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dentally left by themselves, Quin made the first overture towards a friendly intercourse, by inquiring after the health of Mrs. Garrick, for which he expressed a very solicitous regard. After this his visits at Hampton were frequent. The last time was in the summer of 1765, just after Garrick's return from Italy. While at this seat of hospitality, an eruption came out on his hand, which the faculty seemed to fear would turn to a mortification, and occasion, the loss of it. This circumstance affected his spirits, and is supposed to have thrown him into a hypochondria, which brought on a fever that carried him off, when he was out of all danger on account of his hand. During his illness he had taken such quantities of bark, as to occasion an incessant drought, which nothing could assuage; and being willing to live as long as he could without pain, he discontinued taking any medicines for upwards of a week before his death; and during this period was in good spirits. The day before he died he drank a bottle of claret; and being sensible of his approaching end, he said, “ He could wish that the last tra“ gic scene were over, though he was in hopes he should be able “ to go through it with becoming dignity.” In this hope he was not disappointed: he died at his house at Bath on Tuesday, January 21, 1766, about four o'clock in the morning; and on the Friday following was interred in the Abbey church at Bath, where a monument to his memory was erected, with lines by Mr. Garrick.
Mr. Quin's language in conversation was nervous; and his bon mots had a force in them that secured their remembrance long after their transitory effusion: but it must be owned, that many of them are very coarse, and offensive to decency.
In declamation, Mr. Quin was most excellent. It is said he recited with particular energy and judgment, but was unqualified for the striking and vigorous characters of tragedy. He gave true force and dignity to sentiment, by a well-regulated tone of voice, judicious elocution, and easy deportment. His chief characters were Brutus; Cato; the Duke, in Measure for Measure; and Falstaff. However, the exigencies of the theatre frequently imposed upon him King Lear, Richard, Macbeth, Othello, Young Bevil, Chamont, &c.
At the age of sixty, he performed Chamont in a long grisly, half-powdered wig, hanging low down on each side of the breast, and down the back; a heavy scarlet coat and waistcoat, trimmed with broad gold lace; black velvet breeches; black silk neckcloth; black stockings; a pair of square-toed shoes, with an old-fashioned
pair of stone buckles; a pair of stiff high-topped white gloves; and a broad old scolloped hat.—Were the youthful Chamont to appear on the stage in such a dress now, the tragedy would cause more laughter than tears.
FOR THE MIRROR OF TASTE.
To our correspondent K, we can only say in the words of
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous.
THE WORD OBLIGE.
Though this word, derived from the Latin, is manifestly pronounced obleedge, the white and red rose were not more inveterate than are the obligers and obleeg'd. I have seen a man have the company driven away by the discordant sound of oblige. Its own incompleteness affords food for the two factions, no word having more opposite meanings than this—alternately signifying gratitude and the avowal of employed force: but the articles of reconciliation are easily adjusted: in the latter sense let oblige be ever the pronunciation, and let the former ever be obleeg'd.
How improper would it be to chastise a blind horse for stumbling; yet we suffer ourselves to be angered by the vitious actions of a scoundrel, when from his nature he is incapable of good.
Bon mots, jest books, &c. have the same effect on us in common life as the use of spices has on our palate. All wit becomes insipid if it be not very highly seasoned.
There is a certain class of men who lead you into errors, and then take a merit in extricating you. They remind me of an eccentric being who used to conceal some valuable; and after setting the whole house on the fruitless search, would sneak to his hiding place,—exultingly produce the treasure, extolling his own sagacity, and cursing the indolence of the whole family.
The folly of marrying a beautiful woman, and the old objection beauty soon fades, have been food for many a hungry philosopher. They do not reflect that our appetites, desires and enjoyments are as transitory as the beauty they decry.
Whether it arises from nature, education, or conceit, I know not; but the association of ideas of the goaded ox and the butchered one I eat, invariably causes a loathing of all animal food.
Were we to examine our actions minutely, we would find vanity the impulse by which we are constantly actuated.
Pope's lady who never “ drinks her tea without a stratagem," is completely outdone by a modern hero:
“ With wondrous manquvres he combs his hair,
What different ideas different readings of the same piece give rise to! Before Mr. Cooke's arrival, Shakspeare had been read with indifference, his beauties unadmired because unknown: we now see, in our very papers, parodies of the immortal bard; a beau in the stable yard ordering the ostler “to saddle bay Surry for a “ trot to-day;"—and a belle flirt away without paying any attention to your request, because “ she's busy-she's not in the vein."
Novels, without exception, are said to be injurious to the morals of our youth: a knowledge of human nature will show the fallacy of the idea. Ordinary minds, if not diverted by external objects, naturally revert to evil; a constant round of visiting and novels become minor considerations.
After your words “ a man may have an excuse for writing, but « can have none for publishing nonsense,” you will wonder what excuse I can make for troubling you: I candidly confess, it is the wish of having something of mine preserved from the decay of time, and my fame transmitted (though by the same means as the murderer of Philip) to posterity,
Michael ANGELo MERIGI, commonly called Michael Angelo Da Caravaggio, was born at Caravaggio, a village in the Milanese, in the year 1569, and made himself famous by a manner in painting extremely strong, true, and of great effect, of which himself was the author. He painted everything he did, in a room where the light descended from on high. He followed his models so exactly, that he imitated their defects as well as their beauties, having no other idea than the effect of nature present before him. He used to say, that those pictures which were not drawn after nature, were but as so many rags; and the figures of which they were composed, but as painted cards. His manner, being new, was followed by several painters of his time, and among others by Manfredi, and Valentine a Frenchman. We must own the likeness of this manner is very surprising, and has a very powerful effect on the most judicious spectators. He drew after him almost the whole school of the Caracci. For not to name Guercino, who never left his manner, Guido and Dominichino were tempted to follow it; but it was accompanied with such an ill goût of design; and the choice of his lights being the same in all sorts of subjects, they fell off from it in a very little time. His pieces are to be met with in most of the cabinets in Europe. There are several of them at Rome, and Naples, and one picture of his drawing is in the Dominicans' church at Antwerp, which Rubens used to call his master. He often brought himself into danger, by his contemptuous discourse of his contemporaries, especially of Gioseppino, whom he made a jest of publicly. One day the dispute between them ran so high, that Michael Angelo drew his sword and killed a young man called Tomasino, who being Gioseppino's friend, would have parted them. Upon this Michael Angelo was obliged to fly to the Marquis Justiniani, to protect him. While he lived in his house, he drew the picture of St. Thomas's unbelief, and a Cupid, two admirable pieces for the Marquis. Justiniani obtained his pardon, and reproved him severely for being so outrageous; but Michael Angelo, as soon as he was at liberty, being unable to command his passions, went to Gioseppino, and challenged him. The latter answered, he was a knight, and Vol. IV. D *
would not draw his sword against his inferior. Caravaggio, nettled at this answer, hastened to Malta, performed his vows and exercises, and received the order of knighthood as a serving brother. While he was there, he drew the decollation of John the Baptist, for the great church, and the portrait of the grand master de VignaCourt, which is in the king's cabinet.
Being dignified with the order of Malta, he returned to Rome, intending to force Gioseppino to fight him, but happily for his competitor, a fever put an end to the dangerous dispute, with his life, in the year 1609.
TATE WILKINSON. Wilkinson was often in a repartee. An actor in the York theatre, of very slender talent, but possessing a great portion of conceit, having played all the first rate characters in very small companies, expostulated with Mr. Wilkinson for giving him some very inferior parts, and used language very unbecoming; he frequently made use of the phrase, “ I who am at the top of the ladder,”—“Well,“ replied Wilkinson, “ I'll end your troubles: for if you are at the top u of the ladder, I'll turn you of directly."
On the much-lamented death of a beautiful girl.
Lardled all with sweet flowers,
Underneath this ebon shade,
Mark'd by a rudely sculptured stone,
Soft be the turf she rests upon!
These flowers that grow around her tomb
All bear a paler hue,
Their sympathy so true.
Shall here their vigils keep;
And soothe her lasting sleep.