Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeau
Instead of Tea, and well I know

That she prefers it greatly:
She says, "Alas! I give up Tea,
There's been so much adultery
Among the grocers lately!"
7.

She warns me of Tea-dealers' tricks-
Those double-dealing men, who mix

Unwholesome drugs with some Tea;

'Tis bad to sip-and yet to give
Up sipping's worse; we cannot live
"Nec sine Tea, nec cum Tea."
8.

Yet still, tenacious of my Tea,

I think the grocers send it me,

Quite pure. ('tis what they call so.)

Heedless of warnings, still I get "Tea veniente die, et

Tea decedente," also.

SAM SAM'S SON.

Garrick Plays.

No. XII.

[From the "Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

Venus courts Adonis.

Venus. Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love,
And shun this ivory girdle of my arms?

To be thus scarf'd the dreadful God of War
Would give me conquer'd kingdoms. For a kiss,
But half like this, I could command the Sun
Rise 'fore his hour, to bed before his time;
And, being love-sick, change his golden beams,
And make his face pale as his sister Moon.
Look on me, Adon, with a stedfast eye,
That in these chrystal glasses I
may see
My beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amazed
And stown'd with wonder. Doth this roseat pillow
Offend my Love?

With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek;
Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear.

Adonis. Madam, you are not modest. I affect
The unseen beauty that adorns the mind:
This looseness makes you foul in Adon's eye.
If you will tempt me, let me in your face
Read blusfulness and fear; a modest fear
Would make your cheek seem much more beautiful,
Venus. -wert thou made of stone,

I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love.
There is no practive art of dalliance

Of which I am not mistress, and can use.
I have kisses that can murder unkind words,
And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth;
Touches to raise thee, were thy spirits half dead;
Words that can pour affection down thy ears,
Love me! thou can'st not chuse; thou shalt not chuse.
Adonis. Madam, you woo not well. Men covet not
These proffer'd pleasures, but love sweets denied.
These prostituted pleasures surfeit still;
Where's fear, or doubt, men sue with best good will.
Venus. Thou canst instruct the Queen of Love in
love.

Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand;
Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm.
I'll frown on him; alas! my brow's so smooth,
It will not bear a wrinkle.-Hie thee hence
Unto the chace, and leave me; but not yet:
I'll sleep this night upon Endymion's bank,
On which the Swain was courted by the Moon.
Dare not to come; thou art in our disgrace:
Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place!

Phoebus jeers Vulcan.

Vul. Good morrow, Phoebus; what's the news

abroad?

For thou see'st all things in the world are done,
Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun.

Phoeb. Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea,
To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play.
There see I merchants trading, and their sails
Big-bellied with the wind; sea fights sometimes

Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beams. Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth,

With my warm fervour to give metals, trees,
Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens walk
Loose Ladies with their Lovers arm in arm.
Yonder the laboring Plowman drives his team.
Further I may behold main battles pitcht;
And whom I favour most (by the wind's help)

I can assist with my transparent rays.
Here spy I cattle feeding; forests there

Stored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses,

Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze.
In cities I see trading, walking, bargaining,
Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things-
And shine alike on all.

Vul. Thrice happy Phoebus,

That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin'd to Lemnos,
Hast every day these pleasures. What news else?
Phab. No Emperor walks forth, but I see his state;
Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold.

I see all coronations, funerals,

Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows.
No hunting, but I better see the chace
Than they that rouse the game. What see I not?
There's not a window, but my beams break in;
No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through;
And there I see, O Vulcan, wondrous things:
Things that thyself, nor any God besides,
Would give belief to,

And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, 'tother day
What I beheld?-I saw the great God Mars-

Vul. God Mars

Phœb. As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed Vul. Abed with whom?-some pretty Wench, I

warrant.

Phœb. She was a pretty Wench.

Vul. Tell me, good Phoebus,

That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars;
Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life.

Phoeb. Not to dissemble, Vulcan, 'twas thy Wife!

The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman's weeds, spinning with Omphale.

Jason. Our business was to Theban Hercules. 'Twas told us, he remain'd with Omphale, The Theban Queen.

Telamon, Speak, which is Omphale? or which Al

cides?

Pollux. Lady, our purpose was to Hercules; Shew us the man.

Omphale. Behold him here.

Atreus. Where?

Omphale. There, at his task.

Jason. Alas, this Hercules !

This is some base effeminate Groom, not he
That with his puissance frighted all the earth.
Hercules. Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon,
Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend?
We are the man.

Jason. Woman, we know thee not;
We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules,
That in his cradle strangled Juno's snakes,
And triumph'd in the brave Olympic games.
He that the Cleonean lion slew,

Th' Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon,
The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart.

Telamon. We would see the Theban
That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed,
And to his horses hurl'd stern Diomed
To be devoured.

Pollux. That freed Hesione

From the sea whale, and after ransack'd Troy,
And with his own hand slew Laomedon.

Nestor. He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell;
He that calia and Betricia won.

Atreus. That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht,

With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes,
And captived there his beauteous Megara.

Pollux. That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell, Great Achelous, the Stymphalides,

And the Cremona giants: where is he?

Telamon. That trait'rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt,

Strangled Anthens, purged Augeus' stalls,
Won the bright apples of th' Hesperides.

Jason. He that the Amazonian baldrick won;
That Achelous with his club subdued,
And won from him the Pride of Caledon,
Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes
For absence of the noble Hercules!

Atreus. To him we came; but, since he lives not here,

Come, Lords; we will return these presents back

Unto the constant Lady, whence they came.
Hercules. Stay, Lords-

Jason. 'Mongst women ?

Hercules. For that Theban's sake,

Whom you profess to love, and came to seek,
Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece,
I'll bring before that lost Hercules,
you
For whom you came to enquire.

Telamon. It works, it works

Hercules. How have I lost myself!

Did we all this? Where is that spirit become,

That was in us? no marvel, Hercules,

That thou be'st strange to them, that thus disguised Art to thyself unknown!-hence with this distaff, And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires; And let me once more be myself again.

Your pardon, Omphale!

I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother.

My flame encreaseth still-Oh father Eneus;
And you Althea, whom I would call Mother,
But that my genius prompts me thou'rt unkind:
And yet farewell!

What is the boasted "Forgive me, but forgive me!" of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?

C. L.

Topography.

ST. MARGARET'S AT CLIFF.

For the Table Book.

Stand still. How fearful

And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen that walk upon the beach
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy,
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high.-

SHAKSPEARE.

The village of St. Margaret's at Cliff is situated at a small distance from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church, though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls, still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices, over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o'clock, when it should be dark at that hour.

The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare's. They are the resort of a small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon, remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan's, and of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May, and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its eggs, two in number, in holes,

how made it is difficult to prove: when the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of its feathers.

It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823. Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain; that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded; his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered. The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the "dreadful trade."

TO A SEA-WEED

PICKED UP AFTER A STORM. Exotic-from the soil no tiller ploughs,

Save the rude surge;-fresh stripling from a grove, Above whose tops the wild sea-monsters rove; -Have not the genii harbour'd in thy boughs, Thou filmy piece of wonder!-have not those Who still the tempest, for thy rescue strove, And stranded thee thus fair, the might to prove Of spirits, that the caves of ocean house?

How else, from capture of the giant-spray,
Hurt-free escapest thou, slight ocean-flower?
-As if Arachne wove, thus faultless lay

The full-develop'd forms of fairy-bower;
-Who that beholds thee thus, nor with dismay
Recalls thee struggling thro' the storm's dark hour!*

MARRIAGE OF THE SEA.

The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp, marries the sea every year.

Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe themselves to be masters of the sea.

But

the wedding of the sea is performed with

the most noble intentions.

The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venitians wish that he should become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom, which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations.

K. B.