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With. You are mistaken, young mistress, for an old hunks of a father, who deserved to it is up-stairs in my wig-box. be drubbed for his pains Don't you think he did, sir?

Ag. Well, I am glad it is anywhere but upon your pate, uncle. (Turning his face towards Mariane.) Look at him, pray! is he not ten years younger since he wore it? Is there one bit of an old grumbler to be seen about him now?

Mar. He is no more like the man he was than

I am like my god-mother. (Clapping his shoulder.) You must even do as we have bid you, sir, for this excuse will never bring you off.

With. Poo, poo, it is a foolish girl's whimsy: I'll have nothing to do with it.

Ag. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle guardian, and you must consent to it. For if I am to marry at all, I am resolved to have a respectable man and a man who is attached to me, and to find out such a one, in my present situation, is impossible. I am provoked beyond all patience with your old greedy lords, and match-making aunts, introducing their poor noodle heirs-apparent to me. Your ambitious esquires and proud obsequious baronets are intolerable, and your rakish younger brothers are nauseous: such creatures only surround me, whilst men of sense keep at a distance, and think me as foolish as the company I keep. One would swear I was made of amber, to attract all the dust and chaff of the community.

With. There is some truth in this, 'faith. Ag. You see how it is with me: so my dear, loving, good uncle (coaxing him), do let Mariane take my place for a little while. We are newly come to Bath; nobody knows us: we have been but at one ball, and as Mariane looks so much better than me, she has already been mistaken for the heiress, and I for her portionless cousin: I have told you how we shall manage it; do lend us your assistance!

With. So in the disguise of a portionless spinster, you are to captivate some man of sense, I suppose?

Ag. I would fain have it so.

With. Go, go, thou art a fool, Agnes! who will fall in love with a little ordinary girl like thee? why, there is not one feature in thy face that a man would give a farthing for.

Mar. You are very saucy, uncle.

Ag. I should despair of my beauty, to be sure, since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear sir; yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a great lady, and the prettiest lady that ever wore silk, fell in love, once on a time, with Mr. Anthony, and would have followed him to the world's end too, if it had not been

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With. (to Mar.) And what makes you so eager about it, young lady? you expect, I suppose, to get a husband by the trick. O fy, fy! the poorest girl in England would blush at such a thought, who calls herself an honest one.

Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest man in England who could harbour such a suspicion. But give yourself no uneasiness about this, sir; she need not go a husbandhunting, for she is already engaged. —(Mariane looks frightened, and makes signs to Agnes over her uncle's shoulder, which she answers with a smile of encouragement.)

With. Engaged! she is very good, truly, to manage all this matter herself, being afraid to give me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what fool has she picked out from the herd, to enter into this precious engagement with?

Ag. A foolish enough fellow, to be sure, your favourite nephew, cousin Edward.

Wit. Hang the silly booby! how could he be such an idiot! but it can't be, it shan't be!it is folly to put myself into a passion about it. (To Mariane, who puts her hand on his shoulder to soothe him.) Hold off your hands, ma'am! This is news indeed to amuse me with of a morning.

Ag. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more news; for they are not only engaged, but as soon as he returns from abroad they are to be married.

With. Well, well, let them marry in the devil's name, and go a begging if they please.

Ag. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a begging; they will have a good fortune to support them.

With. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the lottery, or find out the philosopher's stone, and coin their old shoes into guineas.

Ag. No, sir, it is not that way the fortune is to come.

With. No; he has been following some knight-errant, then, I suppose, and will have an island in the South Sea for his pains.

Ag. No, you have not guessed it yet. (Strok

ing his hand gently.) Did you never hear of a good, kind, rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. Withrington? he is to settle a handsome provision upon them as soon as they are married, and leave them his fortune at last.

With. (lifting up his hand). Well, I must say thou art the sauciest little jade in the kingdom! But did you never hear that this worthy uncle of theirs, having got a new wig, which makes him ten years younger than he was, is resolved to embrace the opportunity, and seek out a wife for himself?

Ag. O! that is nothing to the purpose; for what I have said about the fortune must happen, though he should seek out a score of wives for himself.

With. Must happen! but I say it shall not happen. Whether should you or I know best?

Ag. Why me, to be sure.

With. Ha, ha, ha! how so, baggage? Ag. (resting her arm on his shoulder, looking archly in his face). You don't know, perhaps, that when I went to Scotland last summer, I travelled far and far, as the tale says, and farther than I can tell; till I came to the isle of Skye, where everybody has the second sight, | and has nothing to do but tear a little hole in a tartan-plaidy, and peering through it in this manner, sees every thing past, present, and to come. Now, you must know, I gave an old woman half-a-crown and a roll of tobacco for a peep or two through her plaid, and what do you think I saw, uncle?

With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, I sppose.

Ag. There was somebody dancing, to be sure, but it was not the devil though. Who do you think it was now?

With. Poo, poo!

Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wedding, leading down the first dance, with the bride. I saw a sheet of parchment in a corner too, signed with his own blessed hand, and a very handsome settlement it was. So he led down the first dance himself, and we all followed after him, as merry as so many hay-makers.

With. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith! Ag. And I took a second peep through the plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, sir?

With. Nay, prate on as thou wilt.

Ag. A genteel family house where Edward and Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up and down in it. Some of them so tall, and so tall, and some of them no taller than this. And there came good uncle amongst them, and they all flocked about him so mer

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rily; everybody was so glad to see him, the very scullions from the kitchen were glad; and methought he looked as well pleased himself as any of them. Don't you think he did, sir?

With. Have done with thy prating.

Ag. I have not done yet, good sir; for I took another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal changed family indeed. There was a melancholy sick-bed set out in the best chamber: every face was sad, and all the children were weeping. There was one dark-eyed rogue amongst them, called little Anthony, and he threw away his bread and butter, and roared like a young bull, for woe's me! old uncle was dying. (Observing Withrington affected.) But old uncle recovered though, and looked as stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old woman her plaidy, and would not look through any

more.

With. Thou art the wildest little witch in the world, and wilt never be at rest till thou hast got everything thine own way, I believe.

Ag. I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle! (leaping round his neck), it shall be even so, and I shall have my own little boon into the bargain.

With. I did not say so.

Ag. But I know it will be so, and many thanks to you, my dear good uncle! (Mariane ventures to come from behind,—Withrington looks gently to her, she holds out her hand, he hesitates, and Agnes joins their hands together, giving them a hearty shake.)

With. Come, come, let me get away from you now you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. [EXIT hastily.

SONNET.

What art thon, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy seat?
Thoa broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind.
Thon guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon;
Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon,
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span
Dost thon repose? or in the solitude
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Heirs nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?
Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace,
Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

HENRY KIRke White

TO THE MOON.

SERVIAN LYRIC.

[John Keats, born in Moorfields, London, 29th October, 1796; died at Rome, 24th February, 1821. Whilst at school, and whilst serving his apprenticeship to a surgeon at Edmonton, Keats was an earnest student. In 1817 he published a volume of juvenile verses, and in the following year, Endymion, a Poetic Romance. This poem was severely criticized by the Quarterly Review, and it was for some time the popular belief that the harsh criticism was the immediate cause of the poet's early death. On this subject Byron wrote:

"Who killed John Keats?

'I,' says the Quarterly,
So savage and tarta ly,

"Twas one of my feats.""

The fact was, however, that he died of consumption, and it was the hope of finding some relief from that ailment which caused him to proceed to the Continent. In 1820 he issued his third and last volume, containing Lamia, Isabella, The Bre of St. Agnes, and Hyperim. His poetry is characterized by profuse imagery and redundant fancy.]

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee: thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it slee; sa
Within its pearly house. The mighty deps.
The monstrous set is thine-the myriad sea!
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee.
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load.

What is there in thee, Moon! that thou should'st

move

My heart so potently? When yet a child

I oft have dried my tears when thon hast smiled.
Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
From eve to mo n across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
No tumbling water ever spake romance,

But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer tide of blossoming.
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing,

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And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing sprigh,
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashioned to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen-
Thou wast the mountain 10-the sage's pen-
The poet's harp-the voice of friends - the sun;
Thou wast the river-thou wast glory won;
Thon wast my clarion's blast-thou wast my steed-
My goblet full of wine my topmost deed:-
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
O what a wild and harmonized tune

My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality.-

SERVIAN LYRIC.1

Was it a vine, with clusters white,

That clung round Buda's statel.est tower? O no: it was a lady bright,

That hung upon an armed knight-
It was their parting hour.

They had been wedded in their youth;

Together they had spent their bloom; That hearts so long entwined in truth Asunder should be torn in ruth,

It was a cruel doom.

"Go forth," she said, "pursue thy way:
But some fair garden shouldst thou see,
Alone among the arbours stray,
And pluck a rose-leaf from the spray,
The freshest there may be;

"Unclasp thy mail, when none is by,
That leaf upon thy breast to lay.
How soon 'twill wither, fade and die,
Observe-for that poor leaf am I,
From thee, my stem away."

"And thon, my soul." the soldier said, "When I am wandering faint and far, Go thou to our own greenwood shade, Where I the marble fountain made, And placed the golden ja..

"At noon I filled my jar with wine,

And dropp'd therein a ball of snow,
Lay that on this warm heart of thine,
And while it mel's behold me pine
In solitary woe."

SIR JOHN BOWRING.

1 From "Translations from the Servian Minstrelsy," &c, London, 1826, 4to.

duns, jewellers, mercers, milliners: I think they always fix on Mondays for dunning: I

JOURNAL OF A LADY OF FASHION. suppose it is because they know one is sure to

[Marguerite, Countess of Blessington, born at Knockbut, Tipperary, 1787; died in Paris, 4th June. 1849. She was the second daughter of Mr. Edmund

Power of Carrabeen. She was twice married, her second

husband being Charles John Gardiner, Earl of Blessington. After the earl's death (1829), the countess established herself at Gore House, which became the resort of

all the celebrities of the day. She was famous as much

on account of her beauty as her wit, and Byron has left testimony to the former in his verses addressed to

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her:

"Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongne,
And the theme is too soft for my shen."

She wrote over a dozen novels, several gossipping

books of travel, numerous short tales, and for seven years edited the Kepsake and Gems of Beauty annuals.

Her most notable works are: Conversations with Lord Byron: The Idler in Italy: Th: Idler in France (coutain

ing sketches of the most eminent home and foreign

statesmen and men of letters); The Belle of the Season; Victims of Society; and Sketches and Fragments, from which the following is taken.]

Monday.-Awoke with a headache, the certain effect of being bored all the evening before by the never-dying strain at the Countess of Leyden's. Nothing ever was half so tiresome as musical parties: no one gives them except those who can exhibit themselves, and fancy they excel. If you speak, during the perform ance of one of their endless pieces, they look cross and affronted: except that all the world of fashion are there, I never would go to another; for, positively, it is ten times more fatiguing than staying at home. To be compelled to look charmed, and to applaud, when you are half-dead from suppressing yawns, and to see half-a-dozen very tolerable men, with whom one could have had a very pleasant chat, except for the stupid music, is really too bad. Let me see, what have I done this day? Oh! I remember everything went wrong, as it always does when I have a headache. Flounce, more than usually stupid, tortured my hair; and I flushed my face by scolding her. I wish people could scold without getting red, for it disfigures one for the whole day; and the consciousness of this always makes me more angry, as I think it doubly provoking in Flounce to discompose me, when she must know it spoils my looks.

Dressing from twelve to three. Madame Tornure sent me a most unbecoming cap: mem. I shall leave her off when I have paid her bill. Heigh-ho, when will that be? Tormented by

be horribly vapoured after a Sunday-evening's party, and they like to increase one's miseries.

Just as I was stepping into my carriage, fancying that I had got over the désagrémens of the day, a letter arrives to say that my mother is very ill and wants to see me: drove to Grosvenor Square in no very good humour for nursing, and, as I expected, found that Madame Ma Mère fancies herself much worse than she really is. Advised her to have dear

Dr. Emulsion, who always tells people they are not in danger, and who never disturbs his patient's mind with the idea of death until the moment of its arrival: found my sister supporting mamma's head on her bosom, and heard that she had sat up all night with her: by-the-by, she did not look half so fatigued and ennuied as I did. They seemed both a little surprised is no standing a sick room in May. My sister at my leaving them so soon; but really there begged of me to come soon again, and cast a look of alarm (meant only for my eye) at my mother; I really think she helps to make her hippish, for she is always fancying her in danger. Made two or three calls: drove in the park: saw Belmont, who looked as if he expected to see me, and who asked if I was to be at the Duchess of Winterton's to-night. I promised to go-he seemed delighted. What would Lady Allendale say, if she saw the pleasure which the assurance of my going gave him? I long to let her see my triumph. Dined tête-à-tête-my lord very sulky-abused my friend Lady Winstanley, purposely to pique me-he wished me not to go out; said it was shameful, and mamma so ill; just as if my staying at home would make her any better. Found a letter from madame the governess, saying that the children want frocks and stockings:-they are always wanting:-I do really believe they wear out their things purposely to plague me. Dressed for the Duchess of Winterton's: wore my new Parisian robe of blonde lace, trimmed, in the most divine way, with lilies of the valley. Flounce said I looked myself, and I believe there was some truth in it for the little discussion with my Caro had given an animation and lustre to my eyes. I gave Flounce my puce-coloured satin pelisse as a peace-offering for the morning scold.-The party literally full almost to suffocation. Belmont was hovering near the door of the anteroom, as if waiting my approach: he said I never looked so resplendent: Lady Allendale appeared ready to die with envy-very few

handsome women in the room-and still fewer | I opened it.-Found it filled with hearts, and well dressed. Looked in at Lady Calderwood's and Mrs. Burnet's. Belmont followed me to cach. Came home at half-past three o'clock, tired to death, and had my lovely dress torn past all chance of repair, by coming in contact with the button of one of the footmen in Mrs. | B.'s hall. This is very provoking, for I dare say Madame Tornure will charge abominably high for it.

Tuesday.-Awoke in good spirits, having had delightful dreams-sent to know how mamma felt, and heard she had a bad night: -must call there, if I can:-wrote madame a lecture, for letting the children wear out their clothes so fast: Flounce says they wear out twice as many things as Lady Woodland's children. Read a few pages of Amelia Mansfield: very affecting: put it by for fear of making my eyes red. Lady Mortimer came to see me, and told me a great deal of scandal chit-chat: she is very amusing. I did not get out until past five: too late then to go and see mamma. Drove in the park and saw Lady Litchfield walking: got out and joined her: the people stared a good deal. Belmont left his horse and came to us: he admired my walking dress very much.-Dined alone, and so escaped a lecture:- had not nerves sufficient to see the children-they make such a noise and spoil one's clothes. Went to the opera: wore my tissue turban, which has a good effect. Belmont came to my box and sat every other visitor out. My lord came in and looked, as usual, sulky. Wanted me to go away without waiting for the dear delightful squeeze of the round room. My lord scolded the whole way home, and said I should have been by the sickbed of my mother instead of being at the opera. I hummed a tune, which I find is the best mode of silencing him, and he muttered something about my being unfeeling and incorrigible.

Wednesday. Did not rise till past one o'clock, and from three to five was occupied in trying on dresses and examining new trimmings. Determined on not calling to see mamma this day, because, if I found her much worse, I might be prevented from going to Almack's, which I have set my heart on:drove out shopping, and bought some lovely things-met Belmont, who gave me a note which he begged me to read at my leisure:had half a mind to refuse taking it, but felt confused, and he went away before I recovered my self-possession:-almost determined on returning it without breaking the seal, and put it into my reticule with this intention; but somehow or other my curiosity prevailed, and

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darts, and declarations:-felt very angry at first; for really it is very provoking that one can't have a comfortable little flirtation half-adozen times with a man, but that he fancies he may declare his passion, and so bring on a dénouement; for one must either cut the creature, which, if he is amusing, is disagreeable, or else he thinks himself privileged to repeat his love on every occasion. How very silly men are in acting thus; for if they continued their assiduities without a positive declaration, one might affect to misunderstand their attentions, however marked; but those decided declarations leave nothing to the imagination; and offended modesty, with all the guards of female propriety, are indispensably up in arms. I remember reading in some book that "A man has seldom an offer of kindness to make to a woman, that she has not a presentiment of it some moments before;" and I think it was in the same book that I read, that a continuation of quiet attentions, leaving their meaning to the imagination, is the best mode of gaining a female heart. My own experience has proved the truth of this.-I wish Belmont had not written to me:--I don't know what to do:-how shocked my mother and sister would be if they knew it!--I have promised to dance with him at Almack's too:how disagreeable! I shall take the note and return it to him, and desire that he will not address me again in that style. I have read the note again, and I really believe he loves me very much:-poor fellow, I pity him:how vexed Lady Winstanley would be if she knew it !-I must not be very angry with him: I'll look grave and dignified, and so awe him, but not be too severe. I have looked over the billet again, and don't find it so presumptuous as I first thought it:-after all, there is nothing to be angry about, for fifty women of rank have had the same sort of thing happen to them without any mischief following it. Belmont says I am a great prude, and I believe I am; for I frequently find myself recurring to the sage maxims of mamma and my sister, and asking myself what would they think of so and so. Lady Winstanley laughs at them and calls them a couple of precise quizzes; but still I have remarked how much more lenient they are to a fault than she is. Heigh-ho, I am afraid they have been too lenient to mine:but I must banish melancholy reflections, and dress for Almack's. Flounce told me, on finishing my toilette, that I was armed for conquest; and that I never looked so beautiful. Mamma would not much approve of Flounce's

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