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Be sweet to see my precious William give
The very first thing he can call his own

To him who gives him all? My dearest husband,
Betray me not;-pretend an ignorance,

And wonder why that cream and bread stand there,
And why that china bowl. Thy precious boy!

Mau. Thy precious boy! Amelia, that child's heart
Is like thee as his face.

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Am. Nature's his playmate; leaves and flowers and birds And the young innocent lambs are his companions;

He needs no other. In his solitude

He is as happy as the glittering beetle
That lives in the white rose.

Mau. What are these?
Weep'st thou for happiness?

My precious boy!

Tears! My own Amelia,
What means this rain

That falls without a cloud. Fy! I must chide thee?
Am. Yes, you are right. Useless-not causeless-tears!
They will have way.-Forgive me, dearest husband!
This is our wedding-eve. Seven years ago

I stole, a guilty wanderer, from my home,-
My old paternal home!-and with the gush
Of motherly love another thought rushed in—
My father!

Mau.

Am.

My Amelia!

Seven years

Have past since last I saw him ;—and that last!
The pangs of death were in my heart, when I
Approach'd to say good night. He had been harsh
All day, had press'd Lord Vernon's odious love,
Had taunted at thy poverty-my Maurice!
But suddenly, when I all vainly tried
To falter out good night, in his old tone
Of fond familiar love, and with the name
Which from his lips seem'd a caress, he said,
God bless you Emily! That blessing pierced
My very soul. Oft in the dead of night

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Think not too deeply

My own beloved wife,

there will come a time

Am. Oh Maurice! All the grandeur that she left— The splendid vanities, ne'er cost thy wife

A sigh, contented in her poverty,

Happy in virtuous love. But that kind voice—

That tender blessing-that accustomed name

Of fondness!-Oh! they haunt my very dreams:

They crowd upon my waking thoughts; then most
When some sweet kindness of my lovely boy,

Some sign of glorious promise, tells my heart

How little I deserve

Mau.

My Emily!

Am. No, not from thee, not even from thee, that name;"Tis sacred to those dear and honour'd lips.

Which ne'er will breathe it more. I am ungrateful

Thus to repine, whilst thou and our dear boy

Where can he now be loitering! These dark clouds
Portend a storm.

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Am. He's here. My William, wherefore did st thou stay So long? And where's the basket?

Wil.

Am. Now, where's the basket?
Wil.

Kiss me first.

I had fill'd it half,

When a strange gentleman came through the wood
And sat down by me.

Am.

Did he eat the strawberries?

Wil. Dear mother, no. He talked to me, and then I could not gather them.

Am.

What said he, dearest?

Wil. He ask'd my name and your's, and where I lived, And kiss'd me.

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Call me so, father! For these seven years

I have not seen your face. Disown me not

Call me your daughter! Once from your dear lips

Let me hear that dear sound!

And bless my dear, dear child!

Call me your Emily,

For such a blessing

I'd be content to die. William, kneel here;
Hold up your innocent hands.

Lord M.

Rise, Madam, rise.

Am. Oh, call me once your daughter, only once, To still my longing heart! My William, pray

For your poor mother.

Wil.

Pray, pray forgive us!

Lord M.

Oh, forgive us, Sir,

Madam, I have sought

A half-hour's shelter here from this wild storm;

And as your guest-I pray you to forbear

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Please you to sit, my lord.

[Exit Amelia.

Lord M. I thank you, Sir.-You have a pleasant cottage Prettily garlanded with rose and woodbine,

And the more useful vine. Has it been long

Your home?
Mau.

Lord M.

Five years.

And you have left the army?

Mau. Yes, since the peace. I could not bear to drag
My sweet Amelia through the homeless wanderings
Of a poor soldier's life. This is a nest,
However lowly, warm, and full of love

As her own heart. Here we have been most happy.

[Re-enter Amelia, with a light and a basket.]

Mau. [meeting her.] Thou tremblest still.

Am.

I could not stay away.

It is such joyful pain to look upon him;
To hear his voice ;-I could not stay away.
William, there is thy basket. Offer it.
Lord M. No; my dear boy.
Am.

For that kind word!

Lord M.

Now blessings on his head.

Surely she was not always

So thin and pale !—Your husband says, Amelia,

That you are happy.

Am.
One sorrow.

I have only known

Not that! not that!

Lord M. Ye are poor.

Am.

Lord M. You have implored my blessing on your son ;—

I bless him.

Am.

On my knees I offer up

My thanks to Heaven and thee. A double blessing

Was that, my father! on my heart it fell

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Is such a joy! My William, tremble not!

We
Weep not, my William! Thou shalt stay with me;

Here on my lap, here on my bosom, William!

Lord M. Why thou may'st have another child, and then-
Am. Oh! never one like this-this dearest child

Of love and sorrow! Till this boy was born

Wretchedly poor we were; sick, heart-sick, desolate,
Desponding; but he came, a living sun-beam!

And light and warmth seem'd darting through my breast

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With his first smile. Then hope and comfort came,
And poverty, with her inventive arts,

A friend, and love, pure, firm, enduring love;
And ever since we have been poor and happy;
Poor! no, we have been rich! my precious child!
Lord M. Bethink thee for that child, Amelia,
What fortunes thou dost spurn. His father's love
Perhaps is wiser.

Am.

Mau.

Maurice, say.

My Lord,

"Tis every whit as fond. You have my thanks.
But in a lowly station he may be

Virtuous and happy.

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Am.

Mother, let me stay,

My darling, yes;

Thou shalt not leave me, not for the wide world.

Lord M. Thou need'st not hug him so against thy bosom;

I am no ruffian, from a mother's breast

To pluck her child.-Amelia, as his arms

Wind round thy neck, so thou a thousand times
Hast clung to mine ;-as on his rosy cheeks
Thy lips are sealed, so mine a thousand times
Have prest thy face, with such a love, Amelia,
As thou dost feel for him.

Am.

O father father!

Lord M. Thou wert a motherless babe, and I to thee
Supplied both parents. Many a night have I
Hung over thy sick bed, and pray'd for thee
As thou dost pray for him. And thou, Amelia,
Did'st love me then..

Am.

Did love! Oh never, never,
Can such love pass away! Tis twined with life.

Lord M. Then after eighteen years of tender care,
Fond hopes and fonder fears, didst thou not fly
From me, thy father, with a light gay youth,
A love of yesterday? Did'st thou not leave me
To die of a broken heart? Amelia, speak!
Did'st thou not?

Am.

Father! this is worse than death.
Lord M. Did'st thou not? Speak.

Am.

I did.

Alas! I did.
Lord M. Oh miserably have my days crept on
Since thou didst leave me! Very desolate
Is that proud, splendid home! no cheerful meals;
No evening music; and no morning rides
Of charity or pleasure. Thy trim walks
Are overgrown; and the gay pretty room

Which thou did'st love so well, is vacant now;
Vacant and desolate as my sick heart.

Amelia, when thou saw'st me last, my hair

Was brown as thine. Look on it now, Amelia.

Mau. My lord, this grief will kill her. See, she writhes

Upon the floor.

Lord M. Poor heart! I go still desolate ;

I might have found a comfort had I had

Something to live for still, something to love ;

If she who robb'd me of my child had given

Her child instead-but all is over now

She would not trust her father!-All-Farewell.

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Am. [Starting up.

Take him, whilst I have life to bid thee,

take him!

Nay, cling not to me, boy! Take, take him! Maurice?
Wil. I will not leave you, Mother.

Am.

Hush! hush! hush!
My heart is breaking, William.-Maurice, speak.
Mau. Dearest and best, be it as thou hast will'd.
I owed thee a great sacrifice, Amelia ;-

And I shall still have thee.

Lord M.

Thou givest him then?
Mau. I do. But for his own sake, good, my lord,
Let not my son be taught to scorn the father
He never will forget, and let his mother
See him sometimes, or she will surely die.
Am. I shall die now. My William!
Lord M.

Am.

Lord M. My sweet Emily!
Am.

Maurice, we are forgiven!

Lord M.

Emily!

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My own dear child,

My children, bless ye all !-forgive this trial,

We'll never part again.

ETCHINGS OF DIFFERENT KINDS OF MEN.

No. I.

THE HUMOROUS MAN.

You shall know the man I speak of by the vivacity of his eye, the "morn-elastic" tread of his foot, the lightness of his brow, and the dawning smile of pleasantry in his countenance. The muscles of his mouth curl upwards, like a Spaniard's mustachios, unlike Grief's, whose mouth has a "downward drag austere." He is a man who cares for nothing so much as a "mirth-moving jest;" give him that, and he has "food and raiment." He will not see what men have to cark and care for, beyond to-day; he is for To-morrow's providing for himself. He is for a new reading of Ben Jonson's old play of " Every Man in his Humour," he would have it "Every Man in Humour." He leaves money and misery, to misers; ambition and blood, to great warriors and low highwaymen; fame, to court-laureates and lord-mayors; honours, to court-pandars and city knights; the dread of death, to such as are not worthy of life; the dread of heaven, to those who are not good enough even for earth; the grave, to parish-clerks and undertakers; tombs,

to proud worms; and palaces to paupers.

It is enough for him if he may laugh the "hours away ;" and break a jest, where tempers more humorqus break a head. He would not barter with you one wakeful jest for a hundred sleepy sermons; or one laugh for a thousand sighs. If he could allow himself to sigh about any thing, it would be that he had been serious when he might have laughed; if he could weep for any thing, it would be for mankind, because they will not laugh more and mourn less. Yet he hath tears for the pitiable, the afflicted, the orphan, and the unhappy; but his tears die where they are born,-in his heart; he makes no show of them; like April showers, they refresh where they fall, and turn to smiles, as all tears will, that are not selfish. His grief has a humanity in it, which is not satisfied with tears only; it teaches him

the disparity "Tween poor and rich, and weal and want, and moves His heart to ruth, his hands to charity.

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