you shall see them come in one upon another, snip-snap, hit for hit, as fast as can be. First one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him, slap with a repartee, then he at him again, dash with a new conceit; and so eternally, eternally, 'egad, till they go quite off the stage. [Goes to call the players. Smith-What a plague does this fop mean by his snipsnap, hit for hit, and dash?

Johnson-Mean! why, he never meant anything in's life: what dost talk of meaning for?

Bayes [reëntering] - Why don't you come in?

Enter PRINCE PRETTYMAN and TOM THIMBLE.

This scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted, for it is full of drollery as ever it can hold. 'Tis like an orange stuffed with cloves, as for conceit.

Prettyman

But, pr'ythee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? If nine tailors make but one man, and one woman cannot be satisfied with nine men; what work art thou cutting out here for thyself, trow!

Bayes - Good.

Thimble - Why, an't please your highness, if I can't make all the work I cut out, I shan't want journeymen enow to help me, I warrant you.

up

Bayes- Good again.

Prettyman-I am afraid thy journeymen, though, Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night.

Bayes-Good still.

Thimble - However, if my wife sits but cross-legged, as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you, sir, for your coronation-suit.

Bayes-Very good, i' faith.

Prettyman-Why, the times then lived upon trust; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: a tailor, you know, must never be out of fashion. Bayes - Right.

Thimble - I am sure, sir, I made your clothes in the courtfashion, for you never paid me yet.

Bayes-There's a bob for the court.

Prettyman- Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art angry, I see. Thou payest me now, methinks.

Bayes - There's pay upon pay? As good as ever was written, 'egad.

Thimble-Aye, sir, in your own coin: you give me nothing but words.

Bayes- Admirable, before Gad!

Prettyman-Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coin for thee; for now the wars are coming on, I shall grow to be a man of metal.

Bayes — Oh, you did not do that half enough.
Johnson Methinks he does it admirably.

:

Bayes-Aye, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't he does not top his part.

Thimble-That's the way to be stamped yourself, sir. I shall see you come home, like an angel for the king's evil, with a hole bored through you. [Exeunt. Bayes-Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, 'egad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? Is not this pure wit?

Smith-'Tis snip-snap, sir, as you say: but, methinks, not pleasant, nor to the purpose; for the play does not go on. Bayes-Play does not go on! I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the play!

Smith-Yes; but the plot stands still.

Bayes Plot stand still! Why, what a devil is a plot good for, but to bring in fine things?

Smith-Oh, I did not know that before.

Bayes-No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I am master of. Now, sir, 'egad, this is the bane of all us writers let us soar but ever so little above the common pitch, 'egad, all's spoiled, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, sir, the excellency of these things.

Johnson-'Tis a sad fate, I must confess; but you write on still for all that.

Bayes-Write on! Aye, 'egad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me: if they catch me at that lock, I'll give them leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say? What, are they gone, without singing my last new song? 'Sbud, would it were in their bellies! I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, if I have any skill in these matters, I vow to Gad, this song is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written; you must know it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife, after she was dead.

Smith-How, sir! after she was dead?

Bayes-Aye, sir, after she was dead. Why, what have you to say to that?

Johnson-Say! why, nothing: he were a devil that had anything to say to that.

Bayes-Right.

Smith-How did she come to die, pray, sir?

Bayes-Phoo! that's no matter: by a fall.

But here's

the conceit, that upon his knowing she was killed by an accident, he supposes, with a sigh, that she died for love of him. Johnson-Aye, aye, that's well enough, let's hear it, Mr.

Bayes.

Bayes-'Tis to the tune of "Farewell, Fair Armida"; on seas, and in battles, in bullets, and all that.

SONG.

"In swords, pikes, and bullets, 'tis safer to be,
Than in a strong castle remoted from thee:

My death's bruise pray think you gave me, though a fall
Did give it me more from the top of a wall:

For then if the moat on her mud would first lay,

And after, before you my body convey;

The blue on my breast when you happen to see,

You'll say, with a sigh, there's a true blue for me."

Smith-But, Mr. Bayes, how comes this song in here? for methinks, there is no great occasion for it.

Bayes-Alack, sir, you know nothing: you must ever interlard your plays with songs, ghosts, and dances, if you

Johnson-Pit, box, and gallery, Mr. Bayes. Bayes-'Egad, and you have nicked it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter, 'egad you have a great deal of wit.

Johnson — Oh, Lord, sir, you do me too much honor.

Bayes-Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, i' faith this must not be said amongst us that have it. I know you have wit, by the judgment you make of this play, for that's the measure I go by; my play is a touch-stone. When a man tells me such a one is a person of parts, Is he so? says I; what do I do but bring him presently to see this play: if he likes it, I know what to think of him; if not, your most humble servant, sir; I'll no more of him, upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, 'egad. Now here we go to our business.

MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ'S LETTERS.

[MARIE DE RABUTIN-CHANTAL, MARQUISE DE SÉVIGNÉ, French epistolary writer, was the daughter of the Baron de Chantal, representative of an ancient Burgundian family, and was born at Paris, February 6, 1626. She lost her parents in early childhood, and was brought up by her mother's brother, the Abbé de Coulanges. At eighteen she married the dissolute Marquis Henri de Sévigné, who was killed in a duel occasioned by one of his amours. The marquise for a time devoted herself to the education of her son and daughter, and then removed to Paris. Here she became a leader in the brilliant society of the French capital, and numbered among her admirers Prince Conti, Turenne, and Fouquet. In 1669 her daughter, to whom she was greatly attached, married the Comte de Grignan, governor of Provence, and the consequent separation occasioned the famous correspondence which still ranks as one of the finest monuments in the French language. The "Letters" cover a period of twenty-five years, and are a valuable source of information for the history and social condition of the time. Madame de Sévigné died at Grignan, April 18, 1696.]

THE DRAMa of M. de Lauzun.

I.

TO HER COUSIN, M. DE COULANGES, MAÎTRE DES REQUÊTES.

PARIS, Monday, Dec. 15, 1670.

I AM going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most magnificent, the most confounding, the most unheard-of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unforeseen, the greatest, the least, the rarest, the most common, the most public, the most private till to-day, the most brilliant, the most enviable, in short, a thing of which there is but one example in past ages, and that not an exact one neither; a thing that we cannot believe at Paris, how then will it gain credit at Lyons? a thing which makes everybody cry, "Lord have mercy upon us!" a thing which causes the greatest joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive [because they married beneath their rank]; a thing, in fine, which is to happen on Sunday next, when those who are present will doubt the evidence of their senses; a thing which, though it is to be done on Sunday, yet perhaps will be unfinished on Monday. I cannot bring myself to tell it you guess what it is. I give you three times to do it in. What, not a word to throw at a dog? Well, then, I find I must tell you. M. de Lauzun is to

be married next Sunday at the Louvre to,-pray guess to whom! I give you four times to do it in, I give you six, I give you a hundred. Says Madame de Coulanges, "It is really very hard to guess; perhaps it is Madame de La Vallière.”

Indeed, Madame, it is not.

"It is Mademoiselle de Retz, then."

No, nor she either; you are extremely provincial.

"Lord bless me," say you, "what stupid wretches we are! it is Mademoiselle de Colbert all the while."

Nay, now you are still farther from the mark.

66

Why, then, it must certainly be Mademoiselle de Créqui." You have it not yet. Well, I find I must tell you at last. He is to be married next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the king's leave, to Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de Mademoiselle-guess, pray guess her name; he is to be married to MADEMOISELLE, the great Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle, daughter to the late Monsieur [Gaston, Duc d'Orléans, brother of Louis XIII.]; Mademoiselle, granddaughter of Henry IV.; Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orléans, mademoiselle, the king's cousin-german, mademoiselle, destined to the throne, mademoiselle, the only match in France that was worthy of Monsieur [Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, brother of Louis XIV., and one of Mademoiselle's rejected suitors]. What glorious matter for talk! If you should burst forth like a bedlamite, say we have told you a lie, that it is false, that we are making a jest of you, and that a pretty jest it is without wit or invention,-in short, if you abuse us we shall think you quite in the right, for we have done just the same things ourselves. Farewell; you will find by the letters you receive this post whether we tell you truth or not.

II.

TO M. DE COULANGES.

PARIS, Friday, Dec. 19, 1670.

What is called falling from the clouds happened last night at the Tuileries; but I must go farther back. You have already shared in the joy, the transport, the ecstasies, of the princess and her happy lover. It was just as I told you; the affair was made public on Monday. Tuesday was passed in

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