Gin. Return'd unopen'd, sir.

Ago.

Gin.

How many?

Three.

take

Ago. You are correct as to those three. How many Open'd? Your look, madam, is wondrous logical; Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment; And cramm'd with scorn, from pure unscornfulness. I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard For him, or any one;-of your love of power None, as you know I have reason ;—tho' you Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it. Antonio knows these fools you saw but now, And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues For getting a little power, not natural to them, Out of their laugh'd-at betters. Be it as it may, All this, I will not have these prying idlers Put my domestic troubles to the blush; Now you sit thus, in ostentatious meekness, Playing the victim with a pretty breath, And smiles that say What do you say? Gin.

"God help me."-Well, madam,

You think best, and desire.

Ago.

I will do whatever

I say

And make the worst of it

By whatsoever may mislead, and vex?
There-now you make a pretty sign, as tho'
Your silence were compell'd.

What can I

say,

Gin.
Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided?

You should not use me thus.
So great as you may think.
Has left me weak.

I have not strength for it, My late sharp illness

Ago.
I've known you weaker, madam,
But never feeble enough to want the strength
Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too,
Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity
Of strength itself; and women can take poor
Advantages, that were in men but cowardice.

Gin. [Aside.] Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our

self knowledge

Should we not feel when tyranny can talk thus.

Ago. Can you pretend, madam, with your surpassing
Candor and heavenly kindness, that you never
Utter'd one gentle-sounding word, not meant

To give the hearer pain? me pain? your husband?
Whom in all evil thoughts you so pretend

See there you have! you own it! how pretend then
To make such griefs of every petty syllable,

Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn?

Gin. One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong,
Acknowledged and repented of, the habit
Of unprovoked and unrepented years.

Ago. Of unprovoked! Oh, let all provocation
Take every brutish shape it can devise
To try endurance with; taunt it in failure,
Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames,
Make gross the name of mother, call it fool,
Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium
Makes the soul swoon within its rage, for want
Of some great answer, terrible as its wrong,
And it shall be as nothing to this miserable,
Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies;
This angel-mimicking non-provocation

From one too cold to enrage, too weak to tread on!
You never loved me once-you loved me not-
Never did-no-not when before the altar

With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness
And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband,
Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty,

By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to love!

Gin. I scorn'd you not-and knew not was scorn was— Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing

But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself—But why repeat
What still is thus repeated, day by day,
Still ending with the question, "Why repeat ?"

[Rising and moving about.

You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done,
Good God? what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none ?

Ago.

I thank you, madam, humbly.

That was sincere, at least.

Gin.

I beg your pardon. Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong.

Ago. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked,
And unprovoking, never-answering she!

Gin. Nay, nay, say on;-I do deserve it,-I
Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry.
Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself
In fellowship there at least.

Ago.

A taunt in friendliness!
Meekness's happiest condescension!
Gin.
No,
So help me Heaven!-I but spoke in consciousness
Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love
In that, would you but know it, and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.

Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,
Nor when we dispute ever,-except the wrong
Done to myself by a will still more wilful,
Because less moved, and less ingenuous.

Let them get charity that show it.

Gin. (who has reseated herself.) I pray you,
Let Fiodilisa come to me. My lips
Will show you that I faint.

350.-A GOSSIP AT RECULVERS.

DOUGLAS JERROLD. [DOUGLAS JERROLD is a name familiar in every mouth. A book has been dedicated to him as to "the first wit of the present age." Those who have seen him in private life will feel that this is not mere friendly exaggeration. Those who know him through the veil of anonymous writing understand what a good deal of the long-continued success of a periodical work, at which all laugh, and few are offended, may be ascribed to his inexhaustible possession of that "infinite jest," of those "flashes of merriment" which "set the table in a roar." Such fame is perhaps evanescent. It has its immediate success in light dramas and political jeux d'esprit. But there is a higher fame to which, even in his lightest moods Mr. Jerrold has not been insensible -that of an earnest vindicator of the claims of the wretched to forbearance and sympathy. We may think, as abstract reasoners, that in these matters he sometimes goes too far; but, when we consider that the tendencies of a great commercial country are in a high degree selfish, we are constrained to acknowledge that it is the duty and privilege of genius to throw its weight into the opposite scale, and make an earnest fight for the maintenance of that real brotherhood, which must be upheld in every condition of society which aspires to peace and security. This has been the great function of the poetical mind in all ages. Mr. Jerrold's real talent is of the dramatic, rather than the narrative kind. His 'Caudle Lectures' are admirable examples of the skill with which character can be preserved in every possible variety of circumstances. The extracts which we give, from a Series of Essays appended to a remarkable little volume, 'The Chronicles of Clovernook' (which exhibits, perhaps, more than any other of his works, his peculiar modes of thought), -is no fair sample of his powers; but it is adapted to our pages, and at least cannot clash with any opinions.]

The sprit of the Saxon seems still to linger among the shores of Kent. There is the air of antiquity about them; a something breathing of the olden day-an influence, surviving all the changes of time, all the vicissitudes of politics and social life, The genius of the Heptarchy comes closer upon us from the realm of shadows: the Wittenagemote is not a convocation of ghosts-not a venerable House of Mists; but a living, talking, voting Parliament. We feel a something old, strong, stubborn, hearty; a something, for the intense meaning of which we have no other word than "English," rising about us from every rood of Kent. And wherefore this? England was not made piece

meal. Her foundations in the deep-could a sea of molten gold purchase the worth of her surrounding ocean?—are of the same age. The same sun has risen and set upon the whole island. Wherefore, then, is Kent predominant in the mind for qualities which the mind denies to other counties? Because it is still invested with the poetry of action. Because we feel that Kent was the cradle of the marrow and bone of England; because we still see, ay, as palpably as we behold yonder trail of ebon smoke,— the broad black pennant of that mighty admiral, Steam,-the sails of Cæsar threatening Kent, and Kent barbarians clustering on the shore, defying him. It is thus that the spirit of past deeds survives immortally, and works upon the future: it is thus we are indissolubly linked to the memories of the bygone day, by the still active soul that once informed it.

How rich in thoughts-how fertile in fancies that quicken the brain and dally with the heart, is every foot-pace of the soil? Reader, be with us for a brief time, at this beautiful village of Herne. The sky is sullen; and summer, like a fine yet froward wench, smiles now and then, now frowns the blacker for the pasing brightness; nevertheless, summer in her worst mood cannot spoil the beautiful features of this demure, this antique village. It seems a very nest-warm and snug, and green-for human life; with the twilight haze of time about it, almost consecrating it from the aching hopes and feverish expectations of the present. Who would think that the bray and roar of multitudinous London sounded but some sixty miles away? The church stands peacefully, reverently; like some old, visionary monk, his feet on earth -his thoughts with God. And the graves are all about; and things of peace and gentleness, like folded sheep are gathered around it.

There is a stile which man might make the throne of solemn thought his pregnant matter, the peasant bones that lie beneath. And on the other side a park, teeming with beauty; with sward green as emeralds, and soft as a mole's back; and trees with centuries circulating in their gnarled massiveness.

But we must quit the churchyard, and, turning to the right, we will stroll towards Reculvers. How rich the swelling meadows! How their green breasts heave with conceived fertility!