purpose we paid a visit to a distant relation, a sprightly female, who, though she had been married ten years, could enter into all our amusements with as much spirit as any boarding-school miss in the kingdom. Her husband was what we called a bon vivant, that loved his bottle and friend, and if he could enjoy the present moment, never thought of the next; and that is more than some of your boasted sages could, notwithstanding all their preachments. We were received in the most friendly manner by the lady, with that look and tone which conveyed the cordial welcome; we were conducted into a room, where we found a table ready furnished with wholesome viands and a bottle of sparkling champaign. This sun-shine was for a moment overcast by an envious cloud, that sometimes darkens the matrimonial sky; nay, even the most serene. The husband soon after entered, when the following dialogue commenced; and as there was a pen and ink in the room, Tom took down every word, the reading of which after dinner, afforded a great deal of laughter to the loving couple, for in reality they were so, notwithstanding these little gusts.

Receipt to brew a Storm.

Husband. Woman-aye!

Wife. You are always railing at our sex.

5

Husband.

Husband. And without reason?

Wife. Without either rhime or reason; you'd be miserable beings without us, for all that. Husband. Sometimes: there is no general rule without an exception; I could name some very good women

Wife. Without the head I suppose?

Husband. With a head, and with a heart too. Wife. That's a wonder!

Husband. It would be a still greater if I could not; for instance, there is Mrs. Dawson, the best of wives; always at home, whenever you call, always in good humour; always neat and clean, fober and discreet.

Wife. I wish you were tied to her. Always at home! the greatest gossipper in the parish; she may well smile, she has nothing to ruffle her temper; neat and clean-she has nothing else to do; sober-she can take a glass as well as her neighbours; discreet-that's another word, she can tip a wink-but I detest scandal: I am surprised didn't say she was handsome? Husband. So she is in my eye.

you

Wife. You have a fine eye to be sure; you're an excellent judge of beauty: what do you think of her nose?

Husband. She's a fine woman in spite of her

nose.

Wife. Fine feathers make fine birds; she can

paint her withered cheeks, and pencil her eyebrows.

Husband. You can do the same if you please. Wife. My cheeks don't want paint, nor my eyebrows pencilling.

Husband. True; the rose of youth and beauty is still on your cheeks, and your brow the bow of Cupid.

Wife. You once thought so; but that moving mummy, Molly Dawson, is your favourite. She's, let me see, no gossip, and yet she's found in every house but her own; and so silent too, when she has all the clack to herself; her tongue is as thin as sixpence with talking; with a pair of eyes burned into the socket, and painted pannels into the bargain; and then as to scandal-but her tongue is no scandal.

Husband. Take care, there's such a thing as standing in a white sheet!

Wife. Curse you! you would provoke a saint. Husband. You seem to be getting into a pas

sion.

Wife. Is it any wonder? A white sheet! You ought to be tossed in a blanket. Handsome! I can't forget that word: my charms are lost on such a tasteless fellow as you.

Husband. The charms of your tongue.

Wife. Don't provoke me, or I'll fling this dish at your head.

Husband

Husband. Well, I have done.

Wife. But I hav'nt done: I wish I had drowned myself the first day I saw you.

Husband. It's not too late.

Wife. I'd see you hung first.

Husband. You'd be the first to cut me down. Wife. Then I ought to be tied up in your stead. Husband. I'd cut you down.

Wife. You would?

Husband. Yes, but I'd be sure you were dead

first.

Wife. I cannot bear this any longer.

Husband. Then it's time for me to withdraw; I see by your eyes that the storm is collecting.

Wife. And it shall burst on your head.

Husband. I'll save my poor head, if I can. A good retreat, is better than a bad battle. (Husband flies, the dish flies after him.)

Author. Very well.-I must do the poet justice to say that he is as happy in the choice of his numbers, as your brother was in the choice of his wife for as the one preferred untutored smiles, the blush of innocence, native beauty, and homespun dress, to the rolling eye that languished in humid fire, and the robes that flowed in careless air, so the bard made choice of the flowers that grew in his native vales, in preference to those that un

veil their bosoms to brighter suns: young poets are captivated with gaudy epithets,

Sheridan. Yes, and old poets too.

Author. Which evinces a want of tasteSheridan. And judgment; for judgment is as necessary in poetry as in prose.

Author. Nay more; Pegasus is a fiery steed. I hope the Doctor was as happy as your brother in the choice of his wife?

Sheridan. To the full: I knew her very well, a woman of spotless character, Miss Mac Faden; she was descended of a Scottish family of respectability; she was agreeable in conversation, pleasing in her manner; in short, she was a good girl and an affectionate wife: I cannot say that she was handsome; she had beauty sufficient, however, to captivate the Doctor; and the truth is, he rejoiced through life in his captivity, for it was a gentle one. I believe I was the first he consulted on the subject of his marriage with that lady; for he was afraid to mention it to his father; who, no doubt, like all fathers, thought himself a better judge of an affair of so important a nature than his son himself. Be that as it may, it was not the business of a day; many letters passed between the youth and the maid; they were written in a strain of unaffected simplicity; many of them were shewn to me after their

marriage,