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Capt. A. You must excuse me, Sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point, I cannot obey you.

Sir A. Hark ye, Jack; I have heard you for some time with patience—I have been cool,—quite cool: but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led, when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you.

Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live!

Capt. A. Nay, Sir, but hear me.

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word! not one word! so give me your promise by a nod, and I 'll tell you what, Jack,—I mean, you dog—if you do n't by

Capt. A. What, Sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to

Sir A. Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew—She shall be all this, sirrah! yes I 'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.?

Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!

Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!

Capt. A. Indeed, Sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life.

Sir A. 'T is false, Sir; I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you 'll grin when I am gone, sirrah!

Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

Sir A. None of your passion, Sir! none of your violence, if you please; it won't doVith me, I promise you.

Capt. A. Indeed, Sir, I was never cooler in my life.

Sir A. 'T is a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are a hypocritical, young dog; but it won't do.

Capt. A. Nay, Sir, upon my word.

Sir A. So you will fly out! can't you be cool, like me 1 what good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, over-bearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! do n't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! you play upon, the meekness of my disposition ! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But mark ! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this; if you then agree, without any condition, to do every thing on earth that I choose, why, confound you! I may in time forgive you. If not, zounds, do n't enter the same hemisphere with me! do n't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own: I 'll strip you of your commission: I 'll lodge a five and three pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. I 'll disown you; I 'll disinherit you; and hang me, if ever I call you Jack again!


Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father, I kiss your hands.



This land was free! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, ' and look up to my God,
And bless him that it was so. It was free—
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.'
How happy was it then! I loved
Its very storms.

Yes, I have sat
In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind come roaring—I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

You know the jutting cliff, round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two a-breast to pass 1 O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms

Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wished me there,—the thought that mine was free

Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,

And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,

Blow on! This is the land of liberty!


To buy, or not to buy 1 that is the question;
Whether to live contentedly within
The scanty limits of a narrow income,
Or make a stand against increasing debts,
And by the lottery end them—to try one's fate 1
To be in Fortune's way? and so to end
The heart-ache, and a thousand haunting fears
The insolvent's heir to :—'t is a resolution
Instantly to be made ; to run the hazard?
Perchance to gain? ay there's the lucky hit—
For in^that wheel, what to our share may come,
When the safe number's shuffled to the last,
Must give us hope; there's the great odds,
That make a ticket so much worth the purchase:
For who would bear the dearness of the times,
The oppressive tax, the tradesman's cozenage,
The shame of refused credit, the law's arrest,
The insolence of duns, and the base 'vantage,
That griping lenders of the borrower take,
When he himself might an estate secure
With a bare sixteenth 1 who, in a rack-rent farm,
Would toil and sweat under a lordly steward,
But that the fear of (e'en on the first day's drawing)
A fatal blank! whose cruel disappointment
No adventurer survives, shuts up the purse,
And makes us rather bear our present losses,
Than feel still greater that we dream not of;
For gambling doth make spendthrifts of us all,
And, though the puffing schemes of every office
Be pasted up with the broad glare of capitals,
Yet the fair chance af plodding industry
In the long run shall turn up richer prizes;
Nor honesty its labour lose.


Extract from Mr Sheridan's Speech on the Address to the Throne.

In such an hour as this, at a moment pregnant with the national fate, can it be, that people of high rank, and professing high principles, that they or their families should seek to thrive on the spoils of misery, and fatten on the meals wrested from industrious poverty 1 Can it be, that this should be the case with the very persons who state the unprecedented peril of the country as the sole cause of their being found in the ministerial ranks 1

The constitution is in danger, religion is in danger, the very existence of the nation itself is endangered; all personal and party considerations ought to vanish; the war must be supported by every possible exertion, and by every possible sacrifice; the people must not murmur at their burthens, it is for their salvation, their all is at stake. The time is come when all honest and disinterested men should rally round the throne as a standard:—for what, ye honest and disinterested men 1 to receive for your own private emolument a portion of those very taxes which you yourselves wring from the people, on the pretence of saving them from the poverty and distress which you say the enemy would inflict, but which you take care that no enemy shall be able to aggravate.

Oh! shame! shame! is this a time for selfish intrigues, and the little dirty traffic for lucre and emolument? Does it suit the honour of a gentleman to ask at such a moment? Does it become the honesty of a minister to grant? Is it intended to confirm the pernicious doctrine, so industriously propagated by many, that all public men are impostors, and that every politician has his price? Or even where there is no principle in the bosom, why does not prudence hint to the mercenary and the vain, to abstain a while at least, and wait the fitting of the times? Improvident impatience! Nay, even from those who seem to have no direct object of office or profit, what is the language which their actions speak 1

The throne is in danger ! we will support the throne; but let us share the smiles of royalty—the order of nobility is in danger! I will fight for nobility, says the viscount, but my zeal would be much greater if I were made an earl. Rouse all the marquis within me! exclaims the earl, and the peerage never turned forth a more undaunted champion in its cause than I shall prove. Stain my green riband blue, cries out the illustrious knight, and the fountain of honour will have a fast and faithful servant!

What are the people to think of our sincerity ?—What credit are they to give to our professions ?—Is this system to be persevered in 1—Is there nothing that whispers to that right honourable gentleman, that the crisis is too big, that the times are too gigantic, to be ruled by the little hackneyed and every-day means of ordinary corruption 1—or are we to believe^that he has within himself a conscious feeling, that disqualifies him from rebuking the ill-timed selfishness of his new allies?



Romans! look round you—on this sacred place

There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike men— What see you now? what solitary trace

Is left of all that made Rome's glory then? The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft

Even of its name—and nothing now remains But the deep memory of that glory, left

To whet our pangs, and aggravate our chains!
But shall this be 1—our sun and sky the same,

Treading the very soil our fathers trode—
What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame,

What visitation has there come from God,
To blast our strength and rot us into slaves,
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves? i

It cannot be—rise up, ye Mighty Dead,

If we, the living, are too weak to crush
These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread, .

Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush.

Happy Palmyra! in thy desert domes,
Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;

And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes
For the stork's brood, superb Persepolis!

Thrice happy both that your extinguished race

Have left no embers—no half-living trace—

No slaves, to crawl around the once-proud spot,

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