madam. This village flanks the intrenchments of his park-full of fine fat venison; which is as light a food for digestion as

Luc. But he is never on his estate here, I am told.

OLLA. He quarters there at this moment.

Luc. Bless me! has Sir Charles, then

OLLA. Told me all-your accidental meeting in the metropolis, and his visits when the lieutenant was out.

Luc. Oh, shock ng! I declare I shall faint.

OLLA. Faint! never mind that, with a medical man in the room. I can bring you about in a twinkling.

LUC. And what has Sir Charles Cropland presumed to advance about me?

OLLA. Oh, nothing derogatory. Respectful as a ducklegged drummer to a commander-in-chief.

Luc. I have only proceeded in this affair from the purest motives, and in a mode becoming a Mactab.

OLLA. None dare to doubt it.

Luc. And if Sir Charles has dropt in to a dish of tea with myself and Emily in London, when the lieutenant was out, I see no harm in it.

OLLA. Nor I either: except that tea shakes the nervous system to shatters. But to the point: the baronet 's my bosom friend. Having heard you were here- Ollapod,' says he, squeezing my hand in his own, which had strong symptoms of feverOllapod,' says he, 'you are a military man, and may be trusted.' I'm a cornet,' says I, and close as a pill-box.' Fly, then, to Miss Lucretia Mactab, that honourable picture of prudence'

Luc. He, he! Did Sir Charles say that?

OLLA. [Aside.] How these tabbies love to be toadied!

Luc. In short, Sir Charles, I perceive, has appointed you his emissary, to consult with me when he may have an interview.

OLLA. Madam, you are the sharpest shot at the truth I ever met in my life. And now we are in consultation, what think you of a walk with Miss Emily by the old elms at the back of the village this evening?

Luc. Why, I am willing to take any steps which may promote Emily's future welfare.

OLLA. Take steps! what, in a walk?

He, He! Come, that's very well-very well, indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. I shall communicate to my friend with due despatch. Command Cornet Ollapod on all occasions; aud whatever the gilt Galen's Head can produce

Luc. [Curtsying.] O sir!

OLLA. By-the-by, I have some double-distilled lavender water, much admired in our corps. Permit me to send a pint bottle, by way of present.

Luc. Dear sir, I shall rob you.

OLLA. Quite the contrary; for I'll set it down to Sir Charles as a quart. [Aside.] Madam, your slave. You have prescribed for our patient like an able physician. Not a step.

Luc. Nay, I insist

OLLA. Then I must follow in the rear-the physician always before the apothecary.

Luc. Apothecary! Sir, in this business I look upon you as a general officer.
OLLA. Do you? Thank you, good ma'am; I owe you one.

[Exeunt.

The humorous poetry of Colman has been as popular as his plays. Some of the pieces are tinged with indelicacy, but others display his lively sparkling powers of wit and observation in a very agreeable light. We subjoin two of these pleasant levities, from Broad Grins:'

The Newcastle Apothecary.

A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with Death to wrestle;

Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So-many a suffering patient saith-
Though the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Esculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill:

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:
Yet still he thought the list not long enough;`
And therefore midwifery he chose to più to
This balanced things; for if he hurled

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into 't.
His fame full six miles round the country ran';
In short, in reputation he was solus:

All the old women called him a fine man!
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

Which oftentimes will genius fetter

Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles-lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?

Of poetry though patron god,

Apollo patronises physic.

Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in t That his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels
In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables,

Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason?
Tis simply honest dealing; not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at Death's door,

Some three miles from the town, it might be fours To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article

In pharmacy that's called cathartical.

And on the label of the stuff

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough,
And terse:

E. L. vi-3

When taken.

To be well shaken.

Next morning early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course;

For what's expected from a horse
With an apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind

Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;
By fiddlers, and by opera singers;

One loud, and then a little one behind,

As if the knocker fell by chance

Out of their fingers.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-

Portending some disaster;

John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if the apothecary had physicked him,
And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient?' Bolus said.
John shook his head.
'Indeed!-hum!-ha!-that's very odd!
He took the draught?' John gave a nod.
"Well, how? what then? Speak out, you dunce!'
"Why, then,' says John, 'we shook him once.'
"Shook him!-how?' Bolus stammered out.

We jolted him about.'

'Zounds! shake a patient, man !—a shake won't do.'
"No, sir, and so we gave him two.'

Two shakes! od's curse!

"Twould make the patient worse.'

'It did so, sir; and so a third we tried.'

"Well, and what then?' 'Then, sir, my master died.

Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen 'Lodgings to Let' stare him full in the face;
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,

Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a tun,

Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night loug he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

Next night 'was the same: and the next, and the next;
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed;
Week passed after week, till. by weekly succession.
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his skin, like a lady's loose gown,' hung about him.
He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny;

'I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea.'
The doctor looked wise: 'a slow fever,' he said:
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.

'Sudorifics in bed,' exclaimed Will, are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!
Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said: Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?

'Look 'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will with a grin,
"That with honest intentions you first took me in:
But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.'

Quoth the landlord; Till now I ne'er had a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten year; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my oven.'

6

The oven!' says Will. Says the host: Why this passion?
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

Why so crusty, good sir?' Zounds!' cries Will, in a taking,
'Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking?'

Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer,
Well, I see you've been going away half a year.'

"Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel,' Will said;
'But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.'

MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD.

MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 1753-1821), actress, dramatist, and novelist, produced a number of popular plays. Her two tales, ́A Simple Story,' and 'Nature and Art,' are the principal sources of her fame; but her light dramatic pieces are marked by various talent. Her first production was a farce, entitled 'The Mogul Tale,' brought out in 1784; and from this time down to 1805 she wrote nine other plays and farces. By some of these pieces-as appears from her Memoirs'-she received considerable sums of money. Her first production realised £100; her comedy of Such Things Are-her greatest dramatic performance-brought her in £410 12s.; The Married Man,' £100; The Wedding Day,' £200; The Midnight Hour,' £130; Every One has his Fault,' £700; Wives as they ere, and Maids as they Are,' £427 10s. ; 'Lovers' Vows,' £150; &c. The personal history of this lady is as singular as any of her dramatic plots. She was born of Roman Catholic parents residing at Standyfield, near Bury St. Edmunds. At the age of sixteen, full of giddy romance, she ran off to London, having with her a small sum of money, and some wearing-apparel in a band-box. After various adventures, she obtained an engagement for a country thea tre, but suffering some personal indignities in her unprotected state,

We

she applied to Mr. Inchbald, an actor whom she had previously known. The gentleman counselled marriage. 'But who would marry me?' cried the lady. I would,' replied her friend, if you would have me.' 'Yes, sir, and would for ever be grateful’— and married they were in a few days. The union thus singularly brought about seems to have been happy enough; but Mr. Inchbald died a few years afterwards. Mrs. Inchbald performed the first parts in the Edinburgh theatre for four years, and continued on the stage, acting in London, Dublin, &c., till 1789, when she retired from it. Her exemplary prudence, and the profits of her works, enabled her not only to live, but to save money. The applause and distinction with which she was greeted never led her to deviate from her simple and somewhat parsimonious habits. Last Thursday,' she writes, 'I finished scouring my bedroom, while a coach with a coronet and two footmen waited at my door to take me an airing.' She allowed a sister who was in ill health £100 a year. Many a time this winter,' she records in her Diary, when I cried for cold, I said to myself: "But, thank God! my sister has not to stir from her room; she has her fire lighted every morning: all her provisions bought and brought ready cooked; she is now the less able to bear what I bear; and how much more should I suffer but for this reflection." This was noble and generous self-denial. The income of Mrs. Inchbald was now £172 per annum, and after the death of her sister, she went to reside in a boarding-house, where she enjoyed more of the comforts of life. Traces of female weakness break out in her private memoranda amidst the sterner records of her struggle for independence. The following entry is amusing: 1798. London. Rehearsing "Lovers' Vows;" happy, but for a suspicion, amounting to a certainty, of a rapid appearance of age in my face.' Her last literary labour was writing biographical and critical prefaces to a collection of plays, in twenty-five volumes; a collection of farces, in seven volumes; and the Modern Theatre,' in ten volumes. Phillips the publisher offered her £1000 for her 'Memoirs,' but she declined the tempting offer. This autobiography was, by her orders, destroyed after her decease; but in 1833, her 'Memoirs' were published by Mr. Boaden, compiled from an autograph journal which she kept for above fifty years, and from her letters written to her friends. Mrs. Inchbald died in a boarding-house at Kensington on the 1st of August, 1821. By her will, dated four months before her decease, she left about £6000, judiciously divided amongst her relatives. One of her legacies marks the eccentricity of thought and conduct which was mingled with the talents and virtues of this original-minded woman: she left £20 each to her late laundress and hair-dresser, provided they should inquire of her executors concerning her decease.

THOMAS HOLCROFT.

THOMAS HOLCROFT, author of the admired comedy, "The Road