with Maria? It is not using me well to be ill-humored when I am not by.

Sir P. Ah! Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me good-humored at all times.

Lady T. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you to be in a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be good-humored now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?

Sir P. Two hundred pounds! What, ain't I to be in a goodhumor without paying for it? But speak to me thus, and i' faith there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it; [Gives her notes.] but seal me a bond of repayment.

Lady T. O no! there, my note of hand will do as well. [Offering her hand.]

Sir P. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you: but shall we always live thus, hey?

Lady T. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave off quarrelling, provided you 'll own you were tired first.

Sir P. Well, then let our future contest be, who shall be most obliging.

Lady T. I assure you, Sir Peter, good-nature becomes you. You look now as you did before we were married, when you used to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth; and chuck me under the chin, you would; and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow, who would deny me nothing; did n't you?

Sir P. Yes, yes; and you were as kind and attentive

Lady T. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into ridicule, Sir P. Indeed!

Lady T. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended you, and said I did n't think you so ugly by any means.

Sir P. Thank you.

Lady T. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort of a husband.

Sir P. And you prophesied right; and we shall now be the happiest couple –

Lady T. And never differ again. [Both sit.]

Sir P. No, never! - though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always begin.

Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed, you always gave the provocation.

Sir P. Now see, my angel! take care,- contradicting is n't the way to keep friends.

Lady T. Then do n't you begin it, my love!

you are going on.

Sir P. There, now! you You don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very thing which you know always makes me angry.

Lady T. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear

Sir P. There! now you want to quarrel again.

Lady T. No, I am sure I do n't; but if you will be so peevish Sir P. There now! who begins first?

Lady T. Why, you, to be sure. [Both start up.] I said nothing; but there's no bearing your temper.

Sir P. No, no, madam; the fault's in your own temper. Lady T. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be.

Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gypsy. Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my relations. Sir P. Now, may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more.

Lady T. So much the better.

Sir P. No, no, madam; 't is evident you never cared a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you,—a pert, rural coquette, that had refused half the honest squires in the neighborhood.

Lady T. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you,― an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never could meet with any one who would have him.

Sir P. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased enough to listen to me; you never had such an offer before.

Lady T. No? did n't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married.

Sir P. I have done with you, madam! You are an unfeeling,

ungrateful but there's an end of everything. I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles are not without grounds

Lady T. Take care, Sir Peter! you had better not insinuate any such thing! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you.

Sir P. Very well, madam! very well! A separate maintenance as soon as you please! Yes, madam, or a divorce! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, madam.

Lady T. Agreed, agreed! And, now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple, and never differ again, you know,-ha! ha! ha! Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you; so, bye, bye.

[Exit.

Sir P. Plagues and tortures! Can't I make her angry, either? O, I am the most miserable fellow! but I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper. [Exit.

-Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER

The nervous, dapper, “peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." "Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes yes. Um! Yes yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said:

"How do you spell it?"

"Spell what?"

"Interview."

"O my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?"

I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."

Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you "O, all right!

too."

if you

That will answer, and much obliged to you,

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why, certainly!"

"O, that is what took me so long."

"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"

16

'Well, I-I-hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they would n't have a picture of it in even the latest e- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but you do not look as as intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm - I mean no harm at all."

"O, do n't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes-yes; they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"

Ah, well-well-well this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"

"O, with pleasure-with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."

"O, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can." “I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks. Are you ready to begin?"

Q. How old are you?

A. Nineteen, in June.

Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

A. In Missouri.

Q. When did you begin to write?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years

A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and

Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you and that he was dead.

A. I did n't say he was dead.

Q. But was n't he dead?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he was n't.

Q. What did you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my

funeral.

Q. Did you

However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask you something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday, October 31, 1693.

Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and ninety years old. How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.