Imperitus was early a worshipper of the showy attractions of Clelia. She was always a forward girl, and took the command of all the little parties of her own age. This forwardness her parents mistook for mental superiority, and thought they could not bestow too much pains in the cultivation of her extraordinary talents. They accordingly provided her numerous masters, and Clelia attained a smattering in many things. She could draw tolerably, play tolerably, speak French tolerably, and write tolerably pretty verses. Her parents thought her a prodigy of genius; and her brothers and sisters were early taught to pay a proper deference to her superior endowments. Her will was law, and her opinions infallible. Imperitus contemplated her with amazement, and thought he should be completely happy if he could obtain such an accomplished character for his wife. But several long years did he languish in vain for that blessing; and when at last she consented to become his wife, she yielded with that air of condescension, which a high-bred dame assumes when she suffers herself to be handed across the way by a person of inferior condition. From that time, Imperitus became a cypher in his own house; for the poor man was not only obliged to submit to all his wife's proceedings, but she expected him to acquiesce in all her opinions. Nothing under absolute authority could satisfy her high opinion of her own abilities. Imperitus is almost afraid to speak in her company; for, instead of assisting and palliating his natural deficiencies, she is the first to ridicule and expose them. Her passions, having never been checked, have become exceedingly violent. She converses on politics and divinity with all the fury of a partizan and a polemic; she seems impatient of the trammels of her sex; and her conversation frequently goes beyond the bounds of decency and good manners. One cannot help pitying the lot of Imperitus, who has a large share of good-nature, and who (whatever may be his deficiencies) cannot certainly be reproached with a want of constancy and tenderness towards his wife.
Benignus's notions of the married state were of the noblest kind. In his estimation, it was the institution the best calculated for the permanent happiness of a rational being. Fully sensible how much the colour of his future life must depend upon the person whom he should call his wife, he determined to make his choice with circumspection. Surely, said he, if we are solicitous respecting the character and temper of a person who is to make a short excursion with us, it behoves us to be extremely careful respecting one who is to be our companion in the journey of life. He was first introduced to Charlotte at a ball. The dancing had just begun, and she was entering into it with all that gayety which youth and health inspire (for it was a diversion of which she was very fond) when she was informed that her father was suddenly taken ill and would be glad to see her, if she could consent to give up the evening's pleasure. She waited not for consideration; but regardless of place or person, she flew out of the room, and totally forgot, in the desire to relieve her parent, that she should thereby lose a diversion, to which she had looked forward with the greatest delight. Benignus, who had been charmed with her person and conversation, was delighted with this proof of the goodness of her heart, and determined to offer her his hand, if he should find her as amiable at home as she was captivating abroad. He was introduced the next day into her father's house by a friend of his, who was a relation of the old gentleman's. They were shown into the invalid's room. Charlotte, with her arms round her father's waist, was gently helping him to rise in the bed; and her expressive countenance showed how tenderly she sympathized in the pain he felt. As soon as she was gone out of the room, her father, whose heart was warm with gratitude, could not help breaking out into an exclamation of his happiness in possessing such a daughter, whose dutiful and affectionate attention, he said, disarmed sickness of its sting. Benignus went home, in love with Charlotte, and from that time he became a constant visiter at her father's house. He found her mind as accomplished as her heart was benevolent. He doubted not but that so amiable a daughter would make as amiable a wife. He married her, and has not been disappointed. Blessed in each other's affections, they enjoy as much happiness as this life is capable of affording: theirs is
——"the mild majesty of private life,
Where peace with ever-blooming olive crowns
The gate, where Honour's liberal hands effuse
Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings
Of innocence and love protect the scene."
I am, Mr. Editor, your humble servant,
Domesticus.
FRENCH DRAMATIC ANECDOTES.
A French actor, accustomed to perform the part of Achilles, wished to have his portrait taken, and desired it might be in that character, stipulating to give the painter forty crowns for his work. This son of Melpomene had been a journeyman carpenter, and the painter, who was informed that he was a bad paymaster, thought proper to devise a mode of being revenged should Achilles play him any trick; he therefore painted the figure in oil, the shield excepted, which was in distemper. The likeness was acknowledged to be great; but the actor, that he might pay as little as possible, pretended to find many faults, and declared 'he would only pay half the sum agreed upon. "Well," replied the painter, "I must be content; however, I will give you a secret for making the colours more brilliant. Take a sponge, dip it in vinegar, and pass it over the picture several times." The actor thanked him for this advice, applied the sponge, washed away the shield of Achilles, and, instead of that hero, beheld a carpenter holding a saw.
The famous Baron was both an author and an actor: he wrote a comedy in five acts called Les Adelphes, taken from the Adelphi of Terence; and a few days before it was performed the duke de Roquelaure, addressing him, said, "Will you show me your piece, Baron? You know I am a connoisseur. I have promised three women of wit, who are to dine with me, the feast of hearing it; come and dine with us: bring it in your pocket, and read it yourself. I am desirous to know whether you are less dull than Terence." Baron accepted the invitation, and found two countesses and a marchioness at table, who testified the most impatient desire to hear the piece. They were, however, in no haste to rise from table, and, when their long repast was ended, instead of thinking of Baron, they called for cards. "Cards?" cried the duke. "Surely, ladies, you have no such intention? You forget that Baron is here to read you his new comedy?" 'Oh, no; we have not forgotten that,' replied one of them, 'he may read while we are at play, and we shall have two pleasures instead of one.' Baron immediately rose, walked to the door, and, with great indignation, replied, his comedy should not be read to card-players. This incident was brought on the stage by Poincinet, in his comedy of the Cercle.