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as a sentiment, it must be allowed to surpass the other; but as an account of the Duel itself, it is assuredly as different as playing is from no playing. Sentiment, however, completes everything, and we hope our readers will enjoy with us the concluding from Ford :
Menaphon. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
A methus. I cannot yet conceive what you infer
I shall soon resolve ye.
Amet. And so do I; good, on!
Phillips, and others; but none of these versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's; it is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletcher; and almost equals the strife it celebrates." - ED.
The nightingale, did with her various notes
A met. How did the rivals part?
You term them rightly,
Amet. Now for the bird.
The bird, ordain'd to be
I believe thee. Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh’d, then wip'd his eyes, then sigh'd and cried, “ Alas, poor creature ! I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it; Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end:” and in that sorrow, As he was dashing it against a tree, I suddenly stept in.
THE MURDERED PUMP.
A STORY OF A WINTER'S NIGHT.
T H E hero of the following sketch is a real per
son, and the main points in it, the pump and the refuge in the cellar, are recorded as facts. The latter took place in the house of Sir John
Trevor, the Master of the Rolls, a kinsman of Mr. Lloyd's, who was a proud and irritable Welshman.
TIME. The Beginning of the Last Century. SCENE. A Fog in Holborn towards Dawn. Enter Two Middle-aged Gentlemen, of the names of LANE and LLOYD, coming towards an old Pump Lane. You're so quarrelsome, when you drink. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. Always contradicting everybody. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. So eager to say No, merely because other people say Yes. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. Why, you do it this very instant. Lloyd. No, I don't. Lane. You can't say Yes, if you would. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) Yes, I can.
Lane. No, you can't. Your very Yes is a No. You merely say it to contradict.
Lloyd. No, I don't.
Lane. Pooh, nonsense! And then you must draw your sword, forsooth, and add fury to folly. You'll get some tremendous lesson some day, and you really need it. I should like to give it you.
Lloyd. (Violently.) Take care, George Lane. (LLOYD stumbles.)
Lane. Take you care, of the gutter. I shan't pick you up. I shall leave you to cool yourself.
Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, you won't.
Lane. Oh, what, you remember my carrying you home last Thursday, do you? And this is your gratitude.
Lloyd. Damn gratitude! I'll not be insulted.
Lane. Yes, you will, – by forgiveness. You'll insult others, and be forgiven.
Lloyd. No, I won't. Nobody shall forgive Roderick Lloyd. I should like to see 'em. (Standing still, putting his hand on his sword, and trying to speak very loudly.) Who forgives me? Who forgives Lloyd, I say? Come into the court, you rascal.
Lane. (Laughing.) Come along. Nonsense.
Lane. Of North Wales, Marshal to Baron Price, and so forth. Come along, and don't be an ass.
Lloyd. Fire and fury! A what? (Drawing his sword, and coming on.) A prothonotary called -(He stumbles against the Pump.) Who the devil are you? Get out of the way.
Lane. (A side.) A good thing, faith. He shall have it out.
Lane. He says he defies your toasting-fork, and your Welsh-rabbit to boot.
Lloyd. Blood and thunder! (He runs the Pump through the body.) Lane. Good Heavens, Lloyd ! what have you done? We must be off.
Lloyd. Pink'd an infernal Welsh-rabbit - I mean a toasting, damnation prothonotary. Who's afraid?
Lane. Come along, man. This way, this way. Here, down the lane. The constables are coming, and you've done it at last, by Heavens !
[Exeunt down Chancery Lane.
SCENE II. Daylight in a cellar. Lloyd and Lane discovered listening,
Lane. It's nobody, depend on't. It's too early. Nobody is stirring yet. Don't be down-hearted, Rory. You're a brave man, you know; and the worse the luck, the greater the lion.
Lloyd. But I've left my sword in him.
Lloyd. Oh, that punch, that punch! and that cursed fool – poor fool, I should say, — Progers. I shall come to shame, George. Oh, I shall. To shame and to suffering. (He walks to and fro.)
Lane. No, no. The sword had no name on it?
Lloyd. No. Full length.
Lloyd. No, no. But name and address. Oh, wouldn't it be better if you would go out and see how matters are going on?
Lane. What, the crowd, and all that? No, I think best not. We are too well known hereabouts.
Lloyd. Then why didn't you go further?
Lane. You were too far gone already, Rory. I don't mean to jest. You can't suppose me guilty of that. But it's a phrase, you know. You were very drunk, and to say the truth, very wilful.
Lloyd. Oh, I was, I was.
Lane. I was twenty minutes getting you away from that apple-woman, and half an hour, I'm sure, in persuading you to rise from the door-way. (Lloyd groans.) Then you wouldn't let me take your sword (for I was afraid of some mischief), and you must have stood, I think, ten minutes against that shopwindow, damning us all round — all the friends you had been disputing with.
Lloyd. Oh, don't tell me all that again. It's cruel of you, George. Listen ! great Heavens, listen!
Lane. It's only some milkman.
Lloyd. Only a milkman ! How do you know? Besides, what do you mean by “only a milkman?” Can't a milkman hang me? Can't a milkman be furious ? furious about a man that's killed?
Lane. Pray, sit down, and be easy. Sir John, 'tis true, doesn't appear ; but that's his way. He never stands by a friend, you know; that is to say, openly. But secretly he can do any thing; and he will. I tell you again, that I woke him directly we came into the house, and he gave me his solemn oath that he would smuggle you into Wales, in the boot of his carriage. It is not a very big boot, but it's better than nothing.
Lloyd. Oh, a paradise, a paradise, if I were but in it. But repeat to me, George. What sort of a man was it that I had the misfortune to - to - Tell me he was a bad fellow at any rate-a mohawk-a gallows bird, or something of that sort.
Lane. I wish I could. But he was a young gentleman, plainly in liquor himself.
Lloyd. Didn't he carry himself very stiffly?
Lane. Not a bit. He was quite silent, and, in fact, evidently did not hear a word you uttered.