Where can he now be loitering! These dark clouds
Portend a storm.
Mau.

Already the large drops
Come pattering on the vine leaves. I will seek -

Enter William.
Am. He's here. My William, wherefore did st thou stay
So long?-And where's the basket ?
Wil.

Kiss me first.
Am. Now, where's the basket ?
Wil.

I had fill'd it half,
When a strange gentleman came through the wood
And sat down by me.
Am.

Did he eat the strawberries ?
Wil. Dear mother, no. He talked to me, and then
I could not gather them.
Am.

What said he, dearest ?
Wil. He ask'd my name and your's, and where I lived,
And kiss'd me.
Am.

And what else ?
Wil.

Calld me dear boy,
Said that a storm was coming on, and ask'd
If I would go with him.
Mau.

Ha! what said'st thou
To that, my

William ?
Wil.

No. But then I ask'd him
To come with me to my dear home. Look there!
Do you not see that tall man in the porch-
His head against the woodbine ? That is he.
Am. Dear Maurice, bring him in.

[Exit Maurice. Wil.

I am so sorty
That it is grown so dark, you will not see
What a sweet face he has ; only he's older-
I think he's like you, mother; and he kiss'd me
As you do now, and cried.
Am.

Oh, can it be!
Re-enter Maurice with Lord Mowbray.
Lord M. If I intrude-
Am.

That voice!. O father! father!
Pardon! Oh, pardon!
Lord M.

Madam !-
Am.

I'm your daughter-
Call me so, father! For these seven years
I have not seen your face. Disown me not-
Call me your daughter! Once from your dear lips
Let me hear that dear sound! Call me your Emily,
And bless my dear, dear child! For such a blessing
I'd be content to die. William, kneel here;
Hold up your innocent hands.
Lord M.

Rise, Madam, rise.
Am. Oh, call me once your daughter, only once,
To still my longing heart! My William, pray
For your poor mother.
Wil.

Oh, forgive us, Sir,
Pray, pray forgive us!
Lord M. :

Madam, I have sought
A half-hour's shelter here from this wild storm ;
And as your guest-I pray you to forbear .

These harrowing words. I am but lately risen
From a sick bed.
Mau.

My wife, compose thyself;
Retire awhile.

[Erit Amelia.
Please you to sit, my lord.
Lord M. I thank you, Sir.—You have a pleasant cottage
Prettily garlanded with rose and woodbine,
And the more useful vine. Has it been long
Your home?

Mau.
Lord M.

And
you

have left the army?
Mau. Yes, since the peace. I could not bear to drag
My sweet Amelia through the homeless wanderings
Of a poor soldier's life. This is a nest,
However lowly, warm, and full of love
As her own heart. Here we have been most happy.

Five years.

Ye are poor.

[Re-enter Amelia, with a light and a basket.] Mau. [meeting her.] Thou tremblest still. Am.

I could not stay away.
It is such joyful pain to look upon him;
To hear his voice ;-I could not stay away.
William, there is thy basket. Offer it.

Lord M. No; my dear boy.
Am.

Now blessings on his head.
For that kind word!
Lord M.

Surely she was not always
So thin and pale !-Your husband says, Amelia,
That you are happy.
Am.

I have only known
One sorrow.

Lord M.
Am.

Not that! not that!
Lord M. You have implored my blessing on your son ;-
I bless him.

Am. On my knees I offer up
My thanks to Heaven and thee. A double blessing
Was that, my father! on my heart it fell
Like balm.

Lord M. I will do more. Give me that boy,
And he shall be my heir. Give me that boy.

Am. My boy! give up my boy!
Lord M.

Why he must be
A burthen. Ye are poor.
Am.

A burthen! William !
My own dear William !
Lord M.

Miserably poor
Ye are: deny it not.
Mau.

We earn our bread
By honest labour.
Am.

And to work for him
Is such a joy! My William, tremble not !
Weep not, my William! Thou shalt stay with me;
Here on my lap, here on my bosom, William !

Lord M. Why thou may'st have another child, and then

Am. Oh! never one like this—this dearest child
Of love and sorrow! Till this boy was born
Wretchedly poor we were ; sick, heart-sick, desolate,
Desponding ; but he came, a living sun-beam !
And light and warmth seem'd darting through my breast

With his first smile.. Then hope and comfort came,
And poverty, with her inventive arts,
A friend, and love, pure, firm, enduring love;
And ever since we have been poor and happy;
Poor! no, we have been rich! my precious child !

Lord M. Bethink thee for that child, Amelia,
What fortunes thou dost spurn. His father's love
Perhaps is wiser.
Am.

Maurice, say.
Mau.

My Lord,
'Tis every whit as fond. You have my thanks.
But in a lowly station he may be
Virtuous and happy.
'Wil.

Mother, let me stay,
And I will be so good.
Am.

My darling, yes;
Thou shalt not leave me, not for the wide world.

Lord M. Thou need'st not hug him so against thy bosom;
I am no ruffian, from a mother's breast
To pluck her child.-Amelia, as his arms
Wind round thy neck, so thou a thousand times
Hast clung to mine ;-as on his rosy cheeks
Thy lips are sealed, so mine a thousand times
Have prest thy face, with such a love, Amelia,
As thou dost feel for him.
Am.

O father ! father!
Lord M. Thou wert a motherless babe, and I to thee
Supplied both parents. Many a night have I
Hung over thy sick bed, and pray'd for thee
As thou dost pray for him. And thou, Amelia,
Did'st love me then.".
Am.

Did love! Oh never, never,
Can such love pass away! 'Tis twined with life.

Lord M. Then after eighteen years of tender care,
Fond hopes and fonder fears, didst thou not fly
From me, thy father, with a light gay youth,
A love of yesterday ? Did'st thou not leave me
To die of a broken heart? Amelia, speak!
Did'st thou not?
Am.

Father! this is worse than death.
Lord M. Did'st thou not? Speak.
Am.

I did. Alas! I did.
Lord M. Oh miserably have my days crept on
Since thou did'st leave me! Very desolate
Is that proud, splendid home! no cheerful meals;
No'evening music; and no morning rides
Of charity or pleasure. Thy trim walks
Are overgrown; and the gay pretty room
Which thou did'st love so well, is vacant now;
Vacant and desolate as my sick heart.
Amelia, when thou saw'st me last, my hair
Was brown as thine. Look on it now, Amelia.

Mau. My lord, this grief will kill her. See, she writhes
Upon the floor.
Lord M.

Poor heart! I go still desolate ;
Į might have found a comfort had I had
Something to live for still, something to love ;-
If she who robb’d me of my child had given
Her child instead-but all is over now-
She would not trust ber father !--All. Farewell,

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Am. [Starting up.] Take him, whilst I have life to bid thee,

take him!
Nay, cling not to me, boy! Take, take him! Maurice?

Wil. I will not leave you, Mother.
Am.

Hush ! hush! hush !
My heart is breaking, William.-Maurice, speak.

Mau. Dearest and best, be it as thou hast will'd.
I owed thee a great sacrifice, Amelia ;-
And I shall still have thee.
Lord M.

Thou givest him then?
Mau. I do. But for his own sake, good, my lord,
Let not my son be taught to scorn the father
He never will forget, and let his mother
See him sometimes, or she will surely die.

Am. I shall die now. My William !
Lord M.

Emily!
Am.

Ha ! 1
Lord M. My sweet Emily!
Am.

We are forgiven!
Maurice, we are forgiven !
Lord M.

My own dear child,
My children, bless ye all !—forgive this trial,
We'll never part again.

ETCHINGS OF DIFFERENT KINDS OF MEN.

No. 1.

THE HUMOROUS MAX.

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You shall know the man I speak to proud worms; and palaces to of by the vivacity of his eye, the paupers. “ morn-elastic” tread of his foot, It is enough for him if he may the lightness of his brow, and the laugh the “hours away ;” and break dawning smile of pleasantry in his a jest, where tempers more humora countenance. The muscles of his ous break a head. He would not mouth curl upwards, like a Spa- barter with you one wakeful jest for niard's mustachios, unlike Grief's, a hundred sleepy sermons; or one whose mouth has a “ downward laugh for a thousand sighs. If he drag austere.”. He is a man who could allow himself to sigh about cares' for nothing so much as

any thing, it would be that he had “ mirth-moving jest ;” give him been serious when he might have that, and he has “ food and raiment.” laughed; if he could weep for any He will not see what men have to thing, it would be for mankind, becark and care for, beyond to-day; he cause they will not laugh more and is for To-morrow's providing for him- mourn less. Yet he hath tears for self. He is for a new reading of Ben the pitiable, the afflicted, the orphan, Jonson's old play of “ Every Man in and the unhappy ; but his tears die his Humour, he would have it where they are born,-in his heart, “ Every Man in Humour.” He he makes no show of them; like leaves money and misery, to misers; April showers, they refresh where ambition and blood, to great warriors they fall, and turn to smiles, as all and low highwaymen; fame, to tears will, that are not selfish. His court-laureates and lord-mayors; ho- grief has a humanity in it, which is nours, to court-pandars and city not satisfied with tears only; it knights; the dread of death, to such teaches him as are not worthy of life ; the dread

the disparity of heaven, to those who are not good 'Tween poor and rich, and weal and want, enough even for earth; the grave, to

and moves parish-clerks and undertakers; torils, His hcart to ruth, his hands to charity. .

He loveth no face more than a * What i' the name of all the saints smiling one; a needlessly serious one but Saint Anthony, have you there serveth him for the 'whetting of his 'over against the wall!” cries his first wit,--as cold flints strike out quick visitor. “ Only an instrument of torsparks of fire.

ture, brought from ihe Spanish inHis humour shows itself to all quisition, by a celebrated traveller: things and on all occasions. I found it is used where the rack fails, and him once bowing on the stairs to a it always answers,” was his reply. poor alarmed devil of a rat, who was A second estioned him, and it was cringing up in a corner ; he was po- a surgical instrument, resorted to but Jitely offering him the retreat honour. in extreme cases of stranguary; and able, with an “ After you, Sir, if then he quoted a celebrated opinion you would honour me.' I settled of one Doctor Shylock, something the point of etiquette, by kicking the about a certain affection, felt by rat down stairs, and received a frown musical susceptibles, on hearing a from my humane friend, for my im- bagpipe sing i' the nose." A third patient inhumanity.

questioner was answered, “ It is an His opinions of men and things instrument of war, used by the highhave some spice of singularity in landers, which, played in the rear of them. He conceives it to be a kind their clans, screws them up to such a of puppyism in pigs that they wear desperate determination of getting tails. He defines a great coat to be their lugs out of the hearing of it, “ a Spenser, folio edition, with tail- that, rushing onward, they overturn pieces." He calls Hercules a man- every thing opposed to them,-men, midwife, in a small way of business; horses, walls, towers, and forts." He because he had but twelve labours. professes a great respect for rats, beHe can tell you why Horace ran cause he has been told that if a bagaway from the battle of Philippi : it pipe is played where they haunt, was to prove to the Romans that he they leave the place, either as a matwas not a lame poet. He describes ter of taste or decency. He bought your critics to be a species of door- these pipes, as I have said before, of porters to the temple of farne; and a poor Highlander, giving him five says it is their business to see that no guineas for them; which, as he boasts, personis" slip in 'with holes in their sent him home like a gentleman to stockings, or paste buckles for dia- Scotland, where he bought a landed mond opes; not that they alwavs estate, and is in a probable way of perform this duty honestly. He calls coming into parliament for a Scotch the sun “ the yellow hair'd laddie ; borough. And here he somewhat the prince of darkness, “ the Black varied the old proverb, by saying, Prince ,;" or, when he displeases his that “ It was an ill bagpipe that sense of virtue, “ Monsieur De Vil.”• blowed nobody good.”. Indeed, if he He will ask you, “ What is the dis- quotes a proverb at all, it is “ with tinctive difference between a sigh- a difference ;" such as “Cobler, stick heaver and a coal-heaver ?"

to your wax, -a thing more prace not divine; he tells you, “a coal- ticable than sticking to his last, as heaver has a load at his back, which the olden proverb adviseth. He will he can carry; a sigh-heaver has one say “ What is bred in the bone will at his heart, which he can not carry." not come out with the skewer,"

He asserts that the highest delight which, to those epicurean persons o'this side the grave, is to possess a who have the magpie propensity of pair of bagpipes, and to know that prying into marrow-bones, must simno one within forty miles can play plify the proverb to their fat-headed them. Acting on this pleasure, he comprehensions. Some one used that bought a pair of a Scotch bagpiper, very trite old proverb in his hearing, and having pulled down the antlers of necessity having no laws; upon of his ancestors triumphs, suspended which, wilfully misunderstanding it, them in their place, to the amazement he remarked, “ I am very sorry for and amusement of all beholders. it: it is surely a pity, considering

• I suspect that there is an English antipathy to Frenchmen, in his selection of the appellative * Monsieur."

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