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till playhouses or assemblies; nae, sir, I ganged till the kirk, till the anabaptist, independent, Bradlonian, and Muggletonian meetings; till the morning and evening service of churches and chapels of ease, and till the midnight, melting, conciliating love feasts of the methodists; and there, sir, at last, I fell upon an old, slighted, antiquated, musty maiden, that looked-ha, ha, ha! she looked just like a skeleton in a surgeon's glass case. Now, sir, this miserable object was religiously angry with herself and aw the world; had nae comfort but in metaphysical visions and supernatural deliriums-ha, ha, ha! Sir, she was as madas mad as a Bedlamite.

Eger. Not improbable, sir: there are numbers of poor creatures in the same condition.

Sir P. O! numbers-numbers. Now, sir, this cracked creature used to pray, and sing, and sigh, and groan, and weep, and wail, and gnash her teeth constantly, morning and evening, at the tabernacle in Moorfields. And as soon as I found she had the siller, aha! good traith, I plumped me down upon my knees, close by her cheek by jowl-and prayed, and sighed, and sung, and groaned, and gnashed my teeth as vehemently as she could do for the life of her; ay, and turned up the whites of mine een, till the strings awmost cracked again. I watched her motions, handed her till her chair, waited on her home, got most religiously intimate with her in a week; married her in a fortnight, buried her in a month; touched the siller; and with a deep suit of mourning, a melancholy port, a sorrowful visage, and a joyful heart, I began the world again; (rises) and this, sir, was the first boo, that is the first effectual boo I ever made till the vanity of human nature. you understand this doctrine?

Eger. Perfectly well, sir.

Now, sir, do

Sir P. Ay, but was it not right? was it not ingenious, and weel hit off?

Eger. Certainly, sir: extremely well.

Sir P. My next boo, sir, was till your ain mother, whom I ran away with fra the boarding-school; by the interest of whose family I got a guid smart place in the treasury; and, sir, my vary next step was in till parliament; the which I entered with as ardent and as determined an ambition as ever agitated the heart of Cæsar himself. Sir, I booed, and watched, and hearkened, and ran about, backwards and forwards, and attended, and dangled upon the then great mon, till I got into the vary bowels of his confidence; and then sir, I wriggled, and wrought, and wriggled, till I wriggled myself among the very thick of them. Ha! I got my snack of the clothing, the foraging, the contracts, the lottery tickets, and all the political bonuses, till at length, sir, I became a much wealthier man than one half of the golden calves I had been so long a booing to and was nae that booing to some purpose?

Eger. It was indeed, sir.

:

Sir P. But are you convinced of the guid effects and of the utility of booing?

Eger. Thoroughly, sir.

Sir P. Sir, it is infallible. But, Charles, ah! while I was thus booing, and wriggling, and raising this princely fortune, ah! I met with many heartsores and disappointments fra the want of literature, eloquence, and other popular abeelities. Sir, guin I could but have spoken

in the house, I should have done the deed in half the time; but the instant I opened my mouth there they

aw fell a laughing at me; aw which deficiencies, sir, I determined, at any expense, to have supplied by the polished education of a son, who I hoped would one day raise the house of Macsycophant till the highest pitch of ministerial ambition. This, sir, is my plan; I have done my part of it; Nature has done hers; you are popular, you are eloquent; aw parties like and respect you; and now, sir, it only remains for you to be directed-completion follows.

Eger. Your liberality, sir, in my education, is an obligation I shall ever remember with the deepest filial gratitude.

Sir P. Vary weel, sir: but, Charles, have you had any conversation yet with Lady Rodolpha, about the day of your marriage; your liveries, your equipage; or your domestic establishment?

Eger. Not yet, sir.

Sir P. Poh! why there again, now, you are wrong;

vary wrong.

Eger. Sir, we have not had an opportunity.

Sir P. Why, Charles, you are very tardy in this business.

Lord Lumbercourt. [Sings without, flushed with wine.] 'What have we with day to do?'

Sir P. O here comes my lord. Lord L. 'Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' [Enters, drinking a dish of coffee.] Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' Very good coffee indeed, Mr Tomlins. 'Sons of care, 'twas made for you.' Here, Mr Tomlins. Tom. Will your lordship please to have another dish? Lord L. No more, Mr Tomlins. Ha, ha, ha! my host of the Scotch pints, we have had warm work.

Sir P. Yes, you pushed the bottle about, my lord, with the joy and vigour of a bacchanal.

Lord L. That I did, my dear Mac; no loss of time with me: I have but three motions, old boy-charge, toast, fire-and off we go. Ha, ha, ha, that's my exercise.

Sir P. And fine warm exercise it is, my lord; especially with the half-pint glasses.

Another characteristic speech by Sir Pertinax, addressed also to his son, is:

Conscience! why you are mad! Did you ever hear any man talk of conscience in political matters? Conscience, quotha! I have been in parliament these three and thraty years, and never heard the term made use of before. Sir, it is an unparliamentary word, and you will be laughed at for it.

There are careful Lives of Macklin by F. A. Congreve (1798) and Parry (1891). Those by Kirkman (1799) and Cooke (1804) must be used with caution.

George Lillo (1693-1739), born in London of mixed Dutch and English Dissenting parentage, succeeded his father as a jeweller, carried on the business successfully, and left a modest fortune. Devoting his leisure hours to writing tragedies founded on the sorrows of real life in the lower and middling ranks, he wrote in all seven dramas, among them George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham. The last is a weak version of an anonymous tragedy written in 1592, where, and in the Yorkshire Tragedy and one or two other plays founded on domestic occur.

rences, the style of Lillo may be said to have been foreshadowed. These realistic plays, however (see Vol. I. p. 334), were rude and irregular, and were driven off the stage by the romantic drama of Shakespeare and his successors. At all events such domestic tragedies,' which had disappeared during the Commonwealth and Restoration, were revived by Lillo and his school, who had great influence on French dramatists. Lillo had a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style was generally smooth and easy. His George Barnwell (1731) describes the career of a London apprentice hurried on to ruin and murder by an infamous woman, who at last delivers him up to justice and to an ignominious death. The characters are natural; and ‘George Barnwell drew more tears than the rants of Alexander the Great! Lillo's Fatal Curiosity (1736) is a far higher work. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich stranger who takes shelter in their house, and discover too late that they have murdered their son returned after a long absence abroad. The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted; the agonies of old Wilmot, the father, make an appalling picture. The other plays were Marina, an adaptation of Shakespeare's Pericles; Scanderbeg, or the Christian Hero; Elmerick, based on a passage of Hungarian history; and a feeble masque, Britannia and Batavia. Fielding's friendship helped Lillo's popularity; and after the dramatist's death Fielding said of him that he had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to the innocence of a primitive Christian.' A parallel to Lillo's realism has been sought, not merely in a succession of imitations on the stage, but in Fielding's novels and in Lessing's rebellion against French taste in the German theatre. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and commonplace; but he was a forcible painter of the darker shades of humble life. His plays kept the stage till the close of the century; since then the taste for murders and public executions has declined.

From Fatal Curiosity.'

Young Wilmot, unknown, enters the house of his parents, and, retiring for an hour's rest, delivers them a casket. Act iii. opens on Agnes, the mother, alone, with the casket in her hand.] Agnes. Who should this stranger be? And then this He says it is of value, and yet trusts it, [casket

As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand.

His confidence amazes me. Perhaps

It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted
To open it and see. No; let it rest.

Why should my curiosity excite me

To search and pry into the affairs of others,

Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares
And sorrows of my own? With how much ease
The spring gives way! Surprising! most prodigious!
My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart

Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright 's the lustre,
How immense the worth of those fair jewels!
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever

Base poverty and all its abject train;
The mean devices we 're reduced to use
To keep out famine, and preserve our lives
From day to day; the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world. Possessed of these,
Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head

At our approach, and once more bend before us.
A pleasing dream! 'Tis past; and now I wake
More wretched by the happiness I've lost;
For sure it was a happiness to think,
Though but a moment, such a treasure mine.
Nay, it was more than thought. I saw and touched
The bright temptation, and I see it yet.
'Tis here-'tis mine I have it in possession.
Must I resign it? Must I give it back?
Am I in love with misery and want,
To rob myself and court so vast a loss?
Retain it then. But how? There is a way.
Why sinks my heart? Why does my blood run cold?
Why am I thrilled with horror? 'Tis not choice,
But dire necessity, suggests the thought.

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Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity
Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes,
May be maintained and cherished to the last.
To live without reproach, and without leave
To quit the world, shews sovereign contempt
And noble scorn of its relentless malice.
Agnes. Shews sovereign madness, and a scorn of sense!
Pursue no further this detested theme:

I will not die. I will not leave the world
For all that you can urge, until compelled.

Wil. To chase a shadow when the setting sun
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise
As your anxiety for fleeting life,
Now the last means for its support are failing:
Were famine not as mortal as the sword

This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice:
Die how you will, you shall not die alone.
Agnes. Nor live, I hope.

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And desperation drove, have been committed

By those who once would start to hear them named.
Agnes. And add to these detested suicide,
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.

Wil. The inhospitable murder of our guest?
How couldst thou form a thought so very tempting,
So advantageous, so secure, and easy;
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror?

Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature, To take another's life than end our own.

Wil. It is no matter whether this or that
Be in itself the less or greater crime :
Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,

Or none could act amiss. And that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
Oh, what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned
To plead the cause of vile assassination!
Agnes. You're too severe : reason may justly plead
For her own preservation.

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How cruel, how remorseless, how impatient

Have pride and poverty made thee!
Agnes.

Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate,
And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears,

To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote inhospitable land.
The loveliest youth in person and in mind
That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnatural father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son,
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou 'st made me.
Wil.

Dry thy tears:
I ought not to reproach thee. I confess
That thou hast suffered much so have we both.

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Thy thoughts are perishing; thy youthful joys,
Touched by the icy hand of grisly death,

Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished,
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: to die well pleased
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch is to survive the loss

Of every joy, and even hope itself,

As I have done. Why do I mourn him then?

For, by the anguish of my tortured soul,

He's to be envied, if compared with me.

There is a memoir of Lillo prefixed to an edition of his dramatic works by T. Davies (2nd ed. 1810).

near

John Byrom (1692-1763) was born Manchester. He took his degree at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1712, and studied medicine at Montpellier in France. On his return he applied himself to teach a system of shorthand which he had invented. Among his pupils were Gibbon and Horace Walpole; Bentley, Hoadly, Bishop Butler, John Wesley, Hartley, and William Law were amongst his friends. The latter part of Byrom's life was spent in easy circumstances; he succeeded by the death of an elder brother to the family property in and about Manchester, and there he lived highly respected. His poetry has the virtue of a genuine simplicity, and is sometimes pointed and rhythmical, rarely melodious; often it is mere doggerel, or measured lengths of rhymed prose. He put everything into rhymetheological and historical arguments, petitions to the king, and even translations from the mystical theology of Ruysbrock, Boehme, and Law (of the Serious Call. He was very much of a mystic himself, regarded Malebranche as the greatest of divines and philosophers, and admired Fénelon and the visionary Madame Bourignon; but he met in a friendly way heretics like Whiston and deists like Collins. Throughout life he was strongly Jacobite, though he avoided compromising himself. Byrom's (not Swift's) was the famous epigram about the dispute between Handel and Buononcini :

Some say, compared to Bononcini,
That Mynheer Handel's but a ninny;
Others aver that he to Handel

Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
Strange all this difference should be
'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee!

His Latin verse also is pointed rather than poetical. Some of his smartest things are in broad Lancashire dialect, such as the dialogue on the 'Heelanders' in Lancashire in 1745. His Colin and Phebe, contributed to the Spectator in 1714, gave him some standing as a poet. Phebe was said to have been Jug Bentley, the sprightly daughter of the great Master of Trinity. But an early biographer earnestly denied this, and with some reason said the poem was really addressed to his favourite sister, Phebe Byrom. The Journal is a light, gossiping record, which adds little to our knowledge of the public events of the period, but exhibits its author as an opinionative, kindly, cheerful, and happy man.

Colin and Phebe-A Pastoral.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went ; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things seemed as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep :
So good-humoured made me, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day;
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,

And my heart, I am sure, weighs more than a pound.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : 'Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.'

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phebe and I were as joyful as they ; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime! But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

'Be still,' then I cry, 'for it makes me quite mad To see you so merry while I am so sad.'

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But now she has left me, they all are in tears,
Not one of them half so delightful appears:
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes
Which made all these beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music attended us all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah rivals! I see what it was that you drest And made yourselves fine for—a place in her breast: You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phebe return ! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

I could breathe on his wings: it would melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here.
Ah Colin old Time is quite full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.
Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah, what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

Of the following poem (in some editions described as in imitation of Sir Philip Sidney), Southey strained a good point when he said it was 'so perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had transscribed it from some old author.'

Careless Content.

I am content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went,

I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle-humoured hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,

I hold my tongue to tell the troth, And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain, For Fortune's favour or her frown, For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge nor up nor down:

But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide :
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,

Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,

I shun the rancours and the routs ;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint ;

If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave; But fame shall find me no man's fool, Nor to a set of men a slave:

I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,

I never loose where'er I link; Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think; My word, my work, my heart, my hand, Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,

The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn or break my brains, Pray who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest, Let me be deft, and debonair,

I am content I do not care.

The following is a fair specimen of Byrom's theological argumentation (against Sherlock):

When tempted Adam, yielding to deceit,
Presumed of the fordidden tree to eat,
The Bishop tells us that he did not die :
Pray will you ask him, sir, the reason why?
Why he would contradict the sacred text,
Where death to sin so surely is annexed.
'The day thou eatest' are the words, you know,
And yet by his account, it was not so.

The often-sung hymn, 'Christians awake, salute the happy morn,' is a selection from Byrom's Christmas Carol. The following is his happiest jeu d'esprit:

Jacobite Toast.

God bless the king, God bless the Faith's Defender,
God bless-no harm in blessing-the Pretender.
But who Pretender is, and who is king,

God bless us all! that's quite another thing.

Byrom's poems were republished, with Life and notes, in 1814; were included in Chalmers's Poets; and were re-edited in 1894-45 by Prof. Ward for the Chetham Society (4 vols.). The Journal and Literary Remains appeared in 1854-57 (2 vols.; Chetham Society)

Thomas Amory (1691?-1788) was a miscellaneous writer and humourist of an eccentric type. He was of Irish descent-his father acquired property as secretary for the confiscated estatesand he went to school in Dublin; but he is found established in Westminster in 1757. In 1755 he published, anonymously, Memoirs containing the Lives of several Ladies of Great Britain; A History of Antiquities; Observations on the Christian Religion; with a variety of Disquisitions (in two volumes)-an extraordinary miscellany of religion, scenery, autobiography, and fictitious adventures. His next work is practically a continuation: The Life of John Buncie, Esq. (2 vols. 1756-66). The author's aim in both works was to promote good morals and Unitarian doctrines, or rather a kind of 'Christian Deism;' the ladies whose charms and virtues are commemorated belong very obviously to the fictitious side of the enterprise. In the first he travels among the wild hills of Northumberland, and meets there, in a secluded spot (which he invests with all the beauty and softness of a scene in Kent or Devon), the daughter of a deceased college friend, who had been disinherited for refusing to sign the Thirty-nine Articles. The young lady entertains her father's friend, and introduces him to other ladies. They undertake a visit to the Western Islands, and encounter various adventures and vicissitudes, besides indulging in philosophical and polemical discussions. The Life of John Buncle is of like complexion, but in the form of an autobiography. Buncle has in succession no less than seven wives, all wooed and won upon his peculiar Christian principles.' To such reviewers as should attempt to raise the laugh against him he replies: I think it unreasonable and impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and proper tribute of tears and sorrow, humanity requires; but when that duty has been paid, we must

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