of those that revived the learning of the ancients.

Sheridan. He was the morning-star of Italian poetry.

Author. And one of the brightest in the constellation that afterwards shone in that indulgent climate,

The willing captive of Aonian toils."

The Stolen Wife.

Sorrow. A young fellow has stolen my wife. Reason. Young men are prone to that species of robbery. I am forry to obferve that in this age I have very little influence over the mind of the youth of both sexes; I wish I may have some influence over yours at present, for I see you are very much affected. You must consider this matter. Was she young and handsome?

Sorrow. Both.

Reason. Two great temptations. You married her for her beauty?

Sorrow. I did.

Reason. You should have reflected, that the season of youth and beauty is short, and that both fly off together: the woman that won your affections, was sensible, no doubt, that she could win those of another; and some of that frail sex

arc

are as ambitious of lovers after they have entered into the married state as before it. Was she fond of dress?

Sorrow. Passionately; she would spend hours together at her toilet.

Reason. Every time she looked in her glass, she thought she saw the face of an angel in it, and perhaps she thought that an angel ought not to employ her time in domestic affairs. Was she fond of romances?

Sorrow. She would sit up all night reading them.

Reason. Then of course she slept all day?

Sorrow. A considerable part of it.

Reason. Then, as to her temper?

Sorrow. Capricious.

Reason. Extravagant?

Sorrow. My purse was at her command.

Reason. And she exhausted it?

Sorrow. Frequently.

Reason. Now let us cast up the account, and see what you have lost, and what you have gained. In the first place, you married a woman for her beauty, a short-lived flower; and she married you for your wealth, which could scarce gratify her vanity and extravagance; you thought you took an angel to your arms; but the result has proved that there are fallen angels. Instead of consulting your hap

piness,

piness, she-poisoned it: instead of pouring the balm of consolation into your mind when it was afflicted, she poured a torrent of words into your ears she consulted her glass oftener than she consulted your countenance; her nights were spent in reading romances, so that her head was filled with imaginary adventures, and heroes that never existed: such a defenceless castle was easily besieged. Why, if you view all this with an indifferent eye, instead of a loss, you have gained. If a physician cured you of a tertian fever, you would reward him with thanks and money, and what should be the reward of that physician who has rid you of a quotidian fever? Your mind will be no longer distracted with the caprices of a woman, whose temper was not even to be regulated by the weathercock, and whose tongue would run for hours together without winding up; you will be no longer besieged by a train of milliners and perfumers. Little you know how much you are indebted to him that carried off such a disease. If he was your friend, pity him; if he was your enemy, rejoice. You are now restored to your health, and a little time and reflection will restore you to your senses. Sorrow. I can't restrain my tears.

Reason. If carried away by force, forgive her;

but if willingly?

Sarrow.

Sorrow. Willingly: she stole off with her gallant in the dead of night.

Reason. Many a man would pray for such a night, and hail the annual return of it with feasting and music.

Sorrow. My unhappy wife went off willingly. Reason. If she loved you, she would not have done so; how then can you weep for a woman that is unworthy of your affection?

Sorrow. My unhappy wife!

Reason. Truly she will be unhappy, and he that stole her more so; repentance quickly treads on the heels of unlawful appetite. But you should remember, that this is an injury kings could not escape; for Masinissa stole away the wife of Syphax, and Herod stole away the wife of Philip, and Menelaus had two wives, and they were both stolen.

Author. I remember the dialogue in Petrarch; and I think the master would not be displeased, if living, with the additions of the pupil. Perhaps there is not a paffage in the Italian, that may be resorted to with more practical advantage.

Sheridan. Why, it is certain, that the youth of this country steal away young women, with their own consent, a circumstance almost excusable.

Author. There are many apologies for the indiscretions

discretions of the youth of both sexes. I forget who it is that says, "Youth is a continual fever." Sheridan. I don't forget that I was once young myself; and though I am of the Romish persuasion, I never could accede to the custom that prevails in that church, of confining young men and women in the walls of monasteries and nunnerics; it is contrary to the laws of nature, reason, and even sound policy; it originates in pride, laziness, and perhaps some trivial disappointment: the world is a field of battle, and the first that flies is a coward and a deserter.

Author. True, it is a field of battle, in which few are victors.

Sheridan. Well, Sir; as I see you have a good stock of patience, I'll read you some lines which are connected with the subject we have touched on, which I did not think time had spared; they were written by my cousin, on an occasion that will be long remembered in this part of the island; and as poets succeed best in fiction, perhaps in addition to his youth, the best apology will be to assure you, that they are founded in truth. They were written on my brother, a very worthy man; who had the happiness of living and dying in the bosom of a fine family of children, five sons and six daughters; blessed with common sense, and an education that every day improves.

Paddy's