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away with your mother, I would not have touched any thing old or ugly to have gained an empire.

Cupt. Not to please your father, sir ?

Sir A. To please my father-Zounds, not to please–0, my father-Oddso,-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. I dare say not, sir.

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

Capt. 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 would not wish to effect a singularity in that article.

Sir A. 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. Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself.

Capt. 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 uiece.

Sir A. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt 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, damn your demure face, come, confess, Jack, you have been lying—ha'n't you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey?—I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypocrite.

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

Sir A. 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 youcome along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back, stark mad with rapture and impatience--if you don't, 'ogad, I'll marry the girl myself.


I HAVE been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world :
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it ;-Yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world ;
In humours like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thought of things divine,-are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word:
As thus, - Come little ones;' and then again,-

It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.'
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders : how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves,-
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last ; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,-
That many have, and others must sit there :
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented : Sometimes am I a king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am : Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again ; and, by-and-by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing :-But, whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Music do I hear?

[Music. Ha, ah, keep time:—How sour sweet music is, When time is broke, and no proportion kept ! So is it in the music of men's lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear,

To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock :
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch.
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell : So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours :but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, is Jack o'the clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it hath holpe mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.


About sixteen years ago, the writer of this article was conversing with a Roman Catholic who farmed a few acres of land, and was not well satisfied with the general state of affairs ; 'but,' said he,' things won't be so bad when we are mancipated

What, Barney,' said I, "are you a politician ? do you understand the question of emancipation ?' Understand it,' said Barney,“ do you think I am a goose? who is it that doesn't understand it? Well, and what do you mean by emancipation ? • Mane by it ; why, what every body else manes by it, to be sure. But tell me what you mane by it yourself, and then in troth I'll tell you what I think of it.' Well, Barney, if you were emancipated, your son Paddy might propose himself as a candidate to represent the county in parliament ; and your son Peter, who is now clerk to —, might become lord chancellor; and your son Jack, the sailor, might be high admiral of the British navy ; and- • Balderdash and babbles,' said Barney, who would make my gossoons mimbers of parliament, and admirals, and the likes of that? no, that's not mancipation at all.” “Well, Barney, now let me have your meaning of the term.' 'Do you know,' said he, 'S. K. of Dublin ? Very well,' said I ; "he is your landlord and mine.' 'And do you know who lives in that big house at the top of yon hill ? Yes, 'tis the Rev. L. the rector of the parish.' 'In troth it is. Now that same S. K. do you see, that never entered a plough on my land, and never set a rig of

praties in it in all his life, makes me give him thirty shillings an acre for it; and that same L. charges me thirteen-pence an acre for it besides ; and if I won't give it to him, his proctor comes and takes away the tinth stook from my field of oats and whate, as if he sowed and raped it himself. Now if I was mancipated, d'ye mind, I wouldn't give S. K. a rap farding for my own land, which I labour myself; and as to the rector, as you call him, instead of giving him oats, whate or money, I'd give him (if he'd ax any) a kick in the And that's what I'd call bein' mancipated


The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom,
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams of red,
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale gleam'd the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,
Like a hunter or a chief struck down, while his heart and step were free.
No shroud he wore—no robe of death-but there majestic lay,
Proudly and sadly, glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold slumberer's side,
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassion'd eyes, as o'er that clay she bent,
A mildness and a tenderness in strong resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows of a cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke aloud ;
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 'thou yet wilt awake,
And learn my watchings and my tears, belov'd one, for thy sake.

They told me this was death-but well I know it could not be ;
Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for thee?
They would have wrapt the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,
But I forbad-and there thou art, as a monarch, rob'd and crown'd !

With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,
And thy brow so proudly beautiful-who said that this was death?
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd and strong.

I know thou hast not lov'd me yet-I am not fair, like thee-
The very glance of whose dear eye threw round a light of glee !

A frail and drooping form is mine,-a cold unsmiling cheek-
Oh! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to seek.
But when thou wakest, my Prince, my Lord! and hearst how I have kept
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept ;
How in one long deep dream of thee, my days and nights have past, -
Surely that humble patient love, must win back love at last.

And thou wilt smile-my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me, erewhile !
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine,
Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine

Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look, when thou comest from the chase,
From me, from me, in festal halls, it shall kindle o'er thy face !
Thou'lt reck no more, though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless ;
In thy kind eyes, this deep, deep love, shall give me loveliness.

But, wake, my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice ;
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,
And the gladness of thy opening eyes, must all be mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul gave way ;
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every grace,
Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,
And they bore away the royal dead, with requiems, to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind,
But a woman's broken heart was left, in its long despair behind.

HYPOCHONDRIASIS. HY-PO-CHON-DRI-A-sis is one of those unaccountable words, that learned men put into the mouths of the people, without thinking whether they can ever get them out again ; a word not one in a hundred can pronounce, nor one in fifty understand,-in one word, it menaces a lock-jaw.

There are two sorts of Hy-po-chon-dri-a-sis. One a sort of melancholy madness, principally the lot of gentlemen in love-I say gentlemen, because the ladies are deficient in the natural gravity and solemnity of disposition necessary to constitute a Hy-po-chon-dri-ac ; for when the modern Venus is in love, she thinks more of the Gretna Vulcan, than sitting, like patience on

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