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say- -Will you hear me ? Lady R.-I never heard the like in my life.
Sir C.-Why, then, you are enough to provoke the patience of a stoic—Very well, Madam !-you know no more of the game than your father's leaden Hercules on the top of the house-You know no more of whist than he does of gardening.
Lady R.--Ha! ha! ha!
Sir C.-You're a vile woman, and I'll not sleep another night under one roof with you.
Lady R.-As you please, Sir.
Sir C.-Madam, it shall be as I please. I'll order my chariot this moment. I know how the cards should be played as well as any man in England, that let me tell you; and when your family were standing behind counters, measuring out tape, and bartering for Whitechapel needles, my ancestors—my ancestors, Madam, were squandering away whole estates at cards; whole estates, my Lady Racket-[She hums a tune. ]-Why, then, by all that's dear to me, I'll never exchange another word with you, good, bad, or indifferent-Look’ye, my Lady Racketthus it stood—the trump being led, it was then my business
Lady R.–To play the diamond to be sure.
Sir C. I have done with you for ever; and so you may tell your father.
Lady R.-What a passion the gentleman is in; ha! ha! I promise him l’il not give up my judgment.
Sir C.--My Lady Racket-look'yee, Ma'am, once more out of pure good-nature
Lady R.-Sir, I am convinced of your good-nature.
Sir C.-That, and that only, prevails with me to tell you, the club was the play.
Lady R.-Well, be it so—I have no objection.
Lady R.--And for that very reason, you know, the club was the best in the house.
Sir C.- There's no such thing as talking to you -You're a base woman-I'll part from you for ever. You may live here with your father, and admire his fantastical evergreens till you grow as fantastical yourself. -I'll set out for London this instant- -The club was not the best in the house.
DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE HERMIT.
Did they report him : the cold earth his bed,
THE B A RD,
Confusion on thy banners wait;
They mock the air with idle state !
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foamy flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air ;)
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
That hush'd the stormy main :
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale ; Far, far aloof, th' affrighted ravens sail ;
The famish'd eagle screams and passes by, Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
Avengers of their native land :
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. “ Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race;
The characters of hell to trace;
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
The scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait; Amazement in his van, with Flight combin’d, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his fun'ral couch he lies !
A tear to grace his obsequies !
He rests among the dead.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his ey'ning prey. “ Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare,
Close by the regal chair
“ Heard ye the din of battle bray,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye tow’rs of Julius-London's lasting shame
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow
Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread ;
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom, “Edward, lo; to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus folorn Leave me unbless'd unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But, oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,
Descending slow, their glittring skirts unroll?
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ;
In bearded majesty appear.
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
“ The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
The different doom our fates assign.
To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
THE NEW LODGER,
Hood. Poor Miss Hopkinson! She had been ill for a fortnight, of a disorder which especially affected the nerves; and quiet, as Dr. Boreham declared, was indispensably necessary for her recovery.
So the servants wore list shoes, and the knocker was tied up, and the street in front of number four was covered with straw.
In the meanwhile, the invalid derived great comfort from the unremitting attentions of her friends and acquaintance ; but she was particularly gratified by the constant kind inquiries of Mr. Tweedy, the new lodger, who occupied the apartments immediately over her head.
“If you please, ma'am,” said Mary, for the hundredth time, " It's Mr. Tweedy's compliments, and begs to know if you feel any better ?”
“I am infinitely obliged to Mr. Tweedy, I'm sure,” whispered the sufferer-"I'm a leetle easier-with my best thanks and compliments."
Now, Miss Hopkinson was a spinster lady of a certain age, and she was not a little flattered by the uncommon interest the gentleman above stairs seemed to take in her state of health. She could not help recollecting that the new lodger and a very smart new cap had entered the house on the same day. She had fortunately worn the novel article on her accidental encounter with the stranger; and, as she used to say, a great deal depended on first impressions.