoke a fondness her lips would not 
 name. 
 
 But her cheek, that once rivalled the summer's 
 full rose, 
 
 Now as April's sad primrose is pale; 
 In her eye, now, no bright sensibility glows. 
 
 Though I breathe fortli truth's rapturous tale; 
 And thy moments, old Time, that on downy feet fled, 
 Ah me! are now fettered, and weighty as lead. 
 
 Yet surely, though much of her passion is pa.<t. 
 
 Some sparks of afieetion remain; 
 And the clouds, that her meek-beaming brow have 
 o'ercast, 
 
 May be melted in pity's soft rain. 
 If not, my wrung breast to distraction I bare; 
 For distraction itself is less hard than despair. 
 
 EVENING STAR. 
 
 Soft star, approaching slowly on the sky 
 
 With solemn march, if e'er beneath thy beam, 
 
 Darkling, I heaved the deep impassioned sigh, 
 Or bade the silent tear of feeling stream ;
 
 254 
 
 THOMAS DEEMODY. 
 
 If e'er, with fancy's magic voice, I called 
 
 Ten thousand sprites to tend thy sapphire car, 
 If e'er, by rushing darkness unappalled, 
 
 I followed thy receding light afar. 
 Be gracious now : to this love-laboured bower. 
 
 With thy bright clue conduct my promised fair; 
 Full on her face thy yellow radiance pour. 
 
 And gild the flowing tissue of her hair; 
 So shall the nightingale her note prolong. 
 Wild warbling to thine ear our bridal song ! 
 
 THE SENSITIVE LINNET. 
 
 WBITTEN BEFORE DERMODY WAS TEN YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 My fond social linnet, to thee 
 
 What dear winning charms did belong ! 
 
 On my hand thou wouldst carol with glee, 
 On my bosom attend to my song. 
 
 Sweet bird, in return for my strain, 
 
 Thou warbled'st thine own o'er again. 
 
 Love, jealous a bird should thus share 
 My affections, shot speedy his dart : 
 
 To my swain now I sang every air ; 
 The linnet soon took it to heart. 
 
 Sweet bird, in how plaintive a strain 
 
 Thou warbled'st thine own jealous pain! 
 
 But faithless my lover I found. 
 And in vain to forget him I tried : 
 
 The linnet perceived my heart's wound. 
 He sickened, he drooped, and he died. 
 
 Sweet bird, why to death yield the strain? 
 
 Thy song would have lightened my pain. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 Ah, who is she, of dark unsettled brow. 
 
 That bleeding drags an angel-shape behind. 
 And quaffs the living gore ! I know her now : 
 'Tis Jealousy ; that monster of the mind, 
 In whom are thousand contraries combined. — 
 Now moping, melancholy, o'er the wild ; 
 Now fretful, rash, unreasoning, uncoufin'd : 
 In Constancy's best blood her hands defil'd. 
 And strangling in its birth her own devoted child. 
 
 LINES TO THE COUNTESS OF MOIRA. 
 
 Ah ! deeds of tenderness to earth unknown. 
 Felt by her keener sense and heaven alone ; 
 'Tis you that raise the mind with joy sincere, 
 And pour to Gcd rich incense in a tear ; 
 At pity's .shrine with diffidence impart. 
 That noblest hecatomb, a feeling heart; 
 And in one sigh the mockeries outdo, 
 Of these that, saint-like, mourn to sin anew ; 
 That treat the human ties with ranc'rous sjiort, 
 And quit the temple to adorn a court. 
 
 Deem'st thou ingrate or dead the shepherd boy, 
 
 Ere while who sung thee to the list'ning plain? 
 Still pausing on thy deeds with pensive joy, 
 
 Ingratitude nor death has hush'd the strain. 
 Still drest in all her captivating hues, 
 
 Smiling in tears, will languishingly .steal 
 O'er my fantastic dream the well-loved muse, 
 
 Like morn dim-blushing through its dewy veil. 
 Her wild flowers, bound into a simple wreath. 
 
 Meekly she proffers to thy partial sight. 
 Oh, softly on their tender foliage breathe ! 
 
 Oh, save them from the critic's cruel blight ! 
 Nurse tlie unfolding blooms with care l)enign, 
 And 'mid them weave one laurel leaf of thine. 
 
 CONTENTMENT IN ADVERSITY 
 
 In a cold empty garret contented I sit. 
 With no spark to warm me but sparks of old wit : 
 On a crazy black stool doleful ditties I sing, 
 And, poor as a beggar, am blest as a king. 
 Then why should I envy the great folks and proud. 
 Since God has given me what he took from the 
 
 crowd ? 
 My pen is my sceptre; my night-cap my cro^vn. 
 All circled with laurels so comely and brown ; 
 Nor am I so powerless as people may think, 
 For, lo ! like all kings, I can spill floods — of ink. 
 Fight armies of mice, tear huge spiders at will. 
 And murder whole fleets with the point of a quill. 
 Waij the world as it list, I am still a queer vxnj, 
 And my noddle is full, though right hollow my bag. 
 No money I hoard up, for money is dirt, 
 And of that I've enough — very much to my hurt. 
 Yet should shillings hop in at some prosperous 
 
 time, 
 They jingle so pretty I keep them to chime. 
 Some sages may prate of their saws out of season. 
 And reason on matters without rhyme or reason, 
 But I'm no such pagan or infidel grown 
 To Providence thwart by odd schemes of my own; 
 And surely, grave signers, 'twould seem very odd 
 For the lord of a garret to cross his Lord God. 
 No, no ; he is just: not like poor earthly elves 
 That scrape up from others to cover themselves. 
 Who treat the bare drudget of genius with laughter. 
 And labour so here sure they think no hereafter; — 
 For certainly clay-cumber'd logs, ever counting, 
 As Dominic has it, " were ne'er made for mount- 
 ing". 
 "Here's a health, then, to Fate, and to Fortune 
 her daughter 
 (Miss-fortune, I mean), thoueh I'm sorry 'tis water. 
 Yet water itself, sirs, may toast such a madam; 
 For 'twas wine, beer, and rum in the fair days of 
 
 Adam; 
 So why may not I, then, imagine it claret? 
 For his taste was as fine as his son's in a garret."
 
 ROBERT JEPHSON. 
 
 255 
 
 ON SONGS. 
 
 Oh ! tender songs ! 
 Heart-heavini?s of the breast, that longs 
 
 Its best-beloved to meet; 
 You tell of love's delightful hours, 
 Of meetings amid jasmine bowers, 
 And vows, like perfume of young flowers, 
 
 As fleeting — but more sweet. 
 
 Oh ! glorious songs ! 
 That rouse the brave 'gainst tyrant wrongs, 
 
 Kesounding near and far ; 
 Mingled with trumpet and with drum, 
 Your spirit-stirring summons come, 
 And urge the hero from his home, 
 
 And arm him for the war. 
 
 Oh ! mournful songs ! 
 When sorrow's host, in gloomy throngs 
 
 Assail the widowed heart; 
 You sing, in softly soothing strain, 
 The praise of those whom death hath ta'en. 
 And tell that we shall meet again. 
 
 And meet no more to part. 
 
 Oh ! lovely songs ! 
 Breathings of heaven ; to you belongs 
 
 The empire of the heart. 
 Enthroned in memory, still reign 
 O'er minds of prince, and peer, and swain. 
 With gentle power, timt knows not wane, 
 
 Till thought and life depart. 
 
 ROBERT JEPHSON. 
 
 Born 1736 — Died 1803. 
 
 [Robert Jephson was born in 1736, and 
 entered the army while young. He soon 
 attained to the rank of captain ; and in 1763, 
 on the occasion of the reduction of the regi- 
 ment, he retired on half-pay. Before this time 
 he had turned his attention to literature, and 
 made the acquaintance of William Gerard 
 Hamilton, through whose influence he was 
 inti-oduced to Lord Townshend, by whom he 
 was soon after made master of the horse. 
 •Charmed by his wit and satirical powers, his 
 lordship also procured him a seat in the Irish 
 House of Commons. Here he soon distin- 
 guished himself, and, being grateful for the 
 favours he had received, he earnestly defended 
 the acts of the government. On Lord Town- 
 shend's departure he also stood in the breach 
 in defence of that nobleman, when he was 
 a-ttacked oj^enly and rather ungenerously in 
 February, 1774. In the debate on a bill to 
 repeal or relax some of the cruel laws against 
 Roman Catholics he "took a prominent part, 
 and made a long and eloquent si^eech in their 
 favour, quitting on that occasion his usual 
 satirical turn which had obtained him the 
 name of 'Mortal Momus !'" 
 
 Lord Harcourt, who succeeded Lord Town- 
 shend, either not caring for wit, or not liking 
 to encourage the favourites of his predecessor, 
 acted coldly towards Jephson, who, at the 
 general election in 1776, was allowed to lose 
 his seat. After a time, however, it was seen 
 how useful Jephson's talents woidd be, and a 
 seat was found for him at Old Leighlin, in 
 county Carlow. Probably feeling that he was 
 
 merely being made a tool of, Jephson now 
 devoted himself more and more to literature, 
 and rarely spoke in the house, and his parlia- 
 mentary career may be said to have practi- 
 cally closed soon after this time. 
 
 His first play, The Duke of Braganza, was 
 produced at Drury Lane in 1771, and at once 
 proved him to be a dramatist of no mean 
 power. Horace Walpole held a high opinion 
 of it. It was soon followed by The Law of 
 Lomhardy, also a successful play; and The 
 Count of Narhonne, which was his greatest 
 success of any. Jej)hson's other dramatic 
 works were The Campaign; Julia, or the Ital- 
 ian Lover; Two Strings to your Bow; and The 
 Conspiracy. In 1794 he also produced a poeti- 
 cal work called Roman Portraits, which w;us 
 highly spoken of at the time, and in the same 
 year a capital satire on the French Revolution 
 entitled The Confessio7is of James Baptiste 
 Couteau. He also, in conjunction with Mr. 
 Courtenay, the Rev. Mr. Boroughs, and othere, 
 produced a series of essays under the title of 
 The Batchelor, which, says a writer in Bio- 
 graphia Dramatica, "succeeded in jiutting 
 down and tui-ning into ridicule the enemies to 
 Lord Townshend's government, and enriched 
 the world with a collection which, for general 
 wit and humour, h;is rarely been equalled, 
 perhaps never excelled." The same writer de- 
 clares Jephson to have been "a man of taste, 
 judgment, and good sense," which we can 
 readily believe, and which his dramas abun- 
 dantly show. Indeed these dramas contain 
 writing in some places scarcely inferior to the
 
 256 
 
 EOBEET JEPHSON. 
 
 very best things of the kind in the English 
 language. 
 
 Jephson died at Blackrock, near Dublin, 
 on the 31st of May, 1803.] 
 
 A MIGHTY FIGHTER. 
 
 (from "two strings to your bow.") 
 
 [Clara's brother has been betrothed when a 
 child to Leonora. He dies, and Leonora's 
 father is about to bestow her upon Ferdinand, 
 whom she loves, when Clara appears and per- 
 sonates her brother, for an adventure of her 
 own. She confides her disguise to Leonora.] 
 
 Eater Clara disguised as a man and Leonora. 
 
 Cla. I have told you my story ; I rely upon 
 your honour, you will not discover me. 
 
 Leo. Don't fear me. You have relieved me 
 from such anxiety Ijy your friendly confidence, 
 that I would rather die than betray you; nay, 
 what is still more, I would rather lose my 
 lover. 
 
 Cla. Of that there can be no danger: let 
 matters proceed to the utmost, the discovery 
 of my sex. 
 
 Leo. But may I not tell Ferdinand 1 
 
 Cla. No — pi'ay indulge me ; a secret burns 
 in a single breast; it is just possible that two 
 may keep it, but if 'tis known to a third, I 
 might as well tell it to the crier, and have it 
 proclaimed at the great door of every church 
 in Granada. 
 
 Leo. Well, you shall be obeyed; depend upon 
 it, I will be faithful to you. Men give them- 
 selves strange airs about our sex ; we are so 
 unaccustomed, they say, to be trusted, that 
 our vanity of a confidence shows we are un- 
 worthy of it. 
 
 Cla. No matter what they say; I think half 
 of their superiority lies in their beards and 
 their doublets. 
 
 Don Pedro. ( Within.) Leonora ! 
 
 Leo. My father calls me; farewell, dear 
 Clara ! should you want my assistance, you 
 know you may command me. \E.vit. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Fer. So, sir, I have found you. Do you 
 know me, sir ? 
 
 Cla. I have so many acquaintances whom I 
 should wish not to know, that I don't like to 
 answer that question suddenly. 
 
 Fer. Do you take me for a sharper, young- 
 ster '] 
 
 Cla. Sharpers wear good clothes. [Crosses. 
 
 Fer. And puppies wear long swords. What 
 means that piece of steel dangling there by 
 thy efl'eminate sidel Answer, stripling, canst 
 thou fight for a lady] 
 
 Cla. (Aside.) He's a terrible fellow! I 
 quake every inch of me; but I must put a 
 good face upon it — I'll try what speaking big 
 will do. (Advancing to him.) Why, yes, Cap- 
 tain Terrible ! do you suppose I am to be 
 daunted by your blustering? — Bless me! if a 
 long stride, a fierce blow, and a loud voice, 
 were mortal, which of its should live to twenty ? 
 — I'd have you to know, dam'me — 
 
 Fer. Draw your sword, draw your sword, 
 thou amphibious thing ! if you have the spirit 
 of a man. {Draws. 
 
 Cla. Oh, lord ! what will become of me ? 
 hold, hold, for heaven's sake! What, will 
 nothing but fighting satisfy you ? I'll do any- 
 thing in reason. Don't be so hasty. 
 
 Fer. Oh! thou egregious dastard! you won't 
 fight, then? 
 
 Cla. (Aside.) No, by no means. I'll settle 
 this matter in another way. What will be- 
 come of me? 
 
 Fer. Thy hand shakes so, thou wilt not be 
 able to sign a paper, though it were ready for 
 thee ; therefore, observe what I say to you. 
 
 Cla. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fe7: And if thou darest to disobey, or mur- 
 mur at the smallest article — 
 
 Cla. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fer. First, then, own thou art a coward. 
 
 Cla. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fer. Unworthy of Leonora. 
 
 Cla. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fer. Return instantly to Salamanca. 
 
 Cla. (Seeing Leonora.) Ha, Leonora!— 
 Not till I have chastised you for your in- 
 solence. (Draws.) 
 
 Filter Leonora, who runs hetioeen them. 
 
 Leo. Heavens ! what do I see ? Fighting I 
 For shame, Ferdinand ! Draw your sword on 
 a stranger ? 
 
 Fer. Don't hold me ! (To Leo.) 
 
 Cla. Hold him fast, madam ; you can't do 
 him a greater kindness. 
 
 Fer. (Struggling.) Dear Leonora ! 
 
 Cla. Thou miserable coward ! thou egregi- 
 ous dastard ! thou poltroon ! By what name 
 shall I call thee? 
 
 Fer. Do you hear him, Leonora? 
 
 Cla. Hold him fast, madam ; I am quite in
 
 ROBERT JEPHSON. 
 
 257 
 
 a fever with my rage at him. Madam, that 
 fellow never should preteud to you. He was 
 just ready to sign a paper I had prepared for 
 him, renouncing all I'ight and title to you. 
 
 Fer. {To Leonora.) By heaven, you injure 
 me ! 
 
 Cla. He had just consented to leave this 
 city, and was actually upon his knees to me 
 for mercy— 
 
 Fer. Can I bear this ] 
 
 Leo. Patience, dear Ferdinand ! 
 
 Cla. When, seeing you coming, he plucked 
 up a little spirit, because he knew you would 
 prevent us ; and, drawing out liis unwilling 
 sword, which hung dangling like a dead 
 weight by his side there, he began to flourish 
 it about, just as I do now, madam. Hold him 
 fast, madam — ha, ha!— Don Valiant, I shall 
 catch you, sir, when there is nobody by to 
 protect you^ — au revoir ! Hold him fast — ha, 
 ha, hal \^Exit Clara. 
 
 Fer. Nothing shall restrain me — loose me, 
 or by my wrongs, I shaU think you are con- 
 federate with him. 
 
 Leo. Dear Ferdinand, rely upon it you are 
 mistaken. 
 
 Fer. 'Sdeath ! weathercocks, wind, and fea- 
 thers are nothing. Woman, woman is the 
 true type of mutability — and to be false to me, 
 for such a thing as that — I could cut such a 
 man out of a sugared cake. I believe a con- 
 fectioner made him. 
 
 Leo. Have you done yet 1 
 
 Fer. No, nor ever shall till this mystery is 
 cleared up to me. 
 
 Leo. That I cannot do. 
 
 Fer. Then, adieu — you shall see me no more, 
 but you shall hear of me. I'll find your Nar- 
 cissus, that precious flower-pot. I'll make him 
 an example. AU the wrongs I have suffered 
 from you shall be revenged on him. [Exit. 
 
 Leo. {Following him.) Ferdinand, dear 
 Ferdinand ! [Exit. 
 
 [Leonora kept her friend's secret, and after 
 Clara, in the disguise of her brother, had suc- 
 ceeded in her plot she discovered all, and 
 Ferdinand and Leonora were made happy.] 
 
 MOST SEEMING FALSE. 
 
 (FROM "THE LAW OF LOMBARD Y.") 
 
 [Bireno wishes to wed the Princess Sophia, 
 
 SO as to reign jointly with her. He finds she 
 
 prefers Paladore, and, to insure her destruction 
 Vol. I. 
 
 and his own succession to the kingdom, he 
 instigates her waiting woman Alinda, who is 
 his mistres.s, to jiersonate the princess. By 
 this means he sends away her lover Paladore, 
 and puts the princess in the power of the law.] 
 
 Scene, a Garden. — Rinaldo, a servant of 
 Paladore. 
 
 Bina. He mu.st pa.s8 this way : through the 
 
 postern-gate 
 That leads here only, with distemper'd pace 
 I saw him hasten. Since the evening banquet 
 His wild demeanour has put on more change 
 Than yonder fickle planet in her orb. 
 Just now he seiz'd his sword, look'd at and 
 
 pois'd it, 
 Then girt it round him, while his bloodshot eye, 
 And heaving bosom, spoke the big conception 
 Of some dire purpose. There is mischief towards; 
 1 may perhaps prevent it: these tall shrubs 
 Will hide me from his view. Soft, soft, 'tis he. 
 
 [Iietire«. 
 Enter Paladore. 
 
 Pal. Why do I shake thus? If, indeed, she's 
 false, 
 I should rejoice to have the spell unbound 
 That chains me to delusion. He swears deeply: 
 But bad men's oaths are breath, and their baae 
 
 lies 
 With holiest adjurations stronger vouch'd 
 Than native truth, which, center'd in itself, 
 Rests in its simpleness; then this bold carriage 
 Urging the proof by test infallible, 
 The witness of my sight. Why, these combin'd 
 (Spite of my steady seeming), viper-tooth'd, 
 Gnaw at my constancy, and inward spread 
 Suggestions, which unmaster'd, soon would change 
 The ruddy heart to blackness. But, oh, shame! 
 These doubts are slander's liegers. Sweetest in- 
 nocence ! 
 That now, perhaps, lapp'd in Elysian sleep, 
 Seest heaven in vision, let not these ba.se sounds 
 Creep on thy slumber, lest they startle rest, 
 And change thy trance to horror. Lo! he comes; 
 Yon light that glimmers 'twixt the quivering 
 
 leaves 
 (Like a small star) directs his footsteps hither. 
 
 Enter Bireno, with a la)itei-n. 
 
 Bir. Your pardon, sir; I fear I've made you 
 wait. 
 But here, beneath the window of his mistress, 
 A lover favour'd, and assur'd like you, 
 Must have a thousand pleasant fantasies 
 To entertain his musing. 
 
 Pal. Sir, my fancy 
 
 Has various meditations; no one thought 
 
 Mix'd with disloyalty of her whose honour 
 
 Your boldness would attaint. 
 
 17
 
 258 
 
 EGBERT JEPHSON. 
 
 Bif. Then you liold firm, 
 I am a boaster? 
 Pal. 'Tis my present creed. 
 Bir. 'Twere kind, perhaps, to leave you in that 
 error. 
 The wretch who dreams of bliss, while his sleep 
 
 lasts, 
 Is happy as in waking certainty; 
 But if he's rous'd, and rous'd to misery. 
 He sure must curse the hand that shook his cur- 
 tain. 
 Pal. I have no time for maxims, and your mirth 
 Is most unseasonable. Thus far to endure, 
 Perhaps is too much tameness. To the purpose. 
 Bir. With all convenient speed. You're not to 
 learn, 
 "We have a law peculiar to this realm, 
 That subjects to a mortal penalty 
 All women nobly born (be their estate 
 Single or husbanded) who, to the .shame 
 Of chastity, o'erleap its thorny bounds. 
 To wanton in the flowery path of pleasure. 
 Nor is the proper issue of the king 
 By royalty exempted. 
 
 Pal. So I have heard. 
 But wherefore urge you this? 
 
 Bir. Not without reason. 
 I draw my sword in peace. Now place your lips 
 Here on this sacred cross. By this deep oath. 
 Most binding to our order, you must swear, 
 Whate'er you see, or whatsoe'er your wrath 
 From what you see, that never shall your tongue 
 Keveal it to the danger of the princess. 
 
 Pal. A most superfluous bond ! But on ; I 
 
 swear. 
 Bir. Hold yet a little. Now, sir, once again 
 Let this be touch'd. Your enmity to me. 
 If by the process it should be provok'd, 
 Must in your breast be smother'd, not break out 
 In tilting at my life, nor your gage thrown 
 For any after quarrel. The cause weigh'd, 
 I might expect your love: but 'tis the stuff 
 And proper quality of hoodwink'd rage. 
 To wrest offence from kindness. 
 
 Pal. Should your proof 
 Keep pace with your assurance, scorn, not rage. 
 Will here be paramount, and my sword sleep. 
 From my indifference to a worthless toy. 
 Valued but in my untried ignorance. 
 
 Bir. So you determine wisely. I must bind you 
 To one condition more. If I make palpable 
 Her preference in my favour, you must turn 
 Your back on Lombardy, and never more 
 Seek her encounter. 
 
 Pal. By a soldier's faith, 
 Should it be so, I would not breathe your air 
 A moment longer, for the sov'reignty 
 Of all the soil wasli'd }»y your wandering Po. 
 Bir. Summon your patience now, for sure you'll 
 need it. 
 
 Pal. You have tried it to the last. Dally no 
 more; 
 I shiver in expectance. Come, your proofs. 
 
 Bir. Well, you will have them. Know you first 
 this writing? {Give.'i a imjitr. ) 
 
 Pal. It is the character of fair Sophia. 
 
 Bir. I think so, and as such receiv'd it from her; 
 Convey'd with such sweet action to my hand. 
 As wak'd the nimble spirit of my blood, 
 Whispering how kind were the contents within. 
 This light will aid the moon, though now she 
 
 shines 
 In her full splendour. At your leisure read it. 
 
 Pal. Kind words, indeed ! I fear, I fear too 
 common. (Heading. ) 
 
 Bir. (Aside.) It works as I could wish. How 
 his cheek whitens! 
 His fiery eye darts through each tender word 
 As it would burn the paper. 
 
 Pal. " Ever constant " — (Beadiiuj.) 
 
 Let me look once again. Is my sight false? 
 Oh, would it were! Fain would I cast the blame, 
 To save her crime, on my imperfect sense. 
 But did she give you this? 
 
 Bir. Look to the address. 
 
 Pal. Oh, darkness on my eyes! I've seen too 
 much. 
 There's not a letter, but, like necromancy, 
 Withers my corporal functions. Shame confound 
 her! 
 
 Bir. As you before were tardy of belief, 
 You now are rash. Behold these little shadows. 
 These you have seen before. 
 
 (Producing two pictures. ) 
 
 Pal. What's this, what's this? 
 My picture, as I live; I gave the false one, 
 And hers she promis'd me. Oh, woman's faith! 
 I was your champion once, deceitful sex; 
 Thought your fair minds — But, hold! I may be 
 
 rash; 
 This letter, and these pictures, might be yours 
 By the king's power, compelling her reluctant 
 To write and send them; therefore, let me see 
 All you have promis'd. You expect her summons 
 At yon miranda — 
 
 Bir. Yes, the time draws near! 
 She ever is most punctual. This small light 
 Our wonted signal. Stand without its ray; 
 For should she spy more than myself beneath, 
 Fearing discovery, she'll retire again 
 Into her cliamber. When her beauteous form 
 Breaks like the moon, as fair, though not so cold, 
 From yonder window — 
 
 Pal. Ha! by hell, it opens! 
 
 Bir. Sta,nd you apart a moment. While I 
 climb. 
 Yon orb, now braz'd to this accustom'd scene. 
 Will show you who invites me. I'll detain her. 
 To give yo\i anqjlc leisure for such note 
 As counterfeits abide not. {Betires. )
 
 ROBERT JEPHSON. 
 
 259 
 
 Pal Death! 'tis she! 
 There's not a silken braid that binds her hair, 
 One little shred of all that known attire 
 That wantons in the wind, but to my heart 
 Has sent such sweet disturbance, that it beats 
 Instinctive of her coming, ere my sight 
 Enjoy 'd the beauteous wonder. Soft! what now! 
 See, she lets down the cordage of her shame 
 To hoist him to her arms. I'll look no more. 
 Distraction! Devil! How she welcomes him! 
 That's well, that's well ! Again; grow to her lips — 
 Poison and aspics rot them! Now she woos him, 
 Points to her chamber, and invites him inward. 
 May adders hiss around their guilty couch. 
 And ghosts of injur'd lovers rise to scare them! 
 Ay, get you gone. Oh, for a griffin's wing. 
 To bear me through the casement! Deeds like 
 
 this 
 Should startle every spirit of the grove, 
 And wake enchantment from her spell-hung grot, 
 To shake the conscious roof about their heads. 
 And bear them to the scoflf of modest eyes 
 Twin'd in the wanton fold. Oh, wretch accurs'd! 
 See there the blasted promise of thy joys, 
 Thy best hopes bankrupt. Do I linger still? 
 Here find a grave, and let thy mangled corse, 
 When her lascivious eye peers o'er the lawn. 
 Satiate the harlot's gaze. 
 
 (Going to fall on his sword, Rinaldo rushes 
 forivard and prevents him. ) 
 Rina. What frenzy's this? 
 Arm'd 'gainst your life! In pity turn the point 
 On your old faithful servant, whose heart heaves 
 Almost to bursting to behold you thus. 
 Pal. Hast seen it then? 
 Rina. I have seen your wild despair; 
 And bless'd be the kind monitor within 
 That led me here to .save you. 
 
 Pal. Rather, curs'd 
 Be thy officious fondness, since it dooms me 
 To lingering misery. Give me back my sword. 
 Is't come to this? Oh: I could tear my hair; 
 Rip up this credulous breast. Blind dotard! fool! 
 Did wit or malice e'er devise a legend 
 To parallel this vile reality? 
 
 Rina. Disgrace not the best gift of manly na- 
 ture, 
 Your reason, in this wild extravagance. 
 
 Pal. And think'st thou I am mad without a 
 ca\ise ? 
 I'll tell thee — 'Sdeath! it chokes me — Lead me 
 
 hence. 
 I will walk boldly on the billowy deep. 
 Or blindfold tread the sharp and perilous ridge 
 Of icy Caucasus, nor fear my footing; 
 Play with a fasting lion's fangs unharm'd, 
 And stroke his rage to tameness. But hereafter, 
 When men would try impossibilities. 
 Let them seek faith in woman. Furies seize them! 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 [Paladore, while passing through a forest in 
 his tiight, meets with two ruthans who are 
 murdering a woman. He attempts to re.scue 
 Iier, discovera her to be Alinda, and that, to 
 hide his villany, Eireiio had paid the wretches 
 to murder her. She gives him a paper, reveal- 
 ing Bireno's wickedness, and lie ha^jteiis back 
 to court.] 
 
 The Princess goes towards the scaffold. A trum- 
 pet sounds. 
 
 1 Sen. Hold, on your lives! 
 Sir. What means that trumpet's voice? 
 It sounds a shrill alarm. 
 
 Enter an Esquire. 
 
 Esq. Arrest your sentence! 
 I come in the name of one who hears with horror 
 This barbarous process, to proclaim the accuser 
 Of that most innocent and royal lady, 
 A slanderer and villain; who accepts 
 Her just defence, and by the law of arms 
 Throws down this gage, and claims the combat for 
 her. 
 
 Bir. Take it, Ascanio. Bid your knight appear, 
 (If such his order) for to none beneath 
 Am I thus bound to answer. Speak his titles. 
 
 Esq. He wills not I reveal him. But suffice it. 
 He has a name in arms that will not shame 
 The noble cause he fights for. 
 
 Bir. Bid him enter. 
 My shield and sword. Say, I'm deck'd to meet 
 him. [Exit the Es(juire. 
 
 Some rash adventurer, prodigal of life, 
 Brib'd by her father's gold to grace her fall, 
 And add an easy trophy to my banners. — 
 Confusion! Paladore! 
 
 Enter Paladore. 
 
 Prin. 'Tis he, 'tis he! 
 Then, life, thou art welcome! 
 
 (A loud murmur among the people.) 
 
 Bir. JIarshal, do your office! 
 Furies and hell! — keep order in the lists! — 
 Silence that uproar! — 
 
 Pal. Yes, behold me, villain! 
 I have thee in the toils; thou canst not 'scape 
 
 me. — 
 liut, oh! most wrong'd and heavenly excellence! 
 
 (To the Prinre.'is.) 
 How shall I plead for pardon? Can the abuse 
 Of his deep craft and devilish artifice. 
 Fooling my nature's plainness, l)lanch my cheek 
 From the deep shame that my too ea.sy faith 
 Combin'd with hell against thee? 
 
 Prin. Rise, my soldier! 
 Though yet I know not by what subtle practice 
 Thy nobleness was wrought on, nor the means 
 That since reveal'd his fraud, — praise be to heaven!
 
 260 
 
 JOSEPH COOPEE WALKER 
 
 Thy presence plucks my honour from the grave. 
 Thou liv'st, thou know'st my truth, thou wilt 
 avenge me. 
 
 Pal. Avenge thee! yes. Did his right hand 
 grasp thunder; 
 Did yelling furies combat on his side 
 (Pal'd in witli circling fires), I would assail him; 
 Nor cast a look to fortune for the event. 
 
 Bir. Presumptuous Briton ! think not that bold 
 mien, 
 A wanton's favour, or thy threats, have power 
 To shrink the sinews of a soldier's arm. 
 
 Pal. A soldier's arm! Thou double murderer! 
 Assassin in thy intention and in act. 
 But, ere my falchion cleave thy treacherous breast, 
 I will divuke thee. — Bring that ruffian forth. 
 
 One of the Murderers of Alinda brought in. 
 
 Two hell-hounds, such as this, he set upon me. 
 One fell beneath my sword; that wretch I spar'd. 
 Kneeling for mercy. Let your justice doom him. 
 Look you amaz'd! Peruse that paper, lords; 
 His compact for the blood of a fair minion 
 He taught to sin, and made her wages death. 
 Ha! Does it shake thee? See Alinda's form. 
 Thy panting image mangled in her side. 
 Stalks from her sanguine bed, and ghastly smiles, 
 To aid the prowess of this dauntless soldier. 
 
 Bir. Destruction! All's reveal'd! 
 
 Asc. What, turn'd to stone? {To Bireno.) 
 
 Droop not, for shame! Be quick, retort the 
 charge ! 
 
 Bir. All false as hell ! And thou — Defend thy- 
 self; 
 Nor blast me thus with thy detested presence. — 
 This to thy heart. {They fight. Bireno falls.) 
 
 Pal. Oh! impotence of guilt 
 An infant's lath hath fell'd him. Villain, die! 
 And know thy shame, and the deep wound that 
 
 writhes thee, 
 Are but a feeble earnest of the pangs 
 Reserv'd beneath for giant crimes like thine. 
 Prin. Haste to the king, proclaim this bless'd 
 
 event! 
 Bir. Perfidious chance! Caught in my own 
 device! 
 Accurs'd! — Ha! they drag me — tear me! — oh! — 
 
 (Dies. ) 
 Prin. I have a thousand things to ask — to hear: 
 But, oh! the joy to see thee thus again! 
 To owe my life — my honour, to thy love — 
 These tears, these rapturous tears, let them speak 
 for me. 
 Pal. I could endure the malice of my fate; 
 But this full tide of such excessive bliss. 
 Sure, 'tis illusion all! It quite transports me. 
 When I have borne thee from this scene of horror, 
 Perhaps I may grow calm, and talk with reason. 
 
 Enter the King, Lucio, and Attendants. 
 
 King. Where is she ? Let me strain her to my 
 heart. 
 
 They cannot part us now, my joy, my comfort! 
 
 Thou generous youth, how can my overflowing 
 soul 
 
 Find words to thank thee? Words! poor recom- 
 pense! 
 
 Here I invest thee with the forfeit lands. 
 
 The wealth and honours of that prostrate traitor; 
 
 This, too, is little — then receive her hand. 
 
 Due to thy love, thy courage, and thy virtue; 
 
 And joys unutterable crown your union. [Exeunt. 
 
 JOSEPH COOPER WALKER. 
 
 Born 1747 — Died 1810. 
 
 [Joseph Cooper Walker, so well known to 
 all antiquarians and students of ancient litera- 
 ture as the author of Historical Memoirs of 
 the Irish Bards,vfaii l)orn in 1747 at St. Valerie, 
 near Bray, in the county of Wicklow. The early 
 part of his education he received under the 
 care of Dr. Ball, and afterwards with the help 
 of private tutors ac(]uired an excellent know- 
 ledge of the classical and modern languages. 
 While yet young he was appointed to a place 
 in the Treasury in Dublin; but in consequence 
 of bad health, he went on the Continent and 
 travelled through the greater part of Italy, 
 where he acquired a strong taste for the fine 
 
 arts and increased his love of literature. After 
 his return to Ireland he was, in 1787, admitted 
 a member of the Royal Irish Academy, and a 
 little later chosen secretary to the Committee of 
 Antiquities, a post he held for a couple of yeare. 
 He had already in 1786 produced his His- 
 torical Memoirs of the Irish Bards, a work 
 which at once placed him in the front rank of 
 literary antiquarians. Two years later he 
 issued his Historical Essay on the Dress of the 
 Ancient and Modern Irish, in which volume 
 he also printed a Memoir on the Arinotir and 
 Weapons of the Irish. For some years after 
 this he contributed largely to the Trans-
 
 JOSEPH COOPER WALKER. 
 
 261 
 
 actions of the Royal Irish Academy, and 
 among his many papei-s we may mention a 
 clever one on ''The Irish Stage." In 1799 
 appeared at London An Historical Memoir of 
 Italian Tragedy from the Earliest Period to 
 the Present Time, by a Member of the Arcadian 
 Academy of Rome, which in 1805 was re- 
 printed in Edinburgh, under the title of An 
 Historical and Critical Essay on the Revival 
 of the Drama in Italy. On the 12th of April, 
 1810, after a lingering illness. Walker died 
 at St. Valerie, the place of his birth. His 
 Memoirs of Afessandro Tassoni, edited by his 
 brother Samuel Walker, appeared in 1815, 
 and is a work which contains much sound cri- 
 ticism. 
 
 In all his works our author displays, ac- 
 cording to a critic of his own day, "deep 
 research and an extensive knowledge in 
 polite literature ; and he treats his subject, 
 however abstruse, with an ease, liveliness, 
 and elegance that charm his readers." In- 
 deed there can scarcely be a more readable 
 book of its kind than that on Irish dress. To 
 the student of Irish history The Memoirs of 
 the Irish Bards is an invaluable work, but to 
 the general reader there is not sufficient in- 
 terest in its pages to warrant us in making 
 quotations. The work on the Italian drama is 
 not so interesting to many, chiefly because of 
 its subject not rousing our sympathies, but 
 those wlio have studied Italian literature 
 readily acknowledge its value. 
 
 In private life Walker was marked by easy 
 manners and the jiossession of many genuine 
 accomplishments. In his conversation, unlike 
 some of his brother antiquarians, he was lively, 
 and his countenance constantly glowed with 
 the thoughts that animated his mind.] 
 
 DEESS OF THE ANCIENT IRISH. 
 
 (from "historical essay.") 
 
 Amongst the ornaments which formerly 
 adorned the fair daughtei-s of this isle, the 
 bodkin is peculiarly deserving our notice. 
 Whence the Irish derived this implement, I 
 might conjecture, but cannot determine. Al- 
 though I have pursued it with an eager in- 
 quiry, I have not been able to trace it beyond 
 the foundation of the celebrated palace of 
 Eamania. The design of this palace (according 
 to our old chroniclers) was sketched on a bed 
 
 of sand by the Empress Macha with her bod- 
 kin. If this tradition be founded in reality, 
 bodkins must have Ijeen worn by the Iiish 
 ladies several centuries before the Clu-istian 
 era. But I should be contented to give them 
 a less i-emote, provided I could jwsign tliem a 
 more certain antiquity. If the word aiccde 
 in the Brehon laws will admit of beinjj trans- 
 lated a bodkin, we may infer their use in Ire- 
 land aljout the commencement of the Christian 
 era : for in a code of sunq)tuary laws of the 
 second century we find frequent mention of the 
 aiccde. But I am rather inclined to consider 
 the aiccde as a kind of broach from the 
 circumstance of its marking the rank of the 
 wearer by its value, a.s wa-s formerly the case 
 amongst the Higlilandere, wdiose frequent in- 
 tercourse with the Iri.sh occiisioned a striking 
 familiarity in the customs and manners of both 
 people. 
 
 This instrument was known in Ireland 
 under several names, viz. coitit, dealg, meann- 
 adh. Its uses were twofold : it was equally 
 worn in the breast and head. The custom 
 of wearing the bodkin in the breast is 
 alluded to in the following jiassage of an old 
 Irish MS. romance, called The Interview be- 
 tioeen FionMa Cubhall and Cannan: — "Can- 
 nan, when he said this, was seated at the 
 table; on his right hand sat his wife, and upon 
 his left his beautiful daughter Findalve, so 
 exceedingly fair, that the snow driven by the 
 winter storm surpassed not her fairness, and 
 her cheeks were the colour of the blood of a 
 young calf. Her hair hung in curling ring- 
 lets, and her teeth were like pearls. A spacious 
 veil hung from her lovely head down on her 
 delicate body, and the veil was boxmd by a 
 golden bodkin." 
 
 Such bodkins as were worn in the head 
 were termed dealg-fidlt. Even at this day 
 the female peasants in the interior parts of 
 this kingdom, like the women of the same 
 class in Spain and Turkey, collect their hair 
 at top, and twisting it several times made it 
 fast with a bodkin. 
 
 Besides these uses, the bodkin liad another: 
 it was sometimes made to answer the purpose 
 of a needle. Hence its name of meannadh- 
 fuaghala. To be so employed it must have an 
 eye. It is in a bodkin of this kind that Po])e's 
 Ariel threatens to imprison such of his sylphs 
 as are careless of their charge — 
 
 " Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
 Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye." 
 
 Whether or not the Irish ladies, like those
 
 262 
 
 JOSEPH COOPER WALKER. 
 
 of the neighbouring nations, employed their 
 bodkins as weapons offensive and defensive, 
 neither tradition nor history informs us. But 
 such of tliose implements as I have seen, 
 certainly seemed as caj^able of making a man's 
 quietus, as that with which Julius C'jesar is 
 said to have been killed, or that with which 
 Simekin in the Reves Tale protected the 
 honour of his wife. 
 
 But perhaps we should not confine our bod- 
 kin to the toilet of the fair. However, I shall 
 let it remain there until I am properly au- 
 thorized either to give it a place in the breast, 
 or to bury its body in the hair of the ancient 
 heroes of this isle. According to the inge- 
 nious Mr. Whitaker, bodkins constituted a 
 part of the ornamental dress of the early 
 British kings. This he asserts on the authority 
 of coins. And from the works of some of the 
 old English dramatists it appears that bodkins 
 were worn by Englishmen during the middle 
 
 Of the dresses of the turbulent reign of 
 James II. I cannot speak with certainty ; for 
 little is certainly known. If any particular 
 fashion prevailed at that time, it was probably 
 of English origin. Some of the female pea- 
 santry, however, still continued attached to 
 their old habits. Of these I will here describe 
 one, as worn to the hour of her death by Mary 
 Morgan, a poor woman, who was married be- 
 fore the battle of the Boyne, and lived to the 
 year 1786. On her head she wore a roll of 
 linen, not unlike that on which milkmaids 
 carry their pails, but with this diffei-ence, that 
 it was higher behind than before ; over this 
 she combed her hair, and covered the whole 
 with a little round -eared cap or coif, with a 
 border sewed on plain; over all this was 
 thrown a kerchief, which, in her youth, was 
 made fast on the top of her head, and let to 
 fall carelessly behind ; in her old age it was 
 pinned under her chin. Her jacket wa.s of 
 brown cloth, or pressed frieze, and made to fit 
 close to the shape by means of whalebone 
 wi'ought into it before and behind ; this was 
 laced in front, but not so as to meet, and 
 through the lacing were drawn the ends of 
 her neckercliief. The sleeves, halfway to the 
 elbows, were made of the same kind of cloth 
 with the jacket ; thence continued to the wrist 
 of red chamlet striped with green ferreting ; 
 and there, being turned up, formed a little 
 cuff embraced with tlir^e circles of green rib- 
 band. Her petticoat was invaria])ly of either 
 scarlet frieze or cloth, bordered with three rows 
 
 of green libband. Her apron gi'een serge, 
 striped longitudinally with scarlet ferreting 
 and bound with the same. Her hose were 
 blue worsted ; and her shoes of black leather, 
 fastened with thongs or strings. 
 
 This fashion of habit, however, had not been 
 always jieculiar to the peasantry: it ajjpears to 
 have prevailed formerly in the principal Irish 
 families. About the close of the last century 
 there lived at Credan, near Waterford, a Mrs. 
 Power, a lady of considerable fortune, who, 
 as being lineally descended from some of the 
 kings of Munster, was vidgarly called the 
 Queen of Credan. This lady, proud of her 
 country and descent, always spoke the Irish 
 language, and affected the dress and manners 
 of the ancient Irish. Her dress, in point of 
 fa.shion, answered exactly to that of Mary 
 Morgan as just described, but was made of 
 richer materials. The border of her coif was 
 of the finest Brussels lace; her kerchief of 
 clear muslin ; her jacket of the finest brown 
 cloth, trimmed witli narrow gold lace, and the 
 sleeves of crimson velvet striped with the 
 same; and her petticoat of the finest scai'let 
 cloth, bordered with two rows of broad gold 
 lace. 
 
 The Huguenots who followed the fortimes of 
 William III. brought with them the fashions 
 of their country. But I cannot find that these 
 fashions were infectious ; at least it does not 
 appear that the Irish caught them. 
 
 The hat was now sliaped in the Ramillie 
 cock. The periwig, which had been of several 
 years' standing in Ireland, was not yet gene- 
 rally worn : it was confined to the learned pro- 
 fessions, or to those who affected gravity. 
 "Our ignorant nation (says Farquhar, in a 
 comedy written in this reign), our ignorant 
 nation imagine a full wig as infallible a token 
 of wit as the laurel." 
 
 The head-dress which, the Spectator says, 
 " made the women of such an enormous sta- 
 ture, that we appeared as grasshoppere Ijefore 
 them," now prevailed here. This information 
 I owe to the inquisitiveness of Lucinda, in the 
 comedy which I have just quoted. 
 
 "Lucinda. Tell us some news of your coun- 
 try ; I have heard the strangest stories, that 
 the i:)eople wear horns and hoofs. 
 
 ''^Roebuck. Yes, faith, a great many wear 
 horns; but we have that, among other laudable 
 fashions, from London; I thijik it came over 
 with your mode of wearing high top-knots; 
 for ever since the men and wives liear their 
 heads exalted alike. They were both fashions 
 that took wonderfully."
 
 JOSEPH COOPER WALKER. 
 
 263 
 
 The reign of Queen Anne seems to have 
 been an age of gay attire : the single dress of 
 a woman of quality then was the product of 
 an hundretl climes. Swift, in a poem written 
 in 1708, thus metamorphoses the dres.s of his 
 Goody Baucis into the dress of the day. 
 
 "Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen 
 Good pinners edg'd with colberteen, 
 Her petticoat transfonn'd apace, 
 Became black satin flounc'd with lace. 
 Plain Goody would no longer down, 
 'Twas Madam in her grogram gown." 
 
 Besides the different articles of dress enu- 
 merated in those lines, the Irish lads wore 
 sliort jackets with close sleeves, made of 
 Spanisli cloth, each side of which was dyed of 
 a different colour: these jackets were fastened 
 on the brea.st with ribbands. Their petticoats 
 were swelled to a monstrous circumference 
 by means of hoops. High stays, piked before 
 and behind, gave an awkward stiffness to 
 their carriage. Their shoes were of red and 
 blue Spanish leather, laced with broad gold 
 and silver lace at top and behind ; the heels 
 broad, and of a moderate height : some were 
 fastened with silver clasps, others with knots 
 or roses. Their stockings were generally of 
 blue or scarlet woi-sted or silk, ornamented 
 with clocks worked with gold or silver thread : 
 neither thread nor cotton hose were then 
 known. And their necks were usually adorned 
 with black collars, tied in front with ribbands 
 of divers coloui-s. 
 
 I cannot find that the riding-coat, in such 
 general use among the English ladies in this 
 reign, and so justly reprobated by the Specta- 
 tor, was now worn here : dress had not yet 
 mingled the sexes. A lady in those days 
 mounted her horse in the same dress in which 
 she entered the drawing-room ; — nay, she did 
 not even forget her hoop. 
 
 " There is not (says Addison) so variable a 
 thing in nature as a lady's head-dress." The 
 justness of this observation deters me from 
 attempting to describe the head-dress of the 
 ladies of those days. I shall be content with 
 concluding that it rose and fell with the head- 
 dress of the English ladies, which, within 
 Addison's memory, rose and fell above thirty 
 degi'ees. I must, however, observe that I 
 cannot learn, on the strictest inquiry, that the 
 lovely tresses of nature were then permitted, 
 as in the present day, to wanton on the neck, 
 where (to borrow the language of Hogarth) 
 "the many waving and contrasted turns of 
 naturally intermingling locks ravish the eye 
 
 witli the pleasure of the pursuit, especially 
 when put in motion by a gentle breeze." 
 
 But though I waive any attempt to describe 
 the fashion of the ladies' hair at that time, I 
 ought not to omit to mention, that they wore 
 hoods of divers colours, and beaver hats 
 trimmed with broad gold and silver lace, and 
 a buckle in front. 
 
 Wafted by the breath of fashion, the mask 
 alighted in this island. Immediately the ladies 
 took it up and appeared in it in the streets, 
 public walks, and theatres. Under tliis dis- 
 guise they could now, without fear of discovery, 
 rally their lovers or their friends, and safely 
 smile at the obscenity of a comedy. Patches, 
 too, were much worn: but whether or not their 
 position was determined, as in England, by 
 the spirit of party, I cannot say. 
 
 I have been informed that some Irish 
 ladies of this reign affected the dress in which 
 the unfortunate Queen of Scots is usually de- 
 picted: so that we may presume the ruff now 
 occasionally rose about the neck of our lovely 
 countrywomen. 
 
 The dress of the gentlemen of this reign 
 was more uniform than that of the ladies. 
 Their coats and waistcoats were laced with 
 broad gold or silver lace : the skirts of each 
 were long, and the sleeves of the coat slashed. 
 Instead of stocks they wore cravats, edged 
 with Flandei-s or Brussels lace, which, after 
 passing several times round the neck, wan- 
 dered through the button-holes of the coat, 
 almost the whole length of the body. Their 
 hose, like those of the ladies, were blue or 
 scarlet worsted or silk, worked with gold or 
 silver clocks. Their shoes in this (and in the 
 following reign) had broad square toes, short 
 quarters, and high tops ; and were made fast 
 with small buckles. Their heads— even the 
 heads of youthful beaux— were enveloped in 
 monstrous periwigs, on which perched a small 
 felt hat. And through the skirts of their 
 coats, stiffened with buckram, peeped the hilt 
 of a small sword. 
 
 Long cloaks too of Spanish cloth, each side 
 dyed of a different colour, were now worn by 
 the gentlemen. 
 
 With the line of the Stuarts I shall close 
 this crude es.say. For, from the accession of 
 George I. to the present day fa.shion has been 
 such a varying goddess in this country, that 
 neither history, tradition, nor painting has 
 been able to preserve all her mimic forms: 
 ' like Proteus struggling in the arms of Tele- 
 machus on the Pharian coast, she passed from 
 shape to shape with the rapidity of thought.
 
 264 
 
 ARTHUR MURPHY. 
 
 ARTHUR MURPHY. 
 
 Born 1727 — Died 1805. 
 
 [Arthur Murphy, actor, lawyer, dramatist, 
 aud editor, was born at Clooniquin, in the 
 county of Roscommon, in the year 1727. His 
 father was a merchant in good repute, who 
 unfortunately perished in 1729 on his passage 
 to Philadelphia, so that the education of the 
 boy devolved on his mother, who sent him to 
 the College of St. Omer, where he remained 
 six years, and became a thorough master of the 
 Latin and Greek languages. After leaving St. 
 Omer in 1747 he resided with his mother for 
 three years, and then entered the counting- 
 house of his uncle at Cork, where he remained 
 for a couple of years. Before that short time 
 had expired, however, he had given ample 
 proofs of his unsuitableness for business. It 
 was the original intention of his relatives that 
 he should go out to the West Indies to take 
 charge of an estate belonging to his uncle, but 
 his wayward temper, his dabbling in verses, 
 and his loose though not vicious ways, deterred 
 his uncle from trusting him in a responsible 
 post, and in 1751 he returned to his mother 
 who now resided in London. 
 
 In the latter part of 1752 he took the first 
 open step in his long literary career by issuing 
 a political periodical called Gray' s Inn Journal. 
 This w;is no great success, but it continued to 
 exist for two years, and was the means of 
 Murjshy's introduction to a great number of 
 actors and men of letters in London. He 
 \veut on the stage at the advice of Foote. 
 He appeared in the onerous part of Othello, 
 and although his success was not great, he 
 managed by his good figui'e and other quali- 
 ties to gain a position which enabled him to 
 pay ott' his debts and save J400. When this 
 point was reached he determined to leave the 
 stage and join the bar. His api)lication for 
 admission to the Middle Temple met with a 
 refusal in consequence of his connection with 
 the stage, but at Lincoln's Inn he found greater 
 liberality of opinion, and was received in 1757, 
 and called to the bar in 1762. A few years 
 after he had trod the stage at Drury Lane he 
 appeared as a pleader at Westminster Hall. 
 He occasionally attended the circuits, but with- 
 out much success, and he was forced to eke out 
 his income by political writing. In 1788 he 
 left the bar in disgust, the last straw which 
 broke the back of his patience being the a]i- 
 
 poiutment of a junior as king's counsel. From 
 this time until his death he devoted himself 
 entirely to literature, with the exception of 
 the time necessary to perform the duties of a 
 commissioner of bankruptcj^ to which post he 
 was appointed in 1798 by the interest of Lord 
 Loughborough. 
 
 Murphy's first dramatic attempt. The Ap- 
 prentice, was produced shortly before he joined 
 the stage. In 1759 his tragedy of The Orphan 
 of China was the means of making Mrs. Yates 
 at once a great favourite with the public, and 
 in 1761 she also had another success with the 
 author's All in the Wrong. This la-st comedy 
 was also a great financial success to Murphy, 
 and with Know your Own Mind and The Way 
 to Keep Him, held the stage until a few years 
 ago ; indeed the three plays may yet be seen 
 
 i acted occasionally in provincial theatres. The 
 Grecian Daugfhter, a. trcigedy, Three Weeks after 
 
 I Marriage, and The Citizen, both comedies, were 
 also successes, and raised their author's repu- 
 tation as a dramatist. 
 
 In 1792, after his retirement to Hammer- 
 smith, Murphy published his Essay on the 
 Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson, a work in 
 which he defended his friend from the many 
 attacks which it had then become the fashion 
 to make vxpon him. In 1793 ajipeared his 
 scholarly translation of Tacitus with an essay 
 on his life and genius, which has fi-equently 
 been reprinted. He also wrote a Life of 
 Fielding, and shortly before his death a Life 
 of Garrick, which last is generally reputed his 
 least talented work. In 1798 appeared his 
 tragedy of Ar7ninius, in which he displayed 
 great warmth in favour of the then pending 
 war, and for which he was granted a pen- 
 sion of £200 a yeai'. This he enjoyed till 
 his death, which occurred at Knightsbridge, 
 June, 1805, in the seventy-eighth year of 
 his age. 
 
 In addition to the works already named 
 Murphy wrote several farces, sketches, pro- 
 logues, epilogues, addresses, and contributions 
 to periodicid literature. During his political 
 career he also produced The Test and The 
 Auditor, weekly papei-s in defence of the ex- 
 isting government; and in 1786 he edited a 
 collection of his own works in seven volumes 
 — plays, poems, and miscellanies.]
 
 ARTHUR MURPHY. 
 
 265 
 
 HOW TO FALL OUT. 
 
 (from "THRKE weeks after MAHHIAGE.") 
 
 Sir Charles and Lady Rackett. 
 
 Ladi/ It. Well, now, let's go to rest ; — but, 
 Sir diaries, how shockingly you played that 
 last rubber, when I stood looking over you. 
 
 Sir C. My love, I played the truth of the 
 game. 
 
 Lad)) R. No, indeed, my dear, you played 
 it wrong. 
 
 Sir C. Pho! nonsense! You don't under- 
 stand it. 
 
 Lady R. I beg your pardon, I'm allowed to 
 play better than you. 
 
 Sir C. All conceit, my dear ; I was perfectly 
 right. 
 
 Lady R. No such thing. Sir Charles; the 
 diamond was the play. 
 
 Sir C. Pho, pho! ridiculous! The club was 
 the card arainst the world. 
 
 Lady R. Oh! no, no, no, I say it was the 
 diamond. 
 
 Sir C. Zounds ! madam, I say it was the 
 club. 
 
 Lady R. What do you fly into such a passion 
 for? 
 
 Sir C. Death and fury, do you think I don't 
 know what I'm about? I tell you, once more, 
 the club was the judgment of it. 
 
 Lady R. Maybe so ; have it your own way, 
 sir. {Walks about and sings) 
 
 Sir C. Vexation ! you're the strangest woman 
 that ever lived ; there's no conversing with 
 you. Look ye here, my Lady Rackett ; it's the 
 clearest case in the world; I'll make it plain 
 to you in a moment. 
 
 Lady R. Well, sir!— ha, ha, ha! 
 
 {With a sneering laugh.) 
 
 Sir C. I had four cards left, a trump was 
 led, they were six ; no, no, no, they were seven, 
 and we nine ; then, you know, the beauty of 
 the play was to — 
 
 Lady R. Well, now, it's amazing to me that 
 you can't see it ; give me leave. Sir Charles. 
 Your left-hand adversary had led his last 
 trump, and he had before finessed the club, 
 and roughed the diamond ; now if you had put 
 on your diamond — 
 
 Sir C. Zounds! madam, but we played for 
 the odd trick. 
 
 Lady R. And sure the play for the odd 
 trick — 
 
 Sir C. Death and fury! can't you hear me? 
 
 Lady R. Go on, sir. 
 
 Sir C. Zounds! hear me, I say. Will you 
 hear me? 
 
 Lady R. I never heard the like in my life. 
 {Bums a tune, and walks about fretfully.) 
 
 Sir C. Why, then, you are enough to pro- 
 voke the patience of a Stoic. {Looks at her, 
 and she walks about and laughs uneasy.) Very 
 well, madam : you know no more of the game 
 than your father's leaden Hercules on tlie top 
 of the house. You know no more of whist 
 than he does of gardening. 
 
 Lady R. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 {Takes out a glass and settles her hair.) 
 
 Sir C. You're a vile woman, and I'll not 
 slee}) another night under the same roof with 
 you. 
 
 Lady R. As you please, sir. 
 
 Sir C. Madam, it shall be as I please. I'll 
 order m}' chariot this moment. {Going.) I 
 know how the cards should be played as well 
 as any man in England, that let me tell you. 
 {Going.) And when your family were stand- 
 ing behind counters measuring out tape and 
 bartering for Whitechapel needles, my ances- 
 tors — madam, my ancestora — wei'e squandering 
 away whole estates at cards, — whole estates, 
 my Lady Rackett. {She hums a tune, and he 
 looks at her.) Why, then, by all that's dear 
 to me, I'll never exchange another word with 
 you, good, bad, or indifferent. Look ye, my 
 Lady Rackett, thus it stood; the trump being 
 led, it was tlien my business — 
 
 Lady R. To play the diamond, to be sure. 
 
 Sir C. D n it ; I have done with you for 
 
 ever, and so you may tell your father. \^Exit. 
 
 Lady R. W^hat a passion the gentleman's 
 in ! Ha, ha, ha ! {Lauglis in a peevish manner.) 
 I promise him I'll not give up my judgment 
 
 Re-enter Sir Charles. 
 
 Sir C. My Lady Rackett, look ye, ma'am ; 
 once more, out of pure good-nature — 
 
 Lady R. Sir, I am convinced of your good- 
 nature. 
 
 Sir C. That, and that only prevails with me 
 to tell you, the club was the play. 
 
 Lady R. Well, be it so; I liave no objection. 
 
 Sir C. It's the clearest point in the world ; 
 we were nine, and — 
 
 Lady R. And for that very reason, you 
 know, the club was the best in the house. 
 
 Sir C. There is no such thing as talking to 
 j-^ou. You're a base woman. ... I tell you 
 the diamond was not the play, and here I 
 take my final leave of you. ( Walks back as 
 fast as he ca7i.) I am resolved upon it, and I 
 know the club was not the best in the house.
 
 266 
 
 EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 Born 1763 — Died 1810. 
 
 ["Pleasant Ned Lysaght," as he was com- 
 monly called, bamster, wit, and song-writer, 
 A^as the son of John Lysaght, Esq. of Brick- 
 hill in the county of Clare, and was born on 
 the 21st of December, 1763. His early days 
 were passed amid the romantic associations 
 that surrounded his father's home, and the 
 names of the ancient heroes and princes of 
 his country were familiar in his mouth as 
 household words. When old enough he was 
 sent to the academy in Cashel conducted by 
 the Eev. Patrick Hare, a man of undoubted 
 talent, but said to have had little of the milk 
 of human kindness in his comjjosition. 
 
 At this school Lysaght soon began to dis- 
 tinguish himself by his wit and humour as 
 well as personal courage, and became a great 
 favourite with his companions. He did not 
 neglect his studies, however, and in 1779 
 entered Trinity College, Dublin, his leaving 
 Cashel being cause of much sorrow to botli 
 teachers and pupils. While he was at Trin- 
 ity his father died, and Lysaght, full of deep 
 grief, returned home to his mother. With her 
 he remained for some time, and in 1784 he 
 was after examination admitted a student of 
 the Middle Temple, London. Before long he 
 gained some of the best prizes, and having 
 taken his degree of M.A. at Oxford, was called 
 to the English and Irish bar in 1798. 
 
 After a time he married, but his practice 
 continued meagi-e, and Sir Jonah Barrington 
 says he discovered that his father-in-law, 
 whom he had believed to be a wealthy Jew, 
 was only a bankrupt Christian. His creditors 
 pressing him, Lysaght left England and re- 
 turned to Ireland, resolved to make it his 
 future home. He soon won the good wishes 
 and esteem of the people generally, and, what 
 was even better, his practice began to improve, 
 and he gained reputation on circuit as a fluent 
 speaker. He now occupied his leisure hours 
 — and there were leisure houi-s in those days 
 for even the busiest — in verse-making, and tlic 
 production of many a witty skit now utterlj- 
 lost. In the Volunteer movement he took a 
 prominent and active part, and helped it for- 
 ward both by tongue and pen. When the 
 movement whicli resulted in the Union began, 
 Lysaght opposed it with all his power, and, 
 though repeatedly tempted, remained to the 
 
 last unbribable and patriotic. In 1810, when 
 he had come to believe that Ireland would 
 never more take her place among the nations 
 of the earth, he died, regretted by all who 
 knew him, or who had listened to his wit that 
 so often set the court as well as the table in a 
 roar. 
 
 Lysaght's poetry was, like himself, full of 
 wit and humour, with an under-stratum of feel- 
 ing and sentiment, and a strength and direct- 
 ness of expression which were characteristic of 
 him in everyday life. His style is essentially 
 a healthy one, escaping on the one hand from 
 the stiffness of the age in which he lived, yet 
 free from license and not overloaded with 
 ornament. His insight into character, especi- 
 ally Irish character, was wonderful, and his 
 " Sprig of Shillelah " remains to this day a 
 perfect photograph of the now extinct being 
 it portrays. The respect of the bench and bar 
 in Ireland for Lysaght's memory was shown 
 by their donation of .£2520 for his widow and 
 daughters. A volume of Poems hy the late 
 Edward Lysaght, Bsq. weis published in Dublin 
 in 1811, but it does not contain some of his 
 best effusions, many of which are now doubt- 
 less lost.] 
 
 KATE OF GARNAVILLA.i 
 
 Have you been at Garnavilla? 
 
 Have you seen at Garnavilla 
 Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
 
 With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? 
 Oh! she's pure as virgin snows 
 
 Ere they light on woodland liill-0; 
 Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose 
 
 la lovely Kate of Garnavilla! 
 
 Philomel, I've listened oft 
 
 To thy lay, nigh weeping willow: 
 
 Oh! the strains more sweet, more soft, 
 That flows from Kate of Garnavilla. 
 Have you been, &c. 
 
 As a noble ship I've seen 
 
 Sailing o'er the swelling billow. 
 
 ' SuiiR to the well-known air of "Roy's Wife," to which 
 Burns also wrote words not excelling these of Lysaght.
 
 EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 26: 
 
 So I've markeil tlie graceful niicii 
 Of lovely Kale of Garnavillu. 
 
 Have 3'ou been, &c. 
 
 If poets' prayers can banish cares, 
 
 No cares shall come to Garnavilla; 
 Joy's bright rays shall gild her days. 
 
 And dove-like peace pcreli on her pillow. 
 Charming maid of Garnavilla! 
 Lovely maid of Garnavilla! 
 Beauty, grace, and virtue wait 
 Un lovely Kate of Garnavilla. 
 
 THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. 
 
 Oh! love is the soul of a neat Irishman, 
 
 He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can. 
 
 With his sprig of shillelah and .shamrock so 
 green ! 
 His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound. 
 No envy or malice is there to be found; 
 He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, 
 For love, all for love, for in that he delights, 
 
 With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so 
 green ! 
 
 Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair? 
 An Irishman, all in his glory, is there, 
 
 With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so 
 
 green ! 
 His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a 
 
 speck, 
 A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck; 
 He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-crown. 
 He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him 
 
 down. 
 With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so 
 
 green ! 
 
 At evening returning, as homeward he goes. 
 His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with 
 
 blows 
 From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green! 
 He meets with his Sheelah, who, frowning a smile, 
 Cries, "Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the 
 
 while. 
 To the priest soon they go, and nine months after 
 
 that, 
 A baby cries out, " How d'ye do, father Pat, 
 AVith your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so 
 
 green?" 
 
 Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his 
 
 birth, 
 Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring 
 
 earth, 
 Where grow the shillelah and shamrock so green ! 
 
 May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the 
 
 Shannon, 
 Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a 
 
 cannon; 
 United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine, 
 May the rose and the thistle long flourish and 
 
 twine 
 Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so 
 
 green ! 
 
 OTR ISLAND. 
 
 May God, in whose hand 
 Is the lot of each land — 
 
 Who rules over ocean and drv land — 
 Inspire our good king 
 From his presence to fling 
 
 III advisers who'd ruin our island. 
 Don't we feel 'tis our dear native island! 
 A fertile and fine little island! 
 
 May Orange and Green 
 
 No longer be seen 
 Bestain'd with the blood of our island. 
 
 The fair ones we prize 
 Declare they despise 
 
 Those who'd make it a slavish and ■i'ile land; 
 Be their smiles our reward, 
 And we'll gallantly guard 
 
 All the rights and delights of our island — 
 For, oh! 'tis a lovely green island! 
 Bright beauties adorn our dear island! 
 
 At St. Patrick's command 
 
 Vipers quitted our land — 
 But he's wanted again in our island! 
 
 For her interest and pride, 
 We oft fought by the side 
 
 Of England, that haughty and high land; 
 Nay, we'd do so again, 
 If she'd let us remain 
 
 A free and a flourishing island — 
 But she, like a crafty and sly land. 
 Dissension excites in our island, 
 
 And, our feuds to adjust, 
 
 She would lay in tlie dust 
 All the freedom and strength of our island. 
 
 A few years ago — 
 Though now she says no — 
 
 We agreed with that surly and sly land, 
 That each, as a friend, 
 Should the other defend. 
 
 And the crown be the link of each island: 
 'Twas the final state-bond of each island; 
 Independence we swore to each island.
 
 268 
 
 EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 Are we grown so absurd 
 As to credit her word, 
 When she's breaking her oath with our island? 
 
 Let us steadily stand 
 
 By our king and our land, 
 
 And it sha'n't be a slavish or vile land; 
 Nor impudent Pitt 
 Unpunished commit 
 
 An attempt on the rights of our island. 
 Each voice should resound through our island — 
 You're my neighbour, but, Bull, this is my land! 
 
 Nature's favourite spot — 
 
 And I 'd sooner be shot 
 Than surrender the rights of our island! 
 
 SWEET CHLOE. 
 
 Sweet Chloe advised me, in accents divine, 
 
 The joys of the bowl to surrender; 
 Nor lose, in the turbid excesses of wine, 
 
 Delights more ecstatic and tender; 
 She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask, 
 Or stagger, at orgies, the dupe of a flask. 
 For the sigh of a sot's but the scent of the cask, 
 
 And a bubble the bliss of the bottle. 
 
 To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry, 
 The juice of the grape may be wanted; 
 
 But mine is reviv'd by a love-beaming eye, 
 And with fancy's gay f.ow'rets enchanted. 
 
 Oh ! who but an owl would a garland entwine 
 
 Of Bacchus's ivy — and myrtle resign? 
 
 Yield the odours of love, for the vapours of wine, 
 And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle ! 
 
 THY^ SPIRIT IS FROM BONDAGE FREE. 
 
 Thy spirit is from bondage free ! 
 Death gave tliee guiltless liberty; 
 Sweet victim of ungrateful love. 
 Flit happy through the realms above ! 
 
 No priest am I, with rigid rule, 
 Tliy merits to arraign ; 
 
 No dunce untaught in sorrow's school, 
 I feel for others' pain. 
 An humble offering on thy bier, 
 I drop a sympathetic tear ! 
 
 Life's toils are mercifully brief; 
 Death gives the woe-worn heart relief; 
 When hope is fled, 'tis bliss to die — 
 Griefs ending with a single sigh. 
 Delusive love dissolves the heart. 
 Where vivid passions glow; 
 
 The fault was nature's — thine the smart ; 
 I well can feel thy woe ; 
 Sweet victim may'st thou through heaven's skies, 
 A kindred spirit recognize. 
 
 TO HENRY GRATTAN: 
 
 "THE MAN WHO LED THE VAN OF IRISH VOLUNTEERS." 
 
 The gen'rous sons of Erin, in manly virtue bold, 
 
 With hearts and hands preparing our country to 
 uphold, 
 
 Tho' cruel knaves and bigot slaves disturbed our 
 isle some years, 
 
 Now hail the man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers. 
 
 Just thirty years are ending since first his glorious 
 aid, 
 
 Our sacred rights defending, struck shackles from 
 our trade ; 
 
 To serve us still, with might and skill, the vet'ran 
 now appears, 
 
 That gallant man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers. 
 
 He sows no vile dissensions ; good-will to all he 
 bears ; 
 
 He knows no vain pretensions, no paltry fears or 
 cares ; 
 
 To Erin's and to Britain's sons, his worth his name 
 endears ; 
 
 They love the man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers. 
 
 Oppos'd by hirelings sordid, he broke oppression's 
 chain, 
 
 On statute-books recorded, his patriot acts remain; 
 
 The equipoise his mind employs of Commons, 
 King, and Peers, 
 
 The upright man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers. 
 
 A British constitution (to Erin ever true), 
 
 In spite of state pollution, he gained in "Eighty- 
 two;" 
 
 "He watched it in its cradle, and bedew'd its hearse 
 with tears :" 
 
 This gallant man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers. ^ 
 
 While other nations tremble, by proud oppressors 
 gall'd, 
 
 On hustings we'll assemble, by Erin's welfare 
 cali'd ; 
 
 Our Grattan, there we'll meet him, and greet him 
 with three cheers; 
 
 The gallant man who led the van of Irish Volun- 
 teers.
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 269 
 
 KITTY OF COLEEAINE.i 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
 
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, 
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down 
 tumbled, 
 And all the sweet butter- milk watered the 
 plain. 
 Oh! what shall I do now? 'twas looking at you, 
 now ; 
 Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again; 
 
 'Twa.s the pride of my dairy! Barney M'Cleary, 
 You're sent as a plague to the girls of Colemine! 
 
 I .sat down beside her, gind gently did chide her. 
 
 That such a misfortune should give her such 
 pain; 
 -V kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her. 
 
 She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 
 'Twas hay-making .sea.soa — I can't tell therea.son — 
 
 ilisfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain ; 
 For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 
 
 The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 BoBN 1778 — Died 1803. 
 
 [The subject of this brief notice was the 
 youngest of the three talented sons of Di-. 
 Emmet, a physician in Cork and afterwards 
 in Dublin, well known for his extreme polit- 
 ical views, which his sons seem more or less 
 to have inherited. Robert was born in Cork 
 on the 4th of March, 1778. Like his brothers 
 Temple and Thomas Addis, he was originally 
 intended for the bar, and with that view 
 entered Trinity College. At the time the 
 country was in an agitated condition: the 
 Society of United Irishmen were forming 
 themselves, and secretly meditating action 
 against the government. Into this movement 
 young Emmet heartily entered, and his 
 speeches at the debating society of the col- 
 lege plainly showed that his views were demo- 
 cratic in the extreme. In one of these speeches, 
 quoted by Moore, he says : — " When a people 
 advancing rapidly in knowledge and power 
 perceive at last how far their government is 
 lagging behind them, what then, I ask, is to 
 be done in such a case ? What but to pull the 
 government up to the people ? " Such language 
 could not pass unnoticed at such a time, and 
 an examination of the students was instituted 
 by the college authorities. The result was that 
 twenty of their number, including Emmet, 
 were expelled. This took place in 1798, when 
 he was twenty years of age. 
 
 He left Ireland at once, and took up his abode 
 for a time with his brother at Fort George. 
 
 1 Generally said to be anonymous, though tliere is good 
 reason to believe Lysaght to be the author, not only from 
 the period of its circulation, but from the sly wit and 
 humorous turn of the catastrophe, resembling more 
 closely in style the productions of pleasant rollicking 
 Ned Lysaght than those of any of his contemporaries. 
 
 Thence he proceeded through Spain, Holland, 
 and Switzerland, and visited Paris, where lie 
 became the confidant of the Jacobins, and the 
 centre of a select circle of exiles, who united 
 Irish patriotism with French republicanism. 
 
 Buoyed up with promises of assistance from 
 France, Emmet once more retui'ned to Ireland 
 and did all in his power to organize an insur- 
 rection. His patriotism was not only measured 
 by words but by deeds. The death of his 
 father had put him in possession of stock to the 
 amount of X150(). Tliis he converted into cash, 
 and taking a house in Patrick Street, Dublin, 
 he had pikes, rockets, and hand-grenades made 
 and stored there in great quantities. An ex- 
 plosion occurred which destroyed a portion of 
 the house, killing one man and injuring others; 
 but Emmet, instead of being discouraged bythis 
 disaster, only redoubled his care and resided 
 entirely on the premises. At thistinie he wrote: 
 — " I have little time to look at the thousand 
 difficulties which stand between me and the 
 completion of my wishes. That these difficulties 
 will disappear I have an ardent, and, I trust, 
 rational hope. But if it is not to be the case, 
 I thank God for having gifted me with a 
 sanguine disjjosition. To that disposition I 
 run from reflection: and if my hopes are with- 
 out foundation — if a precipice is opened under 
 my feet, from which duty will not suflfer me 
 to ran back— I am grateful for that sanguine 
 disposition which leads me to the brink and 
 throws me down, while my eyes are still raised 
 to those visions of happiness which my fancy 
 has formed in the air." 
 
 We need not enter into details of tlie un- 
 fortunate attempt at insurrection. Suffice it to 
 say that on July 23, 1803, the day appointed
 
 270 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 for the rising, not more tliau a hundred insur- 
 gents assembled, and they were at once joined 
 by a noisy rabble, who, in passing thi-ough the 
 streets for the point of attack, the castle, shot 
 dead one Colonel Brown, and rushed upon a 
 carriage containing Lord Kiiwarden the Lord 
 Chief-justice of Ireland, his daughter, and the 
 Rev. Mr. Wolfe. Lord Kiiwarden and Mr. 
 Wolfe were savagely murdered, but Emmet, 
 on hearing of the outrage, rushed from the 
 head of his party and bore the lady to an ad- 
 joining house for safety. The leaders now lost 
 all control over the mob, and in utter disgust 
 Emmet and his companions left them, and fled 
 to the Wicklow Hills. Thus this so carefully 
 planned insurrection, which was to have gained 
 so much for Ireland, was all over in a few 
 hours. 
 
 The friends of Emmet did their best to aid 
 in his escape, and all preparations were made, 
 but love got the better of prudence, and he 
 refused to quit Ireland without first seeing 
 and bidding farewell to Miss Sarah Curran, 
 daughter of John Philjwt Curran, to whom 
 he was betrothed. The delay was fatal, and 
 through information received he was arrested 
 at Harold's Cross by Major Sirr. Only the 
 pathetic lines of Moore can depict the feelings 
 of Miss Curran on this event : — 
 
 ' ' Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
 Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and shame? 
 I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
 I but know that I love thee whatever thou art ! 
 
 ' ' Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss, 
 Still thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this, — 
 Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
 And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too." 
 
 While in prison, Emmet tried to induce his 
 jailer by a gift of money to deliver a letter to 
 Miss Curran, but the official gave it to the 
 attorney-general instead. On hearing of this, 
 he offered to the authorities to plead guilty 
 and speak no word of defence if they would 
 permit his letter to reach its intended destina- 
 tion, but the off"er was refused. He was brought 
 to trial for high treason in September, and 
 sentenced to be executed, a sentence which was 
 immediately carried out. At the last scene he 
 proved himself no coward, for, when the exe- 
 cutioner severed the head from tlie body, it 
 is said the blood flowed freely from it, showing 
 that no craven fear had sent it to the heai-t, 
 and the face, when held up with the words 
 " This is the head of a traitor ! " wore a sweet 
 and peaceful expression. 
 
 Thomas Moore, who was the intimate friend 
 of Emmet at college, says of him in his Life of 
 Lord Edward Fitzgerald, "Were I to number 
 the men among all I have ever known who 
 appeared to me to combine in the greatest 
 degree pure moral worth with intellectual 
 power, I should among the highest of the few 
 place Robert Emmet." 
 
 Thomas Addis, Dr. Emmet's second son, 
 became involved in the proceedings of the 
 United Irishmen in 1796, and after suff"ering 
 imprisonment was exiled from his native land. 
 He settled in the United States in 1804, rose 
 high in his profession, and was for a time 
 attorney-general for the state of New York. 
 In 1807 he published, in conjunction with 
 another expatriated Irishman, Dr. William 
 James MacNeven, Pieces of Irish History 
 illustrative of the Condition of the Catholics of 
 Ireland. Mr. Emmet died in New York in 
 1827.] 
 
 LAST SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 My Lords, — I am asked what have I to 
 say why sentence of death should not be pro- 
 nounced on me, according to law. I have no- 
 thing to say that can alter your predetermina- 
 tion, nor that it will become me to say, with any 
 view to the mitigation of that sentence which 
 you are to pronounce, and I must abide b}'. 
 But I have that to say which interests me 
 more than life, and which you have laboured 
 to destroy. I have much to say why my 
 reputation should be rescued from the load of 
 false accusation and calumny which has been 
 cast upon it. I do not imagine that, seated 
 where you are, your mind can be so free from 
 I^rejudice as to receive the least impression 
 from what I am going to utter. I have no 
 hopes that I can anchor my character in the 
 breast of a court constituted and trammelled 
 as this is. I only wish, and that is the utmost 
 that I expect, that your lordships may suffer 
 it to float down your memories untainted by 
 the foul breath of prejudice, until it finds some 
 more hospitable liarbour to shelter it from the 
 storms by which it is buflfeted. Was I only 
 to suff"er death, after being adjudged guilty by 
 your tribunal, I should bow in silence, and 
 meet the fate that awaits me without a mur- 
 mur; but the sentence of the law which deli- 
 vers my body to the executioner will, thi-ough 
 the ministry of the law, labour in its own 
 vindication to consign my character to obloquy;
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 271 
 
 for there must be guilt somewhere, whetlier 
 iu the sentence of the court or in the catas- 
 trophe time must determine. A man in my 
 situation lias not only to encounter the diffi- 
 culties of fortune, and the force of power over 
 minds which it has corrupted or subjugated, 
 but the difficulties of established prejudice. 
 The man dies, but his memory lives. That 
 mine may not perish, that it may live iu the 
 respect of my countrymen, I seize upon this 
 opportunity to vindicate myself from some of 
 the charges alleged against me. Wlien my 
 spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port 
 — when my shade shall have joined the bands 
 of those martyred heroes who have shed their 
 blood on the scaffold and in the field in the 
 defence of their country and of virtue, this is 
 my hope — I wash that my memory and name 
 may animate those who survive me, while I 
 look down with complacency on the destruction 
 of that perfidious government which upholds 
 its domination by blasphemy of the Most 
 High — which displays its power over man, as 
 over the beasts of the forest — which sets man 
 upon his brother, and lifts his hand, in the 
 name of God, against the throat of his fellow 
 who believes or doubts a little more or a little 
 less than the government standard — a govern- 
 ment which is steeled to barbarity by the cries 
 of the orphans and the tears of the widows 
 it has made. 
 
 [Here Lord Norbury interrupted Mr. Em- 
 met, saying — "that the mean and wicked 
 enthusiasts who felt as he did, were not equal 
 to the accomplishment of their wild designs."] 
 
 I appeal to the immaculate God — I swear 
 by the Throne of Heaven, before which I 
 must shortly appear — by the blood of the 
 murdered patriots who have gone before me 
 — that my conduct has been, through all this 
 peril, and through all my purposes, governed 
 only by the conviction which I have uttered, 
 and by no other view than that of the eman- 
 cipation of my country from the superinhuman 
 oppression under which she has so long and 
 too patiently travailed; and I confidently 
 hope that, wild and chimerical as it may 
 appear, there is still union and strength in 
 Ireland to accomplish this noblest of enter- 
 prises. Of this I speak with confidence, of 
 intimate knowledge, and with the consolation 
 that appertains to that confidence. Think 
 not, my lords, I say this for the petty gratifi- 
 cation of giving you a transitory uneasiness. 
 A man who never yet raised his voice to assert 
 a lie, will not hazai'd his character with pos- 
 terity by asserting a falsehood on a subject so 
 
 important to his country, and on an occasion 
 like this. Yes, my lords, a man who does not 
 wish to have his epitaph written until his 
 country is liberated, will not leave a weajxjn 
 in the power of envy, or a pretence to impeach 
 the probity which he means to jjreserve, even 
 in the grave to which tyranny consigns him. 
 
 [Here he was interrupted. Lord Norbury 
 said he did not sit there to hear treason.] 
 
 I have always underetood it to be the 
 duty of a judge, when a prisoner has been 
 convicted, to pronounce the sentence of the 
 law. I have also understood that judges some- 
 times think it their duty to hear with patience 
 and to speak with humanity; to exhort the 
 victim of the laws, and to offer, with tender 
 benignity, their opinions of the motives by 
 which he was actuated in the crime of which 
 he was adjudged guilty. That a judge has 
 thought it his duty so to have done, I have no 
 doubt ; but where is the boasted freedom of 
 your institutions — where is the vaunted im- 
 partiality, clemency, and mildness of your 
 courts of justice, if an inifortunate prisoner, 
 whom your policy, and not justice, is about to 
 deliver into the hands of the executioner, is 
 not suiFered to explain his motives sincerely 
 and truly, and to vindicate the jjrinciples by 
 which he was actuated ? My lords, it may be 
 a part of the system of angry justice to bow 
 a man's mind by humiliation to the purposed 
 ignominy of the scaflbld; but woi'Be to me 
 than the purposed shame, or the scaffold's 
 terrors, would be the shame of such foul and 
 unfounded imputations as have been laid 
 against me in this court. You, my lord, are 
 a judge ; I am the supposed culprit. I am a 
 man; you are a man also. By a revolution of 
 jjower we might change places, though we 
 never could change charactei-s. If I stiind at 
 the bar of this court, and dare not vindicate 
 my character, what a farce is yom- justice ! 
 If I stand at this bar and dare not vindicate 
 my character, how dare you calumniate it? 
 Does the sentence of death, which your unhal- 
 lowed policy inflicts on my body, condemn 
 my tongue to silence and my reputation to 
 reproach ? Your executioner may abridge the 
 period of my existence ; but while I exist I 
 shall not forbear to vindicate my character 
 and motives from your aspersions ; and, as a 
 man to whom fame is dearer than life, I will 
 make the last use of that life in doing justice 
 to that reputation which is to live after me, 
 and which is the only legacy I can leave to 
 those I honour and love, and for whom I am 
 proud to perish. As men, my lords, we must
 
 272 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 appear on the great day at one common tri- 
 bunal ; and it will then remain for the Searcher 
 of all liearts to show a collective universe who 
 •was engacfed in the most virtuous actions or 
 swayed by the purest motives. 
 
 I am charged with being an emissary of 
 I'rance. An emissary of France ! and for 
 what end I It is alleged that I wished to sell 
 the independence of my country; and for what 
 end? Was this the object of my ambition? 
 And is this the mode by which a tribunal of 
 justice reconciles contradiction? No; I am 
 no emissary ; and my ambition was to hold a 
 place among the deliverers of my country, not 
 in power nor in profit, but in the glory of the 
 achievement. Sell my country's independence 
 to France ! and for what? Was it a change 
 of masters? No, but for my ambition. Oh, 
 my country, was it personal ambition that 
 could influence me? Had it been the soul of 
 my actions, could I not, by my education and 
 fortune, by the rank and consideration of my 
 family, have placed myself amongst the 
 proudest of your oppressors ? My Country was 
 my idol. To it I sacrificed every selfish, every 
 endearing sentiment; and for it I now offer 
 up myself, O God ! No, my lords ; I acted as 
 an Irishman, determined on delivering my 
 country from the yoke of a foreign and unre- 
 lenting tyranny, and the more galling yoke of 
 a domestic faction, which is its joint partner 
 and perpetrator in the j^atricide, — from the 
 ignominy existing with an exterior of splen- 
 dour and a conscious depravity. It was the 
 wish of my heart to extricate my country 
 from this doubly rivetted despotism — I wished 
 to place her independence beyond the reach 
 of any power on earth. I wished to exalt 
 her to that proud station in the world. Con- 
 nection with France was indeed intended, 
 but only as far as mutual interest would 
 sanction or require. Were the French to 
 assume any authority inconsistent with the 
 purest independence, it would be a signal for 
 their destruction. We sought their aid — and 
 we sought it as we had assurance we should 
 obtain it — as auxiliaries in war and allies in 
 peace. Were the French to come as invaders 
 or enemies, uninvited by the wishes of the 
 people, I should oppose them to the utmost of 
 my strength. Yes ! my countrymen, I should 
 advise you to meet them upon the beach with 
 a sword in one hand and a torch in the otlier. 
 I would meet them with all the destructive 
 fury of war. I woTiId animate my country- 
 men to immolate them in their boats, before 
 
 they had contaminated the soil of my countiy. 
 If they succeeded in landing, and if forced to 
 retire before su2:)erior discipline, I would dis- 
 pute every inch of ground, burn every blade 
 of grass, and the last entrenchment of liberty 
 should be my grave. What I could not do 
 myself, if I should fall, I should leave as a last 
 charge to my countrymen to accomplish ; be- 
 cause I should feel conscious that life, any 
 more than death, is unprofitable when a 
 foreign nation holds my country in subjection. 
 But it was not as an enemy that the succours 
 of France were to land. I looked, indeed, for 
 the assistance of France; but I wished to 
 prove to France and to the world that Irish- 
 men deserved to be assisted — that they were 
 indignant at slavery, and ready to assert the 
 independence and liberty of their country; I 
 wished to procure for my country the guar- 
 antee which Washington procured for America 
 — to procure an aid which, by its example, 
 would be as important as its valour ; discip- 
 lined, gallant, pregnant with science and ex- 
 perience ; that of a people who would perceive 
 the good and polish the rough points of 
 our character. They would come to us as 
 strangers, and leave us as friends, after shar- 
 ing in our perils and elevating our destiny. 
 These were my objects; not to receive new 
 taskmasters, but to expel old tyrants. It was 
 for these ends I sought aid from France ; be- 
 cause France, even as an enemy, could not be 
 more implacable than the enemy already in 
 the bosom of my country. 
 
 I have been charged with that importance 
 in the emancipation of my country as to be 
 considered the keystone of the combination of 
 Irishmen; or, as your lordship expressed it, 
 "the life and blood of the conspiracy." You 
 do me honour overmuch ; you have given to 
 the subaltern all the credit of a superior. 
 There are men engaged in this conspiracy who 
 are not only superior to me, but even to your 
 own conceptions of yourself, my lord — men 
 before the splendour of whose genius and 
 virtues I should bow with respectful defer- 
 ence, and who would think themselves dis- 
 graced by shaking your blood-stained hand. 
 
 What, my lord, shall you teU me, on the 
 passage to the scaffold, which that tyranny 
 (of which you are only the intermediary exe- 
 cutioner) has erected for my murder, that I 
 am accountable for all the blood that has and 
 will be shed in this struggle of the opj)ressed 
 against the oppressor — shall you tell me this, 
 and must I be so very a slave as not to repel 
 it ? I do not fear to approach the Omnipotent
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 273 
 
 Judge to answer for the conduct of uiy wliole 
 life ; and am I to be appalled and falsified by 
 a mere remnant of mortality here ] By you, 
 too, although if it were possible to collect all 
 the innocent blood that you have shed in your 
 unhallowed ministry in one great reservoir 
 your lordship might swim in it. 
 
 Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge 
 me with dishonour; let no man attaint my 
 memory, by believing that I could have en- 
 gaged in any cause but that of my country's 
 liberty and independence; or that I could have 
 become the pliant minion of power, in the 
 oppression and misery of my country. The 
 proclamation of the provisional government 
 speaks for our views; no inference can be tor- 
 tured from it to countenance barbarity or de- 
 basement at home, or subjection, humiliation, 
 or treachery from abroad. I would not have 
 submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same 
 reason that I would resist the foreign and 
 domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom 
 I would have fought upon the threshold of 
 my country, and its enemy should enter only 
 by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am 
 I, who lived but for my country, and who 
 have subjected myself to the dangers of the 
 jealous and watchful oppressor and the bon- 
 dage of the grave, only to give my country- 
 men their rights and my country her inde- 
 pendence, am I to be loaded with cjilumny, 
 and not suiFered to resent it ? No ; God for- 
 bid ! 
 
 [Here Lord Norbnry told Mr. Enmaet that 
 his sentiments and language disgraced his 
 family and his education, but more particularly 
 his father Dr. Emmet, who was a man, if 
 alive, that would not countenance such opin- 
 ions. To which Mr. Emmet replied : — ] 
 
 If the spirits of the illustrious dead par- 
 ticipate in the concerns and cares of those who 
 were dear to them in this transitory life, oh ! 
 ever dear and venerated shade of my departed 
 father, look down with scrutiny upon the con- 
 duct of your suffering son, and see if I have 
 even for a moment deviated from those prin- 
 ciples of morality and patriotism which it was 
 your care to instil into my youthful mind, and 
 for which I am now about to offer up my life. 
 My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice. 
 The blood which you seek is not congealed 
 by the artificial terrors wliich surround your 
 victim — it circulates warmly and unruffled 
 through the channels which God created for 
 noble purposes, but which you are now bent 
 to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they 
 cry to heaven. Be yet patient ! I have but 
 Vol. I. 
 
 a few more words to say — I am going to my 
 cold and silent grave — my lamp of life is nearly 
 extinguished — my race is run — the grave opens 
 to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I 
 have but one request to make at my departure 
 from this world, it is — the charity of its silence. 
 Let no man write my ei)itai)h; for as no man, 
 who knows my motives, dare now vindicate 
 them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse 
 them. Let them rest in obscurity and peace ! 
 Let my memory be left in oblivion, and my 
 tomb remain uninscribed, until other times 
 and other men can do justice to my character. 
 When my country tiikes her place among tlie 
 nations of the earth, <Aen, and not till then, let 
 my epitaph be written. I have done. 
 
 LINES BY ROBERT EMMET, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BURTING-GROUND OF ARBOUR UII.L, 
 IN DUBLIN, WHERE THE BODIES OF INSURGENTS 
 SHOT IN 1798 WERE INTEKRKD. 
 
 No rising column marks this spot, 
 
 Where many a victim lies; 
 But oh! the blood which here has streamed. 
 
 To Heaven for justice cries. 
 
 It claims it on the oppressor's head, 
 
 Who joys in human woe, 
 Who drinks the tears by misery shed, 
 
 And mocks them as they flow. 
 
 It claims it on the callous judge, 
 Whose hands in blood are dyed, 
 
 Who arms injustice with the sword, 
 The balance throws aside. 
 
 It claims it for his ruined isle, 
 Her wretched children's grave; 
 
 Where withered Freedom droops her head, 
 And man exists — a slave. 
 
 sacred Justice! free this land 
 
 From tyranny abhorred; 
 Resume thy balance and thy seat — 
 
 Resume — but sheathe thy sword. 
 
 No retribution should we seek- 
 Too long has horror reigned; 
 
 By mercy marked may freedom rise, 
 By cruelty unstained. 
 
 Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix 
 With those our martyred dead; 
 
 This is the place where Erin's sons 
 In Erin's cause have bled. 
 
 18
 
 274 
 
 THE HON GEORGE OGLE. 
 
 And those who here are laid at rest, 
 Oh ! hallowed be each name ; 
 
 Their memories are for ever blest — 
 Consigned to endless fame. 
 
 Unconsecrated is this ground, 
 Unblest by holy hands ; 
 
 No bell here tolls its solemn sound, 
 No monument here stands. 
 
 But here the patriot's tears are shed, 
 The poor man's blessing given ; 
 
 These consecrate the virtuous dead, 
 These waft their fame to heaven. 
 
 THE HON. GEORGE OGLE. 
 
 Born 1739 — Died 1814. 
 
 [Very little can be found regarding the 
 early life of this favourite song -writer, 
 beyond that he was born of respectable 
 parentage in "Wexford, which county he 
 afterwards represented in the Irish House of 
 Commons. 
 
 He sat for the city of Dublin in parliament 
 in 1799, and is still remembered as having 
 been strongly opposed to the Union. His 
 death took place in 1814.] 
 
 THE BANKS OF BANNA. 
 
 Shepherds, I have lost my love, — 
 
 Have you seen my Anna? 
 Pride of every shady grove 
 
 On the banks of Banna. 
 I for her my home forsook, 
 
 Near yon misty mountain. 
 Left my flocks, my pipe, my crook, 
 
 Greenwood shade, and fountain. 
 
 Never shall 1 see them more 
 
 Until her returning ; 
 All the joys of life are o'er — 
 
 Gladness chang'd to mourning. 
 Whither is my charmer flown? 
 
 Shepherds, tell me whither? 
 Woe is me, perhaps she's gone 
 
 For ever and for ever ! 
 
 BANISH SORROW. 
 
 Banish sorrow, griefs a folly. 
 
 Thought, unbend thy wrinkled brow ; 
 Hence dull care and melancholy, 
 
 .Mirth and wine invite us now. 
 Bacchus empties all his treasure; 
 
 Comus gives us mirth and song ; 
 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow. 
 Follow, follow pleasure — 
 Let us join the jovial throng. 
 
 Youth soon flies, 'tis but a season; 
 
 Time is ever on the wing; 
 Let's the present moment seize on; 
 
 Who knows what the next may bring? 
 All our days by mirth we measure; 
 
 Other wisdom we despise; 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow. 
 
 Follow, follow pleasure — 
 
 To be happy's to be wise. 
 
 Why should therefore care perplex us? 
 
 Why should we not merry be? 
 While we're here, there's nought to vex us, 
 
 Drinking sets from cares all free; 
 Let's have drinking without measure ; 
 
 Let's have mirth while time we have; 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow, 
 
 Follow, follow pleasure — 
 
 There's no drinking in the grave. 
 
 MOLLY ASTORE. 
 
 As down by Banna's banks I strayed, 
 
 One evening in May, 
 The little birds, in blithest notes 
 
 Made vocal ev'ry spray ; 
 They sung their little notes of love. 
 
 They sung them o'er and o'er. 
 Ah, gra-yna-chree, ma colleen oge, 
 
 My Molly astore. 
 
 The daisy pied, and all the sweets 
 
 The dawn of Nature yields — 
 The primrose pale, and vi'let blue. 
 
 Lay scattered o'er the fields ; 
 Such fragrance in the bosom lies 
 
 Of her whom I adore. 
 Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge, 
 
 My Molly astore.
 
 KICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 275 
 
 I laid mc down upon a bank, 
 
 Jiewailing mj' sad fate, 
 That doomed me thus the slave of love, 
 
 And cruel Molly's hate; 
 How can she break the honest heart 
 
 That wears her in its core? 
 Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma collem o<je, 
 
 My Molly astore. 
 
 You said you loved me, Molly dear! 
 
 Ah! why did I believe? 
 Yet who could think such tender words 
 
 Were meant but to deceive? 
 That Jove was all I a.sked on earth — 
 
 Nay, Heaven could give no more. 
 Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. 
 
 My Molly astore. 
 
 Oh! had I all the flocks that graze 
 
 On yonder yellow hill; 
 Or lowed for me tlie numerous herds 
 
 That yon green pasture fill ; 
 
 \\itii her I love I'd gla<lly share 
 
 My kine and fleecy store. 
 Alt, gra-/ii(i-rhree, via colleen oge, 
 
 My Molly adore. 
 
 Two turtle-doves above my head 
 
 Sat courting on a bough, 
 I envied them their happinesH, 
 
 To see them bill and coo: 
 Such fondness once for mc was shown, 
 
 15ut now, ala.s! 'tis o'er. 
 All, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge, 
 
 My Molly astore. 
 
 Then fare thee well, my Molly dear! 
 
 Thy loss I e'er shall moan. 
 Whilst life remains in this fond heart, 
 
 'Twill beat for thee alone; 
 Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee 
 
 Its choicest blessings pour. 
 Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. 
 
 My Molly astore. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 Born 1751 — Died 1816. 
 
 [This distinguished statesman and dramatist, 
 the greatest scion of a gifted family, was born 
 in Dublin in 1751. In his seventh year he was 
 sent to the school kept by Samuel Whyte, 
 who was also the preceptor of Thomas Moore. 
 In this school he remained but a sliort time, 
 and left it with the character of a dunce. His 
 parents removing to England, he was next 
 sent to Harrow, where he is said to have dis- 
 played an aptness for school-boy j^ranks. He 
 had made fair progress in his studies, however, 
 when in his eighteenth year he was taken 
 home by his father, and by him was in a short 
 time perfected in grammar and what may be 
 called school oratory. 
 
 The family soon after moved to Bath, and 
 here young Sheridan had an opportunity of 
 studying human nature in many of its peculi- 
 arities and weaknesses. This opportunity he 
 embraced with the eye of a wit and philo- 
 sopher, and it was in Bath that he acquired 
 that intimate knowledsfe of human vices and 
 frailties which afterwards added so much to 
 his fame. In this city, too, he obtained the 
 one great blessing of life — a faithful wife, and 
 that after a romantic courtship. The lady 
 was a daughter of Mr. Linley, a celebi'ated 
 composer, and was herself a vocalist of the 
 
 first order, and possessed of great personal 
 charms. Though modest and retiring, she 
 had a crowd of admirera, and Sheridan's pts- 
 sionate courtshijj of her was in secret. Al- 
 ready Ml". Long, an elderly Wiltshire gentle- 
 man of great wealth, had })roposed for her, 
 and been accepted by her father; but on Miss 
 Linley telling him the real state of the case 
 he generously withdrew his suit, and took upon 
 himself the responsibility of breaking the 
 match. For this Mr. Linley sued him and 
 obtained £3(100. Another lover of Miss Lin- 
 ley's was a pereon named Matthews, who j)ro- 
 secuted his suit rather rudely. She comi)Iained 
 to her lover, and he remonstrated witii Mat- 
 thews to no effect. To escape liis rudeness 
 Miss Liidey detei-mined to le.ave Bath, and 
 abandon the profession which subjected her to 
 such insults. Her idea was to take refuge 
 in a convent in France, and thither Sheridan 
 started with her and a female com])anion as 
 protector. But when they reached London 
 they perceived the compromising nature of 
 their flight, and that the only remedy was im- 
 mediate marriage, which was accordingly per- 
 formed privately. Matthews, however, still 
 continued his persecution, now in the form of 
 slandei-s upon Sheridan, some of which ap-
 
 276 
 
 RICHAED BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 peared in a Bath paper. This brought about 
 tirst one, and then a second duel, in the first 
 of which Matthews was wounded ; in the 
 second both fought uutd their swords were 
 broken, and themselves sevei'ely wounded. 
 This desperate lighting caused a strong sus- 
 picion of the marriage of the lovers to get 
 abroad, and after a time Mr. Linley consented 
 to the match, when a second and more regular 
 ceremony was performed in the spring of 1773. 
 
 Sheridan now refused any longer to allow 
 his wife to continue a public singer, and, as 
 full of sentiment as the silliest young couple, 
 the two retired to a cottage at East Burnham. 
 From this they came to Loudon in winter, 
 and, owing to his talent and wit, and the 
 manners and accomplishments of Mrs. Sheri- 
 dan, were received into the best society. A 
 few weeks before his mamage Sheridan had 
 been entered a student of the Middle Temple, 
 and an income from a profession woidd have 
 been a great addition to the happiness of the 
 young people, but the close application and 
 industry requisite for success as a lawyer were 
 incompatible with his volatile disposition. He 
 therefore applied himself to dramatic composi- 
 tion, and in January, 1775, The Rivals was 
 produced. It was coldly received on the first 
 night, but Sheridan at once saw its defects 
 and trimmed it into more popular shape. The 
 result was a great success, and the play at once 
 took its position as a classic and stock piece. 
 In the same year he produced the farce *%. 
 PatricJi^s Day, and soon after his comic opera 
 of The Duenna appeared at Covent Garden, 
 and ran for ninety-five nights. Birt notwith- 
 standing his success as a dramatic writer, so 
 great was his extravagance that financial em- 
 barrassments had already begun to press upon 
 him, and while his country-house was filled 
 with lively parties, enjoying his hospitality and 
 his wit, the dark clouds of debt hovered over 
 him, and he was becoming the prey of duns. 
 
 In this year also (1775), on Garrick retiring 
 into private life, Sheridan arranged with him 
 for the possession of Drury Lane Tlieatre. 
 His father-in-law Mr. Linley, Dr. Fordyce, 
 and two other friends advanced the necessary 
 funds for this, and Sheridan entered upon 
 his new career determined to succeed. But 
 determination to succeed and actual success 
 are different things, and no one could be 
 worse fitted to carry on a great financial enter- 
 prise such as Drury Lane. On opening the 
 house under its new management Sheridan 
 produced A Trip to Scarborough, being an 
 alteration of Vanbrugli's comedy The Relapse, 
 
 but it proved a failure. Nothing daunted, he 
 soon after brought out The School for Scandal., 
 the finest comedy in the English language. 
 This proved a source of income to him 
 all through his life. In 1778 he made a 
 further large investment in the property of 
 Drury Lane, a considerable portion of it hav- 
 ing still remained in the hands of Garrick's 
 partner, and on doing so he ajipointed his 
 father manager, it being thought that the old 
 man's experience might act in some sort as a 
 balance to the rashness of the young one. In 
 1779, the year of Garrick's death, Sheridan 
 wrote some vei-ses to the memory of hLs friend, 
 and The Critic, or a Tragedy Rehearsed, a farce, 
 which, like most of his other pieces, was a 
 model of its kind, and shared in their success. 
 In the same year also his father, after a vain at- 
 tempt to deal with the disordered state of aff'aii's 
 at the theatre, resigned his post in despair. 
 
 The ruin which he saw approaching was 
 staved otf, however, by other successes of 
 his brilliant son, who now entered upon the 
 career of a politician, to which he was induced 
 by the friendship of Fox. A seat was found for 
 him at Stafford in 1780, and a petition com- 
 plaining of the election being presented gave 
 him a chance of making his debut. So nervous 
 and excited was he, however, that the speech 
 proved unsatisfactory, and some people who 
 were reckoned wise and supposed to be able 
 to discern rising talent, strongly advised him 
 to waste no further time in the house. But he 
 knew better than his advisers, and pereevered 
 until he attained celebrity as a parliamentary 
 oi-ator. From the firet he joined with Fox, and 
 this of course led him to advocate the cause of 
 the Prince of Wales, with whom he soon became 
 too closely acquainted for his benefit. In 1 782 
 he became under secretary of state; in 1783, 
 secretary of the treasury ; in 1806, ti-easurer 
 of the navy and privy-councillor ; in the latter 
 year he was also elected member for West- 
 minster, but lost his seat in 1807. His parlia- 
 mentary reputation as an orator was all this 
 time OTOwincr, until it reached its culminating 
 point in the speech on the impeachment of 
 WaiTen Hastings, which is described by con- 
 temporaries as the greate.st ever listened to in 
 parliament. Contrary to the practice of the 
 house at tliat time, it was gi-eeted with ap- 
 plause on all sides, and the minister asked 
 the house to adjourn, as under the influence 
 of such eloquence they were unable to come to 
 an impartial decision. Another famous ora- 
 tion was that on the liberty of the press, in 
 which he held that it would sufiice to main-
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHHRIDAN 
 
 Aflcr the Painting hy SIR JOSHUA REYXOLDS
 
 EICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 277 
 
 tain the freedom of the country against a cor- 
 rupt parliament, a truckling court, and a 
 tyrannical prince. 
 
 In 1788 Sheridan's father died, and in 1792 
 he suffered a heavy blow in the death of his 
 wife. In 1798 he produced Pizarro and The 
 Stranger, both adaptations from Kotzebue.^ In 
 1804 lie was a])pointed to the receivership of 
 the Duchy of Cornwall by the Prince of Wales, 
 "as a trifling proof of that friendship his 
 Toyal highness had felt for him for a series 
 of years." A few yeai's after the death of his 
 first wife he had married Miss Ogle, daughter 
 of the Dean of Winchester, who brought him 
 considerable accession of means. But not- 
 withstanding this and his other sources of in- 
 come, matters at the theatre had become almost 
 unbearable, when they were brought to a 
 crisis by the burning down of the house. Of 
 course arrangements were soon made for its 
 rebuilding, and it was agreed that Sheridan 
 should receive £20,000 for his claims and 
 shai-e of the property. This, instead of being 
 a relief to him, was rather the reverse, for the 
 duns like vultures gathered round him to share 
 the spoil. His habits also now became more 
 dissolute, and his friends did not seek his com- 
 pany so often, nor did the prince invite him so 
 fi-equently to the royal table. 
 
 In 1815 his health began to decline, and in 
 the spring of 1816 it gave way altogether. So 
 pressing now became his creditors that he was 
 actually arrested in bed, and it was with gi-eat 
 difficulty the bailiff was persuaded not to re- 
 move him. Indeed rumours were ciixulated 
 that in his last moments he was left in want 
 of the common necessaries of life; but these 
 rumours his friend Kelly indignantly denied. 
 The Bishop of London, hearing of his state, 
 
 ' Mr. R. H. Stoddard, lu his Personal Reminiscences by 
 O'Keeffe, Kelly, and Taylor, gives the following cui'ious 
 inlormation about the production of the fifth act of 
 Pizarro, as related by Michael Kelly, which is character- 
 istic of Sheridan's inveterate habit of procrastination. 
 After detailing the difficulties he himself encountered 
 about the music of the play, Kelly says:— "But if this 
 were a puzzling situation for a composer, what will 
 my readers think of that in which the actors were left, 
 when I state the fact that at the time the house was 
 overflowing on the first night's performance, all that was 
 ■written of the play was actually rehearsing, and that, 
 incredible as it may appear, until the end of the fourth 
 act, neither Mrs. Siddons, nor Charles Kemble, nor Barry- 
 more had all their speeches for the fifth ? Mr. Sheridan 
 was up-stairs in the prompter's room, where he was writ- 
 ing the last part of the play, while the earlier parts were 
 acting; and every ten minutes he brought down as much 
 of the dialogue as he had done, piece-meal, into the green- 
 room, abusing himself and his negligence, and making a 
 thousand winning and soothing apologies for having kept 
 the performers so long in such painful suspense." 
 
 attended him, and Sheridan appeared greatly 
 comforted by hLs prayers and spiritual advice. 
 On the 7th of July, 1816, he pa.ssed away 
 without a struggle. His remains were laid in 
 Westminster Abbey, near those of Addison, 
 Garrick, and Cumberland. 
 
 Mr. Hazlitt, in his Lectures on the English 
 Comic ^yriters, says of Sheridan : " He has 
 been justly called 'a dramatic star of the fii-st 
 magnitude;' and indeed, among the comic 
 writers of the last century, he 'shines like Hes- 
 perus among the lesser lights.' He has left 
 four dramas behind him, all different or of 
 different kinds, and all excellent in their way. 
 This is the merit of Shei'idan's 
 comedies, that everything in them tells there 
 is no laboiu- in vain. . . . The School 
 for Scandal is, if not the most original, per- 
 haps the most finished and faultless comedy 
 which we have. When it is acted you hear 
 people all around you exclaiming, ' Surely it 
 is impossible for anything to be cleverer!' 
 The Rivals is one of the most agreeable com- 
 edies we have. In the elegance and brilliancy 
 of the dialogue, in a certain animation of moral 
 sentiment, and in the masterly denouement of 
 the fable. The School for Scandal is superior, 
 but The Rivals has more life and action in it, 
 and abounds in a gi-eater number of whimsical 
 characters, unexpected incidents, and absurd 
 contrasts of situation. . . . The Duenna 
 is a perfect work of art. It has the utmost 
 sweetness and point. The plot, the chai-acters, 
 the dialogue are all complete in themselves, 
 and they are all his own, and the songs are 
 the best that ever were written, except those 
 in The Beggar's Opera. They have a joyous 
 spirit of intoxication in them, and a strain of 
 the most melting tenderness." Lord Macaulay, 
 in his Essay on Warren Hastings, writes thus 
 of Sheridan's celebrated oration : — " A speech 
 which was so imperfectly reported that it may 
 be said to be wholly lost, but which was, with- 
 out doubt, the most elaborately brilliant of all 
 the productions of his ingenious mind. The 
 impression which it produced was such as has 
 never been equalled. . . . The ferment 
 spread fast through the town. Within four- 
 and-twenty hours Sheridan was offered £1000 
 for the copjTight of the speech, if he would 
 himself correct it for the press." 
 
 In 1825 The Memoirs of the Right Hon. R. B. 
 Sheridan appeared, written by Thomas Moore, 
 who is said to have received £2000 for the 
 copyright. Among the many editions of Sheri- 
 dan's works which have been published we 
 may notice: Speeches, 5 vols. 1798; Dramatic
 
 278 
 
 EICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 Works, edited by Thomas Moore, 2 vols. 1821 ; 
 aud another edition by Leigh Hunt was issued 
 in 1841. In 1859 appeared in two volumes 
 Sheridan and his Times, by an Octogenarian ; 
 and his Complete Works, with Life and Anec- 
 dotes, was recently issued in one volume.] 
 
 BOB ACRES' DUEL. 
 
 (from " THE RIVALS.") 
 
 Acres' Lodgings. Enter Sir Lucius 
 O'Trigger. 
 
 Sir L. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace 
 you. 
 
 Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 
 
 Sir L. Pray, my friend, what has brought 
 you so suddenly to Bath? 
 
 Acres. 'Faith, I have followed Cupid's Jack- 
 a-lantern, aud find myself in a quagmire at 
 last. In short, I have been very iU-used, Sir 
 Lucius. I don't choose to mention names, 
 but look on me as a very iU-used gentleman. 
 
 Sir L. Pray, what is the case ? I ask no 
 names. 
 
 Acres. Mark me, Sii' Lucius : — I fall as deep 
 as need be in love with a young lady — her 
 friends take my part — I follow her to Bath — 
 send word of my arrival — and receive answer 
 that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. 
 This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. 
 
 Sir L. Very ill, upon my conscience ! Pray, 
 can you divine the cause of it? 
 
 Acres. Why, there's the matter! She has 
 another lover, one Beverley, who, I am told, is 
 now in Bath. Odds slanders and lies ! he must 
 be at the bottom of it. 
 
 Sir L. A rival in the case, is there? — and 
 you think he has sujjplanted you unfairly? 
 
 Acres. Unfairly! to be sure he has. He 
 never could have done it fairly. 
 
 Sir L. Then sure you know what is to be 
 done? 
 
 Acres. Not I, upon my soul. 
 
 Sir L. We wear no sjwords here — but you 
 understand me. 
 
 Acres. What! fight him? 
 
 Sir L. Ay, to be sure ; what can I mean else ? 
 
 Acres. But he has given me no provocation. 
 
 Sir L. Now I think he has given you the 
 greatest provocation in the world. Can a 
 man commit a more heinous offence against 
 another tlian to fall in love with the same 
 woman? Oh, by my soul, it is the most un- 
 pardonable breach of friendship. 
 
 Acres. Breach of friendship! Ay, ay; but 
 I have no acquaintance with this man. I 
 never saw him in my life. 
 
 Sir L. That's no argument at all — he has 
 the less right, then, to take such a liberty. 
 
 Acres. 'Gad, that's true — I gi'ow full of 
 anger. Sir Lucius — I fire apace! Odds hilts 
 and blades ! I find a man maj' have a deal of 
 valour in him aud not know it. But couldn't 
 I contrive to have a little right on my side ? 
 
 Sir L. What the devil signifies right when 
 your honour is concerned? Do you think 
 Achilles or my little Alexander the Great ever 
 inquired where the right lay? No, by my 
 soul, they drew their broadswords, and left 
 the lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it. 
 
 Acres. Your words are a grenadier's march 
 to my heart. I believe courage must be catch- 
 ing. I certainly do feel a kind of valour ris- 
 ing, as it were — a kind of coiirage, as I may 
 say — Odds flints, pans, and triggers ! I'll chal- 
 lenge him directly. 
 
 Sir L. Ah ! my little friend, if I had Blun- 
 derbuss Hall here I could show you a range of 
 ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that would 
 furnish the New Room, every one of whom 
 had killed his man. For though the mansion- 
 house and dirty acres have slipped through 
 my fingers, I thank Heaven our honour and 
 the family pictures are as fresh as ever. 
 
 Acres. Oh, Sir Lucius, I have had ancestors 
 too ! — every man of them colonel or captain in 
 the militia! Odds balls and barrels! say no 
 more — I'm braced for it. The thunder of 
 your words has soured the milk of human 
 kindness in my breast! Zounds! as the man 
 in the play says, " I could do such deeds " 
 
 Sir L. Come, come, there must be no passion 
 at all in the case ; these things should always 
 be done civilly. 
 
 Acres. I must be in a passion. Sir Lucius — 
 I must be in a rage! — Dear Sir Lucius, let me 
 be in a rage, if you love me. Come, here's 
 pen and paper. (Sits down to urite.) I would 
 the ink were red ! Indite, I say, indite. How 
 shall I begin? Odds bullets and blades! I'll 
 vrrite a good bold hand, however. 
 
 Sir L. Pray compose yourself. {Sits down.) 
 
 Acres. Come, now, shall I begin with an 
 oath? Do, Sir Lucius, let me begin with a 
 dam'me ! 
 
 Sir L. Pho, pho! do the thing decently, and 
 like a Christian. Begin now — " Sir" — 
 
 Acres. That's too civil by half. 
 
 Sir L. " To prevent the confusion that might 
 arise" — 
 
 Acres. {Writing and repeating.) "To pre-
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 279 
 
 vent the confusion which might arise"— 
 Well?— 
 
 Sir L. " From our both addressing the same 
 I.idy"- 
 
 Acres. Ay — there's the reason — "same lady" 
 —Well ?— 
 
 Sir L. " I shall expect the honour of your 
 company" — 
 
 Acres. Zounds, I'm not asking him to dinner ! 
 
 Sir L. Pray, be easy. 
 
 Acres. Well, then, "honour of your com- 
 pany"— 
 
 Sir L. "To settle our pretensions" — 
 
 Acres. Well? 
 
 Sir L. Let me see — aye. King's Mead-fields 
 will do—" in King's Mead-tields." 
 
 Acres. So, that's down. Well, I'll fold it 
 up presently; my own crest — a hand and 
 dagger— shall be the seal. 
 
 Sir L. You see, now, this little explanation 
 will put a stop at once to all confusion or 
 misunderstanding that might arise between 
 you. 
 
 Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misun- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Sir L. Now, I'll leave you to fix yoiu- own 
 time. Take my advice and you'll decide it 
 this evening, if you can; then, let the worse 
 come of it, 'twiU be off your mind to-morrow. 
 
 Acres. Very true. 
 
 Sir L. So I shall see nothing more of you, 
 unless it be by letter, till the evening. I 
 would do myself the honour to carry your 
 message, but, to tell yoti a secret, I believe I 
 shall have just such another affair on my own 
 hands. There is a gay captain here who put a 
 jest on me lately at the expense of my country, 
 and I only want to fall in with the gentleman 
 to call him out. 
 
 Acres. By my valour, I should like to see 
 you fight first. Odds life ! I should like to 
 see you kill him, if it was only to get a little 
 lesson. 
 
 Sir L. I shall be very proud of instructing 
 you. Well, for the present — but remember 
 now, when you meet your antagonist, do every- 
 thing in a mild and agreeable manner. Let 
 your courage be as keen, but at the same time 
 as polished, as your sword. \^Exit Sir Lucius. 
 
 Acres sealing the letter, while David his 
 servant enters. 
 
 David. Then, by the mass, sir, I would do 
 no such thing! Ne'er a Sir Lucifer in the 
 kingdom should make me fight when I wa'n't 
 so minded. Oons ! what will the old lady say 
 when she hears o't ! 
 
 Acres. But my honour, David, my honour! 
 I must be very careful of my honour. 
 
 David. Ay, by the mass, and I would be 
 very careful of it; and I think, in return, my 
 honour couldn't do less than be very careful 
 of me. 
 
 Acres. Odds blades! David, no gentleman 
 will ever risk the loss of his honour! 
 
 David. I say, then, it would be but civil in 
 honour never to risk the loss of a gentleman. 
 Look ye, master, this honour seems to me a 
 marvellous false friend ; ay, truly, a very 
 courtier-like servant. Put the case, I was a 
 gentleman (which, thank Heaven, no one can 
 say of me), well — my honour makes me quar- 
 rel with another gentleman of my acquaint- 
 ance. So — we fight. (Pleasant enough that ! ) 
 Boh! I kill him (the more's my luck). Now, 
 pray, who gets the profit of it? Why, my 
 honour. But put the case that he kills me ! 
 By the mass! I go to the worms, and my 
 honour whips over to my enemy. 
 
 Acres. No, David, in that case — odds crowns 
 and laurels! your honour follows you to the 
 grave. 
 
 David. Now that's just the place where I 
 could make a shift to do without it. 
 
 Acres. Zounds! David, you are a coward! — 
 It doesn't become my valour to listen to you. 
 What, shall I disgrace my ancestors ? Think 
 of that, David — think what it would be to 
 disgrace my ancestors! 
 
 David. Under favour, the surest way of not 
 disgi-acing them is to keep as long as you can 
 out of their company. Look'ee now, master, 
 to go to them in such haste — with an ounce 
 of lead in your brains — I should think might 
 as well be let alone. Our ancestors are very 
 good kind of folks; but they are the last 
 people I should choose to have a visiting ac- 
 quaintance with. 
 
 Acres. But, David, now, you don't think 
 there is such very, very, very great danger, 
 hey ? — Odds life ! people often fight without 
 any mischief done! 
 
 David. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one 
 against you! — Oons! here to meet some lion- 
 headed fellow, I warrant, with his d d 
 
 double-barrelled swords and cut-and-thrust 
 pistols! Lord bless us! it makes me tremble 
 to think o't — those be such desperate bloody- 
 minded weapons! well, I never could abide 
 'em ! — from a child I never could fancy 'em ! 
 — I suppose there an't been so merciless a 
 beast in the world as youi- loaded pistol. 
 
 Acres. Zounds! I \oonH be afraid — odds fire 
 and fury! you sha'n't make me afraid — Here
 
 280 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 is the challenge, and I have sent for my dear 
 friend, Jack Absolute, to carry it for me. 
 
 David. Ay, i' the name of mischief, let him 
 be the messenger. — For my part, I wouldn't 
 lend a hand to it for the best horse in your 
 stable. By the mass, it don't look like an- 
 other letter! — It is, as I may say, a designing 
 and malicious-looking letter! — and I warrant 
 smells of gunpowder, like a soldier's pouch! — 
 Oons! I wouldn't swear it mayn't go off. 
 
 {Drops it in alarm.) 
 
 Acres. {Startiyig.) Out, you poltroon! — you 
 ha'n't the valour of a grasshopper. 
 
 David. "Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad 
 news, to be sure, at Clod Hall — but I ha' 
 done. How Phillis will howl when she hears 
 of it! — ay, poor bitch, she little thinks what 
 shooting her master's going after! — and I 
 warrant old Crop, who has carried your 
 honour, field and road, these ten years, will 
 curse the hour he was born ! ( Whimpering.) 
 
 Acres. It won't do, David — so get along, 
 you coward — I am determined to fight while 
 I'm in the mind. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Captain Absolute, sir. 
 
 Acres. O! show him up. [Exit Servant. 
 
 David. {On his knees.) Well, Heaven send 
 we be all alive this time to-morrow. 
 
 Acres. What's that! — Don't provoke me, 
 David! 
 
 David. Good-bye, master. 
 
 \E.vit David, whimpering. 
 
 Acres. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, 
 croaking raven. 
 
 Enter Captain Absolute. 
 
 Captain A. What's the matter. Bob? 
 
 Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ; if 
 I hadn't the valour of St. George, and the 
 dragon to boot — 
 
 Captain A. But what did you want with 
 me. Bob? 
 
 Acres. Oh! there — {Gives him the challenge.) 
 
 Captain A. " To Ensign Beverley." {Aside.) 
 So, what's going on now? Well, what's this? 
 
 Acres. A challenge! 
 
 Captain A. Indeed ! Why, you won't fight 
 him, will you, Bob? 
 
 Acres. 'Egad, but I will. Jack. Sir Lucius 
 has wrought me to it. He has left me fuU of 
 rage — and I'll fight this evening, that so much 
 good passion mayn't be wasted. 
 
 Captain A. But what have I to do with 
 this? 
 
 Acres. Why, as I think you know some- 
 thing of this fellow, I want you to find him 
 out for me, and give him this mortal de- 
 fiance. 
 
 Captain A. Well, give it me, and, trust me, 
 he gets it. 
 
 Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my 
 dear Jack ; but it is giving you a great deal 
 of trouble. 
 
 Captain A. Not in the least — I beg you 
 won't mention it. No trouble in the world, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Acres. You are very kind. What it is to have 
 a friend! — you couldn't be my second, could 
 you. Jack? 
 
 Captain A. Why no. Bob, not in this affair 
 — it would not be quite so proper. 
 
 Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend 
 Sir Lucius. I shall have your good wishes, 
 however. Jack ? 
 
 Captain A . Whenever he meets you, believe 
 me. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, in- 
 quii'ing for the Captain. 
 
 Captain A. I'll come instantly. — Well, my 
 little hero, success attend you. [Going. 
 
 Acres. Stay, stay. Jack. If Beverley should 
 ask you what kind of a man your friend Acres 
 is, do tell him I am a devil of a feUow — will 
 you. Jack? 
 
 Captain A. To be sui-e I shall. I'll say you 
 are a determined dog — hey. Bob? 
 
 Acres. Ay, do, do — and if that frightens 
 him, 'egad, perhaps he mayn't come. So teU 
 him I generally kill a man a week ; will you. 
 Jack ? 
 
 Captain A. I will, I will ; I'll say you are 
 called in the country " Fighting Bob." 
 
 Acres. Right, right — 'tis all to prevent mis- 
 chief; for I don't want to take his Ufe, if I 
 clear my honour. 
 
 Captain A. No! that's very kind of you. 
 
 Acres. Why, you don't wish me to kill him, 
 do you. Jack ? 
 
 Captain A. No, upon my soul, I do not. 
 But a devil of a fellow, hey \ [Going. 
 
 Acres. True, true. But stay — stay, Jack ; 
 you may add that you never saw me in such 
 a rage before — a most devouiing rage. 
 
 Captain A. I will, I will. 
 
 Acres. Remember, Jack — a determined 
 dog! 
 
 Captain A. Ay, ay — "Fighting Bob." 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 281 
 
 King's Mead-fields.— Enter Sir Lucius and 
 Acres, with pistols. 
 
 Acres. By my valour ! then, Sir Lucius, 
 forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels 
 and aims ! I say it is a good distance. 
 
 Sir L. It is for muskets or small field- 
 pieces ; upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, you 
 must leave these things to me. Stay, now; 
 I'll show you. (Measures six paces.) There, 
 now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty 
 gentleman's distance. 
 
 Acres. Zounds ! we might as well fight in a 
 sentry-box ! I tell you. Sir Lucius, the further 
 he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim. 
 
 ^i> L. 'Faith, then, I suppose you would 
 aim at him best of all if he was out of sight ! 
 
 Acres. No, Sir Lucius ; but I should think 
 forty, or eight-and-thirty yards — 
 
 Sir L. Pho, pho ! Nonsense ! Three or four 
 feet between the mouths of your pistols is as 
 good ;is a mile. 
 
 Acres. Odds bullets, no! — by my valour! 
 there is no merit in killing him so near. Do, 
 my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him down 
 at a long shot — a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you 
 love me ! 
 
 Sir L. Well, the gentleman's friend and I 
 must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, 
 in case of an accident, is there any little will 
 or commission I could execute for you ? 
 
 Acres. I am much obliged to you. Sir Lucius; 
 but I don't understand — 
 
 Sir L. Why, you may think there's no being 
 shot at without a little risk — and if an im- 
 lucky bullet should carrj' a quietus mth it — 
 I say, it wiU be no time then to be bothering 
 you about family matters. 
 
 Acres. A quietus ! 
 
 Sir L. For instance, now — if that should be 
 the case — would you choose to be pickled and 
 sent home? — or would it be the same to you 
 to lie here in the Abbey? — I'm told there is 
 very snug lying in the Abbey. 
 
 Acres. Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! 
 — Odds tremoi-s ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so ! 
 
 Sir L. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were 
 engaged in an affair of this kind before ? 
 
 Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before, (aside) 
 and never will again, if I get out of this. 
 
 Sir L. A h, that's a pity ! — there's nothing 
 Like being used to a thing. — Pray, now, how 
 would you receive the gentleman's shot? 
 
 Acres. Odds files! I've practised that. There, 
 Sir Lucius, there — (puts himself in an attitude) 
 — a side-front, hey ! — Odd ! I'll make myself 
 small enough — I'll stand edgeways. 
 
 Sir L. Now, you're quite out — for if you 
 
 stand so when I take my aim (levelling at 
 
 him). 
 
 Acres. Zounds, Sir Lucius ! are you sure it 
 is not cocked? 
 
 Sir L. Never fear. 
 
 Acres. But — but — you don't know ; it may 
 sxo ofi" of its own head I 
 
 Sir L. Pho ! be easy. Well, now if I hit 
 you in the body, my bullet has a double 
 chance ; for if it misses a vital part on your 
 right side, 'twill be very hard if it don't suc- 
 ceed on the left. 
 
 Acres. A vitjil part ! 
 
 Sir L. But, there — fix youi-self so (placing 
 him), let him see the broadside of your full 
 front. (Sir Lucius places him face to face, then 
 turns and goes to the left. Acres has in the 
 interim turned his hack in great pei'turbation.) 
 Oh, bother ! do you caU that the broadside of 
 your fi-ont? (Acres turns reluctantly.) There 
 — now a ball or two may pass clean through 
 your body, and never do you any harm at 
 all. 
 
 Acres. Clean through me ! A ball or two 
 clean through me ! 
 
 Sir L. Ay, may they — and it is much the 
 genteelest attitude into the bargain. 
 
 Acres. Look ye ! Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve 
 be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel 
 one — so, by my valour 1 I will stand edge- 
 ways. 
 
 Sir L. (Looking at his watch.) Sure they 
 don't mean to disappoint us ! 
 
 Acres. (Aside.) I hope they do. 
 
 Sir L. Hah ! no, 'faith — I think I see them 
 coming. 
 
 Acres. Hey ? — what ! — coming ! 
 
 Sir L. Ay, who ai'e those yonder, getting 
 over the stile ? 
 
 Acres. There are two of them, indeed ! well, 
 let them come — hey. Sir Lucius ? — we — we — 
 we — we — won't run (takes his arm). 
 
 SirL. Run! 
 
 Acres. No, I say — we iconH iiin, by my 
 valour ! 
 
 Sir L. What the devU's the matter with 
 you? 
 
 Acres. Nothing — nothing — my dear friend 
 — my dear Sir Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel 
 quite so bold, .somehow, as I did. 
 
 Sir L. O fie ! consider your honour. 
 
 Acres. Ay, true — my honour — do. Sir Lucius^ 
 edge in a word or two, everv now and then, 
 about my honour. 
 
 Sir L. (Looking.) Well, here they're coming. 
 
 Acres. Sir Lucius, if I wa'n't with you, I
 
 282 
 
 EICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 should almost think I was afraid — if my valoui' 
 should leave me ! — valour will come and go. 
 
 Sir L. Then pray keep it fast, while you 
 have it. 
 
 Acres. Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes, 
 my valour is certainly going! it is sneaking 
 off ! — I feel it oozing out, as it were, at the 
 palms of my hands ! 
 
 Sir L. Your honour, your honour. Here 
 they are. 
 
 Acres. O mercy ! — now — that I was safe at 
 Clod Hall ! or could be shot before I was 
 aware ! 
 
 Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute. 
 
 Sir L. Gentlemen, your most obedient — 
 hah ! what, Captain Absolute ! — So, I sui:)pose, 
 sir, you are come here, just like myself — 
 to do a kind office, first for your friend — then 
 to proceed to business on your own account. 
 
 Acres. What, Jack ! my dear Jack ! my dear 
 friend ! {Shakes his hand.) 
 
 Captain A. Harkye, Bob, Beverley's at hand. 
 {Acres retreats to left.) 
 
 Sir L. Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame your 
 saluting the gentleman civilly. (7'o Faidk- 
 land.) So, Mr. Beverley, if you'll choose your 
 weapons, the Captain and I will measure the 
 ground. 
 
 Faulk. My weapons, sir ! 
 
 Acres. Odds life ! Sir Lucius, I'm not going 
 to fight Mr. Faulkland ; these are my par- 
 ticular friends ! 
 
 {Shakes hands with Faulkland — goes hack.) 
 
 Sir L. What, sir, did you not come here to 
 fight Mr. Acres ? 
 
 Faidk. Not I, upon my word, sir. 
 
 Sir L. Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! 
 But I hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three 
 of us come on purpose for the game — you won't 
 be so cantankerous as to spoil the party by 
 standing out. 
 
 Captain A. Oh pray, Faulkland, fight to 
 oblige Sir Lucius ! 
 
 Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the 
 matter. 
 
 Aa-es. No, no, Mr. Faulkland — I'll bear my 
 disappointment like a Christian. Look ye, Sir 
 Lucius, there's no occasion at all for me to 
 fight ; and if it is the same to you, I'd as lieve 
 let it alone. 
 
 Sir L. Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not 
 be trifled with. You have certainly challenged 
 somebody, and you came here to fight him — 
 now, if that gentleman is willing to represent 
 him — I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just 
 the same thing. 
 
 Acres. Why no, Sir Lucius, I tell you 'tis 
 one Beverley I've challenged — a fellow, you 
 see, that dare not show his face. If he were 
 here I'd make him give up his pretensions 
 directly. 
 
 Captain A. Hold, Bob — let me set you right 
 — there is no such man as Beverley in the 
 case. The person who assumed that name is 
 before you; and as his pretensions are the 
 same in both characters, he is ready to support 
 them in whatever way you may please. 
 
 Sir L. WeU, this is lucky. {Slaps him on 
 the back.) Now you have an ojDportunity. 
 
 Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend 
 Jack Absolute ! — not if he were fifty Bever- 
 leys ! {Shakes his hand warmly.) Zounds ! 
 Sir Lucius, you would not have me be so un- 
 natural ! 
 
 Sir L. LTpon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your 
 valour has oozed away with a vengeance ! 
 
 Acres. Not in the least ! odds backs and 
 abettors I I'U be your second with all my 
 heart — and if you should get a quietus, you 
 may command me entirely. I'll get you snug 
 lying in the Abbey here ; or pickle you, and 
 send you over to Blunderbuss Hall, or anything 
 of the kind, with the greatest pleasure. 
 
 Sir L. Pho, pho ! you are little better than 
 a coward. 
 
 Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; 
 coward was the word, by my valour ! 
 
 Sir L. Well, sir? 
 
 Acres. Very well, sir. {Gently.) Look ye, 
 Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word coward. 
 Coward may be said in joke ; but if you had 
 called me a poltroon, odds daggei's and balls ! — 
 
 Sir L. {Sternly.) Well, sir? 
 
 Acres. I should have thought you a very ill- 
 bred man. 
 
 Sir L. Pho ! you are beneath my notice. 
 
 Acres. I'm very glad of it. 
 
 Captain A . Nay, Sir Lucius, you can't have 
 
 ! a better second than my friend Acres. He is 
 
 a most determined dog — called in the country 
 
 Fighting Bob. He generally kills a man a 
 
 week — don't you. Bob? 
 
 Acres. Ay — at home ! 
 
 THE MONEY-HUNTER. 
 
 (from "the duenna.") 
 
 [Don Jerome and his son Ferdinand discuss 
 the marriage of Louisa. Don Jerome her 
 father wishes her to marry Isaac a rich Jew,
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 283 
 
 ■wliile her brother Ferdinand pleads for his 
 friend Antonio.] 
 
 Jer. Object to Antonio? I have said it: his 
 poverty ; can you acquit him of that / 
 
 Ferd. Sir, I own he is not over rich ; but 
 he is of as ancient and honourable a fanuly as 
 any in the kingdom. 
 
 Jer. Yes, I know the beggars are a very 
 ancient fandly in most kingdoms ; but never 
 in great rejaute, boy. 
 
 Ferd. Antonio, sir, has many amiable qual- 
 ities. 
 
 Jer. But he is poor ; can you clear him of 
 that, I say % Is he not a gay, dissipated rake, 
 who has squandered his patrimony % 
 
 Ferd. Sir, he inherited but little : and that 
 his generosity, more than his profuseness, has 
 stripped him of; but he has never sullied his 
 honour, which, with his title, has outlived his 
 means. 
 
 Jer. Psha ! you talk like a blockhead. No- 
 bility, without an estate, is as ridiculous as 
 gold lace on a frieze coat. 
 
 Ferd. This language, sir, would better be- 
 come a Dutch or English trader than a 
 Spaniard. 
 
 Jer. Yes ; and those Dutch and English 
 tradera, as you call them, are the wiser people. 
 Why, booby, in England they were formerly 
 as nice, as to birth and family, as we are : but 
 they have long discovered what a wonderful 
 purifier gold is; and now, no one there re- 
 
 i: 
 
 gards pedigree in anything but a horse. 01 
 iiere comes Isaac ! I hope he has prospered in 
 his suit. 
 
 Ferd. Doubtless that agreeable figure of his 
 must have helped his suit surprisingly. 
 
 Jer. How now? {Ferdinand walks aside.) 
 
 Enter Isaac. 
 
 [Isaac, who has been sent in by Don Jerome 
 to plead his suit with his daughter, has in- 
 stead found her duenna, who, to help Louisa 
 to escape the marriage, takes her place.] 
 
 Jer. Well, my friend, have you softened herl 
 
 Isa. Oh ! yes ; I have softened her. 
 
 Jer. What! does she come to? 
 
 Isa. Why, truly, she was kinder than I ex- 
 pected to find her. 
 
 Jer. And the dear little angel was civil, eh? 
 
 Isa. Yes, the pretty little angel was very 
 civil. 
 
 Jer. I'm transported to hear it. Well, and 
 you were astonished at her beauty, eh ? 
 
 Isa. I was astonished, indeed ! Pray, how 
 old is miss? 
 
 Jer. How old? Let me see — eight and 
 twelve — she is twenty. 
 Isa. Twenty? 
 Jer. Ay, to a month. 
 
 Isa. Then, upon my soul, she is the oldest- 
 looking girl of her age in Christendom. 
 
 Jer. Do you think so? But, I believe, you 
 will not see a prettier girl. 
 Isa. Here and there one. 
 Jer. Louisa has the family face. 
 Isa. Yes, egad ! I should have taken it for 
 a family face, and one that has been in the 
 family some time, too. {Aside.) 
 
 Jer. She has her father's eyes. 
 Isa. Truly, I should have guessed them to 
 have been so. If she had her mothei-'s spec- 
 tacles, I believe she would not see the worse. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 Jer. Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her grand- 
 mother's forehead, to a hair. 
 
 Isa. Ay, faith ! and her grandfather's chin 
 to a hair. {Aside.) 
 
 Jer. Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's 
 handsome— and, harkye ! friend Isaac, she is 
 none of your made-up beauties ; her charms 
 are of the lasting kind. 
 
 Isa. I'faith ! so they should ; for if she be 
 but twenty now, she may double her age before 
 her years will overtake her face. 
 
 Jer. Why, zounds ! Master Isaac, you are 
 not sneering, are you ? 
 
 Isa. Why, now, seriously, Don Jerome, do 
 you think your daughter handsome? 
 
 Jer. By this light she's as handsome a girl 
 as any in Seville. 
 
 Isa. Then by these eyes I think her as plain 
 a woman as ever I beheld. 
 
 Jer. By St. Jago, you must be blind. 
 Isa. No, no ; 'tis you are partial. 
 Jer. How! have I neither sense nor taste? 
 If a fair skin, fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a 
 lovely bloom and a delicate shape; if these, 
 with a heavenly voice and a world of grace, 
 are not charms, I know not what you call 
 beautiful. 
 
 Isa. Good lack! with what eyes a father 
 sees ! As I have life, she is the very reveree 
 of all this; as for the dimity skin you told me 
 of, I swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I 
 saw ; for her eyes, their utmost merit is not 
 squinting ; for her teeth, where there is one 
 of ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony, black 
 and white alternately, just like the keys of an 
 harpsichord. Then, as to her singing and 
 heavenly voice, by this hand she has a shrill 
 cracked pipe, that sounds for all the world like 
 a child's trumpet.
 
 284 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, 
 
 Jer. Why, you little Hebrew scoundrel, do 
 you mean to insult me? Out of my house, I 
 say! 
 
 Ferd. Dear sir, what's the matter? 
 
 Jer. Why, this Isi'aelite here has the impu- 
 dence to say your sister's ugly. 
 
 Ferd. He must be either blind or insolent. 
 
 ha. So I find they are all in a story. 
 Egad ! I believe I have gone too far. (Aside.) 
 
 Ferd. Sure, sir, there must be some mistake; 
 it can't be my sister whom he has seen. 
 
 Jer. 'Sdeath! you ai-e as great a fool as he! 
 What mistake can there be? Did not I lock 
 up Louisa 1 and haven't I the key in my own 
 pocket? And didn't her maid show him into 
 the dressing-room? And yet you talk of a 
 mistake. No; the Portuguese meant to insult 
 me, and but that this roof protects him, old 
 as I am, this sword should do me justice. 
 
 Isa. I must get off as well as I can; her 
 fortune is not the less handsome. (Aside.) 
 
 Duet. — Isaac and Jerome. 
 
 Isa. 
 
 Believe me, good sir, I ne'er meant to offend; 
 My mistress I love, and I value my friend ! 
 To win her, and wed her, is still my request, 
 For better, for worse, — and I swear I don't jest. 
 
 Jer. 
 
 Zounds ! you'd best not provoke me, my rage is so 
 high. 
 Isa. 
 Hold him fast, I beseech you, his rage is so high I 
 Good sir, you're too hot, and this place I must fly. 
 
 Jer. 
 You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best 
 
 fly- 
 
 Isa. Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside 
 all joking, and be serious. 
 
 Jer. How ] 
 
 Isa. Ha, ha, ha ! I'll be hanged if you 
 haven't taken my abuse of your daughter 
 seriously. 
 
 Jer. You meant it so, did not you? 
 
 Isa. Oh, mercy, no! a joke ; just to try how 
 angry it would make you. 
 
 Jer. Was that all, i'faith? I didn't know 
 you had been such a wag. Ha, ha, ha ! By 
 St. Jago ! you made me very angry, though. 
 Well, and do you think Louisa handsome? 
 
 Isa. Handsome ! Venus de Medicis was a 
 sybil to her. 
 
 Jer. Give me your liand, you little jocose 
 rogue. Egad ! I thought we had been all off. 
 
 Ferd. So ! I was in hopes this would have 
 been a quarrel ; but I find the Jew is too cun- 
 ning. (Aside.) 
 
 Jer. Ay, this gust of passion has made me 
 dry. I am seldom ruffled. Order some wine 
 in the next room. Let us drink the jioor girl's 
 health. Poor Louisa! Ugly, eh ? ha, ha, ha ! 
 'Twas a very good joke, indeed. 
 
 Isa. And a very true one, for all that. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Jer. And, Ferdinand, I insist upon your 
 drinking success to my friend. 
 
 Ferd. Sir, I will drink success to my friend 
 with all my heart. 
 
 Jer. Come, little Solomon, if any sparks 
 of anger had remained, this would be the 
 only way to quench them. 
 
 [The little Jew, Isaac, however, was cleverly 
 cheated into marrying the duenna, while 
 Louisa was united to Antonio.] 
 
 THE HAPPIEST COUPLE. 
 
 (from " THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL.") 
 
 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, husband and 
 wife. 
 
 Lady T. Lud ! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't 
 been quarrelling with Maria? It is not using 
 me well to be ill-humouied when I am not 
 
 by. 
 
 Sir P. Ah ! Lady Teazle, you might have 
 the power to make me good-humoured at all 
 times. 
 
 Lady T. I am sure I wish I had ; for I 
 want you to be in a charming sweet temper 
 at this moment. Do be good-humoured now, 
 and let me have two hundred pounds, will 
 you? 
 
 Sir P. Two hundred pounds ! What, a'n't 
 I to be in a good-humour without paying for 
 it? But speak to me thus, and, i'faith ! there's 
 nothing I could refuse j^oii. You shall have 
 it ; (gives notes) but seal me a bond for the 
 repayment. 
 
 Lady T. Oh ! no : there, my note of hand 
 will do as well. (Offering her hand.) 
 
 Sir P. And you shall no longer reproacli 
 me with not giving you an independent settle- 
 ment. I mean shortly to surprise you : but 
 shall we always live thus? eh ! 
 
 Lady T. If you please. I'm sure I don't 
 care how soon we leave off quarrelling, pro- 
 vided you'll own you were tired first. 
 
 Sir P. Well, then, let our future contest be, 
 who shall be most obliging. 
 
 Lady T. I assure you. Sir Peter, good- 
 nature becomes you ; you look now as you did
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 285 
 
 before we were married, when you used to 
 walk with me under the elms, and tell me 
 stories of what a gallant you were in your 
 youth, and chuck me under the chin, you 
 would; and asked me if I thought I could love 
 an old fellow, who would deny me nothing 
 — didn't you ? 
 
 Sir P. Yes, yes ; and you were as kind and 
 attentive — 
 
 Lad^ T. Ay, so I was ; and would always 
 take your part, when my acquaintance used to 
 abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. 
 
 Sir P. Indeed ! 
 
 Lady T. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy 
 has called you a stiff, peevish, old bachelor, 
 and laughed at me for thinking of marrying 
 one who might be my father, I have always 
 defended you, and said I didn't think you so 
 ugly by any means. 
 
 Sir P. Thank you. 
 
 Lady T. And I dared say you'd make a 
 very good sort of husband. 
 
 Sir P. And you prophesied right ; and we 
 shall now be the happiest couple — 
 
 Lady T. And never ditfer again? 
 
 Sir P. No, never ; though at the same time, 
 indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch 
 your temper very seriously; for in all our little 
 quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, 
 you always begin first. 
 
 Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir 
 Peter : indeed, you always give the provoca- 
 tion. 
 
 Sir P. Now see, my angel ! take care : con- 
 tradicting isn't the way to keep friends. 
 
 Lady T. Then don't you begin it, my love. 
 
 Sir P. There, now ; you — you are going on. 
 You don't perceive, my life, that you are just 
 doing the very thing which you know always 
 makes me angry. 
 
 Lady T. Nay, you know, if you will be 
 angry without any reason, my dear — 
 
 Sir P. There ! now you want to quarrel 
 again. 
 
 Lady T. No, I am sure I don't; but if you 
 will be so peevish — 
 
 Sir P. There now, who begins first? 
 
 Lady T. Why, you, to be sure. I said noth- 
 ing : but there's no bearing your temper. 
 
 Sir P. No, no, madam ; the fault's in your 
 own temper. 
 
 Lady T. Ay, you ai'e just what my cousin 
 Sophy said you would be. 
 
 Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, 
 impertinent gypsy. 
 
 Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to 
 abuse my relations. 
 
 Sir P. Now, may all the plagues of marriage 
 be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends 
 with you any more. 
 
 Lady T. So much the better. 
 i Sir P. No, no, n)adam ; 'tis evident you 
 never cared a pin for me, and I was a madman 
 to marry you : a pert, ruial coquette, that had 
 refused half the honest 'squires in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 Lady T. And I am sure I was a fool to 
 marry you : an old, dangling bachelor, who 
 was single at fifty, only because he never could 
 meet with any one that would have him. 
 
 Sir P. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were j^leased 
 enough to listen to me : you never had such 
 an offer before. 
 
 Lady T. No ! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Ter- 
 rier, who, everybody said, would have been a 
 better match? for his estate is just as good as 
 yours, and he has broken his neck since we 
 have been married. 
 
 Sir P. I have done with you, madam. You 
 are an unfeeling, ungrateful — but there's an 
 end of everything. I believe you capable of 
 everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now 
 believe the reports relative to you and Charles, 
 madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles are — 
 not without grounds — 
 
 Lady T. Take care, Sir Peter; you had 
 better not insinuate any such thing. I'll not 
 be suspected without cause, I promise you. 
 
 Sir P. Very well, madam ; very well. A 
 separate maintenance as soon as you please. 
 Yes, madam, or a divorce. I'll make an ex- 
 ample of myself for the benefit of all old bach- 
 elors. Let us separate, madam. 
 
 Lady T. Agreed, agreed ! And now, my 
 dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more, 
 we may be the happiest couple — and never 
 diflfer again, you know. Ha, ha, ha ! "Well, 
 you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I 
 shall only interrupt you — so, bye, bye ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir P. Plagues and tortures ! Can't I make 
 her angry either? Oh ! I am the most miser- 
 able fellow ! but I'll not bear her presuming 
 to keep her temper : no ; she may break my 
 heart, but she sha'n't keep her temper. 
 
 AN ART SALE. 
 (from "the school for scandal.") 
 
 [Charles Surface, a spendthrift; Careless, his 
 friend. His uncle Sir Oliver Surface, who 
 intends making him his heir, visits him in
 
 286 
 
 EICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 the character of the broker Mi-. Premium, 
 accompanied by Moses a money-lender. Hav- 
 ing been abroad for yeai^s, Sir Oliver is un- 
 known to his nephew.] 
 
 The Picture Room. 
 
 Charles. Walk in, gentlemen ; pray walk in ; 
 here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up 
 to the Conquest. 
 
 Sir 0. And, in my opinion, a goodly collec- 
 tion. 
 
 Charles. Ay, ay, these are done in the true 
 spirit of portrait- painting : no volontier grace 
 or expression. Not like the works of your 
 modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest 
 resemblance, yet contrive to make your por- 
 trait independent of you; so that you may 
 sink the original, and not hurt the picture. 
 No, no; the merit of these is the inveterate 
 likeness; aU stiff and awkward as the origi- 
 nals, and like nothing in human nature be- 
 sides. 
 
 Sir 0. Ah ! we shall never see such figures 
 of men again. 
 
 Charles. I hope not. "Well, you see, Master 
 Premium, what a domestic character I am; 
 here I sit of an evening surrounded by my 
 family. But, come, get to your pulpit, Mr. 
 Auctioneer ; here's an old gouty chair of my 
 grandfather's will answer the purpose. 
 
 Care. Ay, ay; this will do. But, Charles, 
 I have not a hammer; and what's an auc- 
 tioneer without his hammer? 
 
 Charles. Egad! that's true: {taking pedigree 
 down) what parchment have we here? Oh! 
 our genealogy in full. Here, Careless, you 
 shall have no common bit of mahogany : here's 
 the family tree for you, you rogue ! this shall 
 be your hammer, and now you may knock 
 down my ancestors with their own pedigree. 
 
 Sir 0. What an unnatural rogue ! an ex 
 pos< /acio parricide ! {Aside.) 
 
 Care. Yes, yes ; here's a list of your genera- 
 tion, indeed ; 'faith ! Charles, this is the most 
 convenient thing you could have found for 
 the business, for 'twill not only serve as a 
 hammer, but a catalogue into the baj-gain. 
 Come, begin : a-going, a-going, a-going ! 
 
 Charles. Bravo, Careless ! Well, here's my 
 great uncle. Sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous 
 good general in his day, I assure you. He 
 served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, 
 and got that cut over his eye at the battle of 
 Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium? 
 look at him : there's a liero, not cut out of his 
 feathers, as your modern clipped captains are, 
 
 but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a 
 general should be. What do you bid? 
 
 Sir 0. {Ajpart to Moses.) Bid him speak. 
 
 Moses. Mr. Premium would have you speak. 
 
 Charles. Why, then, he shall have him for 
 ten pounds ; and I'm sure that's not dear for 
 a stafF-oflicer. 
 
 Sir 0. Heaven deliver me ! his famous uncle 
 Richard for ten pounds ! {Aside.) Well, sir, I 
 take him at that. 
 
 Charles. Careless, knock down my uncle 
 Richard. Here, now, is a maiden sister of 
 his, my great aunt Deborah ; done by Kneller 
 in his best manner, and esteemed a veiy 
 formidable likeness. There she is, you see, a 
 shepherdess feeding her flock. You shall have 
 her for five pounds ten : the sheep are worth 
 the money. 
 
 Sir 0. Ah ! poor Deborah ! a woman who 
 set such a value on herself ! {Aside.) Five 
 pounds ten : she's mine. 
 
 Charles. Knock down my aunt Deborah, 
 Careless ! — This, now, is a grandfather of my 
 mother's, a learned judge, well known on the 
 western circuit. What do you rate him at, 
 Moses? 
 
 Moses. Four guineas. 
 
 Charles. Four guineas ! Gad's life ! you 
 don't bid me the price of his wig. Mr. Pre- 
 mium, you have more respect for the wool- 
 sack; do let us knock his lordship down at 
 fifteen. 
 
 Sir 0. By all means. 
 
 Care. Gone ! 
 
 Charles. And there are two brothers of his, 
 William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, both 
 members of parliament, and noted speakers ; 
 and what's very extraordinaiy, I believe this 
 is the first time they were ever bought or sold. 
 
 Sir 0. That is very extraordinary, indeed ! 
 I'll take them at your own price, f oi" the honour 
 of parliament. 
 
 Care. Well said, little Premium ! I'U knock 
 them down at forty. 
 
 Charles. Here's a jolly fellow^I don't know 
 what relation, but he was Mayor of Norwich : 
 take him at eight pounds. 
 
 Sir 0. No, no ; six will do for the mayor. 
 
 C/iarles.Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw 
 the two aldermen there into the bargain. 
 
 Sir 0. They're mine. 
 
 Charles. Careless, knock down the mayor 
 and aldermen. But plague on't ! we shall be 
 all day retailing in this manner : do let us 
 deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium? 
 Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of 
 the family in the lump.
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 287 
 
 Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. 
 i^ir 0. Well, well ; anything to accommo- 
 date you ; they are mine. But there is one 
 portrait which you have always passed over. 
 
 Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow 
 over the settee ! 
 
 Sir 0. Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't 
 think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any 
 means. 
 
 Charles. What, that ? Oh ! that's my uncle 
 Oliver ; 'twas done before he went to India. 
 
 Care. Your uncle Oliver ! Gad ! then, you'll 
 never be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, 
 is as stern a looking rogue as ever I saw ; an 
 unforgiving eye, and a d — — d disinheriting 
 countenance ! an inveterate knave, depend 
 on't. Don't you think so, little Premium? 
 
 {Slapping him on the shoulder.) 
 
 Sir 0. Upon my soul, sir, I do not ; I think 
 it as honest a looking face as any in the room, 
 dead or alive ; but I suppose uncle Oliver goes 
 with the rest of the lumber? 
 
 Charles. No, hang it! I'll not part with 
 poor Noll. The old fellow has been very good 
 to me, and, egad ! I'll keep his picture while 
 I've a room to put it in. 
 
 Sir 0. The rogue's my nephew after all. 
 {Aside.) But, sir, I have somehow taken a 
 fancy to that picture. 
 
 Charles. I am sorry for it, for you certainly 
 will not have it. Oons ! haven't you got 
 enough of them? 
 
 Sir 0. I forgive him everything. {Aside.) 
 But, sir, when I take a whim in my head I 
 don't value money. I'll give you as much for 
 that as for all the rest. 
 
 Charles. Don't tease me, master broker; I 
 tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an 
 end of it. 
 
 Sir 0. How like his father the dog is !— 
 {Aside.) Well, well, I have done. — I did not 
 perceive it before, but I think I never saw 
 such a resemblance. {Aside.) — Here is a 
 draught for your sum. 
 
 Charles. Wliy, 'tis for eight hundred pounds. 
 
 Sir 0. You will not let Sir Oliver go ? 
 
 Charles. Zounds ! no ; I tell you once more. 
 
 Sir 0. Then never mind the difference ; 
 we'll balance that another time ; but give me 
 your hand on the bargain ; you are an honest 
 fellow, Charles — I beg pardon, sir, for being 
 so free. Come, Moses. 
 
 Charles. Egad ! this is a whimsical old fel- 
 low ! But, hark ye ! Premium, you'U prepare 
 lodgings for these gentlemen ? 
 
 Sir 0. Yes, yes ; I'll send for them in a day 
 or two. 
 
 Charles. But, hold ! do now send a genteel 
 conveyance for them ; for 1 assure you, they 
 were most of them used to ride in their own 
 carriages. 
 
 Sir 0. I will, I will ; for all but Oliver. 
 
 Charles. Ay, all but the little nabob. 
 
 Sir 0. You're fixed on that? 
 
 Charles. Peremptorily. 
 
 Sir 0. A dear, extravagant rogue ! (Aside.) 
 Good day ! Come, Moses. Let nie hear now 
 who dares call him profligate. 
 
 SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY'S PLAY. 
 
 (FROM "THE critic") 
 
 Sir F. Sincerely, then, you do like the 
 piece ? 
 
 Sneer. Wonderfully 1 
 
 Sir F. But come, now, there must be some- 
 thing that you think might be mended, eh? 
 Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you } 
 
 Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious 
 thing for the most pai't to — 
 
 Sir F. With most authors it is just so in- 
 deed ; they are in general strangely tenacious ; 
 but, for my part, I am never so well pleased 
 as when a judicious critic points out any defect 
 to me ; for what is the purpose of showing a 
 work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit 
 by his opinion ? 
 
 Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I 
 seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet 
 there is one small objection, which, if you'll 
 give me leave, I'll mention. 
 
 Sir F. Sir, you can't ol)lige me more. 
 
 Sneer. I think it wants incident. 
 
 Sir F. Good God ! — you surprise me ! — 
 wants incident ! 
 
 Sneer. Yes; I own I think the incidents 
 are too few. 
 
 Sir F. Good God ! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, 
 there is no person for whose judgment I have 
 a more implicit deference, but I protest to 
 you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that 
 the incidents are too ci'owded. My dear 
 Dangle, how does it strike you ? 
 
 Ban. Really, I can't agree with my friend 
 Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient, and 
 the four first acts by many degrees the best 
 I ever read or saw in my life. If I might 
 venture to suggest anything, it is that the 
 interest rather falls off in the fifth. 
 
 Sir F. Rises, I believe you mean, sir. 
 
 Dan. No; I don't, upon my word. 
 
 Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ; it
 
 288 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 certainly don't fall off, I assure you ; no, no, 
 it don't fall otf. 
 
 Ban. Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you say it 
 struck you in the same light'? 
 
 Mrs. D. No, indeed, I did not; I did not 
 see a fault in any part of the play, from the 
 befriuuing to the end. 
 
 Sir F. Upon my soul, the women ai-e the 
 best judges after all. 
 
 Mrs. D. Or if I made any objection, I am 
 sure it was to nothing in the piece ; but that 
 I was afraid it was, on the whole, a little too 
 long. 
 
 Sir F. Pray, madam, do you speak as to 
 duration of time; or do you mean that the 
 story is tediously spun out? 
 
 Mrs. D. O lud ! no. I speak only with 
 reference to the usual length of acting plays. 
 
 Sir F. Then I am very happy, — very happy 
 indeed, — because the play is a short play, a 
 remarkably short play : I should not venture 
 to differ with a lady on a point of taste ; but, 
 on these occasions, the watch, you know, is 
 the critic. 
 
 Mrs. D. Then, I suppose, it must have been 
 Mr. Dangle's drawling manner of reading it 
 to me. 
 
 Sir F. O ! if Mr, Dangle read it ! that's 
 quite another affair ; but I assure you, Mrs. 
 Dangle, the first evening you can spare me 
 three hours and a half, I'll undertake to read 
 you the whole from beginning to end, with 
 the prologue and epilogue, and allow time for 
 the music between the acts. 
 
 Mrs. D. I hope to see it on the stage next. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dan. AYell, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be 
 able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criti- 
 cisms as you do of ours. 
 
 Sir F. The newspapers ! — sir, they are the 
 most villanous — licentious — abominable — in- 
 fernal — not that I ever read them — no; I 
 make it a rule never to look into a newspaper. 
 
 Dan. You are quite right; for it certainly 
 must hurt an author of delicate feelings to see 
 the liberties they take. 
 
 Sir F. No ; quite the contrary : their abuse 
 is, in fact, the best panegyric; I like it of all 
 things. — An author's reputation is only in 
 danger from their support. 
 
 Sneer. Why, that's true ; and that attack 
 now on you the other day — 
 
 Sir F. What? where? 
 
 Dan. Ay ! you mean in a paper of Thurs- 
 day ; it was completely ill-natured, to be sure. 
 
 Sir F. O ! so much the better ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 — I wouldn't have it otherwise. 
 
 Dan. Certainly it is only to be laughed at ; 
 for — 
 
 Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what 
 the fellow said, do you? 
 
 Sneer. Pray, Dangle; Sir Fretful seems a 
 little anxious — 
 
 Sir F. O lud, no ! anxious, — not I, — not 
 the least, — I — but one may as weU hear, you 
 know. 
 
 Dan. Sneer, do j/ou recollect? Make out 
 something. (Aside.) 
 
 Sneer. I will. {To Dangle.) Yes, yes, I 
 remembei- perfectly. 
 
 Sir F. Well, and pray now — not that it 
 signifies — what might the gentleman say? 
 
 Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you 
 have not the slightest invention or original 
 genius whatever; though you are the greatest 
 traducer of all other authore living. 
 
 Sir F. Ha, ha, ha ! very good ! 
 
 Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one 
 idea of your own, he believes, even in your 
 commonplace book, where stray jokes and 
 pilfered witticisms are kept with as much 
 method as the ledger of the lost and stolen 
 office. 
 
 Sir F. Ha, ha, ha ! very pleasant ! 
 
 Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not 
 to have the skill even to steal with taste : — 
 but that you glean from the refuse of obscure 
 volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have 
 been before you ; so that the body of your 
 work is a composition of dregs and sediments, 
 like a bad tavern's worst wine. 
 
 Sir F. Ha, ha I 
 
 Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, 
 your bombast would be less intolerable if the 
 thoughts were ever suited to the expression ; 
 but the homeliness of the sentiment stares 
 through the fantastic incumbrance of its fine 
 lancruage, like a clown in one of the new uni- 
 forms. 
 
 Sir F. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Sneer. That your occasional tropes and 
 flowers suit the general coarseness of your 
 style, as tambour sprigs w^ould a ground of 
 linsey-woolsey ; while your imitations of Shak- 
 spere resemble the mimicry of Falstati^'s page, 
 and are about as near the standard of the ori- 
 ginal. 
 
 Sir F. Ha! 
 
 Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages 
 you steal are of no service to you ; for the 
 poverty of your own language prevents their 
 assimilating, so that they lie on the surface 
 like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encum- 
 bering what it is not in their power to fertilize.
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 289 
 
 Sir F. {After great agitation.) Now, another 
 person would be vex'd at tliis. 
 
 Siieer. Oh ! but I wouldn't have told you, 
 only to divert you. 
 
 Sir F. I know it. 1 am diverted ; ha, ha, 
 ha! — not the lejist invention! ha, ha, ha! very 
 good — very good ! 
 
 Sneer. Yes, — no genius ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Dan. A severe rogue ! ha, ha, ha ! but you 
 are quite right. Sir Fretful, never to read such 
 nonsense. 
 
 Sir F. To be sure ; — for if there is anything 
 to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be 
 gratified at it, and if it is abuse, — why, one is 
 
 always sure to hear of it from some d d 
 
 good-natured friend or other ! 
 
 THE DESOLATION OF OUDE. 
 
 (from speech on impeachment of HASTINGS.) 
 
 Had a stranger at this time gone into the 
 province of Oude, ignorant of what had hap- 
 pened since the death of Sujah Dowla, that 
 man, who, with a savage heart, had still great 
 lines of character, and who, with all his fero- 
 city in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, 
 preserved to his country the riches which it 
 derived from benignant skies and a prolific 
 soil — if this stranger, ignorant of Jill that had 
 happened in the short interval, and observing 
 the wide and general devastation, and all the 
 horrors of the scene — of plains unclothed and 
 brown — of vegetables burned up and extin- 
 guished — of villages depopulated and in ruins 
 — of temples unroofed and perishing — of reser- 
 voirs broken down and dry, — he would natur- 
 ally inquire, what war has thus laid waste the 
 fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent 
 country— what civil dissensions have hap- 
 pened, thus to tear asunder and separate the 
 happy societies that once possessed those vil- 
 lages — what disputed succession — what reli- 
 gious rage has, with unholy violence, demol- 
 ished those temples, and disturbed fervent 
 but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its 
 duties? — What merciless enemy has thus 
 spread the horroi^s of fire and sword — what 
 severe visitation of providence has dried up 
 the fountain, and taken from the face of the 
 earth every vestige of verdure? — Or rather, 
 what monstei-s have stalked over the country, 
 tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, 
 what the voracious appetite could not devour? 
 
 To such questions, what must be the answer? 
 Vol. I. 
 
 No wars have ravaged these lands, and de- 
 poj)ulated these villages — no civil discords 
 have been felt — no disputed succession — no 
 religious rage — no merciless enemy — no afflic- 
 tion of providence, which, while it scourged 
 for the moment, cut off the sources of resusci- 
 tation — no voracious and poisoning monsters 
 — no, all this has been accomplished by the 
 friendship, generosity, and kindness of the 
 English nation. They have embraced us 
 with their protecting arms, and, lo ! those are 
 the fruits of their alliance. What, then, shaU 
 we be told, that under such cii'cumstances, the 
 exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus 
 goaded and spurred on to clamour and resist- 
 ance, were excited by the poor and feeble in- 
 fluence of the begums ! When we hear the 
 description of the paroxysm, fever, and deli- 
 rium into which despair had thrown the 
 wretched natives, when on the banks of the 
 polluted Ganges, panting for death, they tore 
 more widely open the lips of their gaping 
 wounds to accelerate their dissolution, and, 
 while their blood was issuing, presented their 
 ghastly eyes to Heaven, breathing their last 
 and fervent prayer, that the dry earth might 
 not be suti'ered to drink their blood, but that 
 it might rise up to the throne of God, and 
 rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the 
 wrongs of their country ; will it be said that 
 this was brought about by the incantations of 
 those begums in their secluded zenana? or 
 that they could inspire this enthusiasm and 
 this despair into the breasts of a people who 
 felt no grievance and had suffered no torture? 
 What motive, then, could have such influence 
 in their bosom? What motive? That which 
 nature, the common parent, plants in the 
 bosom of man, and which, though it may be 
 less active in the Indian than in the English- 
 man, is still congenial with, and makes part 
 of his being — that feeling which tells him 
 that man was never made to be the property 
 of man; but that when, through pride and 
 insolence of power, one human creature dares 
 to tyrannize over another, it is a power 
 usurped, and resistance is a duty — that feel- 
 ing which tells him that all power is delegated 
 for the good, not for the injury of the people, 
 and that when it is converted from the original 
 purpose the compact is broken, and the right 
 is to be resumed — that principle which tells 
 him that resistance to power usurped is not 
 merely a duty which he owes to himself and 
 to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes 
 to his God, in asserting and maintaining the 
 rank which he gave him in the creation !^to 
 
 19
 
 290 
 
 MRS. MARY TIGHE. 
 
 that common God, wlio, where he gives the 
 form of man, whatever may be the complexion, 
 gives also the feelings and the rights of man- — 
 that principle, which neither the rudeness of 
 ignorance can stifle, nor the enervation of 
 refinement extinguish ! — that principle, which 
 makes it base for a man to suffer when he 
 ought to act, which, tending to preserve to the 
 species the original designations of providence, 
 spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, 
 and vindicates the independent quality of his 
 race. 
 
 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, 
 
 Here's to the widow of fifty; 
 Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, 
 And here's to the housewife that's thrifty: 
 Chorus. Let the toast pass, 
 Drink to the lass, 
 I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 
 
 Here's to the charmer, whose dimples we prize, 
 And now to the maid who has none, sir. 
 
 Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 
 And here's to the nymph with but one, Bir. 
 Let the toast pass, &c. 
 
 Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow 
 And to her that's as brown as a berry; 
 
 Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, 
 And now to the girl that is merry: 
 Let the toast pass, &c. 
 
 For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 
 Young or ancient, I care not a feather; 
 
 So fill a pint bumper quite up to brim, 
 And let us e'en toast them together: 
 Let the toast pass, &c. 
 
 BY CCELIA'S ARBOUR 
 
 By Coelia's arbour, all the night. 
 
 Hang, humid wreath, — the lover's vow; 
 
 And haply at the morning's light 
 
 My love will twine thee round her brow. 
 
 And if upon her bosom bright 
 
 Some drops of dew should fall from thee; 
 Tell her they are not drops of night, 
 
 But tears of sorrow shed by me. 
 
 MRS. MARY TIGHE. 
 
 Born 1772 — Died 1810. 
 
 [Mrs. Tighe was born in Dublin, October 9, 
 1772. Her father was the Rev. W. Blachford, 
 and her mother a daughter of William Tighe 
 of Rosanna, in the county of Wicklow. From 
 a child she was remarkable for her taste, sen- 
 sibility, and delicacy of feeling, and an absence 
 of that light-heartedness which is usual in 
 healthy children. Her constitution was deli- 
 cate in the extreme, and in her countenance 
 was visible that sweet light of genius and 
 spirituelle beauty only seen in those whom the 
 gods love and who die young. She was mar- 
 ried in 1793 to her cousin Mr. Henry Tighe, but 
 the union is said not to have been a happy one. 
 Sad family afilictions and bereavements acting 
 on her sensitive mind served to hasten her 
 premature decline. But however weak her 
 frame might be, her mind was active, and she 
 wrote many poems, among othei-s the well- 
 known Psyche, or the Legend of Love, founded 
 on the classic fable of the loves of Cupid and 
 Psyche, a poem full of the refinement and 
 tenderness of its author. " The Lily " is perhaps 
 
 the most popular among her minor pieces. 
 Unfortunately her retiring modesty deprived 
 the world of the greater part of her produc- 
 tions, and the remainder would have been 
 almost overlooked but for Sir James Mac- 
 kintosh, Dr. Moir (Delta), and other competent 
 judges, whose favourable opinions first brought 
 them into notice. 
 
 After a lengthened period of extreme de- 
 bility of a most distressing kind, IVIrs. Tighe 
 died at Woodstock, county of Kilkenny, on 
 March 24, 1810, and was buried in the church- 
 yard of Inistioge. A monument by Flax- 
 man has been erected over her remains, ;ind 
 Mrs. Hemans has commemorated her worth in 
 the beautiful lines " The Grave of a Poetess." 
 The love and grief of Mrs. Tighe's friends may 
 also be gathered from a poem written by 
 Thomas Moore, in which he says of her — 
 
 " So, veil'd beneath the simple guise 
 Thy radiant genius shone, 
 And that which charmed all other eyec 
 Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary !
 
 MRS. MARY TIGHE. 
 
 291 
 
 " If souls could always dwell above, 
 Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
 Or could wo keep the souls we love, 
 We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
 
 " Though many a gifted mind we meet, 
 Though fairest forms we see. 
 To live with them is far less sweet 
 Than to remember thee, Mary ! "J 
 
 PRAISE OF LOVE. 
 
 (from "pstche.") 
 
 [Psyche's champion assumes the command 
 of Passion, who appears as a Lion.] 
 
 Oh, who art thou who darest of Love complain? 
 He is a gentle spirit and injures none ! 
 His foes are ours; from them the bitter pain. 
 The keen, deep anguish, the heart-rending groan. 
 Which in his milder reign are never known. 
 His tears are softer than the April showers, 
 White-handed Innocence supports his throne, 
 His sighs are sweet as breath of earliest flowers, 
 Affection guides his steps, and peace protects his 
 bowers. 
 
 But scarce admittance he on earth can find, 
 Opposed by vanity, by fraud ensnared; 
 Suspicion frights him from the gloomy mind. 
 And jealousy in vain his smiles has shared. 
 Whose sullen frown the gentle godhead scared ; 
 From Passion's rapid blaze in haste he flies. 
 His wings alone the fiercer flame has spared ; 
 From him ambition turns his scornful eyes. 
 And avarice, slave to gold, a generous lord denies. 
 
 But chief inconstancy his power destroys; 
 To mock his lovely form, an idle train 
 With magic skill she dressed in transient toys; 
 By these the selfish votaries she can gain 
 Whom Love's more simple bands could ne'er 
 
 detain. 
 Ah! how shall Psyche through such mortal foes 
 The fated end of all her toils attain ? 
 Sadly she ponders o'er her liopeless woes, 
 Till on the pillowy turf she sinks to short repose. 
 
 But as the careless lamb whom playful chance, 
 Thoughtless of danger, has enticed to rove. 
 Amidst her gambols casts a sudden glance 
 Where lurks her wily foe within the grove, 
 Anxious to fly, but still afraid to move. 
 All hopele-ss of escape — so looks the maid. 
 Such dread her half-awakened senses prove. 
 When roused from sleep before her eyes dis- 
 mayed, 
 A knight all armed appears close 'mid the em- 
 bowering shade. 
 
 Trembling she gazed, until the stranger knight 
 Tempering with mildest courtesy, the awe 
 Whicii majesty inspired, low in her sight 
 Obeisance made; nor would he nearer draw, 
 Till, half subdued surprise and fear, he saw 
 Pale terror yielding to the ro.^y grace. 
 The pure congealed blood begin to thaw, 
 And flowing through her crystal veins apace 
 Suffuse with mantling blush her mild celestial 
 face. 
 
 Gently approaching then with fairest speech 
 He proffered service to the lonely dame. 
 And prayed her that she might not so impeach 
 The honour of his youth's yet spotless fame. 
 As aught to fear which might liis knighthood 
 
 shame; 
 But if her unprotected steps to guard. 
 The glory of her champion he might claim, 
 He a.sked no other guerdon or reward 
 Than what bright honour's self might to his deeds 
 award. 
 
 Doubting and musing much within her mind, 
 With half-suspicious, half-confiding eye. 
 Awhile she stood; her thoughts bewildered find 
 No utterance, unwilling to deny 
 Such proffered aid, yet bashful to reply 
 With quick assent, since though concealed his 
 
 face 
 Beneath his helm, yet might she well espy 
 And in each fair proportion plainly trace 
 The symmetry of form, and perfect youthful grace. 
 
 Hard were it to describe the nameless charm 
 That o'er each limb in every action played, 
 The softness of that voice which could disarm 
 The hand of fury of its deadly blade: 
 In shining armour was the youth array'd. 
 And on his shield a bleeding heart he bore. 
 His lofty crest light plumes of azure shade. 
 There shone a wounded dragon bathed in gore, 
 And bright with silver beamed the silken scarf lie 
 wore. 
 
 His milk-white steed with glittering trappings 
 
 blazed. 
 Whose reins a beauteous boy attendant held, 
 On the fair squire with wonder Psyche gazed, 
 For scarce he seemed of age to bear the shield. 
 Far less a ponderous lance or sword to wield ; 
 Yet well this little page his lord had served, 
 His youthful arm had many a foe repelled. 
 His watchful eye from many a snare preserved. 
 Nor ever from his steps in any danger swerved. 
 
 Graced with the gift of a perpetual youth, 
 No lapse of years had power his form to change; 
 Constance was named the boy, whose matchless 
 truth,
 
 292 
 
 MRS. MARY TIGHE. 
 
 Though oft enticed with other lords to range, 
 Nor fraud nor force could from that knight 
 
 estrange; 
 His mantle of celestial blue was made, 
 And its bright texture wrought with art so 
 
 strange 
 That the fresh brilliant gloss could never fade, 
 And lustre yet unknown to Psyche's eyes dis- 
 played. 
 
 Thus while she gazed, behold, with horrid roar 
 A lion from the neighbouring forest rushed, 
 A golden chain around his neck he bore. 
 Which richly glowing with carbuncles blushed, 
 While his fierce eyeballs fiery rage had flushed: 
 Forth steps the youth before the affrighted fair, 
 Who in his mighty paw already crushed 
 Seems in the terrors of her wild despair, 
 And her mute quivering lips a death-like paleness 
 wear. 
 
 But scarce the kingly beast the knight beheld. 
 When crouching low submissive at his feet, 
 His wrath extinguished, and his valour quelled, 
 He seemed with reverence and obeisance sweet 
 Him as his long-acknowledged lord to greet. 
 While in acceptance of the new command, 
 Well pleased the youth received the homage meet. 
 Then seized the splendid chain with steady hand 
 Full confident to rule, and every foe withstand. 
 
 And, when at length recovered from her fear, 
 The timid Psyche mounts his docile steed, 
 Much prayed, she tells to his attentive ear 
 (As on her purposed journey they proceed) 
 The doubtful course the oracle decreed: 
 And how, observant of her friendly guide, 
 She still pursued its flight with all the speed 
 Her fainting strength had hitherto supplied; 
 What pathless wilds she crossed ! What forests 
 darkling wide ! 
 
 Which having heard the courteous knight began 
 With counsel sweet to soothe her wounded heart; 
 Divinely eloquent, persuasion ran 
 The herald of his words ere they depart 
 His lips, which well might confidence impart, 
 As he revealed how he himself was bound 
 By solemn vow, that neither force nor art 
 His helmet should unloose, till he had found 
 The bower of happiness, that long-sought fairy 
 ground. 
 
 "I too (he said), divided from my love. 
 The offended power of Venus deprecate, 
 Like thee, through paths untrodden, sadly rove 
 In search of that fair spot prescribed by fate, 
 The blessed term of my afllictcd state. 
 Where I the mistress of my soul shall find, 
 For whose dear sake no toil to me seems great, 
 
 Nor any dangers to my search assigned 
 Can from its purpose fright my ardent longing 
 mind. 
 
 "Psyche ! thy soft and sympathizing heart 
 Shall share the rapture of thy loyal knight; 
 He too in thy content shall bear a part. 
 Blest witness of thy new restored delight ; 
 My vows of true allegiance here I plight. 
 Ne'er to forsake thee till thy perils end. 
 Thy steps to guard, in thy protection fight. 
 By counsel aid, and by my arm defend, 
 
 And prove myself in all, thy champion and thy 
 friend." 
 
 So on they went, her cheerless heart revived 
 By promised succour in her doubtful way; 
 And much of hope she to herself derived, 
 From the warm eagerness his lips display 
 In their pursuit to suffer no delay: 
 
 "And sure (she softly sighed), my dearest lord, 
 Thy watchful love still guides me, as I stray, 
 Not chance alone could such an aid afford, 
 
 Lo! beasts of prey confess the heaven-assisted 
 sword. " 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Wert thou sad, I would beguile 
 Thy sadness by my tender lay; 
 
 Wert thou in a mood to smile, 
 With thee laugh the hours away. 
 
 Didst thou feel inclined to sleep, 
 I would watch, and hover near; 
 
 Did misfortune bid thee weep, 
 I would give thee tear for tear. 
 
 Not a sigh that heaved thy breast, 
 But I'd echo from my own; 
 
 Did one care disturb thy rest, 
 Mine, alas ! were also flown. 
 
 When the hour of death should come, 
 I'd receive thy latest sigh ; 
 
 Only ask to share thy tomb. 
 Then, contented, with thee die. 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 How wither'd, perish'd, seems the foim 
 Of yon obscure unsightly root ! 
 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 
 The careless eye can find no grace. 
 No beauty in the scaly folds, 
 
 Nor see within the dark embrace 
 What latent loveliness it holds.
 
 EDMUND MALONE. 
 
 293 
 
 Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 
 
 The lily wraps her silver vest. 
 Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
 
 Yes, hide beneath the mould'ring heap. 
 The undelighting slighted thing; 
 
 There in the cold earth buried deep, 
 In silence let it wait the spring. 
 
 Oh many a stormy night shall close ! 
 
 In gloom upon the barren earth, 
 While still in undisturb'd repose, 
 
 Uninjur'd lies the future birth. 
 
 And ignorance, with sceptic eye, 
 
 Hope's patient smile shall wond'ring view; 
 Or mock her fond credulity, 
 
 As her soft tears the spot bedew ; 
 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear. 
 
 The sun, the show'r indeed shall come; 
 
 The promised verdant shoot appear, 
 And nature bid her blossoms bloom. 
 
 And thou, O virgin queen of spring, 
 Shalt from thy dark and lowly bed. 
 
 Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, 
 Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed; 
 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white, 
 
 Unsullied from their darksome grave, 
 
 And thy .soft petals' flow'ry light 
 In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave. 
 
 So faith shall seek the lowly dust, 
 AVhere humble sorrow loves to lie. 
 
 And bid her thus her hopes intrust. 
 And watch witli patient, cheerful eye; 
 
 And bear the long, cold, wintry night. 
 And bear her own degraded doom, 
 
 And wait till heav'n's reviving light, 
 Eternal spring ! shall burst the gloom. 
 
 CALM DELIGHT. 
 
 Birds, flowers, soft winds, and waters gently flowing, 
 Surround me day and night. 
 
 Still sweetly on my heart bestowing 
 Content and calm delight. 
 
 When (lay's toil wearies, sleep my peace restoring, 
 Descends with balmy night; 
 
 In bright dreams on my bosom pouring 
 Content and calm delight. 
 
 EDMUND MALONE. 
 
 BoBN 1741 — Died 1812. 
 
 [Edmund Malone, chiefly known as a com- 
 mentator on Shakspere, was born in Dublin 
 in the year 1741. His father was a judge in 
 the Irish Court of Common Pleas, and the 
 family was an ancient and respectable one, 
 having been originally a branch of the cele- 
 brated O'Connors. In 1756 Malone was sent 
 to Trinity College, and aftei' graduating there 
 he entered at the Inner Temple, London, in 
 1763, and was called to the Irish bar. For a 
 time he travelled the Munster circuit, and was 
 acquiring reputation and a good practice, when 
 he suddenly found that a fortune had been 
 left him, sufficient to make him independent 
 for life. The true bent of his mind now 
 showed itself ; he deserted the law, removed 
 to Loudon in 1777, and henceforward devoted 
 himself to a life of literary criticism and re- 
 search. In London he soon became acquainted 
 with Johnson, Goldsmith, Edmund Burke, 
 Bishop Percy, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, the 
 latter of whom made him one of the executors 
 of his will. 
 
 Inl778 Malone published two supplementary 
 volumes to Johnston and Steevens' editions of 
 Shakspere, containing the poems and some 
 doubtful plays. A dispute afterwards occurred 
 between him and Mr. Steevens, and in 1790 
 he piiblished a new edition of Shakspere in 
 10 vols., which was undoubtedly the best that 
 had appeared n\} to that time. He also ren- 
 dered valuable aid in detecting the impudent 
 Shaksperian forgeries put forward by Mr. W. 
 H. Ireland. Inspired with the unwearying in- 
 dustry and zeal of a true connneutator and 
 literary antiquary he continued his work, 
 and wrote many valuable articles on our old 
 dramatic litei'ature and collateral subjects. 
 Besides these minor labours of his pen he 
 produced in 1790 An Historical Account of the 
 Rise and Progress of the English Stage; in 
 1797, The Works of Sir Joshiux Reynolds, with 
 a Memoir; in 1800, an edition of Dry dens 
 Prose Works, never before collected together ; 
 and in 1808, The Works of Wm. Gerard 
 
 llamiltoii, with a Sketch of his Life. 
 
 Although
 
 294 
 
 EDMUND MALONE. 
 
 Maloue had resided for many years in England 
 he advised his fi-iends to vote against the 
 union, and notwithstanding his studious and 
 retired habits his opinions and advice were 
 vahied and souglit after by men of high rank 
 and influence in the political world. In later 
 life he was engaged in the correction and 
 improvement of his edition of Shakspere, and 
 was on the point of issuing a revised edition 
 when he was removed by death, after a short 
 illness, on the 25th of May, 1812. He was 
 buried near the family residence at Barons- 
 town in Westmeath. He desired that his 
 valuable library should go to Trinity College, 
 Dublin, where he had received his education, 
 but his brother Lord Sunderliu presented it to 
 the Bodleian at Oxford, in the belief that it 
 would be more useful there. 
 
 Malone has frequently been sneered at for 
 his errors and misconceptions ; but if we re- 
 member the state of research in his day we 
 must give him credit for being a careful and 
 industrious editor, if not a brilliant writer.] 
 
 THE EARLY STAGE.i 
 
 So early as the year 1378 the singing boys 
 of St. Paul's represented to the king that they 
 had been at a considerable expense in prepar- 
 ing a stage representation at Cliristmas. These, 
 however, cannot properly be called comedians, 
 nor am I able to point out the time when the 
 profession of a player became common and 
 established. It has been supposed that the 
 license granted by Queen Elizabeth to James 
 Burbage and others in 1574 was the first re- 
 gular license ever granted to comedians in 
 England ; but this is a mistake, for Heywood 
 informs us that similar licenses had been 
 granted by her father King Henry the Eighth, 
 King Edward the Sixth, and Queen Maiy. 
 Stowe records that " when King Edward the 
 Fourth would show himself in state to the view 
 of the people, he repaired to his palace at St. 
 John's, where he was accustomed to see the 
 city actors." In two books in the remem- 
 brancer's office in the exchequer, containing 
 an account of the daily expenses of King 
 Henry the Seventh, are the following articles, 
 from which it appears that at that time players, 
 both French and English, made a part of the 
 appendages of the court, and were supported 
 by regal estaljlishment 
 
 1 This and the following extracts are from An Histori- 
 cal Account of the Rise and Progress of the English Stage. 
 
 " Item to the French players in reward, 20«. 
 Item to the tumblers upon the ropes, 205. 
 For healing a sick maid, 65. 8d. (probably the 
 piece of gold given by the king in touching 
 for the evil). Item to my lord prince's organ- 
 player for a quarter wages, 10s. Item to the 
 players of London in reward, 10s. Item to 
 Master Barnard, the blind poet, 100 shillings." 
 The foregoing extracts are from a book, of 
 which almost every page is signed by the 
 king's own hand, in the thirteenth year of his 
 reign. The following are taken from a book 
 containing an account of expenses in the ninth 
 year of his reign : " Item to Cart for writing 
 of a book, 6s. 8d. Item paid for two plays in 
 the hall, 26s. 8d. Item to the king's players 
 for a reward, 100 shillings. Item to the king 
 to play at cards, 100 shillings. Lost to my 
 Lord Morging at buttes, 6s. 8d. To Harry 
 Pyning, the king's godson, in reward, 20s. 
 Item to the players that begged by the way, 
 6s. 8d." 
 
 Some of these articles I have preserved as 
 curious, though they do not relate to the 
 subject immediately before us. This account 
 ascertains that there was then not only a 
 regular troop of players in London, but also a 
 royal company. The intimate knowledge of 
 the French language and manners which 
 Henry must have acquired during his long 
 sojourn in foreign courts (from 1471 to 1485) 
 accounts for the article relative to the com- 
 pany of French players. 
 
 In a manuscript in the Cottonian Library in 
 the Museum a narrative is given of the shows 
 and ceremonies exhibited at Christmas in the 
 fifth year of this king's reign. " On Candle 
 mass day the king and queen, my lady the 
 king's mother, with the substance of all the 
 lords temporal present at the parliament, &c., 
 went in procession from the chapel into the 
 haU. The king was that day in a rich gown 
 of purple, purled with gold, f ured with sables. 
 At night the king, the queen, and my lady 
 the king's mother, came into the white hall 
 and there had a play." .... 
 
 It has already been mentioned that origin- 
 ally plays were performed in churches. Though 
 Bonner, bishop of London, issued a proclama- 
 tion to the clergy of his diocese in 1542, pro- 
 hibiting " all manner of common plays, games, 
 or interludes, to be played, set forth, or de- 
 clared within their churches, chapels, &c.," 
 the practice seems to have been continued 
 occasionally during the reign of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, for the author of The Third Blast of 
 Retreat from Plays and Players complains in
 
 EDMUND MALONE. 
 
 295 
 
 1580 that "the playei-s are permitted to pub- 
 lish their mammetrie in every temple of God, 
 and that throughout England." And this 
 abuse is tixken notice of in one of the canons 
 of Kin^r James the Fii-st, given soon after his 
 accession in the year 1G03. 
 
 Early, however, in Queen Elizabeth's reign, 
 the established players of London began to 
 act in temporary theatres constructed in the 
 yards of inns, and about the year 1570, I 
 imagine, one or two regular play-houses were 
 erected. Both the theatre in Blackfriars and 
 that in Whitefriars were certainly built before 
 1 580, for we learn from a puritanical pamphlet 
 published in the last century that soon after 
 that year " many goodly citizens and well-dis- 
 posed gentlemen of London, considering that 
 j)lay-houses and dicing-liou.ses were traps for 
 young gentlemen and others, and perceiving 
 that many inconveniences and great damage 
 would ensue upon the long-suflFering of the same, 
 acquainted some pious magistrates therewith, 
 who thereupon made humble suit to Queen 
 Elizabeth and her privy-council, and obtained 
 leave from her majesty to thrust the players 
 oiit of the city, and to pull down all play- 
 houses and dicing-houses within their liber- 
 ties; which accordingly was effected, and the 
 play-houses in Gracious Street, Bishojjsgate 
 Street, that nigh Paul's, that on Ludgate Hill, 
 and the Whitefriars were quite pulled down 
 and suppressed by the care of these religious 
 senators." The theatre in Blackfriars, not being 
 within the liberties of the city of London, 
 escaped the fury of these fanatics. Elizabeth, 
 however, though she yielded in this instance 
 to the frenzy of the time, was during the 
 whole course of her reign a favourer of the 
 stage, and a frequent attendant upon plays. 
 So early as in the year 1569, as we learn from 
 another puritanical writer, the children of her 
 chapel (who are described as " her majesty's 
 unfledged minions "), " flaunted it in their 
 silks and satins," and acted plays on profane 
 subjects in the chapel royal. In 1574 she 
 granted a license to James Burbage, probably 
 the father of the celebrated tragedian, and 
 four others, servants to the Earl of Leicester, 
 to exhibit all kinds of stage plays, during 
 pleasure, in any part of England, "as well 
 for the recreation of her loving subjects, as for 
 her own solace and pleasure when she should 
 think good to see them ; " and in the year 1583, 
 soon after a furious attack had been made on 
 the stage by the Puritans, twelve of the prin- 
 cipal comedians of the time, at the earnest 
 request of Sir Francis Walsingham, were 
 
 selected from the companies then subsisting 
 under the license and jjrotection of various 
 noblemen, and were sworn her majesty's ser- 
 vants. Eight of them had an annual stipend 
 of £'i, Qs. Sd. each. At that time there were 
 eight companies of comedians, each of which 
 performed twice or thrice a week. "For," 
 says an old sermon, " reckoning with the least 
 the gain that is reaped of eight ordinary places 
 in the city (which I know) by playing Ijut 
 once a week, whereas many times they play 
 twice and even thrice, it amounteth to two 
 thousand pounds by the year." 
 
 ANCIENT MORALITIES AND 
 MYSTERIES. 
 
 "In the city of Gloucester the manner is that 
 when players of interludes come to town they 
 first attend the mayor to inform him what 
 nobleman's servants they are, and so to get a 
 license for their public playing; and if the 
 mayor like the actors, or would show respect 
 to their lord and master, he appoints them to 
 play their first play before himself and the 
 aldermen and common council of the city, and 
 that is called the mayor's play, where every 
 one that will comes in without money. The 
 mayor gives the players a reward as he thinks 
 fit, to show respect to them. At such a play 
 my father took me with him and made me 
 stand between his legs as he sat upon one of 
 the benches, where we saw and heard very 
 well. The play was c;dled the Cradle of 
 Security, wherein was personated a king or 
 some great prince with his courtiers of several 
 kinds, among which three ladies were in 
 special grace with him, and they, keeping him 
 in delights and pleasures, drew him from his 
 graver counsellors, hearing of sermons, and 
 listening to good counsels and admonitions; 
 that in the end they got him to lie down in a 
 cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, 
 joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, 
 that he snorted again ; and in the meantime, 
 closely conveyed under the clothes wherewithal 
 he was covered, a vizard, like a swine's snout 
 upon his face, with three wire chains fastened 
 thereunto, the other end whereof being holden 
 severally by those three ladies, who fall to 
 singing again, and then discovered his face, 
 that the spectators might see how they had 
 transformed him, going on with their singing. 
 Whilst all this was acting there came forth of 
 another door at the farthest end of the stage
 
 296 
 
 EDMUND MALONE, 
 
 two old men, the one in blue with a sergeant- 
 a,t-arms, the other in red with a drawn sword 
 in his hand, and leaning with the other hand 
 upon the other's shoulder, and so they went 
 along at a soft pace round about the skirt of 
 the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, 
 when all the court was in the greatest jollity; 
 and then the foremost old man with his mace 
 struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, where- 
 with all the courtiers, with the three ladies 
 and the vizard, all vanished, and the desolate 
 prince, starting up barefaced, and finding him- 
 self thus sent for to judgment, made a lament- 
 able complaint of his miserable case, and so 
 was carried away by wicked spirits. This 
 prince did personate in the moral the wicked 
 of the world, the three ladies pride, covetous- 
 ness, and luxury, the two old men the end of 
 the world and the last judgment." 
 
 The writer of this account appears to have 
 been born in the same year with our great 
 poet (1564). Supposing him to have been 
 seven or eight years old when he saw this in- 
 terlude, the exhibition must have been in 1571 
 or 1572. 
 
 I am unable to ascertain when the first 
 morality appeared, but incline to think not 
 sooner than the reign of King Edward the 
 Fourth (1460). The public pageants of the 
 reign of King Henry the Sixth were uncom- 
 monly splendid, and being then first enliv- 
 ened by the introduction of speaking allegori- 
 cal personages properly and characteristic- 
 ally habited, they naturally led the way to 
 those personifications by which moralities 
 were distinguished from the simpler religious 
 dramas called mysteries. We must not, how- 
 ever, suppose that after moralities were intro- 
 duced mysteries ceased to be exhibited. "We 
 have already seen that a mystery was repre- 
 sented before King Henry the Seventh at 
 Winchester in 1487. Sixteen years aftei-wards, 
 on the fii'st Sunday after the marriage of his 
 daughter with King James of Scotland, a 
 morality was performed. In the early part 
 of the reign of King Henry the Eighth they 
 were, perhaps, performed indiscriminately, 
 but mysteries were probably seldom repre- 
 sented after the statute of Henry the Eighth, 
 which was made, as the preamble informs us, 
 with a view that the kingdom should be 
 purged and cleansed of all religious plays, in- 
 terludes, ballads, and songs, which are equally 
 pestiferous and noisome to the commonweal. 
 At this time both moralities and mysteries 
 were made the vehicle of religious contro- 
 versy. 
 
 STAGE SCENERY. 
 
 How little the imaginations of the audience 
 were assisted by scenical dece^jtion, and how 
 much necessity our author had to call on them 
 to piece out imperfections with their thoughts, 
 may be collected from Sir Philip Sydney, who, 
 describing the state of the drama and the stage 
 in his time (about the year 1583), says, "Now 
 you shall have three ladies walk to gather 
 flowers, and then we must believe the stage 
 to be a garden. By and by we hear news of 
 shipwreck in the same place, then we are to 
 blame if we accept it not for a rock. Ujjon 
 the back of that comes out a hideous monster 
 with fire and smoke, and then the miserable 
 beholders are bound to take it for a cave; 
 while in the meantime two armies fly in, re- 
 presented with foiu" swords and bucklers, and 
 then what hard heart will not receive it for a 
 pitched field!" 
 
 The first notice that I have found of any- 
 thing like movable scenes being used in Eng- 
 land is in the narrative of the entertainment 
 given to King James at Oxford in August, 1605. 
 . . . . It is observable that the writer of this 
 account was not acquainted even with the term 
 scene, having used " painted clothes " instead 
 of it; nor, indeed, is this surprising, it not 
 being then found in this sense in any diction- 
 ai-y or vocabulary, English or foreign, that I 
 have met with. Had the common stages been 
 furnished with them, neither this writer nor 
 the makers of dictionaries could have been 
 ignorant of it. To efi'ect even what was done 
 at Christ's Church the university found it 
 necessary to employ two of the king's car- 
 penters, and to have the advice of the con- 
 troller of his works. The queen's masque, 
 which was exliibited in the preceding Janu- 
 ary, was not much more successful, though 
 above X3000 was expended upon it. At 
 night, says Sir Dudley Carle ton, " we had the 
 queen's mask in the banqueting- house, or 
 rather her pageant. There was a great engine 
 at the lower end of the room, which had mo- 
 tion, and in it were the images of sea-horees 
 (with other terrible fishes), which were ridden 
 
 by the Moors The indecorum was, 
 
 that there was all fish and no water." Such 
 were most of the mjisques in the time of James 
 the First— triumphal cars, castles, rocks, caves, 
 pillars, temples, clouds, rivers, tritons, &c., 
 composed the principal part of their decora- 
 tions. In the courtly masques given by his 
 successor during the first fifteen yeare of his
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 297 
 
 reign, and in some of the plays exhibited iit 
 court, tlie art of sceneiy seems to have been 
 somewhat improved. In 1636 a piece written 
 by Thomas Heywood, called Love's Mistress, 
 or the Queen's Masque, w;uj represented at 
 Denmark House before their majesties. "For 
 the rare decorements" (says Heywood in his 
 preface) " which new apparelled it when it 
 came the second time to the royal view I 
 cannot pretermit to give a due character to 
 that admirable artist, Mr. Inigo Jones, master 
 surveyor of the king's works, &c., who to 
 every act, nay, almost to every scene, by his 
 excellent invention, gave such an extraoi'di- 
 nary lustre ; upon every occasion changing the 
 stage, to the admiration of all the spectators." 
 Here, as on a former occasion, we may remark 
 the term scene is not used, the stage was 
 changed to the admiration of all the specta- 
 tors. 
 
 In August, 1636, The Royal Slave, written 
 by a very popular poet, William Cartwright, 
 was acted at Oxford before the king and queen, 
 and afterwards at Hampton Court. Wood 
 informs us that the scenery was an exquisite 
 and uncommon piece of machinery contrived 
 by Inigo Jones. The play wjis printed in 
 1639, and yet even at that late period the 
 
 term scene, in the sense now affixed to it, was' 
 unknown to the author, for describing the 
 various .scenes employed in this court exhibi- 
 tion he denominates them thus : " The first 
 appearance a temple of the sun.— Second ap- 
 pearance, a city in the front and a prison at 
 the side," &c. The three other appearances in 
 this play were a wood, a palace, and a castle. 
 In every disquisition of this kind much 
 trouble and many words might be saved by 
 defining the subject of dispute. Before, there- 
 fore, I proceed further in this inquiry I think 
 it proper to say that by a scene I mean a 
 painting in perspective on a cloth listened to 
 a wooden frame or roller, and that I do not 
 mean by this term "a coffin, or a tomb, or a 
 gilt chair, or a fair chain of pearl, or a cruci- 
 fix," and I am rather induced to make this 
 declaration because a writer who obliquely 
 alluded to the position which I am now main- 
 taining, soon after the first edition of this essay 
 was published, has mentioned exhibitions of 
 this kind as a proof of the scenery of our old 
 plays ; and, taking it for granted that the 
 point is completely established by this decisive 
 argument, triumphantly adds, " Let us for the 
 future no more be told of the want of proper 
 scenes and dresses in our ancient theatres." 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 BoBN 1762 — Died 1812. 
 
 [Andrew Cheiiy, actor, dramatist, and song- 
 wiiter, was the eldest son of John Cherry of 
 Limei'ick, a respectable printer and bookseller. 
 He was born on the 11th of January, 1762, 
 and was early sent to a grammar-school in his 
 native place. It was his father's intention 
 that he should enter upon holy o-rders, but, 
 misfortune coming upon the family, the idea 
 had to be abandoned, and young Andrew 
 was apprenticed to a Mr. Potts, printer and 
 bookseller in Dame Street, Dublin. Being 
 a clever lad, and his father and Mr. Potts 
 old friends, the master treated his apprentice 
 with favour, and took him to the theatre 
 whenever he himself went there. A love for 
 the stage was thus fostered in the youth, and 
 at fourteen he made his appearance as an actor 
 in the character of Lucius in Addison^s Cato at 
 a semi-public room in Towers Street. 
 
 At seventeen Cherry abandoned printing 
 and joined a company of strolling players. 
 
 making his fii-st appearance with them at the 
 town of Naas, on which occasion he received 
 as his share of the profits the encouraging sum 
 of tenpence halfpenny ! However, his debut 
 wjis a success from an artistic point of view, 
 as his acting of the not very easy character of 
 Feignwell in Mre. Centlivre's Bold Stroke for 
 a Wife called forth rounds of applause. For 
 some months (Cherry remained with this com- 
 pany, during which time he played a most 
 extensive range of characters, comical and 
 tragical, and suffered all the vicissitudes of a 
 stroller's career. In fact, at one time he was 
 reduced so low as to be witliout food for four 
 days, and in the end, finding it actually im- 
 possible for him to exist as a player, he re- 
 turned to his trade again. 
 
 For three years he remained quietly at this 
 employment, but at the end of that time he 
 joined the company of a Mi-. Knipe, who is 
 said to have been a scholar and a gentleman
 
 298 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 as well as a player. In this company he met 
 with few of his former trials, and remained in 
 it until the death of the manager caused him 
 to look out for another engagement. This he 
 soon obtained as a member of the Provincial 
 Company of Ireland, which was under the 
 management of a Mr. Atkins. While playing 
 in this company he quickly became a popular 
 favourite, and for six yeai-s remained in Dublin 
 and Belfast at the head of his profession in 
 his own particular comic line. During this 
 time also he married Miss Knipe, the daughter 
 of his former manager. In 1787 he and Mrs. 
 Cherry went to England, and engaged with 
 Tate Wilkinson. At the end of three years 
 they returned to Ireland for a couple of seasons, 
 but the irregularity of the manager's pay- 
 ments sent them once more to England, where 
 they engaged with Messrs. Ward and Banks 
 of Manchester.^ Here he played successfully 
 for a couple of years, after which he moved to 
 Bath, where he remained for four seasons. 
 Towards the end of 1802 he received an en- 
 gagement at Drury Lane, where he appeared 
 on the 25th September in the character of Sir 
 Benjamin Dove in The Brothers, and Lazarillo 
 in I'wo Strings to your Bow, and was rewarded 
 with great applause. This may be said to be 
 the highest point reached in his histrionic 
 career. He afterwards became manager of 
 the Swansea and Monmouth theatres, and 
 died at the latter place on the 7th of Febru- 
 ary, 1812. 
 
 During the latter part of his career as an 
 actor Cherry also became a successful dramatic 
 writer. We give the following list of his 
 plays, with the dates of their appearance: 
 Harlequin on the Stocks, 1793, a soi-t of trial 
 piece, after the production of which his pen 
 lay almost idle until 1804, when he produced 
 The Soldier's Daughter, which had a rim of 
 thirty-seven nights. Encouraged by this suc- 
 cess he rapidly produced All for Fame, 1805; 
 The Village, 1805 ; The Travellers, 1806 ; 
 Thalia's Tears, 1806 ; Spanish Dollars, 1806 ; 
 Peter the Great, 1807; A Day in London, 
 never printed, 1807. Many of these were 
 ephemeral in character, but all of them show 
 marked ability and dramatic instinct. The 
 Soldier's Daughter still keeps the stage, and at 
 
 1 That Andrew Cherry was a humourist is plain from 
 the note which he addressed to this manager, in reply to 
 an application, after his success at Drury Lane, to enter 
 into an engagement :— " Sir,— I am not so great a fool as 
 you take me for. I have been bitten once by you, and I 
 will never give you an opportunity of making two bites 
 of A. Cherry."— Croker'a Popular Songs of Ireland. 
 
 least one or two others have been played 
 within a very few years. 
 
 As a song-writer, however. Cherry is better 
 known than as either actor or dramatist. His 
 " Bay of Biscay " is likely to last as long as the 
 English language exists, and " The Green Little 
 Shamrock of Ireland " will keep his memory 
 green in the heart of every Irishman. He 
 has also produced " Tom Moody," perhaps the 
 finest sporting song in existence, and one that 
 no true sportsman can ever hear without a 
 sigh or a tear.] 
 
 TWO OF A TRADE.'^ 
 
 Unter Mrs. Fidget and Timothy Quaint. 
 
 Mrs. P. 'Tis no such thing, Mr. Timothy. 
 Give me leave to know the private concerns 
 of a family that I have lived with before you 
 were born. 
 
 Tim. If that's the case, they have no private 
 concerns by this time. They are pretty public 
 now. 
 
 Mrs. F. Jackanapes! Does it follow, be- 
 cause I indulge you with my communications, 
 that all the world are to be instructed by me? 
 
 Tim. No; it doesn't follow. It generally 
 goes before. You retail your knowledge every 
 week-day in small paragraphs ; and on Sun- 
 day you rush forth yourself, fresh from the 
 press, — a walking journal of weekly com- 
 munication. 
 
 Mrs. F. Well ; am I not right there, mon- 
 grel? It is the moral duty of a Christian to 
 instruct the ignorant, and open the minds of 
 the uninformed. 
 
 Tim. Yes ; but you are not content with 
 opening their minds, you open their mouths, 
 too, and set them a-prating for a week to 
 come. 
 
 Mrs. F. It requires but little pains, how- 
 ever, to set you a-prating. Such a tongue ! 
 Mercy on me ! Gibble gabble, prittle prattle, 
 for ever and for ever ! 
 
 Tim. Lord -a- mercy ! there's a plumper! 
 When I came to live in this house, I never 
 opened my lips for the first quarter. The 
 thing was impossible ; your eternal clatter 
 almost starved as well as dumb-foundered 
 me. I could put nothing either in or out of 
 my mouth ; I was compelled to eat my victuals 
 at midnight ; for until you were as fast as a 
 
 2 This and the next scene are from The Soldier's Daugh- 
 ter.
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 299 
 
 church, I was forced to be as silent as a tomb- 
 stone. 
 
 Mrs. F. Why, surah ! — jackanapes ! — mon- 
 key ! His honour has suffered your impertin- 
 ent freedoms 'til you are become quite master 
 of the house ; and now I suppose you want to 
 be mistress too. 
 
 Tim. So do you; therefore we quarrel. Two 
 of a trade, you know — 
 
 Mrs. F. But your master shall know of your 
 tricks and iusolencies. 
 
 Tim. Let him. He likes it. He says him- 
 self, I am an odd-fish ; a thornback, I suppose, 
 or I shouldn't be able to deal with an old 
 maid. 
 
 Mrs. F. Old maid ! Slander ! — impudence ! 
 — puppy ! Have I lived to this time of day 
 to be allied old maid at last? I never, till 
 now, seriously wished to be married. Had I 
 a husband — 
 
 Tim. If you had, he'd be the most envied 
 mortal in England. 
 
 Mrs. F. Why, fellow? 
 
 Tim. Because there's not such another 
 woman in the kingdom. 
 
 DESPERATE RIVALS. 
 
 Enter Widow aiid Charles Woodley. 
 
 Cha. I knew I should surprise you. I 
 therefore avoided writing, or giving you the 
 smallest information of my arrival in England. 
 But I perceive marriage has not tamed you, 
 nor widowhood dejected your spirits. You are 
 still the same giddy, lively, generous madcap. 
 
 Wid. Exactly, Charles. Having the sanc- 
 tion of experience and confidence in my own 
 heart, its follies or vivacity can never lead to 
 dishonour. 
 
 Cha. But no mischief in the wind, I hope ; 
 no new conquest meditated? 
 
 Wid. No, nothing new ; the mischief is 
 already done. 
 
 Cka. Indeed. 
 
 Wid. Yes, indeed. I am afraid I am gone 
 again. 
 
 Cka. What, married again? 
 
 Wid. No, not yet. Charles, wdl you give 
 me leave to ask a question? 
 
 Cha. Certainly. 
 
 Wid. Have you ever been in an action? 
 
 Cha. In action ! How do you mean ? 
 
 Wid. Pooh ! You have not been so long a 
 soldier without some fighting, I suppose? 
 
 Cha. No, faith. I have had my share of 
 danger, and have fortunately escaped with un- 
 fractured bones. 
 
 Wid. Then you may form some idea of 
 my situation. Before the action, a general's 
 anxiety must be dreadful ; so is mine. Come, 
 as a soldier's daughter I'll state the case in 
 your own way. We will suppose my heart a 
 citadel, a remarkably strong fortress ; its out- 
 works, in my mind, as impenetrable as the 
 rock of Gibraltar. Now, an excellent com- 
 mander, and an able engineer, sits down before 
 this well -defended garrison. He pours in 
 shells of flattery, which waste themselves in 
 the air, and do no further mischief. He then 
 artfully despatches two of his aide-de-camps, 
 in the disguise of charity and benevolence, to 
 sap the foundation, and lay a train for the 
 demolition of the garrison; which train, to his 
 own confusion, hj-jjocrisy blows up, and leaves 
 the fortress still besieged, but not surrendered. 
 
 Cha. But I suppose you mean to surrender 
 — at discretion. 
 
 Wid. No ; capitulate upon honourable terms. 
 
 Cha. Bravo, sister I You are an excellent 
 soldier. But who is this formidable foe. Can 
 I find his name in the army-list? 
 
 Wid. No ; in the London Directory, more 
 likely. 
 
 Cha. What! a merchant? 
 
 Wid. I believe so. The man deals in indigo, 
 cotton, rice, coflfee, and brown sugar. 
 
 Cha. Indeed ! And his name — 
 
 Wid. Ay, there you are puzzled! Now, 
 what's his name? 
 
 Cha. His name? Why — Francis Heartall 
 is a good name in the city. 
 
 Wid. Ah, hid a mercy! Why, Charles, 
 have you been among the gypsies ? How long 
 since you commenced diviner? You are not 
 the seventh son of a seventh son ! 
 
 Cha. No ; I am the son of your father, and, 
 without the gift of divination, can foresee you 
 wish to make Frank Heartall my brother. 
 
 Wid. No, no, Charles; there are enough of 
 the family already, 
 
 Cha. Yes ; and if there are not a great many 
 more, it will not be your fault, sister. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Wid. Monster I But let this sUence you at 
 once. I have — a sort of — floating idea that I 
 Uke this Heartall ; but how it has come to 
 your knowledge is beyond my shallow com- 
 prehension. 
 
 Cha. Know then, sister, that Heartall was 
 the earliest friend of my youth. I love the 
 fellow.
 
 300 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 Wid. So do I. It is a family failing. 
 
 Cka. When boys, we were scliool-fellows, 
 class-fellows, play-fellows. I was partner in 
 his pranks, fellow - sufferer in his disgrace, 
 co-mate in mischief; we triumphed in each 
 othei-'s pleasures, and mourned together our 
 little imaginary distresses. 
 
 Wid. It is aU over then. I must make you 
 brothers ; you love one another so well. You 
 will have it so ; it's all your doing. 
 
 Cha. Ingenuous sister ! I could hug you to 
 my heart. A noble-minded fellow loves you. 
 You feel he merits your affection, and scorn 
 the little petty arts that female folly too often 
 practises to lead in slow captivity a worthy 
 heart, for the pleasure of sacrificing it at the 
 shrine of vanity. 
 
 Wid. Very true. But I do not mean to 
 give practical lessons to flii'ts or coquettes — 
 who, by the bye, are a very useful race of 
 people in their way ; so many fools and cox- 
 combs could never be managed without them. 
 No; if I do marry the giocer, 'tis merely to 
 oblige you. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Mr. Heartall, madam ; if you are at 
 leisure. 
 
 Wid. Show him up. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Cha. Ha, ha, ha ! We shall have the devil 
 to pay presently. Heartall does not know me 
 as your brother. 
 
 Wid. How ! Is it possible 1 
 
 Cha. I met him just as I arrived ; wormed 
 his secret from him, and swore I would find 
 you out. My presence here will astonish him. 
 He wiU suppose me his rival, and — hush ! he's 
 here ! (Retires.) 
 
 Elite)' Frank Heartall. 
 
 Frati. Madam, I am come to apologize for 
 my abrupt departure from your apartments 
 this morning ; and to off'er such conviction of 
 the falsehood of the charge against me, as — 
 
 Wid. I entreat you will not take the trouble 
 to mention it; pray think no more of it. Give 
 me leave to introduce a vei-y particular friend 
 of mine. 
 
 Cha. Frank ! Frank Heartall ! I am over- 
 joyed to meet you here. 
 
 Fran. Excuse me, Charles; you have all the 
 joy to yourself. 
 
 Wid. Tliis gentleman tells me, sir, that you 
 and he are very old acquaintance. 
 
 Fran. Yes, madam ; very old. 
 
 Cha. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, madam; very old 
 indeed — eh, Frank? 
 
 Fran. Yes, Charles ; so old, that one of us 
 must soon die ! 
 
 Cha. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Wid. Heaven forbid ! I hope you will both 
 live to be right-reverend, gray-headed old 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Fran. No, madam; we can't both live to be 
 gray-headed old gentlemen. One of us may, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Cha. Ha, ha, ha ! What the devil is the 
 matter, Frank? Got into another scrape? 
 
 Fran. A d d one ! Hark you, Charles; 
 
 a word with you. How did you find that 
 lady out? 
 
 Cha. Byyourdescription; everybody knewit. 
 
 Fran. Did they ? Do you mean to pay your 
 addresses to her? 
 
 Cha. A blunt question. 
 
 Fran. It is an honest one. Do you love her ? 
 
 Cha. By heaven I do ; and would risk my 
 life to secure her felicity. 
 
 Fran. I loved her first. 
 
 Cha. That I deny. 
 
 Fran. You dare not, Chai-les. I, too, have 
 a life already risked ; it is in her keeping. If 
 she is yours your pistols will be unnecessary; 
 you take my life when you take her. 
 
 Wid. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Fran. Madam, I ask your pardon; I believe 
 I was born to torment you; I wish I had never 
 seen you. But pray, madam, — don't laugh 
 now — do — you — love — this gentleman? 
 
 Wid. From my heart and soul. 
 
 Fran. Death ! — tortures ! — hell ! — jealousy ! 
 One of us must die ! {Going out, the Widow 
 prevents him.) Very well, madam ! very well ! 
 You are a traitor, Charles. 
 
 Cha. (Coolhy.) Hard words, Frank ! 
 
 Fran. A false friend ! 
 
 Cha. Worse and worse. 
 
 Fran. I could almost call you — villain. 
 
 Cha. Now you make progress. 
 
 Fran. I loved you like a brother ! 
 
 Cha. You did ; I own it. 
 
 Fran. Are you not unworthy of that name? 
 
 Cha. Ask my sister. 
 
 Fran. Who ? Are you sister to — 
 
 Wid. Ask my brother. 
 
 Fran.M.&<\s.m\ Charles! Eh!— What!— I 
 am bewildered ! Are you really brother to this 
 lady? 
 
 Wid. To be sure he is ! Ha, ha, ha ! Don't 
 you remember old Jack Woodley's daughter? 
 
 Fran. Oh, fool! dolt! stupid idiot! By 
 heaven the circumstance never once entered 
 my head! Charles! Madam! Can you forgive 
 me? Ha, ha! Zounds! I shall go mad! Ha,
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 301 
 
 ha, ha ! Tol, lol, lol ! I am sure I shall go 
 mad! 
 
 Wid. Did ever you see such a whirligig? 
 Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Cha. A child's top, rather, that requires 
 lashiug to keep it up. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Fran. Lash away ! I deserve it richly. But 
 now I have almost recovered my senses, will 
 you both honour me with your company to my 
 old uncle's? My carriage is at the door: for I 
 am now determined to clear up all mysteries, 
 either to my confusion or the detection of a 
 hypocritical tiend ! 
 
 Wid. Dare I venture myself with this mad- 
 man, CJharles ] Won't he bite, think you? 
 
 Fran. Not unless the paroxysm returns ; in 
 that case I'll not answer for him. 
 
 Wid. Then I'll summon up all the resolution 
 I can muster and attend you to the governor's 
 without delay. 
 
 Fran. Will you? Then I shall go mad 
 indeed ! Zounds, I am half frantic already. 
 I could run up a steeple, jump down a coal- 
 pit, put St. Paul's in my pocket, and make a 
 walking-stick of the Monument. Huzza, 
 huzza. She is single still; Charles is her 
 brother; and Frank Heartall may yet be a 
 hearty fellow. {He hurries them off.) 
 
 FAMED FOR DEEDS OF ARMS. 
 
 He was famed for deeds of arms, 
 She a maid of envied charms; 
 She to him her love imparts, 
 One pure flame pervades both hearts; 
 Honour calls him to the field, 
 Love to conquest now must yield — 
 Sweet maid ! he cries, again I'll come to thee, 
 When the glad trumpet sounds a victory! 
 
 Battle now with fury glows; 
 
 Hostile blood in torrents flows; 
 
 His duty tells him to depart; 
 
 She pressed her hero to her heart ; 
 
 And now the trumpet sounds to arms; 
 
 Amid the clash of rude alarms — 
 Sweet maid! he cries, again I'll come to thee, 
 When the glad trumpet sounds a victory! 
 
 He with love and conquest bums, 
 Both subdue his mind by turns! 
 Death the soldier now enthrals! 
 With his wounds the hero falls ! 
 She, disdaining war's alarms, 
 Rushed, and caught him in her arms ! 
 
 Oh! death, he cries, thou'rt welcome now to me! 
 
 For, hark! the trumpet sounds a victory! 
 
 THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF 
 IRELAND. 
 
 There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 
 'Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; 
 And the sun on his hibour with pleasure did smile. 
 
 And with dew from his eye often wet it. 
 It thrives through the bog, through the brake, 
 
 through the mireland ; 
 And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland, 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock, 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 This dear little plant still grows in our land, 
 
 Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, 
 Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can com- 
 mand, 
 In each climate that they may appear in ; 
 And shine through the bog, through the brake, 
 
 through the mireland ; 
 Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland, 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock, 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 This dear little plant that springs from our soil. 
 
 When its three little leaves are extended, 
 Denotes from one stalk we together should toil, 
 
 And ourselves by ourselves be befriended ; 
 And still through the bog, through the brake, 
 
 through the mireland, 
 From one root should branch, like the shamrock 
 of Ireland, 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock. 
 The sweet little, green little, shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 THE BAY OF BISCAY. 
 
 Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder. 
 The rain a deluge showers, 
 
 The clouds were rent asunder 
 By lightning's vivid powers : 
 
 The night both drear and dark, 
 
 Our poor devoted bark. 
 
 Till next day there she lay 
 In the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 Now dash'd upon the billow. 
 Our opening timbers creak ; 
 
 Each fears a wat'ry pillow, 
 None stops the dreadful leak ; 
 
 To cling to slipp'ry shrouds 
 
 Each breathless seaman crowds.
 
 302 
 
 EICHAED ALFRED MILLIKIN. 
 
 As she lay till next day 
 In the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 At length the wish'd-for morrow^ 
 Broke thro' the hazy sky ; 
 
 Absorb'd in silent sorrow, 
 Each heav'd a bitter sigh ; 
 
 The dismal wreck to view 
 
 Struck horror to the crew, 
 
 As she lay on that day 
 In the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 Her yielding timbers sever. 
 
 Her pitchy seams are rent. 
 When Heaven, all-bounteous ever. 
 
 Its boundless mercy sent; 
 A sail in sight appears. 
 We hail her with three cheers: 
 Now we sail with the gale 
 From the Bay of Biscay, ! 
 
 TOM MOODY. 
 
 You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; 
 The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell; 
 A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound, 
 Through a country well known to him fifty miles 
 
 round. 
 Xo hound ever open'd with Tom near the wood, 
 But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere 
 
 good; 
 
 And all with attention would eagerly mark. 
 When he cheer'd up the pack, "Hark! to Rook- 
 wood, hark ! hark ! 
 
 High! — wind him! and cross him; 
 
 Now, Rattler, boy!— Hark!" 
 
 Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest, 
 Supported poor Tom to an "earth" made for rest; 
 His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next 
 
 appear'd, 
 On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was 
 
 rear'd ; 
 Whip, cap, boots, and spurs in a trophy were 
 
 bound, 
 And here and there follow'd an old straggling 
 
 hound. 
 Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they 
 
 trace. 
 Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase ! 
 With "High over! — now press him! 
 Tally-ho!— Tally-ho!" 
 
 Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his 
 
 breath, 
 "Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death. 
 One favour bestow^ — 'tis the last I shall crave, — 
 Give a rattling view-hollow thrice over my grave; 
 And unless at that warning I lift up my head, 
 My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead ! " 
 Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky, 
 For every voice join'd in the tally-ho cry, 
 
 Tally-ho ! Hark forward ! 
 
 Tally-ho ! Tally-ho ! 
 
 RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN". 
 
 Born 1767 — Died 1816. 
 
 [" Honest Dick Millikin" was born at Castle 
 Martyr, in the county of Cork, in 1767. When 
 young he was placed in the office of a country 
 attorney to serve an apprenticeship to the law, 
 but he had the reputation of devoting more 
 of his attention to painting, poetry, and music 
 than to law. After some difficulty he was 
 admitted a member of the King's Inns, and 
 commenced business as an attorney in Cork. 
 He found little employment, however, and 
 that little chiefly in the recovery of debts, 
 an occupation ill suited to his genial character, 
 and he was therefore left with leisure to in- 
 dulge his taste for literature and the fine arts. 
 Like most of his countrymen he possessed a 
 keen sense of humour, and was the life and 
 centre of convivial society in his native town. 
 
 On the breaking out of the rebellion in 1798 
 he joined the Royal Cork Volunteers, and be- 
 came a conspicuous member of that corps. 
 He was also, through the exertions of his pen 
 and jDencil, an active promoter of various use- 
 ful and benevolent objects in the town, among 
 others he established a Society for the Pro- 
 motion of the Fine Arts. In 1795 several of his 
 poetical pieces appeared in a Cork magazine. 
 In 1797 he published jointly with his sister — 
 who was the authoress of several historical 
 novels — 77je Casket or Hesperian Magazine, 
 which appeared monthly until the troubles of 
 the following year terminated its existence. 
 Besides many short poems Millikin wrote a 
 long one in blank verse, entitled " The River 
 Side." None of his pieces seem to have at-
 
 EICHAKD ALFEED MILLIKIN. 
 
 303 
 
 tained wide popularity, and many of them, 
 written on the impulse of tlie moment and in 
 burlesque on the doggerel flights of the hedge 
 schoolmasters and local bards, through care- 
 lessness were forgotten and lost. 
 
 At a convivial party a piece written by an 
 itinerant poet in praise of Castle Hyde was 
 discussed. Tliis poem, from its ludicrous 
 character, had attained great popularity, but 
 Mr. Millikin declared he would write a piece 
 which for absurdity would far surpass it. 
 With tliis view he wrote the well known and 
 popular " Groves of Blarney." With much tact 
 and cleverness he has introduced into this 
 song local and historic truth dressed in bur- 
 lesque. Blarney was forfeited by Lord Clan- 
 carty in 1689, and did pass into the hands of 
 the Jetfery family. Millikin makes Crom- 
 well the bogle who assaults the ill-used Lady 
 Jetfei-s, and makes a breach in lier castle. 
 This may be true or not, but it is certain Lord 
 Broghill took the castle in 1646. 
 
 When near the close of life, Mr. Millikin, 
 it would seem, regretted the time wasted in 
 the light class of poetry he had chiefly pro- 
 duced ; had his life been longer spared, he 
 would probably have left to posterity a worthy 
 picture of the lovely scenery and country lying 
 near and around the ruined castle of the Mac- 
 Cauras. He died in December, 1815, when only 
 in the prime of life. A small volume, entitled 
 Poetical Fragments of the late Richard Alfred 
 Millikin, was printed in 1823.] 
 
 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 
 
 The Groves of Blarney 
 They look so charming, 
 Down by the purling 
 
 Of sweet silent streams. 
 Being banked with posies, 
 That spontaneous grow there, 
 Planted in order 
 
 By the sweet rock close. 
 'Tis there's the daisy 
 And the sweet carnation, 
 The blooming pink, 
 
 And the rose so fair; 
 The daffodowndilly — 
 Likewise the lily, 
 All flowers that scent 
 
 The sweet fragrant air. 
 
 'Tis Lady Jeffers 
 That owns this station; 
 Like Alexander, 
 
 Or Queen Helen fair; 
 
 There's no commander 
 In all the nation, 
 For emulation. 
 
 Can with her compare. 
 Such walls surround her, 
 That no ninc-pounder 
 Could dare to plunder 
 
 Her place of strength; 
 But Oliver Cromwell, 
 Her he did pommell. 
 And made a breach 
 
 In her battlement. 
 
 There's gravel walks tliere, 
 For speculation, 
 And conversation 
 
 In sweet solitude. 
 'Tis there the lover 
 May hear the dove, or 
 The gentle plover 
 
 In the afternoon; 
 And if a lady 
 Would be so engaging 
 As to walk alone in 
 
 Those shady bowers, 
 'Tis there the courtier 
 He may transport her 
 Into some fort, or 
 
 All under ground. 
 
 For 'tis there's a cave where 
 No daylight enters. 
 But cats and badgers 
 
 Are for ever bred; 
 Being mossed by nature. 
 That makes it sweeter 
 Than a coach-and-six, 
 
 Or a feather-bed. 
 'Tis there the lake is, 
 Well stored with perches, 
 And comely eels in 
 
 The verdant mud; 
 Besides the leeches. 
 And groves of beeches, 
 Standing in order 
 
 For to guard the flood. 
 
 There's statues gracing 
 This noble place in — 
 All heathen gods 
 
 And nymphs so fair: 
 Bold Neptune, Plutarch, 
 And Nicodemus, 
 All standing naked 
 
 In the open air ! 
 So now to finish 
 This brave narration, 
 Which my poor geni' 
 
 Could not entwine; 
 But were I Homer,
 
 304 
 
 SIR PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 Or Nebuchadnezzar, 
 'Tis in every feature 
 I would make it shine. 
 
 [There is an additional verse to this song by 
 Father Prout relating to the famous Blarney 
 Stone. Samuel Lover says any editor who 
 would omit it deserves to be hung up to dry 
 on his own lines. To avoid this fate here they 
 are: — 
 
 There is a stone there, 
 
 That whoever kisses, 
 
 Oh ! he never misses 
 
 To grow eloquent; 
 
 'Tis he may clamber 
 
 To a lady's chamber, 
 
 Or become a member 
 Of parliament. 
 
 A clever spouter 
 
 He'll soon turn out, or 
 
 An out-and-outer, 
 To be let alone. 
 
 Don't hope to hinder him, 
 
 Or to bewilder him. 
 
 Sure he's a pilgrim 
 
 From the Blarney Stone !] 
 
 CONVIVIAL SONG. 
 
 Had I the tun which Bacchus used, 
 
 I'd sit on it all day; 
 For, while a can it ne'er refused. 
 
 He nothing had to pay. 
 
 I'd turn the cock from morn to eve, 
 Nor think it toil or trouble; 
 
 But I'd contrive, you may believe, 
 To make it carry double. 
 
 My friend should sit as well as I, 
 And take a jovial pot; 
 
 For he who drinks — although he's dry- 
 Alone, is sure a sot. 
 
 But since the tun which Bacchus used 
 We have not here — what then? 
 
 Since god-like toping is refused, 
 Let's drink like honest men. 
 
 And let that churl, old Bacchus, 
 Who envies him his wine? 
 
 While mortal fellowship and wit 
 Make whisky more divine. 
 
 sit, 
 
 A PROLOGUE 
 
 WBrTTEN AND SPOKEN AT AN EXHIBITION OF PUPPETS, 
 NAMED THE " PATAGONIAN THEATRE," IN THE 
 LECTURE-BOOM OF CORK INSTITUTION. 
 
 Look at the stage of life, and you shall see 
 How many blockheads act as well as we; 
 Through all this world such actors still abound, 
 With heads as hard, but not with hearts as sound. 
 Of real life to make the likeness good. 
 We have our actors from congenial wood; 
 For instance. Dr. Bolus here you'll see 
 Shake his grave noddle in sage ebony; 
 Soldiers in laurel, lawyers and the church 
 In sable yew, and pedagogues in birch; 
 Ladies in satin-wood, and dying swains 
 In weeping willow melodize their pains; 
 Poets in bay, in crab-tree politicians. 
 And any bit of stick will make musicians; 
 Quakers in good sound deal we make — plain folk, 
 And British tars in heart of native oak ! 
 
 SIR PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 Born 1740 — Died 1818. 
 
 [This distinguished statesman, the reputed 
 author of the celebrated Letters of Junius, was 
 the son of Dr. Francis the translator of Hor- 
 ace, already noticed in our pages,^ and was 
 born in Dublin in 1740. When Philip was 
 ten years of age his father leraoved to Eng- 
 land, and established an academy at Esher in 
 Surrey, in which he received part of his educa- 
 tion, and he was afterwards sent to St. Paul's 
 
 J Sec p. 131 of this volume. 
 
 School, London. Here he was considered one 
 of the cleverest pupils, and had for a school- 
 fellow Henry S. Woodfall, afterwards the 
 printer of the Letters. In 1756, when in his 
 sixteenth year, Francis received through the 
 influence of Lord Holland a clerkship in the 
 secretary of sUite's office. His ability attracted 
 the notice of Mr. Pitt, who succeeded Lord 
 Holland, and in 1758 he was on Pitt's recom- 
 mendation appointed secretary to General 
 Bligh, and was present at the capture of Cher-
 
 SIR PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 305 
 
 bourg. In 1760, through the same patronage, 
 he became secretary to the Earl of Kinnoul, 
 and accompanied that nobleman in his em- 
 bassy to Lisbon. In 1763 he obtained a con- 
 siderable post in the war-office, which he re- 
 signed in 1772 in consequence of a difference 
 with Lord Barrington. The greater part of 
 this year was spent by Francis in a visit to 
 the Continent, during which he had a long 
 audience of the pope, a curious account of 
 which in his own handwriting is among the 
 manuscripts in possession of his grandson. On 
 his return he was appointed by Lord North 
 one of the civil members of council for the 
 government of Bengal, and sailed for India in 
 June, 1773. His conduct at the council-board 
 was marked by a constant and violent opposi- 
 tion to the policy of the governor -general 
 Warren Hastings, which resulted in a duel 
 with the latter, in which Francis was dan- 
 gerously wounded. The resignation of his post, 
 worth ^10,000 a year, naturally followed. 
 
 Shortly after his return to England in 1781 
 he was elected member of parliament for Yar- 
 mouth in the Isle of Wight. In the house he 
 supported Whig principles, joining the op- 
 position then led by Fox. He actively pro- 
 moted the proceedings which ended in the 
 impeachment of Hastings, and afforded valu- 
 able information and advice to Burke and 
 the other managers of the great trial. In 
 1807 he finally retired from parliament. His 
 speeches whilst a member, notwithstanding a 
 defect of utterance caused by an over-sensi- 
 bility of temperament, are said to have been 
 remarkable for refinement, simplicity, energy, 
 and point. In 1806 he was created a Knight 
 of the Bath, and in 1816, when the public 
 curiosity on the subject of the Letters had 
 greatly subsided, attention was directed to- 
 wards Sir Philip Francis, in consequence of 
 the appearance of a pamphlet by Mr. John 
 Taylor, in which strong evidence was adduced 
 as to his being their author. Francis denied 
 the authorship in a somewhat equivocal way, 
 and in 1818, while the question was still hotly 
 discussed, he died in his seventy-ninth year. 
 He published a number of political speeches, 
 Remarks on the Defence of Warren Hastings, 
 Letters on the East India Company, Reflections 
 on the Currency, &c., which were only of tem- 
 porary interest, and are now forgotten. 
 
 Although fully a century has elapsed since 
 the publication of the Letters — although vol- 
 umes have been %\Titten on the subject, and 
 the most prying curiosity and industrious in- 
 genuity have been at work to collect evidence 
 Vol. I. 
 
 on the point— we have as yet no positive proofs 
 to decide the question who was their real 
 author. Between forty and fifty names of 
 eminent men living at the period have been 
 brought forward and advociited at various 
 times, including those of Lord Chatham, 
 Burke, Gibbon, Grattan, Pownall, Rich, Home 
 Tooke, Wilkes, and more especially Lord 
 George Sackville, but there can be little doubt 
 that the claim of authorship for Sir Philip 
 Francis still remains the strongest. The argu- 
 ments for this view may be briefly stated as — 
 his absence on a journey to the Continent 
 coincides with an interruption in the lettere ; 
 his departure for India with a high appoint- 
 ment, with their cessation ; his receiving that 
 appointment without any apparent cause, just 
 after leaving the war-office ; his station in the 
 war-office, with all the details of which Junius 
 is so familiar ; his knowledge of speeches not 
 reported ; coincidences of thought and expi-es- 
 sion between passages of the letters and of 
 speeches of Lord Chatham, reports of which 
 had been furnished by Francis, and with his 
 own speeches made after his return from 
 India ; his being known to be an able pamph- 
 leteer ; and finally, peculiar modes of spell- 
 ing and of correcting the press, and resem- 
 blance of handwriting. 
 
 The Letters first appeared in WoodfaU's 
 Public Advertiser at a time of great political 
 excitement, and were directed against the 
 principal men of the day connected with the 
 government, not sparing even royalty itself. 
 Forty-four bear the signature of "Junius," 
 the earliest of which is dated Jan. 21, 1769, 
 the last Jan. 21, 1772. In the latter year 
 they were collected (the collection including 
 also fifteen letters signed " Philo- Junius," 
 really written by the same person), revised by 
 Junius who added notes, and published by 
 Woodfall, with a Dedication to the English 
 Nation and a Preface by the Author. Another 
 edition was afterwards issued, containing not 
 only the letters of Junius proper, but also his 
 private lettei-s to Mr. Woodfall, his correspond- 
 ence with Wilkes, and other communications 
 to the Advertiser by the same author under 
 different signatures, and relating to different 
 subjects, but all marked with the same bold- 
 ness, severity, and passion which characterize 
 the Letters themselves. Numerous editions 
 have since appeared, among others an enlarged 
 and improved edition in 1850 in two volumes, 
 edited by Mr. John Wade, who in an essay 
 prefixed makes out a strong case in favour 
 of the authorship of Sir Philip Francis. A 
 
 20
 
 306 
 
 SIE PHILIP FEANCIS. 
 
 recent work which supports the same view is 
 The Handwriting of Junius professionally in- 
 vestigated by Mr. Charles Chahot, Expert, with 
 jDreface aud collateral evidence by the Hon. 
 Edward Twistleton (London, 1871). 
 
 Dr. J. Mason Good, in his Essay on Junius 
 and his Writings, says: "The classic purity 
 of their language, the exquisite force and per- 
 spicuity of their argument, the keen severity 
 of their reproach, the extensive information 
 they evince, their fearless and decisive tone, 
 and, above all, their stern and steady attach- 
 ment to the purest principles of the constitu- 
 tion, acquired for them, with an almost electric 
 speed, a popularity which no series of letters 
 have since possessed, nor perhaps ever will ; 
 and, what is of far greater consequence, dif- 
 fused among the body a clearer knowledge of 
 their constitutional rights than they had ever 
 before attained, and animated them with a 
 more determined spirit to maintain them in- 
 violate. " 
 
 LETTER LVIL 
 TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. 
 
 September 28, 1771. 
 
 My Lord, — The people of England are not 
 apprised of the full extent of then- obligations 
 to you. They have yet no adequate idea of 
 the endless variety of your character. They 
 have seen you distinguished and successful in 
 the continued violation of those moral and 
 political duties by which the little as well as 
 the great societies of life are collected and 
 held together. Every colour, every character 
 became you. With a rate of abilities which 
 Lord Weymouth very justly looks down upon 
 with contempt, you have done as much mis- 
 chief to the community jis Cromwell would 
 have done if Cromwell had been a coward ; 
 aud as much as Machiavel, if Machiavel had 
 not known that an appearance of morals and 
 religion are useful in society. 
 
 To a thinking man the influence of the crown 
 will, in no view, appear so formidable as when 
 he observes to what enormous excesses it has 
 safely conducted your grace, without a ray of 
 real understanding, without even the pi'eten- 
 sions to common decency or principle of any 
 kind, or a single spark of personal resolution. 
 Vvliat must be the operation of that pernicious 
 influence (for which our kings have wisely ex- 
 changed the nugatory name of prerogative) that 
 
 in the highest stations can so abundantly sup- 
 ply the absence of virtue, courage, and abilities, 
 and qualify a man to be the minister of a great 
 nation, whom a private gentleman would be 
 ashamed and afraid to admit into his family ! 
 Like the universal passjiort of an ambassador, 
 it supersedes the prohibition of the laws, 
 banishes the staple viitues of the country, and 
 introduces vice and folly triumphantly into all 
 the departments of the state. Other princes 
 besides his majesty have had the means of 
 corruption within their reach, but they have 
 used it with moderation. In former times 
 corruption was considered as a foreign auxil- 
 iary to government, and only called in upon 
 extraordinary emergencies. The unfeigned 
 piety, the sanctified religion of George III., 
 have taught him to new model the civil forces 
 of the state. The natural resources of the 
 crown are no longer confided in. Corruption 
 glitters in the van, collects and maintains a 
 standing army of mercenaries, and at the 
 same moment impoverishes and enslaves the 
 country. His majesty's predecessora (except- 
 ing that worthy family from which you, my 
 lord, are unquestionably descended) had some 
 generous qualities in their composition, with 
 vices, I confess, or frailties, in abundance. 
 They were kings or gentlemen, not hypocrites 
 or priests. They were at the head of the 
 church, but did not know the value of their 
 office. They said their prayers without cere- 
 mony, and had too little priestcraft in their 
 understanding to reconcile the sanctimonious 
 forms of religion with the utter destruction of 
 the morality of their people. My lord, this is 
 fact, not declamation. With all your partial- 
 ity to the house of Stuart you must confess 
 that even Charles II. would have blushed at 
 that oi:ien encouragement, at those eager, 
 meretricious caresses, with which every species 
 of private vice and public prostitution is 
 received at St. James's. The unfortunate 
 house of Stuart has been treated with an 
 asperity which, if comparison be a defence, 
 seems to border upon injustice. Neither 
 Charles nor his brother were qualified to sup- 
 port such a system of measures as would be 
 necessary to change the government and sub- 
 vert the constitution of England. One of 
 them was too much in earnest in his pleasures, 
 the other in his religion. But the danger to 
 til is country would cease to be problematical 
 if the crown should ever descend to a pi'ince 
 whose apparent simplicity might throw his 
 subjects off tlieir guard, who might be no 
 libertine in behaviour, who should have no
 
 SIR PHILIP FRANCIS. 
 
 307 
 
 sense of honour to restrain him, and who, 
 with just reli<,aon enough to iui}JOse upon the 
 multitude, might have no scruples of conscience 
 to interfere with his morality. With these 
 honourable qualifications, and tlie decisive 
 advantage of situation, low craft and falsehood 
 are all the abilities that are wanting to destroy 
 the wisdom of ages, and to deface the noblest 
 monument that human policy has erected. — 
 I know such a man — my lord, I know you 
 both — and, with the blessing of God (for I, 
 too, am religious), the people of England shall 
 know you as well as I do. I am not very 
 sure that greater abilities would not, in effect, 
 be an impediment to a design which seems, 
 at first sight, to require a superior capacity. 
 A better understanding might make him sen- 
 sible of the wonderful beauty of that system 
 he was endeavoui'ing to corrupt ; the danger 
 of the attempt might alarm him ; the mean- 
 ness and intrinsic worthlessness of the object 
 (supposing he could attain to it) would fill him 
 with shame, repentance, and disgust. But 
 these are sensations which find no entrance 
 into a barbarous, contracted heart. In some 
 men there is a malignant passion to destroy 
 the works of genius, literature, and freedom. 
 The Vandal and the monk find equal gratifi- 
 cation in it. 
 
 Reflections like these, my lord, have a 
 general relation to your grace, and insepar- 
 ably attend you in whatever company or 
 situation your character occurs to us. They 
 have no immediate connection with the follow- 
 ing recent fact, which I lay before the public, 
 for the honour of the best of sovereigns and 
 for the edification of his peojale. 
 
 A prince (whose piety and self-denial, one 
 Avould think, might secure him from such a mul- 
 titude of worldly necessities) with an annual 
 revenue of near a million sterling, unfortun- 
 ately ivants money. The navy of England, by 
 an equally strange concurrence of unforeseen 
 circumstances (though not quite so unfortun- 
 ately for his majesty), is in equal want of timber. 
 The world knows in what a hopeful condition 
 you delivered the navy to your successor, and 
 in what a condition we found it in the moment 
 of distress. You were determined it should 
 continue in the situation in which you left it. 
 It happened, however, very luckily for the 
 privy purse, that one of the above wants pro- 
 mised fair to supply the other. Our religious, 
 benevolent, generous sovereign has no objec- 
 tion to selling his own timber to his oxon ad- 
 miralty, to repair his own ships, nor to put- 
 ting the money into his oion pocket. People 
 
 of a religious turn naturally adhere to the 
 principles of the church; whatever they ac- 
 quire falls into mort-main. Upon a represen- 
 tation from the admiralty of the extraordinary 
 want of timber for the indispensable repairs 
 of the navy the surveyor-general was directed 
 to make a survey of the timber in all the royal 
 chases and forests in England. Having obeyed 
 his orders with accuracy and attention, he 
 reported that the finest timber he had any- 
 where met with, and the properest, in every 
 respect, for the purposes of the navy, was in 
 Whittlebury Forest, of which your grace, I 
 think, is hereditary ranger. In consequence 
 of this report the usual waiTant was prepared 
 at the treasury and delivered to the surveyor, 
 by which he or his deputy were authorized 
 to cut down any trees in Whittlebury Forest 
 which should appear to be proper for the pur- 
 poses above-mentioned. The deputy being 
 informed that the warrant was signed, and 
 delivered to his principal in London, crosses 
 the country to Northamptonshire, and with 
 an officious zeal for the public service begins 
 to do his duty in the forest. Unfortunately 
 for him, he had not the warrant in his pocket. 
 The oversight was enormous, and you have 
 punished him for it accordingly. You have 
 insisted that an active, viseful officer should be 
 dismissed from his place. You have ruined 
 an innocent man and his family. In what 
 language shall I address so black, so cowartlly 
 a tyrant? Thou worse than one of the Bruns- 
 wicks, and all the Stuarts! To them who 
 know Lord North it is unnecessary to say 
 that he was mean and base enough to submit 
 to you. This, however, is but a small part of 
 the fact. After ruining the surveyor's deputy 
 for acting without the warrant, you attacked 
 the warrant itself. You declared it was 
 illegal; and swore, in a fit of foaming fi-autic 
 passion, that it never should be executed. 
 You asserted, upon your honour, that in the 
 grant of the rangership of Whittlebury Forest, 
 made by Charles II. (whom, with a modesty 
 that would do honour to Mr. Rigby, you are 
 pleased to call your ancestor) to one of his 
 bastards (from whom I make no doubt of your 
 descent), th6 property of the timber is vested 
 in the ranger. I have examined the original 
 grant; and now, in the face of the public, 
 contradict you directly upon the fact. The 
 very reverse of what you have asserted upon 
 your honour is the truth. The grant, expressly, 
 and by a particular clause, reserves the pro- 
 perty of the timber for the use of the crown. 
 In spite of this evidence, in defiance of the
 
 308 
 
 WILLIAM DEENNAN, M.D. 
 
 representations of the admiralty, iu perfect 
 mockery of the notorious distresses of the 
 English navy, and those equally pressing and 
 almost equally notorious necessities of your 
 pious sovereign, here the matter rests. The 
 lords of the treasuiy recal their warrant; 
 the deputy-surveyor is ruined for doing his 
 duty ; Mr. John Pitt (whose name, I suppose, 
 is offensive to you) submits to be brow-beaten 
 and insulted ; the oaks keep their ground ; the 
 king is defrauded ; and the navy of England 
 may perish for want of the best and finest 
 timber in the island. And all this is sub- 
 mitted to to appease the Duke of Grafton ! to 
 gratify the man who has involved the king 
 and his kingdom in confusion and distress; 
 and who, like a treacherous coward, deserted 
 his sovereign in the midst of it ! 
 
 There has been a strange alteration in your 
 doctrine since you thought it advisable to rob 
 the Duke of Portland of his property in oi-der 
 to strengthen the interest of Lord Bute's son- 
 in-law before the last general election. Nul- 
 lum tempus occurrit regi was then your boasted 
 motto, and the cry of all your hungry parti- 
 sans. Now it seems a grant of Charles II. 
 to one of his bastards is to be held sacred 
 and inviolable! It must not be questioned 
 by the king's servants, nor submitted to 
 any inteipretation but your own. My lord, 
 
 this was not the language you held when 
 it suited you to insult the memory of the 
 glorious deliverer of England from that de- 
 tested family, to which you are still more 
 nearly allied in^ principle than in blood. In 
 the name of decency and common sense, what 
 are your grace's merits, either with king or 
 ministry, that should entitle you to assume 
 this domineering authoi'ity over both? Is it 
 the fortunate consanguinity you claim with 
 the house of Stuart? Is it the secret coitcs- 
 pondence you have for so many years carried on 
 with Loi'd Bute, by the assiduous assistance 
 of your cream-coloured parasite ? ^ Could not 
 yom- gallantry find sufficient employment for 
 him in those gentle offices by which he first 
 acquired the tender friendship of Lord Bar- 
 rington? Or is it only that woudei'ful sym- 
 pathy of manners which subsists between your 
 grace and one of your superiors, and does so 
 much honour to you both ? Is the union of 
 Blifil and Black George no longer a romance ? 
 From whatever origin your influence in this 
 country arises, it is a phenomenon in the his- 
 tory of human virtue and understanding. 
 Good men can hardly believe the fact; wise 
 men are unable to account for it. Religious 
 men find exercise for their faith, and make it 
 the last effort of their piety not to repine 
 against Providence. Junius. 
 
 WILLIAM DEENNAN, M.D, 
 
 BOBN 1754 — Died 1820. 
 
 [Dr. Drennan, poet and political winter, was 
 born in Belfast in 1754. His father, who was 
 a Presbyterian clergyman, sent William to 
 study medicine in the University of Edin- 
 burgh, where he took his degree of M.D. in 
 1778, practised for some years in Belfast and 
 Newry, and removed to Dublin in 1789. 
 Holding strong political sentiments, he became 
 one of the ablest writers in favour of the 
 United Iriahinen movement, and his Letters 
 of Orellana had much to do in getting Ulster 
 to join the league. In 1794 he and Mr. Rowan 
 were put on trial for issuing the famous 
 Address of the United Irishmen to the Volun- 
 teers of Ireland. Curran defended Rowan, 
 who however was fined in £500 and sen- 
 tenced to two years' imprisonment; while 
 Drennan, who was the real writer of the paper, 
 had the good foi-tune to be acquitted. He 
 
 afterwards removed to Belfast, where he com- 
 menced the Belfast Magazine. In 1815 he 
 issued a little volume entitled Glendalough 
 and other Poems, which is now very rare. He 
 died in February, 1820, leaving behind him two 
 sons, who have both found time, amidst their 
 professional ]>ursuits, to write some gi'aceful 
 verses. 
 
 Drennan's songs and ballads are vigorous 
 and graceful ; his hymns also possess much 
 beauty. Moore is said to have esteemed 
 " When Erin First Rose" as among the most 
 perfect of modern songs : from it Ireland re- 
 ceived the title of the " Emerald Isle." His 
 " Wake of William Oit" electrified the nation 
 on its apjiearance, and did more hurt to the 
 government than the less of a battle.] 
 
 1 Mr. Bradshaw, the duke's secretary.
 
 WILLIAM DRENNAN, M.D. 
 
 309 
 
 THE WAKE OF WILLIAM OEE. 
 
 Here our murdered brother lies; 
 Wake him not with women's cries. 
 Mourn the way that manhood ought; 
 Sit in silent trance of thought. 
 
 Write his merits on your mind: 
 Morals pure and manners kind; 
 In his head, as on a hill, 
 Virtue placed her citadel. 
 
 AVhy cut off in palmy youth? 
 Truth he spoke, and acted truth. 
 Countrymen, unite, he cried, 
 And died — for what his Saviour died. 
 
 God of Peace, and God of Love, 
 
 Let it not th}' vengeance move, 
 Let it not thy lightnings draw, — 
 A nation guillotined by law. 
 
 Hapless nation ! rent and torn, 
 Thou wert early taught to mourn, — 
 Warfare of six hundred years ! 
 Epochs mark'd with blood and tears ! 
 
 Hunted through thy native grounds. 
 Or flung reward to human hounds; 
 Each one pull'd and tore his share, 
 Heedless of thy deep despair ! 
 
 Hapless nation — hapless land, 
 Heap of uncementing sand ! 
 Crumbled by a foreign weight; 
 And by worse — domestic hate. 
 
 God of mercy ! God of peace ! 
 Make the mad confusion cease; 
 O'er the mental chaos move. 
 Through it speak the light of love. 
 
 Monstrous and unhappy sight ! 
 Brothers' blood will not unite; 
 Holy oil and holy water 
 Mix, and fill the world with slaughter. 
 
 Who is she with aspect wild? 
 The widow'd mother with her child, 
 Child new stirring in the womb ! 
 Husband waiting for the tomb ! 
 
 Angel of this sacred place. 
 Calm her soul and whisper peace; 
 Cord, or axe, or guillotin' 
 Make the sentence — not the sin. 
 
 Here we watch our brother's sleep; 
 Watch with us, but do not weep; 
 Watch with us through dead of night, 
 But expect the morning light. 
 
 Conquer fortune — persevere ! — 
 Lo! it breaks, the morning clear! 
 The cheerful cock awakes the skies, 
 The day is come — arise! — arise! 
 
 WHEN ERIN riEST ROSE. 
 
 When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, 
 God bless'd the green island and saw it was good; 
 The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone. 
 In the ring of the world the most precious stone. 
 In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, 
 With her back towards Britain, her face to the 
 
 West, 
 Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore. 
 And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep 
 
 roar. 
 
 But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to 
 
 weep. 
 The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep; 
 At the thought of the past the tears gush from 
 
 her eyes. 
 And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom 
 
 rise. 
 0! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time 
 When religion was war, and our country a crime. 
 When man in God's image inverted his plan. 
 And moulded his God in the image of man. 
 
 When the int'rest of state wrought the general woe. 
 The stranger a friend, and the native a foe; 
 While the mother rejoic'd o'er her children op- 
 pressed, 
 And clasp'd the invader more close to her breast. 
 When with pale for the body and pale for the .soul. 
 Church and state joined in compact to conquer 
 
 the whole; 
 And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, 
 Ey'd each other askance and pronounced it was 
 good. 
 
 By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' 
 
 grave 
 For their countrj' thus left to the brute and the 
 
 slave. 
 Drive the demon of bigotry home to his den. 
 And where Britain made brutes now let Erin 
 
 make men. 
 Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, 
 A partition of sects from one footstalk of right. 
 Give each his full share of the earth and the sky. 
 Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. 
 
 Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen. 
 Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to 
 
 green; 
 Yet, oh! when you're up, and they're down, let 
 
 them live,
 
 310 
 
 WILLIAM DRENNAN, M.D. 
 
 Then yield them that mercy which they would 
 
 not give. 
 Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave; 
 And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save; 
 Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile 
 The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle. 
 
 The cause it is good, and the men they are true, 
 And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and 
 
 Blue. 
 And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall 
 
 share, 
 With the full swelling chest, and the fair flowing 
 
 hair. 
 Their bosoms heave high for the worthy and brave, 
 But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave; 
 Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to be blest! 
 Else! arch of the ocean, and queen of the West! 
 
 SWEETER THAN THE FRAGRANT 
 FLOWER. 
 
 sweeter than the fragrant flower. 
 
 At evening's dewy close, 
 The will, united with the power, 
 
 To succour human woes! 
 
 And softer than the softest strain 
 
 Of music to the ear, 
 The placid joy we give and gain. 
 
 By gratitude sincere. 
 
 The husbandman goes forth a-field; 
 
 What hopes his heart expand ! 
 What calm delight his labours yield! 
 
 A harvest — from his hand! 
 
 A hand that providently throws, 
 
 Not dissipates in vain; 
 How neat his field! how clean it grows! 
 
 What produce from each grain! 
 
 The nobler husbandry of mind. 
 
 And culture of the heart, — 
 Shall this with men less favour find. 
 
 Less genuine joy impart? 
 
 0! no — your goodness strikes a root 
 
 That dies not, nor decays — 
 And future life shall yield the fruit. 
 
 Which blossoms now in praise. 
 
 The youthful hopes, that now expand 
 Their green and tender leaves. 
 
 Shall spread a plenty o'er the land. 
 In rich and yellow sheaves. 
 
 Thus, a small bounty well bestowed 
 May perfect Heaven's high plan; 
 
 First daughter to the love of God, 
 Is Charity to Man. 
 
 'Tis he who scatters blessings round 
 
 Adores his Maker best; 
 His walk through life is mercy-crowned, 
 
 His bed of death is blest. 
 
 THE WILD GEESE.' 
 
 How solemn sad by Shannon's flood 
 
 The blush of morning sun appears! 
 To men who gave for us their blood. 
 
 Ah! what can woman give but tears? 
 How still the field of battle lies! 
 
 No shouts upon the breeze are blown! 
 We heard our dying country's cries. 
 
 We sit deserted and alone, 
 
 Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone 
 Ogh hone, &c.. 
 
 Ah! what can woman give but tears! 
 
 Why thus collected on the strand 
 
 Whom yet the God of mercy saves, 
 Will ye forsake your native land ? 
 
 Will you desert your brothers' graves ? 
 Their graves give forth a fearful groan — 
 
 Oh ! guard your orphans and your wives; 
 Like us, make Erin's cause your own. 
 
 Like us, for her yield up your lives. 
 
 Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, 
 Ogh hone, &c.. 
 
 Like us, for her yield up your lives. 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 Who took me from my mother's arms. 
 
 And, smiling at her soft alarms. 
 
 Showed me the world and Nature's charms? 
 
 Who made me feel and understand 
 
 The wonders of the sea and laud. 
 
 And mark, through all, the Maker's hand? 
 
 Who climbed with me the mountain's height, 
 And watched my look of dread delight. 
 While rose the glorious orb of light? 
 
 Who from each flower and verdant stalk 
 Gathered a honey'd store of talk. 
 And fill'd the long, delightful walk? 
 
 Not on an insect would he tread, 
 Nor strike the stinging-nettle dead — 
 Who taught, at once, my heart and head :' 
 
 1 The " wild geese " was the popular name of the men 
 of the Irisli Brigade.
 
 WILLIAM DRENNAN, M.D. 
 
 311 
 
 Who fired my breast with Homer's fame, 
 And taught the high heroic theme 
 That nightly flashed upon my dream? 
 
 Who smiled at my supreme desire 
 To see the curling smoke aspire 
 From Ithaca's domestic fire? 
 
 Who, with Ulysses, saw me roam. 
 High on the raft, amidst the foam. 
 His head upraised to look for home? 
 
 "AVhat made a barren rock so dear?" 
 "My boy, he had a country there!" 
 And who, then, dropped a precious tear? 
 
 Who now, in pale and placid light 
 Of memory, gleams upon my sight, 
 Bursting the sepulchre of night? 
 
 0! teach me still thy Christian plan. 
 For practice with thy precept ran. 
 Nor yet desert me, now a man. 
 
 Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice 
 
 With charm of thy angelic voice; 
 
 Still prompt the motive and the choice — 
 
 For yet remains a little space. 
 Till I shall meet thee face to face, 
 ^\jid not, as now, in vain embrace — 
 
 My Father! 
 
 A SONG FROM THE IRISH. 
 
 Branch of the sweet and early rose, 
 
 That in the purest beauty grows, 
 So passing sweet to smell and sight. 
 On whom shalt thou bestow delight? 
 
 Who, in the dewy evening walk. 
 Shall pluck thee from the tender stalk? 
 Whose temples blushing shalt thou twine; 
 And who inhale thy breath divine? 
 
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 In its get-up it is all that a book of its great importance should be. 
 The illustrations are many and of the highest artistic value. Some of 
 the most eminent black-and-white artists of the day, including John 
 H. Bacon, Charles M. Sheldon, W. Rainey, R.I., G. P. Jacomb- 
 Hood, R.I., and W. H. Margetson, have been commissioned to illus- 
 trate typical scenes from the masterpieces of our literature, and these 
 drawings, rendered by the latest processes of photographic reproduc- 
 tion, and printed on specially prepared paper, add an unique charm 
 to the work. The Cabinet is further embellished with a large num- 
 ber of photographs of the most eminent Irish writers; and the cover 
 design, in gold upon green cloth, is the work of Talwin Morris, the 
 well-known designer. 
 
 Prospectus of any Book post free.
 
 The Gresham Publishing Company. 
 
 The Book 
 of the Home. 
 
 An EncvclopyEdia of all Matters relating to the 
 House AND Household Management. Produced under 
 the general editorship of H. C. Davhjson, assisted by over 
 one hundred speciahsts. Copiously illustrated by coloured 
 and black-and-white plates and engravings in the text. In 4 volumes, super-royal 8vo, cloth, 
 with artistic design, price £,2, is. net. Also in 8 divisional volumes, cloth, price 5^. net each. 
 
 THii Book of the Home is intended to form a complete work of reference on all subjects connected 
 with household management. No efforts have been spared to ensure that every matter bearing upon the 
 Home and Home Life shall receive full and sufficient treatment, and tlial the information given shall be 
 reliable and in the best sense of the phrase up-to-date. 
 
 A few among over one hundred specialists who have contributed to the work : 
 
 Mrs. Ada S. Ballin, Editor of Baby — the Mother s 
 
 Magazine, and of \Voma71hood. 
 Miss Bektha Banner, Training Teacher of Sewing 
 
 and Dressmaking at the Liverpool Technical 
 
 College for Women. 
 Mr. A. Black, C.E. , Architect, Author of First 
 
 Principles of Building. 
 Mrs. Davidson, Author of Dainties, What our 
 
 Daughters can do for themselves, &.c. 
 Miss J. FoRSTEK, Principal of the Cheshire County 
 
 Council Dairy Institute. 
 Mrs. H. R. Haweis (the late), Author of The Art 
 
 of Decoration, The Art of Beauty, &c. 
 
 Miss Helena Head, Principal of the Liverpool 
 Girls' School for Secondary Education in 
 Domestic Science, and Author of the Manual of 
 Housezvifery. 
 
 Mrs. A. Hodgson, Home Decorator to The Lady. 
 
 Mr. R. Keith Johnston, Author of Household 
 Difficulties and How to overcome The?n. 
 
 Miss Gertrude J. King, Secretary to the Society 
 for Promoting the Employment of Women. 
 
 Miss E. E. Mann, Head Teacher at the Liverpool 
 Training School of Cookery. 
 
 Colonel M. Mooke-Lane, Contributor to the Field 
 and other agricultural papers. 
 
 Mrs. C. S. Peel, Dress and Household Editor of 
 Hearth a?id Home, and Author of The A'ew 
 Home. 
 
 Miss. B. SiBTHORPE PoOLEY, Lecturer to the Liver- 
 pool Ladies' Sanitary Association. 
 
 Miss Rankin, Head Teacher of Laundry Work at 
 the Liverpool Technical College for Women. 
 
 Miss Florence Stacpoole, Lecturer to the National 
 Health Society and the Councils of Technical 
 Education, and Author of Handbook of House- 
 keeping for Small Incomes, &c. 
 
 Mr. David Tollemache, late editor of The Chej 
 and Comioisscur. 
 
 The contents of The Book of the Home may be grouped under four heads. The first deals with 
 all matters concerning the House — from the choice of its site to the least of its internal decorations. The 
 householder is instructed in the laws regarding landlord and tenant, and counselled in the important 
 matters of sanitadon and ventilation, heating and lighting, and the stocking and management of 
 the garden. The housekeeper is advised as to furnishing, everything necessary for the comfort 
 and adornment of a well-equipped house being described in detail, hints being also given regarding 
 removals, painting and papering, artistic decoration, arrangement of linen and store cupboards, &c. 
 
 In the second the daily routine of the Household is considered— the duties of the servants, their 
 wages, their leisure and pleasures, the management of the kitchen, laundry, and store-room. Plain and 
 fancy cooking receive due attention, recipes being given of a large variety of dishes, and suggestions 
 made for breakfast, lunch, afternoon-tea, dinner, and supper. A number of menus are added suitable 
 for the different seasons. Invalid cookery also has its special section. 
 
 In the third are discussed the legal and customary duties, and the occupations and pastimes, 
 of Master and Mistress, the former being instructed as regards insurance and the making of a will, 
 and the smaller matters of carving, the care of the wine-cellar, and the inspection of garden and stables, 
 while the latter is advised as to account-keeping, payments, shopping, and innumerable other matters 
 connected with her duties as Mistress. Other subjects treated under this head are dress, home 
 occupations, visiting and entertaining, and indoor and outdoor amusements. 
 
 In the fourth sound, systematic, and practical advice is given as to the management, in health 
 and sickness, and the education, of children, and also on such important subjects as occupations 
 for boys and girls, the ceremonies necessary on the coming out of a daughter, and the preparations 
 and formalities necessary before and after a marriage. 
 
 The Book of the Home will thus be at once an indispensable ally to the young bride and the 
 novice in housekeeping, and a valuable work of reference to the more experienced. 
 
 Prospectus of any Book post free.
 
 The Gresham Publishing Company. 
 
 Tl-I<=k IVflflir^l HicfnrA/ '^'^^ Anlmal Life of the World in its 
 1 lie i^ldLUl dl IIISLUI^ various Aspects and Relations. By J. 
 
 ^ A n I m 51 1 C • ^^" AiNSWORTH Davis, m.a., of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 '-'^ /\llllllCll&. ^j-j^i Qf University College, Aberystwyth. Profusely illus- 
 trated with full-page colour and l^lack-and-white plates, and engravings in the text, by 
 eminent animal artists. In 8 half-volumes, cloth extra, price js. net each. 
 
 While the sum of human knowledge is gigantic now as compared with what it was a hundred 
 years ago, in the department of Natural History the books upon which the great majority of us 
 must depend have undergone practically no change. The general Natural History still follows the 
 lines adopted by Goldsmith in his famous and delightful Earth and Atiunated Nature. That is to say, 
 they are little more than classified catalogues of animals, taking up in succession the various groups and 
 individuals, and describing them one after another, each as standing by itself. This is not what 
 the intelligent reader of the present day requires. He must be put in a position to take a comprehensive 
 grasp of the subject; he demands a competent guide, not a directory, however accurate. 
 
 It is with this end in view that The Natural History of Animals has been compiled. It treats 
 this great subject on essentially modern lines, giving an accurate and vivid account of the habits, 
 relationships, mutual interdependence, adaptation to environment, &c., of the living animals of the 
 world. 
 
 It is needless to say that the production of such a work demanded a man who has devoted his life to 
 the study of biology and zoology, and who at the same time is a gifted writer and expounder. This rare 
 combination has been found in the person of Prof. J. R. AiNSWORTH Davis, m.a., of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, and of University College, Aberystwyth, the author of the present work. Prof. Davis 
 is well known to naturalists as an ardent worker in Natural History, particularly in the field of marine 
 zoology. He is a very distinguished graduate of Trinity College, Cambridge, the chief scientific school 
 in Britain, perhaps in the world, and has done a great deal of literary work, toth scientific and in other 
 directions. 
 
 Briefly, the object of Prof. Davis's work is to give in a readable form and in non-technical language 
 ■a general survey of the whole animal world from the stand-point of modern science — and the work may 
 fairly claim to be a Natural History on a new plan, the first comprehensive work in English of its own 
 special kind. Formerly Natural History had much the character of a miscellaneous aggregate of 
 disconnected facts, but hardly any fact or feature connected with any animal can now be considered 
 as isolated from others; and animals as a whole must be looked upon as interrelated in the most 
 surprising manner both with one another and with their surroundings. 
 
 Every household library should contain a Bible, a Dictionary, an Encyclopedia, and a work on 
 Natural History. This is the " irreducilile minimum"; other books we may have, these we must. 
 For The Natural History of Animals it may fairly be claimed that it has a better title than 
 any other work to become the Natural History for the Household. It is a work in which the 
 adult reader will find a never-failing mine of information, while the younger members of the family 
 will delight in its wealth of illustration, and its store of interesting and suggestive anecdote. 
 
 To teachers The Natural History of Animals may be regarded as indispensable. More 
 than usual attention has of late been directed to the important subject of Nature-study; and in this 
 respect the appearance of Prof. Davis's work could scarcely have been more fitly timed. In the domain 
 of Natural History it is pre-eminently the book for the purpose. Its clear and orderly arrangement 
 of facts, its masterly grasp of general principles, its comprehensiveness of scope and simplicity of style, 
 combined with the most absolute scientific accuracy, render this work an invaluable book of reference 
 for those who aspire to teach Nature-study on up-to-date principles. 
 
 The Illustrations, as befits a work of such importance, are on the most lavish scale. A large number 
 are in colour, reproductions, by the latest processes of colour engraving, of exquisite pictures by the most 
 eminent animal draughtsmen. In illustrating the work talent has been sought wherever it was to be 
 found ; and the list of artists is representative of several nationalities. A large number of the designs are 
 the work of Mr. A. Faikf.\.x Muckley, who is probably unsurpassed in the capacity to depict living 
 creatures with absolute fidelity to detail without sacrificing the general artistic effect. Friedricii 
 Specht, one of the most eminent German animal painters of the past century, is represented in The 
 Natur.-^l History of Animals by many of his best designs in colour and black-and-white. 
 W. KuHNERT, another German artist whose work is universally, admired ; and M. A. Koekkoek, 
 the talented Dutch painter, are also among those who have assisted in the embellishment of the work. 
 An important feature is the series of diagrammatic designs showing the structure of certain typical 
 animals, specially drawn under the direction of Prof. Davis. 
 
 Prospectus of any Book post free.
 
 The Gresham Publishing Company. 
 
 I he iViOUCrn C3.rpenter, practice. Prepared under the 
 
 I • ot-iri editorship of G. Lister Sutcliffe, Architect, Asso- 
 
 J^mCr, ctllCl ciateofthe Royal histitute of British Architects, Mem- 
 
 y^ « • J. /Vl o L^/^kt" • bcr of the Sanitary Institute, editor and joint-author of 
 
 w3.DineL=iTlclKcr . » Modem House-Construction", author of " Concrete: 
 Its Nature and Uses", &c. With contributions from many speciaHsts. Illustrated by a 
 series of about loo separately-printed plates and looo figures in the text. In 8 divisional 
 volumes, super-royal quarto, handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design by Mr. Talwin 
 Morris, price js. 6d. net each. In complete sets only. 
 
 In preparing The Modkkn Cakpkntek the editor has had the great advantage of working upon 
 the basis of Newlands's (.'arpcntcr and Joiner s Assistant, which for nearly half a century has been 
 accepted as a standard authority on the subjects of which it treats, and for many years has been 
 recommended by the Royal Institute of British Architects as a text-book for the examination of that 
 society. And yet in the present work it has been possible to preserve only a very small part of 
 Newlands's treatise, invaluable though this has been to two generations of craftsmen. While the 
 fundamental features of arrangement and method which distinguish this famous work have been 
 retained, the matter has had to be entirely rewritten, and many new sections have been added, on 
 subjects not touched upon in the older work, with which the carpenter of the present day recjuires to be 
 familiar. 
 
 In the new book, indeed, the old foundations that have stood the test of half a century of practical use 
 have been retained, but the superstructure is wholly new. 
 
 The lesson to be learned from this fact is not far to seek. It is that the modern carpenter requires a 
 far wider expert knowledge than sufficed his predecessor. The development of wood-working 
 machinery, the introduction of new kinds of timber, improvements in the design of structures, the more 
 thorough testing of timbers, and progress in the various industries with which C'arpentry, Joinery, and 
 Cabinet-making are intimately allied, have all helped to render the craft more comple.x. The carjjenter 
 of the present day has no use for the old "rule of thumb" methods; his calling is both an art and a 
 science, and knowledge, knowledge, and again knowledge is the primary condition of success. 
 
 The editor of The Modern Cakpentek, Mr. G. Lister Sutcliffe, Associate of the Royal Institute 
 of Architects, needs no introduction to practical men ; his name is already well known not only 
 through his professional position in the architectural world, but through his editorship of Modern House- 
 Construction, a work which, although issued only a few years ago, has already become a standard book 
 of reference. Mr. Sutcli fee's large experience has enabled him to enlist the services of a highly- 
 qualified staff of experts, whose special knowledge, acquired through long years of practical work, is 
 now placed at the disposal of every member of the craft. The first condition in selecting the contri- 
 butors to the work was that they should be practical men, not only possessing the indispensable 
 knowledge, but having the ability to impart it. The result is that within the eight divisional-volumes of 
 this work we have a treatise on every branch of the craft, distinguished by four outstanding qualities: — 
 It is (i) complete, (2) clear, (3) practical, and (4) up-to-date. 
 
 An idea of the scope of The Modern Carpenter may be gathered from the fact that while its 
 predecessor, The Carpenter and Joiner s Assistant, comprised only eight sections, the new work 
 includes no fewer than sixteen. A glance at these will show that the work covers the whole field ; 
 it is a complete encyclop.tdia u]3on every subject that bears upon the everyday w ork of the practical man. 
 
 IX. Staircases and Handrailing. 
 X. Air-tight Case-Making. 
 XI. Cabinet-Making. 
 XII. Wood-Carving. 
 
 XIII. Shop Management. 
 
 XIV. Estimating. 
 XV. Building Law. 
 
 XVI. Index, Glossary, &c. 
 
 I. Styles of Architecture. 
 II. Woods: Their Characteristics and Uses. 
 
 III. Wood-working Tools and Machinery. 
 
 IV. Drawing and Drawing Instruments. 
 V. Practical Geometry. 
 
 VI. Strength of Timber and Timber Framing. 
 VII. Carpentry. 
 Vm. Joinery and Ironmongery. 
 
 The Illustrations are not the least of the many notable features of this great undertaking. The work 
 is embellished in the first place with about 100 full-page plates, reproduced, some in colours, by the 
 most approved processes of mechanical engraving, and printed on specially-prepared paper. In addition 
 to this unique collection there are no fewer than 1000 diagrams and designs in the body of the work. 
 No trouble or expense has indeed been spared to procure illustrations where these could elucidate the 
 text. 
 
 Prospectus of any Book post free.
 
 8 
 
 The Gresham Publishing Company. 
 
 Charles Dickens' 
 Novels. 
 
 The Imperial Edition of the Novels of Charles 
 Dickens, in 15 volumes, large square 8vo, cloth 
 extra, gilt top, price 4^. dd. net each volume. 
 
 An Ideal Issue. One Novel, One Volume. Despite 
 varying lengths, the paper, &c., is so adjusted that each volume 
 is uniform in thickness and size. 
 
 The Cheapest Edition. The price of each volume is 4^. dd. 
 net, making the edition the cheapest of the best editions. 
 
 Sumptuously Bound. The cloth is of the finest and is im- 
 perial red in colour. The embellishments (produced in gold) 
 are an appropriate design of national arms and imperial em- 
 blems by the eminent designer, Talwin Morris. 
 
 Illustrations a Unique Feature. Every picture drawn spe- 
 cially at enormous cost for this "Imperial" edition by the best 
 known and most celebrated Artists of to-day. 
 
 George Gissing's Masterly Study. A literary character 
 study, the work of this great authority, forms one of the volumes 
 of this issue, and is illustrated with pictures of some of the 
 quaint old hostelries and places made famous by Dickens, and 
 is altogether an invaluable addition to this issue. 
 
 Presentation Portrait. To every subscriber to this edition 
 will be presented with the last volume a magnificent Photo- 
 gravure of Charles Dickens. It is printed on the finest plate 
 paper, 22 inches by 30 inches, and has been specially engraved 
 for this edition. 
 
 A List of the Novels. 
 
 The following is a list of the volumes in the Imperial Edition: — 
 
 I. 
 
 The Pickwick Papers. 
 
 
 2. 
 
 Oliver Twist. 
 
 
 3- 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 
 4- 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit. 
 
 ifV 
 
 5- 
 
 The Old Curiosity Shop 
 
 eT 
 
 6. 
 
 Barnaby Rudge. 
 
 ^ 
 
 7- 
 
 David Copperfield. 
 
 
 8. 
 
 Bleak House. 
 
 
 9- 
 
 Sketches by Boz. 
 
 Vi 
 
 10. 
 
 Hard Times and Master Humphrey's Clock. 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Christmas Books. 
 
 II 
 
 12. 
 
 Dombey and Son. 
 
 II 
 
 13- 
 
 Little Dorrit. 
 
 n 
 
 14. 
 
 A Tale of Two Cities. 
 
 
 15- 
 
 Charles Dickens: A Critical Study. 
 
 
 
 By George Gissing. 
 
 
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