Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make come once more to take leave; nor did I, till short journeys, as they say. Hem. this moment, know the pain I feel in the Mrs. H. [From behind] Sure, he'll do the separation. dear boy no harm.

Miss H. [In her own natural Manner] Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, be glad to know from whence it came? sir, which you can so easily remove. A day

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your I was saying that forty miles in three hours uneasiness, by showing the little value of what was very good going. Hem. As to be sure you now think proper to regret: it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by Mar. This girl every moment improves upon being out in the air. We'll go in, if you me. [Aside] It must not be, madam. I have please. Hem. already trifled too long with my heart, and nothing can restore me to myself, but this painful effort of resolution.

Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices, and am resolved [Raising his Miss H. Then go, sir. I'll urge nothing Voice] to find the other out. more to detain you. Though my family be Mrs. H. [Running forward from behind] as good as her's you came down to visit, and O lud, he'll murder my poor boy, my darling. my education I hope not inferior, what are Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon these advantages without equal affluence? I me. Take my money, my life, but spare that must remain contented with the slight approyoung gentleman, spare my child, if you have bation of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fix'd on fortune.

any mercy.

Hard. My wife! as I am a Christian. From whence can she come, or what does she mean! Mrs. H. [Kneeling] Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice, indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman.

Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES MARLOW from behind.

Mar. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that withHard. I believe the woman's out of her out emotion. But every moment that I con-senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me? verse with you, steals in some new grace, Mrs. H. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My heightens the picture, and gives it stronger fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could expression. What at first seemed rustic plainhave expected to meet you here, in this fright-ness, now appears refined simplicity. What ful place, so far from home? What has seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as brought you to follow us? the result of courageous innocence, and con

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost scious virtue. I am now determined to stay, your wits. So far from home, when you are madam, and I have too good an opinion of withis forty yards of your own door. [To my father's discernment, when he sees you, Tony] This is one of your old tricks, you to doubt his approbation. graceless rogue you. [To Mrs. H.] Don't Miss H. Sir, I must entreat you" desist. you know the gate and the mulberry-tree; As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in and don't you remember the horsepond, my indifference. I might have given an hour or dear? two to levity, but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do Mrs. H. Yes, I shall remember the horse- you think I could ever submit to a connexion pond as long as I live; I have caught my death where I must appear mercenary, and you in it. [To Tony] And is it to you, you grace-imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch less varlet, I owe all this. I'll teach you to at the confident addresses of a secure admirer? abuse your mother, I will. Mar. [Kneeling] Does this look like seTony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you curity? Does this look like confidence? No, have spoiled me, and so you may take the madam, every moment that shows me your fruits on't. merit, only serves to increase my diffidence Mrs. H. I'll spoil you, I will. and confusion. Here let me continue[Beats him off the Stage. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! [Exit.

SCENE III.-A Parlour.

Enter SIR CHARLES MARLOW and MISS HARD-
CASTLE.

Sir C. I can hold it no longer. [Coming forward] Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me. Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation?

Hard. Your cold contempt; your formal interview? What have you to say now? Mar. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean?

Sir C. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son, If what he says be true, I shall then lose one Hard. It means that you can say and unsay that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. things at pleasure. That you can address a Miss H. I am proud of your approbation, lady in private, and deny it in public; that and to show I merit it, if you place your- you have one story for us, and another for selves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit my daughter. declaration. But he comes.

Mar. Daughter!-this lady your daughter?
Hurd. Yes, sir, my only daughter, my Kate.
[Exit. Whose else should she be?
Mar. Oh, the devil.

Sir C. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment.

Enter MARLOW.

Miss H. Yes, sir, that very identical, tall, Mar. Though prepared for setting out, I squinting lady you were pleased to take me

for. [Courtesying] She that you addressed give up my fortune to secure my choice. as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gra- But I'm now recovered from the delusion, vity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle aud hope from your tenderness what is deof the ladies' club, ha! ha! ha! nied me from a nearer connexion. Mar. Zounds! there's no bearing this. Hard. Be it what it will. I'm glad they are Miss H. In which of your characters, sir, come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, will you give us leave to address you? As Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's the faltering gentleman, with looks on the hand whom I now offer you? ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates Tony. What signifies my refusing? You hypocrisy; or the loud, confident creature, know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Hard. While I thought concealing your Mrs. Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning, age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's Mar. O, curse on my noisy head! I never desire to keep it secret. But since I find she attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare taken down. I must be gone. you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father? Hard. Above three months.

ha! ha! ba!

Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man.

[They retire, she tormenting him,

to the back Scene.

Mrs. H. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town; he who came down with our modest visitor here.

Sir C. Who, my honest George Hastings. As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.

Hard. Then by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. Mrs. H. What, returned so soon, I begin not to like it.

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. [Taking Miss Neville's Hand] Witness all men by these presents, that I Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of Blankplace, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again.

Sir C. O brave squire!

Hast. My worthy friend!

Mrs. H. My undutiful offspring!

Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.

Hast. [To Miss Hardcastle] Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.

[Aside. Hard. [Joining their Hands] And I say Hast. [To Hardcastle] For my late at- so too. And Mr. Marlow, if she makes as tempt to fly off with your niece, let my pre- good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't sent confusion be my punishment. We are believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now come back, to appeal from your justice now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather to your humanity. By her father's consent I all the poor of the parish about us, and the first paid her my addresses, and our passions mistakes of the night shall be crowned with were first founded in duty. a merry morning; so, boy, take her: and as

Miss N. Since his death, I have been obliged you have been mistaken in the mistress, my to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. wish is, that you may never be mistaken in In an hour of levity, I was ready even to the wife.

BENJAMIN JONSON,

one of the most considerable dramatic poets of the seventeenth century, whether we consider the number or the merit of his productions, was born at Westminster June 11, 1574, and was educated at the public school there, under the great Camden. He was descended from a Scots family; and his father, who lost his estate under Queen Mary, dying before our poet was born, and his mother marrying a bricklayer for her second husband, Ben was taken from school to work at his father-in-laws trade. Not being captivated with this employment, he went into the Low Countries, and distinguished himself in a military capacity. On his return to England he entered himself at St. John's College, Cambridge; but how long he continued there we are not informed. On his quitting the university he applied to the stage for a maintenance, and became a member of an obscure company, which performed at the Curtain in Shoreditch. At the same time he turned his thoughts to composition; but is generally supposed to have been unsuccessful in his first attempts. His performances as an actor met with little more applause; and, to complete his misery, he had the misfortune in a duel to kill his opponent, for which he was committed to prison; but how long he remained there, or by what methods he obtained his liberty, we have no account. It was, however, while in custody for this offence that he was made a convert to the church of Rome, in whose communion he steadily persisted for twelve years. It is supposed, that about this time he became acquainted with Shakspeare; who, according to tradition, assisted him in some of his dramatic attempts, and considerably promoted his interest, though he could not by means of it secure himself from the virulence of our author's pen. For many years from this period Ben produced some piece annually, for the

most part with applause, and established his reputation with the public as one of the supports of the English stage. In 1613 he was in France; but the occasion of his going, and the stay he made, are alike uncertain. In 1619 he went to Oxford, resided some time at Christchurch College, and in July 1619 was created M. A. in a full house of convocation, On the death of Samuel Daniel, in October, the same year, he succeeded to the vacant laurel; the salary of which was then one hundred marks per annum; but on our author's application in 1630, it was augmented to the annual sum of one hundred pounds and a tierce of Spanish wine. As we do not find Jonson's economical virtues any where recorded, it is the less to be wondered at, that quickly after we learn that he was very poor and sick, lodged in an obscure alley; on which occasion it was, that king Charles, being prevailed on in his favour, sent him ten guineas; which Ben receiving, said, "His Majesty has sent me ten guineas, because I am poor, and live in an alley; go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley." In justice, however, to the memory of Charles, it should be observed, that this story was probably formed from the cynicallness of Ben Jonson's temper, ather than from any real fact; as it is certain that the king once bestowed a bounty of one hundred pounds on him, which is acknowledged in an epigram written on the occasion. He died of the palsy Aug. 16, 1637, aged 65 years, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. We shall here add a character of Ben Jonson as sketched by Dryden: "If we look upon him while he was himself (for his last plays were but his dotages), I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions: his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when, he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humour was his proper sphere, and in that he delighted nost to represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: there is scarce poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times, whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other pocis, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his Language, it was, that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially: perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakspeare. To conclude of him, as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the precepts which he has laid down in his Discoveries, we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us."

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR,

a

Comedy by Ben Jonson. Acted by the Lord Chamberlain's Servants 1598. This comedy is, perhaps, in point of the redundance of characters and power of language, not inferior to any of our author's works. From the character of Kitely it is pretty evident that Dr. Hoadly took the idea of his Strictland in The Suspicious Husband in which, however, he has fallen far short of the original. This play had lain dormant and unemployed for many years, from its revival after the Restoration, until the year 1795; when it was again restored to the stage, with alterations, at Lincoln's Inn Fields. From this time it was no more heard of, until Mr. Garrick, in the year 1751, brought it once more on the stage, with some few alterations, and an additional scene of his own in the fourth act; ever since which time it has continued to be a stock-play, and to be performed very frequently every season. Yet it may be doubted if in any future period this picce will ever appear to the advantage it did at that time; since, exclusive of Mr. Garrick's own abilities in Kitely, and those of Messrs. Woodward and Shuter, in the respective parts of Captain Bobadil and Master Stephen, there was scarcely any one character throughout the whole, that could be conceived by an audience in the strong light, that they were represented by each several performer: such is the prodigious advantage, with respect to an audience, of the conduct of a theatre being lodged in the hands of a man, who, being himself a perfect master in the profession, is able to distinguish the peculiar abil ties of each individual under him, and to adapt them to those characters in which they are, either by nature or acquirement, the best qualified to make a figure. Mr. Whalley observes, that, in this play, as originally written, "the scene was at Florence, the persons represented were Italians, and the manners in great measure conformable to the genius of the place; but in this very play, the humours of the under characters are local, expressing not the manners of a Florentine, but the gulls and bullies of the times and country in which the poet lived. And as it was thus represented on the stage, it was published in the same manner in 1601. When it was printed again in the collection of his works, it had a more becoming and consistent aspect. The scene was transferred to London; the names of the persons were changed to English ones, and the dialogue, incidents, and manners, were suited to the place of action. And thus we now have it in the folio edition of 1616, and in the several editions that have been printed since.

ACT L

Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.

SCENE I.—A Court-yard before KNO'WELL'S He is a scholar, if a man may trust

House.

The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our universities;
Either of which have favour'd him with graces;
But their indulgence must not spring in me
A fond opinion, that he cannot err.
Enter MASTER Stephen.

Cousin Stephen,
What news with you, that you are here so
early?

Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, uncle.

Kno. Oh, well, coz, go in and see: I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.

Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me an' he have e'er a book of the sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.

Step. Sir, an' I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that presently. Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.

Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion, an' you were out o'my uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither in't.

Kno. Why, I hope you will not a haw-not for shame, I wouldking now, will you?

Kno. Cousin! cousin! will this ne'er be left? Step. Whoreson, base fellow! A mechanical servingman! By this cudgel, and 'twere Kno. What would you do, you perempStep. No wosse, but I'll practise against the tory gull? next year, uncle. I have bought me a hawk, If you cannot be quiet, get you hence. and a hood, and bells, and all; I lack nothing You see the honest man demeans himself but a book to keep it by. Modestly towards you, giving no reply Kno. Ob, most ridiculous! To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion: Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage, uncle. Why, you know, an' a man have not As void of wit as of humanity.

skill in the hawking and hunting languages Go get you in; 'fore heaven, I am asham'd now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him. Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. They are more studied than the Greek or the Latin. What, do you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with none but citizens! A fine jest, i'faith! 'Slid, a gentleman mun show himself like a gentleUncle, I pray you be not angry. I know what I have to do, I trow, I am no

[Exit Stephen. Sero. I pray you, sir, is this master Kno'well's house?

nan.

Go cast away your money on a kite,
And know not how to keep it, when you've
done?

So, now you're told on it, you look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Kno. What would I have you do? I'll tell
you, kinsman;

Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have thee do; and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
Who comes here?

Enter a Servant.

Kno. Yes, marry, is't, sir.

Step. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Kno'well. Do you know any such, sir, I pray you?

Kno. I should forget myself else, sir.

Serv. Are you the gentleman? Cry you mercy, sir, I was required by a gentleman i'the city, as I rode out at this end of the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.

Kno. To me, sir? [Reads] To his most selected friend, Master Edward Kno'well.What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?

Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.

Kno. Master Wellbred! A young gentleman, is he not?

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister: the rich merchant i'the Old-jewry. Kno. You say very true. Brainworm!

Re-enter BTAIN WORM.

Brain. Sir.

Kno. Make this honest friend drink here.
Pray you go in.

[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant. This letter is directed to my son: Serv. Save you, gentlemen. Yet I am Edward Kno'well too, and may, Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our With the safe conscience of good manners, use gentility, friend; yet, you are welcome; and The fellow's error to my satisfaction. I assure you, mine uncle here is a man of a Well, I will break it ope, old men are curious. thousand a year, Middlesex land: he has but What's this? [Reads. one son in all the world; I am his next heir Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forat the common law, master Stephen, as simple sworn all thy friends in the Old-jewry? or as I stand here; if my cousin die, as there's dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit hope he will. I have a pretty living o'my there? Leave thy vigilant father alone, to own too, beside, hard by here. number over his green apricots, evening Sero. In good time, sir. and morning, o'the north-west wall: an' 1 Step. In good time, sir! Why? And in had been his son, I had saved him the lavery good time, sir. You do not flout, friend, bour long since; if, taking in all the young do you? wenches that pass by, at the back door, • Serv. Not I, sir. and coddling every kernel of the fruit for Step. Not you, sir! You were not best,'em would ha' served. But, pr'ythee, come sir; an' you should, here be them can per- over to me quickly this morning: I have ceive it, and that quickly too. Go to. And such a present for thee. One is a rhymer, they can give it again soundly too, an' need be. sir, o'your own batch, your own leaven; Sero. Why, sir, let this satisfy you: good but doth think himself poet-major o'the town; faith, I had no such intent. willing to be shown, and worthy to be seen.

Brain. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is tion with you till you come, hecause I would gone, master Stephen.

ha' you make hither with an appetite. If Step. Gone! which way? When went he? the worst of 'em be not worth your jour-How long since? ney, draw your bill of charges as unconscionable as any Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allow'd your viaticum. From the Windmill. From the Burdello, it might come as well! The Spital! Is this the man,

Brain. Why, a fine whisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.

Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now, let him e'en go and hang. Pr'ythee, help to truss me a little. He does so vex meBrain. You'll be worse vex'd when you

Kno. Is the fellow gone that brought this are trussed, master Stephen; best keep un

SCENE II.-Young KNO'WELL'S Study. Step. 'Slid! I hope be laughs not at me; an' he do[Aside. Enter Young KNO'WELL and BRAINWORM. Young K. Here was a letter, indeed, to be Young K. Did he open it, say'st thou? intercepted by a man's father! He cannot Brain. Yes, o'my word, sir, and read the but think most virtuously both of me and the sender, sure, that make the careful costerYoung K. That's bad. What countenance, monger of him in our familiar epistles. I pray thee, made he i'the reading of it? Was he angry or pleas'd?