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composition in English. You have probably read it, and if you have, I will venture to say, you went through the whole book without ever once having had your attention called off from the subject to admire the stile. So properly are the words chosen to convey the idea, that they always lead the mind directly forward to the object in view, without the smallest rub of any kind to call off the attention; and it is only after you have completed your journey, and have time to look back, that you begin to perceive the beauty and the perfection of that road which conducted you so happily to the journey's end. A writer may be compared, in some respects, to a player. He who by unnatural gestures, and exaggerated contortions of, countenance, outrages nature, is sure to set the whole house in an uproar, by the continued plaudits of the undiscerning multitude. But when a Garrick appears, the player is forgot; he seems to be the very simple clown, himself, he represents; and the uninformed spectator wonders why any one should admire that which he sees every day among his simple neighbours. Or if he represents a scene of dignified distrefs, the representation is so natural, so irresistibly pathetic, that the mind has no leisure to attend to any thing else but the affecting object before them. Admiration, applause, and every other feeling, are suspended in the agony of silent heart-felt sympathy; and a stranger at that time entering and observing the audience, without attending to the stage, would wonder why they were so silent.' Never is a player treading, with proper dignity, the tragic stage, when, in an interesting scene, the au

dience can find leisure to admire the art, and the high attainments of the actor. It was a high eulogium, indeed, that a friend of mine once paid to Mrs Crawford, then Mrs Barry, as an actress, when he said, that, in a very full house, the audience were So overcome as scarcely to venture to breathe ; "You might have heard a pin, (said he,) drop upthe floor." How different this from the noisy applause that overstrained grimace so necefsarily excites! Gregory's stile may be compared to the acting of Garrick ;-it is only by a retrospective view that its superior excellence can be discovered.

I am happy, my dear boy, that I can close this letter with one sincere eulogium at least; for I am afraid the preceding part of my remarks would appear to you so severe, that you might suspect they were dictated by ill nature, or envy of some sort. To those who know me lefs than you do, this would be so natural, that I should not perhaps have ventured on giving my opinion so freely to others as I have done to you. I have not yet exhausted this subject; but I will not run the risk of effacing these pleasing imprefsions on your mind, by any farther remarks at present; as it is but very seldom indeed that I can have occasion to bestow applause with as little abatement as in the case just now before us. It is by contemplating the chaste models of antiquity, and the very few modern productions that can vie with them, that you can attain a just notion of what is meant by beauty of composition; but when you do attain it, you will find it is a source of great enjoy, ment. Adieu,


[Just published.]

Sir Thomas More, and Margaret his daughter.
Sir Thomas. CHILD, I must fall.

I cannot, with integrity, support
My ruin'd fortunes. To escape from want

I must be cruel to a virtuous soul,

To a deserted widow without friends,
Tho' all-deserving.

Margaret. Sooner let us want
Life's necefsary blessings, bread to eat,
A house to live in, clothes to cover us,
And beds to sleep on.

Sir Thomas. There my daughter spoke.
I will defy the hardest lot of life.
Can'st thou believe it, Marg'ret, that the king
Gave me the noble office which I hold,

Only to bribe me, to procure my voice
Against poor Catharine! And fhall I give it?
No! though it rouse his anger mountain high,
And for my loyalty I lose my head!

There is but one thing that with-holds my hand,
Making me cautious how I give offence,
And 'tis indeed a circumstance that grieves me.
"Tis that our fortunes are so interwoven,
The blow that ruins me will ruin you;
Will sensibly affect my innocent house,
And make my children beggars like myself.
Margaret Sir let it not disturb you.
Sir Thomas. I would fall,

God knows how willingly, and beg my bread,
Rather than trespafs as the king desires.
But how fhall I requite it to my children!
Dancy depends on me; my own son
Has nothing yet to live on; thou hast little.
My father could not help us; all he had
Goes to his widow ere it comes to us.
My lady Alice will have no support.
We hall be scatter'd like the worried flock,
And each must seek for fhelter with her own.
Thou must retire with Roper to his farm.
Cecilia must with Heron to his father's.
The little I have left must be bestow'd
On lady Alice, Dancy, and Eliza.
John and myself must starve, or be content
To earn by labour every meal we eat.


Margaret. Dear Sir, you break my heart. Be more compos'd. Our little fortunes will be wealth enough. Send Dancy to his father's. You, and John, And lady Alice, come and live with us; Or let us hire adjoining houses, small. And suited to our incomes.

Sir Thomas So we will.

I will not part from my whole happiness;
Tho' cruel fortune scatter all the rest,
Marg❜ret shall be my hope and comfort still.

Margaret. We will be modest in our wants;-discharge All but one servant each; live on plain diet; And nicely manage our exhausted means. We will fhun pleasure and expensive dress, And live secluded from the public eye, Contented though reduc'd. We will not ask The neighbour or the stranger to our board, But steal away to solitude and books, Pleas'd with the mem'ry of triumphant virtue, And poverty preferr'd to vicious wealth.

If yet our wants are more than we can feed,
We will be unattended. My own hand
Shall do the housewife's work; fhall spin and knit,
And earn by industry sufficient bread.

Sir Thomas. My most deserving daughter! Thou wast born To teach thy father virtue. I was sad; But the sweet patience of thy pious heart Revives and gives me comfort. Yes, I'll go, And gladly bid farewell to courts and princes. Poor we must be, but we will still be just, And live upon the hope of better days. We will presume the Author of events Approves of our endeavours; and perhaps Yet ere we come to sorrow and the grave, Will bless our patience with an easier lot. Come, we will hence contented. For my father, Let us esteem him happy that he died. He saw our glory, and withdrew in peace. Go to my lady; tell her my intent. Reveal it to your sisters; honest girls! They will be griev'd to hear how soon we part. Tell thy unwelcome story by degrees, And mingle comfort with it. I'll to court, And when we meet again, meet me with joy, Tho' I return as poor as I was born. I shall not be long absent..



ided from p. 74.

THE fishery had been unsuccessful in Scotland for that season; and William finding employment in one of the Gravesend hoys, they determined not to return immediately to Scotland, but to remain for some time on the Thames; and Betsy, who was a good sempstrefs, sewed for a slopseller in Wapping; in which way they lived very comfortably and happily for about nine months. They were one evening sitting by their little fire side,-William was enjoying his pipe, and Betsy, with her work in her hand, was singing over the sleeping child in the cradle, when they were surprised with a hoarse voice in the passage, bellowing out, " By G-d Scotch Will is one of the tightest fellows on the Thames; and d-n me if we mifs him." "Good God, the prefs!' cried Betsy, and fell back in a swoon. The ruffians forced open the door, seized William, carried him off with imprecations and blows, not even allowing him to see his beloved wife revive, and bid her adieu. She.just opened her eyes, soon enough to receive his parting significant look, while he sighed out, Farwell Befs !"


Poor Betsy's misery was now greater than ever. She was in a large city, surrounded with persons given up to villany and vice of every species; an infant in the cradle, and very near the period of bringing forth another, with scarce a friend within 400 miles of her. Her tender heart almost sunk under her misfortunes; and she would often look on her smiling. child, and sigh out, “Į live only for thee!"


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