writing several pamphlets for the publisher Pottinger. About this time, being only twoand-twenty, he married, "merely for love," and found that he had done wisely. Spurred on by his new responsibilities he continued to extend his labours, and while he read and studied busily to improve himself, he wrote a series of essays for Owen's Weekly Chronicle, afterwards reprinted as The Babbler. He also produced about this time, Louisa Mildmay, or the History of a Magdalen, a novel which had a very considerable success, and is "in general prettily and pathetically told."

In 1767 his notoriety, if not his fame, was considerably increased by the publication of his theatrical poem Thespis, the satire of which gave great offence to many. But the power it displayed attracted the attention of Garrick, and led to the production, a year later, of Kelly's first comedy, False Delicacy, at Drury Lane. This play had more than the usual success, and was declared with pardonable exaggeration by his friends to be "the best first comedy ever written." It also and this the author thought more important-produced him a profit of about £700, and was translated into several languages.

In 1769 he entered himself as a member of the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple; but though very acceptable to the students, and giving every sign of being a clever lawyer, he was at first refused admittance to the bar. In 1770 he brought out his comedy A Word to the Wise; but as some persons believed (wrongly) that he was writing in government pay, a cabal was formed and the play attacked each night until withdrawn. However, out of evil came good, for on publishing the play Kelly received over £800 in subscriptions, besides the profits of the general sale.

Not

In 1771, when his next play, Clementina, a tragedy, was produced, his name was withheld to avoid the opposition likely to arise. The piece proved no great success, however, and was withdrawn after the ninth night. In 1774 he still thought it wise to withhold his name from his new comedy, A School for Wives. only did he do this, but he prevailed upon Mr. Addington to stand father for his offspring, by which means his enemies were completely misled, and the play, being judged without prejudice, was a great success. After the ninth night Mr. Addington, very much to the chagrin of Kelly's foes, announced the real author in a letter in the papers. Soon after this he produced an afterpiece, entitled

fair measure of success. In 1776 appeared his comedy of The Man of Reason, which was in most respects a failure, and was definitely "damned" on the first night. This so affected Kelly that, having received his call to the bar, he resolved to assume the character of barrister and write no more for the stage. In this there is no doubt he made a mistake. His writings for the stage were producing him about a thousand a year, while as a barrister he would most likely have to wait long and work hard for half the sum. Besides, having reached a certain scale of expenditure, it was hard for him to reduce it, and the result was that though fairly successful as a beginner he fell into debt, and his peace of mind left him never to return. The mental worry soon began to undermine his health, and in the latter part of January, 1777, an abscess opened in his side, which he at first neglected. When attended to his physicians advised the hot bath, and he was carried in a sedan-chair to Newgate Street Bagnio, but soon after his return to his house in Gough Square he became speechless, and next morning, the 3d of February, 1777, he died, not having completed his thirtyeighth year.

As a husband and father Kelly was beyond reproach; as a man of the world he was ever ready to help the afflicted; and as a writer "his genius was such that had his education been better, and fortune easier, so as to have enabled him to select and polish his works, it probably might have given his name a niche among the first dramatic poets of this country."]

IN DEBT AND IN DANGER'
Leeson's Chambers in the Temple.
Enter LEESON.

Lee. Where is this clerk of mine? Connolly!

Con. (Behind.) Here, sir.

Lee. Have you copied the marriage-settlement, as I corrected it?

Enter CONNOLLY, with pistols. Con. Ay, honey; an hour ago. Lee. What, you have been trying those pistols?

Con. By my soul I have been firing them

1 This and the next scene are from The School for Wives.

Lee. My dear Connolly, I hope I sha'n't want such a proof of your affection. How he distresses me! (Aside.) Con. You will want a second, I suppose, in this affair; I stood second to my own brother, in the Fifteen Acres; and though that has made me detest the very thought of duelling ever since, yet if you want a friend I'll attend you to the field of death with a great deal of satisfaction.

Lee. I thank you, Connolly, but I think it extremely wrong in any man who has a quarrel to expose his friend to difficulties; we shouldn't seek for redress if we were not equal to the task of fighting our own battles; and I choose you particularly to carry my letter, because you may be supposed ignorant of the contents, and thought to be acting in the ordinary course of your business.

Enter GENERAL SAVAGE.

Gen. Your hall-door standing open, Spruce, have surprised your camp thus far without and none of your sentinels being on guard, I resistance. Where is your master?

Spruce (a servant). Just gone out with Captain Savage, sir.

Gen. Is your lady at home?

Spruce. No, sir; but Miss Walsingham is at home; shall I inform her of your visit? Gen. There is no occasion to inform her of it, for here she is, Spruce. [Exit Spruce.

Enter MISS WALSINGHAM.

Miss W. General Savage, your most humble servant.

Gen. My dear Miss Walsingham, it is rather cruel that you should be left at home by yourself, and yet I am greatly rejoiced to find you at present without company.

Miss W. I can't but think myself in the best company when I have the honour of your conversation, general.

Re-enter CONNOLLY.

Con. As this is a challenge, I shouldn't go without a sword; come down, little ticklepitcher. (Takes a sword.) Some people may think me very conceited now; but as the dirtiest blacklegs in town can wear one without being stared at, I don't think it can suffer any disgrace by the side of an honest man. [Exit.

[Leeson saved his life, and his honour too, his adversary confessing himself in the wrong. However, he ultimately had his revenge, as the Emily whom he afterwards eloped with was, unknown to him, sister to his adversary. At length all parties consented to the marriage, and all ended well.]

A HOLLOW VICTORY.

[General Savage has a son, Captain Savage, in love with Miss Walsingham, who returns his love. The general himself takes a fancy for the young lady, however, and goes a wooing, she imagining he speaks for his son.]

Gen. You flatter me too much, madam; yet am come to talk to you on a serious affair, Miss Walsingham; an affair of importance to me and to yourself. Have you leisure to favour me with a short audience, if I beat a parley?

Miss W. Anything of importance to you, sir, is always sufficient to command my leisure. 'Tis as the captain suspected. (Aside.)

Gen. You tremble, my lovely girl, but don't be alarmed; for though my business is of an important nature, I hope it won't be of a disagreeable one.

Miss W. And yet I am greatly agitated. (Aside.)

Gen. Soldiers, Miss Walsingham, are said to be generally favoured by the kind partiality

of the ladies.

Miss W. The ladies are not without gratitude, sir, to those who devote their lives peculiarly to the service of their country.

Gen. Generously said, madam; then give me leave, without any masked battery, to ask if the heart of an honest soldier is a prize at all worth your acceptance?

Miss W. Upon my word, sir, there's no masked battery in this question.

Gen. I am as fond of a coup de main, madam, in love, as in war. I hate the method of sapping a town when there is a possibility of entering sword in hand.

Miss W. Why, really, sir, a woman may as

well know her own mind when she is first summoned by the trumpet of a lover, as when she undergoes all the tiresome formality of a siege. You see, I have caught your own mode of conversing, general.

Gen. And a very great compliment I consider it, madam; but now that you have candidly confessed an acquaintance with your own mind, answer me with that frankness for which everybody admires you much. Have you any objection to change the name of Walsingham?

posal, it would not have met my concurrence so readily.

Gen. Then you own that I had a previous friend in the garrison?

Miss W. I don't blush to acknowledge it, when I consider the accomplishments of the object, sir.

Gen. Oh! this is too much, madam; the principal merit of the object is his passion for Miss Walsingham.

Gen. Ten thousand thanks to you for this kind declaration.

one.

Gen. I'd sooner see my son run away in the day of battle; I'd sooner think Lord Russell was bribed by Louis XIV., and sooner vilify the memory of Algernon Sydney.

Miss W. How unjust it was ever to suppose the general a tyrannical father! (Aside.) Gen. You have told me condescendingly, Miss Walsingham, that you have no objection to change your name; I have but one more question to ask.

Miss W. Pray propose it.

Gen. Would the name of Savage be disagreeable to you? Speak frankly again, my dear girl!

Miss W. Why, then, again, I frankly say, No. Gen. You make me too happy; and though I shall readily own that a proposal of this nature would come with more propriety from my son

Miss W. I am much better pleased that you make the proposal yourself, sir.

Gen. You are too good to me. Torrington thought that I should meet with a repulse.

(Aside.) Miss W. Have you communicated this business to the captain, sir?

Gen. No, my dear madam, I did not think that at all necessary. I have always been attentive to the captain's happiness, and I propose that he shall be married in a few days.

Miss W. What, whether I will or no? Gen. Oh! you can have no objection. Miss W. I must be consulted, however, about the day, general; but nothing in my power shall be wanting to make him happy.

Gen. Obliging loveliness!

Miss W. You may imagine that if I were not previously impressed in favour of your pro

Miss W. Then I must have been very indiscreet, for I laboured to conceal that prepossession as much as possible.

Gen. You couldn't conceal it from me; you couldn't conceal it from me. The female heart is a field which I am thoroughly acquainted with, and which has, more than once, been a witness to my victories, madam.

Miss W. I don't at all doubt your success with the ladies, general; but as we now understand one another so perfectly, you will give me leave to retire.

Gen. One word, my dear creature, and no more; I shall wait upon you sometime to-day, with Mr. Torrington, about the necessary settlements.

Miss W. You must do as you please, general; you are invincible in everything.

Gen. And if you please, we'll keep everything a profound secret till the articles are all settled, and the definitive treaty ready for

execution.

Miss W. You may be sure that delicacy will not suffer me to be communicative on the subject, sir.

Gen. Then you leave everything to my management.

Miss W. I can't trust a more noble negotiator. [Exit. Gen. The day's my own. (Sings.) "Britons, strike home; strike home! Revenge," &c.

[Exit.

[However, the day was not his own, and he was soon made sensible of his mistake. But he put a good face upon the matter, and handed over the lady to his son with the utmost generosity.]

EXTRACT FROM "THESPIS."

Bold is his talk in this discerning age,
When every witling prates about the stage,
And some pert title arrogantly brings
To trace up nature through her noblest springs;
Bold in such times his talk must be allow'd,
Who seeks to form a judgment for the crowd;
Presumes the public sentiment to guide,
And speaks at once to prejudice and pride.
Of all the studies in these happier days,
By which we soar ambitiously to praise,
Of all the fine performances of art,

Which charm the eye or captivate the heart,
None like the stage our admiration draws,
Or gains such high and merited applause;
Yet has this art unhappily no rules
To check the vain impertinence of fools,
To point out rude deformity from grace,
And strike a line 'twixt acting and grimace.

High as the town with reverence we may name,
And stamp its general sentiments to fame;
Loud as perhaps we echo to its voice,
And pay a boundless homage to its choice;
Still, if we look minutely we shall find
Each single judge so impotent or blind,
That even the actor whom we most admire
For ease or humour, dignity or fire,
Shall often blush to meet the ill-earned bays,
And pine beneath an infamy of praise.

ALL HER OWN WAY.

(FROM "THE ROMANCE OF AN HOUR.")

LADY DI STRANGEWAYS and SIR HECTOR her Husband.

Sir Hector. An impudent puppy, to pester me with his fees of honour! I thought that at court it was not honourable to pay anything.

Lady Di. But, Sir Hector Strangeways-Sir Hector. But, Lady Di Strangeways, I tell you again that if I had all the wealth of the Spanish galleons, I would not part with a single piece of eight upon this occasion. I did not ask them to knight me, and they may unknight me again if they like it; for I value the broad pendant on the Dreadnought masthead above any title which they can splice, to all the red, or green, or blue rags in Christendom.

Lady Di. Well, my dear, but though an admiral's uniform is a very pretty thing, there is something inexpressibly attracting in a

star; and if I could only persuade you to wear a bag-wig, that red ribbon would give a world of brilliancy to your complexion.

Sir Hector. My complexion! Zounds, wife, don't make me mad! A weather-beaten sailor the brilliancy of his complexion. of fifty ought to be mightily concerned about

Lady Di. Lord! Sir Hector, you are not so old by half a year; and if you'd follow my advice about the bag, you'd look as young as Billy Brownlow

Sir Hector. Avast, Di!-avast! I have already suffered you to crowd too much canvas, and to make a puppy of me sufficiently.

Lady Di. I beg, Sir Hector, that you will soften the coarseness of your phraseology, and use a little less of the quarter-deck dialect.

Sir Hector. Zounds! madam, 'tis your own fault if the gale blows in your teeth; I might have been out with the squadron in the Mediterranean hadn't I humoured your fancy, and foolishly stayed to be piped in at the installation. However, there's some chance yet,—the admiral appointed is attended by three doctors, and if they heave him over I have a promise of succeeding in the command. There's a cable of comfort for you to snatch at, Lady Di.

Lady Di. Yes, you cruel! and for fear bad news should not reach me soon enough, you have ordered an express to be sent up directly from Portsmouth the moment the poor admiral is gathered to his progenitors.

Sir Hector. Yes, the moment his anchor is a-peak; and I'll take your son Orson with me, too, for I shall have him turned into a monkey if he stays much longer ashore.

Lady Di. Surely you won't be such a brute, my love. The boy is quite a sea monster already, and I must keep him close under my own eye, to give him some little touches of humanity.

Sir Hector. Orson is wild, I grant, but he is well-meaning; and therefore I forbid all lessons of good-breeding that are likely to make a heel in his principles.

ORSON enters.

Orson. Huzza! father, huzza!
Sir Hector. What do you cheer at, lad?

Orson. Here's an advice-boat that Colonel Ormsby has just made London, and will take a berth with us before the evening gun is fired.

Lady Di. How often must I tell you, child, that it is exceedingly vulgar to appear either surprised or overjoyed at anything?