_Clara._ (_advancing to him playfully_) A silver penny for your

thoughts, uncle.

_Sir W._ Shall I never teach you economy?--such extravagance! to give a

penny, and a silver penny, for what you may have for nothing.

_Clara._ Nothing can come of nothing--speak again.

_Sir W._ I was thinking of you, my--_ward_ no longer.

_Clara._ Ward always, pray, sir. Whatever I may be in the eye of the

law, I am not arrived at years of discretion yet, in my own opinion,

nor in yours, I suspect. So I pray you, uncle, let me still have the

advantage of your counsel and guidance.

_Sir W._ You ask for my advice, Clara. Now let me see whether you will

take it.

_Clara._ I am all attention.

_Sir W._ You know you must allow me a little prosing. You are an

heiress, Clara--a rich heiress--an Irish heiress. You desire to do good,

don’t you?

_Clara._ (_with eagerness_) With all my heart!--With all my soul!

_Sir W._ That is not enough, Clara. You must not only desire to do good,

you must know how to do it.

_Clara._ Since you, uncle, know that so well, you will teach it to me.

_Sir W._ Dear, flattering girl--but you shall not flatter me out of the

piece of advice I have ready for you. Promise me two things.

_Clara._ And first, for your first.

_Sir W._ _Finish whatever you begin._--Good beginnings, it is said, make

good endings, but great beginnings often make little endings, or, in

this country, no endings at all. _Finis coronat opta_--and that crown is

wanting wherever I turn my eyes. Of the hundred magnificent things your

munificent father began--

_Clara._ (_interrupting_) Oh, sir, spare my father!--I promise you that

_I_ will finish whatever I begin. What’s your next command?

_Sir W._ Promise me that you will never make a promise to a tenant, nor

any agreement about business, but in writing--and empower me to say that

you will never keep any verbal promise about business--then, none such

will ever be claimed.

_Clara._ I promise you--Stay!--this is a promise about business: I must

give it to you in writing.

[_Miss O’HARA sits down to a writing-table, and writes._

_Sir W._ (_looking out of the window_) I hope I have been early enough

in giving this my second piece of advice, worth a hundred sequins--for I

see the yard is crowded with gray-coated suitors, and the table here is

already covered with letters and petitions.

_Clara._ Yes, uncle, but I have not read half of them yet.

[_Presents the written promise to Sir WILLIAM._

_Sir W._ Thank you, my dear; and you will be thankful to me for this

when I am dead and gone.

_Clara._ And whilst you are alive and here, if you please, uncle. Now,

sir, since you are so kind to say that your time is at my disposal, will

you have the goodness to come with me to these gray-coated suitors, and

let us give answers to these poor petitioners, who, “as in duty bound,

will ever pray.”

[_Takes up a bundle of papers._

_Sir W._ (_taking a letter from his pocket_) First, my dear niece, I

must add to the number. I have a little business. A petition to present

from a _protégé_ of mine.

_Clara._ A protégé of yours!--Then it is granted, whatever it be.

_Sir W._ (_smiling_) Recollect your promise, Clara.

_Clara._ Oh, true--it must be in writing.

[_She goes hastily to the writing-table, and takes up a pen._

_Sir W._ Read before you write, my dear--I insist upon it.

_Clara._ Oh, sir, when it is a request of yours, how can I grant it

soon enough? But it shall be done in the way you like

best--slowly--deliberately--(_opening the letter_)--in minuet time. And

I will look before I leap--and I’ll read before I write. (_She reads

the signature._) Gilbert! Honest Gilbert, how glad I shall be to do any

thing for you, independently of your master! (_Reads on, suddenly lets

the letter drop, and clasps her hands._) Sir--Uncle, my dear uncle, how

unfortunate I am! Why did, not you ask me an hour ago?--Within this hour

I have promised the new inn to another person.

_Sir W._ Indeed!--that is unfortunate. My poor Gilbert will be sadly

disappointed.

_Clara._ How vexed I am! But I never should have thought of Gilbert for

the inn: I fancied he disliked Ireland so much that he would never have

settled here.

_Sir W._ So thought I till this morning. But love, my dear--love is lord

of all. Poor Gilbert!

_Clara._ Poor Gilbert!--I am so sorry I did not know this sooner. Of all

people, I should for my own part have preferred Gilbert for the inn, he

would have kept it so well.

_Sir W._ He would so. (_Sighs._)

_Clara._ I do so blame myself--I have been so precipitate, so foolish,

so wrong--without consulting you even.

_Sir W._ Nay, my dear, I have been as wrong, as foolish, as precipitate

as you; for before I consulted you, I told Gilbert that I could

almost _promise_ that he should have the inn in consequence of my

recommendation. And upon the strength of that _almost_ he is gone a

courting. My dear, we are both a couple of fools; but I am an old--you

are a young one. There is a wide difference--let that comfort you.

_Clara._ Oh, sir, nothing comforts me, I am so provoked with myself; and

you will be so provoked with me, when I tell you how silly I have been.

_Sir W._ Pray tell me.

_Clara._ Would you believe that I have literally given it for a song? A

man sent me this morning a copy of verses to the heiress of Bannow. The

verses struck my fancy--I suppose because they flattered me; and with

the verses came a petition setting forth claims, and a tenant’s right,

and fair promises, and a proposal for the new inn; and at the bottom

of the paper I rashly wrote these words--“_The poet’s petition is

granted._”

_Sir W._ A promise in writing, too!--My dear Clara, I cannot flatter

you--this certainly is not a wise transaction. So, to reward a poet, you

made him an innkeeper. Well, I have known wiser heads, to reward a poet,

make him an exciseman.

_Clara._ But, sir, I am not quite so silly as they were, for I did not

_make_ the poet an innkeeper--he is one already.

_Sir W._ An innkeeper already!--Whom do you mean?

_Clara._ A man with a strange name--or a name that will sound strange to

your English ears--Christy Gallagher.

_Sir W._ A rogue and a drunken dog, I understand: but he is a poet, and

knows how to flatter the heiress of Bannow.

_Clara._ (_striking her forehead_) Silly, silly Clara!

_Sir W._ (_changing his tone from irony to kindness_) Come, my dear

Clara, I will not torment you any more. You deserve to have done a great

deal of mischief by your precipitation; but I believe this time you have

done little or none, at least none that is irremediable; and you have

made Gilbert happy, I hope and believe, though without intending it.

_Clara._ My dear uncle--you set my heart at ease--but explain.

_Sir W._ Then, my dear, I shrewdly suspect that the daughter of this

Christy _What-do-you-call-him_ is the lady of Gilbert’s thoughts.

_Clara._ I see it all in an instant. That’s delightful! We can pension

off the drunken old father, and Gilbert and the daughter will keep the

inn. Gilbert is in the green-house, preparing the coloured lamps--let us

go and speak to him this minute, and settle it all.

_Sir W._ Speak to him of his loves? Oh, my dear, you’d kill him on the

spot! He is so bashful, he’d blush to death.

_Clara._ Well, sir, do you go alone, and I will keep far, far aloof.

[_Exeunt at opposite sides._

SCENE III.

_Parlour of the Inn._

_CHRISTY and Miss GALLAGHER._

_Christy._ (_to Miss GALLAGHER, slapping her on her back_) Hould up your

head, child; there’s money bid for you.

_Miss G._ Lord, father, what a thump on the back to salute one with.

Well, sir, and if money is bid for me, no wonder: I suppose, it’s

because I have money.

_Christy._ That’s all the rason--you’ve hit it, Florry. It’s money that

love always looks for now. So you may be proud to larn the news I have

for you, which will fix Mr. Gilbert, your bachelor, for life, I’ll

engage--and make him speak out, you’ll see, afore night-fall. We

have the new inn, dear!--I’ve got the promise here under her own

hand-writing.

_Miss G._ Indeed!--Well, I’m sure I shall be glad to get out of this

hole, which is not fit for a rat or a Christian to live in--and I’ll

have my music and my piano in the back parlour, genteel.

_Christy._ Oh! Ferrinafad, are you there? It’s your husband must go to

that expinse, my precious, if he chooses, _twingling_ and _tweedling_,

instead of the puddings and apple pies--that you’ll settle betwix yees;

and in the honeymoon, no doubt, you’ve cunning enough to compass that,

and more.

_Miss G._ To be sure, sir, and before I come to the honeymoon, I promise

you; for I won’t become part or parcel of any man that ever wore a head,

except he’s music in his soul enough to allow me my piano in the back

parlour.

_Christy._ Asy! asy! Ferrinafad--don’t be talking about the piano-forte,

till you are married. Don’t be showing the halter too soon to the shy

horse--it’s with the sieve of oats you’ll catch him; and his head once

in the sieve, you have the halter on him clane. Pray, after all, tell

me, Florry, the truth--did Mr. Gilbert ever ax you?

_Miss G._ La, sir, what a coarse question. His eyes have said as much a

million of times.

_Christy._ That’s good--but not in law, dear. For, see, you could not

_shue_ a man in the four courts for a breach of promise made only with

the eyes, jewel. It must be with the tongue afore witness, mind, or

under the hand, sale, or mark--look to that.

_Miss G._ But, dear sir, Mr. Gilbert is so tongue-tied with that English

bashfulness.

_Christy._ Then Irish impudence must cut the string of that tongue,

Florry. Lave that to me, unless you’d rather yourself.

_Miss G._ Lord, sir--what a rout about one man, when, if I please, I

might have a dozen lovers.

_Christy._ Be the same more or less. But one rich bachelor’s worth a

dozen poor, that is, for the article of a husband.

_Miss G._ And I dare say the drum-major is rich enough, sir--for all

Scotchmen, they say, is fond of money and _a_conomie; and I’d rather

after all be the lady of a military man. (_Sings._)

“I’ll live no more at home,

But I’ll follow with the drum,

And I’ll be the captain’s lady, oh!”

_Christy._ Florry! Florry! mind you would not fall between two stools,

and nobody to pity you.

_Enter BIDDY._

_Miss G._ Well, what is it?

_Biddy._ The bed. I was seeing was the room empty, that I might make it;

for it’s only turned up it is, when I was called off to send in dinner.

So I believe I’d best make it now, for the room will be wanting for the

tea-drinking, and what not.

_Miss G._ Ay, make the bed do, sure it’s asy, and no more about

it;--you’ve talked enough about it to make twinty beds, one harder nor

the other,--if talk would do. (_BIDDY goes to make the bed._) And I’m

sure there’s not a girl in the parish does less in the day, for all the

talk you keep. Now I’ll just tell all you didn’t do, that you ought this

day, Biddy.

[_While Miss GALLAGHER is speaking to BIDDY, Mr. GALLAGHER opens a

press, pours out, and swallows a dram._

_Christy._ Oh, that would be too long telling, Florry, and that’ll keep

cool. Lave her now, and you may take your scould out another time. I

want to spake to you. What’s this I wanted to say? My memory’s confusing

itself. Oh, this was it--I didn’t till you how I got this promise of the

inn: I did it nately--I got it for a song.

_Miss G._ You’re joking,--and I believe, sir, you’re not over and above

sober. There’s a terrible strong smell of the whiskey.

_Christy._ No, the whiskey’s not strong, dear, at-all-at-all!--You

may keep smelling what way you plase, but I’m as sober as a judge,

still,--and, drunk or sober, always knows and knewed on which side

my bread was buttered:--got it for a song, I tell you--a bit of a

complimentary, adulatory scroll, that the young lady fancied--and she,

slap-dash, Lord love her, and keep her always so! writes at the bottom,

_granted the poet’s petition_.

_Miss G._ And where on earth, then, did you get that song?

_Christy._ Where but in my brains should I get it? I could do that

much any way, I suppose, though it was not my luck to be edicated at

Ferrinafad.

[_Miss GALLAGHER looks back, and sees BIDDY behind her.--Miss GALLAGHER

gives her a box on the ear._

_Miss G._ Manners! that’s to teach ye.

_Biddy._ Manners!--Where would I larn them--when I was only waiting the

right time to ax you what I’d do for a clane pillow-case?

_Miss G._ Why, turn that you have inside out, and no more about it.

_Christy._ And turn yourself out of this, if you plase. (_He turns

BIDDY out by the shoulders._) Let me hear you singing _Baltiorum_ in the

kitchen, for security that you’re not hearing my sacrets. There, she’s

singing it now, and we’re snug;--tell me when she stops, and I’ll stop

myself.

_Miss G._ Then there’s the girl has ceased singing. There’s somebody’s

come in, into the kitchen; may be it’s the drum-major. I’ll go and see.

[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER._

_CHRISTY, solus._

There she’s off now! And I must after her, else she’ll spoil her market,

and my own. But look ye, now--if I shouldn’t find her agreeable to marry

this Mr. Gilbert, the man I’ve laid out for her, why here’s a good stick

that will bring her to rason in the last resort; for there’s no other

way of rasoning with Ferrinafad.

[_Exit CHRISTY._

SCENE IV.

_The Garden of the Widow LARKEN’S Cottage._

_OWEN and MABEL._

_Owen._ How does my mother bear the disappointment, Mabel about the inn?

_Mabel._ Then to outward appearance she did not take it so much to heart

as I expected she would. But I’m sure she frets inwardly--because she

had been in such hopes, and in such spirits, and so proud to think how

well her children would all be settled.

_Owen._ Oh, how sorry I am I told her in that hurry the good news I

heard, and all to disappoint her afterwards, and break her heart with

it!

_Mabel._ No, she has too good a heart to break for the likes. She’ll

hold up again after the first disappointment--she’ll struggle on for our

sakes, Owen.

_Owen._ She will: but Mabel dearest, what do you think of Gilbert?

_Mabel._ (_turning away_) I strive not to think of him at all.

_Owen._ But sure I was not wrong there--he told me as much as that he

loved you.

_Mabel._ Then he never told me that much.

_Owen._ No! What, not when he walked with you to the well?

_Mabel._ No. What made you think he did?

_Owen._ Why, the words he said about you when he met me, was--where’s

your sister Mabel? Gone to the well, Gilbert, says I. And do you think

a man that has a question to ask her might make bold to step after her?

says he. Such a man as you--why not? says I. Then he stood still, and

twirled a rose he held in his hand, and he said nothing, and I no more,

till he stooped down, and from the grass where we stood pulled a sprig

of clover. Is not this what _you_ call shamrock? says he. It is, says I.

Then he puts the shamrock along with the rose--How would _that_ do? says

he.

_Mabel._ Did he say that, Owen?

_Owen._ Yes, or how would they look together? or, would they do

together? or some words that way; I can’t be particular to the word--you

know, he speaks different from us; but that surely was the sense; and I

minded too, he blushed up to the roots, and I pitied him, and answered--

_Mabel._ Oh, what did you answer?

_Owen._ I answered and said, I thought they’d do very well together;

and that it was good when the Irish shamrock and the English rose was

united.

_Mabel._ (_hiding her face with her hands_) Oh, Owen, that was too

plain.

_Owen._ Plain! Not at all--it was not. It’s only your tenderness makes

you feel it too plain--for, listen to me, Mabel. (_Taking her hand from

her face._) Sure, if it had any meaning particular, it’s as strong for

Miss Gallagher as for any body else.

_Mabel._ That’s true:--and may be it was that way he took it,--and may

be it was her he was thinking of--

_Owen._ When he asked me for you? But I’ll not mislead you--I’ll

say nothing; for it was a shame he did not speak out, after all the

encouragement he got from me.

_Mabel._ Then did he get encouragement from you?

_Owen._ That is--(_smiling_)--taking it the other way, he might

understand it so, if he had any conscience. Come now, Mabel, when

he went to the well, what did he say to you? for I am sure he said

something.

_Mabel._ Then he said nothing--but just put the rose and shamrock into

my hand.

_Owen._ Oh! did he?--And what did you say?

_Mabel._ I said nothing.--What could I say?

_Omen._ I wish I’d been with you, Mabel.

_Mabel._ I’m glad you were not, Owen.

_Owen._ Well, what did he say next?

_Mabel._ I tell you he said nothing, but cleared his throat and hemmed,

as he does often.

_Owen._ What, all the way to the well and back, nothing but hem, and

clear his throat?

_Mabel._ Nothing in life.

_Owen._ Why, then, the man’s a fool or a rogue.

_Mabel._ Oh, don’t say that, any way. But there’s my mother coming in

from the field. How weak she walks! I must go in to bear her company

spinning.

_Owen._ And I’ll be in by the time I’ve settled all here.

[_Exit MABEL._

_OWEN, solus._

Oh! I know how keenly Mabel feels all, tho’ she speaks so mild. Then I’m

cut to the heart by this behaviour of Gilbert’s:--sure he could not

be so cruel to be jesting with her!--he’s an Englishman, and may be he

thinks no harm to jilt an Irishwoman. But I’ll show him--but then if he

never asked her the question, how can we say any thing?--Oh! the thing

is, he’s a snug man, and money’s at the bottom of all,--and since

Christy’s to have the new inn, and Miss Gallagher has the money!--Well,

it’s all over, and I don’t know what will become of me.

_Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE._

_Mr. H._ My gude lad, may your name be Larken?

_Owen._ It is, sir--Owen Larken, at your service--the son of the widow

Larken.

_Mrs. H._ Then I have to thank your family for their goodness to my

puir brother, years ago. And for yourself, your friend, Mr. Christy

Gallagher, has been telling me you can play the bugle?

_Owen._ I can, sir.

_Mr. H._ And we want a bugle, and the _pay’s_ fifteen guineas; and I’d

sooner give it to you than three others that has applied, if you’ll

list.

_Owen._ Fifteen guineas! Oh! if I could send that money home to my

mother! but I must ask her consint. Sir, she lives convanient, just in

this cabin here--would you be pleased to step in with me, and I’ll ask

her consint.

_Mr. H._ That’s right,--lead on, my douce lad--you ken the way.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

_Kitchen of the Widow LAKKEN’S Cottage._

_A Door is seen open, into an inner Room._

_MABEL, alone, (Sitting near the door of the inner room, spinning and

singing_[1].)

[Footnote 1: This song is set to music by Mr. Webbe.]

Sleep, mother, sleep! in slumber blest,

It joys my heart to see thee rest.

Unfelt in sleep thy load of sorrow;

Breathe free and thoughtless of to-morrow;

And long, and light, thy slumbers last,

In happy dreams forget the past.

Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;

It joys my heart to see thee rest.

Many’s the night she wak’d for me,

To nurse my helpless infancy:

While cradled on her patient arm,

She hush’d me with a mother’s charm.

Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;

It joys my heart to see thee rest.

And be it mine to soothe thy age,

With tender care thy grief assuage,

This hope is left to poorest poor,

And richest child can do no more.

Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest;

It joys my heart to see thee rest.

_While MABEL is singing the second stanza, OWEN and ANDREW HOPE enter.

Mr. HOPE stops short, and listens: he makes a sign to OWEN to stand

still, and not to interrupt MABEL--while OWEN approaches her on tiptoe._

_Mr. H._ (_aside_) She taks my fancy back to dear Scotland, to my ain

hame, and my ain mither, and my ain Kate.

_Owen._ So Mabel! I thought you never sung for strangers?

[_MABEL turns and sees Mr. HOPE--She rises and curtsies._

_Mr. H._ (_advancing softly_) I fear to disturb the mother, whose

slumbers are so blest, and I’d fain hear that lullaby again. If the

voice stop, the mother may miss it, and wake.

_Mabel._ (_looking into the room in which her mother sleeps, then

closing the door gently_) No, sir,--she’ll not miss my voice now, I

thank you--she is quite sound asleep.

_Owen._ This is Mr. Andrew Hope, Mabel--you might remember one of his

name, a Serjeant Hope.

_Mabel._ Ah! I mind--he that was sick with us, some time back.

_Mr. H._ Ay, my brother that’s dead, and that your gude mither was so

tender of, when sick, charged me to thank you all, and so from my soul I

do.

_Mabel._ ‘Twas little my poor mother could do, nor any of us for him,

even then, though we could do more then than we could now, and I’m glad

he chanced to be with us in our better days.

_Mr. H._ And I’m sorry you ever fell upon worse days, for you deserve

the best; and will have such again, I trust. All I can say is this--that

gif your brother here gangs with me, he shall find a brother’s care

through life fra’ me.

_Owen._ I wouldn’t doubt you; and that you know, Mabel, would be a great

point, to have a friend secure in the regiment, if I thought of going.

_Mabel._ _If!_--Oh! what are you thinking of, Owen? What is it you’re

talking of going? (_Turning towards the door of her mother’s room

suddenly._) Take care, but she’d wake and hear you, and she’d never

sleep easy again.

_Owen._ And do you think so?

_Mabel._ Do I think so? Am not I sure of it? and you too, Owen, if you’d

take time to think and feel.

_Owen._ Why there’s no doubt but it’s hard, when the mother has reared

the son, for him to quit her as soon as he can go alone; but it is what

I was thinking: it is only the militia, you know, and I’d not be going

out of the three kingdoms ever at all; and I could be sending money home

to my mother, like Johnny Reel did to his.

_Mabel._ Money is it? Then there’s no money you could send her--not the

full of Lough Erne itself, in golden guineas, could make her amends for

the loss of yourself, Owen, and you know that.

_Mr. H._ And I am not the man that would entice you to list, or gang

with me, in contradiction to your duty at home, or your interest abroad:

so (_turning to_ MABEL) do not look on me as the tempter to evil, nor

with distrust, as you do, kind sister as you are, and like my own Kate;

but hear me coolly, and without prejudice, for it is his gude I wish.

_Mabel._ I am listening then, and I ask your pardon if I looked a doubt.

_Mr. H._ The gude mother must wish, above all things here below, the

weal and _advancement_ and the honour of her bairns; and she would

not let the son be tied to her apron-strings, for any use or profit to

herself, but ever wish him to do the best in life for his sel’. Is not

this truth, gude friends--plain truth?

_Mabel._ It is then--I own that: truth and sense too.

_Owen._ Now see there, Mabel.

_Mr. H._ And better for him to do something abroad than digging at home;

and in the army he might get on,--and here’s the bugle-boy’s pay.

_Mabel._ Is it a bugle-boy you are thinking of making him?

_Mr. H._ That’s the only thing I could make him. I wish I could offer

better.

_Mabel._ Then, I thank you, sir, and I wouldn’t doubt ye--and it would

be very well for a common boy that could only dig; but my brother’s no

common boy, sir.

_Owen._ Oh, Mabel!

_Mabel._ Hush, Owen! for it’s the truth I’m telling, and if to your face

I can’t help it. You may hide the face, but I won’t hide the truth.

_Mr. H._ Then speak on, my warm-hearted lassy, speak on.

_Mabel._ Then, sir, he got an edication while ever my poor father lived,

and no better scholar, they said, for the teaching he got:--but all was

given over when the father died, and the troubles came, and Owen, as he

ought, give himself up intirely for my mother, to help her, a widow. But

it’s not digging and slaving he is to be always:--it’s with the head,

as my father used to say, he’ll make more than the hands; and we hope

to get a clerk’s place for him sometime, or there will be a schoolmaster

wanting in this town, and that will be what he would be fit for; and

not--but it’s not civil, before you, a soldier, sir, to say the rest.

_Mr. H._ Fear not, you will not give offence.

_Mabel._ And not to be spending his breath blowing through a horn all

his days, for the sake of wearing a fine red coat. I beg your pardon

again, sir, if I say too much--but it’s to save my brother and my

mother.

_Mr. H._ I like you the better for all you’ve said for both.

_Owen._ And I’m off entirely:--I’ll not list, I thank you, sir.

[_MABEL clasps her hands joyfully, then embraces her brother._

_Mr. H._ And I’ll not ask you to list--and I would not have asked it at

all, but that a friend of yours told me it would be the greatest service

I could do you, and that it was the thing of all others you wished.

_Owen._ That friend was Christy Gallagher: but he was mistaken--that’s

all.

_Mabel._ I hope that’s all. But I’ve no dependance on him for a friend,

nor has my mother.

_Owen._ Why, he was saying to me, and I could not say against it, that

he had a right to propose for the inn if he could, though Gilbert and we

wanted to get it.

_Mabel._ Then I wonder why Christy should be preferred rather than my

mother.

_Owen._ Then that’s a wonder--and I can’t understand how that was.

_Mr. H._ I have one more thing to say, or to do, which I should like

better, if you’ll give me leave. If there’s a difficulty aboot the rent

of this new inn that you are talking of, I have a little spare money,

and you’re welcome to it:--I consider it as a debt of my brother’s,

which I am bound to pay; so no obligation in life--tell me how much will

do.

[_Takes out his purse._

_Owen_ and _Mabel._ You are very kind--you are very good.

_Mr. H._ No, I am not--I am only just. Say only how much will do.

_Owen._ Alas! money won’t do now, sir. It’s all settled, and Christy

says he has a promise of it in writing from the lady.

_Mr. H._ May be this Christy might sell his interest, and we will see--I

will not say till I find I can do. Fare ye weel till we meet, as I hope

we shall, at the dance that’s to be at the castle. The band is to be

there, and I with them, and I shall hope for this lassy’s hand in the

dance.

_Mabel._ (_aside_) And Gilbert that never asked me! (_Aloud_) I thank

you kindly, sir, I sha’n’t go to the dance at-all-at-all, I believe--my

mother had better take her rest, and I must stay with her--a good night

to you kindly.

[_Exit MABEL into her mother’s room._

_Mr. H._ This sister of yours would leave me no heart to carry back to

Scotland, I fear, but that I’m a married man already, and have my own

luve--a Kate of my own, that’s as fair as she, and as gude, and that’s

saying much.

_Owen._ (_aside_) Much more than Florinda Gallagher will like to hear.

_Mr. H._ I shall thank you if you will teach me, for my Kate, the words

of that song your sister was singing when we came in.

_Owen._ I believe it’s to flatter me you say this, for that song is my

writing.

_Mr. H._ Yours?

_Owen._ Mine, such as it is.

_Mr. H._ Sic a ane as you are then, I’m glad you are not to be a

bugle-boy: your sister is right.

_Owen._ I’ll teach you the words as we go along.

_Mr. H._ Do so;--but mind now this song-writing do not lead you to

idleness. We must see to turn your edication to good account. (_Aside_)

Oh, I will never rest till I pay my brother’s debt, some way or other,

to this gude family.

[_Exeunt._

ACT III.

SCENE I.

_CHRISTY alone._

So this Scotchman could not list Owen. _Couldn’t_ nor _wouldn’t_, that’s

what he says; and the Scotchman looked very hard at me as he spoke:

moreover, I seen Mr. Gilbert and him with their two heads close

together, and that’s a wonder, for I know Gilbert’s not nat’rally fond

of any sort of Scotchman. There’s something brewing:--I must have my

wits about me, and see and keep sober this night, if I can, any way.

From the first I suspicted Mr. Gilbert had his heart on Mabel. (BIDDY

DOYLE _puts her head in_) Biddy Doyle! what the mischief does that head

of yours do there?

_Biddy._ Nothing in life, sir: only just to see who was in it, along

with yourself, because I thought I hard talking enough for two.

_Christy._ You, girl, have curiosity enough for two, and two dozen, and

too much! So plase take your head and yourself out of that, and don’t

be overharing my private thoughts; for that was all the talking ye hard,

and _my_ thoughts can’t abide listeners.

_Biddy._ I’m no listener--I ax your pardon, sir: I scorn to listen to

your thoughts, or your words even.

[_Exit BIDDY._

_Christy._ That girl has set me topsy-turvy. Where was I?--Oh! this was

it. Suppose even, I say, suppose this Gilbert’s fancy should stick to

Mabel, I might manage him, nevertheless. I’ve a great advantage and

prerogative over this Englishman, in his having never been dipped in the

Shannon. He is so _under cow_ with bashfulness now, that I don’t doubt

but what in one of his confusions I could asy bring him to say Yes in

the wrong place; and sooner than come to a perplexing refusal of a

young lady, he might, I’ll engage, be brought about to marry the girl he

didn’t like, in lieu of the girl he did. We shall see--but hark! I hear

Ferrinafad’s voice, singing, and I must join, and see how the thing’s

going on, or going off.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Miss GALLAGHER and GILBERT at a Tea-Table._

_Gilb._ (_aside_) Now would I give five golden guineas this minute that

her father, or any mortal man, woman, or child in the varsal world,

would come in and say something; for ‘tis so awk’ard for I to be sitting

here, and I nothing to say to she.

_Miss G._ (_aside_) When will the man pay me the compliment to speak,

I wonder? Wouldn’t any body think he’d no tongue in that mouth of his,

screwed up, and blushing from ear to ear?

_Enter CHRISTY._

_Christy._ Hoo! hoo! hoo!--How’s this--both of yees mute as fishes the

moment I come in? Why I hard you just now, when my back was turned,

singing like turtle-doves--didn’t I, Florry?

_Miss G._ Indeed, sir, as to turtle-doves, I’m not sinsible; but Mr.

Gilbert requisted of me to be favouring him with a song, which I was

complying with, though I’m not used to be singing without my piano.

_Christy._ (_aside_) Sorrow take your piano! you’re not come there yet.

_Miss G._ I wonder the drum-major isn’t come yet. Does he expect tea

can be keeping hot for him to the end of time? He’ll have nothing but

slop-dash, though he’s a very genteel man. I’m partial to the military

school, I own, and a High lander too is always my white-headed boy.

_Gilb._ (_astonished_) Her white-headed boy!--Now, if I was to be hanged

for it, I don’t know what that means.

_Miss G._ Now where can you have lived, Mr. Gilbert, not to know _that_?

_Christy._ (_aside_) By the mass, he’s such a matter-o’-fact-man, I

can’t get round him with all my wit.

_Miss G._ Here’s the drum-major! Scarlet’s asy seen at a distance,

that’s one comfort!

_Enter Mr. HOPE._

_Mr. H._ I’m late, Miss Florinda, I fear, for the tea-table; but I had a

wee-wee bit of business to do for a young friend, that kept me.

_Miss G._ No matter, major, my tapot defies you. Take a cup a tea. Are

you fond of music, major?

_Mr. H._ Very fond of music, ma’am--do you sing or play?

_Miss G._ I do play--I plead guilty to that I own. But in this hole that

we are in, there’s no room fitting for my piano. However, in the new inn

which we have got now, I’ll fix my piano iligant in the back-parlour.

_Mr. H._ In the mean time, Miss Florinda, will you favour us with a

song?

_Christy._ And I’ll be making the punch, for I’m no songstress. Biddy!

Biddy Doyle! hot water in a jerry.

_Miss G._ Indeed I’m not used to sing without my piano; but, to oblige

the major, I’ll sing by note.

_Miss GALLAGHER sings._

Softly breathing through the heart,

When lovers meet no more to part;

That purity of soul be mine,

Which speaks in music’s sound divine.

‘Midst trees and streams of constant love,

That’s whispered by the turtle-dove;

Sweet cooing cushat all my pray’r,

Is love in elegance to share.

_Mr. H._ That’s what I call fine, now! Very fine that.

[_GILBERT nods._

_Miss G._ (_aside_) Look at that Englishman, now, that hasn’t a word

of compliment to throw to a dog, but only a nod. (_Aloud_) ‘Tis the

military that has always the souls for music, and for the ladies--and I

think, gentlemen, I may step for’ard, and say I’m entitled to call upon

you now:--Mr. Gilbert, if you’ve ever a love-song in your composition.

_Gilb._ Love-song I can’t say, ma’am; but such as I have--I’m no great

hand at composition--but I have one song--they call it, _My choice of a

wife._

_Miss G._ Pray let’s have it, sir.

_Christy._ Now for it, by Jabus.

_Mr. H._ Give it us, Mr. Gilbert.

_Enter BIDDY with hot water, and exit._

_GILBERT sings._

There’s none but a fool will wed on a sudden,

Or take a fine miss that can’t make a pudding;

If he get such a wife, what would a man gain, O!

But a few ballad-tunes on a wretched piano?

Some ladies than peacocks are twenty times prouder,

Some ladies than thunder are twenty times louder;

But I’ll have a wife that’s obliging and civil--

For me, your fine ladies may go to the devil!

_Miss G._ (_rising_) Sir, I comprehend your song, coarse as it is, and

its moral to boot, and I humbly thank ye, sir. (_She curtsies low._) And

if I live a hundred year, and ninety-nine to the back of that, sir, I

will remember it to you, sir.

_Christy._ (_leaving the punch which he had been making, comes forward

with a lemon in his hand_) Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Ferrinafad!

_Gilb._ (_aside_) Ferrinafad!--the man’s mad!

_Miss G._ Father, go your ways back to your punch. Here stands the only

_raal_ gentleman in company (_pointing to the drum-major_), if I’m to

make the election.

_Christy._ Major, you can’t but drink her health for that compliment.

[_He presents a glass of punch to Mr. HOPE._

_Mr. H._ Miss Gallagher’s health, and a gude husband to her, and _soon_.

_Miss G._ And soon!--No hurry for them that has choice.

_Christy._ That has money, you mane, jewel. Mr. Gilbert, you did not

give us your toast.

_Gilb._ Your good health, ma’am--your good health, sir,--Mr. Hope, your

good health, and your fireside in Scotland, and in pa’tic’lar your good

wife.

_Miss G._ (_starting_) Your wife, sir! Why, sir, is’t possible you’re a

married man, after all?

_Mr. H._ Very possible, ma’am--thank Heaven and my gude Kate.

_Miss G._ _His gude Kate_!--Well, I hate the Scotch accent of all

languages under the sun.

_Christy._ In a married man, I suppose you _mane_, Florry?

_Miss G._ This is the way with officers continually--passing themselves

for bachelors.

_Christy._ Then, Florry, we’d best recommend it to the drum-major the

next town he’d go into, to put up an advertisement in capitals on his

cap, warning all women whom it may consarn, that he is a married man.

_Miss G._ ‘Tis no consarn of mine, I’ll assure you, sir, at any rate;

for I should scorn to think of a Scotchman any way. And what’s a

drum-major, after all? [_Exit, in a passion._

_Christy._ Bo boo! bo boo! bo boo! there’s a tantarara now; but never

mind her, she takes them tantarums by turns. Now depend upon it, Mr.

Gilbert, it’s love that’s at the bottom of it all, clane and clear.

_Gilb._ It’s very like, sir--I can’t say.

_Christy._ Oh, but I _can_ say--I know her, egg and bird. The thing is,

she’s mad with you, and that has set her all through other.--But we’ll

finish our tumbler of punch. [_Draws forwards the table, and sets

chairs._

_Gilb._ (_aside_) Egg and bird!--mad! All through other!--Confound me if

I understand one word the man is saying; but I will make him understand

me, if he can understand plain English.

_Mr. H._ (_aside_) I’ll stand by and see fair play. I have my own

thought.

_Gilb._ Now, Mr. ----, to be plain with you at once--here’s fifty

guineas in gold, and if you will take them, and give me up the promise

you have got of the new inn, you shall be welcome. That’s all I have

to say, if I was to talk till Christmas--and fewest words is best in

matters of business.

_Christy._ Fifty guineas in gold!--Don’t part with a guinea of them,

man, put ‘em up again. You shall have the new inn without a word

more, and into the bargain my good-will and my daughter--and you’re a

jantleman, and can’t say _no_ to that, any way.

_Gilb._ Yes, but I can though: since you drive me to the wall, I must

say no, and I do say no. And, dang it, I would have been hanged almost

as soon as say so much to a father. I beg your pardon, sir, but my heart

is given to another. Good evening to you.

_Christy._ (_holding him as he attempts to go_) Take it coolly, and

listen to me, and tell me--was you ever married before, Mr. Gilbert?

_Gilb._ Never.

_Christy._ Then I was--and I can tell you that I found to my cost,

love was all in all with me before I was married, and after I had been

married a twel’-month, money was all in all with me; for I had the

wife, and I had not the money, and without the money, the wife must have

starved.

_Gilb._ But I can work, sir, and will, head, hands, and heart, for the

woman I love.

_Christy._ Asy said--hard done. Mabel Larken is a very pretty girl. But

wait till I tell you what Kit Monaghan said to me yesterday. I’m

going to be married, sir, says he to me. Ay, so you mintioned to me a

fortnight ago, Kit, says I--to Rose Dermod, isn’t it? says I. Not at

all, sir, says he--it is to Peggy McGrath, this time. And what quarrel

had you to Rose Dermod? says I. None in life, sir, says he; but Peggy

McGrath had two cows, and Rose Dermod had but the one, and in my mind

there is not the differ of a cow betwix’ one woman and another. Do you

understand me now, Mr. Gilbert?

_Gilb._ Sir, we shall never understand one another--pray let me go,

before I get into a passion.

[_Breaks from CHRISTY, and exit._

_Christy._ Hollo! Hollo! Mr. Gilbert! (_GILBERT returns._) One word more

about the new inn. I’ve done about Florry; and, upon my conscience, I

believe you’re right enough--only that I’m her father, and in duty bound

to push her as well as I can.

_Gilb._ Well, sir, about the inn: be at a word with me; for I’m not in a

humour to be trifled with.

_Mr. H._ (_aside_) Fire beneath snow! who’d ha’ thought it?

_Christy._ Then, if it was sixty guineas instead of fifty, I’d take it,

and you should have my bargain of the inn.

_Mr. H._ (_aside_) I’ll not say my word until I see what the bottom of

the men are.

_Gilb._ (_aside_) Why, to make up sixty, I must sell my watch even; but

I’ll do it--any thing to please Mabel. (_Aloud_) Well, sixty guineas, if

you won’t give it for less.

_Christy._ Done! (_Eagerly._)

_Mr. H._ Stay, stay, Mr. Gilbert! Have a care, Mr. Gallagher!--the lady

might not be well pleased at your handing over her written promise,

Mr. Gallagher--wait a wee bit. Don’t conclude this bargain till you are

before the lady at the castle.

_Gilb._ So best--no doubt.

_Christy._ All one to me--so I pocket the sixty.

_Mr. H._ (_aside to GILBERT_) Come off.

_Gilb._ We shall meet then at the castle to-night: till then, a good day

to you, Mr. Gallagher.

[_Exeunt GILBERT and Mr. HOPE._

_Christy._ Good night to ye kindly, gentlemen. There’s a fool to love

for you now! If I’d ax’d a hundred, I’d ha’ got it. But still there’s

only one thing. Ferrinafad will go mad when she learns I have sold the

new inn, and she to live on in this hole, and no place for the piano. I

hope Biddy did not hear a sentence of it. (_Calls_) Biddy! Biddy Doyle!

Biddy, can’t ye?

_Enter Biddy._

_Biddy._ What is it?

_Christy._ Did you hear any thing? Oh, I see ye did by your eyes. Now,

hark’ee, my good girl: don’t mention a sentence to Ferrinafad of my

settling the new inn, till the bargain’s complate, and money in both

pockets--you hear.

_Biddy._ I do, sir. But I did not hear afore.

_Christy._ Becaase, she, though she’s my daughter, she’s crass--I’ll

empty my mind to you, Biddy.

_Biddy._ (_aside_) He has taken enough to like to be talking to poor

Biddy.

_Christy._ Afore Florry was set up on her high horse by that little

independency her doting grandmother left her, and until she got her

head turned with that Ferrinafad edication, this Florry was a good girl

enough. But now what is she?--Given over to vanities of all sorts, and

no comfort in life to me, or use at all--not like a daughter at all, nor

mistress of the house neither, nor likely to be well married neither,

or a credit to me that way! And saucy to me on account of that money of

hers I liquidated unknown’st.

_Biddy._ True for ye, sir.

_Christy._ Then it all comes from the little finger getting to be the

master of me; for I’m confident that when sober, I was not born to be

a rogue nat’rally. Was not I honest Christy once? (_ready to cry._) Oh,

I’m a great penitent! But there’s no help for it now.

_Biddy._ True for you, sir.

_Christy._ I’m an unfortunate cratur, and all the neighbours know

it.--So, Biddy dear, I’ve nothing for it but to take another glass.

_Biddy._ Oh! no, sir, not when you’ll be going up to the castle to the

lady--you’ll be in no condition.

_Christy._ Tut, girl--‘twill give me heart. Let’s be merry any way.

[_Exit, singing,_

“They say it was care killed the cat,

That starved her, and caused her to die;

But I’ll be much wiser than that,

For the devil a care will care I.”

SCENE III.

_Widow LARKEN’S Cottage._

_Widow LARKEN, MABEL, and GILBERT._

_Gilb._ And could you doubt me, Mabel, after I told you I loved you?

_Mabel._ Never would nor could have doubted, had you once told me as

much, Mr. Gilbert.

_Widow._ There was the thing, Mr. Gilbert--you know it was you that was

to speak, if you thought of her.

_Gilb._ Do not you remember the rose and the shamrock?

_Widow._ Oh! she does well enough; and that’s what her heart was living

upon, till I killed the hope.

_Gilb._ You!--killed the hope!--I thought you were my friend.

_Widow._ And so I am, and was--but when you did not speak.

_Gilb._ If I had not loved her so well, I might have been able, perhaps,

to have said more.

_Widow._ Then that’s enough. Mabel mavourneen, wear the rose he give you

now--I’ll let you--and see it’s fresh enough. She put it in water--oh!

she had hope still!

_Mabel._ And was not I right to trust him, mother?

_Gilb._ Mabel, if I don’t do my best to make you happy all my days, I

deserve to be--that’s all! But I’m going to tell you about the new inn:

that’s what I have been about ever since, and I’m to have it for sixty

guineas.

_Enter OWEN, rubbing his hands._

_Owen._ You see, mother, I was right about Gilbert and Mabel. But Mr.

Hope and the band is gone up to the castle. Come, come!--time to be

off!--no delay!--Gilbert! Mabel, off with you! (_He pushes them off._)

And glad enough ye are to go together. Mother dear, here’s your bonnet

and the cloak,--here round ye throw--that’s it--take my arm. (_Widow

stumbles as he pulls her on._) Oh, I’m putting you past your speed,

mother.

_Widow._ No, no.--No fear in life for the mother that has the support of

such a son.

SCENE IV.

_A large Apartment in Bannow Castle, ornamented with the Rose, Thistle,

and Shamrock.--The hall opens into a lawn, where the country-people are

seen dancing._

_Enter CLARA, Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN, and a train of dancers._

_Clara._ Now, sir, as we have here English, Scotch, and Irish dancers,

we can have the English country-dance, the Scotch reel, and the Irish

jig.

_Sir W._ Then to begin with the Irish jig, which I have never seen.

_Clara._ You shall see it in perfection.

[_An Irish jig is danced, a Scotch reel follows, and an English

country-dance. When CLARA has danced down the country-dance, she goes

with her partner to Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN._

_Clara._ We are going out to look at the dancers on the lawn.

_Sir W._ Take me with you, for I wish to see those merry dancers--I hear

them laughing. I love to hear the country-people laugh: theirs is always

_the heart’s laugh._

[_Exeunt Sir WILLIAM and CLARA._

[_The dancers recommence, and after dancing for a few minutes, they go

off just as Sir WILLIAM and CLARA return, entering from the hall door._

_Clara._ My dear uncle, thank you for going out among these poor people,

and for speaking so kindly to them. One would think that you had lived

in Ireland all your life, you know so well how to go _straight_ to Irish

heads and Irish hearts by kindness, and by what they love almost as

well, _humour,_ and good-humour. Thank you again and again.

_Sir W._ My dear niece, you need not thank me; for if you had nothing

to do with these people--if you had never been born--I should have loved

the Irish for their own sakes. How easy it is to please them! How easy

to make them happy; and how grateful they are, even for a few words of

kindness.

_Clara._ Yes. This I may say without partiality--whatever other faults

my countrymen have, they certainly are a grateful people. My father,

who knew them well, taught me from my childhood, to trust to Irish

gratitude.

_Sir W._ (_changing his tone_) But, on the other hand, it is my duty

to watch over your Irish generosity, Clara. Have you made any more

promises, my dear, since morning?

_Clara._ Oh! no, sir; and I have heartily repented of that which I made

this morning: for I find that this man to whom I have promised the new

inn is a sad drunken, good-for-nothing person; and as for his daughter,

whom I have never yet seen--

_Sir W._ (_looking towards the entrance from the lawn_)

“But who is this? What thing of sea or land?

Female of sex it seems--

That so bedeck’d, ornate and gay,

Comes this way sailing.”

_Enter Miss GALLAGHER._

_Miss G._ Sir, I beg pardon. But I was told Miss O’Hara would wish to

speak with Christy Gallagher, and I’m his daughter--he not being very

well to-night. He will be up with miss in the morning--but is confined

to his bed with a pain about his heart, he took, just when I was coming

away.

[_CHRISTY’S voice heard, singing, to the tune of “St. Patrick’s day in

the morning.”_

“Full bumpers of whiskey,

Will make us all frisky,

On Patrick’s day in the morning.”

_Miss G._ (_aside_) Oh! King of glory, if he is not come up after all!

_Clara._ “What noise is that, unlike the former sound?”

_Sir W._ Only some man, singing in honour of St. Patrick, I suppose.

_Enter_ CHRISTY GALLAGHER, BIDDY _trying to hold him back._

_Christy._ Tut! let me in: I know the lady is here, and I must thank her

as becoming--

[_CLARA puts her hand before her face and retires as he advances._

_Miss G._ Oh! father, keep out--you’re not in a condition.

_Sir W._ John! Thomas! carry this man off.

_Christy._ Ah, now, just let me remark to his honour--did he ever hear

this song in England? (_He struggles and sings, while they are carrying

him off,_)

“O’Rourke’s noble feast shall ne’er be forgot,

By those who were there, or by those who were not.”

But it was not O’Rourke’s noble feast at all, it was O’Hara’s noble

feast, to the best of my knowledge--I’ll take my affidavit; and am not

I here, on the spot, ready and proud to fight any one that denies the

contrary? Let me alone, Florry, for I’m no babby to be taken out of the

room. Ready and proud, I say I am, to fight any tin men in the county,

or the kingdom itself, or the three kingdoms entirely, that would go for

to dare for to offer to articulate the contrary. So it’s Miss O’Hara for

ever, huzza! a! a! a! a!

_Sir W._ Carry him off this instant. Begone!

[_The servants carry off CHRISTY GALLAGHER, while he sings, to the tune

of “One bottle more,”_

“Oh, give me but whiskey, continted I’ll sing,

Hibernia for ever, and God save the king!”

[_Miss GALLAGHER directs and expedites her father’s retreat._

_Clara._ Shame! shame! Is this the tenant I have chosen?

_Miss G._ Indeed, and indeed, then, Miss O’Hara, I often preach to him,

but there’s no use in life preaching to him--as good preaching to the

winds! for, drunk or sober, he has an answer ready at all points. It is

not wit he wants, sir.

_Sir W._ And he is happy in having a daughter, who knows how to make

the best of his faults, I see. What an excellent landlord he will be for

this new inn!

_Miss G._ Oh, certainly, sir--only it’s being St. Patrick’s night, he

would be more inexcusable; and as to the new inn, plase Heaven! he shall

get no pace on earth till he takes an oath afore the priest against

spirits, good or bad, for a twil’month to come, before ever I trust a

foot of his in the new inn.

_Clara._ But, ma’am, from your own appearance, I should apprehend that

you would not be suited to the business yourself--I should suppose you

would think it beneath you to keep an inn.

_Miss G._ Why, ma’am--why, sir--you know when it is called an hotel,

it’s another thing; and I’m sure I’ve a great regard for the family, and

there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to oblige Miss O’Hara.

_Clara._ Miss Gallagher, let me beg that if you wish to oblige me--

_Enter GILBERT._

_Sir W._ Well, Gilbert?

_Gilb._ Only, sir, if you and Miss O’Hara were at leisure, sir, one Mr.

Andrew Hope, the master of the band, would wish to be allowed to come in

to sing a sort of a welcome home they have set to music, sir, for Miss

O’Hara.

_Clara._ I do believe this is the very song which that drunken man gave

me this morning, and for which I gave him the promise of the inn. I

shall be ashamed to hear the song.

_Sir W._ Let me hear it, at all events. Desire Mr. Andrew Hope, and his

merry-men-all, to walk in. [_Exit GILBERT._

_Enter Mr. HOPE and band.--Some of the country-people peep in, as if

wishing to enter._

_Sir W._ Come in, my good friends.

[_Enter, among others, the Widow LARKEN, and MABEL, and OWEN.--BIDDY

follows timidly.--Miss GALLAGHER takes a conspicuous place.--Sir WILLIAM

and CLARA continue speaking._

_Sir W._ Did Gilbert introduce his bride elect to you, Clara?

_Clara._ Yes, Mabel Larken, that girl with the sweet modest

countenance--and her mother, that respectable-looking woman; and her

brother, I see, is here, that boy with the quick, intelligent eyes. I

know all the family--know them all to be good; and these were the people

I might have served! Oh, fool! fool!

_Sir W._ Well, well, well, ‘tis over now, my dear Clara--you will be

wiser another time. Come, Mr. Hope, give us a little flattery, to put us

in good-humour with ourselves.

[_The band prelude; but just as they begin, Sir WILLIAM sees CHRISTY,

who is coming in softly, holding back the skirts of his coat.--Sir

WILLIAM in a loud voice exclaims,_

Turn out that man! How dare you return to interrupt us, sir? Turn out

that man!

_Christy._ (_falling on his knees_) Oh! plase your honour, I beg your

pardon for one minute: only just give me lave to _insense_ your honour’s

honour. I’m not the same man at all.

_Sir W._ Stand up, stand up--an Englishman cannot bear to see a man

kneel to him. Stand up, pray, if you can.

_Christy._ Then I can, plase your honour (_rises_), since I got a shock.

_Clara._ What shock? What do you mean?

_Christy._ Oh, nothing in life, miss, that need consarn you--only a fall

I got from my horse, which the child they set to lead me would put me up

upon, and it come down and kilt me; for it wasn’t a proper horse for

an unfortunate man like me, that was overtaken, as I was then; and it’s

well but I got a kick of the baast.

_Sir W._ Do you say you were kicked by a horse?

_Christy._ Not at all, plase your honour--I say _it was well but_ I got

a kick of the baast. But it’s all for the best now; for see, I’m now as

sober as a jidge, and _quite_ as any lamb; and if I’d get lave only just

to keep in this here corner, I would be no let or hinderance to any.

Oh! dear miss! spake for me! I’m an ould man, miss, that your father’s

honour was partial to always, and called me _honest_ Christy, which I

was once, and till his death too.

_Sir W._ What a strange mixture is this man!

_Clara._ Pray let him stay, uncle--he’s sober now.

_Sir W._ Say not one word more, then; stand still there in your corner.

_Christy._ And not a word for my life--not breathe, even--to plase you!

becaase I’ve a little business to mintion to the lady. Sixty guineas to

resave from Mr. Gilbert, yonder. Long life to you, miss! But I’ll say no

more till this Scotchman has done with his fiddle and his musics.

_Sir W._ I thought, sir, you were not to have spoken another syllable.

[_CHRISTY puts his finger on his lips, and bows to Sir WILLIAM and to

CLARA._

_Sir W._ Now, Mr. Hope.

_Mr. HOPE sings, and the Band join in chorus,_

Though Bannow’s heiress, fair and young,

Hears polish’d praise from ev’ry tongue;

Yet good and kind, she’ll not disdain

The tribute of the lowly swain.

The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee;

Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee.

That open brow, that courteous grace,

Bespeaks thee of thy generous race;

Thy father’s soul is in thy smile--

Thrice blest his name in Erin’s isle.

The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee;

Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee.

The bright star shining on the night,

Betokening good, spreads quick delight;

But quicker far, more glad surprise,

Wakes the kind radiance of her eyes.

The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee;

Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee[1].

[Footnote 1: Set to music by Mr. Webbe.]

_Christy._ Then I’m not ashamed, any way, of that song of mine.

_Sir W._ Of yours?--Is it possible that it is yours?

_Clara._ It is indeed. These are the very lines he gave me this morning.

_Christy._ And I humbly thank you, madam or miss, for having got them

set to the musics.

_Clara._ I had nothing to do with that. We must thank Mr. Hope for this

agreeable surprise.

_Christy._ Why, then, I thank you, Mr. Drum.

_Mr. H._ You owe me no thanks, sir. I will take none from you.

_Christy._ No--for I didn’t remember giving you the copy. I suppose

Florry did.

_Miss G._ Not I, sir.

_Christy._ Or the schoolmaster’s foul copy may be, for it was he was

putting the song down for me on paper. My own hand-writing shaking so

bad, I could not make a fair copy fit for the lady.

_Mr. H._ Mr. Gallagher, don’t plunge farther in falsehood--you know the

truth is, that song’s not yours.

_Christy._ Why, then, by all--

_Mr. H._ Stop, stop, Mr. Gallagher--stop, I advise you.

_Christy._ Why, then, I won’t stop at any thing--for the song’s my own.

_Mr. H._ In one sense of the word, may be, it may be called your own,

sir; for you bought it, I know.

_Christy._ I bought it? Oh, who put that in your Scotch brains? Whoever

it was, was a big liar.

_Biddy._ No liar at all, sir--I ax your pardon--‘twas I.

_Christy._ And you overheard my thoughts, then, talking to myself--ye

traitor!

_Biddy._ No, sir--again I ax your pardon; no listener Biddy Doyle. But

I was at the schoolmaster’s, to get him pen a letter for me to my poor

father, and there with him, I heard how Christy bought the song, and

seen the first copy--and the child of the house told me all about it,

and how it was lift there by Mr. Owen Larken.

_Sir W._ and _Clara_ (_joyfully_). Owen Larken!--you?

_Christy._ All lies! Asy talk!--asy talk--asy to belie a poor man.

_Mr. H._ If you tell the truth, you can tell us the next verse, for

there’s another which we did not yet sing.

_Christy._ Not in my copy, which is the original.

_Sir W._ If you have another verse, let us hear it--and that will decide

the business.

_Christy._ Oh, the devil another line, but what’s lame, I’ll engage, and

forged, as you’ll see.

_Mr. HOPE sings,_

Quick spring the feelings of the heart,

When touch’d by Clara’s gen’rous art;

Quick as the grateful shamrock springs,

In the good fairies’ favour’d rings.

_Clara._ What does Christy say now?

_Christy._ Why, miss, I say that’s well said for the shamrock any way.

And all that’s in it for me is this--the schoolmaster was a rogue that

did not give me that verse in for my money.

_Sir W._ Then you acknowledge you bought it?

_Christy._ What harm, plase your honour? And would not I have a right

to buy what pleases me--and when bought and ped for isn’t it mine in

law and right? But I am mighty unlucky this night. So, come along,

Florry--we are worsted see! No use to be standing here longer, the

laughing-stock of all that’s in it--Ferrinafad.

_Miss G._ Murder! Father, then here’s all you done for me, by your

lies and your whiskey! I’ll go straight from ye, and lodge with Mrs.

Mulrooney. Biddy, what’s that you’re grinning at? Plase to walk home out

of that.

_Biddy._ Miss Florinda, I am partly engaged to dance; but I won’t be

laving you in your downfall: so here’s your cloak--and lane on me.

_Widow._ Why, then, Biddy, we’ll never forget you in our prosperity.

_Mabel_ and _Owen._ Never, never. You’re a good girl, Biddy.

[_Exeunt Miss GALLAGHER, BIDDY, and CHRISTY._

_Clara._ I am glad they are gone.

_Sir W._ I congratulate you, my dear niece, upon having got rid of

tenants who would have disgraced your choice.

_Clara._ These (_turning to OWEN, MABEL, and her mother,_) these will

do honour to it. My written promise was to _grant the poet’s petition_.

Owen, you are _the poet_--what is your petition?

_Owen._ May I speak?--May I say all I wish?

_Clara_ and _Sir W._ Yes, speak--say all you wish.

_Owen._ I am but a young boy, and not able to keep the new inn; but Mr.

Gilbert and Mabel, with my mother’s help, would keep it well, I think;

and it’s they I should wish to have it, ma’am, if it were pleasing to

you.

_Sir W._ And what would become of yourself, my good lad?

_Owen._ Time enough, sir, to think of myself, when I’ve seen my mother

and sister settled.

_Sir W._ Then as you won’t think of yourself, I must think for you. Your

education, I find, has been well begun, and I will take care it shall

not be left half done.

_Widow._ Oh, I’m too happy this minute! But great joy can say little.

_Mabel._ (_aside_) And great love the same.

_Mr. H._ This day is the happiest I have seen since I left the land of

cakes.

_Gilb._ Thank you, Mr. Hope. And when I say thank you, why, I feel it.

‘Twas you helped us at the dead lift.

_Sir W._ You see I was right, Gilbert; the Scotch make good friends.

(_GILBERT bows._) And now, Clara, my love, what shall we call the new

inn--for it must have a name? Since English, Scotch, and Irish, have

united to obtain it, let the sign be the Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock.

END OF COMIC DRAMAS.

LEONORA

LETTER I.

Lady Olivia to Lady Leonora L----.

What a misfortune it is to be born a woman! In vain, dear Leonora,

would you reconcile me to my doom. Condemned to incessant hypocrisy,

or everlasting misery, woman is the slave or the outcast of society.

Confidence in our fellow-creatures, or in ourselves, alike forbidden us,

to what purpose have we understandings, which we may not use? hearts,

which we may not trust? To our unhappy sex, genius and sensibility are

the most treacherous gifts of heaven. Why should we cultivate talents

merely to gratify the caprice of tyrants? Why seek for knowledge, which

can prove only that our wretchedness is irremediable? If a ray of light

break in upon us, it is but to make darkness more visible; to show us

the narrow limits, the Gothic structure, the impenetrable barriers of

our prison. Forgive me if on this subject I cannot speak--if I cannot

think--with patience. Is it not fabled, that the gods, to punish some

refractory mortal of the male kind, doomed his soul to inhabit upon

earth a female form? A punishment more degrading, or more difficult to

endure, could scarcely be devised by cruelty omnipotent. What dangers,

what sorrows, what persecutions, what nameless evils await the woman who

dares to rise above the prejudices of her sex!

“Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!”

who, without a struggle, submit their reason to be swathed by all the

absurd bandages of custom. What, though they cripple or distort their

minds; are not these deformities beauties in the eyes of fashion? and

are not these people the favoured nurselings of the _World_, secure of

her smiles, her caresses, her fostering praise, her partial protection,

through all the dangers of youth and all the dotage of age?

“Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!”

who learn to speak, and think, and act by rote; who have a phrase, or a

maxim, or a formula ready for every occasion; who follow--

“All the nurse and all the priest have taught.”

And is it possible that Olivia can envy these _tideless-blooded_

souls their happiness--their apathy? Is her high spirit so broken

by adversity? Not such the promise of her early years, not such the

language of her unsophisticated heart! Alas! I scarcely know, I scarcely

recollect, that proud self, which was wont to defy the voice of opinion,

and to set at nought the decrees of prejudice. The events of my life

shall be related, or rather the history of my sensations; for in a life

like mine, sensations become events--a metamorphosis which you will see

in every page of my history. I feel an irresistible impulse to open

my whole heart to you, my dear Leonora. I ought to be awed by the

superiority of your understanding and of your character; yet there is

an indulgence in your nature, a softness in your temper, that dissipates

fear, and irresistibly attracts confidence.

You have generously refused to be prejudiced against me by busy,

malignant rumour; you have resolved to judge of me for yourself.

Nothing, then, shall be concealed. In such circumstances I cannot seek

to extenuate any of my faults or follies. I am ready to acknowledge

them all with self-humiliation more poignant than the sarcasms of my

bitterest enemies. But I must pause till I have summoned courage for my

confession. Dear Leonora, adieu!

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER II.

OLIVIA TO LEONORA.

Full of life and spirits, with a heart formed for all the enthusiasm,

for all the delicacy of love, I married early, in the fond expectation

of meeting a heart suited to my own. Cruelly disappointed, I

found--merely a husband. My heart recoiled upon itself; true to my own

principles of virtue, I scorned dissimulation. I candidly confessed to

my husband, that my love was extinguished. I proved to him, alas! too

clearly, that we were not born for each other. The attractive moment of

illusion was past--never more to return; the repulsive reality remained.

The living was chained to the dead, and, by the inexorable tyranny of

English laws, that chain, eternally galling to innocence, can be severed

only by the desperation of vice. Divorce, according to our barbarous

institutions, cannot be obtained without guilt. Appalled at the thought,

I saw no hope but in submission. Yet to submit to live with the man I

could not love was, to a mind like mine, impossible. My principles and

my feelings equally revolted from this legal prostitution. We separated.

I sought for balm to my wounded heart in foreign climes.

To the beauties of nature I was ever feelingly alive. Amidst the sublime

scenes of Switzerland, and on the consecrated borders of her

classic lakes, I sometimes forgot myself to happiness. Felicity, how

transient!--transient as the day-dreams that played upon my fancy in the

bright morning of love. Alas! not all creation’s charms could soothe

me to repose. I wandered in search of that which change of place cannot

afford. There was an aching void in my heart--an indescribable sadness

over my spirits. Sometimes I had recourse to books; but how few were

in unison with my feelings, or touched the trembling chords of my

disordered mind! Commonplace morality I could not endure. History

presented nothing but a mass of crimes. Metaphysics promised some

relief, and I bewildered myself in their not inelegant labyrinth. But

to the bold genius and exquisite pathos of some German novelists I hold

myself indebted for my largest portion of ideal bliss; for those rapt

moments, when sympathy with kindred souls transported me into better

worlds, and consigned vulgar realities to oblivion.

I am well aware, my Leonora, that you approve not of these my favourite

writers: but yours is the morality of one who has never known sorrow.

I also would interdict such cordials to the happy. But would you forbid

those to taste felicity in dreams who feel only misery when awake?

Would you dash the cup of Lethe from lips to which no other beverage is

salubrious or sweet?

By the use of these opiates my soul gradually settled into a sort of

pleasing pensive melancholy. Has it not been said, that melancholy is

a characteristic of genius? I make no pretensions to genius: but I am

persuaded that melancholy is the habitual, perhaps the natural state of

those who have the misfortune to feel with delicacy.

You, my dear Leonora, will class this notion amongst what you once

called my refined errors. Indeed I must confess, that I see in you an

exception so striking as almost to compel me to relinquish my theory.

But again let me remind you, that your lot in life has been different

from mine. Alas! how different! Why had not I such a friend, such a

mother as yours, early to direct my uncertain steps, and to educate me

to happiness? I might have been--But no matter what I might have been--.

I must tell you what I have been.

Separated from my husband, without a guide, without a friend at the

most perilous period of my life, I was left to that most insidious of

counsellors--my own heart--my own weak heart. When I was least prepared

to resist the impression, it was my misfortune to meet with a man of

a soul congenial with my own. Before I felt my danger, I was entangled

beyond the possibility of escape. The net was thrown over my heart;

its struggles were to no purpose but to exhaust my strength. Virtue

commanded me to be miserable--and I was miserable. But do I dare to

expect your pity, Leonora, for such an attachment? It excites your

indignation, perhaps your horror. Blame, despise, detest me; all this

would I rather bear, than deceive you into fancying me better than I

really am.

Do not, however, think me worse. If my views had been less pure, if I

had felt less reliance on the firmness of my own principles, and less

repugnance to artifice, I might easily have avoided some appearances,

which have injured me in the eyes of the world. With real contrition I

confess, that a fatal mixture of masculine independence of spirit, and

of female tenderness of heart, has betrayed me into many imprudences;

but of vice, and of that meanest species of vice, hypocrisy, I thank

Heaven, my conscience can acquit me. All I have now to hope is, that

you, my indulgent, my generous Leonora, will not utterly condemn

me. Truth and gratitude are my only claims to your friendship--to a

friendship, which would be to me the first of earthly blessings, which

might make me amends for all I have lost. Consider this before, unworthy

as I am, you reject me from your esteem. Counsel, guide, save me!

Without vanity, but with confidence I say it, I have a heart that will

repay you for affection. You will find me easily moved, easily governed

by kindness. Yours has already sunk deep into my soul, and your power is

unlimited over the affections and over the understanding of

Your obliged

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER III.

FROM LADY LEONORA L---- TO HER MOTHER, THE DUCHESS OF ----, ENCLOSING

THE PRECEDING LETTERS.

I am permitted to send you, my dear mother, the enclosed letters. Mixed

with what you may not approve, you will, I think, find in them proofs

of an affectionate heart and superior abilities. Lady Olivia is just

returned to England. Scandal, imported from the continent, has had such

an effect in prejudicing many of her former friends and acquaintance

against her, that she is in danger of being excluded from that

society of which she was once the ornament and the favourite; but I am

determined to support her cause, and to do every thing in my power to

counteract the effects of malignity. I cannot sufficiently express the

indignation that I feel against the mischievous spirit of scandal, which

destroys happiness at every breath, and which delights in the meanest

of all malignant feelings--the triumph over the errors of superior

characters. Olivia has been much blamed, because she has been much

envied.

Indeed, my dear mother, you have been prejudiced against her by false

reports. Do not imagine that her fascinating manners have blinded my

judgment: I assure you that I have discerned, or rather that she has

revealed to me, all her faults: and ought not this candour to make a

strong impression upon my mind in her favour? Consider how young, how

beautiful she was at her first entrance into fashionable life; how much

exposed to temptation, surrounded by flatterers, and without a single

friend. I am persuaded that she would have escaped all censure, and

would have avoided all the errors with which she now reproaches herself,

if she had been blessed with a mother such as mine.

LEONORA L----.

* * * * *

LETTER IV.

THE DUCHESS OF ---- TO HER DAUGHTER.

MY DEAREST CHILD,

I must answer your last before I sleep--before I can sleep in peace. I

have just finished reading the rhapsody which it enclosed; and whilst my

mind is full and warm upon the subject, let me write, for I can write to

my own satisfaction at no other time. I admire and love you, my child,

for the generous indignation you express against those who trample upon

the fallen, or who meanly triumph over the errors of superior genius;

and if I seem more cold, or more severe, than you wish me to be,

attribute this to my anxiety for your happiness, and to that caution

which is perhaps the infirmity of age.

In the course of my long life I have, alas! seen vice and folly

dressed in so many different fashions, that I can find no difficulty in

detecting them under any disguise; but your unpractised eyes are almost

as easily deceived as when you were five years old, and when you could

not believe that your pasteboard nun was the same person in her various

changes of attire.

Nothing would tempt you to associate with those who have avowed

themselves regardless of right and wrong; but I must warn you against

another, and a far more dangerous class, who professing the most refined

delicacy of sentiment, and boasting of invulnerable virtue, exhibit

themselves in the most improper and hazardous situations; and who,

because they are without fear, expect to be deemed free from reproach.

Either from miraculous good fortune, or from a singularity of temper,

these adventurous heroines may possibly escape with what they call

perfect innocence. So much the worse for society. Their example tempts

others, who fall a sacrifice to their weakness and folly. I would punish

the tempters in this case more than the victims, and for them the most

effectual species of punishment is contempt. Neglect is death to these

female lovers of notoriety. The moment they are out of fashion their

power to work mischief ceases. Those who from their character and rank

have influence over public opinion are bound to consider these things

in the choice of their associates. This is peculiarly necessary in days

when attempts are made to level all distinctions. You have sometimes

hinted to me, my dear daughter, with all proper delicacy, that I am too

strict in my notions, and that, unknown to myself, my pride mixes with

morality. Be it so: the pride of family, and the pride of virtue, should

reciprocally support each other. Were I asked what I think the best

guard to a nobility in this or in any other country, I should answer,

VIRTUE. I admire that simple epitaph in Westminster Abbey on the Duchess

of Newcastle:--“Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord

Lucas of Colchester;--a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant

and all the sisters virtuous.”

I look to the temper of the times in forming rules for conduct. Of late

years we have seen wonderful changes in female manners. I may be like

the old marquis in Gil Blas, who contended that even the peaches of

modern days had deteriorated; but I fear that my complaints of the

degeneracy of human kind are better founded, than his fears for the

vegetable creation. A taste for the elegant profligacy of French

gallantry was, I remember, introduced into this country before the

destruction of the French monarchy. Since that time, some sentimental

writers and pretended philosophers of our own and foreign countries,

have endeavoured to confound all our ideas of morality. To every rule

of right they have found exceptions, and on these they have fixed the

public attention by adorning them with all the splendid decorations of

eloquence; so that the rule is despised or forgotten, and the exception

triumphantly established in its stead. These orators seem as if they had

been employed by Satan to plead the cause of vice; and, as if possessed

by the evil spirit, they speak with a vehemence which carries away their

auditors, or with a subtlety which deludes their better judgment. They

put extreme cases, in which virtue may become vice, or vice virtue: they

exhibit criminal passions in constant connexion with the most exalted,

the most amiable virtues; thus making use of the best feelings of

human nature for the worst purposes, they engage pity or admiration

perpetually on the side of guilt. Eternally talking of philosophy or

philanthropy, they borrow the terms only to perplex the ignorant and

seduce the imagination. They have their systems and their theories, and

in theory they pretend that the general good of society is their sole

immutable rule of morality, and in practice they make the variable

feelings of each individual the judges of this general good. Their

systems disdain all the vulgar virtues, intent upon some _beau ideal_ of

perfection or perfectibility. They set common sense and common honesty

at defiance. No matter: their doctrine, so convenient to the passions

and soporific to the conscience, can never want partisans; especially by

weak and enthusiastic women it is adopted and propagated with eagerness;

then they become personages of importance, and zealots in support of

their sublime opinions; and they can read,--and they can write,--and

they can talk,--and they can _effect a revolution in public opinion_! I

am afraid, indeed, that they can; for of late years we have heard more

of sentiment than of principles; more of the rights of woman than of

her duties. We have seen talents disgraced by the conduct of their

possessors, and perverted in the vain attempt to defend what is

unjustifiable.

Where must all this end? Where the abuse of reason inevitably ends--in

the ultimate law of force. If, in this age of reason, women make a bad

use of that power which they have obtained by the cultivation of

their understanding, they will degrade and enslave themselves beyond

redemption; they will reduce their sex to a situation worse than it ever

experienced even in the ages of ignorance and superstition. If men

find that the virtue of women diminishes in proportion as intellectual

cultivation increases, they will connect, fatally for the freedom

and happiness of our sex, the ideas of female ignorance and female

innocence; they will decide that one is the effect of the other. They

will not pause to distinguish between the use and the abuse of reason;

they will not stand by to see further experiments tried at their

expense, but they will prohibit knowledge altogether as a pernicious

commodity, and will exert the superior power which nature and society

place in their hands, to enforce their decrees. Opinion obtained freedom

for women; by opinion they may be again enslaved. It is therefore the

interest of the female world, and of society, that women should be

deterred by the dread of shame from passing the bounds of discretion.

No false lenity, no partiality in favour of amusing talents or agreeable

manners, should admit of exceptions which become dangerous examples of

impunity. The rank and superior understanding of a _delinquent_ ought

not to be considered in mitigation, but as aggravating circumstances.

Rank makes ill conduct more conspicuous: talents make it more dangerous.

Women of abilities, if they err, usually employ all their powers to

justify rather than to amend their faults.

I am afraid, my dear daughter, that my general arguments are closing

round your Olivia; but I must bid you a good night, for my poor eyes

will serve me no longer. God bless you, my dear child.

* * * * *

LETTER V.

LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

I agree with you, my dear mother, that in these times especially it

is incumbent upon all persons, whose rank or reputation may influence

public opinion, to be particularly careful to support the cause of

female honour, of virtue, and religion. With the same object in view, we

may however differ in the choice of means for its attainment. Pleasure

as well as pain acts upon human creatures; and therefore, in governing

them, may not reward be full as efficacious as punishment? Our sex are

sufficiently apprised of the fatal consequences of ill conduct; the

advantages of well-earned reputation should be at least as great, as

certain, and as permanent.

In former times, a single finger pointed at the scutcheon of a knight

challenged him to defend his fame; but the defiance was open, the

defence was public; and if the charge proved groundless, it injured none

but the malicious accuser. In our days, female reputation, which is of a

nature more delicate than the honour of any knight, may be destroyed

by the finger of private malice. The whisper of secret scandal, which

admits of no fair or public answer, is too often sufficient to dishonour

a life of spotless fame. This is the height, not only of injustice, but

of impolicy. Women will become indifferent to reputation, which it is so

difficult, even by the prudence of years, to acquire, and which it is so

easy to lose in a moment, by the malice or thoughtlessness of those,

who invent, or who repeat scandal. Those who call themselves the world,

often judge without listening to evidence, and proceed upon suspicion

with as much promptitude and severity, as if they had the most

convincing proofs. But because Cæsar, nearly two thousand years ago,

said that his wife ought not even to be suspected, and divorced her upon

the strength of this sentiment, shall we make it a general maxim that

suspicion justifies punishment? We might as well applaud those, who when

their friends are barely suspected to be tainted with the plague, drive

them from all human comfort and assistance.

Even where women, from the thoughtless gaiety of youth, or the impulse

of inexperienced enthusiasm, may have given some slight cause for

censure, I would not have virtue put on all her gorgon terrors, nor

appear circled by the vengeful band of prudes; her chastening hand will

be more beneficially felt if she wear her more benign form. To place the

imprudent in the same class with the vicious, is injustice and impolicy;

were the same punishment and the same disgrace to be affixed to small

and to great offences, the number of _capital_ offenders would certainly

increase. Those who were disposed to yield to their passions would,

when they had once failed in exact decorum, see no motive, no fear to

restrain them; and there would be no pause, no interval between error

and profligacy. Amongst females who have been imprudent, there are many

things to be considered which ought to recommend them to mercy. The

judge, when he is obliged to pronounce the immutable sentence of the

law, often, with tears, wishes that it were in his power to mitigate

the punishment: the decisions of opinion may and must vary with

circumstances, else the degree of reprobation which they inflict cannot

be proportioned to the offence, or calculated for the good of society.

Among the mitigating circumstances, I should be inclined to name even,

those which you bring in aggravation. Talents, and what is called

genius, in our sex are often connected with a warmth of heart, an

enthusiasm of temper, which expose to dangers, from which the coldness

of mediocrity is safe. In the illuminated palace of ice, the lights

which render the spectacle splendid, and which raise the admiration of

the beholders, endanger the fabric and tend to its destruction.

But you will tell me, dear mother, that allusion is not argument--and

I am almost afraid to proceed, lest you should think me an advocate

for vice. I would not shut the gates of mercy, inexorably and

indiscriminately, upon all those of my own sex, who have even been _more

than imprudent_.

“He taught them shame, the sudden sense of ill--

Shame, Nature’s hasty conscience, which forbids

Weak inclination ere it grows to will,

Or stays rash will before it grows to deeds.”

Whilst a woman is alive to shame she cannot be dead to virtue. But by

injudicious or incessant reproach, this principle, even where it is

most exquisite, may be most easily destroyed. The mimosa, when too long

exposed to each rude touch, loses its retractile sensibility. It

ought surely to be the care of the wise and benevolent to cherish

that principle, implanted in our nature as the guard of virtue, that

principle, upon which legislators rest the force of punishment, and all

the grand interests of society.

My dear mother, perhaps you will be surprised at the style in which I

have been writing, and you will smile at hearing your Leonora discuss

the duties of legislators and the grand interests of society. She has

not done so from presumption, or from affectation. She was alarmed by

your supposing that her judgment was deluded by fascinating manners, and

she determined to produce _general_ arguments, to convince you that

she is not actuated by particular prepossession. You see that I have

at least some show of reason on _my_ side. I have forborne to mention

Olivia’s name: but now that I have obviated, I hope by reasoning,

the imputation of partiality, I may observe that all my arguments are

strongly in her favour. She had been attacked by slander; _the world_

has condemned her upon suspicion merely. She has been imprudent; but I

repeat, in the strongest terms, that I am _convinced of her innocence_;

and that I should bitterly regret that a woman with such an affectionate

heart, such uncommon candour, and such superior abilities, should be

lost to society.

Tell me, my dear mother, that you are no longer in anxiety about the

consequences of my attachment to Olivia.

Your affectionate daughter,

LEONORA.

* * * * *

LETTER VI.

THE DUCHESS OF ---- TO HER DAUGHTER.

You lament, my dear child, that such an affectionate heart, such great

abilities as Olivia’s, should be lost to society. Before I sympathize in

your pity, my judgment must be convinced that it is reasonable.

What proofs has Lady Olivia given of her affectionate heart? She is at

variance with both her parents; she is separated from her husband; and

she leaves her child in a foreign country, to be educated by strangers.

Am I to understand, that her ladyship’s neglecting to perform the duties

of a daughter, a wife, and a mother, are proofs of an affectionate

heart? As to her superior talents, do they contribute to her own

happiness, or to the happiness of others? Evidently not to her own; for

by her account of herself, she is one of the most miserable wretches

alive! She tells you that “_she went to foreign climes in search of balm

for a wounded heart, and wandered from place to place, looking for what

no place could afford_.” She talks of “_indescribable sadness--an aching

void--an impenetrable prison--darkness visible--dead bodies chained

to living ones_;” and she exhibits all the disordered furniture of

a “diseased mind.” But you say, that though her powers are thus

insufficient to make herself happy, they may amuse or instruct the

world; and of this I am to judge by the letters which you have sent me.

You admire fine writing; so do I. I class eloquence high amongst the

fine arts. But by eloquence I mean something more than Dr. Johnson

defines it to be, “the art of speaking with fluency and elegance.”

This is an art which is now possessed to a certain degree by every

boarding-school miss. Every scribbling young lady can now string

sentences and sentiments together, and can turn a period harmoniously.

Upon the strength of these accomplishments they commence heroines, and

claim the privileges of the order; privileges which go to an indefinite

and most alarming extent. Every heroine may have her own code of

morality for her private use, and she is to be tried by no other; she

may rail as loudly as she pleases “at the barbarous institutions of

society,” and may deplore “_the inexorable tyranny of the English

laws_.” If she find herself involved in delicate entanglements of

crossing duties, she may break through any one, or all of them, to

extricate herself with a noble contempt of prejudice.

I have promised to reason calmly; but I cannot repress the terror which

I feel at the idea of my daughter’s becoming the friend of one of these

women. Olivia’s letters are, I think, in the true heroine style; and

they might make a brilliant figure in a certain class of novels. She

begins with a bold exclamation on “the misfortune of being born a

woman!--_the slave or the outcast of society, condemned to incessant

hypocrisy_!” Does she mean modesty? Her manly soul feels it “_the

most degrading punishment that omnipotent cruelty could devise, to

be imprisoned in a female form_.” From such a masculine spirit some

fortitude and magnanimity might be expected; but presently she begs

to be pitied, for a broken spirit, and more than female tenderness of

heart. I have observed that the ladies who wish to be men, are usually

those who have not sufficient strength of mind to be women.

Olivia proceeds in an ironical strain to envy, as “_the happiest of

their sex, those who submit to be swathed by custom_.” These persons

she stigmatizes with the epithet of _tideless-blooded_. It is the common

trick of unprincipled women to affect to despise those who conduct

themselves with propriety. Prudence they term _coldness_; fortitude,

_insensibility;_ and regard to the rights of others, _prejudice_.

By this perversion of terms they would laugh or sneer virtue out of

countenance; and, by robbing her of all praise, they would deprive her

of all immediate motive. Conscious of their own degradation, they would

lower every thing, and every body, to their own standard: they would

make you believe, that those who have not yielded to their passions are

destitute of sensibility; that the love which is not blazoned forth in

glaring colours is not entitled to our sympathy. The sacrifice of the

strongest feelings of the human heart to a sense of duty is to be called

mean, or absurd; but the shameless frenzy of passion, exposing itself

to public gaze, is to be an object of admiration. These heroines talk of

strength of mind; but they forget that strength of mind is to be shown

in resisting their passions, not in yielding to them. Without being

absolutely of an opinion, which I have heard maintained, that all virtue

is sacrifice, I am convinced that the essential characteristic of virtue

is to bear and forbear. These sentimentalists can do neither. They talk

of sacrifices and generosity; but they are the veriest egotists--the

most selfish creatures alive.

Open your eyes, my dear Leonora, and see things as they really are. Lady

Olivia thinks it a sufficient excuse for abandoning her husband, to say,

that she found “_his soul was not in unison with hers_.” She thinks it

an adequate apology for a criminal attachment, to tell you that “_the

net was thrown over her heart before she felt her danger: that all its

struggles were to no purpose, but to exhaust her strength_.”

If she did not feel her danger, she prepared it. The course of reading

which her ladyship followed was the certain preparation for her

subsequent conduct. She tells us that she could not endure “_the

common-place of morality, but metaphysics promised her some relief_.”

In these days a heroine need not be amoralist, but she must be a

metaphysician. She must “_wander in the not inelegant labyrinth_;” and

if in the midst of it she comes unawares upon the monster vice, she must

not start, though she have no clue to secure her retreat.

From metaphysics Lady Olivia went on to German novels. “_For her largest

portions of bliss, for those rapt moments, which consigned vulgar

realities to oblivion_,” she owns herself indebted to those writers,

who promise an ideal world of pleasure, which, like the _mirage_ in

the desert, bewilders the feverish imagination. I always suspected the

imagination of these _women of feeling_ to be more susceptible than

their hearts. They want excitation for their morbid sensibility, and

they care not at what expense it is procured. If they could make all the

pleasures of life into one cordial, they would swallow it at a draught

in a fit of sentimental spleen. The mental intemperance that they

indulge in promiscuous novel-reading destroys all vigour and clearness

of judgment; every thing dances in the varying medium of their

imagination. Sophistry passes for reasoning; nothing appears profound

but what is obscure; nothing sublime but what is beyond the reach of

mortal comprehension. To their vitiated taste the simple pathos, which

o’ersteps not the modesty of nature, appears cold, tame, and insipid;

they must have _scènes_ and a _coup de théâtre_; and ranting, and

raving, and stabbing, and drowning, and poisoning; for with them there

is no love without murder. Love, in their representations, is indeed a

distorted, ridiculous, horrid monster, from whom common sense, taste,

decency, and nature recoil.

But I will be calm.--You say, my dear Leonora, that your judgment has

not been blinded by Lady Olivia’s fascinating manners; but that you are

strongly influenced in her favour by that candour, with which she has

revealed to you all her faults. The value of candour in individuals

should be measured by their sensibility to shame. When a woman throws

off all restraint, and then desires me to admire her candour, I am

astonished only at her assurance. Do not be the dupe of such candour.

Lady Olivia avows a criminal passion, yet you say that you have no

doubt of her innocence. The persuasion of your unsuspecting heart is no

argument: when you give me any proofs in her favour, I shall pay them

all due attention. In the mean time I have given you my opinion of those

ladies who place themselves in the most perilous situations, and then

expect you to believe them safe.

Olivia’s professions of regard for you are indeed enthusiastic.

She tells you, that “_your power is unlimited over her heart and

understanding; that your friendship would be to her one of the greatest

of earthly blessings_.” May be so--but I cannot wish you to be her

friend. With whatever confidence she makes the assertion, do not believe

that she has a heart capable of feeling the value of yours. These

sentimental, unprincipled women make the worst friends in the world.

We are often told that, “poor creatures! they do nobody any harm but

themselves;” but in society it is scarcely possible for a woman to do

harm to herself, without doing harm to others; all her connexions

must be involved in the consequences of her imprudence. Besides,

what confidence can you repose in them? If you should happen to be an

obstacle in the way of any of their fancies, do you think that they will

respect you or your interest, when they have not scrupled to sacrifice

their own to the gratification of their passions? Do you think that

the gossamer of sentiment will restrain those whom the strong chains of

prudence could not hold?

Oh! my dearest child, forcibly as these arguments carry conviction to my

mind, I dread lest your compassionate, generous temper, should prevent

their reaching your understanding. Then let me conjure you, by all the

respect which you have ever shown for your mother’s opinions, by all

that you hold dear or sacred, beware of forming an intimacy with an

unprincipled woman. Believe me to be

Your truly affectionate mother, ----

* * * * *

LETTER VII.

LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

No daughter ever felt more respect for the opinions of a parent than

I do for yours, my dearest mother; but you have never, even from

childhood, required from me a blind submission--you have always

encouraged me to desire conviction. And now, when the happiness of

another is at stake, you will forgive me if I am less disposed to

yield than I should be, I hope, if my own interest or taste were alone

concerned.

You ask me what proofs I have of Lady Olivia’s innocence. Believe me, I

have such as are convincing to my unbiassed judgment, and such as would

be sufficient to satisfy all your doubts, were I at liberty to lay the

whole truth before you. But even to exculpate herself, Olivia will not

ruin in your opinion her husband, of whom you imagine that she has

no reason to complain. I, who know how anxious she is to obtain your

esteem, can appreciate the sacrifice that she makes; and in this

instance, as in many others, I admire her magnanimity; it is equal

to her candour, for which she is entitled to praise even by your

own principles, dear mother: since, far from having _thrown off all

restraint_, she is exquisitely susceptible of shame.

As to her understanding--have no persons of great talents ever been

unfortunate? Frequently we see that they have not been able, by all

their efforts and all their powers, to remedy the defects in the

characters and tempers of those with whom they have unhappily been

connected. Olivia married very young, and was unfortunately mistaken in

her choice of a husband: on that subject I can only deplore her error

and its consequences: but as to her disagreements with her own family,

I do not think her to blame. For the mistakes we make in the choice of

lovers or friends we may be answerable, but we cannot be responsible for

the faults of the relations who are given to us by nature. If we do not

please them, it may be our misfortune; it is not necessarily our fault.

I cannot be more explicit, without betraying Lady Olivia’s confidence,

and implicating others in defending her.