Lady Teaz. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort of a husband. Sir Pet. And you prophesied right; and we shall now be the happiest couple Lady Teaz. And never differ again? Sir Pet. No, never!-though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always began first. Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed, you always gave the provocation. Sir Pet. Now see, my angel! take care- contradicting isn't the way to keep friends. Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love! You don't per Sir Pet. There, now! you-you are going on. ceive, my love, that you are just doing the very thing which you know always makes me angry. Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear Sir Pet. There! now you want to quarrel again. Lady Teaz. No, I'm sure I don't; but, if you will be so peevish Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing but there's no bearing your temper. Sir Pet. No, no, madam; the fault's in your own temper. Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be. Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gypsy. Lady Teaz. You are a great bear, I'm sure. to abuse my relations. Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more! Lady Teaz. So much the better. Sir Pet. No, no, madam: 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you- —a pert, rural coquette, that had refused half the honest squires in the neighborhood. Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you- - an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never could meet with any one who would have him. Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased enough to listen to me: you never had such an offer before. Lady Teaz. No! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married. Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam. You are an unfeeling, ungrateful - but there's an end of everything. I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles are, not without grounds Lady Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter! you had better not insinuate any such thing! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you. Sir Pet. Very well, madam! very well! A separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, madam. Lady Teaz. Agreed! agreed! And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more; we may be the happiest couple, and never differ again, you know; ha! ha! ha! Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — so, bye, bye? [Exit. Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! can't I make her angry either! O, I am the most miserable fellow! But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper: no! she may break my heart, but she shan't keep her temper. [Exit. CHAPTER XIX. WALTER SCOTT. 1771-1832. (Manual, pp. 376-395.) FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." 254. DESCRIPTION of Melrose Abbey. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, When buttress and buttress, alternately, When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go 255. Love of Country. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land? From wandering on a foreign strand? Despite those titles, power, and pelf, O Caledonia! stern and wild, Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, That knits me to thy rugged strand? Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; Even in extremity of ill. FROM "MARMION." 256. PITT AND Fox. To mute and to material things The mind that thought for Britain's weal, E'en on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine, That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb! Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud and danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propped the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, O! think how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey, With Palinure's unaltered mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around He who preserved them Pitt, lies here! Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy requiescat dumb, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb, - As if some angel spoke again, |