attempts were fortunately successful; the old woman recovered her speech; and, as is often the case in the hour before death, she regained also all the powers of her mind; and related how, in endeavoring to catch the cat, she had been pulled forward by her, and had fallen to the ground. In the evening, before she died, Stephen was set at liberty.

When the grandmother was committed to the earth, he stood weeping by the open grave; they were the last tears which he wept upon his native soil; for, with imperturbable calmness, he now made his preparations for emigration. He had grown strong in the battle with himself and the world.

He had been enabled to resist the severest temptations; he had been taught by the severest trials to know his own value and that of his kindred; and he was now one with himself and with them. With renewed courage he could set his face towards a New World. The schoolmaster and Stephen were now united by a new tie; they had be

come acquainted with the prisons of their native land. Stephen had never entirely given up his thoughts of emigration; he had resolutely suppressed them merely, as on the first evening that we met him; he ate because he was resolved to eat, and not because he relished his meal: now, a new stimulus impelled him; he had made public atonement for a battle in his heart.

Stephen and the schoolmaster, with their families, were among the first who, aided by the society for the assistance of emigrants, which had been hastily formed, departed for the New World.

From their home, until they had reached the place of their destination, they were led by one kind hand to another, and they often invoked Heaven's blessing upon those who, uninfluenced by self-interest, from motives of pure benevolence, smoothed their rough path to their new home.

Stephen's youngest child, which bore the name of its grandmother, learned, in fact, to walk upon American soil; and he loved to call her "grandmother," and to think, then, upon the deceased.

William Hazlitt.

MRS. INCHBALD had the rare good for- | tune to write charming books and to be one of the most lovely and fascinating women of her day. Surrounded by many temptations, she was, from first to last, a pure, noble-hearted being. Flattered by the gay and fashionable world; by "bevies of dainty dames of high degree," and admired for her genius by those well worthy to admire, appreciate, and applaud it, she always carried the same simple bearing; alike free from affectation and free from sycophancy. She was on familiar terms with Godwin, Curran, and Holcroft; and was acquainted with almost every one in London famous for their beauty, grace, or talents. She often visited the countryseats of her wealthy friends; but in one of her letters is the mournful expression, "Do not ask me to any of your houses; it is a home I want, and not to pay a visit." She often really suffered, that she might be enabled to help her poor relations, and make them comfortable. In a letter she writes, Many a time this winter when I cried with cold, I said to myself, but thank God, my sister has not to stir from her room. She has her fire lighted every morning; all her provision is bought and brought to her ready cooked; she would be less able to bear what I bear; and how much more should I have to suffer, but from this reflection!' It has almost made me warm, when I reflected that she suffered no cold." Some winters before this was written, she herself scoured her bedroom, cleaned the grate, sifted the cinders, and all this work done at the top of three pairs of long stairs; and often

says

while thus busy, a coach with a coronet and two footmen were waiting to take her an airing. But for "splendid vassalage" she had but little taste. When at Annandale House, she she found every thing neat and clean, even her hands, which had not been the case for many a day. In another place she pleasantly runs on in this strain: "My present apartment is so small that I am all over black and blue with thumping my body and limbs against my furniture on every side; but then I have not far to walk to reach any thing I want; for I can kindle my fire as I lie in bed, and put on my cap as I dine; for the looking-glass is obliged to stand on the same table with my dinner. To be sure, if there was a fire in the night, I must inevitably be burnt, for I am at the top of the house, and so removed from the front part of it that I cannot hear the least sound of anything from the street; but then I have a great deal of fresh air, and more daylight than most people in London, and the enchanting view of the Thames, the Surrey Hills, and of three windmills often throwing their giant arms about, secure from every attack of the knight of the woeful countenance.'

Mrs. Inchbald's maiden name was Simpson, and she was born at Standingfield, near Bury St. Edmonds, October 15th, 1753. When a child, she went but little in society, owing to her stuttering so much that she could hardly be understood. Books came to her aid, and reading was the chief amusement of the family, and the readings were commonly dramatic, and they all went frequently to the thea

tion of her good fortune, was played in 1784. "Animal Magnetism," 1788, is very entertaining. A quack-doctor says, "In spite of the scandalous reports of my enemies, I have, this morning, nine visits to make." Constance replies, "Very true, sir; a young ward has sent for you to attend her guardian; three nephews have sent for you to attend their uncles, very rich men; and five husbands have sent for you in great haste to attend their wives."

The piece was highly successful and very laughable, and closes with a very true remark, "there is no magnetism like the magnetism of love." "The Child of "The Child of Nature," 1788, is a delightful play, and the part of Amanthis is selected by many pretty debutantes, for its artless innocence, grace, beauty, and warm affections. One of the personages in this play, the Marchioness of Merida, does not admire the native loveliness of Amanthis; "she wants powder, rouge, and a thousand adornments." The Duke of Murcia describes what love is to Amanthis, who is impatient to know what it means: "it is so long since, I must recollect a little before I can tell you. Amongst the passions it is one more troublesome than any of them, and yet more pleasing than all; it sometimes burns you with heat, and sometimes freezes you with cold; it creates in your mind a constant desire to be with one particular person; and when you are with them, you generally look like a fool. You think them handsome, though they are frightfully ugly. Yon think them well shaped, though they are crooked; wise, though they are simpletons; and you hope they love you, though you are sure they do not." Amanthis: "You need not say any more, sir; I think I have had the disorder." "The Midnight Hour," 1788, is full of life and spirit. It was very successful. I like it the best of her minor pieces. "Such Things Are," is perhaps the greatest achievement of her dramatic genius. "Haswell was drawn from the philanthropic Howard. Meanwright" gives a wrong description to Twineall of the inhabitants of a house, which produces some scenes of the richest comic humor. The streets were so crowded around the theatre, that Mrs. Inchbald had difficulty in reaching the door to see her own play. One of the characters, Lady Tremor, is

praising her philosophy to her husband, and enumerating some instances and proofs of it, amongst the rest the following: When the servant at my Lady Grissel's threw a whole urn of boiling water upon your legs, did I then give any proofs of female weakness? Did I faint, scream, or even shed a tear?" Sir Luke: "No, very true; and while I lay sprawling on the carpet, I could see you holding a smelling-bottle to the lady of the house, begging of her not to make herself the least uneasy, for that the accident was of no manner of consequence.' "Every one has his Fault" was equally successful. It is full of interesting situations. Norland is evidently the Dorriforth of her simple story. The character of Harmony is pleasing, and was something new on the stage. "Wives as they Were, and Maids as they Are," is a most attractive play. The characters of Miss Dorillow and Sir William Dorillow, her father, "give ample room and verge enough for good acting. The dialogue is spirited and elegant. "The Wedding Day," 1793, was graced by the performances of the fascinating Mrs. Jordan, and the accomplished Thomas King. Mrs. Jordan, whose real name was Dorothy Bland, and she was never married, first appeared in a Dublin theatre as Phoebe, in "As You Like It." Her performance of Priscilla Tomboy in "The Romp," first attracted attention towards her in England. She played the Country Girl on her first appearance in London, which was an exquisite performance. Mrs. Siddons, who had seen her in the provinces, thought it impossible for her to succeed in London. We are often "better bad judges" of one another. Mrs. Inchbald says she came to town with no report in her favor to elevate her above a very moderate salary, or to attract more than a moderate house when she appeared. But here moderation stopped. She at once displayed such consummate art, with such bewitching nature, such excellent sense, and such innocent simplicity, that her auditors were boundless in their plaudits, and so warm in their praises when they left the theatre, that their friends at home would not give credit to the extent of their eulogiums. Leigh Hunt, in a bit of criticism equal to any in Colley Cibber's Apology, thus fondly dwells upon her