those who see your plays, do not wonder that you write so fast; and those who read them, heartily wish you had never written at all."

It is not impossible that such attacks as the above, which were not unfrequent, might, at length, have restrained or checked the propensity to write, which influenced our hero; but, unfortunately, his circumstances would not allow of his giving up the only means he possessed, of subsistence for himself and family. He continued, for several years, writing two thousand lines a day, for a salary little better than that of a journeyman tailor, in consequence of an agreement with a dramatic company, whom he undertook to furnish with all they wanted.

Fortunately for the libraries of those who possess the works of Hardy, as well as luckily for his own fame, only forty or fifty of all his dramatic host remain; nor can it be said, that a perusal of these occasions any regret for the loss of their departed companions.

He would frequently reply to those who censured his Plays, "What faults soever my dramas may possess, it cannot be denied they are just pictures of human life." Grossly violating manners and decorum, he fairly put his characters to

bed. The Death of Achilles, or, a Tradesman's wife caught by her husband with another man, afforded, alike, to Hardy, subjects for tragedy.

In one of his pieces, the curtain draws up and discovers a fille de joie sleeping in her bed. The plot turns on the entrance of two of her admirers, who quarrel for the prize; they retire to settle the point, as such matters generally are settled; and a third, more happy, creeping from beneath the bed, carries off this second Helen. In one particular, the plays of Hardy may be said to bear a near resemblance to life; they turn on quarrelling and kissing, as Butler observes, in his Hudibras.

"He swore the world, as he could prove,
Is made of fighting, and of love."

In one of his performances, a princess is married. In the first act her son, the hero, is born; in the second, educated; in the third, a conqueror; an outrageous lover in the fourth; and, finally, married, in the fifth act. This, it may be said, is real life; for do we not every day see weddings where the lady is a bride and a mother within the space of eight and forty hours!

A gentleman of Paris, who fancied, that, with

all the absurd improprieties of Hardy, he could perceive occasional sparks of genius, on a certain occasion, visited this dramatic writer, with the intention of advising him not to write so much. Inquiring, of his theatrical friends, where Hardy lived, this friendly critic was directed to a mean lodging, in the obscurest part of the city. Almost breathless with climbing, he at last found the dramatist in the attic story, busily engaged in his occupation, before a fire, on which a morsel of bouillé was preparing; he was rocking the cradle with his foot, and writing on a box, set on its end; dressed only in a loose coat; and the shirt, which he ought to have had on, his wife was washing in a corner of the room.

The critic, disarmed by a sight, very different from that which disarmed the angry lover of our poet (Prior*), forgot every word that he intended to have said; excused himself, by pretending that he had mistaken the name; and, dropping a purse of Louis d'ors on the floor, he hurried down stairs. Had he entered on the subject, and given the intended advice, it would, inall probability, have been useless. It was the misfortune of Hardy, (as it al

* A rose bud in a lady's neck.

ways is a misfortune,) to write for bread; and, in reply to the salutary admonition of his benevolent visitor, he might have said, Bien obligé, Monsieur, mais il faut vivre." Many thanks for your kindness, sir, but I cannot live without eating."

FOOTE AND QUIN.

THIS celebrated mimic had signified, in his advertisement, while he was exhibiting his imitations at one of the Theatres Royal, that he would, on a particular evening, take off Quin; who, being desirous of seeing his own picture, took a place in the stage-box, and, when the audience had ceased applauding Foote, for the justness of the representation, Quin bawls out, with a loud horse-laugh, "I'm glad on't; the poor fellow will get a clean shirt by it." When Foote immediately retorted, from the stage, "A clean shirt, master Quin !- -a shirt of any kind was a very novel thing in your family, some few years ago."

BARON, AND THE DUKE DE ROQUELAURE. THE famous Baron was both an author and an actor; he wrote a comedy in five acts, called "Les Adelphes," taken from the "Adelphi" of

Terence; and, a few days before it was performed, the Duke de Roquelaure, addressing him, said, "Will you show me your piece, Baron? You know that I am a connoisseur: I have promised three women of wit, who are to dine with me, the feast of hearing it. Come, and dine with us; bring it in your pocket, and read it yourself. I am desirous to know whether you are less dull than Terence." Baron accepted the invitation, and found two Countesses, and a Marchioness, at table, who testified the most impatient desire to hear the piece. They were, however, in no haste to rise from table; and, when their long repast was ended, instead of thinking of Baron, they called for cards. "Cards?" cried the Duke;"surely, ladies, you have no such intention? You forget that Baron is here, to read you his new comedy?"-"Oh, no; we have not forgotten that," replied one of them; "he may read, while we are at play; and we shall have two pleasures, instead of one." Baron immediately rose, walked to the door, and, with great indignation, replied, "his comedy should not be read to cardplayers." This incident was brought on the stage by Poincinet, in his comedy of the "Cercle."