"honesty is the best policy." Self-interest is the great end of life, says human nature. Honesty is a better agent than craft, says the proverb. any such inspection to be requisite. Have not I been in constant, quiet possession? Right. Sir Clement insists upon it. Als. A client insist! And you, an old prac Clif. But, as for ingenuous, or purely dis- titioner, suffer such a demur to your infalliinterested motives Sir C. Clifford, do you mean to laugh at me? Clif. What is your opinion, Lady Emily? Lady E. That there may be such, but it's odds they are troublesome or insipid. Pure ingenuousness, I take it, is a rugged sort of thing, which scarcely will bear the polish of common civility; and for disinterestedness, young people sometimes set out with it; but it is like travelling upon a broken spring, one is glad to get it mended at the next stage. Sir C. Emily, I protest, you seem to study after me; proceed, child, and we will read together every character that comes in our way. Lady E. Read one's acquaintance, delightful! What romances, novels, satires, and mock heroics present themselves to my imagination! Our young men are flimsy essays; old ones, political pamphlets; coquettes, fugitive pieces; and fashionable beauties, a compilation of advertised perfumery, essence of pearl, milk of roses, and Olympian dew. Lord, I should now and then, though, turn over an acquaintance with a sort of fear and trembling. Clif. How so? Lady E. Lest one should pop, unawares, upon something one should not, like a naughty speech in an old comedy; but it is only skipping what would make one blush. Sir C. Or if you did not skip, when a woman reads by herself, and to herself, there are wicked philosophers who doubt whether her blushes are very troublesome. AN OLD RASCAL. Alscrip's Room of Business. ALSCRIP and RIGHTLY discovered. Right. Upon all these matters, Mr. Alscrip, I am authorized by my client, Sir Clement Flint, to agree. There remains nothing but your favouring me with the inspection of the Charlton title-deeds, and your daughter's settlements may be engrossed. bility! Ah! in my practice I had the sure means of disappointing such dabblers and divers into their own cases. Right. How, pray? Als. I read his writings to him myself. I was the best reader in Chancery Lane for setting the understanding at defiance. Drew breath but once in a quarter of an hour, always in the wrong place, and made a single sentence of six skins of parchment. Shall I give you a specimen? Right. I have no doubt of your talent. Als. Then return to Sir Clement and follow my example. Right. No, Mr. Alscrip; though I acknowledge your skill I do not subscribe to your doctrine. The English law is the finest system of ethics, as well as government, that ever the world produced, and it cannot be too generally understood. Als. Law understood! Zounds! would you destroy the profession? Right. No, I would raise it. Had every man of sense the knowledge of the theory, to which he is competent, the practice would revert to the purity of its institution; maintain the rights, and not promote the knavery of mankind. Als. (Aside.) Plaguy odd maxims! Sure, he means to try me. Brother Rightly, we know the world, and are alone. I have locked the (In a half whisper.) door. Right. A very useless precaution. I have not a principle nor a proceeding that I would not proclaim at Charing Cross. Als. (Aside.) No! Then I'll pronounce you the most silly or the most impudent fellow of the fraternity. Right. But where are these writings? You can have no difficulty in laying your hand upon them, for I perceive you keep things in a distinguished regularity. Als. Yes; I have distinct repositories for all papers, and especially title-deeds. Some in drawers, some in closets-(aside)—and a few underground. Miss Als. (Rattling at the door.) What makes you lock the door, sir? I must speak to you this instant. Als. One moment, child, and I'll be ready for you. (Turning again to Rightly, as to Als. I cannot conceive, my friend Rightly, dissuade him.) Right. If the thoughts of the wedding-day make any part of the young lady's impatience, you take a bad way, Mr. Alscrip, to satisfy it; for I tell you plainly, our business cannot be completed till I see these writings. A's. (Aside.) Confound the old hound, how he sticks to his scent! (Miss Alscrip still at the door.) I am coming, I tell you. (Opens a bureau in a confused hurry, shuffles papers about, and puts one into Rightly's hand.) There, if this whim must be indulged, step into the next room. You, who know the material parts of a parchment lie in a nut-shell, will look over it in ten minutes. (Puts Rightly into another room.) Miss Als. (Without.) I won't wait another instant, whatever you are about. Let me in. Als. (Opening the door.) Sex and vehemence! What is the matter now? Enter MISS ALSCRIP, in the most violent Miss Als. So, sir—yes, sir—you have done finely by me, indeed; you are a pattern for fathers. A precious match you had provided! Als. What the devil's the matter? Miss Als. (Running on.) I, that with fifty thousand independent pounds left myself in a father's hands a thing unheard-of-and waited for a husband with unparalleled patience till I was of age. Als. What the devil's the matter? Miss Als. (Following him about.) I, that at fourteen might have married a French marquis my governess told me he was, for all he was her brother. Als. Gad-a-mercy! Governess? Miss Als. And as for commoners, had not I the choice of the market? And the handsome Irish colonel at Bath, that had carried off six heiresses before, for himself and friends, and would have found his way to Gretna Green blindfolded? Als. (Aside.) 'Gad! I wish you were there now, with all my heart. What the devil is at the bottom of all this? Miss A's. Why, Lord Gayville is at the bottom; and your hussy, that you was so sweet upon this morning, is at the bottom, a treacherous minx! I sent her, only for a little innocent diversion, as my double Als. Your what? Miss Als. Why, my double; to vex him. Als. Double! This is the most useless attendant you have had yet. 'Gad! I'll start you single-handed in the art of vexation against any ten women in England. Miss Als. I caught them, just as I did you with your Als. Is that all? 'Gad! I don't see much in that. Miss Als. Not much? What, a woman of my fortune and accomplishments turned off— rejected-renounced! Als. Renounced? Has he broke the contract? Will you prove he has broken the contract? Miss Als. Ay, now, my dear papa, you take a tone that becomes you; now the blood of the Alscrip rises; rises as it ought. You mean to fight him directly, don't you. Als. Oh, yes! I'm his man. I'll show you a lawyer's challenge: sticks and staves, guns, swords, daggers, poniards, knives, scissors, and bodkins. I'll put more weapons into a bit of paper six inches square than would stock the armoury of the Tower. Miss Als. Pistols! don't talk to me of anything but pistols. My dear papa, who shall be your second? Als. I'll have two; John Doe and Richard Roe-as pretty fellows as any in England, to see fair play, and as used to the differences of good company. They shall greet him with their fiere facias; so don't be cast down, Molly; I'll answer for damages to indemnify our loss of temper and reputation. He shall have a fi-fa before to-morrow night. Miss Als. Fiery faces and damages! What does your Westminster Hall gibberish mean? Are a woman's feelings to be satisfied with a fie-fa? You old insensible! you have no sense of family honour-no tender affections. Als. 'Gad! you have enough for us both, when you want your father to be shot through the head;-but stand out of the way, here's a species of family honour more necessary to be taken care of. If we were to go to law, this would be a precious set-off against us. (Tukes up the deed, as if to lock it up.) This!-why, what the devil!-I hope I don't see clear. Curse and confusion! I have given the wrong Ser. Home, I believe, sir. He came out at the door into the hall, and he bade me tell your honour you might depend upon his reading over the deed with particular care. Als. Fire and fury! my hat and cane. [Exit Ser.] Here, my hat and cane. serving Lady B.) Ha! is that a dress for the day, or is she one of the natives of this extraordinary region? Oh, I see now, it is all pure Arcadian; her eyes have been used to nothing but daisy-hunting;—but what a neck she has! How beautifully nature works when Miss Als. Sir, I expect, before you come she is not spoiled by a d--d town stayhome Als. Death and devils! expect to be ruined. This comes of listening to you. The sex hold the power of mischief by prescription. Zounds! Mischief mischief is the common law of woman-kind. [Exeunt. [And mischief was done, too, from Alscrip's point of view, for in his confusion he had handed Mr. Rightly the wrong paper, which proved what his employer Sir Clement Flint had suspected, that part of the fortune which belonged to Clifford by right was held by Alscrip wrongfully. Of course the fortune was restored, and Lady Emily and Clifford married.] RURAL SIMPLICITY. (FROM "THE MAID OF THE OAKS.") [Dupely invited to the fête-champêtre by his friend Sir Harry Groveby, who is about to be married. Lady Bab Lardoon, a woman of fashion, determines to fool Dupely, who has just returned from abroad. For this purpose in her fête dress as a shepherdess she wanders in the garden.] A Flower-garden. Enter LADY BAB LARDOON, dressed as a shep herdess, OLDWORTH following. O'd. Hist, hist! Lady Bab! Here comes your prize; for the sake of mirth, and the revenge of your sex, don't miss the opportunity. Lady B. Not for the world; you see, I am dressed for the purpose. Step behind that stump of shrubs, and you shall see what an excellent actress I should have made. Away, away! [Exit Oldworth, Lady B. retires. Enter DUPELY. Dupe. Where the devil is Sir Harry? This is certainly the place where I was appointed to find him; but I suppose I shall spring him and his bride from under a rose-bush by-andby, like two pheasants in pairing time. (Ob maker! What a pity she is so awkward! I hope she is not foolish. (During this observation he keeps his eyes fixed upon her; Lady B. looks first at him, then at herself; unpins her nosegay, and, with an air of naïveté, presents it to him.) Lady B. You seem to wish for my nosegay, sir; it is much at your service. (Offers the flowers, and curtseys awkwardly.) Dupe. Oh! the charming innocent ! A thousand thanks, my fair one; I accept it as a faint image of your own sweets. To whom am I so much obliged? Lady B. To the garden-man, to be sure; he has made flowers to grow all over the garden, and they smell so sweet!-pray smell 'em; they are charming sweet, I assure you, and have such fine colours! La! you are a fine nosegay yourself, I think. Lady B. Situation! Dupe. Ay-what are you? Dupe. But when you are not a bridemaid, what is your way of life? How do you pass your time? Lady B. I rise with the lark, keep my hands always employed, dance upon a holiday, and eat brown bread with content. Dupe. Oh, the delicious description!-beechen shades, bleating flocks, and pipes and pastorals. What an acquisition to my fame, as well as pleasure, to carry off this quintessence of champêtre! I'll do it. (Aside.) Lady B. (Examines him.) And, pray, what may you be? for I never saw anything so out of the way in all my life-He, he, he! (Simpering.) Dupe. I, my dear? I am a gentleman. Lady B. What a fine gentleman! Bless me! what a thing it is! Ha, ha, ha! I never | your charms upon a set of rustics here. Fly saw anything so comical in all my life. Ha, with me to the true region of pleasure. My ha, ha! And this is a fine gentleman, of which chaise and four shall be ready at the back gate I have heard so much. of the park, and we will take the opportunity, when all the servants are drunk, as they certainly will be, and the company is gone tired to bed. Dupe. What is the matter, my dear? Is there anything ridiculous about me, that makes you laugh? What have you heard of fine gentlemen, my sweet innocence? Lady B. That they are as gaudy as peacocks, as mischievous as jays, as chattering as magpies, as wild as hawks. Dupe. And as loving as sparrows. Lady B. I know you are very loving-of yourselves. Ha, ha, ha! You are a sort of birds that flock but never pair. Dupe. Why, you are satirical, my fairest; and have you heard anything else of fine gentlemen? Lady B. Yes, a great deal more; that they take wives for fortunes, and mistresses for show; squander their money among tailors, barbers, cooks, and fiddlers; pawn their honour to sharpers and their estates to Jews; and, at last, run to foreign countries to repair a pale face, a flimsy carcass, and an empty pocket:that's a fine gentleman for you! Dupe. Pray, my dear, what is really your name? (Surprised.) Lady B. My name is Philly. Dupe. Philly! (Resuming her simplicity.) Lady B. Philly Nettletop, of the vale. Dupe. And pray, my sweet Philly, where did you learn this character of a fine gentle man? Lady B. Oh! I learnt it with my catechism. Mr. Oldworth has taught it to all the young maidens hereabout. Dupe. So it is from Mr. Oldworth, is it, my charming innocence, that you have learnt to be so afraid of fine gentlemen? (Significantly.) Lady B. No, not at all afraid; I believe you are perfectly harmless if one treats you right, as I do our young mastiff at home. Dupe. And how is that, pray? Lady B. Why, while one keeps at a distance he frisks, and he flies, and he barks, and tears, and grumbles, and makes a sad rout about it. Lord! you'd think he would devour one at a mouthful; but if one does but walk boldly up and look him in the face, and ask him what he wants, he drops his ears and runs away directly. Dupe. Well said, rural simplicity, again. Well, but, my dear heavenly creature, don't commit such a sin as to waste your youth and Lady B. (Fondly.) And would you really love me dearly now, Saturdays, and Sundays, and all? (Aside.) Dupe. Oh! this will do, I see. Lady B. You'll forget all this prittle-prattle gibberish to me now, as soon as you see the fine strange ladies, by-and-by; there's Lady Bab Lardoon, I think they call her, from London. Dupe. Lady Bab Lardoon, indeed! I should as soon be in love with the figure of the great mogul at the back of a pack of cards; if she has anything to do with hearts, it must be when they are trumps, and she pulls them out of her pocket.1 No, sweet Philly; thank heaven, that gave me insight into the sex, and reserved me for a woman in her native charms; here alone she is to be found, and paradise is on her lips. (Struggling to kiss her.) Enter HURRY, a servant. Hurry. Oh! Lady Bab, I come to call your ladyship-Lord! I thought they never kissed at a wedding till after the ceremony. (Going. Dupe'y stares. Lady B. laughs.) Dupe. Stay, Hurry. Who were you looking for? Hurry. Why, I came with a message for Lady Bab Larder, and would have carried her answer, but you stopped her mouth. Dupe. Who-what-who? This is Philly Nettletop. Hurry. Philly Fiddlestick! "Tis Lady Bab Larder, I tell you. Do you think I don't know her because she has got a new dress. [Exit. Dupe. Lady Bab Lardoon! Lady B. No, no; Philly Nettletop. Dupe. Here's a d d scrape! (Aside.) Lady B. In every capacity, sir, a rural innocent, Mr. Oldsworth's mistress, or the great mogul, equally grateful for your favourable opinion. (With a low curtsey.) Enter OLDWORTH, master of the house, and SIR HARRY GROVEBY, laughing. Mr. Oldworth, give me leave to present to you 1 She was said to be particularly fond of the gaming table. a gentleman remarkable for second sight. He | you, Lady Bab, like a generous conqueror, knows all women by instinctshould bear the triumph moderately. Sir H. From a princess to a figurante, from a vintage to a may-pole; I am rejoiced I came in time for the catastrophe. Lady B. Mr. Old worth, there is your travelled man for you, and I think I have given a pretty good account of him. (Pointing at Dupely, who is disconcerted.) Old. Come, come, my good folks, you have both acquitted yourselves admirably. Dupely must forgive the innocent deceit; and Mr. SONG. Encompass'd in an angel's frame, An angel's virtues lay; Too soon did heav'n assert the claim, And call its own away. My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms, What now shall fill these widow'd arm? [Charlotte Brooke was the daughter of Henry Brooke author of Gustavus Vasa, and was born in 1740. At an early age she exhibited a passion for books, which for a time was interrupted by a desire to go upon the stage. Luckily her father prevailed upon her to forego this intention, and returning once more to her books she studied more passionately than ever. Frequently, while the rest of the family were in bed, she would steal down stairs to the study, there to lose herself in her beloved antiquities. In this way she was led to the study of the Irish language, and in less than two years from commencing she found herself mistress of it. From reading Irish poetry and admiring its beauties, she proceeded to translate it into English, one of her earliest efforts being a song and monody by Carolan, which appeared in Walker's Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards. These were widely admired, and encouraged by this, and by the advice of friends, she set herself to collect and translate such works of Irish poets as she could procure and were found worthy of appearing in an English dress. The result was her Reliques of Irish Poetry, which appeared in 1788. This work may well take rank with Percy's Reliques, not only for its intrinsic worth, but because of the influence it has had on the study of the almost forgotten poets who had written in the Irish language. Soon after the appearance of her principal work she was unexpectedly reduced from affluence almost to poverty. Instead of indulging in fruitless complaints, however, she busily set about preparing a complete edition of the works of her father, which appeared in 1792, and produced her, together with the Reliques, the sum of over £300, with which she purchased an annuity of £40 a year. This she did not enjoy long, for in the following year she died, regretted by every one who had known her. Miss Brooke's other works were: Dialogue between a Lady and her Pupils; The School for Christians, 1791; Natural History, &c., 1796; Emma or the Foundling of the Wood, a novel, 1803; and Belesarius, a tragedy. In The Reliques she has printed an original poem, entitled An Irish Tale, an extract from which we give as characteristic of her style.] THE SONG OF THE BARD CRAFTINÉ. ADDRESSED TO MAON, AN IRISH PRINCE IN EXILE AT A COURT IN FRANCE. Mäon! bright and deathless name! Heir of glory! son of fame! Hear! O hear the Muse's strain! Hear the mourning bard complain!Hear him, while his anguish flows O'er thy bleeding country's woes; Hear by him her genius speak! Hear her, aid and pity seek! "Mäon (she cries), behold my ruin'd land! The prostrate wall-the blood-stained field:Behold my slaughtered sons, and captive sires, Thy vengeance imprecate, thy aid demand! (From reeking swords and raging fires, No arm but thine to shield). |