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Lyd. Will you then, Beverley, consent to
forfeit that portion of my paltry wealth? that
burden on the wings of love?

Abs. Oh, come to me rich only thus in.
loveliness! Bring no portion to me but thy
love 'twill be generous in you, Lydia for
well you know, it is the only dower your poor
Beverley can repay.

Lyd. How persuasive are his words! how
charming will poverty be with him! [Aside.

Abs. Ah! my soul, what a life will we then
live! Love shall be our idol and support! we
will worship him with a monastic strictness;
abjuring all worldly toys, to centre every
thought and action there. Proud of calamity,
we will enjoy the wreck of wealth; while the
surrounding gloom of adversity shall make
the flame of our pure love show doubly bright.
By Heavens! I would fling all goods of fortune
from me with a prodigal hand, to enjoy the
scene where I might clasp my Lydia to my
bosom, and say, the .world affords no smile to
me but here [Embracing her.} If she holds
out now, the devil is in it! [Aside.

Lyd. Now could I fly with him to the anti-
podes ! but my persecution is not yet come to
a crisis. [Aside.

Re-enter MRS. MALAPROP, listening.

Mrs. Mai. I am impatient to know how
the little hussy deports herself. [Aside.

Abs. So pensive, Lydia! is then your
warmth abated?

Mrs. Mai. Warmth abated! so! she has
been in a passion, I suppose. [Aside.


Lyd. No nor ever can while I have life.

Mrs. Mai. An ill-tempered little devil!
She'll be in a passion all her life will she ?


Lyd. Think not the idle threats of my ridic-
ulous aunt can ever have any weight with me.

Mrs. Mai. Very dutiful, upon my word!


Lyd. Let her choice be Captain Absolute,
but Beverley is mine.

Mrs. Mai. I am astonished at her assur-
ance! to his face this is to his face! [Aside.

Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit.


Mrs. Mai. [Aside. ] Ay, poor young man!
down on his knees entreating for pity! I
can contain no longer. [Coming forward.]
Why, thou vixen! I have overheard you.

Abs. Oh, confound her vigilance. [Aside.

Mrs. Mai. Captain Absolute, I know not
how to apologize for her shocking rudeness.

Abs. [Aside.] So all's safe, I find. [Aloud.]
I have hopes, madam, that time will bring
the young lady

Mrs. Mai. Oh, there's nothing to be hoped
for from her! she's as headstrong as an allegory
on the banks of Nile.

Lyd. Nay, madam, what do you charge me
with now?

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou unblushing rebel
didn't you tell this gentleman to his face that
you loved another better? didn't you say you
never would be his?

Lyd. No, madam I did not.

Mrs. Mai. Good Heavens! what assurance!
Lydia, Lydia, you ought to know that lying
don't become a young woman! Didn't you
boast that Beverley, that stroller Beverley,
possessed your heart? Tell me that, I say.

Lyd. 'Tis true, ma'am, and none but

Mrs. Mai. Hold! hold, Assurance! you
shall not be so rude.

Abs. Nay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop
the young lady's speech : -she's very Avelcome to
talk thus it does not hurt me in the least, I
assure you.

Mrs. Mai. You are too good, captain too
amiably patient but come with me, miss.
Let us see you again, soon, captain remember
what we have fixed.

Abs. I shall, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. Come, take a graceful leave of
the gentleman.

Lyd. May every blessing wait on my Beverley,
my loved Bev

Mrs. Mai. Hussy! I'll choke the word in
your throat! come along come along.

[Exeunt severally; CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE
kissing his hand to LYDIA Mrs. MALA-
PEOP stopping her from tpeaking.


Mrs. Mai. Why, thou perverse one ! tell
me what you can object to him ? Isn't he a
handsome man? tell me that. A genteel
man ? a pretty figure of a man ?

Lyd. [Aside.] She little thinks whom she is
praising! [Aloud.] So is Beverley, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. No caparisons, miss, if you please.
Caparisons don't become a young woman. No!
Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman!

Lyd. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have
seen. [Aside.

Mrs. Mai. Then he's so well bred; so full
of alacrity, and adulation! and has so much
to say for himself: in such good language
too! His physiognomy so grammatical! Then
his presence is so noble! I protest, when I saw
him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the

"Hesperian curls the front of Job himself!
An eye, like March, to threaten at command!
A station, like Harry Mercury, new "

Something about kissing on a hill however,
the similitude struck me directly.

Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently, when
she discovers her mistake! [Aside.


Ser. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are
below, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. Show them up here. [Exit
SERVANT. ] Now, Lydia, I insist on your be-
having as becomes a young woman. Show
your good breeding, at least, though you have
forgot your duty.

Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution!
I shall not only give him no encouragement,
but I won't even speak to, or look at him.

[Ffhigs herself into a chair, with her face

from the door.


Sir Anth. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop;
come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting
beauty, and difficulty enough I had to bring
this fellow. I don't know what's the matter;
but if I had not held him by force, he'd have
given me the slip.

Mrs. Mai. You have infinite trouble, Sir
Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the
cause! [Aside to LYDIA.] Lydia, Lydia, rise,
I beseech you! pay your respects!

Sir Anth. I hope, madam, that Miss



languish has reflected on the worth of this
g mtleman, and the regard due to her aunt's
choice, and my alliance. [Aside to CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE. ] Now, Jack, speak to her.

Abs. [Aside.} What the devil shall I do!
[Aside to SIR ANTHONY.] You see, sir, she
won't even look at me whilst you are here. I
knew she wouldn't! I told you so. Let me
entreat you, sir, to leave us together!

[Seems to expostulate ivith his father.

Lyd. [Aside."} I wonder I ha'n't heard my
aunt exclaim yet! sure she can't have looked
at him! perhaps their regimentals are alike,
and she is something blind.

Sir Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet!

Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony,
that my affluence over my niece is very small.
[Aside to LYDIA.] Turn round, Lydia: I
blush for you!

Sir Anth. May I not natter myself, that
Miss Languish will assign what cause of dis-
like she can have to my son! [Aside to CAP-
TAIN ABSOLUTE.] Why don't you begin, Jack?
Speak, you puppy speak!

Mrs. Mai. It is impossible, Sir Anthony,
she can have any. She will not say she has.
[Aside to LYDIA.] Answer, hussy! why don't
you answer?

Sir Anth. Then, madam, I trust that a
childish and hasty predilection will be no bar to
Jack's happiness. [Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOL-
UTE.] Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak?

Lyd. [Aside. ] I think my lover seems as
little inclined to conversation as myself. How
strangely blind my aunt must be !

Abs. Hem! hem! madam hem! [Attempts
to speak, then returns to SIR ANTHONY.] Faith!
sir, I am so confounded! and so so con-
fused! I told you I should be so, sir I knew
it. The the tremor of my passion entirely
takes away my presence of mind.

Sir A nth. But it don't take away your voice,
fool, does it ?^Go up, and speak to her directly!
[CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE makes signs to MRS.
MALAPROP to leave them together.

Mrs. Mai. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them
together ? [Aside to LYDIA.] Ah! you stubborn
little vixen!

Sir Anth. Not yet, ma'am, not yet! [Aside
to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] What the devil are
you at ? unlock your jaws, sirrah, or

Abs. [Aside."] Now Heaven send she may
be too sullen to look round! I must disguise
my voice. [Draws near LYDIA, and speaks in
a low hoarse tone. ] Will not Miss Languish
lend an ear to the mild accents of true love ]
Will not .

Sir Anth. What the devil ails the fellow?

Why don't you speak out? not stand croaking
like a frog in a quinsy!

Abs. The the excess of my awe, and
my my my modesty, quite choke me!

Sir Anth. Ah! your modesty again! I'll
tell you what, Jack; if you don't speak out
directly, and glibly too, I shall be in such a
rage! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would
favour us with something more than a side-

[MRS. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA.
Abs. [Aside.] So all will out, I see! [Goes
up to LYDIA, speaks softly."] Be not surprised,
my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.

Lyd. [Aside.] Heavens! 'tis Beverley's
voice! Sure he can't have imposed on Sir
AntRony too? [Looks round by degrees, then
starts up.] Is this possible! my Beverley!
how can this be? my Beverley?
Abs. Ah! 'tis all over. [Aside.

Sir Anth. Beverley! the devil! Beverley!
What can the girl mean? This is my son,
Jack Absolute.

Mrs. Mai. For shame, hussy! for shame!
your head runs so on that fellow, that you
have him always in your eyes! beg Captain
Absolute's pardon directly.

Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my
loved Beverley!

Sir Anth. Zounds! the girl's mad! her
brain's turned by reading.

Mrs. Mai. 0' my conscience, I believe so!-

What do you mean by Beverley, hussy? You

saw Captain Absolute before to-day; there he

is your husband that shall be.

Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am when I

refuse my Beverley

Sir Anth. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!
or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's
trick! Come here, sirrah, who the devil are

Abs. Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself;
but I'll endeavour to recollect.

Sir Anth. Are you my son or not? answer
for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me.
Mrs. Mai. Ay, sir, who are you? mercy!
I begin to suspect!

Abs. [Aside.] Ye powers of impudence, be-
friend me! [Aloud.] Sir Anthony, most as-
suredly I am your wife's son, and that I sin-
cerely believe myself to be yours also, I hope
my duty has always shown. Mrs. Malaprop,
I am your most respectful admirer, and shall
be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need
not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful
Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity
of her temper, assumed that name and station,
which has proved a test of the most disinterested


love, which he now hopes to enjoy in a more
elevated character.

Lyd. So! there will be no elopement after

Mrs. Mai. Lud! Sir Anthony! a new
light breaks in upon me: hey! how! what!
captain, did you write the letters then? What
am I to thank you for the elegant compila-
tion of an old weather-beaten she-dragon hey!
mercy ! was it you that reflected on my
parts of speech ?

Abs. Dear sir! my modesty will be over-
powered at last, if you don't assist me I shall
certainly not be able to stand it:

Sir Antli. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we
must forget and forgive; odds life! matters
have taken so clever a turn all of a sudxlen,
that I could find in my heart to be so good-
humoured! and so gallant! hey! Mrs. Malaprop!

Mrs. Mai. Well, Sir Anthony, since you
desire it, we will not anticipate the past ! so
mind, young people our retrospection will be
all to the future.

From, the Rivals, a Comedy.


Higher, higher will we climb

Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live througn time

In our country's story;
Happy, when our welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge ;
Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil,

"Win from school or college ;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press

Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty.
Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heaven on earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather :
Oh! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.



[Tliomas Gray, born in Cornhill, London, 26th
December, 1716; died 30th July, 1771. Educated at
Eton and at Cambridge. In 1757 he declined the office
of poet-laureate, which had 1 ecome vacant by the
death of Cibber. He resided in Cambridge during tlie
greater part of his life, and in 17(58 lie was appointed
professor of modern history in the University there.
His most popular poems are the odes On a Diituiit fio-
spect of Eton Colltge, and To Spring, the Hyn.n to A d-rer-
sity, and The Eltgy. Of the latter Beattin wrote : " It
is a poem which is universally understood arid admired,
not only for its poetical beauties, but also, and perhaps
chiefly, for its expressing sentiments in which every
man thinks himself interested, and which at certain
times are familiar to all men. 1 ' Byron said: "Gray's
elegy pleased instantly and eternally." The MS. of
this poem was sold in 1845 for 100.]

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy -mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon comph.in

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reigri.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shnde,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built

The* cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke :

How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy
stroke !

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.


The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted

The peeling anthem swells the note of praise.

(Jan storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or tiatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the souL

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applaxise of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes con-

Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd

The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;

Another came nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he :

"The next, with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw
him borne :

Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."


Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown :

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :

He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear,

He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.





Otto von D , after an absence of several
years, two of which he had spent in the luxu-
rious capital of France, was recalled to his
native Germany by the unexpected death of
his father. He found the family estate in-
volved in difficulties, chiefly occasioned by ex-
travagance and mismanagement, which would
have appeared inextricable to a mind possess-
ing less energy than his own; but by at once
adopting a system of curtailment and method
he soon succeeded in bringing matters into
such a train, as not only enabled him to dis-
charge the accumulated arrears of interest, but
also gradually to reduce the principal debt
with which his property had been improvi-
dently burdened.

It was not until his mind was relieved of
this first care, and he could uninterruptedly
form his plans for the future, that Otto thought
of choosing a companion viho might share with
him the sweets of life, and assist him in com-
bating its toils. He had left Adelaide, the
youngest daughter of his neighbour Von Z ,
an interesting girl of fourteen; on his return
he found her blooming in all the charms of
youthful innocence; and he was not slow in
observing, as well in the hearty welcome of her
parents, as in the tell-tale blush of the maiden
herself, that his addresses would not be un-
acceptable. He therefore embraced an early
opportunity to declare his sentiments; and,
after the preliminaries usual on such occasions,
the happy day was fixed, arrived, and was ob-
served with all those ceremonies which the
country people in some parts of Germany still
religiously keep up, according to the good old
custom of their forefathers.

First came the wedding guests, conducting
the bride, modestly clad in white, with a veil
covering her face, and who were met on the
lawn by the peasantry, preceded by the village
musicians. The married women brought their
offering of a cradle and fine baby linen, spun
by themselves; the lads presented a handsome
plough and harness; the maidens a snow-white
lamb; and the children doves and flowers.
Adelaide gave her hand to all in silence; Otto
spoke few, but impressive words, and on con-
cluding, invited the whole party, in the name
of the bride's father, to a collation and dance on
the green, for which preparations had already
been made.

The lamps were now lighted up, and fiddle

and pipe were sounding merrily under the
sweet-scented linden-trees, when a foreign liv-
ery-servant, whose coat was rather the worse
for wear, made his appearance on the dancing
place. His singular tones and strange gesticu-
lations soon collected around him a troop of
laughing villagers; but it was not without con-
siderable difficulty gathered from the broken
German of the orator (whose hands and feet
were equally eloquent with his tongue), that
his master's carriage had been overturned in
the neighbourhood, and that a wheel was
broken to pieces, which he was anxious to have
put to rights, in order that he might prosecute
his journey.

"Who talks of mending wheels, or going
further to-day?" hiccupped the bride's father,
whose satisfaction at his daughter's good for-
tune had displayed itself at table in copious
libations. " To-day," added he, patting his
ample sides, " let all wheels go in shivers; no
man shall pass this house to-day; you may tell
your master so; but stay, you may as well
take me to him." So saying, and attended by
a crowd of followers, he proceeded to the high-
way, where they soon perceived a small wax-
cloth-covered carriage lying upset on the road,
one of its hinder-wheels being as effectually
demolished as if an axe had been used in the
operation. A tall thin figure, dressed in a
plain blue frock-coat, having his right arm in
a sling, a patch over his left eye, and whose
woebegone looks imparted to his general ap-
pearance no distant resemblance to the knight
of the rueful countenance, stood near the ve-
hicle, holding a jaded rosinante by the bridle.
No sooner did he perceive the party approach-
ing than, hastening towards them, he addressed
their leader in French, with much politeness
of manner and fluency of utterance. Unfor-
tunately, however, old Z 's court language
had lain too long rusty, and the state of his
ideas was too muddled to enable him to brush
it up at the moment, so that he was obliged to
make the stranger understand, more by signs
than words, that he must not think of con-
tinuing his journey that day at least, but must
remain with them as a wedding guest.

The invitation was accepted with many
thanks; and the stranger, having caused his
Sancho to wipe the dust from his hat and boots,
put his collar to rights, and opened his surtout,
under which a sort of uniform modestly peeped
out. Thus prepared, he set himself in motion,
by the help of a stout crutch-stick; and it then
further appeared that his left foot was also
disabled, though there was something not un-
graceful in its hobble. On reaching the Linden-



place he requested to be introduced to the
young couple, and after wishing the bride-
groom joy, he kissed the bride's hand, with
the air of an old beau, and whispered many
flattering things to her in his own language.

When this matter was settled, all hastened
again to dance and play. Otto soon removed
his bride to another quarter; and it seemed
quite natural that the stiff and wearied old
man should choose his seat on a bench apart
from persons who neither understood him nor
he them.

On supper being announced, the stranger
accompanied the rest to the eating apartment,
where he planted himself, with considerable
adroitness, between two of the rosiest and
plumpest lasses in the room, to the no small
mortification of a young lieutenant, who had
fixed on this place for himself. Hilarity and
mirth now presided over the happy party : the
good-humoured joke was bandied about, and

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