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I was forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to be called. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away; and, after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neat's tongues, venison pasty, and stale beer, took leave of the family. But the gentleman would needs see me part of the way, and carry me a short cut through his own ground, which he told me would save half a mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck by leaping over his ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt, when my horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an hour recover him again.

Swift.

to

THE RIVALS.

SCENE III.

King's-Mead-Fields. Sir Lucius and Acres, with pistols.

Acr. By my valour! then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance-Odds levels and aims! I say it is a good distance.

Luc. It is for muskets or small field-pieces! upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me. Stay now I'll show you. (Measures paces along the stage.) There now, that is a very pretty distance-a pretty gentleman's distance.

Acr. Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry box! I tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim.

Luc. Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight!

Acr. No, Sir Lucius, but I should think forty or eight-and-thirty yards

Luc. Pho! pho! nonsense! three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.

Acr. Odds bullets, no! by my valour! there is no merit in killing him so near: do, my dear Sir Lucius,

let me bring him down at a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me!

Luc. Well-the gentleman's friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you?

Acr. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius-but I don't understand

Luc. Why, you may think there's no being shot at without a little risk-and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it-I say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters.

Acr. A quietus!

Luc. For instance, now-if that should be the case-would you choose to be pickled and sent home?or would it be the same to you to lie here in the abbey? I'm told there is very snug lying in the abbey. Acr. Pickled!-Snug lying in the abbey!-Odds tremors! Sir Lucius, don't talk so!

Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind before?

Acr. No, Sir Lucius, never before.

Luc. Ah! that's a pity!-there's nothing like being used to a thing.-Pray now, how would you receive the gentleman's shot?

Acr. Odds files! I've practised that-there, Sir Lucius-there (Puts himself in an attitude.)—a sidefront, hey?-Odd! I'll make myself small enough: I'll stand edgeways.

Luc. Now you're quite out-for if you stand so when I take my aim-(Levelling at him.)

Acr. Zounds! Sir Lucius-are you sure it is not cock'd.

Luc. Never fear.

Acr. But-but-you don't know-it may go off of its own head!

Luc. Pho! be easy. Well, now if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance-for if it misses a vital part of your right side-'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on the left!

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Luc. But, there-fix yourself so-(Placing him.) let him see the broadside of your full front-therenow a ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all.

Acr. Clean through me!-a ball or two clean through me!

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Luc. Ay-may they-and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain.

Acr. Look'ee! Sir Lucius-I'd just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one-so, by my valour! I will stand edgeways.

Luc. (Looking at his watch.) Sure they don't mean to disappoint us-Hah!-no faith-I think I see them coming.

Acr. Hey!-what! coming!

Luc. Ay-Who are those yonder getting over the stile?

Acr.

There are two of them indeed!-well-let them come-hey, Sir Lucius!-we-we-we-we-won't

run.

Luc. Run!

Acr. No-I say we won't run by my valour! Luc. What the devil's the matter with you? Acr. Nothing-nothing-my dear friend-my dear Sir Lucius-but I-I-I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did.

Luc. O fie!-consider your honour.

Acr. Ay-true-my honour-Do Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then

honour.

Luc. (Looking.) Well here they're coming.

about my

Acr. Sir Lucius-if I wa'n't with you, I should almost think I was afraid-if my valour should leave me!-Valour will come and go.

Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have it.

Acr. Sir Lucius-I doubt it is going-yes-my valour is certainly going!-it is sneaking off!-I feel it oozing out as it were at the palms of my hands? Luc. Your honour-your honour. Here they are.

Acr. O mercy!-now-that I was safe at ClodHall! or could be shot before I was aware!

Sheridan.

POOR RELATIONS.

A poor relation is the most irrelevant thing in nature, a piece of impertinent correspondency, an odious approximation, a haunting conscience, a preposterous shadow lengthening in the noontide of our prosperity, an unwelcome remembrancer, a perpetually recurring mortification, a drain on your purse, a more intolerable dun upon your pride, a drawback upon success, a rebuke to your rising, a stain in your blood, a blot on your scutcheon, a rent in your garment, a death's-head at your banquet, Agathocles' pot, a Mordecai in your gate, a Lazarus at your door, a lion in your path, a frog in your chamber, a fly in your ointment, a mote in your eye, a triumph to your enemy, an apology to your friends, the one thing not needful, the hail in harvest, the ounce of sour in a pound of sweet. He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you, "That is Mr-." A rap, between familiarity and respect, that demands, and at the same time seems to despair of entertainment. He entereth smiling and embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you to shake, and draweth it back again. He casually looketh in about dinner-time, when the table is full. He offereth to go away, seeing you have company, but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your visitor's two children are accommodated at a side-table. He never cometh upon open days, when your wife says with some complacency, "My dear, perhaps Mr.- will drop in to-day." He remembereth birth-days, and professeth he is fortunate to have stumbled upon one. He declareth against fish-the turbot being small-yet suffereth himself to be importuned into a slice against his first resolution. He sticketh by the port; yet will be prevailed upon to empty the remainder glass of claret, if a stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle to the

servants, who are fearful of being too obsequious, or not civil enough to him. The guests think "they have seen him before." Every one speculateth upon his condition; and the most part take him to be—a tidewaiter. He calleth you by your Christian name, to imply that his other is the same with your own. He is too familiar by half; yet you wish he had less diffidence. With half the familiarity, he might pass for a casual dependant; with more boldness, he would be in no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble for a friend; yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. He is a worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no rent; yet, 'tis odds, from his garb and demeanour, that your guests take him for one. He is asked to make one at the whist-table; refuseth on the score of poverty, and resents being left out. When the company break up, he proffereth to go for a coach, and lets the servant go. He recollects your grandfather; and will thrust in some mean and quite unimportant anecdote of the family. He knew it when it was not quite so flourishing as "he is blest in seeing it now." He reviveth past situations, to institute what he calleth-favourable comparisons. With a reflecting sort of congratulation, he will inquire the price of your furniture; and insults you with a special commendation of your window-curtains. He is of opinion that the urn is the more elegant shape; but, after all, there was something more comfortable about the old tea-kettle, which you must remember. He dare say you must find a great convenience in having a carriage of your own, and appealeth to your lady if it is not so. Inquireth if you have had your arms done on vellum yet; and did not know, till lately, that suchand-such had been the crest of the family. His memory is unseasonable; his compliments perverse; his talk a trouble; his stay pertinacious; and when he goeth away, you dismiss his chair into a corner as precipitately as possible, and feel fairly rid of two nuisances.

There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is female poor relation. You may do something with the

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