Pri. Have you not wronged me?
Jaf. Could my nature e'er

Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wronged you?

Pri. Yes, wronged me! In the nicest point,
The honor of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember (for I now will speak,

And urge its baseness), when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on,
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation,
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits:
My house, my table, nay, my fortune, too,

My very self, was yours; - you might have used me
To your
best service. Like an open friend,

I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine,
When, in requital of my best endeavors,
You treacherously practised to undo me:
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom.
O, Belvidera!

Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her:

you

Childless had been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since, in your brigantine, you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke;
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock, when to your boat
You made for safety: entered first yourself;
The affrighted Belvidera following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was, by a wave, washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And, buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms:
Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude

Rose in her soul; for from that hour she loved me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

Pr. You stole her from me! like a thief
At dead of night! that curséd hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.

you stole her,

May all your joys in her prove false, like mine!
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed,

Attend you both! continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous! still
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you; till, at last, you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion!

-

Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain ; — Heaven has already crowned our outcast lot With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, And happier than his father!

Pri. Rather live

To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears

With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother
Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want!
Jaf. You talk as if 't would please you.
Pri. "T would, by Heaven!

Jaf. Would I were in my grave!

Pri. And she, too, with thee!

For, living here, you 're but my cursed remembrancers I was once happy!

Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul
Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive

My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs

As

you upbraid me with, what hinders me

But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?
Pri. You dare not do 't!

Jaf. Indeed, my Lord, I dare not.

My heart, that awes me, is too much my master.

Three years are past, since first our vows were plighted,
During which time, the world must bear me witness,
I've treated Belvidera as your daughter, —

The daughter of a Senator of Venice;
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded.

Out of my little fortune I've done this;

Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself,

Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

Pri. No more!

Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu forever.

There's not a wretch that lives on common charity

But's happier than I; for I have known

The luscious sweets of plenty ;--

every night

Have slept with soft content about my head,

And never waked but to a joyful morning;

Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,

Whose blossom 'scaped, yet 's withered in the ripening!
Pri. Home, and be humble! Study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin in thy hall,

Those pageants of thy folly;

Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife

To humble weeds, fit for thy little state;

Then to some suburb cottage both retire;

Drudge to feed loathsome life! Hence, hence, and starve!
Home, home, I say!

39. NOTHING IN IT.-Charles Mathews.

Leech. But you don't laugh, Coldstream! Come, man, be amused, for once in your life! you don't laugh.

Sir Charles. O, yes, I do. You mistake; I laughed twice, distinctly, only, the fact is, I am bored to death!

Leech. Bored? What! after such a feast as that you have given us? Look at me,- I'm inspired! I'm a King at this moment, and all the world is at my feet!

Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late. You are a young fellow, forty-five, and have the world yet before you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried everything, heard everything, done everything, know everything; and here I am, a man of thirty-three, literally used up-completely blasé !

Leech. Nonsense, man!-used up, indeed! — with your wealth, with your twenty estates in the sunniest spots in England, - not to mention that Utopia, within four walls, in the Rue de Provence, in Paris.

Sir C. I'm dead with ennui!

Leech. Ennui! poor Croesus!

-

Sir C. Croesus!- no, I'm no Croesus! My father, you 've seen his portrait, good old fellow! - he certainly did leave me a little mat

ter of twelve thousand pounds a year; but, after all

Leech. O, come!

Sir C. O, I don't complain of it.

Leech. I should think not.

Sir C. O, no; there are some people who can manage to do on less, on credit.

Leech. I know several. My dear Coldstream, you should try change of scene.

Sir C. I have tried it; - what's the use?

Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe.

Sir C. I have;

- there's nothing in it.

Leech. Nothing in all Europe?

Sir C. Nothing! - O, dear, yes! I remember, at one time, I did, somehow, go about a good deal.

Leech. You should go to Switzerland.

Sir C. I have been. Nothing there, people say so much about everything. There certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's, — less trouble, and more in it.

Leech. Then, if Switzerland would n't do, I'd try Italy.

Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again,- and what then?

Leech. Did not Rome inspire you?

Sir C. O, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole! People talk so much about these things. There's the Coloseum, now; - round, very round, a goodish ruin enough; but I was disappointed with it. Capitol,-tolerable high; and St. Peter's,— marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not badly scooped; but there was nothing in it.

Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London.

Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but, if we wanted such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over. Leech. Ha, ha! well said, you're quite right. What say you to beautiful Naples ?

Sir C. Not bad,

excellent water-melons, and goodish opera; they took me up Vesuvius, a horrid bore! It smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched mountain;

looked down, but there was nothing in it.

Leech. But the bay?

Sir C. Inferior to Dublin!

Leech. The Campagna ?

Sir C. A swamp!

Leech. Greece?

Sir C.

A morass!

Leech. Athens ?

saw the crater

Leech. Egypt?·

Sir C. A desert!

Leech. The Pyramids ?

Sir C. Humbugs! - nothing in any of them! You bore me. Is

it possible that you cannot invent something blood boil in my veins, my hair stand on end, pulse rise; that would produce an excitement

sation
Leech. I've an idea!
Sir C. You? What is it?
Leech. Marry!

- a palpitation — but, no!

that would make my

my heart beat, - my

an emotion

a sen

Sir C. Hum!-well, not bad. There's novelty about the notion; it never did strike me to- O, but, no: I should be bored with the exertion of choosing. If a wife, now, could be had like a dinner-for ordering.

Leech. She can, by you. Take the first woman that comes: on my life, she 'll not refuse twelve thousand pounds a year.

Sir C. Come, I don't dislike the project; I almost feel something like a sensation coming. I haven't felt so excited for some time; it's a novel enjoyment-a surprise! I'll try it.

40. MOSES AT THE FAIR.-J. S. Coyne.

Jenkinson, having thrown aside his disguise as a quack doctor, enters with a box under his arm, encounters Moses, and sets down his box.

One

Jenkinson. A wonderful man! A wonderful man! Moses. Ah, a patient of that impudent quack doctor. Jen. Quack doctor, Sir? Would there were more such! draught of his aqua soliginus has cured me of a sweating sickness, that was on me now these six years; and carried a large imposthume off my throat, that scarce let me eat, drink or sleep, except in an upright posture, and now it has gone as clean, saving your presence, as [picks his pocket] - that, Sir! O, a wonderful man! I came here, at full length, in a cart; but I shall ride back as upright as a gate-post, if I can but come by a horse.

Moses [aside]. A customer for the colt; he seems a simple fellow. I have a horse to sell, Sir.

Jen. O! I warrant me you are one of those cozening horse-jockeys that take in poor honest folk. I know no more of horses than you do of Greek.

- I assure you, I have a good

Moses. Nay-[aside] — but I must appear simple.Sir, that you need not fear being cozened by me. stout colt for sale, that has been worked in the plough these two years; you can but step aside and look at him.

Jen. Well, as for that, I don't care if I do; but, bless me! I was forgetting my wares. [Takes up his box.

Moses. What have you there?

Jen. [mysteriously]. Ah! that's a secret. They're my wares. There's a good twelve pounds' worth under the lid of that box. But you'll not talk about it, or I might be robbed; the fair 's full of rogues; perhaps you 're one of 'em,-you look mighty sharp!

Moses. Nay, my good man, I am as honest as thyself; [aside]though perhaps not quite such a simpleton!

Jen. Well, I don't care if I do look at thy horse; [aside]and you may say good-by to him. But you 're sure he's quiet to ride and drive?

Moses. I've driven him myself, and I am not one that driveth furiously; and you may believe he 's quiet to ride, when I tell you he 's carried my mother, an old lady, and never thrown her. [Aside.] It 's