"I have stolen a woman, certainly," said he to himself, "but I will make her happier than she was in that humble state from which I have taken her. I will even," said he, "now that she is in my power, win her affections; and when, in fondness, hereafter she hangs upon me, how will she thank me for this little trial, through which I shall have conducted her to happiness!"

Thus did he hush his remorse, while he waited impatiently at home, in expectation of his prize.

Half expiring with her sufferings, of body as well as of mind,

["That moment her father entered."-p. 60

about twelve o clock the next night after she was borne away, Matilda arrived, and felt her spirits revive by the superior sufferings that awaited her; for her increasing terrors roused her from the death-like weakness brought on by extreme fatigue.

Lord Margrave's house, to which he had gone previous to this occasion, was situated in the lonely part of a well-known forest, not more than twenty miles distant from London. This was an estate he rarely visited; and as he had but few servants here, it was a spot which he supposed would be less the object of suspicion in the present case than any other of his seats. To this, then, Lady Matilda was conveyed-a superb apartment allotted her-and one of his confidential females placed to attend upon her person, with all respect, and assurances of safety.

Matilda looked in this woman's face, and seeing she bore the features of her sex, while her own knowledge reached none of those worthless characters of which this creature was a specimen, she imagined that none of those could look as she did, and therefore found consolation in her seeming tenderness. She was even prevailed upon (by her promises to sit by ler side and watch) to throw herself on a bed, and suffer sleep for a few minutes-for sleep to her was suffering; her fears giving birth to dreams terrifying as her waking thoughts. More wearied than refreshed with her sleep, she rose at break of day, and, refusing to admit of the change of an article in her dress, she persisted in wearing the torn, disordered habiliments in which she had been dragged away; nor would she taste a morsel of all the del icacies that were prepared for her.

Her attendant for some time observed the most reverential awe; but finding this humility had not the effect of gaining compliance with her advice, she varied her manners, and began by less submissive means to attempt an influence. She said her orders were to be obedient, while she herself was obeyed-at least in circumstances so material as the lady's health, of which she had the charge as a physician, and expected equal compliance from her patient. Food and fresh apparel she prescribed as the only means to prevent death; and even threatened her invalid with something worse, a visit from Lord Margrave, if she continued obstinate.

Now loathing her for the deception she had practised, more than had she received her thus at first, Matilda hid her eyes from the sight of her; and, when she was obliged to look, she shuddered.

This female at length thought it her duty to wait upon her worthy employer, and inform him the young lady in her trust would certainly die, unless there were means employed to oblige her to take some nourishment.

Lord Margrave, glad of an opportunity that might apologise for his intrusion upon Lady Matilda, went with eagerness to her apartment; and, throwing himself at her feet, conjured her, if she would save his life, as well as her own, to submit to be consoled.

The extreme aversion, the horror which his presence inspired, caused Matilda for a moment to forget all her want of power, her want of health, her weakness; and rising from the place where she sat, she cried, with her voice elevated, "Leave me, my Lord, or I'll die in spite of all your care. I'll instantly expire with grief, if you do not leave me.'

Accustomed to the tears and reproaches of the sex, though not of those like her, he treated with indifference these menaces of anger, and, seizing her hand, carried it to his lips.

Enraged, and overwhelmed with terror at the affront, she exclaimed (forgetting every other friend she had), "Oh, my dear Miss Woodley, why are you not here to protect me?"

"Nay," returned Lord Margrave, stifling a propensity to laugh, "I should think the old priest would be as good a champion as the lady."

The remembrance of Sandford, with all his kindness, now rushed so forcibly on Matilda's mind, that she shed tears, from the certainty how much he felt, and would continue to feel, for her situation. Once she thought on Rushbrook, and thought even he would be sorry for her. Of her father she did not think-she dared not: one single moment, indeed, that thought had intruded; but she hurried it away -it was too bitter.

It was now again quite night, and near to that hour when she came first to the house. Lord Margrave, though at some distance from her, remained still in her apartment, while her female companion had stolen away. His insensibility to her lamentations-the agitated looks he sometimes cast upon her-her weak and defenceless state-all conspired to fill her mind with increasing horror.

He saw her apprehensions in her distracted face, dishevelled hair, and the whole of her forlorn appearance; yet, in spite of his former resolutions, he did not resist the wish of fulfilling all her dreadful expectations.

He once again approached her, and again was going to seize her hand; when the report of a pistol, and a confused noise of persons assembling towards the door of the apartment, caused him to desist.

He started-but looked more surprised than alarmed-her alarm was augmented; for she supposed this tumult was some experiment to intimidate her into submission. She wrung her hands, and lifted up her eyes to Heaven, in the last agony of despair, when one of Lord Margrave's servants entered hastily, and announced-"Lord Elmwood!"

That moment her father entered-and, with all the unrestrained fondness of a parent, folded her in his arms.

Her extreme, her excess of joy on such a meeting, and from such anguish rescued, was, in part, repressed by his awful presence. The apprehensions to which she had been accustomed kept her timid and doubtful: she feared to speak, or clasp him in return for his embrace, but, falling on her knees, clung round his legs, and bathed his feet with her tears. These were the happiest moments that she had ever known-perhaps the happiest he had ever known.

Lord Margrave, on whom Lord Elmwood had not even cast a look, now left the room; but, as he quitted it, called out,-"My Lord Elmwood, if you have any demands on me

The Earl interrupted him: "Would you make me an executioner? The law shall be your only antagonist.'

Matilda, quite exhausted, yet upheld by the sudden transport she had felt, was led by her father out of this wretched dwelling-more despicable than the hovel of the veriest beggar.

CHAPTER LIV.

OVERCOME with the want of rest for two nights, through her distracting fears, and all those fears now hushed, Matilda, soon after she was placed in the carriage with Lord Elmwood, dropped fast asleep; and thus, insensibly surprised, she leaned her head against her father in the sweetest slumber that imagination can conceive.

When she awoke, instead of the usual melancholy scene before her view, she beheld her father; and heard the voice of the once dreaded Lord Elmwood tenderly saying,-" We will go no further to-night: the fatigue is too much for her. Order beds here directly, and some proper person to sit up and attend her."

She could only turn to him with a look of love and duty: her lips could not utter a sentence.

He

In the morning she found her father by the side of her bed. enquired "If she was in health sufficient to pursue her journey, or if she would remain at the inn where she was.'

"I am able to go with you," she answered instantly. "Nay," replied he, "perhaps you ought to stay here till you are perfectly recovered?"

"I am recovered," said she, "and ready to go with you," fearful that he meant to separate from her, as he had ever done.

He perceived her fears, and replied, "Nay, if you stay, I shall do the same-and, when I go, shall take you with me to my house." "To Elmwood House?" she asked eagerly.

'No, to my house in town, where I intend to be all the winter, and where you shall still continue under my care."

She turned her face on the pillow to conceal tears of joy, but her sobs revealed them.

"Come," said he, "this kiss is a token you have nothing to dread. I shall send for Miss Woodley, too, immediately," continued he. "Oh, I shall be overjoyed to see her, my Lord-and to see Mr. Sandford-and even Mr. Rushbrook."

"Do you know him?" said Lord Elmwood.

66

"I have seen him two or three times."

The Earl, hoping the air might be a means of re-establishing her health and spirits, now left the room, and, ordered his carriage to be prepared, while she arose, attended by one of his female servants, for whom he had sent to town to bring such changes of apparel as were requisite.

When Matilda was ready to join her father in the next room, she fel a tremour seize her, that made it almost impossible to appear before him. No other circumstance now impending to agitate her heart, she felt more forcibly its embarrassment at meeting, on terms of easy intercouse, him of whom she had never been used to think but with that distant reverence and fear which his severity had excited; and she knew not how she should dare to speak to or look on him with that freedom which her affection warranted.

After many efforts to conquer these nice and refined sensations, but to no purpose, she at last went to his apartment.

He was

reading; but, as she entered, he put out his hand and drew her to him. Her tears wholly overcame her. He could have intermingled his but, assuming a grave countenance, he entreated her to desist from exhausting her spirits; and after a few powerful struggles, she obeyed.

Before the morning was over, she experienced the extreme joy of sitting by her father's side as they drove to town, and of receiving, during his conversation, a thousand intimations of his love, and tokens of her lasting happiness.

It was now the middle of November; and yet, as Matilda passed along, never

to her did the sun shine so bright as upon this morning --never did her imagination comprehend that the human heart could feel happiness true and genuine as hers.

wood House) but that Matilda's peace of mind might be for ever destroyed before she was rescued from her danger.

The summons from Lord Elmwood for their coming to town was received by each of this party with delight; but the impatience to obey it was in Rushbrook so violent, it was painful to himself, and extremely troublesome to Sandford, who wished, from his regard to Lady Matilda, rather to delay than hurry their journey.

"You are to blame," said he to him and Miss Woodley, "to wish, by your arrival, to divide with Lord Elmwood that tender bond which ties the good, who confer obligations, to the object of their benevolence. At present there is no one with him to share in the care and protection of his daughter, and he is under the necessity of discharging that duty himself: this habit may become so powerful, that he cannot throw it off, even if his former resolutions should urge him to it. While we remain here, therefore, Lady Matilda is safe with her father; but it would not surprise me, if on our arrival (expecially if we are precipitate) he should place her again with Miss Woodley at a distance." To this forcible conjecture they submitted for a few days, and then most gladly set out for town.

On arriving at the house, there was no abatement of her felicity: all was respect and duty on the part of the domestics-all paternal care on the part of Lord Elmwood; and she would have been at that summit of her wishes which annihilates hope, but that the prospect of seeing Miss Woodley and Mr. Sandford still kept this passion in

existence.

CHAPTER LV.

RUSHBROOK was detained at Elmwood House during all this time, more by the persuasions, nay prayers, of Sandford than the commands of Lord Elmwood. He had, but for Sandford, followed his uncle, and exposed himself to his anger, sooner than have endured the most piercing inquietude which he was doomed to suffer till the news arrived of Lady Matilda's safety. He indeed had little else to fear from the known firm, courageous character of her father, and the expedition with which he undertook his journey; but lovers' fears are like those of women, obstinate: and no argument could persuade cither him or Miss Woodley (who had now ventured to come to Elm

On their arrival, they were met, even at the street door, by Lady Matilda; and, with an expression of joy they did not suppose her features could have worn, she embraced Miss Woodley! hung upon Sand ford-and to Mr. Rushbrook, who from his conscious love only bowed at an humble distance, she held out her hand with every look and gesture of the tenderest esteem.

When Lord Elmwood joined them he welcomed them all sincerely, but Sandford more than the rest, with whom he had not spoken for many days before he left the country, for his allusion to the wretched situation of his daughter-and Sandford (with his fellow-travellers) now saw him treat that daughter with an easy, a natural fondness, as if she had lived with him from her infancy. He appeared, however, at times, under the apprehension that the propensity of man to jealousy might give Rushbrook a pang at this dangerous rival in his love and fortune. For though Lord Elmwood remembered well the hazard he had once ventured to befriend Matilda, yet the present unlimited reconciliation was something so unlooked for, it might be a trial too much for his generosity. Slight as was this suspicion, it did Rushbrook injustice. He loved Lady Matilda too sincerely, he loved her father's happiness and her mother's memory too faithfully, not to be rejoiced at all he witwhispered him, "their blessincrease the pleasure he found in

nessed; nor could the secret hope that ings might one day be mutual," beholding Matilda happy.

Unexpected affairs, in which Lord Elmwood had been for some time engaged, had diverted his attention for a while from the marriage of his nephew; nor did he at this time find his disposition sufficiently severe, to exact from the young man a compliance with his wishes, at so cruel an alternative as that of being for ever discarded; he felt his mind, by the late accident, too much softened for such harshness; he yet wished for the alliance he had proposed; for he was more consistent in his character than to suffer the tenderness his daughter's peril had awakened to derange those plans which he had long projected. Never, even now, for a moment did he indulge--for perhaps it would have been an indulgence-the design of replacing her exactly in the rights of her birth, to the disappointment of all his nephew's expectations.

Yet, milder at this crisis in his temper than he had been for years before, and knowing he could be no longer irritated upon the subject of neglect to his child, he at length once more resolved to trust him

self in a conference with Rushbrook on the plan of his marriage; meaning, at the same time, to mention Matilda as an opponent from whom he had nothing to fear. But, for some time before Rushbrook was called to this private audience, he had, by his unwearied attention, endeavoured to impress upon Matilda's mind the softest sentiments in his favour. He succeeded; but not so fully as he wished. She loved him as her friend, her cousin, her foster-brother, but not as a lover. The idea of love never once came to her thoughts; and she would sport with Rushbrook like the most harmless infant, while he, all impassioned, could with difficulty resist disclosing to her what she made him suffer.

At the mce ing between him and Lord Elmwood, to which he was called for his final answer on that subject, which had once nearly proved so fatal to him; after a thousand fears, much confusion and embarrassment, he at length frankly confessed his "heart was engaged, and had been so long before his uncle offered to direct his choice."

Lord Elmwood, as he had done formerly, desired to know". on whom he had placed his affections."

"I dare not tell you, my lord," returned he; "but Mr. Sandford can witness their sincerity, and how long they have been fixed." "Fixed!" cried the Earl.

66

'Immovably fixed, my Lord; and yet the object is as unconscious of my love to this moment as you yourself have been; and I swear ever shall be so, without your permission."

"Name the object," said Lord Elmwood, anxiously.

'My Lord, I dare not. The last time I named her to you, you threatened to abandon me for my arrogance."

Lord Elmwood started-"My daughter!-would you marry her?" "But with your approbation, my Lord; and that-"

Before he could proceed a word further, his uncle left the room hastily; and left Rushbrook all terror for his approaching fate.

Lord Elmwood went immediately into the apa tment where Sandford, Miss Woodley, and Matilda were sitting, and cried, with an angry voice, and with his countenance disordered-" Rushbrook has offended me beyond forgiveness. Go, Sandford, to the library, where he is, and tell him this instant to quit my house, and never dare to

return."

Miss Woodley lifted up her hands and sighed. Sandford rose slowly from his scat to execute the office; while Lady Matilda, who was arranging her music-books upon the instrument, stopped from her employment suddenly, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. A general silence ensued, till Lord Elmwood, resuming his angry tone, cried-" Did you hear me, Mr. Sandford"

Sandford now, without a word in reply, ma le for the door; but there Matilda impeded him, and, throwing her arms about his neck, cried-"Dear Mr. Sandford, do not.'

"How!" exclaimed her father.

She saw the impending frown, and, rushing towards him, took his hand fearfully, and knelt at his feet. "Mr. Rushbrook is my relation," she cried, in a pathetic voice; "my companion, my friend. Before you loved me he was anxious for my happiness, and of en visited me to lament with and console me. I cannot see him turned out of your house without feeling for him what he once felt for me."

Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations; then raising her from the floor, he said, "Do you know what he has asked of me?"

"No," answered she, in the utmost ignorance, and with the utmost innocence painted on her face; "but whatever it is, my Lord, though you do not grant it, yet pardon him for asking." Perhaps you would grant him what he has requested?" said her father.

"Most willingly-was it in my gift."

"It is," replied he. "Go to him in the library, and hear what he has to say; for on your will his fate shall depend.' Like lightning she flew out of the room; while even the grave Sandford smiled at the idea of their meeting.

Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in which his uncle had left him, sat with his head reclined against a bookcase, and every limb extended with the despair that had seized him. Matilda nimbly opened the door and cried, "Mr. Rushbrook, I am come to comfort you."

That you have always done," said he, rising in rapture to receive her, even in the midst of all his sadness.

What is it you want?" said she. "What have you asked of my father, that he has denied you?"

"I have asked for that," replied he, "which is dearer to me than my life."

"Be satisfied, then," returned she; "for you shall have it." "Dear Matilda! it is not in your power to bestow."

"But he has told me it shall be in my power; and has desired me

to give or to refuse it you, at my own pleasure."

"O heavens!" cried Rushbrook, in transport, "has he?" "He has, indeed-before Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley. Now tell me what you petitioned for."

"I asked him," cried Rushbrook, trembling, "for a wife."

Her hand, which had just then taken hold of his, in the warmth of her wish to serve him, now dropped down as with the stroke of death -her face lost its colour-and she leaned against the desk by which they were standing, without uttering a word.

"What means this change?" said he. "Do you not wish me happy?"

"Yes," she exclaimed, "Heaven is my witness; but it gives me concern to think we must part."

"Then let us be joined," cried he, falling at her feet, "till death alone can part us."

All the sensibility-the reserve-the pride, with which she was so amply possessed, returned to her that moment. She started back, and cried, "Could Lord Elmwood know for what he sent me ?" "He did," replied Rushbrook: "I boldly told him of my presumptuous love; and he has given to you alone the power over my happiness or misery. Oh, do not doom me to the latter."

Whether the heart of Matilda, such as it has been described, could sentence him to misery, the reader is left to surmise; and if he supposes that it could not, he has every reason to suppose that their wedded life was-a life of happiness.

He has beheld the pernicious effects of an improper education in the destiny which attended the unthinking Miss Milner. On the opposite side, what may not be hoped from that school of prudence, though of adversity, in which Matilda was bred?

And Mr. Milner, Matilda's grandfather, had better have given his fortune to a distant branch of his family, as Matilda's father once meant tɔ do, so that he had given to his daughter

A PROPER EDUCATION.

1

MEMOIR OF

INCHBALD.

ELIZABETH INCHBALD was the last child but one of the numerous family of John and Mary Simpson, of Standing-field, in Suffolk, and born on the 15th of October, 1753. Her father died when she was but eight years old, and her mother was left to struggle, deeply encumbered, with the concerns of a farm which we believe was the sole source of profit, and indeed maintenance, to the family.

Mrs. Inchbald has told us that she never was sent to school, and never had any governess or preceptor. In that particular she resembled Miss Burney, another writer of novels, and her equal in the delineation of character and passion. But the latter lady lived at least in the atmosphere of letters, and her father was a man of science and refinement.

The family of the Simpsons was Catholic; and the neighbourhood abounded in respectable persons of that communion, who willingly extended their friendship to the interesting farm-house at Standingfield, where the daughters were spoken of as amiable and handsome girls; Elizabeth particularly admired, though she has candidly admitted that ner sister Deborah was handsomer than herself. Elizabeth had a defect to surmount which caused her infinite vexation-she, from her infancy, stammered: and yet the early passion of her mind was to be an actress.

Bury and its fair supplied them with amusements, and the theatre there gave to her brother George his love of dramatic representations: he came home from this seat of his enjoyments an actor in embryo, and unconsciously, perhaps, encouraged his sister in the secret design she had meditated. She was confirmed in it after by his really entering the profession. As to her impediment, she wrote out all the words with which she had difficulty, and by slow articulation, and a measured manner, disciplined her organs of speech. Sanguine as youth may be, it seldom calculates more erroneously than when it applies, with its natural timidity and inexperience, to a country manager for an engagement on his stage as a means of pro vision in life. Beauty, it is true, will do something; and the female debutante is seldom awkward, which the males at first are sure to be. But the requisites for a coup de main are those of intrepid nature. If discipline is needed to perfect the actress, she must find it through successive barns, and play-houses little better, incessant variety of parts, and audiences equally composed of ignorance and prejudice. Miss Simpson, under injunctions of secrecy, wrote to Mr. Griffith, who at that time had the management of the Norwich theatre, to give her an engagement, if he judged her abilities worthy of encouragement. He wrote a reply of the doubtful gender, and they had interviews, too, of a charming description; but he avoided everything like engagement. She now saw the necessity of striking at the heart; and therefore determined, with the Wronghead family, upon a "Journey to London."

suddenly abdicated; and, after some "strange adventures," as she calls them, got new lodgings at midnight, as a passenger disappointed of a place in the stage, at the White Swan on Holborn Bridge. On the 15th of this Fol-month she again visited King, who gave her some faint hopes. She then sat down and wrote, on the 16th and 17th, a letter to her sister, D. Hunt, detailing her penniless "misventures"-took it herself to the post, kept her chamber the rest of the day, and began her theatrical studies, en attendant a reply from sister IIunt. A stranger, whose name was Redman, found out her residence, and wrote to her: she answered his letters, met her sister in pursuance of her answer, and they drank tea together at a public garden. On the 21st, while calling upon Mr. King, her brother Slender came in her way, and demanding her address, threatened her with a chaise and Standing field next day. On the 22nd, Inchbald met her at Slender's, and they had intercourse daily. In May, she was negotiating an engagement for the country with Dodd, which was absolutely concluded in about ten days; but upon a visit to him she saw some unequivocal symptoms of his bad management-threw a basin of hot water in his face, and wrote to him to justify her conduct from the provocation. Inchbald saw that this unprotected state of hers should be closed as speedily as possible; and declared, to her great delight, that he hoped he should be able to marry her. On the evening of the 9th of June, 1772, Mr. Rice, a Catholic priest, came to sister Slender's, and married them. On the 10th they went to church, and were married by the Protestant rites, and her sister Slender and she went to the theatre, and saw Mr. Inchbald act Oakley, in the Jealous Wife. With her husband she soon set off for Bristol. She made her first appearance on the stage in Cordelia, on the 4th of September, to her husband's Lear. On the 18th they came back to London, and on the 7th of October set off in the Bury stage on a visit to her mother at Standing-field: they could make but a short visit, for they were obliged to return to London to take shipping for Scotland: they had a stormy week's passage, and landed at Leith on the 17th. Her husband, Wilson (Don Jerome), and she went post to Glasgow, where they arranged with Digges that she should act Cordelia on the 26th. On the removal of the company to Edinburgh, we find a Mr. Stirling playing Iago to Mr. Inchbald's Othello, for the benefit of husband and wife. This gentleman had spent the evening with her, in her husband's absence, on the 7th of January, and from that time their intimacy increased, till our heroine seems to have "more needed the divine than the physician." She grew uneasy, wrote, two or three times, the state of things to her spiritual director; and insisted, with Mr. Stirling, upon being alone in the absence of Mr. Inchbald. That gentleman, who complained of her indifference to him, chose to be absent, and high words ensued, and separate chambers were demanded by the lady. In the mean time Mr. Stirling resumed his scat, read to her while Inchbald was abroad, and, very indiscreetly we think, she indulged herself in a correspondence with him during absence. With Digges they con. tinued, and acted the usual north circuit until the middle of June, 1776, when Mr. Inchbald unhappily had a dispute with the Edinburgh audience, and a riot, in consequence, closed their engagement.

Inchbald corresponded with both mother and daughter at Standingfield, and their letters were thickly interchanged the whole year. It was not till March, 1772, that she determined upon a new adventure. On the 10th of April, she packed up her things, and wrote a "farewell letter" to her mother. On the 11th, left home unsuspected, and by the Norwich Fly arrived safely and quite unexpected again in the "great city." She got lodgings at the Rose and Crown, in St. John

street.

She now put in execution the grand part of her project, namely, to see Mr. Reddish, the tragedian, and Mr. King, the comedian, and beg their assistance as to the stage. King, a man of kindly feelings, talked much with her, and promised to visit her at the Rose and Crown, in St. John's-street. He did not arrive, and in a panic she

Mrs. Inchbald, with the aid of a master, had been studying the French language while in Scotland; and now, of all the absurditics with which, at times, even clever people are carried away, Mr. Inchan artist his wife, in the mean time, as a bel esprit, was to become a perfect Frenchwoman, and realise all the visions of authorship, which, while speaking the language of the stage, might have entered her imagination. They took shipping at Shields on the 7th of July, and landed at St. Valeri, in France, on the 23rd. They arrived at length in Paris; and the French evinced their accustomed politesse to a beauty, a wit, and a Catholic, of the rival nation. On the 31st of August she had begun a farce, but had left Paris; and Mr. Inchbald had, perhaps, finished a portrait of his wife. Some absurd biogra phers have made them continue abroad five years; and the least inaccurate about a year. They left Dieppe, however, on the 18th of September, and were back at Brighton on the following day, to try for strolling engagements, with a wrangling character" from Edinburgh; and often were compelled to go without either dinner or tea, unless a raw turnip, pluckt up in the fields, could constructively pass for either or both. This tour of five years, therefore, was completed

in fifty-seven days: such is the authentication of biography. To London they at last came, and quitted it for Chester; whence they proceeded the next day to Liverpool, and met there with a liberal engagement from the manager, Younger. Through October and November they played there with much success; on the 9th of December they acted for the benefit of Mr. and Miss Farren, and on the 17th arrived at Manchester. At this town, on the 18th of January 1777, they drank tea and supped at Mrs. Siddon's, and there saw her brother, Kemble, for the first time. A very intimate acquaintance was commenced between these clever people at once. Kemble, though never a lover, seems to have been the cause of many disputes between his new friends. In March they took country lodgings on Russel Moor, where they seem to have rusticated most agreeably, with the Siddons and the Kemble; the latter as playful as a boy, and the future queen of tears singing over her household labour, without a dream of the greatness she was so soon to achieve. Their next stage was that of York for Mrs. Siddons, and Birmingham for the party. When the friends were sundered by different engagements, the Inchbalds, very unhappy, came to London, on their way to Canterbury. On the 2nd of July they reached the City of Pilgrims, and then had neither tea nor supper, and the day following neither dinner nor tea. On the 24th they began to act with Dimond, and continued at Canterbury till the 22nd of September, when they determined to pass some time at Standing-field.

Their grand card was the York Company; and they at length succeeded to their hearts' content. Wilkinson engaged them both; and when then left the maternal dwelling, on the 13th of October, it was to join their new manager at Hull. With this excellent man they continued till the unhappy death of Mr. Inchbald, on the 6th of June, 1779. It was, we learn, by an accident, and quite sudden. She simply calls that day "a day of horror," and the week that followed, one of "grief, horror, and almost despair."

On the 12th of February, 1780, Suett paid his serious addresses to our lovely widow. She weighed one name against the other, and poor Dicky's kicked the beam. On the 19th of September, at Doncaster, she took her leave of the York Company, and arrived safely in London; and on the 24th had her first interview with Mr. Harris of Covent-Garden Theatre. The matter was soon arranged, and she acted on the London boards, the first time, Bellario, in Philaster, the 3rd of October, 1780. There can be little doubt of her respectable utility as an actress: in some few parts, of which the character is a feminine gentleness, and virtuous timidity, such as Lady Frances in the Belle's Stratagem, she was admirable. Harris proffered her Angelina, in the Fopp's Fortune. But her salary was low, and did not bear her away from the train of Harlequin; and she was loth to suffer a deduction of 10s. per week, to keep her from enchanted, or enchanting, ladies, who walk in and out before every sort of scene, arrived in the stage, or landing from the packet-virgins of the sun, in Persian temples, or of the moon, if she condescends to shine upon pantomine masquerades. This alone made her engagement bitter to her; nor could she well avoid it, even at Colman's summer house. She was in

Ireland, acting with Daly, from November, 1782, to May, 1783, and handsomely paid. In vain did she try to better her condition by offering farces to Mr. Harris: he had no opinion of them, and she sometimes was indignant at his treatment of her and her works. In this position she had another offer of marriage, and from the Don Jerome of the Duenna, Richard Wilson, the old companion of her husband. This she wisely rejected.

For forty years together this amiable woman lived in London, or its immediate vicinity, cultivating assiduously her literary talents, and investing her gains in the funds. The father of her dramatic fortune was Mr. Colman, the elder, who, liking the idea of her Mogul Tale," took great pains in preparing for his stage; and also cleared out from the dust of his cabinet her comedy of "I'll Tell You What," to which he wrote both prologue and epilogue. These were followed by a "Widow's Vow"-" All on a Summer's Day"--" Animal Magnetism"-"The Child of Nature"-" Midnight Hour"-"Such Things are"-"Married Man"-"The Hue and Cry"-"Next Door Neighbours"--" Young Men and Old Women" Every One has his Fault”. "The Wedding Day""Wives as they were, and Maids as they are"-" Lover's Vows""The Wise Man of the East". -"To Marry or not to Marry". "The Massacre," a tragedy-and the "Case of Conscience," a play in five acts. In addition to which, though certainly first in genius, we have to mention her Simple Story,"-and her "Nature and Art,”which will be standard works to the end of time.

Her place in society, during her town life, was exactly where she chose it should be. The highest ranks of nobility were proud of her. visits, and their coronets were seen waiting at the door of her lodgings, to bear her from household toil, to take the airing of luxury and pride. Yet she never forgot, or avoided, her humble connections; and her feeling soul never considered the station of the afflicted. Some few foibles excepted, as, for instance, the solicitude as to her beauty, and her love of admiration, we hazard little in saying it will be difficult to name a wiser or a better woman.

The last of her many wills is dated the 29th of April, 1821; and after a short illness she died, a sincere Catholic, on the 1st of August following, and is interred in the churchyard of Kensington. She had nearly completed her 68th year.

Her friend, Mrs. Piozzi, another memorable woman, died, at a greatly advanced age, a few months before her.