It would be scarcely worth while to repeat the well-known fact, that the ancient Britons used weapons and tools of flint, were it not for the purpose of observing, that the Wiltshire Downs produce that commodity in great abundance.

66

+ Doubtless, the same as the ancient Báxxa." Bacchi Sacerdotes, quæ furore ab illo immisso agitabantur."-SCAPULA.

Tallyho has long been substituted for Tan Io!-how long, it is perhaps impossible to ascertain; but that I should be adopted for n, will surprise no one who is disposed to examine the subject. The Attic dialect changes into λ, and the Doric, a into . This fact were alone sufficient; but the euphony of "Tallyho!” when vociferated in the field from Stentorian lungs, is far greater than "Tan Io!" to say nothing of the sudden jerk given to the tongue in pronouncing the n, which, as modern Nimrods ride, might endanger a front tooth or two. Should any incredulous person, however, see fit to question the correctness of our derivation, let him be so good as to furnish us with a better. Some have endeavoured to prove the joyous cry is a corruption of Talio, signifying thereby that hunting is the exercise of a species of lex talionis, as though one would say, "Reynard! you have stolen my goose, and I will, in revenge, have your brush!" Revenge, indeed! Is there the most distant appearance of that vile spirit in the jolly, smiling, uproarious faces of a set of jolly fox-hunters? None but a Cockney could have dreamed such a dream. Let him creep out from beneath the "sulphurous canopy" of smoke, some fine morning, and waylay and shoot a fox when the hounds are in full cry, and truly he shall receive his reward for so kindly assisting the inveterate sportsmen in taking their REVENGE.

The character of a brave warrior and a bold hunter have ever been synonimous among rude and uncivilized nations; and, in our late encounters on the continent, we have had no small reason to be grateful that they are frequently still united in the same person. Tan was the God of War, and in the field, where sport was to be found, and alacrity of body and mind acquired, his votaries fitted themselves to defend and fight for their country. They acquainted themselves with every pass and rising ground, bog, wood, and valley. What need of more, than stating that the DUKE is a foxhunter?

SCENE, at Mr Selby's house, or in the grounds adjacent.

SCENE-a Library.

Mr SELBY, KATHERINE.

Selby. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;

I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,

And those too with allowance. I have not
Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
With any strain of harshness on a string
Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
That to the lame performance of some vows,
And common courtesies of man to wife,
Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
To esteem as favours, what in that blest union
Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,

As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
Gently to reprehend.

Kath. In friendship's barter

The riches we exchange should hold some level,
And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys

Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir,
To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.

Selby. But to divert the subject: Kate, too fond
I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,

Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
Haply did think their company too long;
And over-company, we know by proof,
Is worse than no attendance.

Kath. I must guess,

You speak this of the Widow

Selby. 'Twas a bolt

At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,

I am most sorry to have wounded you

Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved

From our first talk. I was to caution you

VOL. XXIV.

Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
Which, for some girlish obligations past,
In that relenting season of the heart,
When slightest favours pass for benefits
Of endless binding, would entail upon you
An iron slavery of obsequious duty

To the proud will of an imperious woman.
Kath. The favours are not slight to her I owe.
Selby, Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts,
Cancels all dues-

even now I hear her call you

In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses

Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate,
Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
Say, you are busy. Use her by degrees
To some less hard exactions.

Kath. I conjure you,

Detain me not.

I will return

Selby. Sweet wife

Use thy own pleasure

[A voice within.

[Exit Katherine.

but it troubles me.

A visit of three days, as was pretended,
Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given
When she will go! I would this buxom Widow
Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try
My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love
In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils,
That she, not I, should be the first to warn
The insidious guest depart.

Selby. Some toilet service-to adjust her head, Or help to stick a pin in the right place

Kath. Indeed 'twas none of these.

Selby. Or new vamp up

The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her

Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,

And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave!
And yet my dearest Kate!-This day at least,
(It is our wedding day) we spend in freedom,
And will forget our Widow.-Philip, our coach-
Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
To the blest cottage on the green hill side,
Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
If the crimson parlour hath exchanged its hue
For colours not so welcome. Faded though
It be,

It will not shew less lovely than the tinge

Of this faint red, contending with the pale,

Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek

An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,

That bears my Katherine's name.

Our carriage, Philip.

Serv. May it please you,

The coachman has driven out with Mistress Frampton.
Selby. He had no orders-

Serv. None, sir, that I know of,

But from the lady, who expects some letters

At the next Post Town.

Selby. Go, Robin.

How is this?

[Exit Servant.

Kath. I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger-
Selby. It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton,
This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss
Imports not much. In to your chamber, love,,
Where you with music may beguile the hour,
While I am tossing over dusty tomes,

Till our most reasonable friend returns.
Kath. I am all obedience.

Selby. Too obedient, Kate,

And to too many masters. I can hardly
On such a day as this refrain to speak

My sense of this injurious friend, this pest,
This household evil, this close-clinging fiend,

[Exit Katherine.

In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants
Controll'd above me! orders countermanded!

What next?

(Servant enters, and announces the Sister

Enter Lucy.

Sister! I know you are come to welcome

This day's return. 'Twas well done.

Lucy. You seem ruffled.

In years gone by this day was used to be

The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd

So soon to gall?

Selby. Gall'd am I, and with cause,

And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,

Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.

Lucy. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.
Selby. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,

Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it'

In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;

Who owes her some strange service, of what nature

I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek

And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,

As spell-bound by some witch.

Lucy. Some mystery hangs on it.

How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?

Selby. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares
For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
A secret glance would tell me she could love,
If I but gave encouragement. Before me
She keeps some moderation; but is never
Closeted with my wife, but in the end

I find my Katherine in briny tears.

From the small chamber, where she first was lodged
The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts

Has now ensconced herself in the best part

Of this large mansion; calls the left win her own;

Commands my servants, equipage.-I hear

Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?

Enter Mrs FRAMPTON.

Mrs Fr. O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,
With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip

Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,

Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,

My errand unperform'd at Andover.

Lucy. And I shall love the knave for't ever after.
Mrs Fr. A friend with you!

Selby. My eldest sister Lucy,

Come to congratulate this returning morn.-
Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.

Mrs F. Pray,

Be seated. For your brother's sake, you are welcome.
I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion
With the good couple, to whose hospitality

I stand so far indebted. But your coming

Makes it a feast.

Lucy. She does the honours naturally

Selby. As if she were the mistress of the house

Mrs F. I love to be at home with loving friends.

To stand on ceremony with obligations,

Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though,
Of yours jumbles one strangely.

Selby. I shall order

An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam

(Aside.

} Aside.

Lucy. To drive her, and her pride to Lucifer,

I hope he means.

(Aside.

Mrs F. I must go trim myself; this humbled garb

Would shame a wedding feast. I have your leave

For a short absence ?-and your Katherine

Selby. You'll find her in her closet

Mrs F. Fare you well, then.

Selby. How like you her assurance ?
Lucy. Even so well,

That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
My merry groom should in a trice convey her
To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.

O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
Secrets of any worth, especially

Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught,

My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story

Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife

Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,

Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.

Selby. I think it is no more; and will dismiss

My further fears, if ever I have had such.

(Exit.

Lucy. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother; And how the new trees thrive, I recommended,

Your Katherine is engaged now-

Selby. I'll attend you.

[Exeunt.