5. "We will give the names of our fearless race
To each bright river whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,
And the path of our daring, in boundless woods;
And our works on many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indians' graves lay alone, before."
"But who shall teach the flowers

Which our children lov'd, to dwell
In a soil that is not ours?

Home, home and friends, farewell!"

LXXXVIII. SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN.
FROM COLMAN.

Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins.

Sir R. I'LL tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is.

Hum. Yes.

Sir R. Yes! is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?

Hum. Robert Bramble.

Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'Tis time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years can you deny that?

Hum. Hem!

Open that

Sir R. Hem? what do you mean by hem? rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why do n't you answer my question?

Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell you a lie,

and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your *pate, that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his mas

ter's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a-pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you, I do n't like your flat *contradiction.

Hum. Yes, you do.

Sir R. I tell you I do n't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their +flummery.

Hum. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description. Hum. Hem! what is it?

Sir R. Sour-crout, you old crab.

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year.

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich, and hate flattery. Ergo-when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Hum. That's wrong.

Sir R. Very well; negatur; now prove it.
Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man.

Sir R. You a'nt, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want, while I have a shilling.

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor-I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

Hum. I am a poor man, and argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: now, that's no flattery.

Sir R. Why, no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew, Frederic?

Hum. Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub! Only arrived from Russia last

night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he 's scampering over the fields like a +Calmuc +Tartar.

Hum. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Do n't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey?

Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit. Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five-and-twenty years ago.

Sir R. I did not drive him.

Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument.

Sir R. At peace! Zounds, he would never go to war.
Hum. He had the merit to be calm.

Sir R. So has a duck-pond. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poor-box gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance. We could n't disagree, and so we parted.

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.

Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew reliet of a Russian merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen, and leather; what's the consequence? Thirteen months ago he broke.

Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the business for him.

Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress, I must not neglect his son.

Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederic.

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in-doors till I got up.

Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.

Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it?

Fred. The sun.

Sir R. The sun! he's mad! you mean the moon, I believe. Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you do n't know the effect of a fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay, that I took a leap out of your old +balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.

Sir R. Oh, oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony and worry my deer.

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. Fred. I hate legacies.

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens, at least.

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are posthu-. mous *despatches, affection sends to gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend.

Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues!

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of gentleman.

Sir R. Now who had the +familiar timpudence to tell you that?

Fred. Old rusty, there.

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you did n't?

Hum. Yes, but I did though.

paltry to have designs nature aims its atten

Fred. Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt. sharing a good man's heart, as it is upon a rich man's money. A noble tions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty *assiduities at the pocket.

Sir R. [Shaking him by the hand.] Jump out of every window I have in the house; hunt my deer into high fevers,

my fine fellow! Ay, that's right. This is spunk and plain speaking. Give me a man, who is always flinging his dissent to my doctrines smack in my teeth.

Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.
Hum. And so do I.

Fred. You! you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you down.

Sir R. I'll knock you down, if you do. I won't have my servants thumped into dumb flattery.

Hum. Come, you're ruffled. Let us go to the business of the morning.

Sir R. I hate the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion. I tell you, I hate the business of the morning.

Hum. No you do n't.

Sir R. Don't I? Why not?

Hum. Because it's charity.

Sir R. Pshaw! Well, we must not neglect the business, if there be any distress in the parish. Read the list, Humphrey. Hum. [Taking out a paper and reading.] "Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt."

Sir R. Why, it was only last week that Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.

Hum. Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble; so seized the cottage for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress. Fred. And.I must kick his attorney.

Hum. [Reading.] "The curate's horse is dead."

Sir R. Pshaw! There's no distress in that.

Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday, to preach, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why won't the vicar give him another nag? Hum. Because its cheaper to get another curate already mounted.

Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. What else have we upon the list?

Hum. Something out of the common; there's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and widower, come to lodge