Puslapio vaizdai

attention, he could not give his assent to either of them marrying his daughter, and they must decide it by their own power and address; but as he did not wish to risk the loss of either, or both, by suffering them to fight with offensive weapons, he had ordered a large bag to be brought; and he, who'was successful epough to put his rival in it, should obtain his daughter.

This strange combat between the two gentlemen was in presence of the whole imperial court, and lasted near an hour: at length the Spaniard yielded; and the German, when he had him in the bag, took him on his back and placed him at the emperor's feet; and on the following day he married the beautiful Helena.

The following are the pieces alluded to in the biography of Mr. Garrick, given in this number of the Mirror.

Written by Mr. Garrick, and spoken by him on opening Drury-lane theatre, in 1750.

As heroes, states, and kingdoms, rise and fall,
So-(with the mighty to compare the small)
Through int’rest, whim, or, if you please, through fate,
We feel commotions in our mimic state;
The sock and buskin fly from stage to stage;
A year's alliance is with usan age!
And where's the wonder? All surprise must cease,
When we reflect, how int’rest, or caprice,
Makes real kings break articles of peace.

Strengthen’d with new allies, our foes prepare;
“ Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war."
To shake our souls, the papers of the day
Drew forth the adverse power in dread array;
A power might strike the boldest with dismay:
Yet, fearless still, we take the field with spirit,
Arm'd cap-à-pie in self-sufficient merit.
Our ladies 100, with souls and tongues untam'd,
Fire up like Britons when the battle's nam'd:
Each female heart pants for the glorious strife,
From *Hamlet's mother, to the foobler's wife.
Some few there are, whom paltry passions guide,
Desert each day, and fly from side to side:
Others, like Swiss, love fighting as their trade,
For beat, or beating,--they must all be paid.

* Mrs. Pritchard.

+ Mrs. Clives

Sacred to Shakspeare was this spot design'd,
To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind.
But if an empty house, the actor's curse,
Shows us our Lears and Hamlets lose their force;
Unwilling we must change the nobler scene,
And, in our turn, present you Harlequin;
Quit poets, and set carpenters to work,
Show gaudy scenes, or mount the vaulting Turk.
For, though we actors, one and all agree
Boldly to struggle for our_vanity;
If want comes on, importance must retreat;
Our first, great ruling passion, is to eat.
To keep the field, all methods we'll pursue;
The conflict glorious! for we fight for you:
And, should we fail to gain the wish'd applause,
At least we're vanquish'd in a noble cause.


Spoken by Mr. Barry, at Covent-garden theatre, in 1750.
When vice, or folly, overruns a state,
Weak politicians lay the blame on fate.
When rulers useful subjects cease to prize,
And damn for arts that caus'd themselves to rise:
When jealousies and fears possess the throne,
And kings allow no merit-but their own,
Can it be strange that men for flight prepare,
And strive to raise a colony elsewhere?
This custom has prevail'd in ev'ry age,
And has been sometimes practis'd on the stage;
For entre nous—these managers of merit,
Who fearless arm—and take the field with spirit,
Have curb'd us monarchs with their haughty mien,
And Herode-have out-Heroded,-within.

[Pointing to the green.room.
O! they can torture twenty thousand ways!
Make bouncing +Bajazet retreat from Bayes!

The ladies too, with every power to charm,
Whose face, and fire, an anchorite might warm,
Have felt the fury of the tyrant's arm.

By selfish arts expell’d our ancient seat,
In search of candor--and in search of meat,
We, from your favour, hope for this retreat.

* Mr. Quin. VOL. IV.

Both Quin and Barry. Garrick. Mrs. Cibber, &c.


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If Shakspeare's passion, or if Jonson's art,
Can fire the fancy, or can warm the heart,
That task be ours.—But if you damn their scenes,
And heroes must give way to harlequins,
We, too, can have recourse to mime and dance;
Nay, there, I think, we have the better chance:
And, should the town grow weary of the mute,
Why-we'll produce a child upon the flute.*
But, be the fool as 'twill, 'tis you that treat!
Long have they feasted- -permit us now to ear.

Written by Mr. Garrick, and spoken by Mrs. Clive, at Drury-lane theatre, in 1750.

(Enters hastily, as if speaking to one who would oppose her.]
I'll do't! by heaven I will!-pray get you gone:
What! all these janglings, and I not make one!
Was ever woman offer'd so much wrong?
These creatures here would have me hold my tongue!
I'm so provok'd—I hope you will excuse me:
I must be heard-and beg you won't refuse me.
While our mock heroes, not so wise as rash,
With indignation hold the vengeful lash,
And at each other throw alternate squibs,
Compos'd of little wit--and some few fibs;
1, Catherine Clive, come here t'attack'em all,
And aim alike at little and at tall.
But first, ere with the buskin'd chiefs I brave it,
A story is at hand, and you shall have it.

Once on a time two boys were throwing dirt,
A gentle youth was one, and one was somewhat pert;
Each to his master with his tale retreated,
Who gravely heard their different parts repeated;
How Tom was rude, and Jack, poor lad, ill-treated.
The master paus’d-to be unjust was loth,
Callid for a rod, and fairly whipt them both.
In the same master's place, lo! here I stand,
And for each culprit hold the lash in hand.
First, for our own-Oh, 'tis a pretty youth!
But out of fifty lies I'll sift some truth.
'Tis true, he's of a choleric disposition,
And fiery parts make up his composition.

* A child, said to be but four years of age, had been introduced on the stage of Drury-lane theatre, to play a tune on that instrument.

How have I seen him rave when things miscarry'd!
Indeed he's grown much tamer since he married.
If he succeeds, what joys his fancy strike!
And then he gets to which he's no dislike.
Faults he has many—but I know no crimes:
Yes; he has one-he contradicts sometimes:
And when he falls into his frantic fit,
He blusters so, it makes e'en ME submit.
So much for him--the other youth comes next,
Who shows by what he says, poor soul, he's vext.
He tells you tales how cruelly THIS treats us,
To make you think the little monster beats us.
Would I have whin'd in melancholy phrase,
How “bouncing Bajazet retreats from Bayes!”
I, who am woman! would have stood the fray:
At least, not snivell’d thus, and run away!
Should any manager lift arm at me,
I have a tyrant arm as well as he!-
In fact, there has some little bouncing been,
But who the bouncer was inquire within.
No matter who, I now proclaim a peace,
And hope henceforth hostilities will cease:
No more shall either rack his brains to tease ye,
But let the contest bewbo most shall please ye.

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Ar meeting, the lady Jane has a conversation with De Monfort, in which his feelings and opinions respecting this wonderful sister are so exquisitely portrayed that it would be unpardonable in us not to transcribe them.

Fane. Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is,
That now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow.
Within the friendly cover of its shade
I only wish unknown, again to see
One who, alas! is heedless of my pain.

De Mon. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil,
And give thy countenance to the cheerful light.
Men, now all soft, and female beauty scorn,
And mock the gentle cares which aim to please.
It is most damnable ! undo thy veil,
And think of him no more.

Fane. I know it well, even to a proverb grown,
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight:
But he, who has, alas! forsaken me,
Was the companion of my early days,
My cradle's mate, mine infant playfellow.
Within our opening minds, with riper years,
The love of praise, and gen'rous virtue sprung:
Through varied life our pride, our joys, were one;
At the same tale we wept:-he is my brother.

De Mon. And he forsook thee?- No, I dare not curse him:
My heart upbraids me with a crime like his.

Fane. Ab: do not thus distress a feeling heart.
All sisters are not to the soul intwin'd
With equal bands; thine has not watch'd for thee,
Weep'd for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and woe,
As I have done for him.

De Mon. [Eagerly.] Ha! has she not?
By Heaven! the sum of all thy kindly deeds

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