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.
Your daughter, perhaps, shall be above scandal. She shall despise the idle whisper, and the common tattle of her sex; her soul shall be raised above the ignorant and the frivolous; she shall have a relish for higher conversation, and a taste for higher society; but where is she to find, or how is she to obtain this society? You make her incapable of friendship with her own sex. Where is she to look for friends, for companions, for equals? Amongst men? Amongst what class of men? Not amongst men of business, or men of gallantry, but amongst men of literature. Learned men have usually chosen for their wives, or for their companions, women who were rather below than above the standard of mediocrity: this seems to me natural and reasonable. Such men, probably, feel their own incapacity for the daily business of life, their ignorance of the world, their slovenly habits, and neglect of domestic affairs. They do not want wives who have precisely their own defects; they rather desire to find such as shall, by the opposite habits and virtues, supply their deficiencies. I do not see why two books should marry, any more than two estates. Some few exceptions might be quoted against Stewart’s observations. I have just seen, under the article “A Literary Wife,” in D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature, an account of Francis Phidelphus, a great scholar in the fifteenth century, who was so desirous of acquiring the Greek language in perfection, that he travelled to Constantinople in search of a Grecian wife: the lady proved a scold. “But to do justice to the name of Theodora,” as this author adds, “she has been honourably mentioned in the French Academy of Sciences.” I hope this proved an adequate compensation to her husband for his domestic broils. Happy Mad. Dacier! you found a husband suited to your taste! You and Mons. Dacier, if D’Alembert tells the story rightly, once cooked a dish in concert, by a receipt which you found in Apicius, and you both sat down and ate of your learned ragout till you were both like to die. Were I sure, my dear friend, that every literary lady would be equally fortunate in finding in a husband a man who would sympathize in her tastes, I should diminish my formidable catalogue of evils. But, alas! M. Dacier is no more; “and we shall never live to see his fellow.” Literary ladies will, I am afraid, be losers in love, as well as in friendship, by the superiority.—Cupid is a timid, playful child, and is frightened at the helmet of Minerva. It has been observed, that gentlemen are not apt to admire a prodigious quantity of learning and masculine acquirements in the fair sex;—we usually consider a certain degree of weakness, both of mind and body, as friendly to female grace. I am not absolutely of this opinion; yet I do not see the advantage of supernatural force, either of body or mind, to female excellence. Hercules-Spinster found his strength rather an incumbrance than an advantage. Superiority of mind must be united with great temper and generosity, to be tolerated by those who are forced to submit to its influence. I have seen witty and learned ladies, who did not seem to think it at all incumbent upon them to sacrifice any thing to the sense of propriety. On the contrary, they seemed to take both pride and pleasure in showing the utmost stretch of their strength, regardless of the consequences, panting only for victory. Upon such occasions, when the adversary has been a husband or a father, I must acknowledge that I have felt sensations which few ladies can easily believe they excite. Airs and graces I can bear as well as another; but airs without graces no man thinks himself bound to bear, and learned airs least of all. Ladies of high rank in the court of Parnassus are apt, sometimes, to claim precedency out of their own dominions, which creates much confusion, and generally ends in their being affronted. That knowledge of the world which keeps people in their proper places they will never learn from the Muses. MoliÈre has pointed out, with all the force of comic ridicule, in the Femmes Savantes, that a lady, who aspires to the sublime delights of philosophy and poetry, must forego the simple pleasures, and will despise the duties of domestic life. I should not expect that my house affairs would be with haste despatched by a Desdemona, weeping over some unvarnished tale, or petrified with some history of horrors, at the very time when she should be ordering dinner, or paying the butcher’s bill.—I should have the less hope of rousing her attention to my culinary concerns and domestic grievances, because I should probably incur her contempt for hinting at these sublunary matters, and her indignation for supposing that she ought to be employed in such degrading occupations. I have heard, that if these sublime geniuses are awakened from their reveries by the appulse of external circumstances, they start, and exhibit all the perturbation and amazement of cataleptic patients. Sir Charles Harrington, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, addressed a copy of verses to his wife, “On Women’s Vertues:”—these he divides into “the private, civill, and heroyke;” the private belong to the country housewife, whom it concerned; chiefly— As for heroyke vertue, and heroyke dames, honest Sir Charles would have nothing to do with them. Allowing, however, that you could combine all these virtues—that you could form a perfect whole, a female wonder from every creature’s best—dangers still threaten you. How will you preserve your daughter from that desire of universal admiration, which will ruin all your work? How will you, along with all the pride of knowledge, give her that “retiring modesty,” which is supposed to have more charms for our sex than the fullest display of wit and beauty? The fair Pauca of Thoulouse was so called because she was so fair that no one could live either with or without beholding her:—whenever she came forth from her own mansion, which, history observes, she did very seldom, such impetuous crowds rushed to obtain a sight of her, that limbs were broken and lives were lost wherever she appeared. She ventured abroad less frequently—the evil increased—till at length the magistrates of the city issued an edict commanding the fair Pauca, under the pain of perpetual imprisonment, to appear in broad daylight for one hour, every week, in the public market-place. Modern ladies, by frequenting public places so regularly, declare their approbation of the wholesome regulations of these prudent magistrates. Very different was the crafty policy of the prophet Mahomet, who forbad his worshippers even to paint his picture. The Turks have pictures of the hand, the foot, the features of Mahomet, but no representation of the whole face or person is allowed. The portraits of our beauties, in our exhibition-room, show a proper contempt of this insidious policy; and those learned and ingenious ladies who publish their private letters, select maxims, secret anecdotes, and family memoirs, are entitled to our thanks, for thus presenting us with full-lengths of their minds. Can you expect, my dear sir, that your daughter, with all the genius and learning which you intend to give her, should refrain from these imprudent exhibitions? Will she “yield her charms of mind with sweet delay?” Will she, in every moment of her life, recollect that the fatal desire for universal applause always defeats its own purpose, especially if the purpose be to win our love as well as our admiration? It is in vain to tell me, that more enlarged ideas in our sex would alter our tastes, and alter even the associations which now influence our passions. The captive who has numbered the links of his chains, and has even discovered how these chains are constructed, is not therefore nearer to the recovery of his liberty. Besides, it must take a length of time to alter associations and opinions, which, if not just, are at least common in our sex. You cannot expect even that conviction should operate immediately upon the public taste. You will, in a few years, have educated your daughter; and if the world be not educated exactly at the right time to judge of her perfections, to admire and love them, you will have wasted your labour, and you will have sacrificed your daughter’s happiness: that happiness, analyze it as a man of the world or as a philosopher, must depend on friendship, love, the exercise of her virtues, the just performance of all the duties of life, and the self-approbation arising from the consciousness of good conduct. I am, my dear friend, Yours sincerely.
|