Heim. Well, then, I see it is not now the proper time to speak, and I shall leave you. Yet I might have hoped a different reception, when I think how humble my request, my suit how honourable. I forgive, however, all this heat in one whom I revere as second father to the woman of my heart. Al. Away with you!-you are a blockhead with your second father. Shameless fellow, instantly be gone. Heim. I go and I again forgive you your abuse. You'll see, when you are calmer, what a cruel thing it is to sacrifice to humour and caprice the happiness of her and me-for I can know no happiness without Sophia's hand.-(Seizing it.)-Without this dearest hand, life's but a blank for me. So. (taking his hand,) If your niece's comfort-if her life has any value with you-never shall I love another. Al. What is this? How is it with me? Do I understand you right? So that is she?-it is my niece Sophia that you love? Heim. Whom else? Car. O Mr Albert, I begin to guess. How can it be? What evil spirit has possessed you? Do you know your Caroline so little? Al. (He draws her aside,) But I found him lurking in your sleeping room. Car. That was a thoughtlessness of Sophy, who concealed him there. Al. (as before, with a low voice,) But then Sirillo's brother, with his ears, has heard you talk of love-rewarding, happy-making, and a rendezvous. truth.-(Going to his wife.)--And these two likewise-no, they do not lie as I'm alive, they cannot lie. My Cary hear me, Cary-so I'm wrong then? How? Give me your hand-you're angry, very angry. Car. Certainly I should be angryand no other decent wife would let escape so fine an opportunity of pouting for a month at least; but, as some share of blame may fall on me, I'llAl. (lets go her hand, and steps some paces back,) So, after all, you Car. I beseech you, be not terrified it is not so I mean it. Hear me, these young people for a length of time have been in love. So. Yes, uncle, it is near a year that we have known each other. Car. They thought proper to make me their confidant; and, partly a dislike to contradicting you, and partly, too, a spice of vanity in over-reaching you a little, moved me to conceal the whole affair, and carry on a small intrigue behind your back. My fault lies there-do you forgive me? Al. Listen to me, love. A small intrigue, you say, behind my back-a wish to over-reach me that is going far; but let it pass-I do forgive you, child: a man who has been steeped in water does not mind a shower of rain. Car. So we are quits with one another? Al. Done, with all my heart. 0 how light I feel my breast!-so he must feel who dreams he was in hell, and on awaking finds himself in heaven. My dearest Caroline, such joy I feel in all my joints and limbs, that I could dance! Car. Dear husband, there are standing other two, who would with pleasure join the dance, if you would play the tune they like-How is it fixed for them? Al. Aha! that had escaped me altogether. Well, young friend, your name? who are you, pray? Heim. I wish I could conceal my name-it will recal no pleasant recollections, I'm afraid. My name is Heimfeld. Car. He heard it, but has falsely understood it, as you see. And you could trust a stranger's ears, without inquiry, more than you would trust a Al. Heimfeld! So you are the son of heart which you should know by this! Heimfeld? Yes, yes, you're righttime? Albert! Albert! Al. Was it really so then? Can I possibly believe it?-(placing himself before Heimfeld and Sophia, and look ing at them stedfastly.)-Yes, love speaks in these four eyes, and says the the name don't please my ear. Ten years ago your father was my friend -now we are friends no more! However, I know you, by reputation, to be a worthy, sensible, young fellow, and, as you have had the complais ance to love my niece, and not myhem!-This moment I'm so pleased and merry, I could give away the world, and even myself into the bargain-I am therefore sorry I cannot give you Sophy; but it is impossible -she's promised to Sirillo, should I flinch I lose three thousand dollars that, however, were no motive to prevent her happiness, had I not given my promise. give her up, and took the present opportunity to gain the bet by this surprise? Al. Not quite improbable. You're right-it might be, if the hard three thousand dollars were not in the case. So. The thing is certain, uncle ;the brother said himself, he did it for the wager's sake. Al. He did?-hem! hem !-So he has caught me then?-(Drawing CaCar. O three thousand dollars!―roline aside.)—But then how could he Come, dear husband, can one give a wish to make me jealous, knowing way a young girl's heart and hand that? How could he for money, as a merchant sells his goods? or as some princes their domains with the inhabitants? Al. Why did you let it come so far, through your sly arts and fine contrivances? Why not tell the truth at once? Now we must wait at least until we see Sirillo, and know if he will let me off. Until he comes, I beg you, Sir, you will not set a foot within my house or garden. So. Dearest uncle, it perhaps will not be necessary to wait Sirillo's coming, for his brother here, to whom I have disclosed the whole Al. What? how? what? So. Gave me this paper, which, he told me, would unravel all, to every body's satisfaction. Al. What? Sirillo's brother? So. I'm to give it to the man I love -so, Heimfeld, here it is; do take and read it. True, it should have happened in the evening, when we were all together; but a moment earlier or later cannot signify. Al. Well, read, and let us hear. Heim. (opens the paper, and runs over it,) Good heavens! what do I see? Can it be true? Well, hear.The underwritten, moved by weighty reasons, hereby cedes, most solemnly, and after due consideration, all pretensions and all rights he may have gained, or may hereafter gain, to the possession and the hand of Miss Sophia, niece of Mr Albert, irrevocably to the man who shall receive this paper from the hands of that young lady. Further, he releases Mr Albert fully from his promise.-SIRILLO. Ál. What is that then? Give it here As I'm alive, his hand and seal! the deuce! what can he mean? Car. A thought has struck me--might it not be this, that, knowing the connection between her and Heimfeld, he had long resolved to Car. O! some joke, perhaps-some joke to teaze you. Al. Ay! the devil take the joke! I do not like your jokes which cut one to the quick. It might have ended sadly, were I not so foolishly good-natured. Car. Yes, and were not I so too.But now, what's to be done with these two people standing there? Al. Well, well, the thing will be explained; if he is satisfied, and quits me of the dollars, I am likewise satisfied, and therefore you may have the girl for me, (leads Sophia to Heimfeld.) So. My dearest uncle- Al. But, young man, remember, on condition that your father give consent. Heim. O he will not refuse, I'm certain. very SCENE XVIII. and last. Si. (is hastening in, but stops at the door.) Al. O come in, come in; I must acknowledge I have lost-your bro ther has the bet. Si. (approaches, always looking sideways at Heimfeld,) Sir, how? What do you say? Al. For a surprise of such a sort I certainly was not prepared. Si. How do you mean? Al. Such generosity I did not look for from your brother. Si. Generosity! pray how? Al. I must confess I like to lose in such a manner. Si. Have you then So. The paper was unsealed, indeed too early, but the circumstances were so pressing Si. Ay, ay, now I understand-the Car. Now, let alone, good people, for you plainly see it is a joke of his. Si. 0-0, the devil, no! it is no joke of mine.-(Beating his breast.)— O blockhead! blockhead!(To Heimfeld.)-Hand the paper here, young gentleman-here with it. Heim. Stop! I'll lose this paper only with my life. I now begin to comprehend Si. You have purloined it. Here with it-it is not valid. Al. Friend, it is your brother's will Si. Why such ceremony? she and that that young man should keep it. I have settled all. Car. What can that mean? Al. What whim is that? Si. Why all this feigning, friend? My brother ceded me his bride-she and I have made it up together-you give your consent, and so Al. But Heim. With your permission, we know nothing, Sir, of any ceding in your favour, Sir. Si. What? pray what have you to say in this?(To Albert.)-Dear Albert, what is that man doing here?that is the man who Al. Softly-now we know the pretty story-it has cost me dear enough. Car. I'm half inclined to pick a quarrel with you, but, as all turns out so well, I'll pass it you for once. Si. My good friend Albert, as I see, you have allowed them to make game of you. You Al. Come, leave off, leave off! You, as I see, friend, are a rogue. knew the whole from the beginning all was told you by your brother. Si. Pray, of what? I do not understand you. Al. Come, leave off, I say-the joke must not be carried farther. It is clear you must have known the whole. Si. May Heaven not know of me, if I know any thing of what you say I know ! Al. My God! how could you other wise have given that paper to my niece, that she might make her friend unseal it? Si. (stands with open mouth, and looks at all by turns.) So. And, as I was lately going to confess to you the footing I am on with Heimfeld, you assured me that you knew it. Heim. After our adventure of the tables, you declared the same to me. Si. No, no, no-I tell you it is not his will. So. Good heavens! Did you not say yourself, that I should give it to the man I loved? And I have done so. Heim. One sees clearly from the very paper, that it is your brother's will Si. Old Satan take you, no! I must know better what my will is. Car. Your's is not the question here your brother's will. Si. No, no, my brother is myselfthis is not my brother-it is I! Al. My God! Of that we do not doubt, and for that very reason Si. O the devil! no-I am not II am that other-I am he-Zounds! I no, I am not he-I am the one who stands before you-I'm myself that very brother. Car. Yes, yes, that we know. Si. No, d-n! that you do not know-Your brother I am not-I am my own-I am-O! to the devil with you all-you make me crazy-I am I-I am Sirillo. (He throws off his false hair, and stands with his bare pate.) How? what? who am I? who? (what follows goes on so rapidly that Sirillo can't get in a word.) Al. O bravo! bravo! dear Sirillo, let me, pray, embrace you-What a stroke! I swear that nothing can exceed it-there you make a couple happy, and have nobly won the bet. Si. Ah! what? Heim. How shall I thank you, much esteemed Sirillo, for your goodness, for your generosity-I owe my all to you So. Good Sirillo, I'm really at a loss-am quite ashamed-your noble mind oppresses me➡ Car. Accept my hearty thanks, Sirillo, your surprise is as ingenious, as great, and noble, and I feel it as a favour done myself. Si. Ah! what? I am not generous, I am not noble-minded, nor ingenious-ingenious I do not wish to be-it is the girl I wish. Al. But, friend Sirillo, pray, reflect; you have given up my niece to Mr Heimfeld of your own accord. Heim. You have renounced her, and the writing is in my possession. Si. That is just the devilish mistake it should not be in your possession-it was never meant for you, young gentleman-the note belongs to me-I wrote it for myself. Al. Well, that is pleasant! for yourself? Si. Why, yes, and can't you comprehend it? For our wager's sake, I Wrote the note: The little serpent was to give it me in this unusual dress, and what a fine surprise I thought it! how delighted was IP Blockhead that I am! to be so blind. Al. Ah! now I have you-now I see the thing. But, friend of mine, you likewise see how matters stand; this youthful couple have been lovers for a year-when love has said the blessing, it is best for us in years to say, Amen. Di. Well, must I not at last give in then, in this devilish affair? What good does opposition in a case like this? But tell me, Sir, (to Heimfeld) did you not own to me yourself, that you? Heim. I don't know what you understood: at all events, however, it was an error of your own. Si. (to Caroline) And, madam, you! I heard it with my ears, how you! Car. But, as you now have heard, that also was a, mere mistake. Si. (to Sophia) And you, young lady, you-you certainly did say you-you-you loved me. So. Dear Sirillo, that's another great mistake. Si. Mistake! mistake! Ah! I begin to see, a man in love at fifty-one is sadly subject to mistakes. Car. But, that the last may not be worse than all the rest, I should imagine, dear Sirillo▬▬ Si. (after a short pause.) Well, yes, yes, you're right, Madam, it would, of all my crazy tricks, for certain, be the craziest, to wish to take a wife, who brought me, as a dowry to my house, a love-affair. So nothing VOL. VI. now remains, but tractably and patiently to dance, as if I were à married man, to any tune they play me. Al. Bravo! friend of mine, Bravissimo! Si. But then our bet? Al. You see that I have won; for at the moment you were going to play off upon us your surprise, we have prevented you by one much greater. Si. Well, yes, then; in the name of God, Amen. I'll pay with all my heart, but, I beseech you, never cast it in my teeth. (to Sophia) May you be happy, my good girl. As to your husband there, I wish,-You never may surprise him: These surprises, after all, are good for nothing. MILTON AND SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE and Milton may be truly called the gods of England's idolatry. The productions of the first are known either by perusal or by representation to the learned and unlearned in every class of our country. Their author, without much effort on his own part, and wielding with ease, and even carelessness, the mighty powers with which he was endowed, has held his way to that " throne of eternal adamant to which Nature had predestinated him. The works of Milton are less known. They are more generally read, and more passionately adinired, by the learned aBut his fame is mongst our nation. nearly equal to that of his great competitor. He was, undoubtedly, the first scholar of his age. He culled the ma terials for his wondrous fictions from every tongue, and nation, and people. Years of painful study, and severe and restless labour, were employed in quarrying from every quarter of the earth those spotless gems which were to compose and adorn his structure. By early exertion he became master of every language, both ancient and modern, in which the bards who preceded him had taught and sung. To Shakespeare these were all a dead letter. The avenues were shut which led to those secret recesses where they sung. He heard, indeed, through the medium of translation, the faint echo of their song, but its sweetest cadences were lost, and its finest pas Pope's Temple of Fame, 1. 183. sages destroyed ere it reached his ear. his eye had been glancing from To Milton, on the other hand, they spoke in a language almost as much his as theirs. He could answer, and nearly rival them. The Hebrew writers had conducted him to those retreats of sacred song, "Near Siloa's fount that flow'd Fast by the oracle of God." The Grecian muses had nursed him on that "Aonian Mount," whose height was too little for his ambition; and above which, he tells us in his exordium to his great poem, that he means 66 to soar with no middle flight." How deeply he had drank of the beauties of the Mantuan bard, is well known to all who are familiar with the works of both these poets. But these were not all his sources of study. After a due discipline at home, under such ancient masters, and a careful perusal of the greatest writers in his own language, he had increased his stores by foreign travel. His residence and studies in Italy, -his friendship with the learned and eminent men of that coun try, his intimate acquaintance with their poetry and literature, and his perfect knowledge of their language, enabled him to compare the progress of modern with that of ancient poetry, and to return at last laden with those manifold stores of knowledge, and an imagination warm and glowing with all this rich and varied imagery, to the composition of his great work; that work which he himself tells us had long formed the subject of his private musings. Shakespeare, on the contrary, had sat still at home, and his mind, unimproved by travel, was ignorant of every country and every lanIguage but his own. He knew nothing of all these multiplied and artificial sources of inspiration. Yet Richardson. Notes on Milton, p. 13. "For my part, I can say that my lips are not only moistened with these two languages, Greek and Latin, but as much as my age allowed, I have drank as large cups as any one. Yet notwithstanding I come with joy and delight to your Dante and Petrarch. Nor has even attic Athens it self so held me upon the shore of her clear Ilyssus; nor that dear old Rome upon the banks Tyber, but that I often love to visit your Arno and the hills of Fesole." Milton's letter to Buonmattco. "heaven to earth and earth to heaven." Nature was to him all in all. Her influence over his mind was controlled by no system of instruction, and no principles of imitation. Man had formed the subject of his study in all his different stages, from the infant puling in his nurse's arms," till he shifted into that last stage of mere oblivion which ends the history of his being. The scenery of Nature came not to him through the faded descriptions of Greek, or Roman, or Italian writers. He painted what he saw before him with a pencil as fresh and dewy as the landscape in which he wandered. The feelings and the passions of our feverish being, the pangs of love, or jealousy, or scribed by him according to those disappointed ambition, were not derules of poetical fitness, or those examples of poetical propriety which Milton had studied in Aristotle, Homer, and Virgil. He was of all this as ignorant as a child; but his ignorance formed his strength. It compelled him to dive into the intri and darker concealments of the hucate windings, the troubled motions, man heart. He studied his own mind; he analysed the minds of others with a vigour, a truth, and boldness, which seems to have been more intuitive than acquired. "He drew," says Dryden, "not laboriously, but thing, you more than see it, you feel luckily; and when he describes any it too. There is not any of his readers, from the most gay and trifling, to the most grave and saturnine; from the lover" sighing like furnace," to the silent gentlemen, whose visages "Do cream and mantle like a standing pool," who will not recognise themselves, their feelings, and their frailties in the pages of this wonderful poet. · The effect of his poetry upon the mind is like that of one musical instrument when it is sounded beside another. The chords of our hearts re-echo to the tones of his lyre, and we cannot hear the sound of the one without a simultaneous vibration in the feelings of the other. Yet all this is perfect nature in him. The moral machinery with which the effect is produced was not, as in Milton, the result of severe discipline in the books of ancient au |