Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, (160.) A FAIR PRETENDER. Thomas Haynes Bayly, poet, novelist, and dramatist, b. 1797, d. 1839. "He pos sessed a playful fancy, a practised ear, a refined taste, and a sentiment which ranged playfully from the fanciful to the pathetic." Scene: a Drawing Room at KATE O'BRIEN'S. Enter KATE reading a letter. Kate. A letter from my good guardian; and to inform me that, as I am to expect a visit from his nephew, he hopes I will appear to the best advantage; displaying, I suppose, all my graces, and none of my airs. [Reads.] "You have only to exert the fascinations you possess, to win his heart. The woman he marries must be perfection." Perfection. I will try and win him; but it shall be without displaying one of the perfections which he has declared to be indispensable. He thinks to take me by surprise; but he shall not find me without a plot. [Enter SUSAN.] Susan, wheel that sofa this way. lies on sofa.] Unfold my shawl Throw it over my feet. [Exit SUSAN, who returns introducing CHARLES. leave me. [KATE Now Enter CHARLES. Chas. Madam, my uncle being prevented calling with me as he intended, I am obliged to introduce myself. Kate. You will excuse my not rising to receive you, sir. Pray sit down. [CHARLES sits.] I am very happy to see you. The nephew of my father's old friend must always be welcome here. Chas. Madam, you are very kind; I am afraid I've called at an unseasonable hour; I have disturbed you-you are reposing-perhaps you were sleeping?-possibly dreaming. Kate. No, sir; you could not have called more opportunely. I have been looking over this endless portfolio of drawings. [Points to table on which are drawings. Chas. Drawings!--are you fond of the art? Kate. Excessively! I could look at them for ever. Chas. [Aside.] Accomplished creature! I always said that when I did fall in love, it would be at first sight; and I do believe my time is come at last. (181) F Kate. What a delightful art painting is! to be able to perpetuate the features of those who are dear to us. Chas. Charming! Kate. Or to treasure up remembrances of scenes in which we have been happy, but which we may never look upon again. Chas. Delightful! Kate. Or to copy the classical groups of antiquity!—or form new combinations of graceful, lovely figures. Chas. Oh! your enthusiasm quite enchants me! Kate. Ah, then you are enthusiastic, also? Chas. Oh! prodigiously. Pray, my dear madam, allow me to feast my eyes upon some of your drawings. Kate. Sir?-I-I-what did you say? Chas. Permit me to see one of your performances. Kate. I regret to say that I never had the least idea of drawing! my houses, my trees, and my cattle, and my faces, are all one confused jumble of scratches. Chas. Not draw? Kate. No! Chas. I? Oh, no-But I quite misunderstand you: I thought.[Aside.] Dear me! what a pity such a creature should lack such an accomplishment, such a resource! Kate. Is anything the matter, sir? Chas. Oh, nothing. [Aside.] After all, it is but one accomplishment wanting; I've no doubt she has all the rest. Kate. Did you speak? Chas. I was saying I never heard so musical a voice. Kate. Oh, you flatter me. You mention music-do you not doat on it? Chas. Ah! there we do agree!-The woman who sings Kate. Yes, sir. Chas. The woman who plays- Kate. Yes, sir. Chas. The woman who does both well is a divinity. You are an enthusiast in your love of music. I see you are. Kate. I am, sir; music is my passion! music in the morning! music in the evening! music at the silent hour of night! music on the water! Chas. Music under the water! Kate. Music at any hour! Chas. Yes, or on any instrument! Kate. Ah, yes; from the magnificent organ to the gentle lute. Chas. Yes, delicious! Kate. Or a voice!-better than all, a soul-enchanting voice. Chas. [Aside.] There is no resisting her. Oh, madam, sing! Kate. Alas, sir! how shall I make the sad confession? Much as I love music, I can only listen. Chas. What? Kate. I have not a singing note in my voice; and no one could ever teach me to play. Chas. [Aside.] Was there ever such an impostor?-Madam, you positively astonish me. Kate. My fate is an unhappy one—I am an orphan, as you know, and, of course, labouring under such manifest defects, I never mean to marry. Chas. Never mean to marry? Kate. Never! Chas. Oh, madam, in mercy to mankind, make not so rash, so inconsiderate a resolve. Kate. Sir, it is in mercy to mankind I make it. What would be a fond husband's sufferings, were he to see the wife of his bosom sinking under the degrading consciousness that she was unworthy of him? Chas. Unworthy! Kate. Would he not cast her from him? Yes, yes, he would do so-I must live on, unloved. Chas. [Aside.] She is irresistible!—Madam, I offer to you my hand and heart. [Kneels. Kate. I must retire. My maid shall return and speak a few words to you; and then, after you have seen your uncle, you may visit me again. [Kate is wheeled out. Chas. Well, positively, that is the laziest proceeding I ever witnessed. I suppose she was too faint to move. is your mistress? She is a charming creature. you are--what a sweet mistress you have got! Sus. She is charming-poor thing! Well, Susan, how What a happy girl Chas. Poor thing!—what do you mean by poor thing? Chas. What is sad? Sus. You saw my mistress whisper me? Chas. Yes, to be sure! but there's nothing so sad in a whisper. Sus. Indeed, but there is, though! She desired me to reveal the affair to you: she had not courage to tell you herself. To be sure, you must have known it, sooner or later. Chas. What can you mean?-You frighten me out of my wits. Sus. It's a sad affliction for her!—a very great defect!-she's much to be pitied. Chas. A defect? another defect? and I have committed myself!— I've proposed! what is it?— Sus. Oh, sir! Chas. Speak out, do! Sus. Many years ago— Chas. That's as bad as ፡፡ haste. once upon a time" Pray go on !—make Sus. My mistress was thrown from her horse-- Chas. Yes-well-she was not killed; so, what then? Chas. Oh! What limb? Sus. Foot-broke it-all to bits-and Chas. Well?-speak! Sus. Amputation! Chas. Horror!-What? Sus. She has got a cork foot! [Exit Susan. Chas. A cork foot! Horror! What have I done? engaged myself to a-a cork foot. What am I about to do? renounce her! see her no more because she is unfortunate-no, no. I'm no such coldhearted coward! Oh, here she is. [Kate is wheeled in. Kate. Still here! waiting to say farewell. Chas. No, you wrong me! When I offered to be your protector and friend, I knew not how much you needed both; and now that I do know it, do you think that I will desert you? -Never! Kate. Generous man! Take my hand, and when I forget your kindness, neglect and spurn me. I have already endeavoured to show my sense of your goodness—I have prepared a surprise for you. You seemed disappointed at my not being able to draw. In my absence I have endeavoured to make a sketch. [Gives picture.] Here it is. Chas. Wonderful!-what a likeness! 'tis your own portrait. my first gift. Chas. Thanks! a thousand thanks! Kate. You are fond of music, too! Like most young ladies, when they are asked to sing, I refused at first-but now, if you press me sufficiently, I may be induced to own I can sing, and what's more, dance a little too. [She springs from the sofa. Chas. Take care-you will hurt yourself. What am I to think? Kate. Think? only they have brought machinery to very high perfection. Chas. Impossible! nay, your foot never was fractured! Kate. It never was. Chas. Huzza! my wife's perfection! She has feet and thus I fall at them! [Kneels.] But I have not met with that monster, a perfect woman; for you certainly displayed one little failing. Kate. Well, what is it, pray? Chas. Fibbing! A cork foot! Oh, fie! Kate. Nay, I told you no fib. Chas. How so? Kate. I have a cork foot-absolutely, two cork feet-for I was born in Cork, in the province of Munster, in my own dear native Ireland. Chas. Cork! Well, then I suppose, we must admit you are a cork model of a perfect woman. (161.) SIR BALAAM. Alexander Pope, poet and satirist, b. 1688, d. 1744. His father was a small draper in the Strand, and Pope received his education under a Roman Catholic priest. He had one of the prime qualities of a great poet in exactly answering the intellectual needs of his age. The mirror in which he viewed society gave back a faithful image of it powdered and rouged and intent on trifles, yet still as human in its own way as the heroes of Homer in theirs. [The first line of the following poem alludes to the monument on Fish Street Hill, London, built in memory of the fire of London of 1666, with an inscription importing that city to have been burned by the papists.] Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; His word would pass for more than he was worth. An added pudding solemnized the Lord's: The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep |