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consort, whose hold of the affection of the people of that country was so great as to excite general regret when he felt himself obliged to resign in consequence of the coalition of Mr. Fox and Lord North.

On the day of his embarkation, on being succeeded by Earl Northington, he was cheered through the streets of Dublin, and that by the most respectable part of the population, who all showed him the greatest personal respect,and sent forth reiterated wishes for his welfare and happiness. The amiable Countess now retired into the bosom of domestic tranquillity in the charming regions of Stowe; amidst scenes so remarkable for beauty and character as to have stood the test of a century. || Here indeed magnificence and splendour are the characteristics; it is like one of those places celebrated in antiquity, which were devoted to the purposes of religion, and filled with sacred groves, hallowed || of her Ladyship's hereditary armorial bearfountains, and temples dedicated to several || ings, and enquire how far the achievement deities; the resort of distant nations; and of her ancestors is consonant with modern the object of veneration to half the heathen worth. world; all this pomp, however, is still blended with beauty; here every thing is equally distinguished by its amenity aud its grandeur.


Let us now take a view of the blazonry

To enumerate half the kindness of the Marchioness to her humbler neighbours, or half her attentions to her more opulent ones, is far beyond our limits; and indeed though much of the latter may be known, the former has rather the singular merit of being concealed, except when the tongue

of gratitude could not be silent. Yet there is one trait of elegant hospitality, which we cannot pass over without notice.

When the Marquis and Lord Temple went to Ireland with their regiment of Bucks Militia, during the late war, the Marchioness and her amiable daughter retired from public glare to the shades of Stowe; but not unmindful of the dearer part of those who had accompanied the two noblemen on public duty, they immediately gave a friendly and generous invitation to the ladies of the Officers, to make Stowe their residence during the absence of the regiment; whilst their benevolent attentions to the wives and children of the privates were unlimited.

By her union her Ladyship has three children, Earl Temple, Lord George Grenville, and Lady Mary.

The arms of Nugent are ermine, two bars gules. By a reference to some of our former Numbers of heraldic science, our fair readers will perceive that ermine was the symbol of purity, and that gules represented charity; a combination of symbols, simple in itself, and thereby particularly marking the antiquity of the coat, as well as more elegantly expressive of the virtues of the present bearer.



LADY BELLAMONT invited us to accompany her to a party at a neighbouring nobleman's on the following day." The Baron," said she, "will accompany you; and in order that you may have the fuller

(Continued from Vol. IV. Page 288.)

view and conversation, I have made an engagement with him, that he, your aunt, and myself should all go in the same carriage."

"That is delightful," said my aunt. "I

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long to see this Baron at full length. Is he really the tremendous coxcomb which public ridicule makes him?".

"Why, public ridicule," said Lady Bellamont, "generally draws her portraits in caricature, but in this instance the colouring scarcely comes up to the brilliancy of the original. He is a coxcomb in full bloom; we have nothing in the United Kingdom like him."

"Nay," said I, "I should think that the gentleman who has filled the panels of his coach with the figures of geese, and who has made the coach itself in the happy shape of that bird, may be put into competition with him."

"No," said Lady Bellamont; "they are blockheads of a different genus. The Baron is a solemn fool, who is the more amusing because he does not seem in any degree sensible of his own absurdity; his very reason is besotted, and he is a fool with all the method and sobriety of reason. As to Mr. Cackle, he is an odd mixture of whim and folly; he seems to have rendered himself a fool for the purpose of diverting others, till at length the unlucky habit has grown upon him, and he is now a buffoon in reality."

gravely when all the amphitheatre are thus
enraptured? what is it you are meditating
upon?' I am thinking, said Socrates,
that had that mistaken man employed half
the pains to dress and exercise his mind,
which he must have employed on his body,
what an excellent philosopher would
Greece have had, where she has now only
a rope-dancer!"

"There is but one thing to be said in favour of the present rage of our young men for trifling pursuits, and for the attainment of a distinguished name for excellence in these kinds of follies. Does it not," said my aunt, "abstract their minds from vice? and is it not so much gained, if we can thus exchange vice for folly? It is a very harmless absurdity to suffer the visage to be disfigured by the whiskers of a bear; it is equally harmless to cover the panels of a coach with the figures of geese. What harm does all this do? It is certainly folly; but is not folly better than vice? I have always heard so much in favour of these coxcombs, that whatever may be their absurdity, no one can allege any positive mischief against them. What they do or say begins and ends in a laugh, Every one acknowledges them to be very ridiculous, but no one can say any more of them. They are not profligate, they are not debauched. You do not find their names in any of those legal trials in which the happiness and hopes of families are concerned."

“You are mistaken, my dear aunt,” said I, "in two points; in the first place, in

"That is much to be lamented," said I; "but I have known many excellent characters entirely spoiled in this same way; they have contracted a perverted ambition, like the man who fired the temple at Ephesus, in order to give immortality to his name and establish his reputation in his infamy. Their folly, indeed, is more comic in its form, but as respects them-calling the pursuits of these gentlemen selves is as absurd and extravagant. Some merely follies; and in the second place, in of them have perchance raised an incidental || regarding these follies as so perfectly harmlaugh by some dexterous trick. The ap- less. There are two kinds of vices; the plause pleases them, and they thereafter first are what are termed crimes and lay themselves out to become the Merry offences; the others are omissious of duty. Andrews of their friends. I never see these Those gentlemen are in possession of abunkind of men but that I remember a cele- dant means of doing good; Providence has brated saying of Socrates upon seeing a made them the stewards of his bounties in rope-dancer. The people, says the nar- giving them a certain condition of life and rator, were in transports at his dexterity; fortune; and is it no crime, think you, to surely never such a man was seen; he ex- abuse those gifts to their own follies and cels every thing that Greece has ever here- dissipations? Do you not think that they tofore beholden. Socrates alone was silent, will be hereafter called to a reckoning for and observed him with unmoved gravity. this abuse? The neglect of great duties Whence is it, Socrates, that you look so is in itself a great vice. And in what re

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spect can follies be called harmless when my eyes lighted on as beautiful a woman in the very commission of them they thus as Heaven ever sent into the world as an divert the proper funds of charity? Are example of its own inhabitants. I was they not vices, moreover, by their influ-struck dumb with astonishment; I could ence and effects upon others? The lower not remove my eyes from the fair enchantpart of mankind generally form their judg-ress. She perceived my stupor, and softly, ments by their eyes and ears, rather than gently, divinely smiled. Unmindful of the from the conclusions of their own reason; service, and of the devotion of the crowd, they see the folly of their superiors, and as for the church was filled, I rushed forfolly has always something which appeals wards-took her hand with rapture, and to the passions and appetites instead of to throwing myself on my knees, vowed an the sober applause of the conscience and eternal servitude and devotion to her." understanding, it is always more readily received, and much better understood, than an example of virtue. The worst effect, therefore, of these fools are in the weight

which the external circumstances of fortune and condition give to their example.”

The two gentlemen shortly afterwards made their appearance, and took their seats in the coach.

“My dear Sir," said Lady Bellamont, addressing herself to the Baron," I have the satisfaction of introducing to you the lady of whom you have heard so much report. This is Hymenæa."

"Madam," replied the Baron, "I have travelled over many countries; I have been on the tops and bottoms of the Alps and Pyrennees, and seen all the wonders of nature; it is reserved to thee, England, to behold her masterpiece. Madam," said he, leaning on me in a theatrical and most ridiculous style, "I am hereafter your slave."

"And all this," said my aunt, "in the presence of the Dean, Chapter, and congregation of a public cathedral in a metropolitan town."

"Yes, madam," continued he, but ap peared somewhat confounded by the question." "Yes, madam, my heart, my eyes, my faculties, were all suspended in admiration. I saw nothing, I heard nothings Sophia was present, and in her all my senses were occupied, absorbed, and lost. Lovely, divine Sophia! when I lose the

remembrance of thee, and of our first meeting, may I lose my sword and my whiskers, and be condemned to walk the streets beardless and swordless, like the rest of my fellow-men."

"What a terrible execration," said my aunt; "but perhaps you will have the goodness to continue your narrative."

"With pleasure, madam," said he, " as do not seem to have seen or read my account. I was telling you, madam, that I was on my knees before Sophia in the midst of the cathedral, the Dean and Chapter officiating around me, and the crowd attending to the service; Sophia and myself, however, were equally insen


“I am fearful, Sir," said Lady Bella-printed mont, “that your service is so divided that this lady will interfere with the claims of some other. Pray, Sir, what will Sophia of Cadiz say to this voluntary devotion to an English lady?" “Sophia of Cadiz, madam,” said he, "issible to what was around us."

an angel. Still do I remember the day which discovered to me her divine beauties. It was in the middle of the month of June, on the most sultry day in summer, I had dressed myself for the morning walk, and after having sauntered along the streets had entered in a listless manner the great cathedral. The damp of the lofty arches had occasioned an irritation on my lungs. I coughed; the cough was returned by some one near me. I looked around, and

"Ma foi!" said my aunt, "have you said this in your printed account? Have you related that Sophia was as much lost as yourself?"

“Yes, madam,” said he; "I have a soldier's regard to truth and honour, and therefore relate things as they occurred. To return, however. Sophia and myself, as I have said, were on our knees——.”

"No, Sir," said Lady Bellamont; "you did not say this before."

"Perhaps the gentleman forgot it," said I. "It is a new circumstance."

"Yes, madam," said the Baron, "I did forget it, but it was so; I conceive myself much obliged to you for assisting my recollection. I have such a sacred regard for truth, that I would neither omit or misrepresent any fact for the value of my honour."

"So it appears, Sir," said my aunt; "your narrative has an air which speaks for itself. But proceed, Sir."

"I will, madam," said he. "Sophia, her arms being thus about my neck in the public walk——”

"In the public walk?" said Lady Bellamont; "why, I thought you were in the cathedral all this time."

"You really think," said I, "that Sophia of Cadiz is an imaginary being."

"Yes," said my aunt; "if he had not been interrupted in his narrative, you would have heard him call her Sophia, Maria, Susannah, and perhaps Rachael, or any other name which came uppermost in the moment in which he was speaking. The worthy Baron is not blessed with that kind of memory which is necessary to give consistency to a long thread of fables. It is hence as good as a comedy to lead him into a conversation upon the events of his life. He lays himself out for singularity, and therefore deserves all the ridicule which he meets with."

"A pebble!" said my aunt; "why, I thought she was in the cathedral at her prayers?"

The Baron, in despite of his assurance, was abashed at this remark; and as my Lord and some gentlemen rode up to the carriage at this instant, he availed himself of some excuse in the first place to turn the conversation, and in a short time after-to the individual; it is a duty of justice to wards to leave the carriage, and mounting a led horse he rode away with the gentle

"It is to be lamented," said I, "that he should be the coxcomb which we see him to be; but it is not to be lamented that. public ridicule holds him up to the censure he merits. It is a false humanity which overlooks such folly from any compassion


put it in a proper light whenever it occurs, and thereby to deter others from seeking a perverse distinction by a prominency in folly, and an eminence in vanity and insignificance. It is a matter of public good to visit these mischievous levities with their merited contempt."

(To be continued.)

"And I thought," said my aunt, "that Sophia and you were on your knees; you said nothing about throwing her arms about your neck."

"But there is no contradiction in this, madam," said I. "Sophia might have her arms in this way though she was upon her knees."

with the air and manner of truth. What could possibly be his purpose?"

"His purpose," said Lady Bellamont, "is the same purpose which has made so many other coxcombs; in the first place, the love of singularity and distinction, in whatever that distinction may chance to exist. And secondly, a desire of recommending himself to the English ladies by a shew of his amorous devotion to the sex in general. He has knowledge sufficient of our sex to know that we are absurd enough not only to forgive but even to admire this kind of quixotic adoration; he wishes to pass amongst us for the Abelard of his age."

"True, madam," said the Baron. "I can assure you my recollection is perfect upon this point; a pebble had brought her upon her knees."



"Well, what do you now think of the Baron and of his Sophia?" said Lady Bellamout.


cannot imagine," said I, "for what purpose he would put such foolish fables into print, and would vouch for them





THE following observations are important from their novelty, and immediate tendency to extend and purify the public amusement of the stage. There is so much science and professional exposition in Mr. Wyatt's plan, that we shall give it in his own words.

"It is generally admitted, that a circular enclosure, unobstructed by breaks and projections, possesses the power of conveying sound with facility, and that wood is the material which combines the greatest number of desirable qualities, as to conduction, resonance, &c. &c. It does not absorb the sound so much as some materials, and "It appears to be a very popular notion at pre- does not conduct it so much as others; which sent, that our Theatres ought to be very small; medium is acknowledged to be an advantage but if that popular notion be suffered to proceed to the clear and distinct conveyance of sound. too far, it will tend, in every way, to deteriorate That wood is sonorous, and capable of producing our dramatic performances, by depriving the pro- soft, clear, and pleasing tones, is sufficiently deprietors of that revenue, which is indispen-monstrated by the effect of it in musical instru sible to defray the heavy expences of such a concern, and to leave a reasonable profit to those whose property may be embarked in the undertaking.

"It should be remembered that the unavoidable expences attendant on any Theatre of a superior order in London (whatever be the dimensions of that Theatre), must, of necessity be very great; and that less than a certain return for those expences cannot maintain such a Theatre to any good effect.

"It must be evident to every one conversant with the beavy expences incident to such an establishment, that no principal Theatre in London can be so managed, as to afford to the public any advantages equal to (and certainly none beyond) what it has already been accustomed to receive, unless that Theatre shall be capable of accommodating spectators to the amount of not less than £600 (exclusive of private Boxes) at one time; calculating at the prices established subsequently to the opening of the new Theatre in Covent-Gardeu.

Speaking of the size of the new Theatre, Mr. Wyatt says—

"FORM OR SHAPE.-It is by no means my intention to go into a minute discussion of the theories of phonics, or of optics, as connected with the subject now before me: I shall confine my observations to such acknowledged facts as seem to be essential to the present purpose, without entering upon any which are involved in doubt and uncertainty.

to avoid all breaks and projections on the surfcae of such form, which can tend to interrupt or impede the progress of the sound, when once conveyed to any part of it.

"First. With reference to distinct sound; the safest method, in deciding upon the shape of a Theatre, appears to be, to adopt a form which is known to be, in itself, capable of conveying sound with facility; to construct that form of materials, which are of a conductive nature ; and No. XXVIII. Vol. V.-N.S.


"I shall take it for granted, that whatever be the form of the eatre, it ought, in every part, to be confined within the limit to which the voice is known to be capable of expanding; and certainly I hazard nothing in assuming, that the nearer the shape shall conform to those proportions which could be prescribed by the natural expansion of the voice, the more equally the sound will be heard in all parts of the Theatre, In pursuing this latter asumption, however, it will be necessary to combine with it a just attention to those considerations of profit which must be materially affected by the size or capacity of the Theatre, and which, as I have before observed, cannot he neglected without serious injury to the public, as well as to the proprietors."

Mr. Wyatt having entered into a large scientific exposition of the advantages which the new Theatre will have in respect to sound, enters upon his observations on its comparative and positive merit with respect to vision:

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