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Love in Humble Life.

IT has been a favourite maxim with poets to represent innocence and simplicity as the peculiar attributes of humble life. That they were so in the pastoral ages, we have little doubt; but, in modern times, if we expect to meet with them in their ancient haunts, we shall certainly be disappointed. There is no state of society wholly unsophisticated. The artificial habits of high life are not more intolerable than the grosser ones of low; and love, in both cases, differs little but in terms. The coarse addresses of the clown are as well understood and relished by his Dulcinea, as the refined compliments of the well-dressed lover are admired and appreciated by the lady of fashion and sentiment. If we paint a beau or a boor, we must give the one wit, and the other cunning. To paint them otherwise would be to represent

"German dames as beauteous to the sight,

The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite;
The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons
Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns."
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And, with regard to simplicity and innocence, they are the avowed remnants of the antediluvian world, and are turned up as rarely as its fossils.

Let us not, however, attempt to establish a rule without an exception. We only argue against an exclusive privilege, and contend that

"There are sweepers in high life as well as in low."

A French piece, written by M. Scribe (a very apropos name for an author!), entitled "Michel and Christine," is the original of Mr. Howard Payne's "Love in Humble Life." The plot is the simplest that can be imagined, and the incidents are confined within a very narrow compass. But, by a natural display of character, and an easy and unaffected flow of sentiment and language, much pleasing interest is excited. In this style of composition the French are greatly our superiors. Their vaudevilles and petit-comedies seldom fail to awaken our best feelings. Most of our attempts in this way are clumsy and monotonous: we bury sentiment beneath a heap of highsounding words, and entangle it in a maze of incident. The simplest method is the best and most effectual; brevity, is the soul of wit; and there are few attempts to excite a spirit of benevolence more neatly contrived and executed than "Blue Devils," which, like "Love in Hamble Life," is of French origin.

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The rough, generous-hearted Ronslaus is a soldier, who does a noble action with almost as bad a grace as he makes love. Like Mr. Sulky, he is a good-natured man, though he don't look so! His bountiful gratitude to Christine-his blunt, yet ardent affection-his fits of anger and impatience, gradually subsiding under the influence of kinder emotions-and his heart-breaking self-denial at the close, when he resigns Christine to Carlitz, form a very affecting picture.Carlitz is a fool; and, as fools have fortune, he becomes entitled to the heart and purse of the fair Christine. We admire the lady's con stancy, but we execrate her taste; and take leave of her with Falstaff's salutation to Hostess Quickly-" Go to: thou'rt a woman!" The acting of this piece was very creditable. Mr. Knight, Mr. Cooper, and Miss S. Booth, made it run off like a reel.

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Costume.

RONSLAUS.-The uniform of a Polish serjeant.

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Cast of the Characters at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

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The Conductors of this Work print no Plays but those which they have seen acted. The Stage Directions are given from their own personal observations, during the fhost recent performances.

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R. means Right; L. Left; D. F. Door in Flat; R. D. Right Door; L. D. Left Door; S. E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper Entrance; M. Ď. Middle Door.

RELATIVE POSITIONS.

R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R. C. Right of Centre; L. C. Left of Centre.

R.

'RC.

C.

LC.

L.

The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience.

LOVE IN HUMBLE LIFE.

SCENE-A Garden, enclosed at the third wing by a hedge with a gate in the middle, on one post of which there is a bush, R. S. E. within the garden, the Inn-door, with "Good entertainment for Man and Horse" written over it. Same side, front, a wooden table and two chairs. L. a round stone table, and a shrubbery encircling a green bank. In the distance, mountains, &c. &c.-A march is heard as the curtain draws up, and soldiers are seen passing down the mountains. BRANDT comes out of the Inn, and at the same moment RONSLAUS enters through the middle gate, a knapsack at his back and a musket on his shoulder.

Rons. [Entering.] March on to the barracks, comrades! I shall halt here. I've an acquaintauce in these quarters. [Comes down to BRANDT.] Where's the landlord, waiter? Why don't he run out to catch customers, as every good landlord is in duty bound? Hey, lad! how dare he send such a ninny as you to represent his dignity?

Brandt. There's no landlord, sir, and mistress is busy with a party?

Rons. So much the better for her. Attention! Bring me an excellent breakfast-two bottles of the best wine; and send me your mistress for oompany: I've something to say to her.

Brandt. I beg your honour's pardon; but, perhaps, mistress would like first to know your honour's name. Rons. Ronslaus, the soldier.

Brandt. No more, your honour?

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Rons. What the devil more would you have? A soldier and a countryman should be a passport any where. Quick step! Forward! March! [Exit BRANDT into the Inn, RONSLAUS giving him a tap with the butt of his gun.] No barmaid? No! My heart beats. Ay, ten chances to one but poor little Christine's gone! At any rate, the landlady can give me some clue. Ouf! tolerable marching this. Ten leagues before breakfast over the mountains! But we've no right to complain. The enemy we pursue keep ahead of us, for all that; and though we gave 'em now and then a few shots, by way of How are you to-day,' the unmannerly knaves would'nt so much as turn to say, Very well, I thank you.' [Takes off his knapsack, and sets it on the stone table, L.] For the first time in my life my luggage seems heavy. Those villanous bank-notes, no doubt; such things never before straggled into my knapsack. Poor colonel ! I see him yet, stretched wounded upon the field of battle. Ronslaus!' exclaimed he, I have long been alone in the world I'm now quitting, and I mustn't make the foe my heir.-Take this pocketbook! Zounds! these bits of paper are not what I stand in need of, but cartridges, boy, cartridges!' From that hour I've never fired a cartridge at the enemy, but I told 'em, Here, you scoundrels, here's a billet-doux from my poor dead colonel! Well, well! though the weight of cash is rather new to me, yet I get on under it more gaily than ever; for I now meet the unfortunate with a different feeling from what I used to have, conscious that I possess not only a sword for their protection, but a purse for their miseries.

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Enter CHRISTINE from the Inn, speaking as she enters.

Chris. Ronslaus, did he say? Ronslaus, the soldier? Bless my heart! Where? where?

Rons. Ay, come at last. 'Twas almost time. [Turns.] I say, land- [starting.] Christine !

Chris. [Running to him.] Oh, Ronslaus! how glad I am to see you!

Rons. [Faltering.] Christine! [Turns aside.] Zounds! what ails my eyes? [Aloud.] Christine! [Aside.] Where's my voice? I can't- I can't. [Runs up, and shakes hands with her.] How are you, Christine ?

Chris. When they told me your regiment was coming across the country, I said to myself, I'm sure we shall see him, or have a letter, at least, I'm sure.'I hope you mean to stop awhile?

Rons. Two hours, at most-only to take breath. Then buckle on your knapsacks, shoulder your muskets, and away! We soldiers are obliged to forget our friendships at the roll of the drum, and to force as much love as we can into the little time we get between marches. Then comes the rum-rum-rum! Good bye to love! farewell to friendship! and off we go. Chris. Don't your wound trouble you in these forced ་ marches?

Rons. Not in the least, pet. You took too good care to cure it for me. I should have been obliged to quit the post but for you, Christine; and when I remember how, for one whole month

Chris. Nonsense! nonsense! No more of that. Your being here at that time saved us from many a trouble. But for you, our house might have been burnt down; and I, who was then only barmaid, perhaps should not now have been mistress.

Rons. Hey! What? You mistress, Christine?

You?

Chris. Oh, it's a story worth hearing. I'll tell you all about it. The inn, the garden, the farm, all belong to me. You can't think how happy it makes me to receive you in my house, Ronslaus. Will you take a turn round my grounds, Ronslaus ? But first you must taste my wine. The wine, Brandt, the wine! [Calling.

Rons. That I will, lassie! but while I drink, you must talk. Tell me the whole affair. One never hears so well as over a bottle.

Enter BRANDT with a bottle and tumbler glass, which he sets on the table, and exit. RONSLAUS pours out a tumbler of wine, and comes towards CHRISTINE. Chris. You know how unhappy I was- a poor orphan, and obliged to be dependent on the old landlady, Madam Donderspank, that cross, ill-temperedRons. [Drinks, then sets down the glass.] She that gave such infernal bad wine? I always hated that.

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Chris. Well, about four months after you went away a soldier returning home on leave of absence called here. and took me aside. Miss,' says he, I have

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