Marceline [giving him back the paper] — It is for you: take back the note, it is your dowry. Suzanne [throwing him the purse] - Take this too. Marceline [enthusiastically]-An unfortunate girl enough, I was about to become the most wretched of women, and I am the luckiest of mothers! Embrace me, my two children: I unite all my caresses in you. Happy as I can possibly be, ah! my children, how I shall love you. Figaro [much affected, speaking with vivacity]— Stop now, dear mother! Stop now! Would you see my eyes melt into water, drowned in the first tears I have known? They are of joy, at least! But what stupidity! I cannot be ashamed of them; I feel them slip between my fingers : look [shows his separated fingers], and I retain them foolishly! Go and take a walk, shame! I want to laugh and cry at the same time. One does not feel twice what I am experiencing. [Embraces his mother on one side and SUZANNE on the other. Marceline O my friend! Suzanne-My dear friend! Brid'oison [wiping his eyes on his handkerchief]—Ah, well! as for me I am a f-fool too! Figaro [enthusiastically]- Chagrin, now I can defy you: assail me if you dare, between these two dear women! Antonio [to FIGARO]-Not so many blandishments, if you please. In the matter of marriage between families, that of the parents goes first, you know. Do yours give their hands. to each other. Bartholo - My hand! May it ever I give it to the mother of such a wither up and fall off, if scamp ! Antonio [to BARTHOLO] - You are only a stepmother father, then? [To FIGARO] In that case, my spark, no more talk. Suzanne Ah, uncle! Antonio Am I to give the child of my sister to a thing that is the child of nobody? Brid'oison-C-could that be possible, imbecile? One is always the child of s-somebody. you. Antonio-Fiddlesticks! He shall not marry her. [Goes out. [Starts to leave. Bartholo [to FIGARO] - Now hunt for somebody to adopt Marceline-[running after and leading him back by the arm]-Hold on, Doctor, don't leave us. Figaro [aside]-No-I believe all the fools in Andalusia are let loose against my poor marriage! Suzanne [to BARTHOLO] - Good little papa, it is your son. Marceline [to BARTHOLO] - Wit, talents, looks. Figaro [to BARTHOLO] — And who has not cost you a copper. Bartholo-And the hundred crowns he took from me? Marceline [caressing him] - We shall have so much need of you, papa! Bartholo [affected]-Papa! good papa! little papa! there, I am a greater fool even than his Honor [pointing to BRID'OISON], indeed I am. I let myself be led like a child. [MARCELINE and SUZANNE embrace.] Oh, no, I haven't said yes. [Turns around.] What has become of my Lord? Figaro Let us make haste and join him: let us extort his definite word. If he engineers another intrigue, everything will have to be begun anew. All together-Run, run. [They draw BARTHOLO along out. Brid'oison [solus] — A g-greater fool even than his Honor? One can s-say that sort of things to himself, but they are not p-polite at all in this place. [Goes out. SANDFORD AND MERTON. BY THOMAS DAY. [THOMAS DAY, idealist, humanitarian, and “crank," was born 1748 at London, son of the collector of customs there, and orphaned at a year old. He graduated from Corpus Christi, Oxford, was called to the bar, but never practiced, having a moderate independence. His life is a record of warfare against social conventionalities, inspired by impulses always honorable and often noble, but too little regulated by judgment to be very effective. He gave lavishly to the poor, ardently opposed slavery, was quixotically tender of animals; he would not comb his hair (being a Rousseauite, aiming at a return to the simplicity of nature), would not have servants, carriage, or musical instruments because he had no right to them while the poor wanted bread," and lived without society, devoting himself to the care and instruction of his laborers, and cheerfully losing money on his farm, till his estate was nearly consumed, because it gave them employment. He was killed in 1789 by being thrown from an unbroken colt, which he rode from a theory that kindness was sufficient. "Sandford and Merton" was written in three parts in 1783, 1787, and 1789. He wrote other things now forgotten.] IN ONE of the western counties of England lived a gentleman of good fortune, named Merton. Having a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, he had passed the greater part of his life there, and was master of many servants, who cultivated sugar and other valuable things for his advantage. He had only one son, of whom he was exceedingly fond; and to educate this child properly was the reason of his determining to stay some years in England. Tommy Merton, who, at the time he came from Jamaica, was only six years old, was naturally a well-disposed, good-natured boy, but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. While he lived in Jamaica he had several black servants to wait upon him, who were forbidden to contradict him upon any account. If he walked, he was always accompanied by two negroes; one of whom carried a large umbrella to keep the sun from him, and the other was to carry him in his arms whenever he was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or laced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage borne upon men's shoulders, in which he made visits to his playfellows. His mother was so excessively fond of him that she gave him everything he cried for, and would never let him learn to read because he complained that it made his head ache. The consequence of this was, that though Master Merton had everything he wanted, he became fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then he suffered much pain, because he would not take bitter physic to make him well. Sometimes he cried for things that it was impossible to give him, and then, as he had never been used to be contradicted, it was many hours before he could be pacified. When company came to dine at the house he was always to be helped first and to have the most delicate parts of the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed everybody. When his father and mother were sitting at the tea table with their friends, instead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake and bread and butter, and frequently overset the cups and saucers. By these pranks he not only made himself disagreeable to every one, but often met with very dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cut himself with knives; at other times pull down heavy things upon his head; and once he narrowly escaped being scalded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He was also so delicately brought up that he was perpetually ill; the least wind or rain gave him a cold, and the least sun was sure to throw him into a fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and running like other children, he was taught to sit still for fear of spoiling his clothes, and to stay in the house for fear of injuring his complexion. By this sort of education, when Master Merton came over to England, he could neither read, write, nor cipher; he could use none of his limbs with ease, nor bear any degree of fatigue; yet he was very proud, fretful, and impatient. Very near to Mr. Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer, named Sandford. This man had, like Mr. Merton, an only son, not much older than Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as he had been always accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the laborers while they were plowing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active, strong, hardy, and fresh-colored. He was neither so fair nor so delicately shaped as Master Merton, but he had an honest, good-natured countenance, which made everybody love him; was never out of humor, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging everybody. If little Harry, while eating his dinner, saw a poor wretch who wanted food, he was sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole nay, so very kind was he to everything, that he would never go into the fields to take the eggs of poor birds, or their young ones, nor practice any other sort of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who are as capable of feeling as we are ourselves, though they have no words to express their sufferings. Once, indeed, Harry was caught twirling a cockchafer round, which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread: but this was through ignorance and want of thought; for, as soon as his father told him that the poor helpless insect felt as much or more than he would do were a knife thrust through his hand, he burst into tears, and took the poor insect home, where he fed him during a fortnight upon fresh leaves; and, when perfectly recovered, he turned him out to enjoy liberty and the fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry had been so careful and considerate that he would step out of the way for fear of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to all the animals in the neighborhood. He used to pat and stroke the horses as they were at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for the pigs. If he walked in the fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the sheep, who were so fond of him that they followed him wherever he went. In the winter time, when the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the poor little birds could get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed, that he might feed the robin redbreasts. Even toads, and frogs, and spiders, and all such disagreeable things, which most people destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry he used to say they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel and unjust to kill creatures only because we did not like them. These sentiments made Harry a great favorite with everybody; particularly with the clergyman of the parish, who became so fond of him, that he taught him to read and write, and had him almost always with him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr. Barlow showed so particular an affection for him; for besides learning with the greatest readiness everything that was taught him, little Harry was the most honest, obliging creature in the world. Whatever he was desired to do, he was never discontented, nor did he ever grumble. then you might believe Harry in everything he said; for though he could have gained a plum cake by telling an untruth, and was certain that speaking the truth would expose him to a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he like many other children who place their whole happiness in eating; for give him only a morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be satisfied, though you placed sweetmeats, and fruit, and every other nicety, in his way. And Master Merton became acquainted with this little boy in the following manner: As he and the maid were walking in the fields on a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering different kinds of wild flowers, and running after butterflies, a large snake suddenly started up from among some long grass, and coiled itself round little Tommy's leg. The fright they were both in at this accident may be imagined: the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the spot where he was standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near, came running up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most piteously, could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his leg, and made Harry sensible of what had happened. Harry, who, though young, was a boy of the most |