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though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living.
34. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Very good!
35. Sneer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your commonplacebook, where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the Lost and Stolen Office.
36. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Very pleasant !
37. Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste; but that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments — like a bad tavern's worst wine.
38. Sir F. Ha! ha!
39. Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would be less intolerable if the thoughts were ever suited to the expression ; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic incumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms!
40. Sir F. Ha! Ha!
41. Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey; while your imitations of Shakespeare resemble the mimicry of Falstaff's page,
and are about as near the standard of the original.
42. Sir F. Ha !
43. Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimilating ; so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, incumbering what it is not in their power to fertilize!
44. Sir F. [After great agitation.] Now, another person would be vexed at this.
45. Sneer. O! but I wouldn't have told you, only to
46. Sir F. I know it-I am diverted! Ha! ha! ha!— not the least invention! Ha! ha! ha! — very
! good! very good!
47. Sneer. Yes — no genius! Ha! ha! ha!
48. Dan. A severe rogue! Ha! ha! But you are quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense. You are quite right.
49. Sir F. To be sure; for if there is any thing to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and if it is abuse, why, one is always sure to hear of it from one good-natured friend or another.
R. B. SHERIDAN.
LXXXI.-SORROW FOR THE DEAD.
1. Sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open, this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
2. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, and he feels his heart as it were crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept consolation that was to be bought by forgetfulness?
3. No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection,- when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness,—who would root out such a sorrow from the heart?
4. Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song: there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
5. O, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him?
6. But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy.
7. There it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness, of the parting scene: the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love, the feeble, fluttering, thrilling (0, how thrilling !) pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold
of existence: the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!
8. Aye, to go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition !
9. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;, then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear,-more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
10. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
The heart is the workshop in which are forged secret slanders, and all evil speaking. The mouth is only the outer shop or salesroom, where all the goods that are made within are sold. The tongne is the salesman.
LXXXII.-HYMN OF THE CHURCH-YARD.
1. Ah me! this is a sad and silent city;
Let me walk softly o’er it, and survey
Where are its children? where their gleesome play?
Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep. 2. This is pale beauty's bourn; but where the beautiful,
Whom I have seen come forth at evening's hours, Leading their aged friends with feelings dutiful
Amid the wreaths of spring, to gather flowers ? Alas! no flowers are here but flowers of death, And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.
3. This is a populous place; but where the bustling,
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart -
The money-changers, and the men of art ?
4. This is the home of grandeur; where are they
The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise?
The gaudy guise of human butterflies?
5. This is the place of refuge and repose;
Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight,
Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night?