DRYDEN'S INCOME. DRYDEN had three or four sons; John, Erasmus, Charles, and perhaps another. One of them was a priest, and another a captain in he guards. He left his family estate, of which was about one hundred and twenty pounds a year, to Charles. The Historiographer's and Poet Laureate's places were worth about three hundred pounds a-year to him. Dryden cleared, every way, about twelve hundred pounds for his Virgil; and had sixpence each line for his Fables.-For some time he wrote a play at least every year; but, in those days, ten broad pieces was the usual highest price for a play; and if they got fifty pounds more in the acting it was reckoned very well. His Virgil was one of the first books that had any thing of a subscription; (and this was a good deal on account of the prints, which were from Ogilby's plates, touched up.) SPENCE. DR. WARTON. DR. WARTON was invited, while master of Winchester school, to meet a relative of Pope, who, from her connexion with the family, he was taught to believe could furnish him with much valuable and private information. Incited by all that eagerness which so strongly characterized him, he, on his introduction, sat immediately close to the lady; and, by inquiring her consanguinity to Pope, entered at once on the subject, when the following dialogue took place: "Pray, Sir, did you not write a book about my cousin Pope ?"-"Yes, Madam.” "They tell me it was vastly clever. He wrote a great many plays, did'nt he?"- "I have heard only of one attempt, Madam."—“ Oh, no! I beg your pardon, that was Mr. Shakspeare; I always confound them." This was too much even for the Doctor's gallantry; he replied, 66 Certainly, Madam !" and with a bow, changed his seat to the opposite side of the room, where he sat, to the amusement of a large party, with such a mingled countenance of archness and chagrin; such a struggle between his taste for the ridiculous, and his natural politeness; as could be pourtrayed but by his speaking and expressive face. The Doctor was at length relieved by the breaking up of the company, when he retired home disappointed, yet amused. EDMUND RYAN. IT has been said that a similarity of feeling exists between the music and poetry of Ireland, as, in common, both excel in the expression of plaintive sorrow : "And sure if to thy harp belong One dearer-one exclusive tone, Proclaims the chord of grief thy own." Hence the Irish elegy is considered to be superior to heroic compositions, from the variety of tender and endearing appellations with which the language abounds. Amongst the elegies given by Miss Brooke, that ascribed to Edmund Ryan, or Ned of the Hills as he was familiarly styled, is worthy of being better known. Ryan, according to tradition, was one of the partizans of James II., and the confiscation of his estate followed the defeat of that monarch at Boyne. Obliged to retire before the victorious forces of William, Ryan headed a party of freebooters termed Rapparees. To a mind capable of producing compositions of exquisite pathos, how revolting must the asso VOL. I. D ciation with a gang of lawless plunderers have been! Many songs are still extant in Ireland, attributed to Ned of the Hills, and a beautiful popular melody is distinguished by his name. The following elegy, translated by Miss Brooke, is addressed by Ryan to his mistress, who appears to have forsaken him on his loss of fortune. "Bright her locks of beauty grew, Oh how soft-how heavenly glowing! Ah! poor plundered heart of pain, When wilt thou have an end of mourning? This long, long year I look in vain To see my only hope returning. Why art thou false to me and love? (While health and joy with thee are vanish'd) Is it because forlorn I rove, Without a crime, unjustly banish'd ? * Why do I thus my anguish tell Why pride in woe-why boast of ruin? Oh! lost treasure, fare thee well, Lov'd to madness-to undoing! Yet, oh hear me fondly swear Though thy heart to me is frozen, Thou alone should'st be my chosen ! Every scene with thee would please, Every care and fear would fly me, Wintry storms and raging seas Would lose their gloom if thou wert nigh me. * Such, O Love! thy cruel power, Fond excess and fatal ruin ; Such, O Beauty's fairest flower, Such thy charms and my undoing!" THE DEATH-BLOW. MADAME DE MAINTENON was one of Racine's greatest friends. He had, one day, represented to her, in very strong terms, the miseries which the expensive wars of Louis XIV. had entailed upon his people. She was much struck with the power of his reasoning, and the force of his description; and desired him to draw up for her a memorial on the subject. This she shewed to Louis, who was much displeased at it, and insisted on knowing the author. She had the imprudence to tell him, when he immediately exclaimed, "What! because he |