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injured manes," replied he; "for, from Leonato to the very serving men, I never beheld such executioners of common sense and of their own respectability !"

"I hope there are not many private theatres in the gay world?" asked I. "If this be a specimen of the dramatic art amongst ladies and gentlemen, for their dignity's sake, in every respect, I think they ought to resign the sock and buskin altogether."

"I am no approver of private theatricals for various moral reasons," returned Mr. Courtown; "but as an elegant spectacle, I must acknowledge that I have been pleased at the dramatic performances of her Highness the Margravine of A at B House, at Hammersmith. Her theatre is not so magnificent as this, but the acting in some instances is very just and graceful."

While Mr. Courtown spoke the first act closed, and the hovering Cupids I had before noticed, moved briskly on the wing, ascending and descending, flying backwards and forwards, fanning the air with

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their ostrich plumes, and sprinkling from their vases a complete shower of perfumed and refreshing waters upon our heads. This device was very beautiful, and I ap plauded it warmly.

"Luxury is the Duchess's forte," abserved Sir Bingham. "She ought to have been Sultana to the Grand Seignior."

The acting again began, and my ennui returned. Every succeeding scene added to the dull burlesque of the representation; and happy was I to be relieved from the stupid spectacle by, at last, the final dropping of the curtain at half after twelve o'clock.

The music in the orchestra instantly began a full piece, composed for the occasion; and the Duke's. Chamberlain approaching our box, his Grace preceded him, and taking Lady Castle downe's hand, begged permission to lead her to the supper

room.

The Earl was my conductor; and Sir Bingham and Mr. Courtown followed. (To be continued.)

REMARKS ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, AND ON MR. JOHN KEMBLE.

MR. EDITOR,

rules can be given, or at least that will be fol

THE frequent disputes occasioned by Mr.lowed or long adhered to. The grammarian John Kemble's peculiar mode of pronouncing some words in the English tongue, naturally leads the reflective mind to a consideration of the difficulties of the subject, aud also to the still greater difficulty of pronouncing the learned languages properly. We no longer

has no power to make his laws obligatory, nor are grammarians agreed what the law ought to be; and if he possessed the power; it could not be lasting; for, as grammarians pass away in the great tide of eternity, succeeding scholars, would assume the same right as their predecessors to improve their language. These difficulties arise from the nature of all living languages, which, from a thousand causes are and will remain continually fluctuating. But it were endless to pretend to enumerate all the difficulties which are so various and su capricious on this subject, amidst which, it is to be feared, that some whim and affectation have their share. Shakespeare seems to ridicule this in his admirable Mercutio, in Romeo and Juliet, who laughs at "these new tuners of accents." Many years since au actress of some merit, Mrs. Bulkeley, endeavoured to new tune the word oppugn, in her part of Portia, in the Merchant of Venice, pronouncing it like oppugno, in conformity to the Latin, by giving the full sound of the g. This violent innovation proIn the pronunciation of English no precise voked, as might be expected, much remark;

listen to the thunder of the Grecian orator when he roused his admiring audience against the tyrant of Greece, or to the sweet and animated flow of Tully when he inspired the Roman breast with the love of virtue. What sounds these immortal orators gave to their language, can never more be known; and it is possible that if classic greatness could rear its awful head from the mouldering tomb of antiquity, its ears would be astonished at bearing its orations from the mouth of a modern.

What disputes the grammarians of antiquity had on this subject is unknown; that the ancient tougues underwent many changes is more certain; it is very possible that they were subject to similar fluctuations with the modern languages, and from similar causes.

and all the witlings that decorate the columns of our Newspapers made themselves merry at the lady's expence.

of grace, but the player must find it. As he has every thing to fear he must provide ac. cordingly. Every one who pays a shilling in a theatre fancies himself a critic; the bar and the pulpit are luckily beyond the reach of | immediate criticism; whatever awkwardness or deficiency exist here, no notice can be taken of it publicly as at our scenic representation. Our courts of justice have sometimes deviated from propriety.—It was the miserable affectation of the time for the fantastic pleader to say, my Lud, and your Ludship, which our astonished and indiguant ears were the witnesses of; and the great and long-venerated Earl Mansfield pronounced autority for autho

Mr. John Kemble, one of the best actors at present, has seemed in some instances to manifest a fondness for novelty in his pronunciation. His "pains and aches," have occasioned inuch amusement, and lately in his representation of Cato, the word Rome, which he pronouuced Room, like an apartment in a house, has provoked some animadversion. We know Mr. Kemble to be a scholar and a man of sense, but in the latter instance we think him decidedly wrong. If we are to pronounce Room, why not pronunce Rooman? which no one ever did; and in regard to this venerated word,rity, no doubt in conformity to the Latin I have found a passage in Shakespeare which may instruct us that the single o, rather than the double o, ought to be pronounced. I allude to the following scene in the first part of Henry VI. where the poet introduces Gloucester and the turbulent prelate Winchester, at high words, in this manner :

"Glo. And am not I protector, saucy priest? "Win. And am not I a prelate of the church? || "Glo. Yes; as an outlaw in a castle keeps, and useth it to patronage his theft.

"Win. Unreverend Gloucester!

||

noun autoritas, autoritatis. But, begging his Lordship's pardon, if we must Latinize our derivatives, why stop at authority? Poeta nacitur fit orator. HOR.—Why not restore orator to its proper rank in pronunciation?, and so of the rest.

At this present moment, some in the higher circles of rank and fashion, endeavour to deserve well of their country by driving to || Gravenor-square, not to Grosvenor-square, as formerly. This is done in exact conformity to a learned etymology in the French language,

"Gle. Thou art reverend touching thy spi- luckily discovered in books of the English

ritual function, not thy life.

"Win. Rome shall remedy this. "Glo. Roam thither then," &c. This reply of the Duke's, which evidently requires the accentuation of the vowel in Rome and roam, seems to prove, in direct opposition to Mr. Kemble, that the word Rome, in Shakespeare's time, was pronounced from the Latin Roma; for as to the modern Italian mode of speaking the word, which has been urged, it is by no means conclusive; and any person who has a tolerable ear for tone will, in a moment, prefer the full natural sound of the o in Rome.

I have found one authority for Mr. Kemble's pains and aches," in Hudibras, Canto the second, page 301, in the following couplet :

"As no man of his own self catches "The itch, or amorous French aches." Here then is a positive testimony that the plural substantive aches, was formerly pronounced as two syllables; but whether the sound of the k, or the ch, to produce the hard or the soft sound in the word prevailed, is not so conclusive.

The stage has long been in possession of some peculiarities in pronunciation, but yet we must esteem the stage the best school for accurate, graceful, and energetic pronunciation. Law and the pulpit are always in search

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Peerage. But it is curious to observe, that these "new tuners of accents," do not pronounce Lord Gravenor, but Lord Gro'vnor; thus avoiding one anomaly and falling into another.

These remarks, by a reader of observation, may be easily extended and branched out a thousand ways; but as dry disquisitions, especially grammatical ones, are, however important, not very amusing, we shall conclude this article by observing, that the best, and indeed the only rule, for the pronunciation of the English language is, to speak according to the most approved metropolitan mode. It is in vain for the rigid grammarian, in his "buckram suit," to lose his time, and waste his learning, in the formation of etymological laws for rebellious subjects; custom, a great man has remarked, will always get the better of analogy; and consequently that the public, having the right, have also the power to make their own laws in whatever they reject or adopt, the mode of pronunciation being rather the offspring of chance than of design; the result of tendencies and circumstances over which grammarians never will have any controul; and which, in every living language, can never be fixed, but must, from a thousand causes, ever remain fluctuating.

W.

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OAKWOOD HOUSE.-AN ORIGINAL NOVEL.
(Continued from Page 130.)

LETTER VIL

TO MISS CARADINE, OATLEY MANOR.
Oakwood, April 12, 1807.

My time, my dear Maria, always glides wiftly away; but I have now a high gratifigation added to my usual round of enjoyments. Mrs. Oakwood, the sister of the Squire, has been at the Hall a month; and being pleased with a landscape in cut paper, which I had given to Mrs. Simpson, she called to see me. If she liked that, which was one of my common ones, you may guess what she would think of my ruins, and the border of cut lace round them. She is what is vulgarly called, an old maid; a term so like a term of reproach, that I observe people of good-breeding are afraid to name it. Why should it be so? If a woman live single from necessity, it is possible she may deserve our pity, but not contempt. If from choice, she cannot be the object of either. She has certainly fewer virtues to exercise. She cannot make a good wife or a good mother; she cannot love, honour, and obey her husband, and train up her children in the way they should go; but she may be a good daughter, sister, friend, and mistress; and such Mrs. Oakwood is, and has been. She has never been handsome; but her person is still elegant, and good sense and good-nature are so strongly depicted in her countenance, that they cannot be mistaken.

You know I never was admitted at the Hall further than the housekeeper's room; and as Mrs. Simpson and I were not kindred souls, I did not often claim even that privilege. But I now go with my father every night, and join the conversation. It seldom is illumined with flights of imagination; but is never worse than plain good sense. Besides, I love Mrs. Oakwood, and every body does that comes within the sphere of her attraction.

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ill accommodated." But," added he, I have a spare bed for a friend; the stranger is my friend, and I advise you to take that."

The gentleman thanked him, and sat down. Our supper remained on the table; my father added a cup of his mild ale, and his guest did honour to the cold mutton.

"I do not so much wonder you lost your way," said my father, as that you found the way hither; for we are remote from the great road; and if you came from the south, the river is between "

"It is," said the stranger ;" and it was my surprise at seeing no bridge that made me first discover I had quitted the road."

“And how did you get over?" said my father.

“Why, I went a considerable way up its bauks," answered the stranger; "and where I found it broadest I knew it must be shallowest, and I ventured to cross it."

"You pulled your boots off then?" said my father; casting his eyes on them, and observing they did not appear soaked with wet.

"My boots!" replied the stranger; "I do not think the river was deeper than my

horse's knees."

!*

"I beg your pardon," said my father; as I saw no whip in your hand, I thought you had walked, I am told it is the fashion for gentlemen to walk journies and run races, instead of troubling their horses; and boots are now no more a sign of a man's having been on horseback, than a black coat is a sign of a parson-But, if it is not impertinent, what have you done with your horse?” ›

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"Good God!" exclaimed the stranger; "if he can forgive me I never can forgive myself!The poor animal hangs on the outside of your gate. Your hospitality made me quite forget him; but I must decline any further acceptance of it, if you have not the goodness to lodge him as well as me. As to my whip, I declare i never thought of it; but, as you justly observe, it is not here; and as I do not recollect having it on the road, I must have left it at the inn where I dined."

But I have another stranger to introduce to my beloved friend. We were sitting one evening by the fire. The night was dark and Lainy. The latch was lifted up, and a gentleman entered. He was tall and thin; about eight-and-twenty years of age; his face handsome, and extremely interesting. He addressed himself to my father, said he had lost his way, and begged to know if there was any inn near, where he could lodge. My father said there was a public house in the village,mitted his horse to the care of our neighbour, half a mile distant, where he might be very No. XVIII. Vol. III.-N. S.

My mother and I smiled at each other; and each, in her own mind, applied our country saying to the stranger-He would have lost his head, if it had been loose. My father com

and returned to have half an hour's conver

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sation with his guest, before he went to the Hall, which he scarcely would have omitted, had his hero, Oliver Cromwell, arisen from the shades below to visit him.

"Sir," said my father, entering, horse has lost a shoe."

Barnsdale. But I fear the intended new road to Pontfract and Leeds will destroy it."

"Then the projectors of it ought to be fined and imprisoned," exclaimed my father."your"They may destroy; but could they make

"Perhaps," said the gentleman, "you have a blacksmith in your village, who can supply its place to-morrow morning."

"Yes;" replied my father, "we have;" and, seating himself, added" It is a pity such a useful noble animal as the horse, should be trusted in the hands of such unskilful blockheads. Pray, Sir, do you think the Romans shod their horses?"

The gentleman stared." Why, Sir," said he, "I am of opinion they did not; at least not in the manner we do; for what remains of the Appian way is so smooth, that a horse shod like ours could not have kept his feet upon it."

"I always thought them a wiser people then ourselves," exclaimed my father." It seems that they had one way less of tormenting horses. But pray, Sir, have you seen the Appian way?"

"No," replied the gentleman; it has always been the first wish of my heart to visit Italy, and contemplate the magnificent ruins of ancient Rome, the mistress of the world; I cannot think of them without enthusiasm; but I never had the opportunity."

"We have Roman roads here in England," said my father;" but I have never seen one."

"The roads made by the Romans in Britain, a remote conquered province," rejoined the stranger, "were far inferior to those they bad near the seat of empire. But even these would have endured to eternity if they had been spared by the mattock and the plough. You have a fine specimen of a small one in your own county, in perfect preservation, about five miles on this side Doncaster, in an angle between the great road and that which turns off for Wakefield. It is now covered with turf, but is exactly in the form the Romans left it, flat at top, and sloping down steep at each side, and appears to have been made only of the common limestone and gravel of the country, without any cement."

"If I was ten years younger," cried my father, "I would walk on foot to see it!"

"It would repay your pains," said the gentleman" I thought myself fortunate in having it pointed out to me. And about three miles on this side, you would meet with a still higher gratification; for the same road appears again, and you may trace it all along the western boundary of the common called

such roads?-Roads to last seventeen hun dred years. Here, again, the Romans were wiser than we; in time of peace their conquering legions were set to work; they made them useful. They employed them in making these everlasting roads, from one end of the kingdom to the other. Is it not a shame, Sir, that the finest, stoutest young men should be culled from among us, and be maintained for cleaning their own waistcoats and breeches; and those that ride, looking after their own horses? They are drones in the hive, who ought to be the best labourers; and we, the poor bees, after toiling for them, must have our wings clipped into the bargain.

"I am of your opinion," replied the gentleman, "that soldiers ought to work. It has been objected that labour is incompatible with the military spirit; but I cannot be convinced that employment would hurt the spirit of a soldier more than inactivity; or that idleness is the proper school to prepare him for hard service. As to the Roman roads, they were certainly constructed for greater durability than ours; but it ought to be taken into consideration, that they had not heavy loaded waggons passing continually over them; weights, which, perhaps, even they would not have been able to withstand."

A servant entered from the Hall. We had trespassed half an hour, and my father's punctuality never varied, five minutes in fifteen years; Mr Oakwood had sent to know if any thing were amiss. We departed with the servant, leaving to my mother and aunt the care of waiting on the stranger, and mak ing his bed.

Next morning he breakfasted with us, of course. At breakfast my father asked him to dine, and at dinner to stay all night. At Mr. Oakwood's request he was introduced at the Hall; and we find him such a valuable acquisi tion to our society, that we do not repeat our invitations, for fear they should remind him of going; and he, satisfied he is a welcome guest, seems afraid to introduce any thing that may lead to the subject. He has been here a week. My mother makes no alteration in our little table on his account. He looks upon eating and drinking as the tenure by which he holds his being; the tax he pays to live. But he despises all idea of its being a gratification. His name is Millichamp. He has a small paternal estate in Kent; but

believe he is chiefly dependent on an uncle, a great cotton manufacturer in the neighbourhood of Manchester.

know the business that brought you into this country."

The agitation was now his own. He turned

indeed!"

"But it is nevertheless true," said I;" and Miss Caradine is my dearest friend." "What then," he cried, "must you think of me?"

Such, my dear, is our new acquaintance. I || pale, and at last articulated—“I should, think I may say, friend; for though friendship may be in general a plant of slow growth, it has shot up here as in a hot-bed. We cannot be mistaken in the man. His countenance has sometimes a sweet placid benevolence: and sometimes a dignity that almost regards this lower world with contempt; both which, words cannot describe, and art cannot imitate. When he goes, I shall feel as if I had lost a brother.

You and I, my friend, have long loved each other with a love passing that of common brothers and sisters, and mine will last while life shall be spared to your

MARGARET FREEMAN.

LETTER VIII.

TO MISS CARADINE.

"That you do not do things in a hurry," replied I, smiling.

"Margaret," said he, "I value your good opinion so highly, that I will not forfeit it, without some explanation; thongh I own, I cannot justify myself. My paternal estate is only two hundred pounds a-year. My father, who was a clergyman, educated me at the University of Oxford, intending me for his own profession, and hoping I might succeed him in his preferment. He died before I had taken my degree. His living was given to another; and I, having no particular incliuation for the church; or rather, inclinations which disqualified me for it, and knowing my income would satisfy my present wants, left college, and pursued my studies and inquiries in my own way.

"In these studies I might, perhaps, have grown old, without perceiving it, had not my uncle roused me. He had no child. He should consider the son of his sister as his own. He should experience the pleasure of a parent in my society; and I should inherit his fortune, which was large. Such were the lures held out to tempt me to sacrifice my

Oakwood, April 26, 1807. My dear Maria, you astonish me!-Mr. Millichamp the man you so much dreaded!— The man who comes to claim the hand of my friend without loving her; without even knowing her; because his uncle has a mortgage of her father's estate!-But it is all one. When you know him, you will be sure to love him, as he must you, and Mr. Marriot will be forgotten. How I beg your pardon for detaining him here so long!-But it was not I ; it was my father, Mr. Oakwood, every body.independence. They succeeded; though, if Indeed, I have been trying just now to send him away; but I do no know whether I shall succeed. I write wretchedly incoherent; but astonishment has seized my senses, and I hardly know what I say. I cannot help being Father sorry for Mr. Marriot; I am sure his whole heart is yours; and you once returned his affection; but it must be all over now.

But I meant to give you an account of what passed between me and your intended husband. I am strangely low-spirited to-day; but it is the surprise has overcome me.

After I had read your letter, I took my work Into the garden, and sitting down in my rustic hut, I thought I would reflect upon it, by myself. Mr. Millichamp entered the garden, and seeing me, came and seated himself by me, as he had often done before. I looked agitated, I believe; for my heart beat terribly, as I saw him advance; and I was determined all should out.

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I knew my own heart, the last motive was the least. I have given up one thing from duty; another from gratitude; another for peace; nothing from interest. In the mean time, reiterated demands on his part, and acquiescence on mine, have erected him into a tyrant, and degraded me into a slave. His last requisition is that I should marry Miss Caradine, the heiress of her father's estate, which is mortgaged to him for half its value. I am a sort of Carlos, in Love makes a ManBooks have been my delight. I have regarded your sex, Margaret, as the most beautiful part of the works of the Creator; but I have no more personal interest in it than in the lily or the rose. I know neither the kind of love nor the degree, which was necessary to secure my own felicity in the married state, or that of the woman I should vow to cherish!

2

"My mind, then, with respect to woman, à sheet of blank paper, might as well receive the “Mr. Millichamp,” said I, “you would be impression of Miss Caradine as any other ; and very much surprised if I were to tell you II set out, in obedience to my uncle's com

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