Chapter THE SECOND (3)

But when the long hours of public are past,
And we meet with champaign and a chicken at last,
May every fond pleasure that moment endear;
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,
Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.

And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,
Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd;
In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,
Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide.
From such a dear lover as hero I describe,
No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;
But till this astonishing creature I know,
As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so.

I never will share with the wanton coquette,
Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.
The toasters and songsters may try all their art,
But never shall enter the pass of my heart.
I loathe the lewd rake, the dress'd fopling despise:
Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies;
And as Ovid has sweetly in parable told,
We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold."

This delightful epistle to Congreve appears to have been written at the time she resided at Twickenham,--lured there by the quiet and loveliness of that classic spot, and the fascination of Pope's society. The following letter would seem to confirm the sincerity of these racy verses;--and the presence of "Doctor Swift and Johnny Gay," --ballad-writing too,--must have had some influence over the pen of the poetess.

"TO THE COUNTESS OF MAR.
"Twickenham, 17--.
"DEAR SISTER,--I WAS very glad
to hear from you, though there was something in your
letters very monstrous and shocking. I wonder with
what conscience you can talk to me of your being an
old woman; I beg I may hear no more on't. For my part
I pretend to be as young as ever, and really am as
young as needs to be, to all intents and purposes. I
attribute all this to your living so long at Chatton,
and fancy a week at Paris will correct such wild
imaginations, and set things in a better light. My cure
for lowness of spirits is not drinking nasty water, but
galloping all day, _and a moderate glass of champaign
at night in good company_; and I believe this regimen,
closely followed, is one of the most wholesome that
can be prescribed, and may save one a world of filthy
doses, and more filthy doctor's fees at the year's
end. I rode to Twickenham last night, and, after so
long a stay in town, am not sorry to find myself in
my garden; our neighbourhood is something improved by
the removal of some old maids, and the arrival of some
fine gentlemen, amongst whom are Lord Middleton and
Sir J. Gifford, who are, perhaps, your acquaintances:
they live with their aunt, Lady Westmoreland, and we
endeavour to make the country agreeable to one another.

"Doctor Swift and Johnny Gay are at Pope's,
and their conjunction has produced a ballad,[21] which,
if nobody else has sent you, I will, being never better
pleased than when I am endeavouring to amuse my dear
sister, and ever yours,
"M. W. M."

[21] Published in Swift's Works.

What a picture we have of Mrs. Lowther! How the _Mall_ is revived with its strollers of fashion and beauty!

"I am yet in this wicked town,
but purpose to leave it as soon as the parliament
rises. Mrs. Murray and all her satellites have so
seldom fallen in my way, I can say little about them.
Your old friend Mrs. Lowther is still fair and young,
_and in pale pink every night in the parks_."

To the name of Mrs. Lowther is appended the following note,--and we do not know that we ever remember an anecdote, _in years_, better set off.

"Mrs. Lowther was a respectable
woman, single, and, as it appears by the text, not
willing to own herself middle-aged. Another lady
happened to be sitting at breakfast with her when an
awkward country lad, new in her service, brought word
that 'there was one as begged to speak to her.'--'What
is his name?'--'Don't know.'--'What sort of person?
a gentleman?'--'Can't say rightly.'--'Go and ask him
his business.'--The fellow returned grinning. 'Why,
madam, he says as how--he says he is--'--'Well, what
does he say, fool?'--'He says he is one as dies for
your ladyship.'--'Dies for me! exclaimed the lady, the
more incensed from seeing her friend inclined to laugh
as well as her footman,--'was there ever such a piece
of insolence! Turn him out of my house this minute.
And hark ye, shut the door in his face.' The clown
obeyed; but going to work more roughly than John Bull
will ever admit of, produced a scuffle that disturbed
the neighbours and called in the constable. At last
the audacious lover, driven to explain himself, proved
nothing worse than an honest tradesman, a dyer, whom
her ladyship often employed to refresh her old gowns."

Can the following _trifle_ of whipt fashion and satire be surpassed even by the pointed and light pleasantries of Walpole?

"Cavendish-square, 1727. "My
Lady Stafford[22] set out towards France this morning,
and has carried half the pleasures of my life along
with her; I am more stupid than I can describe, and
am as full of moral reflections as either Cambray or
Pascal. I think of nothing but the nothingness of the
good things of this world, the transitoriness of its
joys, the pungency of its sorrows, and many discoveries
that have been made these three thousand years, and
committed to print ever since the first erecting of
presses. I advise you, as the best thing you can do
that day, let it happen as it will, to visit Lady
Stafford: she has the goodness to carry with her a
true-born Englishwoman, who is neither good nor bad,
nor capable of being either; Lady Phil Prat by name,
of the Hamilton family, and who will be glad of your
acquaintance, and you can never be sorry for hers.[23]

"Peace or war, cross or pile, makes all
the conversation; this town never was fuller, and, God
be praised, some people _brille_ in it who _brilled_
twenty years ago. My cousin Buller is of that number,
who is just what she was in all respects when she
inhabited Bond-street. The sprouts of this age are
such green withered things, 'tis a great comfort to
us grown up people: I except my own daughter, who is
to be the ornament of the ensuing court. I beg you
will exact from Lady Stafford a particular of her
perfections, which would sound suspected from my hand;
at the same time I must do justice to a little twig
belonging to my sister Gower. Miss Jenny is like the
Duchess of Queensberry both in face and spirit. _A
propos_ of family affairs: I had almost forgot our
dear and amiable cousin Lady Denbigh, who has blazed
out all this winter; she has brought with her from
Paris cart-loads of riband, surprising fashion, and
of a complexion of the last edition, which naturally
attracts all the she and he fools in London; and
accordingly she is surrounded with a little court of
both, and keeps a Sunday assembly to shew she has
learned to play at cards on that day. Lady Frances
Fielding[24] is really the prettiest woman in town, and
has sense enough to make one's heart ache to see her
surrounded with such fools as her relations are. The
man in England that gives the greatest pleasure, and
the greatest pain, is a youth of royal blood, with all
his grandmother's beauty, wit and good qualities. In
short, he is Nell Gwin in person, with the sex altered,
and occasions such fracas amongst the ladies of
gallantry that it passes description. You'll stare to
hear of her Grace of Cleveland at the head of them.[25]
If I was poetical I would tell you--

[22] Claude Charlotte, daughter of Philibert, Count of Grammont (author of the celebrated Memoirs), and "La Belle Hamilton," eldest daughter of Sir George Hamilton, Bart. was married to Henry Stafford Howard, Earl of Stafford, at St. Germain's-en-laye, 1694.

[23] Lady Philippa Hamilton, daughter of James Earl of Abercorn, and wife of Dr. Pratt, Dean of Downe.

[24] Youngest daughter of Basil, fourth Earl of Denbigh; married to Daniel, seventh Earl of Winchelsea; died Sept, 17, 1734.

[25] Anne, daughter of Sir W. Pulteney of Misterton, in the county of Stafford; remarried to Philip Southcote, Esq. Died in 1746.

"The god of love, enrag'd to see
The nymph despise his flame,
At dice and cards misspend her nights,
And slight a nobler game;

"For the neglect of offers past
And pride in days of yore,
He kindles up a fire at last,
That burns her at threescore.

"A polish'd wile is smoothly spread
Where whilome wrinkles lay;
And, glowing with an artful red,
She ogles at the play.

"Along the Mall she softly sails,
In white and silver drest;
Her neck expos'd to Eastern gales,
And jewels on her breast.

"Her children banish'd, age forgot,
Lord Sidney is her care;
And, what is a much happier lot,
Has hopes to be her _heir_.

"This is all true history, though
it is doggerel rhyme: in good earnest she has
turned Lady D---- and family out of doors to make room
for him, and there he lies like leaf-gold upon a pill;
there never was so violent and so indiscreet a passion.
Lady Stafford says nothing was ever like it, since
Phædra and Hippolitus.--'Lord ha' mercy upon us! See
what we may all come to!'
"M. W. M."

Again--the following words are as colours taken from the pallet of a Sir Joshua:

"Cavendish-square, 1727.

"I cannot deny, but that I was very well diverted on
the Coronation day. I saw the procession much at my
ease, in a house which I filled with my own company,
and then got into Westminster-hall without trouble,
where it was very entertaining to observe the variety
of airs that all meant the same thing. The business
of every walker there was to conceal vanity and
gain admiration. For these purposes some languished
and others strutted; but a visible satisfaction was
diffused over every countenance, as soon as the
coronet was clapped on the head. But she that drew the
greatest number of eyes, was indisputably Lady Orkney.
She exposed behind a mixture of fat and wrinkles;
and before, a very considerable protuberance which
preceded her. Add to this, the inimitable roll of her
eyes, and her grey hairs, which by good fortune stood
directly upright, and 'tis impossible to imagine a
more delightful spectacle. She had embellished all this
with considerable magnificence, which made her look as
big again as usual; and I should have thought her one
of the largest things of God's making if my Lady St.
J**n had not displayed all her charms in honour of the
day. The poor Duchess of M***se _crept along with a
dozen of black snakes playing round her face_, and my
Lady P***nd (who is fallen away since her dismission
from court) represented very finely an Egyptian mummy
embroidered over with hieroglyphics."

Lady Mary read, and of course loved, the writings of Fielding. He was related to her. She had in her service a Fanny at the time she read Joseph Andrews, and thus she writes of her:

"TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE.

"Venice, Oct. 1, N. S. 1748. "MY DEAR CHILD,--I have
at length received the box, with the books enclosed,
for which I give you many thanks, as they amused me
very much. I gave a very ridiculous proof of it, fitter
indeed for my grand-daughter than myself. I returned
from a party on horseback: and after having rode twenty
miles, part of it by moonshine, it was ten at night
when I found the box arrived. I could not deny myself
the pleasure of opening it; and falling upon Fielding's
works, was fool enough to sit up all night reading.
I think Joseph Andrews better than his Foundling.
I believe I was the more struck with it, having at
present a Fanny in my own house, not only by the name,
which happens to be the same, but the extraordinary
beauty, joined with an understanding yet more
extraordinary at her age, which is but few months past
sixteen: she is in the post of my chambermaid. I fancy
you will tax my discretion for taking a servant thus
qualified; but my woman, who is also my housekeeper,
was always teizing me with her having too much work,
and complaining of ill health, which determined me to
take her a deputy; and when I was at Louvere, where
I drank the waters, one of the most considerable
merchants there pressed me to take this daughter of
his: her mother has an uncommon good character, and
the girl has had a better education than is usual for
those of her rank; she writes a good hand, and has
been brought up to keep accounts, which she does to
great perfection; and had herself such a violent desire
to serve me, that I was persuaded to take her: I do
not yet repent it from any part of her behaviour. But
there has been no peace in the family ever since she
came into it; I might say the parish, all the women
in it having declared open war with her, and the men
endeavouring all treaties of a different sort: my own
woman puts herself at the head of the first party, and
her spleen is increased by having no reason for it. The
young creature is never stirring from my apartment,
always at her needle, and never complaining of any
thing. You will laugh at this tedious account of my
domestics (if you have patience to read it over), but I
have few other subjects to talk of."

Nothing can be livelier or happier than the following agreeable outbreak at Lady J. Wharton lavishing herself away upon one unworthy her.

"Lady J. Wharton is to be married
to Mr. Holt, which I am sorry for;--to see a
young woman that I really think one of the agreeablest
girls upon earth so vilely misplaced--but where are
people matched!--I suppose we shall all come right in
Heaven; as in a country dance, the hands are strangely
given and taken, while they are in motion, at last all
meet their partners when the jig is done."

The observations on Richardson are a little too harsh,--but the sobbing over his works is a compliment which no criticism could dry up.

"This Richardson is a strange
fellow. I heartily despise him, and eagerly read him,
nay, sob over his works, in a most scandalous manner.
The two first tomes of Clarissa touched me, as being
very resembling to my maiden days; and I find in the
pictures of Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, what I
have heard of my mother, and seen of my father."

Time having made us wiser than _the Wortley_, it is amusing to see her guessing at and confounding authors and their works.

"TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE.
"Louvere, June 23, 1754. "MY DEAR CHILD,--I have
promised you some remarks on all the books I have
received. I believe you would easily forgive my not
keeping my word; however, I shall go on. The Rambler
is certainly a strong misnomer; he always plods in
the beaten road of his predecessors, following the
Spectator (with the same pace a pack-horse would do
a hunter) in the style that is proper to lengthen a
paper. These writers may, perhaps, be of service to the
public, which is saying a great deal in their favour.
There are numbers of both sexes who never read anything
but such productions, and cannot spare time, from
doing nothing, to go through a sixpenny pamphlet. Such
gentle readers may be improved by a moral hint, which,
though repeated over and over, from generation to
generation, they never heard in their lives. I should
be glad to know the name of this laborious author. H.
Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his
first wife, in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth,
some compliments to his own figure excepted; and, I am
persuaded, several of the incidents he mentions are
real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive
Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels. All this
sort of books have the same fault, which I cannot
easily pardon, being very mischievous. They place a
merit in extravagant passions, and encourage young
people to hope for impossible events, to draw them out
of the misery they choose to plunge themselves into,
expecting legacies from unknown relations, and generous
benefactors to distressed virtue, as much out of nature
as fairy treasures. Fielding has really a fund of true
humour, and was to be pitied at his first entrance into
the world, having no choice, as he said himself, but to
be a hackney writer, or a hackney coachman. His genius
deserved a better fate: but I cannot help blaming
that continued indiscretion, to give it the softest
name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid
still remains. I guessed R. Random to be his, though
without his name. I cannot think Ferdinand Fathom
wrote by the same hand, it is every way so much below
it. Sally Fielding has mended her style in her last
volume of David Simple, which conveys a useful moral,
though she does not seem to have intended it: I mean,
shews the ill consequences of not providing against
casual losses, which happen to almost everybody. Mrs.
Orgueil's character is well drawn, and is frequently to
be met with. The Art of Tormenting, the Female Quixote,
and Sir C. Goodville, are all sale work. I suppose
they proceed from her pen, and I heartily pity her,
constrained by her circumstances to seek her bread by
a method, I do not doubt, she despises. Tell me who is
that accomplished countess she celebrates. I left no
such person in London; nor can I imagine who is meant
by the English Sappho mentioned in Betsy Thoughtless,
whose adventures, and those of Jemmy Jessamy, gave me
some amusement. I was better entertained by the valet,
who very fairly represents how you are bought and sold
by your servants. I am now so accustomed to another
manner of treatment, it would be difficult to me to
suffer them: his adventures have the uncommon merit
of ending in a surprising manner. The general want of
invention which reigns among our writers inclines me
to think it is not the natural growth of our island,
which has not sun enough to warm the imagination. The
press is loaded by the servile flock of imitators.
Lord Bolingbroke would have quoted Horace in this
place. Since I was born, no original has appeared
excepting Congreve, and Fielding, who would, I believe,
have approached nearer to his excellencies, if not
forced, by necessity, to publish without correction,
and throw many productions into the world, he would
have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been
got without money, or money without scribbling. The
greatest virtue, justice, and the most distinguishing
prerogative of mankind, writing, when duly executed,
do honour to human nature; but, when degenerated into
trades, are the most contemptible ways of getting
bread. I am sorry not to see any more of Peregrine
Pickle's performances; I wish you would tell me his
name!"

An ancestor of Lord Moira was capable of making a nice distinction:

"I cannot believe Sir John's
advancement is owing to his merit, tho' he certainly
deserves such a distinction; but I am persuaded the
present disposers of such dignitys are neither more
clear-sighted, or more disinterested than their
predecessors. Even since I knew the world, Irish
patents have been hung out to sale, like the laced
and embroidered coats in Monmouth-street, and bought
up by the same sort of people; I mean those who had
rather wear shabby finery than no finery at all; though
I don't suppose this was Sir John's case. That _good
creature_, (as the country saying is,) has not a bit
of pride about him. I dare swear he purchased his
title for the same reason he used to purchase pictures
in Italy; not because he wanted to buy, but because
somebody or other wanted to sell. He hardly ever opened
his mouth but to say 'What you please, sir;'--'Your
humble servant;' or some gentle expression to the same
effect. It is scarce credible that with this unlimited
complaisance he should draw a blow upon himself; yet
it so happened that one of his own countrymen was
brute enough to strike him. As it was done before many
witnesses, Lord Mansel heard of it; and thinking that
if poor Sir John took no notice of it, he would suffer
daily insults of the same kind, out of pure good nature
resolved to spirit him up, at least to some shew of
resentment, intending to make up the matter afterwards
in as honourable a manner as he could for the poor
patient. He represented to him very warmly that no
gentleman could take a box on the ear. Sir John
answered with great calmness, 'I know that, but this
was not a box on the ear, it was only a slap o' the
face.'"

The following is a smart sketch--perhaps a little too piquant:

"Next to the great ball, what
makes the most noise is the marriage of an old maid,
who lives in this street, without a portion, to a man
of 7,000_l._ _per annum_, and they say 40,000_l._ in
ready money. Her equipage and liveries outshine any
body's in town. He has presented her with 3,000_l._
in jewels; and never was man more smitten with these
charms that had lain invisible for these forty years;
but, with all his glory, never bride had fewer enviers,
the dear beast of a man is so filthy, frightful,
odious, and detestable. I would turn away such a
footman for fear of spoiling my dinner, while he waited
at table. They were married on Friday, and came to
church _en parade_ on Sunday. I happened to sit in
the pew with them, and had the honour of seeing Mrs.
Bride fall fast asleep in the middle of the sermon, and
snore very comfortably; which made several women in the
church think the bridegroom not quite so ugly as they
did before. Envious people say 'twas all counterfeited
to please him, but I believe that to be scandal; for I
dare swear, nothing but downright necessity could make
her miss one word of the sermon. He professes to have
married her for her devotion, patience, meekness, and
other Christian virtues he observed in her: his first
wife (who has left no children) being very handsome,
and so good-natured as to have ventured her own
salvation to secure his. He has married this lady to
have a companion in that paradise where his first has
given him a title. I believe I have given you too much
of this couple; but they are not to be comprehended in
few words.

"My dear Mrs. Hewet, remember me and
believe that nothing can put you out of my head."

The noble dukes of the present day, and the learned members of the faculty, are by no means of so sportive a turn as they were in the goodly times of Mrs. Hewet. We confess we should like to have to get up some fine morning to be in St. James's Park in time to see some such elegant struggle between the Duke of Devonshire and Sir Henry Halford as the following:

"There is another story that I
had from a hand I dare depend upon. The Duke of Grafton
and Dr. Garth ran a foot-match in the Mall of 200
yards, and the latter, to his immortal glory, beat."

With a strong turn for building herself, Lady Mary makes some sensible remarks on its folly in others.

"Building is the general
weakness of old people; I have had a twitch of it
myself, though certainly it is the highest absurdity,
and as sure a proof of dotage as pink-coloured ribands,
or even matrimony. Nay, perhaps, there is more to be
said in defence of the last; I mean in a childless
old man; he may prefer a boy born in his own house,
though he knows it is not his own, to disrespectful or
worthless nephews or nieces. But there is no excuse for
beginning an edifice he can never inhabit, or probably
see finished. The Duchess of Marlborough used to
ridicule the vanity of it, by saying one might always
live upon other people's follies: yet you see she built
the most ridiculous house I ever saw, since it really
is not habitable, from the excessive damps; so true it
is, the things that we would do, those do we not, and
the things we would not do, those do we daily. I feel
in myself a proof of this assertion, being much against
my will at Venice, though I own it is the only great
town where I can properly reside, yet here I find so
many vexations, that, in spite of all my philosophy,
and (what is more powerful,) my phlegm, I am oftner
out of humour than among my plants and poultry in the
country. I cannot help being concerned at the success
of iniquitous schemes, and grieve for oppressed merit.
You, who see these things every day, think me as
unreasonable, in making them matter of complaint, as
if I seriously lamented the change of seasons. You
should consider I have lived almost a hermit ten years,
and the world is as new to me as to a country girl
transported from Wales to Coventry. I know I ought to
think my lot very good, that can boast of some sincere
friends among strangers."

But we must put an end to this agreeable conference,--though we think, that if we could for ever listen to such vivid gossip, we should never grow old. We had intended to have treated of the romantic intimacy, and subsequent determined hatred, that existed between Lady Mary and Pope; but our limits warn us that we must not indulge in a lengthy discussion of the subject. She, it is clear, was flattered by his wit and his mental beauty. In him real passion took root. His advances she appears to have repulsed, and he was thus suddenly driven to the galling contemplation of his own person, and he at once from the adoring poet became the "Deformed Transformed" into hate itself. Byron never forgave an allusion to his lameness. The separation of Mr. Wortley from his accomplished wife still remains unexplained; but it is clear that kindly and respectful feelings were preserved unblemished between them; and there is a delicate tenderness in each towards the other in the veriest trifles, which shows how feeble a thing is absence over sincere affections. We are rather surprised that no letters from Lady Mary to her grand-daughter Lady Jane, (one of the daughters of the Countess of Bute,) have not straggled into print. How beautifully must she have written to children, and particularly to such a child as Lady Jane appears to have been! The letters, however, we fear are lost.

If we might be permitted to adopt a new manner of life, and to pitch our tent in whatever part of his Majesty's dominions we pleased,--we have no hesitation in saying that we should lose no time in directing _those people_, however respectable they may be, who inhabit Strawberry Hill, to _get out_! We should then send down by the Twickenham carrier complete sets of the works of Pope, Swift, Johnny Gay, and the dear Arbuthnot,--of the Letters of Horace Walpole, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Pepys' Memoirs, Evelyn's Memoirs, Shakspeare, and some other works of trifling interest,--begging they may be placed in _that_ little library with the stained glass. We should then Ourselves go down!--have a comfortable annuity from government, and a moderate handful of servants from the neighbourhood; and there we would pass away our life, "from morn to noon,--from noon to dewy eve,--a summer's day!" This plan has something in it so modest and reasonable, that we cannot help thinking it will attract the attention of the existing ministry, and in the end be realized!

A LAMENT OVER THE BANNISTER.

And have we lost thee!--has the monarch grim
To his dull court borne off the child of whim!
And art thou gone, _Oldboy_?[26] thou brave and good
_Protector_[27] of the _Children in the Wood_?

Then has the _World's_ great _Echo_[28] died away;
Out of his time th' _Apprentice_[29] could not stay:
The _Squib_'s[30] gone off, extinguish'd ev'ry spark,
And Momus mourns his region left so dark.

How oft, exulting, have we view'd the _Moor_[31]
For Christian captives open Freedom's door;
We've stared to hear the _Valet_'s[32] ready fib,
And shudder'd when the _Cobbler_[33] strapp'd his rib.

How, when Barbadoes' merry bells did ring,
We've smiled to see thee _Trudge_[34] and hear thee sing;
Thy _Ben_[35] and _Dory_[36] were of right true blue,
Thy _Sheva_[37] warm'd us to respect a _Jew_.

To _Feign well_[38] thou indeed couldst make pretence,
Thy brilliant eye was all intelligence;
In thee we lost the flow'r of _City youths_,[39]
And now no _Lenitive_[40] our sorrow soothes.

We care not whether tithes be paid or left,
Since of our _Acres_[41] we have been bereft;
We dread Spring Rice's yearly fiscal bore,
But grieve _Thy Budget_[42] can be heard no more.

Great Garrick's pet,--an ancient fav'rite's son,--
Upon the stage thy public course was run,
Tho', in thy youth, a painter; and, as man,
Thou didst draw houses in a _Caravan_[43].

And well thou couldst support a _Storm_[44], but Gout
Life's _little farthing rushlight_[45] has blown out:
Thou'rt gone, and from all further ills art screen'd,
For thou didst follow _Conscience, not the Fiend_[46].

Mourn'd in public and private, thou wouldst not come back;
"_Be quiet! I know it_"[47]--thou 'rt happier, Jack! J.S.

[26] Colonel Oldboy in Lionel and Clarissa.

[27] Walter The Children in the Wood.

[28] Echo The World.

[29] Dick The Apprentice.

[30] Sam Squib Past Ten o'Clock.

[31] Sadi The Mountaineers.

[32] Sharp The Lying Valet.

[33] Jonson The Devil to Pay.

[34] Trudge Inkle and Yarico.

[35] Ben Love for Love.

[36] John Dory Wild Oats.

[37] Sheva The Jew.

[38] Colonel Feignwell Bold Stroke for a Wife.

[39] Young Philpot The Citizen.

[40] Lenitive The Prize.

[41] Acres The Rivals.

[42] Bannister's Budget A Monodramatic Entertainment.

[43] Blabbo The Caravan.

[44] Storm Ella Rosenberg.

[45] Little Farthing Rushlight A popular song sung by Bannister.

[46] Lancelot Gobbo The Merchant of Venice.

[47] Sir David Dunder Ways and Means.

THEATRICAL ADVERTISEMENT, EXTRAORDINARY.

[ As we might reasonably be expected
to account for the possession of the following
document, we beg to state that it was put into our
hands by an unknown gentleman, who slipped unseen
into our _sanctum_, clothed in a whity-brown suit,
half-boots, and blue cotton stockings. The gentleman
apologized for the negligence of his attire, by stating
that he was in "reduced" circumstances. His employers,
he said, had hit upon an ingenious mode of reimbursing
themselves for the losses they sustained by trading
under the market price,--which was simply paying their
workmen one half of their wages, and owing them the
other. On our inquiring with great sympathy, whether he
was not desirous to get the last-mentioned moiety, he
replied with real feeling, that he wished he might. He
then begged the loan of a small pinch of snuff, sighed
deeply, and withdrew.--ED. B. M. ]

Messrs. Four, Two, and One, many years resident on the Surrey side of the river Thames, beg most respectfully to announce to the play-going public, that in consequence of the increasing demand for all sorts of low-priced theatrical articles, they have at length succeeded in securing and entering upon those large, commodious, and formerly well-known high-priced premises situate in Drury-lane and Covent-garden; and having by this arrangement prevented the possibility of competition, they are determined to do business in future upon the Surrey-side system only. To prove the sincerity of their intentions, Four, Two, and One take this opportunity of making known to the directors of theatrical establishments, that they have a number of hints ready cut and dried, upon the necessity of a general reduction of the salaries of the principal ENGLISH _artistes_, which will be found singularly useful to managers taking a Continental trip for the purpose of securing FOREIGN talent for the London market.

F. T. and O. also recommend their celebrated elastic, self-acting, portable, Anglo-Parisian pen, skilfully contrived to fit all hands, and which enables the writer, after six lessons upon the Hamiltonian system, to translate any French piece into _Surrey-side English_; thereby superseding the necessity of employing and paying any author or adapter who thinks it worth his while to embarrass himself with the study of reading, writing, or any other abstruse or outlandish knowledge whatsoever.

F. T. and O. cannot conclude without returning their most sincere and heartfelt thanks to the nobility, gentry, and friends of the drama generally, by whom their endeavours have been so eminently patronized. In particular, they should consider themselves guilty of the grossest ingratitude, did they omit this occasion of acknowledging their infinite obligations to the proprietors of the Patent establishments, who (by their active zeal, and indefatigable industry in the great cause of general reduction,) have placed Four, Two, and One, in their present premises, and have thereby enforced and illustrated this incontrovertible fact,--that Sheridan, Harris, and Colman were mere humbugs and imposters compared with F. T. and O.; and, that during their long and high-priced professional career, they did nothing to obtain or preserve the protection of a candid and enlightened public.

THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS.
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

_Abbess._
Who is knocking for admission
At the convent's outer gate?
Is it possible a lady
Can be wandering so late?
Let me see her through the lattice,
And her _story_ let me hear;
--Oh! your most obedient, madam;
May I ask what brings you here?

_Duchess._
You will very much applaud me,
When you hear what I have done;
I've been naughty,--I'm a penitent,
and want to be a nun.
I've been treated most unfairly,
Though 'tis said I am most fair;
I am rich, ma'am, and a duchess,
And my name's La Vallière.

_Abbess._
Get along, you naughty woman,
You'll contaminate us all;
When you touch'd the gate, I wonder
That the convent did not fall!
Stop! I think you mention'd money,--
That is--penitence, I mean:
Let her in,--I'm _too_ indulgent;--
Pray how are the king and queen?

_Duchess._
Lady Abbess, you delight me,--
Oh! had Louis been as kind!
But he used me ungenteely,
To my fondness deaf and blind.
Oh! methinks that now I view him,
With his feathers in his hat!--
Hem!--beg pardon--I'm aware, ma'am,
That I mustn't speak of _that_.

_Abbess._
Not by no means, madam, never;
_No_--you mustn't even _think_;
(Put your feet upon the fender,
And here's something warm to drink:
Is it strong enough?--pray stir it:)
What on earth _could_ make you go
From a palace to a convent?
Come,--I'm curious to know?

_Duchess._
Can you wonder, Lady Abbess?--
At the change I should rejoice,--
I of vanities was weary,
And a convent was my choice.
I have had a troubled conscience,
And court manners did condemn,
Ever since I saw King Louis
Making eyes at Madam _M_.

_Abbess._
Oh! I think I comprehend you:
But take care what you're about;
Though 'tis easy to get _in_ here,
'Tan't so easy to get _out_:
You'll for beads resign your jewels,
And your robes for garments plain;
Ere you cut the world, remember
'Tis not cut and come again!

_Duchess._
I am willing in a cloister
That my days and nights should pass;
--(This is very nice indeed, ma'am;
If you please, another glass)--
As for courtiers, I'll hereafter
Lay the odious topic by;
Oh! their crooked ways enough are
For to turn a nun awry!

_Abbess._
Very proper: to the sisters
'Twould be wrong to chatter thus;
Now and then, when snug and cosey,
'Twill do very well for _us_.
It is strange how tittle-tattle
All about the convent spreads,
When the barber from the village
Comes to shave the sisters' heads.

_Duchess._
Do you really mean to tell me
I must lose my raven locks?
Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon,
And I'll keep 'em in my box:
Oh! how Louis used to praise 'em!
Hem!--I think I'll go to bed.--
Not another drop, I thank you,--
It would get into my head.

_Abbess._
Benedicite! my daughter,
You'll be soon used to the place;
Though at meals our only duchess,
_You_ will have to say your grace:
And when none can interrupt us,
You of courtly scenes shall tell,
When I bring a drop of comfort
From my cellar to my cell!

EDWARD SAVILLE.
A TRANSCRIPT. BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

The doctor tells me I must take no wine. Pshaw! It is not that which mounts into my brain; and sometimes--but I must not wander--wine is the best corrector of these fancies. One bottle more of sober claret, and I shall be able to finish before midnight the brief sketch of my life which I promised Travers long ago.

It were worse than useless to set down any particulars of my boyhood. An only son is usually a spoiled one, and that which is so easy and delightful a task to most parents was by no means difficult or unpleasant to mine; and yet, to do myself justice, I believe I was not more conceited, insolent, selfish, and rapacious than others are during those days of innocence, as they are called,--those days of innocence which form the germ of that noble and disinterested creature, man.

At the age of three-and-twenty I succeeded to my father's estate. It was to divert a sense of loneliness which beset me, that I plunged into--as they term it, but the phrase is a wrong one--that I ventured upon the course of folly and dissipation into which so many young men of fortune like myself hurry themselves, or are led, or are driven. But why recount these scenes of pleasure--so called, or miscalled--whose reaction is utter weariness, satiety, and disgust?

I was at the theatre one night, when the friend who accompanied me directed my attention to a very lovely girl, who, with her mother and a party of friends, occupied the next box. She was, certainly, the loveliest creature my eyes had ever lighted upon; with a sylph-like form, (that is the usual phrase, I believe,) wanting perhaps that complete roundness of limb which is considered essential to perfect beauty in a woman--but she was barely sixteen--and yet suggesting, too, the idea of consummate symmetry. Her face--but who can describe beauty? who even can paint it? Let any man look at the finest attempts to achieve this impossibility by the old masters, and then let him compare them with the faces he has seen, and may see every day. Heavens! what inanities! Can a man paint a soul upon canvass? And yet the artist talks of his "expression."

I watched her closely during the performance,--indeed, I had no power to withdraw my gaze from her; and once or twice her eyes met mine, and I thought I could perceive she was not altogether displeased at my attention. Her confusion betrayed that to me, and in one short hour I was a lost man.

When the play was over, I framed a miserable excuse, which I thought at the time a most ingenious one, to my friend for not accompanying him home to supper, as I had promised; and hastening after my unknown and her mother, who had left the box, was just in time to see them enter a coach. I contrived to keep pace with it, and saw it deposit its beautiful freight at a house in a small private street near Portman Square.

I could laugh--unaccustomed as I am even to private laughing now-a-days--when I think, as I do sometimes, on those days of sentiment. It were as futile to attempt to renew that sentiment after thirty, as to strive to recal those days, and to bid them stand in next year's calendar. The green wood is out of the tree by that time; and the trunk becomes hard, and gnarled, and stubborn. Now is the time to enjoy life. At five-and-thirty the blood and the brain act in concert, and the heart beats not one pulse the quicker, while they do their spiriting--not gently always.--To return.

I went home that night altogether an altered man, and rose next morning from a sleepless bed, absorbed with the one idea which had worked so miraculous a change within me. All that day, almost without intermission, did I pace up and down the street in the hope of seeing her; but in vain. Not once did she approach the window; and I did not deem it prudent to question one of the servants who came out of the house several times during the day. I betook myself, therefore, towards evening to a green-grocer's shop in the neighbourhood; and the purchase of some fruit gave me a privilege to indulge in a little chat with the good old woman who conducted the business. I affected to be chiefly solicitous respecting the elderly lady, whom I had seen by chance, and believed to be a friend of my father, but whose name I could not, for the life of me, remember. The old woman smiled at my shallow artifice, but proceeded to inform me that the elderly lady was the widow of an officer who had been killed in the Peninsular War, leaving an only daughter, at that period an infant. I begged pardon--the name? did she know the daughter's name?

"Oh yes! it was Isabella Denham."

It was an era in my life, the first sound of that name. I thanked my kind informant, and withdrew.

I need not tell how unremittingly, and for how many weeks, I paced up and down that street, with various success; how regularly I attended the church she frequented; and how at length I obtained an introduction to the family.

I found Isabella Denham more captivating than the accumulated fancies and self-willed convictions of months had pictured her to me. It is no unusual result in such cases; but whether it be that the object transcends the imagination, or that the imagination subserves the object, I know not. It was so, however; for feeling upon these occasions takes the place of reason, which is an impertinence.

Let me be just. I think, had I loved Isabella Denham less, I should equally have admired her. She had a mind and a heart; she was accomplished; she was beautiful, gentle, and good; and she loved me. Yes, she loved me. I believed it then, and I am certain of it now. How I loved her, she never knew: that was for Time to show, and he has shown it.

I offered her my hand in due time, and was accepted. How I despised the sneers and banter of some of my friends who could not conceive the idea of a marriage with fortune on one side, and none on the other, and yet were endeavouring at the same time to effect an engagement of a similar nature in their own favour! How I disregarded the gratuitous advice of sundry of my officious relatives, who thought that all love had died when their own gave up the ghost, and who sometimes prophesied truly because they were always prognosticating evil!

We were at length married; and the close of the fourth year saw no diminution of our happiness. We were domestic enough without seclusion, and went into as much company as sufficed to make us feel that home was the happiest place after all. One circumstance had contributed to augment my felicity,--the birth of a son, which took place about a year after our marriage.

I know not what some people mean, who tell you that when a man becomes married, love subsides into affection, and friendship takes the place of passion. It was not so with me. I loved the wife as much as I had adored the mistress. To make her happy was myself to be so; and to have made her so, I would have laid down my life. Some, indeed, hinted that I indulged her too much--that I let her have her own way in everything. And why not? Did I marry to make my wife the creature, or the slave, of some system of management, rule of action, or principle of conduct? phrases which I abhor. No--no; be they as wise as they will, I was right. I am convinced of it. _That_ was not the cause. We were happy.

It was by the merest chance that I one day encountered Hastings in the street--my friend Hastings. We had been companions at Eton, and at college our intimacy had grown into friendship. Were I now asked for what particular quality of mind or heart I had chosen Hastings for a friend, I should find some difficulty in answering the question. He was what is termed "a good-natured fellow;" there was nothing gross or offensive in his gaiety, and he was always the same. His feelings never led him to make a fool of himself which is much to say of a young man. They might be called good _plated_ feelings, which answered the purpose well enough, and sometimes passed for more costly articles. It is much, after all, to possess a friend between whom and yourself you can drew comparisons favourable to the latter, and who is perfectly content that you should do so.

He dined with me on the next day. His powers of conversation were certainly much improved since we had last talked together. He could turn the most superficial reading to admirable account; and so minute was his observation, and so faithfully and graphically could he describe manners, and the surface motives of men, that it almost appeared like a profound knowledge of mankind. Isabella was pleased with his society; and after she had retired to the drawing-room, my friend expatiated somewhat at large upon her beauty and elegance, and, above all, upon the good sense which characterised her. I need hardly say that I also was delighted with him, and when we shook hands for the night, I could have hugged the man for his glowing eulogy. I almost loved every one who admired her. I was too weak--too weak.

He visited us often, for his time was altogether his own. He was living upon expectancy, and accordingly had more leisure than money. At various periods I pressed him to make my purse his own, and he did so. I had, indeed, more money at my disposal than I cared for, or knew what to do with; and at that time I thought, when I served a friend, that I had found the best employment of it. It is strange,--and yet perhaps it is not by any means strange,--how men alter in this particular as they grow older. The heart-strings and the purse-strings are not so easily drawn then.

Well, I was his banker, and felt myself sufficiently repaid by his society. About this time, also, I was greatly occupied in business of a somewhat troublesome nature, to conclude which it was necessary that I should visit my estate. My probable term of absence was to be about six weeks. The fashionable season was in its meridian, and I could not be cruel enough to ask Isabella to accompany me. She had latterly taken more pleasure in parties, and balls, and concerts than heretofore. Perhaps I had kept her too close; we were too domestic. After all, it was not the way of the world. I thought so, and Hastings agreed with me;--I would see it reformed altogether when I return.

In the mean while I begged Hastings to look in now and then, and see that she was not lonely and out of spirits. It was natural to expect that my first absence from her would cause her to feel so. He promised to do as I requested, and I set off into the country, where I was detained more than two months; and at length, finding myself released from an irksome attendance on very unpleasant business, I took post-horses, and with all the ardour of a lover returned to London.

I returned to London.--

I remember the minutest particulars of that scene so well! Not a tittle of it has escaped my memory--not a word, not a syllable! It will never depart from my mind--from my soul!

When the porter opened the door, I hastened through the hall, and sprang up stairs into the drawing-room. She was not there; but my little boy, hearing my well-known footstep, came from the adjoining room and ran towards me. I caught him in my arms, and gave him a thousand kisses.

"Well, my dear little fellow, and where is mamma?"

"Not here--not here," said the boy, looking around; "but I'm so glad you've come back!"

Isabella was gone out, doubtless. I rang the bell. I did not observe Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, enter the room,--I was still caressing the child.

"Ha! Mrs. Martin--But what's the matter? You look ill.--Where is Mrs. Saville?"

The woman spoke not, but trembled violently, and turned very pale. I motioned her to take a seat. She did so.

"My dear madam, you alarm me," said I. "Is anything wrong--your mistress----"

Tears were streaming down the woman's face, as she arose suddenly, and with her hands clasped before her she came towards me.

"Oh, sir! bear it like a man," she cried, weeping bitterly;--"do bear it like a man, sir! That I should live to tell you this!--I, who have carried you in these arms, and have prayed a thousand times for your happiness when I should be dead and gone!"

She paused. Perhaps my face revealed the sickness of heart which at that moment overcame me. I could not rise from my seat; I could not lift the child from my knee, as he lay upon my bosom with his head pressed against my heart.

"Merciful Heaven!--Isabella is ill--she is dying!--at once, at once tell me----"

"No, no," said the woman bitterly, "she is not ill or dying. Mr. Saville, I durst not tell you my suspicions before you left town--I durst not, sir. For mercy's sake compose yourself! My mistress left this house last Tuesday night with Mr. Hastings."

That horrible shriek still rings in my ears. I remember thrusting the child from me, and clasping my head with my hands; and then I was smitten down--struck to the earth--worse than dead--oh, how much worse than dead!

It was a long, long, hideous dream that succeeded, full of woe, and lamentations, and weeping, and curses, and despair. But I awoke at last from that dream. Where was I? It was a very narrow, but lofty room; the walls were whitewashed, and there was one small window about twelve feet from the door. I was seated on a low truckle-bed; and as I turned my eyes from the light of the window, they fell upon my hands, which were laid before me. Around my wrists there were deep marks, as though they had been tied together with cords; and when I moved, a sharp pain went round me, like a girdle. But the rope had been loosened, and was no longer about me. A man entered the room.

"How do you feel yourself now?" said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.

I looked up. Methought I recognised the voice, and the face was almost familiar to me, and repulsively so.

"I am well--very well," I answered. "Where am I?"

The man said nothing, but silently left the room, presently returning with a gentleman, of whom, as of the man, I had an indistinct remembrance.

"You will be better soon, sir," said this person kindly, as he felt my pulse; and he turned towards the man, and spoke to him in an undertone. "Let him he kept very quiet," was all I heard, and he retired shortly after.

Yes:--I had been mad--raving mad--for two years, and was now slowly struggling back into consciousness. Feeble glimmerings of the past came upon me at first, and then farther half-revelations were extended to me; until at length _the cause_, dimly and remotely, but gradually nearer and more near, stood before me like a curse. It is well for me that I did not then relapse into madness; but I wrestled with it, I overcame it, and in a month was taken away in my own physician's carriage, and brought back home. Home?--that had been destroyed.