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draw his sword all the while; and that two of his men, who were in attendance upon him, looked on without attempting to interfere. To mend the matter, young Willoughby, who came up at the moment, was questioned in a like saucy manner, and upon his refusing to satisfy such menacing inquiries, Digby struck him three or four blows on his face with his fist.* This anecdote rests upon unquestionable authority, and certainly seems to justify the doubts which some of his contemporaries entertained of Suckling's courage. That he should suffer himself to be cudgelled so tamely, and be afterwards content with the interposition and adjudication of the court in a business that so deeply involved his reputation for bravery, gives a more serious weight to the ballad lampoon of Sir John Mennis than the poet's biographers, out of a natural affection for their hero, are disposed to recognise in it. However that may be, and however it may be calculated to reduce and lower the popular estimate of Suckling as a preux chevalier, the fact itself affords a conspicuous illustration of that coarse temperament by which the gallants, as they were called, of that age were so rudely distinguished.

When the play was over, our tempestuous gentlemen usually adjourned to some of the neighbouring coffee-houses or taverns, while the ladies, followed by their trains of suitors, went to drive in the parks, or take a few turns in the promenades. This latter custom was one of the peculiar and distinctive usages of the time. Kynaston, the woman-actor, was such a favourite amongst the court ladies, that they frequently carried him away in their carriages at the conclusion of the performances.† Hyde Park was the general resort on such occasions; and supper, music, and cards, wound up the night's entertainments. The whole circle of the four-and-twenty hours was one uninterrupted round of voluptuous enjoyments!

The scattering of the mob of fops and chatterers to their several taverns and night-houses, was also characteristic of the dissipated and frivolous tone of society. These finikin gallants amused themselves in the theatre by running about from one mask to another, or caterwauling to each other from pit and boxes. "I value not the play," says my Lord Flippant's ghost, (already quoted,) "my province lies in the boxes, ogling my half-crown away, or running from side-box to sidebox to the inviting incognitos in black faces, or else wittily to cry aloud in the pit &c. Bough or Boyta, and then be quickly answered by the rest of the wits in the same note, like musical instruments tuned to the same pitch." The best of it was, that this offensive breed of coxcombs plumed themselves upon their critical taste, to say nothing of their small-talk which passed off for wit, and that when they went to the tavern, on leaving the theatre, they entertained themselves with impudent commentaries on the play and the actors, half made up of oaths and sputter, and half of crack-brained speculations concerning a matter to which, upon their own voluntary confession, they considered it a clownish vulgarity to pay the slightest attention. We have the following very curious description of the opening movement to the tavern, by a quaint writer of the time :

"The play is now over, and the sparks, who, while it was acting rallied the visor-masques, laughed aloud at their own no-jests, censured

Strafford State Papers.

† Colley Cibber's Apology.

the dress and beauty of all the ladies in the boxes; and, in short, minded every thing but the representation that brought them thither, begin now to file off, and gravely debate how and where to spend the evening. At last the tavern is pitched upon, the room taken, and our learned criticks in pleasure seat themselves round the table.

"The master of the house is the first person they send to advise with; who, after a thousand cringes and scrapes, tells 'em he has the best Champaign and Burgundy in town, and is sure to ask an exorbitant price for it, though it is a vile, nasty mixture of his own brewing. After a long and foolish dispute, the rate is adjusted, napkins are called for, the muff, sword, and peruke nicely laid up, and now something like business comes forward.

"When these grand preliminaries are settled, the next important debate is what they must eat. So the cook is sent for, who recommends to them something nice and dear. This difficulty, with much ado, got over, the glasses plentifully walk round, to blunt and weaken that appetite which they pretend to excite by it."*

The remainder of the description is equally piquant. As the wine circulates the sparks open their hearts (if they have any) to each other, and talk glibly about ladies and the favours they have received from them. When this theme is exhausted, they fall to a critical debate on the authors of the town-the last new book-the last new play. The play, of course, is cut to shreds; the plot is either stolen or obscure, the scenes lack energy, and the characters are either threadbare or pointless. In fine, the poet "is sent to the devil for want of wit, as the pert critic thinks he shews his, by condemning what he doth not understand!" Now, the talk gets thicker and thicker, the company dwindles into cabals, the affairs of the nation are settled, points of honour discussed, and at last the brawl begins. One calls another a villain, and threatens to cut his throat; "with that," continues our faithful historian, "he throws a bottle at t'other's head, the glasses go to rack, the table is overturned, nothing but disorder and confusion is in the room, and all this mirth and jollity concludes in murder." This picture is not over-drawn. Death in the tavern was by no means an uncommon occurrence; and when matters were not carried quite so far on the spot, the belligerents only adjourned the quarrel to Chelsea Fields, or the back of Montague House, where fashionable duels were then ordinarily fought. If the evening did not lead to such serious results, it was sure to end in a drunken frolic, such as beating up the quarters of some prudish coquette, and smashing her windows; "whereupon," says our author, "the superintendent of the night appears with his trusty janissaries, and sets the sparks together by the ears, with their perukes, hats, and muffs lying by them; the embroidered coat is all over covered with dirt and blood, the well-adjusted cravat torn to rags, the sword either broken or carried off in the tumult; and thus, after a well-favoured drubbing, our sparks make a shift to crawl home to their lodgings, if the nocturnal magistrate and his cannibals don't hurry 'em to the New Prison or the Round-house, the usual sanctuary of such adventurers."

And so ended the nights of the men about town in the merry reign of Charles the Second.

⚫ Brown's Collection of Letters.

THE BELL OF HAPPINESS.

(From the German of J. G. Seidl.*)

BY JOHN OXENFORD.

THE king his heir has summon'd, his life is near its close;

By both his hands he takes him, the royal throne he shews.

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My son"-thus speaks he, trembling,-"yon throne I leave to thee;
Yet take, with my dominion, one parting word from me.

"Think'st thou this world a palace, where nought but pleasures dwell?
Indeed, my son, 'tis not so ;-this truth remember well:

By drops we have our pleasures, our griefs from buckets flow;
Two drops of joy there are not in countless streams of woe."

He spake, and he departed. His words could not be true:
The world appeared so lovely, so rosy was its hue.
His heir the throne ascended, to prove, as he believed,
How much some gloomy spirit his father had deceived.

Straight over the apartment which for his use was kept,
In which he sat at table, reflected oft, and slept,
He had a bell suspended, and clearly would it ring,
Like silver, if the monarch but slightly touch'd the string.

And he would surely touch it, he told the country round,
As oft as in his bosom true happiness he found;
No single day would pass him-ay, he believed it well,
But he might justly venture to ring that little bell.

And all his days at morning with rosy brow appear,
But when they set at evening, a mourning veil they wear;
The cord, he oft would grasp it,—his eye is clear and bright,—
Yet feels he may not touch it, for something is not right.

He once was bless'd with friendship, and to the cord drew nigh;
"At length, now, can I ring it, and tell how bless'd am I."
A messenger came weeping, and trembled as he said,
"Thy friend has proved a foeman; my lord, thou art betray'd !”

He flew once, for the raptures of love had fill'd his breast,
"At length, at length I'll ring it, to tell that I am bless'd."
His chancellor approach'd him, pale, lowly murmuring:
"Are all alike unfaithful to thee, my lord and king?"

The king is yet unconquer'd, for still he holds his land,

His purse with treasure weighty, and many a mighty hand;

He still has fragrant meadows, his fields are fresh and green,

Where stout men work, while o'er them the Lord's own sky is seen.

He gazes from his window, the prospect round he eyes,

He views in every cottage a cradle of his joys;
Now to the cord he hastens-will pull it,-when he sees,
His people crowd his chamber, and fall upon their knees.

"My lord, my lord, look yonder,-the fire, the smoke, the crash!
Our cottages are burning, the foemen's sabres flash!"
"The robbers!" shouts the monarch-he may not touch the cord;
With passion wildly storming, he draws th' avenging sword.

And now his hair is whiten'd, and grief his strength has broke,
But yet upon the house-top the bell has never spoke ;
Though oft a flush, like pleasure, his aged cheek comes o'er,
The bell, which he suspended, he scarcely thinks of more.

* Johannes Gabriel Seidl was born at Vienna, on the 20th Jan. 1804, studied the law in his native city, became professor at the Gymnasium at Cilly, in Styria, in 1830, and was appointed, in. 1840, keeper of the Cabinet of Arms and Antiques at Vienna.-J. O.

Upon his chair reposing, the monarch waits his death,

When to his window rises the sound of sobs beneath.

He softly asks his chanc'llor:-" Tell me, what means that sound ?"

66

My lord, the sire is dying,-the children flock around."

"Then quick admit my children.-Were they so true and good?"

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My lord, could life be purchased, yours would they buy with blood." With noiseless steps his subjects within the hall appear

Once more they wish to bless him, once more to see him near.

"You love me, children ?"-"Yes, sire."-And tears descend in streams.
The monarch hears and rises-how like a saint he seems!

He looks to Heav'n-he clutches the cord without a word,-
Pulls it, and dies yet smiling-for now the bell is heard.

THE TIDIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD.

BY STUART.

In the whole extent of the New Kent Road, and this, taking it from its extreme points, the "Elephant" and "Bricklayers' Arms," is not a short line of ground, there dwelt not a more notable woman than Mrs. Baxter. Yes, notable is the word; no other term can describe the ever-bustling, busy, managing Mrs. B., whose passion for cleaning and cleanliness was such, that no peace could be known where she abided. To be clean was not sufficient for this good lady; there was no happiness at all in that passive state; to be cleaning was the joythis was her being's end and aim-the thing for which she was created -the only pleasure she could feel or understand. All her thoughts and ideas were centred here, and let the subject of conversation be what it might, if Mrs. Baxter had any share in it, to this all-engrossing passion would she contrive to turn it. Did the sun shine brightly, or the soft zephyrs come wooingly in at her window, not for a moment did she bless the bright beams which shed such radiance around, or the inspiring breeze that brought fresh health to her cheek; she only remarked that the day was favourable for washing or for scrubbing, and forthwith her pastime commenced. In short, no Dutch frau could carry her purifying propensities to a more absurd height; and as between the sublime and the ridiculous there is but a step, so is it between cleanliness and its opposite. I have often observed that your outrageously clean subjects are not ashamed to be very dirty themselves to avoid making a dirt.

You might have known Mrs. Baxter's house from a hundred of the same size and style a mile off, such was its resplendent cleanliness, such the snowy whiteness of its steps, and the dazzling brightness of the large brass-plate that proclaimed No. to be her residence.

How often have I wished, in ascending those steps, that some other boot than mine had been destined to sully their virgin purity-a crime little short of sacrilege in Mrs. Baxter's eyes, who, if able to keep a guard over her tongue upon such occasions, could convey a bitter reproof for one's sin by despatching her luckless maid of all work to remove the obnoxious stain.

Mrs. B.'s house contained three or four sitting-rooms, yet the kitchen, to the great annoyance of her poor hard-worked maid, was

the place in which she chose to take her meals. Her dining-room was large and well-furnished; but on entering it you would exclaim, Can this be an inhabited house? for not one sign of habitation was there. Curtains there were to the windows, certainly, but not put there to be drawn; for the coldest day in the depths of a Russian winter could never tempt Mrs. Baxter to see them so treated. There was a comfortable carpet, too; but, rash visitor, beware! touch not its sacred hem, for the last idea ever entertained by Mrs. B., when she laid it down, was the idea of anybody walking over it. Do you not see that Índia matting laid round and across the room, which, and which only is to be so profaned? There was a fine large easy chair, made in the last style of luxury and elegance, which she exultingly told every one cost fourteen guineas; but I wish you could see the black look she would have bestowed upon any one (sposo not excepted) who had dared to remove it from the corner she had destined to be its abiding place.

In short, Mrs. B.'s goods, like the crown jewels, were to be looked at with awe and admiration, but not to be touched; and thus her poor victim of a husband, more miserable than the traveller in an Arabian desert, who, if he does not see the element he languishes for, at least is not tantalized, pines in the midst of plenty for the common comforts of life, knowing no rest in his own well-furnished house, but in that blessed oblivion-sleep. Came he home hungry or thirsty, there was nothing in his larder, Mrs. Baxter being much too clean to cook, or allow cooking; and some excuse would always be found against drawing the strong ale, or opening a bottle of wine. Was he weary, not for worlds dared he seek repose in the inviting arm-chair, or stretch his limbs on the sofa, for he would sully this, and tumble that, and disarrange everything; and a lecture from Mrs. B. about her household gods (for such they were to her) was a thing in every way to be dreaded.

Mr. B. was as good a creature as ever lived-kind and honest, and with a heart "open as day to melting charity;" and though in his marriage with Mrs. B., love perhaps bore no very prominent part, yet the good feelings of his nature prompted him to act the part of husband, if not with eclat, at least with great propriety. The want of beauty in a wife may be forgiven, because habit so reconciles us to her personal defects, that one soon ceases to know they exist; learning may be dispensed with, for what man likes a blue of a wife? you may even love a vixen, for her heart may make amends for her temper; but who of all the sons of Eve can bear the bonds of matrimony with a cleaner ?—a woman who makes her husband take off his slippers at the bottom of the stairs, and puts him to bed in a room just scrubbed, the wet boards only to walk on-her carpets, of which she possesses a store, being folded up carefully for high days and holidays.

Such was Mrs. Baxter, and I am sorry to say poor Mr. B., like the saint, who trying, impiously, to fast forty days, died on the thirty-ninth, did give up the ghost at the end of his sixth year's apprenticeship to matrimony; (had he served out the seventh, I have no doubt he would have become hardened to everything.)

A few streets off lived a very pretty widow, who was Mrs. Baxter's aversion on account of her untidiness. To try her by Mrs. B.'s standard, indeed she was a dirty woman; for the purifications of her house were accomplished so quietly, that you might have imagined the hand of

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