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gentleman lolling in the carriage returns a lazy nod, and the young ladies a stare which, from such charming creatures, would be acknowledgment enough, if it were only accompanied by a smile.

The Marquis himself rides out on horseback, attended at a respectful distance by two mounted grooms, and surrounded close at hand by half a dozen hounds. He makes a point of dressing very plainly in a black coat and velvet waistcoat; the only remarkable portions of his attire being a starched muslin cravat tied à la Brummell, and a pair of Hessian boots with aristocratic tassels. He is altogether a jolly-looking fellow, and his manly cheeks gracefully protrude over his shirt collars, while his countenance exhibits that appearance of dignified nobility and ill-temper which is the immemorial perquisite of overwhelming ancestral honors, and eternal-remorseless-gout. The Marquis has learned that one of his best tenants requires some repairs done to his barn; and, being a man of business, in these rabid anti-cornlaw times, he deems it best to conciliate all men by a display of incredible condescension, and pay a visit to the farmer, to inspect the premises in person. He therefore arrives at the homestead of his tenant just at one o'clock, when the farmer is at dinner; and while his footmen are flogging away his hounds, which have commenced a furious attack upon the dogs in the farm-yard, the old farmer hurries from his dinner with his head bare, and his wife, to the utter dismay of the laborers, sweeps away all vestiges of the unfinished meal, and commands them to retire, lest "his lordship" should condescend to enter the house and find it

in an uproar, from clowns having perpetrated the enormity of eating.

Now, as the farmer was never behindhand with his rent, the Marquis, addressing him by his surname, lowers his dignity so far as to ask him about the state of the late crops, and the markets, and the old man is enraptured; but still the old fellow-who in his heart does not care a great deal for a Lord, so long as "he is able to pay his way"-obstinately informs him that times are "dreadful bad," and an honest man can't live, and reminds him of the state of his barn, whereupon the Marquis assures him that he has given orders to his steward to have it repaired, and humors the old farmer by asking for a glass of his "home brewed." If he is in an extraordinary good-humor, he will dismount and enter the house; where he will find "the dame," who has hastily donned her Sunday cap and a clean apron, with her daughters in the same articles of dress recently adopted, courteseying lowly, and silent with profound respect, until he familiarly accosts the old lady, and jokes the young ones upon matrimonial matters, in a short, abrupt manner, finishing every sentence with an "eh, eh?" not giving them time to answer him, which, indeed, they are too much "flustrated" to do: so he just sips a little of the ale that is brought to him, and, wishing them a condescending "good morning," mounts his horse, and canters home, dismissing them from his thoughts for another six months.

This slight sketch may serve to give the reader some idea of the manners of the great when rusticating.

THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS.

BY MRS. ABDY.

"As the Diamond excels every jewel we find,
So Truth is the one peerless gem of the mind!"

A NEW tragedy was about to be brought forth at the Haymarket Theatre. Report spoke loudly of its merits, and report touched closely on the name of its author. Either Talbot or Stratford must have written it; those regular attendants at rehearsal, who seemed equally interested in every situation, equally at home in every point, throughout the piece. Some said that it was a Beaumont and Fletcher concern, in which both parties were equally implicated; and this conjecture did not appear improbable, for the young men in question were indeed united together in bonds of more than ordinary friendship. They had been schoolfellows and brother-collegians; each was in the enjoyment of an easy independence, and their tastes, pursuits, and ways of living were very similar. So congenial, indeed, were they in taste, that they had both fixed their preference on the same

lady! Adelaide Linley was an accomplished and pretty heiress, who, fortunately for them, was the ward of Mr. Grayson, an eminent solicitor, with whom they had recently renewed an early acquaintance. Rivalry, however, failed of its usual effect in their case, it created no dissension between them; indeed, the manner of Adelaide was very far removed from coquetry, and although it was evident that she preferred the friends to the rest of her wooers, she showed to neither of them evidence of any feeling beyond those of friendship and good-will.

The night of the tragedy arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, their ward, and two or three of her "wooers," were in attendance before the rising of the curtain; they were just as ignorant as other people touching the precise identity of the dramatist about to encounter the awful fiat of the public. Talbot

and Stratford were sheltered in the deep recesses of a private box; had they been in a public one, nobody could have doubted which was the hero of the evening. Talbot's flushed cheek, eager eye, and nervous restlessness, plainly indicated that the tragedy was not written on the Beaumont and Fletcher plan, but that it owed its existence entirely to himself.

The curtain rose; the tragedy was admirably performed, and many of the speeches were beautifully written; but it lacked the indescribable charm of stage effect, so necessary to stage success; the last act was heavy and uninteresting, great disapprobation was expressed, and finally another piece was announced for the succeeding evening!

Adelaide was much concerned; it mattered nothing to her whether the play was written by Talbot or Stratford; she wished well to each of them, and sympathized in the disappointment of the author. Talbot, who had anticipated stepping forward to the front of the box, and gracefully bowing his acknowledgments to the applauding audience, now found himself under the necessity of making an abrupt exit, muttering invectives on their stupidity; and Stratford repaired to his own lodgings, aware that Talbot, in the present state of his mind, was unfitted for the society even of his favorite friend. The next morning, Stratford had half finished breakfast when Talbot entered the room. Stratford was about to accost him with a lively remark, that "he hoped the severity of the audience had not spoiled his night's rest;" but a momentary glance at his friend told him that such a remark would be cruelly sarcastic; it was quite clear that his night's rest had been spoiled; it was quite clear that what had been "sport" to the public had been "death" to the dramatist; it was quite clear that the "Russian Brothers," although they had ceased to exist on the stage of the Haymarket Theatre, were still hovering about, like shadowy apparitions, "to plague the inventor!"

"Read these papers," said Talbot, placing four or five newspapers in the hands of Stratford, "and do not wonder that I look and feel miserable at having thus exposed myself to the derision of the world."

Stratford hastily finished a cup of coffee, and pushed away a just broken egg; it seemed quite unfeeling to think of eating and drinking in the presence of so much wretchedness. He turned to the dramatic article of one newspaper after another, expecting to find his friend victimized, slandered, and laughed to scorn; but in reality, as my readers may perhaps be prepared to hear, the critics were very fair, reasonable critics, indeed; and it was only the sensitiveness of the author which had converted them into weapons of offence.

"I am sure," said Stratford, after the scrutiny was concluded, "the dramatic critic of the 'Times' speaks very kindly of you; does not he say that

there is much beauty in many of the speeches, only that the drama is unsuited for representation ?"

"Exactly so," replied Talbot, dryly; "the only defect he finds in it is, that it is perfectly unsuited for the purpose for which it was written!"

"But," persisted Stratford, "he says that he is certain you would succeed better in a second attempt."

"As I shall most assuredly never make a second attempt," replied Talbot, "his opinion, or that of any one else on the subject, is of very little importance to me."

"Surely, however," said Stratford, "it is better to receive the commendation of writers of judgment and ability, than the applause of the one shilling gallery. Arbuscula was an actress on the Roman stage, who laughed at the hisses of the populace, while she received the applause of the knights."

Talbot only replied to this anecdote by a muttered exclamation of impatience.

And here let me give a few words of advice to my readers. Whenever you condole with those in trouble, do it in the old-fashioned cut-and-dried way; it is true that your stock-phrases and tedious truisms may cause you to be called a bore, but thousands of highly respectable, condoling friends have been called bores before you, and thousands will be called so after you. But if you diverge at all from the beaten track, and attempt to introduce a literary allusion, or venture on a classical illustration, depend upon it you will be cited ever afterwards as an extremely hard-hearted person, intent alone on displaying your own wit or wisdom, instead of properly entering into the sorrows of your friend.

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"The Morning Chronicle,' resumed Stratford, "speaks highly of the scene between the brothers at the end of the second act."

"Yes," replied Talbot, "and the 'Morning Chronicle' winds up its critic by advising me never to write another drama."

"Did you not say just now that you never intended to do so?" asked Stratford.

"How I wish, Stratford," exclaimed Talbot, impetuously, "that I could make you enter into my feelings. How very differently you would think and speak if you were the author of a condemned tragedy!"

"I do not consider," said Stratford, "that if such were the case, I should in any respect think or speak differently. I should feel far more pleasure in knowing that I had written a work which deserved to be successful, than mortification at the want of good taste in a mixed and misjudging audience, which had caused it to fail of success."

Stratford, having been unfortunate in his previous attempts at consolation, had taken some pains to devise a prettily turned speech; but he little thought how completely successful it would prove; the countenance of Talbot actually lighted up with pleasure.

"Are you really sincere in what you have said ?" he replied. "I have a particular reason for wishing to know; do not reply to me in a hurry; take a few minutes for consideration."

Somewhat surprised, Stratford began the course of mental examination prescribed by his friend; and the result of it was that, although he had only meant to speak civilly, he found that he had been speaking truly; for Stratford had a great admiration for literary talents, and a great wish to possess them; he also knew that Adelaide Linley was a warm admirer of dramatic poetry; he could not doubt that her judgment would lead her to approve of the "Russian Brothers ;" and, in regard to its condemnation, she, like every other intelligent person, must be fully aware that the plays that read best in the closet are often least adapted to the stage.

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"I have considered the matter again," said Stratford, after a pause, " and I repeat what I previously said; I should be glad to be the author of the Russian Brothers,' even although it has been condemned; but after all, Talbot, how useless is this conversation! no good wishes on your part, or aspiring wishes on my own, can make me the author of a drama to which I never contributed an idea or a line."

"Yet," said Talbot, "I do not see why the business might not be arranged to our mutual satisfaction. You wish to be known as the author of this play; I, perhaps foolishly and irritably, repent that I ever wrote it; no one but ourselves is aware which of us is the author; why should you not own it? I will most joyfully give up my claim to you."

Stratford was a little startled at this proposition.

"But should the deception be discovered," he said, "people will allege that, like the jay, I have been strutting in borrowed plumes."

"Not at all," replied Talbot; "your plumes are not borrowed, but are willingly bestowed upon you by the owner; besides, how should any discovery ensue, except from our own disclosures? You, of course, will not wish to disown what you consider it a credit to gain; and, for myself, I give you my word that, should the 'Russian Brothers' be destined to attain high celebrity at a future day, I shall never assert my rights of paternity-they are the children of your adoption; but, remember, you adopt them for life."

"Willingly," replied Stratford; "and now let us pay a visit at Mr. Grayson's house. Doubtless the fair Adelaide will be impatient to pour balm into the wounds suffered by one of her adorers; pity is sometimes akin to love."

"It is more frequently akin to contempt," murmured Talbot, in too low a voice to be heard; but nevertheless the friends proceeded on their way, talking much less cheerfully, and looking much less contented than might be supposed, when it is considered that they had recently entered into a com

pact so satisfactory to both of them. I wish I could say that conscience bore any share in their disquietude, and that each felt grieved and humiliated at the idea that he was violating the sacred purity of truth; but such was not the case. Either Talbot or Stratford would have shrunk from the idea of telling a falsehood of malignity or dishonesty; but the polite untruths of convenience or flattery were as "household words" in their vocabulary. A dim foreboding of evil, however, now seemed to overshadow them. Talbot had something of the same sensation which a man may be supposed to have who has cast off a troublesome child in a fit of irritation. His tragedy had been a source of great disappointment and mortification to him; but still it was his own; it had derived existence from him; he had spent many tedious days and nights watching over it before he could bring it to perfection; he was not quite happy in the idea that he had forever made over all right and title in it to another. Stratford also was somewhat dispirited; he could not help thinking about a paper in the" Spectator" concerning a "Mountain of Miseries," where Jupiter allowed every one to lay down his own misery, and take up that of another person, each individual in the end being bitterly dissatisfied with the result of the experiment. Stratford had laid down his literary insignificance, and taken up the burden of unsuccessful authorship; should he live to repent it? This in the course of a little time will appear.

Adelaide Linley sat in the drawing-room of her guardian, eagerly awaiting a visit from her two favorite admirers. She was not alone, neither was one of her "wooers" with her. Her companion was a quiet-looking young man, whose personal appearance had nothing in it to recommend him to notice, although a physiognomist would have been struck with the good expression of his countenance. His name was Alton, and he was the confidential clerk of her guardian. He had never presumed to address the heiress, save with distant respect; but she valued him for the excellent qualities which had made him a high favorite with Mr. Grayson, and always treated him with kindness and consideration. On the present occasion, however, she was evidently somewhat out of humor, and accepted the sheet of paper from him, on which he had been transcribing for her some passages from a new poem, with a cold expression of thanks. Alton lingered a moment at the door of the room. "There is peculiar beauty," he said, “in the closing lines of the last passage."

"There is," replied the heiress, carelessly; "but I should scarcely have thought, Mr. Alton, that you would have taken much interest in poetry: why did you not accompany us last night, to see the new tragedy, although so repeatedly pressed to do so?" "I had a reason for declining to go, Miss Linley," said Alton.

"Probably you disapprove of dramatic representations," said Adelaide; "in which case I approve

your consistency and conscientiousness in refusing to frequent them."

Alton would have liked to be approved by Adelaide; but he liked to speak the truth still better.

"That was not my reason," he replied: "I do not disapprove of the drama, nor could I expect anything that was not perfectly excellent and unexceptionable from the reputed authors of the tragedy in question-I had another reason."

"May I beg to know it?" said Adelaide, half in jest and half in earnest.

Alton's cheek became flushed, but he replied, "I am not in the habit of withholding the truth, when expressly asked for it. I never go to public amusements, because I object to the expense."

Alton could scarcely have made any speech that would more have lowered him in Adelaide's estimation. The young can make allowance for "the good old gentlemanly vice" of avarice, in those who have lived so many years in the world that gathering gold appears to them as suitable a pastime for age as that of gathering flowers for childhood; but avarice in youth, like a lock of white hair in the midst of sunny curls, seems sadly out of its place. Adelaide knew that Alton received a liberal stipend from her guardian, and that he had also inherited some property from a cousin; he had not any near relations, he was doubtless hoarding entirely for his own profit; he was a gold worshipper in a small way, accumulating the precious metal by petty economies in London, instead of going out manfully to dig it up by lumps in California! She therefore merely replied, "You are very prudent, Mr. Alton," with a marked and meaning intonation of the last word, which converted it into a severe epigram, and took up a book with an air of such unmistakable coldness, that the discomfited economist was glad to beat a retreat. Adelaide's solitude was soon more agreeably enlivened by the arrival of Talbot and Stratford. Talbot quickly dispelled all embarrassment as to the subject of the tragedy, by playfully saying, "I bring with me an ill-fated author, who I am sure you will agree with me deserved much better treatment than he has met with."

Hereupon Adelaide offered words of consolation, and very sweet, kind, and winning words they were; indeed, Stratford deemed them quite sufficient to compensate for the failure of a tragedy; but then, we must remember that Stratford was not really the author of the "Russian Brothers;" his wounds were only fictitious, and therefore it was no very difficult task to heal them. Possibly Talbot might have felt a little uneasy at Adelaide's excess of kindness, had he been present during the whole of Stratford's visit; but Talbot had soon made his escape to his club; he had several friends there, who suspected him of having written the tragedy of the preceding night; a few hours ago he had dreaded the idea of meeting them; but now he encountered them with fearless openness, expressing his concern for the failure of

Stratford's tragedy, and remarking that "the poor fellow was so terribly cut up about it, that he had advised him to keep quiet for a few days, and let the affair blow over."

Talbot and Stratford dined together; both were in good spirits; neither of them had yet begun to feel any of the evils of the deceptive course they were pursuing. A week passed, and the sky was no longer so fair and cloudless. Adelaide's pity for Stratford was evidently far more akin to love than contempt; she was an admirer of genius, and was never wearied of talking about the tragedy, which had really made a deep impression upon her. She requested Stratford to let her have the rough copy of it; the request was not so embarrassing as might be supposed, for Stratford had been obliged to ask Talbot to give it to him, that he might be able to answer Adelaide's continual questions as to the conduct of the story and development of the characters; the handwriting of the friends was very similar, and the blotted, interlined manuscript revealed no secrets as to its especial inditer. "Remember," said Adelaide, as she playfully received it, "that I consider this as a gift, not as a loan; it will probably be introduced into various circles."

Talbot was present at the time, and felt a pang of inexpressible acuteness at the idea of the offspring of his own brain being paraded in "various circles" as the production of Stratford. He could not offer any opposition to Adelaide's intentions; but he revenged himself by constant taunting allusions to the mortifications of an unsuccessful dramatist, shunned by the manager, scorned by the performers, and even a subject of sarcastic pity to the scene-shifters!

These speeches hurt and offended Stratford, especially as they were always made in the presence of Captain Nesbitt, another of the "wooers" of the heiress, who shared Talbot's newly-born jealousy of Stratford, and consequently was delighted both to prompt and keep up any line of conversation likely to humiliate him in the presence of his ladylove. A short time ago Talbot and Stratford had been generous and amicable rivals; but they had ceased to walk together in peace from the period when they entered the crooked paths of dissimulation. When Adelaide had attentively read the manuscript tragedy, she transcribed it in a fair hand; she had already fixed on a destination for it. One of the oldest friends of Adelaide's late father was a fashionable London publisher. Adelaide had kept up frequent intercourse with him, and waited on him with her manuscript, secure of being kindly received, even if he did not grant her request. Fortunately, however, for her, he had been present at the representation of the "Russian Brothers," and had been extremely struck with the beauty of the dialogue, and he readily agreed to print it. When the proofs were ready, Adelaide, quite sure that she should be giving great pleasure to Stratford, announced to him what she had done.

Stratford nervously started, and gave a hurried, apprehensive glance at Talbot.

"It will be certain to be a favorite with the reading public, will it not?" said Adelaide, addressing Talbot.

"I am sure it will," answered Talbot, with animation, forgetting for the moment everything but that he was the author of the Russian Brothers,' and that the Russian Brothers' was going to be printed. "How well the scene will read between the brothers at the end of the second act!"

"It will, indeed," returned Adelaide, with an approving glance at Talbot, whom she had lately suspected of being somewhat envious of the genius of his rival; "really, we must try and inspire our friend with a little more confidence. I don't think he is at all aware of his own talents."

"I don't think he is, indeed," said Talbot, with a distant approach to a sneer.

"But my favorite passage," pursued Adelaide, "is the soliloquy of Orloff, in the third act. Will you repeat it, Mr. Stratford ?"

Stratford began to repeat it as blunderingly and monotonously as he had been wont to repeat "My name is Norval" in his schoolboy days; but Talbot quickly took possession of it, and recited it with feeling and spirit.

"How strange it is," said Adelaide, "that authors rarely give effect to their own writings! But how beautiful is the sentiment of that speech-more beautiful, I think, every time one hears it. How did you feel, Mr. Stratford, when you wrote those lines?"

Stratford declared, with sincerity, that he had not the slightest recollection how he felt; and Adelaide asked Talbot to repeat another speech, and praised his memory and feeling, in return for which he praised her good taste. Poor Talbot, he was somewhat in the position of the hero of a German tale; a kind of metempsychosis seemed to have taken place in relation to himself and his, friend, and he did not know whether to be delighted that his tragedy should be admired, or angry that it should be admired as the composition of Stratford. All contradictory feelings, however, merged into unmistakable resentment and discontent when the tragedy was published; it became decidedly popular; the Reviews accorded wonderfully in their commendation of it, and the first edition was speedily sold off.

Stratford's name was not prefixed to it, at his own especial request: he did not want to plunge deeper into the mazes of falsehood than he had already done. But Talbot had proclaimed with such unwearied perseverance that Stratford was the author of the condemned tragedy, that his name on the title-page would have been quite an unnecessary identification. Poor Talbot! he certainly had much to try his patience at present. Stratford received abundance of invitations, in virtue of his successful authorship; he went to many parties in the charac

ter of a lion, where he was treated with much solemn reverence, and his most commonplace remark was evidently treasured as the quintessence of wit and judgment. These festivities Talbot did not wish to share. But frequently Stratford was invited to literary, real literary parties, where everybody in the room was celebrated for doing something better than it is done by people in general; and were any half-dozen guests taken at random from the assemblage, they would have sufficed to stud an ordinary party with stars. Here Stratford was introduced to brilliant novelists, exquisite poets, profound scholars, and men of searching science. Here, also, he met with literary women, as gentle and unassuming as they were gifted and celebrated, who wore their laurels with as much simplicity as if they had been wild flowers; and who, so far from possessing any of the old-fashioned pedantry which has aptly been defined as "intellectual tight lacing," were ready to converse on the most trite and every day subjectscasting, however, over every subject on which they conversed, the pure and cheering sunshine of ge

nius.

All these new acquaintances of Stratford's were extremely kind and encouraging in their manner towards him, inquiring into his tastes and employments, praising him for that which he had already done, and encouraging him to do more in future. Such society and such conversation would have realized Talbot's earliest aspirations, and he could not willingly cede those privileges to a man who had never written half a dozen lines to deserve them. Yet Talbot was not a vain nor a selfish man; had Stratford been really gifted by nature with superior abilities to his own, he would have been quite satisfied that he should have reaped the harvest of them. But that Stratford should be distinguished at once by the notice of the gifted ones of earth, and by the smiles of Adelaide Linley, and that he might himself have been occupying that doubly enviable position, had he only kept in the simple path of truthit was indeed a trial to the nerves and to the temper. At length, one day, when the rivals were alone, the smouldering fire burst forth.

"I am very much surprised, Stratford," said Talbot, flattering himself that he was speaking in a remarkably cool, self-possessed tone, when in reality his cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his voice trembled with irritation-"I am very much surprised that you can continue from day to day to enjoy literary celebrity to which you must feel that you have not the shadow of a claim."

Stratford did not return an angry answer to his friend; he was on the winning side, and successful people can always afford to be good-tempered. "I do not see," he replied, "how I can possibly escape all the marks of kindness and distinction that are shown to me."

"Have you any wish to escape them?" asked Talbot, sneeringly.

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