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Bos. Possibly, sir; but we are rash to interpret terms in the presence of the great lexicographer. Pray, sir, what is your opinion?"

Joh. Why, this, sir; that I have lost all idea equally of your judgment or discrimination, wisdom or common-sense, since you chose to publish one of my letters without my leave.'

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Bos. Pray, sir, consider how strong was the temptation." Joh. "

'Sir, some characters are so weak that they find every temptation too strong."

I felt quite sorry for poor Mr. Boswell, who persevered with singular ill success to restore his learned friend to good humor, and cut a very sorry figure in the attempt. Yet he seemed actually to enjoy it, looking round for our approbation at each new sally of Johnson's, and I observed that from time to time he made pencil notes in a small book he carried.

Bos. "I am sorry we cannot conclude our discussion on Allan Ramsay's poetry, for here, I see, comes his son and namesike (260), the painter. Permit me to recall you to the subject of our conversation last night-the advantage of country over town life." Joh. " Sir, I will waste none of my time in discussing paradox. Let's have no more on't; it is neither entertaining nor instructive."

Bos. "Relatively, perhaps, rural life is not so satisfying as life in the city; but abstractedly, I am convinced that it is preferable.

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Joh. Sir, I once knew a man who

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Joh. "Sir, none of your friends would have hindered your spending it in your native land, and there, and it pleased you, you might have laid aside both wig and night-cap and donned a fool's cap.'

Rey. "I see you cannot forgive the Scotch, sir. At least they have one merit, they produce good gardeners.

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Joh. "Yes, sir, because in that wretched climate nothing grows spontaneously. Even barley must be sown in a greenhouse. Come, sir [to Boswell], let us be gone; I see one coming in whose company I am in no mind to be, still less to be exhibited by him as a laughing-stock on the stage."

I followed his glance and beheld one approaching dressed in a white coat and yellow waistcoat (235). Mr. Walpole explained to me that this was Mr. Foote, the actor, the only man for whom that bear is terrified."

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Nay, sir," remarked one who had hitherto been silent, whom I recognized as Mr. Oliver Goldsmith (211), "you do him injustice; that man has nothing of the bear but his hide.'

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Rey. "Well said, old friend! I would rather leave my character in your kindly keeping than with any one else of my acquaintance.'

Wal. "I am not so amiable, gentlemen; I recognize the manners and the voice of the charming animal as well as the hide."

Goldsmith. "Surely, Mr. Walpole, you cannot be blind to his excellent sense and charitable disposition."

Wal. "I admit them freely, sir; but that is no reason that his brutalities should be hailed as bons mots, or that one who has all the bigotry of a washerwoman should be hailed as a philosopher.

Gold. "It is a good sign of his nature that his friends are infinitely attached to him."

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'Ha, Horace! I notice you cannot forget the conventionalities of our old world," replied he whom I recognized as Sir Robert Walpole, the father of my cicerone. “Health-egad! I am tempted to wish sometimes for a twinge of gout, to delude me into the idea that I still possessed flesh and bones. Look you, you dog! there are half a score of fine ladies hunting for you in the other room; your niece, the Duchess of Gloucester, especially commands. your presence.

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"I will wait upon her Royal Highness without delay, sir," replied Mr. Walpole.

Lord Chesterfield turned his somewhat harsh face full upon the last speaker, with a kind of wistful look in his dark eyes, and, after gazing in silence for a moment, said

"Young sir, forgive what might be impertinence in one nearer your own age. You possess that charın of manner which, it seems to me, the new generation disdain to cultivate."

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"I can only account for it," Mr. Walpole answered, with a frank smile, by the fact that I have studied to acquire the good breeding of my father and his friends."

Lord Chesterfield sighed; Sir Robert gave us a careless nod, and as they moved on Mr. Walpole led me swiftly toward the West Gallery, wherein the Royal personages were holding court. Was it possible, thought I to myself, that this rubicund, burly country gentleman was really the father of the sallow, dark-eyed, slightly limbed creature by my side.*

Never

was there such a slight cast on the doctrine of heredity. Mr. Walpole seemed *It was currently believed that Horace Walpole really owed his existence to Carr, Lord Hervey.

to divine my thoughts, for, bending a penetrating glance upon me, he said

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My father's exterior and mine are not very similar, are they? We resemble each other in this, at least, that I have carried into practice in private life the motto which continually ensured the success of his long administration-quieta non movere."

"Who is that gentleman in blue coat and gold buttons, just entering the West Gallery?" I asked.

"What! you do not recognize him! My dear sir, he would be but ill pleased if he thought that possible. Fame (and port wine) are his daily-his only diet: that is Mr. William Pitt (117). It would be folly to deny the ability of one who became Prime Minister at twenty-four; but, Lord! what a crop of discontent and disaster has been sown by his inexperience, vanity, and insolence. Saw you ever such a haughty countenance, such audacious disdain of his fellows? "Pert without fire, without experience sage, Young with more art than Shelburne drew from age,

With studied dignity and solemn state
This young Octavius rises to debate,
Nor county members think his speech too
long,

While words, like treacle, trickle from his
tongue.'

Ah! but look you, sir, who comes behind him. That gentleman, I mean, in the murrey coat, unpowdered hair, and with those dark strangely arched brows."

"Who is that?" I asked.

"The greatest that ever thumped the Treasury box; Charles James Fox (122), whose genius soars above the capacity of his rival as you may see the towers of Westminster Abbey overshadow the puny pile of St. Margaret's Church. Look on him, my dear sir, for it is he that redeemed our Parliament from the hundrum of the Butes, the Norths, the Chathams, who, since my father's day, had grown round it as fungus collects on an aged oak. At his voice Liberty raised her drooping head-but I must beware of rhapsodizing like Mr. Boswell, or fulminating like Junius. By the by, I suppose no one ever reads the Letters of Junius' nowadays."

"Indeed they do, sir," I answered warmly; "they must ever remain splendid specimens of style."

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In our days," said Mr. Walpole,

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He was evidently very much tickled, rubbing his hands together, and chuckling gently.

"Then you know who was the real author" I inquired eagerly.

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Know? of course I know; I thought all the world had either forgotten the letters or knew all about them by this time. Really, if you feel any curiosity about it, I do not see why I should not gratify it, for I fancy you are the only person within these walls to whom it is still a secret. Pardon me one moment, sir; I will return immediately and tell you all about the hoax, but I see her Royal Highness, my niece, expecting me.

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Leaving me on the rack of impatience, he went up to a tall lady in white, with a scarlet mantle (68), standing near the door of the Presence Chamber. They spoke together earnestly for some minutes, and then, even as I watched them, a shadow seemed to fill the space around me, the light dwindled, the figures melted away, the walls closed in once more, and I stood alone in the hall. Just then a clock struck three, and all became pitch-dark. I

groped my way cautiously to a seat, and sat down to wait for morning.

It was maddening to think how near I had been to solve the riddle which has perplexed generations. Fool that I had been not to think of mentioning it sooner! Well, well, it could not be helped now; I had undergone a wonderful experience. I had been in the very presence of the departed; their voices still rang in my ears, the faint perfume of the ladies' dresses still floated in the air. Yet, must I confess it the uppermost thought in my mind was one of delight that I was soon to return to the society of my living friends. My books-some, the works of those I had been with just now, others, that told me of their lives-would be dearer to me than ever; but I had seen nothing in the men and women of the past to make me think them better than their descendants. History preserves what is memorable, excellent, or notorious in the departed; authors are always on their best behavior; if they record what is commonplace, despicable, or dull, they are not read-that is all. The dust gathers undisturbed on volumes that contain nothing that is grand, witty, wicked, or romantic: we devour those that make the past seem nobler and more gay than the present. But I had been a witness that human nature with periwigs, swords, and lace ruffles differs not at all from the same with chimney-pot hats and silk umbrellas, and I found myself muttering oid Villon's line

"Mieux vaut goujat debout qu'empereur en terré."

-Blackwood's Magazine. ;

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SCENE. A Norwegian Manse. Christmas Eve. The room is dark. the background; a window on one side, a door on the other. ing, stands at the window and gazes out into the darkness.

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Garden door in AGNES, in mourn

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[BRAND comes in, snowy, in travelling dress, which he removes

during what follows.

AGNES (throws her arms about him). Oh, how long thou wast away!
Go not from me, go not from me;

All alone I cannot sway

The black clouds that overcome me ;

What a night, what days have been

These two-and the night between !

BRAND. I am with thee, child, once more.

[Lights a single candle, which throws a pale radiance over the room.

Thou art pale.

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*For an account of the entire work the reader may be referred to Jæger's "Life of Ibsen" (Eng. trans.) pp. 142–162.

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Agnes, wife,

Let us bravely face the strife;
Stand together, never flinch,
Struggle onward inch by inch.
Oh, I felt a man out there!
Surges o'er the reef were dashing;
Horror of the storm-lit air

Still'd the sea-gull; hail was thrashing

Down upon the boiling sea.

In my skiff, that mid-fiord quivered,
Mast and tackle creaked and shivered,
Tattered sails blew far a-lee,

Scarce a shred of them remaining,
Every nail and stanchion straining!
From the beetling summits sundered,
Down the avalanches thundered;
Stiff and stark, with corpse-like faces
Sat the rowers in their places.
Then the soul in me waxed high;
From the helm I ruled them all,
Knowing well that One thereby
Had baptized me to His call!

AGNES. In the tempest to be strong,

Eager in the stress of fight,

That is easy, that is light;

Think of me, who, all day long,
Still must croon without relief
The low swallow-song of grief;
Think of me, who have no charm

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