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Mariana. What could I do?

Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him!
Could I remain behind? My father found
My heart was not at home; he loved his child,
And asked me, one day, whither we should go?
I said, 'To Mantua.' I followed him
To Mantua! to breathe the air he breathed,
To walk upon the ground he walked upon,
To look upon the things he looked upon,

To look, perchance, on him! perchance to hear him,
To touch him! never to be known to him,
Till he was told I lived and died his love.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

The Bride's Tragedy, by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES, published in 1822, is intended for the closet rather than the theatre. It possesses many passages of pure and sparkling verse. The following,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, 'will show the way in which Mr Beddoes manages a subject that poets have almost reduced to commonplace. We thought all similes for the violet had been used up; but he gives us a new one, and one that is very delightful.' Hesperus and Floribel (the young wedded lovers) are in a garden; and the husband speaks :

Hesperus. See, here's a bower

Of eglantine with honeysuckles woven,
Where not a spark of prying light creeps in,
So closely do the sweets enfold each other.
'Tis twilight's home; come in, my gentle love,
And talk to me. So! I've a rival here;
What's this that sleeps so sweetly on your neck!
Floribel. Jealous so soon, my Hesperus? Look
then,

It is a bunch of flowers I pulled for you :
Here's the blue violet, like Pandora's eye,
When first it darkened with immortal life.
Hesperus. Sweet as thy lips. Fie on those taper
fingers,

Have they been brushing the long grass aside,
To drag the daisy from its hiding-place,

Where it shuns light, the Danae of flowers,

With gold up-hoarded on its virgin lap?

is waiting for him in the Divinity path, alone, and is terrified. At last he comes; and she sighs outSpeak! let me hear thy voice, Tell me the joyful news!

and thus he answers

Ay, I am come

In all my solemn pomp, Darkness and Fear,
And the great Tempest in his midnight car,
The sword of lightning girt across his thigh,
And the whole demon brood of night, blind Fog
And withering Blight, all these are my retainers;
How? not one smile for all this bravery?
What think you of my minstrels, the hoarse winds,
Thunder, and tuneful Discord? Hark, they play.
Well piped, methinks; somewhat too rough, perhaps.
Else I might well be scared. But leave this mirth,
Floribel. I know you practise on my silliness,
Or I must weep.

For our carousal; but we loiter here,
Hesperus. "Twill serve to fill the goblets
The bride-maids are without; well-picked, thou'lt say,
Wan ghosts of wo-begone, self-slaughtered damsels
In their best winding-sheets; start not; I bid them
wipe

Their gory bosoms; they'll look wondrous comely;
Our link-boy, Will-o'-the-Wisp, is waiting too
To light us to our grave.

After some further speech, she asks him what he means, and he replies

What mean I? Death and murder, Darkness and misery. To thy prayers and shrift, Earth gives thee back. Thy God hath sent me for thee; Repent and die.

She returns gentle answers to him; but in the end he kills her, and afterwards mourns thus over her body :

Dead art thou, Floribel; fair, painted earth,
Between those ruby lips: no; they have quaffed
And no warm breath shall ever more disport
Life to the dregs, and found death at the bottom,
The sugar of the draught. All cold and still;
Her very tresses stiffen in the air.

Look, what a face! had our first mother worn
But half such beauty when the serpent came,

Floribel. And here's a treasure that I found by His heart, all malice, would have turned to love;

chance,

A lily of the valley; low it lay

Over a mossy mound, withered and weeping,

As on a fairy's grave.

Hesperus. Of all the posy

Give me the rose, though there's a tale of blood
Soiling its name. In elfin annals old

'Tis writ, how Zephyr, envious of his love
(The love he bare to Summer, who since then
Has, weeping, visited the world), once found
The baby Perfume cradled in a violet ;
("Twas said the beauteous bantling was the child
Of a gay bee, that in his wantonness
Toyed with a pea-bud in a lady's garland);
The felon winds, confederate with him,
Bound the sweet slumberer with golden chains,
Pulled from the wreathed laburnum, and together
Deep cast him in the bosom of a rose,
And fed the fettered wretch with dew and air.
And there is an expression in the same scene (where
the author is speaking of sleepers' fancies, &c.)
While that winged song, the restless nightingale
Turns her sad heart to music-

which is perfectly beautiful.

The reader may now take a passage from the scene where Hesperus murders the girl Floribel. She

No hand but this, which I do think was once
Cain, the arch murderer's, could have acted it.
And I must hide these sweets, not in my bosom ;
In the foul earth. She shudders at my grasp:
Just so she laid her head across my bosom
When first-oh villain! which way lies the grave?

MISS MITFORD-SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER-
THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

MISS MITFORD, so well known for her fine prose tales and sketches, has written three tragediesJulian, Rienzi, and The Vespers of Palermo. They were all brought on the stage, but Rienzi' only met with decided success. An equal number of dramas has been produced by another novelist, SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER: these are entitled, The Lady of Lyons, La Valliere, and Richelieu. The first of these pieces is the best, and it seldom fails of drawand romantic play, with passages of fine poetry ing tears when well represented. It is a picturesque and genuine feeling. La Valliere' is founded on the court and times of Louis XIV., but it wants prominence of character and dramatic art. 'Richelieu' is a drama of greater energy and power, but is also loosely constructed. THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, sergeant-at-law, an eloquent English barrister, has written two classic plays, Ion, and The Athenian

Captive, remarkable for a gentle beauty, refinement, and pathos. He has also produced a domestic drama, The Massacre of Glencoe, but it is much inferior to his other productions. Ion' was acted with great success, and published in 1835. It seems an embodiment of the simplicity and grandeur of the Greek drama, and its plot is founded on the old Grecian notion of destiny, apart from all moral agencies. The oracle of Delphi had announced that the vengeance which the misrule of the race of Argos had brought on the people, in the form of a pestilence, could only be disarmed by the extirpation of the guilty race, and Ion, the hero of the play, at length offers himself a sacrifice. The character of Ion-the discovery of his birth, as son of the kinghis love and patriotism, are drawn with great power and effect. The style of Mr Talfourd is chaste and clear, yet full of imagery. Take, for example, the delineation of the character of Ion:

Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismissed
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud
To make the happy happier! Is he sent
To grapple with the miseries of this time,
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears
As it would perish at the touch of wrong!
By no internal contest is he trained
For such hard duty; no emotions rude

Hath his clear spirit vanquished-Love, the germ
Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth,
Expanding with its progress, as the store
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury,
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear
Hath filled his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Pressed on his soul too busily; his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, checked its force,
As if it feared to break its being's law,
And faltered into music; when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live
In pictured speech, and others have waxed loud
In righteous indignation, he hath heard
With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom concealed,
Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flowed
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.

[Extracts from Ion.']

[Ion being declared the rightful heir of the throne, is waited upon by Clemanthe, daughter of the high priest of the temple,

wherein Ion had been reared in obscurity.]

Ion. What wouldst thou with me, lady?
Clemanthe. Is it so?

Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon,
That the departing gleams of a bright dream,
From which I scarce had wakened, made me bold
To crave a word with thee; but all are fled-
Ion. 'Twas indeed a goodly dream;
But thou art right to think it was no more;
And study to forget it.

Clem. To forget it!

Indeed, my lord, I will not wish to lose What, being past, is all my future hath, All I shall live for; do not grudge me this, The brief space I shall need it.

Ion. Speak not, fair one,

In tone so mournful, for it makes me feel Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am,

That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven,
For a brief taste of rapture.

Clem. Dost thou yet

Esteem it rapture, then? My foolish heart,
Be still! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us!
O, my dear Ion! let me call thee so
This once at least-it could not in my thoughts
Increase the distance that there was between us
When, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes
Seemed a poor foundling.

Ion. It must separate us!
Think it no harmless bauble; but a curse
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth,
And from familiar touch of genial hand,
From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks,
From airy thought, free wanderer of the heavens,
For ever banish me!

Clem. Thou dost accuse

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And shall we never see each other?

Ion. [After a pause.] Yes!

I have asked that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal; of the flowing streams
That lucid flow for ever; of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb; but now,
While I thus gaze upon thy living face,

I feel the love that kindles through its beauty
Can never wholly perish: we shall meet
Again, Clemanthe!

Clem. Bless thee for that name;

Pray, call me so again; thy words sound strangely,
Yet they breathe kindness, and I'll drink them in,
Though they destroy me. Shall we meet indeed!
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares,
Thy councils, or thy pomps; to sit at distance,
To weave, with the nice labour which preserves
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads
Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch
The falling music of a gracious word,
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be
Comfort enough: do not deny me this;
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny,
Kill me at once!

Ion. No; thou must live, my fair one:
There are a thousand joyous things in life,
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy
As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties paid
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Thou dost not mark me.

Clem. O, I do! I do!

Ion. If for thy brother's and thy father's sake Thou art content to live, the healer Time Will reconcile thee to the lovely things Of this delightful world-and if another, A happier-no, I cannot bid thee love Another!-I did think I could have said it, But 'tis in vain.

Clem. Thou art my own, then, still?

Ion. I am thine own! thus let me clasp thee; nearer; In our own honest hearts and chainless hands O joy too thrilling and too short!

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Then he has cast me off! no-'tis not so ;
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us;
I'll struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort
From seeing him uplifted. I will look
Upon him in his throne; Minerva's shrine
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze; I'll hasten
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there. [Exit.
[Ion is installed in his royal dignity, attended by the high
priest, the senators, &c. The people receive him with shouts.]
Ion. I thank you for your greetings-shout no more,
But in deep silence raise your hearts to heaven,
That it may strengthen one so young and frail
As I am for the business of this hour.
Must I sit here ?

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Agenor. Pardon me

Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request; Grant me thy help till this distracted state Rise tranquil from her griefs-'twill not be long, If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, Whether I live or die.

Agenor. Die! Ere that hour,

May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown!
Ion. Death is not jealous of the mild decay
That gently wins thee his; exulting youth
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride,
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp
His prey benumbed at noontide. Let me see
The captain of the guard.

Crythes. I kneel to crave

Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed
On one who loved him well.

Ion. I cannot mark thee,

That wakest the memory of my father's weakness,
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learned the need of luxury. I grant
For thee and thy brave comrades ample share
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,
May glorious issues wait it. In our realm
We shall not need it longer.

Crythes. Dost intend

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Will be our safeguard; while we do not use
Our power towards others, so that we should blush
To teach our children; while the simple love

Of justice and their country shall be born
Hard 'midst the gladness of heroic sports,
With dawning reason; while their sinews grow
We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace,
One selfish passion, or one venal sword.

I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop-
For I esteem them valiant-must no more
With luxury which suits a desperate camp
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor,
Ere night.

Crythes. My Lord

Ion. No more-my word hath passed. Medon, there is no office I can add To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy homeThy too delightful home-befriend the stranger As thou didst me; there sometimes waste a thought On thy spoiled inmate.

Medon. Think of thee, my lord?

Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign.

Ion. Prithee no more. Argives! I have a boon To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin In death the father from whose heart in life Stern fate divided me, think gently of him! Think that beneath his panoply of pride Were fair affections crushed by bitter wrongs Which fretted him to madness; what he did, Alas! ye know; could you know what he suffered, Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more Let the great interests of the state depend Upon the thousand chances that may sway A piece of human frailty; swear to me That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves The means of sovereignty: our country's space, So happy in its smallness, so compact, Needs not the magic of a single name Which wider regions may require to draw Their interest into one; but, circled thus, Like a blest family, by simple laws May tenderly be governed-all degrees, Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps, But blended into one-a single form Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords Of sympathy pervading, shall endow With vital beauty; tint with roseate bloom In times of happy peace, and bid to flash With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me That ye will do this!

Medon. Wherefore ask this now?

Thou shalt live long; the paleness of thy face, Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now, And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy

Of glorious years.

Ion. The gods approve me then!

Yet I will use the function of a king,

And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die,

And leave no issue, ye will seek the power

To govern in the free-born people's choice,
And in the prudence of the wise.

Medon and others. We swear it!

Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! Now give me leave a moment to approach That altar unattended.

[He goes to the altar. Gracious gods!

In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,
Look on me now; and if there is a power,

As at this solemn time I feel there is,

Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes The spirit of the beautiful that lives

In earth and heaven; to ye I offer up

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Ion. This is a joy

I did not hope for-this is sweet indeed.
Bend thine eyes on me!

Clem. And for this it was

Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee!
Couldst thou think

I would be so divorced?

Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe

It was a shallow and an idle thought;

'Tis past; no show of coldness frets us now;

No vain disguise, my girl. Yet thou wilt think On that which, when I feigned, I truly spokeWilt thou not, sweet one?

Clem. I will treasure all.

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:

Baillie's plays. The following Christian sentiment
is finely expressed :-
Joy is a weak and giddy thing that laughs
Itself to weariness or sleep, and wakes
To the same barren laughter; 'tis a child
Perpetually, and all its past and future
Lie in the compass of an infant's day.
Crushed from our sorrow all that's great in man
Has ever sprung. In the bold pagan world
Men deified the beautiful, the glad,

The strong, the boastful, and it came to nought;
We have raised Pain and Sorrow into heaven,
And in our temples, on our altars, Grief
Stands symbol of our faith, and it shall last
As long as man is mortal and unhappy.
The gay at heart may wander to the skies,
And harps may there be found them, and the branch
Of palm be put into their hands; on earth
We know them not; no votarist of our faith,
Till he has dropped his tears into the stream,
Tastes of its sweetness.

We shall now turn to the comic muse of the drama, which, in the earlier years of this period, produced some works of genuine humour and interest.

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HENRY TAYLOR-J. BROWNING-LEIGH HUNT

WILLIAM SMITH.

Two dramatic poems have been produced by HENRY TAYLOR, Esq., which, though not popular, evince high genius and careful preparation. The first, Philip van Artevelde, was published in 1834, and the scene is laid in Flanders, at the close of the fourteenth century. The second, Edwin the Fair (1843), relates to early English history. Though somewhat too measured and reflective for the stage, the plays of Mr Taylor contain excellent scenes and dialogues. The blended dignity of thought, and a sedate moral habit, invests Mr Taylor's poetry with a stateliness in which the drama is generally deficient, and makes his writings illustrate, in some degree, a new form of the art-such a form, indeed, as we might expect the written drama naturally to assume if it were to revive in the nineteenth century, and maintain itself as a branch of literature apart from the stage.'* Strafford, a tragedy by J. BROWNING, was brought out in 1837, and acted with success. It is the work of a young poet, but is well conceived and arranged for effect, while its relation to a deeply interesting and stirring period of British history gives it a peculiar attraction to an English audience. MR LEIGH HUNT, in 1840, came before the public as a dramatic writer. His work was a mixture of romance and comedy, entitled, A Legend of Florence: it was acted at Covent Garden theatre with some success, but is too sketchy in its materials, and too extravagant in plot, to be a popular acting play. Athelwold, a tragedy by WILLIAM SMITH (1842), is a drama also for the closet; it wants variety and scenic effect for the stage, and in style and sentiment is not unlike one of Miss

* Quarterly Review.

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take of the falsetto of German pathos. But the
piece is both humorous and affecting; and we readily
excuse its obvious imperfections in consideration
of its exciting our laughter and our tears.' The
whimsical character of Ollapod in the 'Poor Gentle-
conceptions; Pangloss, in the 'Heir at Law,' is also
an excellent satirical portrait of a pedant (proud of
being an LL.D., and, moreover, an A. double S.);
and his Irishmen, Yorkshiremen, and country rustics
(all admirably performed at the time), are highly
entertaining, though overcharged portraits. A ten-
dency to farce is indeed the besetting sin of Colman's
comedies; and in his more serious plays, there is a
curious mixture of prose and verse, high-toned sen-
timent and low humour. Their effect on the stage
is, however, irresistible. We have quoted Joanna
Baillie's description of Jane de Montfort as a por-
trait of Mrs Siddons; and Colman's Octavian in
The Mountaineers' is an equally faithful likeness
of John Kemble:-

Lovely as day he was-but envious clouds
Have dimmed his lustre. He is as a rock
Opposed to the rude sea that beats against it;
Worn by the waves, yet still o'ertopping them
In sullen majesty. Rugged now his look-
For out, alas! calamity has blurred
The fairest pile of manly comeliness
That ever reared its lofty head to heaven!
"Tis not of late that I have heard his voice;
But if it be not changed-I think it cannot-
There is a melody in every tone

Would charm the towering eagle in her flight,
And tame a hungry lion.

[Scene from the 'Heir at Law.']

1

At Aberdeen he published a poem on Charles James Fox, entitled The Man of the People, and wrote a musical farce, The Female Dramatist, which his father brought out at the Haymarket theatre, but it was condemned. A second dramatic attempt, entitled Two to One, brought out in 1784, enjoyed consider-man' is one of Colman's most original and laughable able success. This seems to have fixed his literary taste and inclinations; for though his father intended him for the bar, and entered him of Lincoln's Inn, the drama engrossed his attention. In 1784 he contracted a thoughtless marriage with a Miss Catherine Morris, with whom he eloped to Gretna Green, and next year brought out a second musical comedy, Turk and no Turk. His father becoming incapacitated from attacks of paralysis, the younger Colman undertook the management of the theatre in Haymarket, and was thus fairly united to the stage and the drama. Various pieces proceeded from his pen: Inkle and Yarico, a musical opera, brought out with success in 1787; Ways and Means, a comedy, 1788; The Battle of Hexham, 1789; The Surrender of Calais, 1791; The Mountaineers, 1793; The Iron Chest (founded on Godwin's novel of Caleb Williams), 1796; The Heir at Law, 1797; Blue Beard (a mere piece of scenic display and music), 1798; The Review, or the Wags of Windsor, an excellent farce, 1798; The Poor Gentleman, a comedy, 1802; Love Laughs at Locksmiths, a farce, 1803; Gay Deceivers, a farce, 1804; John Bull, a comedy, 1805; Who Wants a Guinea? 1805; We Fly by Night, a farce, 1806; The Africans, a play, 1808; X. Y: Z., a farce, 1810; The Law of Java, a musical drama, 1822, &c. No modern dramatist has added so many stock-pieces to the theatre as Colman, or imparted so much genuine mirth and humour to all playgoers. His society was also much courted; he was a favourite with George IV., and, in conjunction with Sheridan, was wont to set the royal table in a roar. His gaiety, however, was not always allied to prudence, and theatrical property is a very precarious possession. As a manager, Colman got entangled in lawsuits, and was forced to reside in the King's Bench. The king stept forward to relieve him, by appointing him to the situation of licenser and examiner of plays, an office worth from £300 to £400 a-year. In this situation Colman incurred the enmity of several dramatic authors by the rigour with which he scrutinised their productions. His own plays are far from being strictly correct or moral, but not an oath or double entendre was suffered to escape his expurgatorial pen as licenser, and he was peculiarly keen-scented in detecting all political allusions. Besides his numerous plays, Colman wrote some poetical travesties and pieces of levity, published under the title of My Nightgown and Slippers (1797), which were afterwards republished (1802) with additions, and named Broad Grins; also Poetical Vagaries, Vagaries Vindicated, and Eccentricities for Edinburgh. In these, delicacy and decorum are often sacrificed to broad mirth and humour. The last work of the lively author was memoirs of his own early life and times, entitled Random Records, and published in 1830. He died in London on the 26th October 1836. The comedies of Colman abound in witty and ludicrous delineations of character, interspersed with bursts of tenderness and feeling, somewhat in the style of Sterne, whom, indeed, he has closely copied in his 'Poor Gentleman. Sir Walter Scott has praised his John Bull' as by far the best effort of our late comic drama. 'The scenes of broad humour are executed in the best possible taste; and the whimsical, yet native characters, reflect the manners of real life. The sentimental parts, although one of them includes a finely wrought-up scene of paternal distress, par

[Daniel Dowlas, an old Gosport shopkeeper, from the supposed loss of the son of Lord Duberly, succeeds to the peerage and an estate worth £15,000 per annum. He engages Dr Panglossa poor pedant just created by the Society of Arts, Artium Societatis Socius-as tutor to his son, with a salary of £300 a-year.]

A Room in the Blue Boar Inn.
Enter DR PANGLOSS and Waiter.

Pang. Let the chariot turn about. Dr Pangloss in a lord's chariot! 'Curru portatur eodem.'-Juvenal -Hem ! Waiter!

Waiter. Sir.

Pang. Have you any gentleman here who arrived this morning?

Waiter. There's one in the house now, sir.
Pang. Is he juvenile?

Waiter. No, sir; he's Derbyshire.

Pang. He he he! Of what appearance is the gentleman ?

Waiter. Why, plaguy poor, sir.

Pang. 'I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte.' -Chaucer-Hem! Denominated the Honourable Mr Dowlas ?

Waiter. Honourable! He left his name plain Dowlas at the bar, sir.

Pang. Plain Dowlas, did he? that will do. "For all the rest is leather

Waiter. Leather, sir!

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Pang. And prunello.'-Pope--Hem! Tell Mr Dowlas a gentleman requests the honour of an interview.

Waiter. This is his room, sir. He is but just stept into our parcel warehouse-he'll be with you directly. [Exit.

Pang. Never before did honour and affluence let fall such a shower on the head of Doctor Pangloss! Fortune, I thank thee! Propitious goddess, I am grateful! I, thy favoured child, who commenced his

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