ANA.

“YOU LITTLE, IMPERTINENT, INSOLENT, KITCHEN-BRED—— ”

Fag.Quick, quick, you impudent jackanapes! am I to be commanded by you, too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred——[Kicks him off, and exit.

Scene—The North Parade.

EnterCaptain Absolute.

Capt. A.’Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough, ’faith. My father wants to force me to marry thevery girl I am plotting to run away with. He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I’ll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but, I can assure him, it is very sincere. So, so, here he comes; he looks plaguy gruff. (Steps aside.)

EnterSir Anthony.

Sir Anth.No—I’ll sooner die than forgive him! Die, did I say? I’ll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper; an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him at twelve years old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I’ve done with him; he’s anybody’s son for me: I never will see him more, never, never; never, never.

Capt. A.Now for a penitential face! (Advances.)

Sir Anth.Fellow, get out of the way!

Capt. A.Sir, you see a penitent before you.

Sir Anth.I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

Capt. A.A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.

Sir Anth.What’s that?

Capt. A.I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

Sir Anth.Well, sir?

Capt. A.I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

Sir Anth.Well, puppy?

Capt. A.Why, then, sir, the result of my reflections is, a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction.

Sir Anth.Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack again.

“SIR, YOU SEE A PENITENT BEFORE YOU.”

Capt. A.I am happy in the appellation.

Sir Anth.Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion andviolence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture—prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?

Capt. A.Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

Sir Anth.Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?

Capt. A.Malaprop! Languish! I don’t remember ever to have heard the names before. Yet stay, I think I do recollect something—Languish—Languish—She squints, don’t she? A little red-hair’d girl!

Sir Anth.Squints! A red-hair’d girl! Zounds! no!

Capt. A.Then I must have forgot; it can’t be the same person.

Sir Anth.Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming love-breathing seventeen?

Capt. A.As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can please you in the matter, ’tis all I desire.

Sir Anth.Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting—more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh, Jack! Jack!

Capt. A.And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or her aunt?

Sir Anth.Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you. When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Ods life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.

Capt. A.Not to please your father, sir?

Sir Anth.To please my father—Zounds! not to please—Oh, my father—Odso!—yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired—that’s quite another matter. Though he wasn’t the indulgent father that I am, Jack.

Capt. A.I dare say not, sir.

Sir Anth.But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?

Capt. A.Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, ’tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind; now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I should not wish to affect a singularity in that article.

Sir Anth.What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! You’re a walking block, fit only to dust the company’s regimentals on! Ods life! I’ve a great mind to marry the girl myself!

Capt. A.I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady,—’tis the same to me, I’ll marry the niece.

Sir Anth.Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or—but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie—I’m sure it must—come now, d—n your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying—ha’n’t you? You have been playing the hypocrite, eh?—I’ll never forgive you, if you ha’n’t been lying and playing the hypocrite.

Capt. A.I’m sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken.

Sir Anth.Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I’ll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you—come along: I’ll never forgive you, if you don’t come back stark mad with rapture and impatience—if you don’t, egad, I’ll marry the girl myself.[Exeunt.

R. B. Sheridan.

When some one proposed to tax milestones, Sheridan protested that it would not be constitutional or fair, as they could not meet to remonstrate.

Lord Lauderdale having declared his intention to circulate some witticism of Sheridan’s, the latter hastily exclaimed, “Pray don’t, my dear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth is no laughing matter!”

Lord Erskine on one occasion said that “a wife was only a tin canister tied to one’s tail.” Lady Erskine was justly annoyed at this remark, and Sheridan dashed off this impromptu:—

“Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.But wherefore degrading? Considered aright,A canister’s polished and useful and bright;And should dirt its original purity hide,That’s the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.”

“Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,

Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;

And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,

Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.

But wherefore degrading? Considered aright,

A canister’s polished and useful and bright;

And should dirt its original purity hide,

That’s the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.”

Sheridan met two sprigs of nobility one day in St. James’s Street, and one of them said to him, “I say, Sherry, we have just been discussing which you were, a knave or a fool. What is your opinion on the subject?” Sheridan took each of them by the arm, and replied, “Why, faith, I believe I am between the two.”

Of his parliamentary opponent, Mr. Dundas, he once said, “The honourable gentleman is indebted to his imagination for his facts, and to his memory for his jests.”

“‘WHY, FAITH, I BELIEVE I AM BETWEEN THE TWO.’”

When he was found intoxicated in the gutter by a night-watchman and was asked his name, he replied, “Wilberforce,” meaning the eminent teetotal advocate.

Once at a parliamentary committee he found every seat occupied, and looking round, asked, “Will any gentlemanmovethat I maytake the chair?”

Michael Kelly, the singer and composer, kept a shop atthe bottom of the Haymarket, where he sold wine and music. He asked Sheridan for a sign, and Sheridan gave him the following:—“Michael Kelly, composer of wine and importer of music.”

MY AMBITION.Easeoften visits shepherd-swains,Nor in the lowly cot disdainsTo take a bit of dinner;But would not for a turtle-treat,Sit with a miser or a cheat,Or cankered party sinner.Easemakes the sons of labour glad,Easetravels with the merry ladWho whistles by his waggon;With me she prattles all day long,And choruses my simple song,And shares my foaming flagon.The lamp of life is soon burnt out;Then who’d for riches make a rout,Except a doating blockhead?When Charon takes ’em both aboard,Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoardAnd spendthrift’s empty pocket.In such a scurvy world as thisWe must not hope for perfect bliss,And length of life together;We have no moral libertyAt will to live, at will to die,In fair or stormy weather.Many, I see, have riches plenty—Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;—Yet envy never pains me;My appetite’s as good as theirs,I sleep as sound, as free from fears;I’ve only what maintains me!And while the precious joys I proveOf Tom’s true friendship—and the loveOf bonny black-ey’d Jenny,—Ye gods! my wishes are confin’dTo—health of body, peace of mind,Clean linen, and a guinea!Edward Lysaght(1763–1810).

Easeoften visits shepherd-swains,Nor in the lowly cot disdainsTo take a bit of dinner;But would not for a turtle-treat,Sit with a miser or a cheat,Or cankered party sinner.Easemakes the sons of labour glad,Easetravels with the merry ladWho whistles by his waggon;With me she prattles all day long,And choruses my simple song,And shares my foaming flagon.The lamp of life is soon burnt out;Then who’d for riches make a rout,Except a doating blockhead?When Charon takes ’em both aboard,Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoardAnd spendthrift’s empty pocket.In such a scurvy world as thisWe must not hope for perfect bliss,And length of life together;We have no moral libertyAt will to live, at will to die,In fair or stormy weather.Many, I see, have riches plenty—Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;—Yet envy never pains me;My appetite’s as good as theirs,I sleep as sound, as free from fears;I’ve only what maintains me!And while the precious joys I proveOf Tom’s true friendship—and the loveOf bonny black-ey’d Jenny,—Ye gods! my wishes are confin’dTo—health of body, peace of mind,Clean linen, and a guinea!Edward Lysaght(1763–1810).

Easeoften visits shepherd-swains,Nor in the lowly cot disdainsTo take a bit of dinner;But would not for a turtle-treat,Sit with a miser or a cheat,Or cankered party sinner.

Easeoften visits shepherd-swains,

Nor in the lowly cot disdains

To take a bit of dinner;

But would not for a turtle-treat,

Sit with a miser or a cheat,

Or cankered party sinner.

Easemakes the sons of labour glad,Easetravels with the merry ladWho whistles by his waggon;With me she prattles all day long,And choruses my simple song,And shares my foaming flagon.

Easemakes the sons of labour glad,

Easetravels with the merry lad

Who whistles by his waggon;

With me she prattles all day long,

And choruses my simple song,

And shares my foaming flagon.

The lamp of life is soon burnt out;Then who’d for riches make a rout,Except a doating blockhead?When Charon takes ’em both aboard,Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoardAnd spendthrift’s empty pocket.

The lamp of life is soon burnt out;

Then who’d for riches make a rout,

Except a doating blockhead?

When Charon takes ’em both aboard,

Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoard

And spendthrift’s empty pocket.

In such a scurvy world as thisWe must not hope for perfect bliss,And length of life together;We have no moral libertyAt will to live, at will to die,In fair or stormy weather.

In such a scurvy world as this

We must not hope for perfect bliss,

And length of life together;

We have no moral liberty

At will to live, at will to die,

In fair or stormy weather.

Many, I see, have riches plenty—Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;—Yet envy never pains me;My appetite’s as good as theirs,I sleep as sound, as free from fears;I’ve only what maintains me!

Many, I see, have riches plenty—

Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;—

Yet envy never pains me;

My appetite’s as good as theirs,

I sleep as sound, as free from fears;

I’ve only what maintains me!

And while the precious joys I proveOf Tom’s true friendship—and the loveOf bonny black-ey’d Jenny,—Ye gods! my wishes are confin’dTo—health of body, peace of mind,Clean linen, and a guinea!Edward Lysaght(1763–1810).

And while the precious joys I prove

Of Tom’s true friendship—and the love

Of bonny black-ey’d Jenny,—

Ye gods! my wishes are confin’d

To—health of body, peace of mind,

Clean linen, and a guinea!

Edward Lysaght(1763–1810).

It is with men of their wit, as with women of their beauty. Tell a woman she is fair, and she will not be offended that you tell her she is cruel. Tell a man that he is a wit, and if you lay to his charge ill-nature or blasphemy, he will take it as a compliment rather than a reproach. Thus, too, there is no woman but lays some claim to beauty; and no man will give up his pretensions to wit. In cases of this kind, therefore, where so much depends upon opinion, and where every man thinks himself qualified to be his own judge, there is nothing so useless to a reader as illustrations; and nothing to an author so dangerous as definition. Any attempt therefore to decide what truewitis must be ineffectual, as not one in a hundred would be content to abide by the decision; it is impossible to rank all mankind under the name of wits,and there is scarce one in a hundred who does not think that he merits the appellation.

Hence it is that every one, how little qualified soever, is fond of making a display of his fancied abilities; and generally at the expense of some one to whom he supposes himself infinitely superior. And from this supposition many mistakes arise to those who commence wags, with a very small share of wit, and a still smaller of judgment; whose imaginations are by nature unprolific, and whose minds are uncultivated by education. These persons, while they are ringing their rounds on a few dull jests, are apt to mistake the rude and noisy merriment of illiterate jocularity for genuine humour. They often unhappily conceive that those laughwiththem who laughatthem. The sarcasms which every one disdains to answer, they vainly flatter themselves are unanswerable; forgetting, no doubt, that theirgood thingsare unworthy the notice of a retort, and below the condescension of criticism. They know not perhaps that the Ass, whom the fable represents assuming the playfulness of the lap-dog, is a perfect picture of jocular stupidity; and that, in like manner, that awkward absurdity of waggishness which they expect should delight, cannot but disgust; and instead of laying claim to admiration, must ensure contempt. But, alas! I am aware that mine will prove a success-less undertaking; and that though knight-errant-like I sally forth to engage with the monsters of witticism and waggery, all my prowess will be inadequate to the achievement of the enterprise. The world will continue as facetious as ever in spite of all I can do; and people will be just as fond of their “little jokes and old stories” as if I had never combated their inclination.

Since then I cannot utterly extirpate this unchristian practice, my next endeavour must be to direct it properly, and improve it by some wholesome regulations. I propose, if I meet with proper encouragement, making application toParliament for permission to open “A Licensed Warehouse for Wit,” and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vending and uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of years. For this purpose I have already laid inJokes,Jests,Witticisms,Morceaus, andBon-Motsof every kind, to a very considerable amount, well worthy the attention of the public. I haveEpigramsthat want nothing but the sting;Conundrumsthat need nothing but an explanation;RebusesandAcrosticsthat will be complete with the addition of the name only. These being in great request, may be had at an hour’s warning.Impromptuswill be got ready at a week’s notice. For common and vernacular use, I have a long list of the most palpablePunsin the language, digested in alphabetical order; for these I expect good sale at both the universities.Jokesof all kinds, readycutanddry.

N.B.—Proper allowance made to gentlemen of the law going on circuit; and to all second-hand vendors of wit and retailers of repartee, who take large quantities.

N.B.—Attic Saltin any quantity.

N.B.—Most money for oldJokes.

George Canning(1770–1827).

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.When Elliott (called the Salamander)Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,A soldier there went to a wellTo fetch home water to his Nell;But fate decreed the youth to fallA victim to a cannon ball.One brought the tidings to his spouse,Which drove her frantic from the house;On wings of love the creature fledTo seek her dear—she found him dead!Her husband killed—the water spilt—Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!She looked—she sighed—and melting, spoke—“Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”Thomas Cannings(fl.1790–1800).

When Elliott (called the Salamander)Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,A soldier there went to a wellTo fetch home water to his Nell;But fate decreed the youth to fallA victim to a cannon ball.One brought the tidings to his spouse,Which drove her frantic from the house;On wings of love the creature fledTo seek her dear—she found him dead!Her husband killed—the water spilt—Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!She looked—she sighed—and melting, spoke—“Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”Thomas Cannings(fl.1790–1800).

When Elliott (called the Salamander)

Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,

A soldier there went to a well

To fetch home water to his Nell;

But fate decreed the youth to fall

A victim to a cannon ball.

One brought the tidings to his spouse,

Which drove her frantic from the house;

On wings of love the creature fled

To seek her dear—she found him dead!

Her husband killed—the water spilt—

Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!

She looked—she sighed—and melting, spoke—

“Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”

Thomas Cannings(fl.1790–1800).

WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!Whisky, drink divine!Why should drivellers bore usWith the praise of wineWhile we’ve thee before us?Were it not a shame,Whilst we gaily fling theeTo our lips of flame,If we could not sing thee?Whisky, drink divine, etc.Greek and Roman sungChian and Falernian—Shall no harp be strungTo thy praise, Hibernian?Yes! let Erin’s sons—Generous, brave, and frisky—Tell the world at onceThey owe it to their whisky—Whisky, drink divine, etc.If Anacreon—whoWas the grape’s best poet—Drank ourmountain-dew,How his verse would show it!As the best then known,He to wine was civil;Had heInishowen,He’d pitch wine to the divil—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Bright as beauty’s eye,When no sorrow veils it:Sweet as beauty’s sigh,When young love inhales it:Come, then, to my lips—Come, thou rich in blisses!Every drop I sipSeems a shower of kisses—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Could my feeble laysHalf thy virtues number,A wholegroveof baysShould my brows encumber.Be his name adored,Who summed up thy meritsIn one little word,When he called theespirits—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Send it gaily round—Life would be no pleasure,If we had not foundThis enchanting treasure:And when tyrant death’sArrow shall transfix ye,Let your latest breathsBe whisky! whisky! whisky!Whisky, drink divine, etc.Joseph O’Leary(17— -1845?).

Whisky, drink divine!Why should drivellers bore usWith the praise of wineWhile we’ve thee before us?Were it not a shame,Whilst we gaily fling theeTo our lips of flame,If we could not sing thee?Whisky, drink divine, etc.Greek and Roman sungChian and Falernian—Shall no harp be strungTo thy praise, Hibernian?Yes! let Erin’s sons—Generous, brave, and frisky—Tell the world at onceThey owe it to their whisky—Whisky, drink divine, etc.If Anacreon—whoWas the grape’s best poet—Drank ourmountain-dew,How his verse would show it!As the best then known,He to wine was civil;Had heInishowen,He’d pitch wine to the divil—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Bright as beauty’s eye,When no sorrow veils it:Sweet as beauty’s sigh,When young love inhales it:Come, then, to my lips—Come, thou rich in blisses!Every drop I sipSeems a shower of kisses—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Could my feeble laysHalf thy virtues number,A wholegroveof baysShould my brows encumber.Be his name adored,Who summed up thy meritsIn one little word,When he called theespirits—Whisky, drink divine, etc.Send it gaily round—Life would be no pleasure,If we had not foundThis enchanting treasure:And when tyrant death’sArrow shall transfix ye,Let your latest breathsBe whisky! whisky! whisky!Whisky, drink divine, etc.Joseph O’Leary(17— -1845?).

Whisky, drink divine!

Why should drivellers bore us

With the praise of wine

While we’ve thee before us?

Were it not a shame,

Whilst we gaily fling thee

To our lips of flame,

If we could not sing thee?

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Greek and Roman sungChian and Falernian—Shall no harp be strungTo thy praise, Hibernian?Yes! let Erin’s sons—Generous, brave, and frisky—Tell the world at onceThey owe it to their whisky—Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Greek and Roman sung

Chian and Falernian—

Shall no harp be strung

To thy praise, Hibernian?

Yes! let Erin’s sons—

Generous, brave, and frisky—

Tell the world at once

They owe it to their whisky—

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

If Anacreon—whoWas the grape’s best poet—Drank ourmountain-dew,How his verse would show it!As the best then known,He to wine was civil;Had heInishowen,He’d pitch wine to the divil—Whisky, drink divine, etc.

If Anacreon—who

Was the grape’s best poet—

Drank ourmountain-dew,

How his verse would show it!

As the best then known,

He to wine was civil;

Had heInishowen,

He’d pitch wine to the divil—

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Bright as beauty’s eye,When no sorrow veils it:Sweet as beauty’s sigh,When young love inhales it:Come, then, to my lips—Come, thou rich in blisses!Every drop I sipSeems a shower of kisses—Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Bright as beauty’s eye,

When no sorrow veils it:

Sweet as beauty’s sigh,

When young love inhales it:

Come, then, to my lips—

Come, thou rich in blisses!

Every drop I sip

Seems a shower of kisses—

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Could my feeble laysHalf thy virtues number,A wholegroveof baysShould my brows encumber.Be his name adored,Who summed up thy meritsIn one little word,When he called theespirits—Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Could my feeble lays

Half thy virtues number,

A wholegroveof bays

Should my brows encumber.

Be his name adored,

Who summed up thy merits

In one little word,

When he called theespirits—

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Send it gaily round—Life would be no pleasure,If we had not foundThis enchanting treasure:And when tyrant death’sArrow shall transfix ye,Let your latest breathsBe whisky! whisky! whisky!Whisky, drink divine, etc.Joseph O’Leary(17— -1845?).

Send it gaily round—

Life would be no pleasure,

If we had not found

This enchanting treasure:

And when tyrant death’s

Arrow shall transfix ye,

Let your latest breaths

Be whisky! whisky! whisky!

Whisky, drink divine, etc.

Joseph O’Leary(17— -1845?).

TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE WITH HER PETTICOAT.Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!Though we delighted gaze,While artless you excite the flame,We perish in the blaze.Haply you too provoke your harm—Forgive the bold remark—Your petticoat may fan the fire,But, O! beware aspark!Anonymous(1772).

Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!Though we delighted gaze,While artless you excite the flame,We perish in the blaze.Haply you too provoke your harm—Forgive the bold remark—Your petticoat may fan the fire,But, O! beware aspark!Anonymous(1772).

Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!

Though we delighted gaze,

While artless you excite the flame,

We perish in the blaze.

Haply you too provoke your harm—

Forgive the bold remark—

Your petticoat may fan the fire,

But, O! beware aspark!

Anonymous(1772).

On Lord Dudley, who was noted for learning all his speeches by heart.

In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:If I give up my heart, there’s an end to my speaking.On Miss Ellen Tree, the singer.On thisTreeif a nightingale settles and sings,Thetreewill return her as good as she brings.On Moore the poet’s excuse to his guests that his servant was ill from the effects of a carousal.Come, come, for trifles never stick,Most servants have a failing,Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,But mine are alwaysaleing.

In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:If I give up my heart, there’s an end to my speaking.

In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:

If I give up my heart, there’s an end to my speaking.

On Miss Ellen Tree, the singer.

On thisTreeif a nightingale settles and sings,Thetreewill return her as good as she brings.

On thisTreeif a nightingale settles and sings,

Thetreewill return her as good as she brings.

On Moore the poet’s excuse to his guests that his servant was ill from the effects of a carousal.

Come, come, for trifles never stick,Most servants have a failing,Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,But mine are alwaysaleing.

Come, come, for trifles never stick,

Most servants have a failing,

Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,

But mine are alwaysaleing.

On being asked what “on the contrary” meant, when that phrase was used by a person charged with eating three eggs every morning, Luttrell’s ready retort was, “Laying them, I daresay.”

I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind one so of poor relations.

On a man run over by an omnibus.

Killed by an omnibus—why not?So quick a death a boon is.Let not his friends lament his lot—Mors omnibus communis.

Killed by an omnibus—why not?

So quick a death a boon is.

Let not his friends lament his lot—

Mors omnibus communis.

At one of the crowded receptions at Holland House, Lady Holland was requested by the guests to “make room.” “It must certainly bemade, for it does not exist,” said Luttrell.

On Samuel Rogers’ poem, “Italy,” which was illustrated by Turner.

Of Rogers’ “Italy” Luttrell relatesThat ’twould have beendished, if ’twere not for theplates!Henry Luttrell(1766?-1851.)

Of Rogers’ “Italy” Luttrell relates

That ’twould have beendished, if ’twere not for theplates!

Henry Luttrell(1766?-1851.)

LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE, IN PARIS, TO MISS DOROTHY——.What a time since I wrote!—I’m a sad naughty girl—For though, like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;—Yet ev’n (as you wittily say) a tee-totumBetween all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,My gowns, so divine!—there’s no language expresses,Except just the words “superbe,” “magnifique,”The trimmings of that which I had home last week!It is call’d—I forget—à la—something which soundedLikealicampane—but, in truth, I’m confoundedAnd bother’d, my dear, ’twixt that troublesome boy’s(Bob’s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi’s:What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,Thingsgarniwith lace, and thingsgarniwith eel,One’s hair and one’s cutlets bothen popillote,And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,I can scarce tell the diff’rence, at least as to phrase,Between beefà la Psycheand curlsà la braise.—But, in short, dear, I’m trick’d out quiteà la Française,With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.Where shall I begin with the endless delightsOf this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transactingBut dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)That this passion for roaring has come in of late,Since the rabble all tried for avoicein the State.—What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,If, when of age, every man in the realmHad a voice like old Laïs,[5]and chose to make use of it;No—never was known in this riotous sphereSuch a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolicFor setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!But the dancing—ah!parlez-moi, Dolly,de ça—There,indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.Such beauty—such grace—oh, ye sylphs of romance!Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her ifshehasOne light-footed nymph in her train, that can danceLike divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!Fanny Bias inFlora—dear creature!—you’d swear,When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,And she onlypar complaisancetouches the ground.And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevelsHer black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nighTo make love to me then—you’vea soul, and can judgeWhat a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;Quite charming—andveryreligious—what follyTo say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,The Testament turned intomelodramesnightly;And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defianceTo Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,In very thin clothing, andbutlittle of it;—Here Bégrand,[6]who shines in the scriptural path,As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relicOf drapery round her, comes out of the bathIn a manner that, Bob says, is quiteEve-angelic!But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to reciteAll the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.Thomas Moore(1779–1852).

What a time since I wrote!—I’m a sad naughty girl—For though, like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;—Yet ev’n (as you wittily say) a tee-totumBetween all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,My gowns, so divine!—there’s no language expresses,Except just the words “superbe,” “magnifique,”The trimmings of that which I had home last week!It is call’d—I forget—à la—something which soundedLikealicampane—but, in truth, I’m confoundedAnd bother’d, my dear, ’twixt that troublesome boy’s(Bob’s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi’s:What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,Thingsgarniwith lace, and thingsgarniwith eel,One’s hair and one’s cutlets bothen popillote,And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,I can scarce tell the diff’rence, at least as to phrase,Between beefà la Psycheand curlsà la braise.—But, in short, dear, I’m trick’d out quiteà la Française,With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.Where shall I begin with the endless delightsOf this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transactingBut dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)That this passion for roaring has come in of late,Since the rabble all tried for avoicein the State.—What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,If, when of age, every man in the realmHad a voice like old Laïs,[5]and chose to make use of it;No—never was known in this riotous sphereSuch a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolicFor setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!But the dancing—ah!parlez-moi, Dolly,de ça—There,indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.Such beauty—such grace—oh, ye sylphs of romance!Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her ifshehasOne light-footed nymph in her train, that can danceLike divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!Fanny Bias inFlora—dear creature!—you’d swear,When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,And she onlypar complaisancetouches the ground.And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevelsHer black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nighTo make love to me then—you’vea soul, and can judgeWhat a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;Quite charming—andveryreligious—what follyTo say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,The Testament turned intomelodramesnightly;And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defianceTo Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,In very thin clothing, andbutlittle of it;—Here Bégrand,[6]who shines in the scriptural path,As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relicOf drapery round her, comes out of the bathIn a manner that, Bob says, is quiteEve-angelic!But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to reciteAll the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.Thomas Moore(1779–1852).

What a time since I wrote!—I’m a sad naughty girl—

For though, like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;—

Yet ev’n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum

Between all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.

But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,

My gowns, so divine!—there’s no language expresses,

Except just the words “superbe,” “magnifique,”

The trimmings of that which I had home last week!

It is call’d—I forget—à la—something which sounded

Likealicampane—but, in truth, I’m confounded

And bother’d, my dear, ’twixt that troublesome boy’s

(Bob’s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi’s:

What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,

Thingsgarniwith lace, and thingsgarniwith eel,

One’s hair and one’s cutlets bothen popillote,

And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,

I can scarce tell the diff’rence, at least as to phrase,

Between beefà la Psycheand curlsà la braise.—

But, in short, dear, I’m trick’d out quiteà la Française,

With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,

Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delightsOf this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transactingBut dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)That this passion for roaring has come in of late,Since the rabble all tried for avoicein the State.—What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,If, when of age, every man in the realmHad a voice like old Laïs,[5]and chose to make use of it;No—never was known in this riotous sphereSuch a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolicFor setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!

Where shall I begin with the endless delights

Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—

This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting

But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!

Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—

“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,

For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”

Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,

’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)

That this passion for roaring has come in of late,

Since the rabble all tried for avoicein the State.—

What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,

If, when of age, every man in the realm

Had a voice like old Laïs,[5]and chose to make use of it;

No—never was known in this riotous sphere

Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.

So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,

Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic

For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,

And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!

But the dancing—ah!parlez-moi, Dolly,de ça—There,indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.Such beauty—such grace—oh, ye sylphs of romance!Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her ifshehasOne light-footed nymph in her train, that can danceLike divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!Fanny Bias inFlora—dear creature!—you’d swear,When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,And she onlypar complaisancetouches the ground.And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevelsHer black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nighTo make love to me then—you’vea soul, and can judgeWhat a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!

But the dancing—ah!parlez-moi, Dolly,de ça—

There,indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

Such beauty—such grace—oh, ye sylphs of romance!

Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her ifshehas

One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance

Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!

Fanny Bias inFlora—dear creature!—you’d swear,

When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,

That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,

And she onlypar complaisancetouches the ground.

And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels

Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,

Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?

Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,

So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,

It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh

To make love to me then—you’vea soul, and can judge

What a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;Quite charming—andveryreligious—what follyTo say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,The Testament turned intomelodramesnightly;And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defianceTo Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,In very thin clothing, andbutlittle of it;—Here Bégrand,[6]who shines in the scriptural path,As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relicOf drapery round her, comes out of the bathIn a manner that, Bob says, is quiteEve-angelic!But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to reciteAll the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.Thomas Moore(1779–1852).

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)

They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;

Quite charming—andveryreligious—what folly

To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,

When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,

The Testament turned intomelodramesnightly;

And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,

They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.

Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance

To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,

While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,

In very thin clothing, andbutlittle of it;—

Here Bégrand,[6]who shines in the scriptural path,

As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relic

Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath

In a manner that, Bob says, is quiteEve-angelic!

But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to recite

All the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.

Thomas Moore(1779–1852).

[The two extracts which follow are taken from a burlesque novel which had a great success early in the century. Its ridicule of the Radcliffian type of romance, full of accumulated horrors and grotesque affectation, probably did much to extirpate the worst examples of that unrealistic school.]

This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour, entered. Oh! ye conscious blushes; it was my Montmorenci! A plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were wanting. “I come,” cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, “I come in the ancient armour of my family to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.” “My lord,” said I, “rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate the honour that Montmorenci confers.” He bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history.

“All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. In the province of Languedoc stood the Gothic castle of Montmorenci. Before it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that swept downward to their base. ‘My lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?’ whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of blackfeathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. ‘If they an’t,’ said Bernardo, ‘by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.’ ‘The wind is east-south-east,’ said Ugo. At this moment the bell of Montmorenci Castle tolled one. The sound vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honour to address you. Much alarmed, I started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies by Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when I beheld my chamber filled with banditti! Snatching my faulchion, I flew to the armoury for my coat of mail; the bravos rushed after me, but I fought and dressed and dressed and fought, till I had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilet. I then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years of age.”

“‘Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,Than twenty of their swords——’

“‘Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,

Than twenty of their swords——’

To describe the horror of the contest that followed were beyond the pen of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,

“‘And whistled as they went for want of thought.’

At length I murdered my way down to my little skiff, embarked in it, and arrived at this island. As I first touched foot on its chalky beach, ‘Hail! happy land,’ cried I, ‘hail, thrice hail!’ ‘There is no hail here, sir,’ said a child running by.... Nine days and nights I wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast; the turf my couch, and the sky mycanopy.” “Ah!” interrupted I, “how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!” “Extremely,” said he, “for during sixteen long years I had not a roof over my head—I was an itinerant beggar! One summer’s day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage, the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene of Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxiteles, or the Helen of Zeuxis. Her eyes dipt in heaven’s own hue——” “Sir,” said I, “you need not mind her eyes; I dare say they were blue enough. But pray, who was this immortal doll of yours?” “Who?” cried he, “why, who but—shall I speak it? who but—theLady Cherubina De Willoughby!!!” “I!” “You!” “Ah! Montmorenci!” “Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with cautious steps,” continued he, “till I traced you into your—you had a garden, had you not?” “Yes.” “Into your garden. I thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. But the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished for ever!... But wherefore,” cried he, starting from his seat, “wherefore talk of the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. Oh! let me tell you how dearly, how deeply, how devotedly I love you!” “Love me!” cried I, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. “My Lord, this is so—really now, so——” “Pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,” said he, flinging himself at my feet; “fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on mydamask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty?” I remained silent, and, with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never looked so lovely.... “I declare,” said I, “I would say anything on earth to relieve you—only tell me what.” “Angel of light!” exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might liquefy marble. “Have I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the divine words, ‘she loves me’?” “I am thine and thou art mine,” murmured I, while the room swam before me.

Eaton Stannard Barrett(1786–1820).

CHAPTER I.

“Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.”—Shakespeare.“Blow, breezes, blow.”—Moore.

“Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.”—Shakespeare.

“Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.”

—Shakespeare.

“Blow, breezes, blow.”—Moore.

“Blow, breezes, blow.”

—Moore.

It was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and Ossianly manner. The lowly but peaceful inhabitants of a small but decent cottage were just sitting down to their homely but wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. Bertram armed himself with a ladle. “Lack-a-daisy!” cried old Margueritone, and little Billy seized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. Innocent fraud! happy childhood!

“The father’s lustre and the mother’s bloom.”

Bertram then opened the door, when, lo! pale, breathless, dripping, and with a look that would have shocked the Royal Humane Society, a beautiful female tottered into the room. “Lack-a-daisy! ma’am,” said Margueritone, “areyou wet?” “Wet?” exclaimed the fair unknown, wringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; “O ye gods, wet!” Margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits.

“Spirit of my sainted sire.”

The stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will leave her there awhile, lest we should betray an ignorance of the world in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people.

On the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed by the angry Atlantic, stood a moated and turreted structure called Il Castello di Grimgothico. As the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of its late lord, Henriques de Violenci, lights and figures were,par consequence, observed in it at midnight. Besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for several years, andquelque fois, he paced the picture-gallery with a hurried step. These circumstances combined, there could be no doubt of his having committed murder....

CHAPTER II.

“Oh!”—Milton.“Ah!”—Pope.

“Oh!”—Milton.

“Oh!”

—Milton.

“Ah!”—Pope.

“Ah!”

—Pope.

One evening, the Baroness de Violenci, having sprained her left leg in the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to Lady Penthesilea Rouge’s rout. While she was sitting alone at a plate of prawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left for her. “Lay it down, John,” said she, touching his forehead with her fork. The gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired and caperedout of the room. Judge of her astonishment when she found, on opening it, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. An oaken cross, with “Hysterica” inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark, like a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. As she and her lord had never had children, she determined,sur le champ, on adopting the pretty Hysterica. Fifteen years did this worthy woman dedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time taught her every mortal accomplishment. Her sigh, particularly, was esteemed the softest in Europe.

But the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. In a word, the good old Baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body.

“O what a fall was there, my countrymen!”

But it is now time to describe our heroine. As Milton tells us that Eve was “more lovely than Pandora” (an imaginary lady who never existed but in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the Timinitilidi, whom no man ever saw; and in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man ever heard. Perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more—it was interesting—it was oval. Her eyes were of the real, original old blue; and her lashes of the best silk. You forgot the thickness of her lips in the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of York and Lancaster were united in her cheek. A nose of the Grecian order surmounted the whole. Such was Hysterica.

But, alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. For one night, when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a sudden,

“Oh, horrid horrible, and horridest horror!”

the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. While she was preparing, in much terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men in masks rushed from among some tombs and bore her to a carriage, which instantly drove off with the whole party. In vain she sought to soften them by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad; they sat counting murders and not minding her. As the blinds of the carriage were closed the whole way, we waive a description of the country which they traversed. Besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the reader enough; for in one of the villains Hysterica discovered—Count Stilletto! She fainted. On the second day the carriage stopped at an old castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment—in which rusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls lay scattered in all the profusion of feudal plenty—where the delicate creature fell ill of an inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping....

CHAPTER III.

“Sure such a day as this was never seen!”—Thomas Thumb.“The day, th’ important day!”—Addison.“O giorno felice!”—Italian.

“Sure such a day as this was never seen!”—Thomas Thumb.

“Sure such a day as this was never seen!”

—Thomas Thumb.

“The day, th’ important day!”—Addison.

“The day, th’ important day!”

—Addison.

“O giorno felice!”—Italian.

“O giorno felice!”

—Italian.

The morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. Maidens, united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity to the union of congenial minds. On the left of the village are some plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel

“With venerable grandeur marks the scene,”

while everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and minute daisies. In a word,

“All nature wears one universal grin.”

The procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in white drapery. Ten signs of the Zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled round its edge, but Virgo was omitted at her desire, and the bridegroom proposed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! She held a pot of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch, emblematical of Hymen.... The marriage ceremony passed off with great spirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue.

Eaton Stannard Barrett.

THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED.[7]The night before Larry was stretched,The boys they all paid him a visit;A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—They sweated their duds till they riz it;For Larry was always the lad,When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,To fence all the togs that he had,Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,And moisten his gob ’fore he died.“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,“To see you in this situation;’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,I’d rather it was my own station.”“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,And by this time to-morrow you’ll seeYour Larry will be dead as mutton;Bekase why?—his courage was good!”The boys they came crowding in fast;They drew all their stools round about him,Six glims round his trap-case were placed—He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.I ax’d him was he fit to die,Without having duly repented?Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,And all by the gownsmen invented,To make a fat bit for themselves.”Then the cards being called for, they played,Till Larry found one of them cheated;Quick he made a smart stroke at his head—The lad being easily heated.“Oh! by the holy, you thief,I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,And leave you your claret to drink.”Then in came the priest with his book;He spoke him so smooth and so civil;Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,And pitched his big wig to the divil.Then stooping a little his head,To get a sweet drop of the bottle,And pitiful, sighing he said,“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,And choke my poor windpipe to death!”So moving these last words he spoke,We all vented our tears in a shower;For my part, I thought my heart broke,To see him cut down like a flower!On his travels we watched him next day,Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!Not one word did our poor Larry say,Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.When he came to the nubbling chit,He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,The rumbler jogged off from his feet,And he died with his face to the city.He kicked, too, but that was all pride,For soon you might see ’twas all over;And as soon as the noose was untied,Then at evening we waked him in clover,And sent him to take a ground sweat.William Maher(?) (fl.1780).

The night before Larry was stretched,The boys they all paid him a visit;A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—They sweated their duds till they riz it;For Larry was always the lad,When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,To fence all the togs that he had,Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,And moisten his gob ’fore he died.“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,“To see you in this situation;’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,I’d rather it was my own station.”“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,And by this time to-morrow you’ll seeYour Larry will be dead as mutton;Bekase why?—his courage was good!”The boys they came crowding in fast;They drew all their stools round about him,Six glims round his trap-case were placed—He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.I ax’d him was he fit to die,Without having duly repented?Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,And all by the gownsmen invented,To make a fat bit for themselves.”Then the cards being called for, they played,Till Larry found one of them cheated;Quick he made a smart stroke at his head—The lad being easily heated.“Oh! by the holy, you thief,I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,And leave you your claret to drink.”Then in came the priest with his book;He spoke him so smooth and so civil;Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,And pitched his big wig to the divil.Then stooping a little his head,To get a sweet drop of the bottle,And pitiful, sighing he said,“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,And choke my poor windpipe to death!”So moving these last words he spoke,We all vented our tears in a shower;For my part, I thought my heart broke,To see him cut down like a flower!On his travels we watched him next day,Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!Not one word did our poor Larry say,Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.When he came to the nubbling chit,He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,The rumbler jogged off from his feet,And he died with his face to the city.He kicked, too, but that was all pride,For soon you might see ’twas all over;And as soon as the noose was untied,Then at evening we waked him in clover,And sent him to take a ground sweat.William Maher(?) (fl.1780).

The night before Larry was stretched,

The boys they all paid him a visit;

A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—

They sweated their duds till they riz it;

For Larry was always the lad,

When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,

To fence all the togs that he had,

Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,

And moisten his gob ’fore he died.

“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,“To see you in this situation;’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,I’d rather it was my own station.”“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,And by this time to-morrow you’ll seeYour Larry will be dead as mutton;Bekase why?—his courage was good!”

“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,

“To see you in this situation;

’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,

I’d rather it was my own station.”

“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,

“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,

And by this time to-morrow you’ll see

Your Larry will be dead as mutton;

Bekase why?—his courage was good!”

The boys they came crowding in fast;They drew all their stools round about him,Six glims round his trap-case were placed—He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.I ax’d him was he fit to die,Without having duly repented?Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,And all by the gownsmen invented,To make a fat bit for themselves.”

The boys they came crowding in fast;

They drew all their stools round about him,

Six glims round his trap-case were placed—

He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.

I ax’d him was he fit to die,

Without having duly repented?

Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,

And all by the gownsmen invented,

To make a fat bit for themselves.”

Then the cards being called for, they played,Till Larry found one of them cheated;Quick he made a smart stroke at his head—The lad being easily heated.“Oh! by the holy, you thief,I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,And leave you your claret to drink.”

Then the cards being called for, they played,

Till Larry found one of them cheated;

Quick he made a smart stroke at his head—

The lad being easily heated.

“Oh! by the holy, you thief,

I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!

You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,

But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,

And leave you your claret to drink.”

Then in came the priest with his book;He spoke him so smooth and so civil;Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,And pitched his big wig to the divil.Then stooping a little his head,To get a sweet drop of the bottle,And pitiful, sighing he said,“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

Then in came the priest with his book;

He spoke him so smooth and so civil;

Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,

And pitched his big wig to the divil.

Then stooping a little his head,

To get a sweet drop of the bottle,

And pitiful, sighing he said,

“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,

And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

So moving these last words he spoke,We all vented our tears in a shower;For my part, I thought my heart broke,To see him cut down like a flower!On his travels we watched him next day,Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!Not one word did our poor Larry say,Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.

So moving these last words he spoke,

We all vented our tears in a shower;

For my part, I thought my heart broke,

To see him cut down like a flower!

On his travels we watched him next day,

Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!

Not one word did our poor Larry say,

Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:

Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.

When he came to the nubbling chit,He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,The rumbler jogged off from his feet,And he died with his face to the city.He kicked, too, but that was all pride,For soon you might see ’twas all over;And as soon as the noose was untied,Then at evening we waked him in clover,And sent him to take a ground sweat.William Maher(?) (fl.1780).

When he came to the nubbling chit,

He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,

The rumbler jogged off from his feet,

And he died with his face to the city.

He kicked, too, but that was all pride,

For soon you might see ’twas all over;

And as soon as the noose was untied,

Then at evening we waked him in clover,

And sent him to take a ground sweat.

William Maher(?) (fl.1780).

Ituckthe road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an’ got up to the Cove safe an’ sound. There I saw many ships with big broad boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, “The first vessel for Quebec.” Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this one siz she’ll be first, and that one siz she’ll be first. At any rate I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who shou’d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould townsman ov my own.

“Och, is it yoorself that’s there, Ned?” siz I; “are ye goin’ to Amerrykey?”

“Why, an’ to be shure,” sez he; “I’mmateov the ship.”

“Meat! that’s yer sort, Ned,” siz I; “then we’ll only want bread. Hadn’t I betther go and pay my way?”

“You’re time enough,” siz Ned; “I’ll tell you when we’re ready for sea—leave the rest to me, Darby.”

“Och, tip us your fist,” siz I; “you were always the broath of a boy; for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a bite to ate.” So, my jewel, Ned brought me to where there was right good stuff. When it got up to three o’clock I found myself mighty weak with hunger. I got the smell ov corn-beef an’ cabbage that knock’d me up entirely. I then wint to the landlady, and siz I to her, “Maybee your leddyship ’id not think me rood by axin iv Ned an’ myself cou’d get our dinner ov that fine hot mate that I got a taste ov in my nose?” “In throath you can,” siz she (an’ she look’d mighty pleasant), “an’ welkim.” So my darlin’ dish and all came up. “That’s what I call aflaugholoch[8]mess,” siz I. So we ate and drank away.

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