SCENE I.—The House of Colonel Frankland. He enters, with a letter in his hand, leaning on Paterson. Sits down in an easy chair, and sets about arranging books and papers on a table at the bottom of the Stage.

⁠Let me again consider the request of this gay Baronet. (Muttering as he reads.) Disinterested attachment—only requests to be allowed to endeavour to gain her good opinion.—Yes, yes! the plea and pretensions of them all. The days of our life wear on, and every pleasant solace, after it has lulled and cheered us for a season, drops away.—I would rather have parted with her to William Clermont; but what course of events is ever fulfilled according to the foresight of our imagination? (Speaking in a louder voice, vehemently.) None! no, none! ⁠What is your pleasure, Sir? ⁠A thing which I never get, Paterson. ​ ⁠I'm sure I do all I can to content your honour. ⁠So thou dost, my old friend; but thou canst not make Fortune do the same thing. Thou art an old soldier, Paterson, as well as myself: tell me, now, if thou wert ever at siege, battle, or even skirmish, in thy life, wherein every circumstance fell out as the general or commander had reckoned upon? ⁠No, surely, your honour. But what is the head of a general good for, if it can do nothing but plan, and cannot turn every unforeseen accident that casts up, to the furtherance of his purpose some way or other? ⁠Very true, my friend; and thou art teaching me a lesson without being aware of it. ⁠I were a bold man, indeed, to pretend to do that to your honour knowingly. ⁠I wish I had had some such teaching ten years ago. But no; I suppose it would have done me no good then. ​ ⁠Ay; that was about the time when our young lady—— ⁠Don't speak of that; I can't bear it. ⁠I crave your honour's pardon; I might have known as much. But when you talk cheerily to me, I always, somehow or other, forget myself. ⁠Your servant, Sir John. You are, in the true etiquette of a lover, I see, somewhat before your time. ⁠Call it not so, Colonel. What has made it etiquette to all, but the natural haste and ardour of real lovers? and of my pretensions to be considered as one of the last class, I hope in good time to convince you. ⁠Convince the lady, Sir John; and if the conviction should please her, I must be content. I will not thwart her inclinations. ​ ⁠I thank you, my dear Sir, for this ready and hearty acquiescence in the first wish of my heart. ⁠Nay; you rate my acquiescence somewhat beyond its real worth: it is neither ready nor hearty. ⁠I am very sorry if my proposals to your niece do in any respect displease you, Colonel Frankland. ⁠They do me honour, Sir John, and displease me as little as any offer of the kind could have done, with one exception; for I will deal honestly with you. ⁠I respect your sincerity, though it gives me the pain of knowing there is one whom you would have preferred to me. ⁠But it is a preference arising more from the partiality of my own feelings, than from any superior pretensions in the man. ⁠I thank you for this candour, and will not conceal from you that I considered Clermont as ​an acceptable visiter in the family, which has made me hitherto conceal the nature of my feelings for your charming niece; but, seeing his mind become so suddenly engrossed with the blandishments of Lady Worrymore, I have thought myself at liberty to declare my secret sentiments. ⁠Yes; I have had some intimation of it. (Starting from his chair, and walking lamely but rapidly across the floor.) Silly noodle!—foolish simpleton!—bewildered ninnyhammer! He had brains in his head once. ⁠They are gone a wool-gathering for the present, at least. ⁠And will return with a knotty handful of it for their pains.—O, the senseless gudgeon! ⁠Senseless enough, it must be owned. I should have thought—— ⁠Say no more upon this foolish subject.—There is a fair field before you, Sir John: win the lass, if you can, and then I will do my part, and strive to give up my comfort as resignedly as may be. ​ ⁠How fortunate I am to see you thus, on the very first conversation I have presumed to hold with your uncle on the subject nearest to my heart! (Taking her hand, which she endeavours to pull away.) ⁠Your fortune, however, will be of short continuance, if my presence is concerned with it; for I only wished to see my uncle for one moment, as there is a person waiting for me, below stairs, on particular business. ⁠Some milliner or shop-woman, I suppose, who can as well return to-morrow. ⁠And if it were so, I have no right to waste her time, whatever I may do with my own.—Good morning. ⁠Call it not waste. Nobody rates time so high as those who will go. ⁠And nobody rates it so low as those who will not. ​ ⁠Let us compromise the difference, then. Stay here but one quarter of an hour, and I'll give you my word of honour to go at the end of it. ⁠Even that promise cannot detain me.

⁠[Exit hastily.

⁠What did the saucy girl say to you just now, when she frowned so? ⁠O! young ladies' frowns are like dreams, and must be interpreted by contraries. ⁠Not those of Fanny Frankland, however; she frowns not on man, woman, or child, without being really displeased. This looks unpromising, Sir John. ⁠Not a whit—not a whit, my dear Colonel, I have known a man refused by a fair mistress three times in the course of one little month, and married to her at the end of it. ⁠Then let me freely tell you, Sir, that the wooer and the wooed were, in that case, worthy of one another. ​ ⁠Your irony, my good Sir, is rather too severe. I don't pretend to be romantic; but in the sincerity and disinterestedness of my attachment to Miss Frankland, I hope you will do me the honour and the justice to place confidence.—I now take my leave, and I hope, with your permission, to repeat my visits.

⁠[Exit, Colonel Frankland bowing coldly to him.

⁠This won't do; no, it won't do.—O that the silly fellow should have allowed himself to be bewildered with the rhapsodies of such a fool as Lady Worrymore! Surely, writing verses must have some power of intoxication in it, and can turn a sensible man into a fool by some process of mental alchemy.—Thank God, I never had any personal experience of the matter!—I once tried to turn a few common expressions of civility into two couplets of metre, to please a dainty lady withal, but it would not do: so I e'en gave it up, and kept the little portion of mother-wit that Nature had bestowed upon me uninjured. Art thou here again? ⁠I waited till I heard him go away. ​ ⁠And hast returned, with the curiosity of a very woman, to learn what he has been saying to me. ⁠Nay, the vanity of a very woman has whispered in my ear, and informed me of all that already. ⁠And was it welcome information? ⁠Not very. ⁠He has rank,—a fair character, as young men go in the world, and a moderately good fortune. ⁠He has those recommendations. ⁠And is, moreover, free from the follies of poetry.—What sayest thou, then, to such a suitor? ⁠As long as you are not tired of me, dear uncle, I will not give up your society for that of any other man. And I feel, my dear Sir,—(taking his hand tenderly.)—I feel it sensibly and gratefully, that you are not tired of me yet. ​ ⁠Foolish child! tired of the only comfort I have on earth! ⁠Let us say no more, then, on this subject.—I came to speak to you of something else. ⁠And I will listen to thee most willingly. ⁠I thank you—I am going—I would not give you pain—I should not have ventured—— ⁠What is the meaning of all these I's, and would not's and should not's, and pauses, and pantings? ⁠Bear with me a moment. I shall be able to speak coherently by and by. ⁠Well, dear Fanny, what is it? ⁠Are you sure that your daughter left no child behind her? ⁠Quite sure.—I am confident of it.—I have ​good reason to believe she did not.—Do not put racking thoughts into my head. What has tempted thee to tear open an ill-closed wound? ⁠Pardon the pain I give. A strong sense of duty compels me.—You are confident, you say, and on good reasons, that she left no child behind her. ⁠Would not that Italian adventurer have informed a wealthy father-in-law that a child was born, and had survived its mother? Would such a plea for worldly purposes have been neglected? No, there could be no child; and, thank Heaven, there was none!—What can have put such fancies into thy head? ⁠I have seen a child to-day who strongly resembles my cousin. ⁠Thou art too young to have any distinct recollection of her face. ⁠Nay, but I have: it was so pleasant a face, and she was so good to me. ⁠It was a pleasant face. If I could remember ​her as she once was, and forget what she afterwards became, it would be a recollection worth all my wealth to purchase. ⁠Should you like to see this child? ⁠No, no, no! I could not bear it. ⁠He shall not, then, be brought to you; but I will often go and look at him myself. You will not be offended with that? ⁠Thou wilt go often to look at him! Is the likeness then so strong? ⁠So strong, that in looking on him you would feel that Louisa, or such a woman as Louisa, must have been his mother. ⁠Such a woman, an thou wilt.—What kind of forehead has this child? ⁠Somewhat broad and low. ⁠And the nose? ​ ⁠Rather short than long; and the nostrils on either side are curved so prettily, that they look like two little delicate shells. ⁠Is it possible! This was the peculiarity in her face. ⁠You droop your head, dear uncle;—you tremble. Let me bring this child to you. ⁠Not now,—not now. ⁠But you will, some other time. ⁠Let me have a little respite.—To look on aught like her—like what she was—like the creature that played round my chair—that followed me—that——Out upon thee, Fanny Frankland! thou hast stirred up vain yearnings within me, and when I see him he will not be like her after all. ⁠And if he should not be so like as you expected, will you not befriend a poor helpless child, for even a slight resemblance? ​ ⁠I'll do what thou desirest, be it ever so slight. ⁠Thanks, dear uncle! Retire and compose yourself awhile. Let me lead you to your own room. [Exeunt, he leaning on her arm.

Enter from a walk, at the bottom of the Stage, Lady Worrymore and Clermont, speaking as they enter.

⁠And then, again, can any thing be more beautiful than when, looking up to Juliet's window, he exclaims,—

O how fine!—You are silent: don't you think so?

⁠There are many passages in the play which I admire more. ​ ⁠Nay, surely you admire it: positively you must. I doat upon it; and Mr. Clutterbuck says, no lover could have said any thing of his mistress so exquisitely impassioned—so finely imagined. ⁠I believe, indeed, no lover would have said any thing like it. ⁠And again, which is, perhaps, more exquisite still,—

Is not that impassioned? Is not that sublime?

⁠I dare not pretend to judge of what is so honoured by your ladyship's approbation. But you have stopped short at the only lines in the whole speech that appear to me, although with some degree of conceit, to express the natural feelings of a lover. ⁠Indeed! Repeat them, I pray. ​ ⁠Yes, to be sure, a common lover might have said something like that—Mr. Clutterbuck took no notice of those lines.—But, positively, you must attend his lectures: you must, indeed. You cannot adore our immortal bard as you ought, without hearing Clutterbuck.—(Looking at her watch.) Bless me! how time flies!—I should, ere this, have been contemplating the divine lineaments of that Madonna.—You'll go with me, I hope? ⁠I am sorry it is not in my power; but allow me the honour of attending you to your carriage. ⁠I see a lady and gentleman yonder; who are they? ⁠Only Lady Worrymore and Clermont.—They left me some time ago; and her carriage waits for her at the wicket: but, I suppose they ​have found it agreeable to take a sentimental saunter in the shrubbery. ⁠They have become mighty intimate. Who could have thought it? ⁠Vanity, as well as a city shower, occasions many strange acquaintances. ⁠But of a kind less transient. They do not part at the mouth of a shed or gateway, and meet again no more. ⁠Not always; but in the present instance the resemblance will hold good, even in this respect. ⁠I fear you deceive yourself. ⁠I believe I do not; but I will not be positive. You know Clermont better than I do. ⁠I thought I knew him; but I was mistaken. ⁠You are grave, Mr. Clermont, and I trace ​pondering lines upon your brow; may one know what engages your serious contemplation? ⁠The composition, perhaps, of verses for the prettily-bound album of Lady Worrymore. ⁠A book that will not have the honour of being opened by a lady who dislikes poetry. ⁠Nay, a lady of such a character might read that book, I believe, with very little offence. But when its pages are enriched with your sonnet, Mr. Clermont, the case will no doubt be altered. ⁠And, taking that alteration for granted, this same lady will then very willingly abstain entirely from reading it. ⁠Most willingly; she will not even distrust your pretensions so much as to examine the fact. ⁠I believe so. Cards of invitation, billets from a gay baronet, perhaps, or letters from country relations, afford reading enough for a prudent young lady who knows so well how to keep ​imagination in subjection to plain common sense—Ay, that, I think, is the phrase for the paramount virtue you now so decidedly profess—plain common sense. ⁠A virtue, setting professions aside, of which there is mighty little in this garden at present, excepting some little scantlings that may, perhaps, belong to myself.—A truce with all this sparring! Cannot one person like poetry and another prose, as one likes moor-fowl and another mutton, without offence? ⁠No, not even so, Lady Shrewdly, if the moor-fowl be cooked by one's neighbour, and the mutton by one's self. ⁠And Mr. Clermont may add, that if the morsel of one's own cooking has been honoured by the approval of an epicurean palate, it were treason to dispute its superiority. ⁠No more of this, foolish child!—Go into the house, I beseech you, and look for my pocket-book, which I have left upon some table or other. ​ ⁠I do your bidding willingly. ⁠Mr. Clermont, when young people, like yourself and Miss Frankland, quarrel together, I take no account of it; but if one can do the other any service, propose the business just as freely as if they were the best friends in the world. ⁠Explain your meaning, Lady Shrewdly. Can I in any way be useful to Miss Frankland? ⁠You can; and I engage your services on her behalf. ⁠I thank you—I thank you most heartily.—But will she do so? Would not Sir John Crofton prove a more acceptable agent?—a more zealous one I defy him to be. ⁠No, no; it is a service he would never perform: not faithfully, I'm sure, standing, as it does, opposed to his own worldly designs. ⁠O tell me what it is, my dear Madam! I will do it most gladly. ​ ⁠Go to all the resorts of low foreigners about town, and find out, if possible, the German juggler called Manhaunslet. ⁠The father of the boy Lady Worrymore admires so much? ⁠The same. ⁠What can she possibly have to do with such a man as that? ⁠What very few indeed would think of doing. ⁠How so?—I beg pardon for questioning so closely. ⁠Indeed, you need not: it will bear to be questioned. She is seeking to strip herself of fortune and all its advantages, for the sake of justice and affection. ⁠Of justice and affection? ⁠In short, she has taken it into her head, from a strong resemblance, that that boy is the son of ​her unfortunate cousin, who died abroad some years ago, and, consequently, the grandchild of her uncle. ⁠Generous creature! I am sure her actions are poetry, let her taste and fancy be what they may. ⁠Yes, somewhat too romantic for Sir John's present views; so that we cannot trust the business to him. ⁠No, hang him! I'll do it myself: I'll set about it forthwith. There is not a gambling-house, spunging-house, nor night-cellar within the bills of mortality that shall be unsearched. ⁠You take it up so eagerly that I cannot doubt your diligence. Good bye, for the present: I must return into the house, and release her from searching for what she will not find.⁠[Exit. ⁠To foster a quarrel with me so capriciously and pettishly at such a conjuncture!—I understand her now.—She is a noble creature; but surely she might have done it less offensively.

⁠[Exit by the garden. ​

⁠Sit down at this table, and begin your task; and take good care to copy correctly the periods, the pauses, and the notes of admiration. Eloquence is wonderfully assisted in the reading by those little auxiliaries. ⁠I will, my Lord. ⁠And when you come to any very striking expressions, be sure to draw a line under them—so, (showing him how.) that the reader may do them justice, with a correspondent emphasis and elevation of voice. ⁠Certainly, my Lord: I shall mark all such passages as your Lordship may be pleased to point out. ⁠I should like you to mark also some passages of your own selecting: for an unlearned person ​of common capacity will be struck with real eloquence surprisingly. When the former Corn Bill was brought into the House, and I had prepared my speech,—— ⁠Your speech, my Lord? ⁠Yes, Blount: I am just telling this young person here how surprisingly my own attorney was struck with some passages which I read to him from my first speech on the Corn Laws; and a man, too, who has no more taste or cultivation than a coalheaver. ⁠I well believe it, my Lord. The want of both could never disqualify him from relishing the beauties of such a production. ⁠You have read it, then? ⁠I have heard of it. It was that effort of your genius, I understand, which helped to win the heart of Lady Worrymore. ⁠Ay, it was even so: in those happier days ​when her high-toned mind followed freely its own dictates; ere caprice and love of change had led it astray. ⁠Never mind; we shall bring it back again to as high tones as it ever uttered, and all upon the right string, too. ⁠And you think she will be charmed with this speech? ⁠My life upon it, she will be charmed beyond measure. ⁠I think she will be reasonably pleased. ⁠No, faith! that won't serve our purpose at all: she must be charmed to a folly. ⁠Ha! ha! ha! thou art a cunning fellow, Blount; I'll get thee promoted in the navy for this. (Going to the writing table, and overlooking the Amanuensis, who is busy writing.') Let me see how far you have got.—Aha! within two words of the very passage. (Mutters to himself as he looks at the papers, and making gestures of declamation, very pompously.) ​ ⁠What is the fool about?—(Aloud.) Some striking flowers of oratory, my Lord: one can see it by the fire of your eyes and the vehemence of your action. I am fortunate in witnessing the grace of your delivery: it is well for me to have a lesson. ⁠You shall judge, my friend! (Lifting the manuscript from the table, and putting himself in a dignified attitude as he reads.) "That grain which, by the hands of our own ploughmen, whistling in concert with the early lark, hath been deposited in the maternal bosom of our soil; that grain which hath waved in the gentle breezes of summer and of autumn, and fructified under the salubrious temperature of our native climate——" (looking to him for applause.) ⁠Very fine indeed! Such grain as that is too good for making quartern loaves of,—to be munched up by every dirty urchin that bawls about the streets. ⁠No, no! my argument does not lean that way. ⁠You do it injustice: it will lean any way. ​ ⁠I only meant to prove that the lords of the soil should be allowed to defend the produce of their soil from competition and depreciation.—And that passage pleases you? ⁠Pleases me! if I say, delights me, will you doubt of my sincerity? No, my Lord; I am sure you will not. ⁠Why, I must frankly confess that I think it a tolerable specimen of parliamentary eloquence.—But here is something farther on, which has, perhaps, superior claims on your attention, if you will honour me with some portion of it. ⁠With it all, my dear Lord: can it possibly be better employed? ⁠"I am free to confess, my Lords, that the fruits of the earth have been given by the bounty of Providence for the sustenance of man." ⁠That, the noble lords will certainly assent to; and, so far, the speech must be effective. ​ ⁠But hear it out.—"The sustenance of man."—mark ye now;—"the pot of the labourer; the oven of the cottager; the board of the marriage-feast, with all the fair faces surrounding it; the christening, and the merry-making; and even the sorrowful repast of those, who in the graves of their forefathers have deposited their dead;—yes, I am free to confess, my Lords, that there, on such occasions, should the healthful produce of our native fields be found in abundance. But would you have the repasts of England's valiant sons and lovely daughters drawn from foreign climes?—from fields unlike to those in which they have joyfully beheld the green blade shoot, and the poppy wave its gay head in the sun?—from fields barren to them of all dear associations and sympathies which are the nurture of the mind?—I will not wrong noble Lords so much as to suppose it." ⁠If they can allow, after that, one penny loaf of foreign flour to thicken the pottage of a drover, they deserve to be choked with it themselves. ⁠Ha! ha! ha! it amuses me to see you take it up so heartily. Well, I love you the better for it; though you do express your thoughts in your own sailor-like fashion. I thought it would strike you.—And you must do it justice, my young ​friend; you must read it with emphasis and all appropriate action. ⁠Neither emphasis nor action shall be spared, depend upon it; but as to doing it justice, you know that is impossible. ⁠O! you are too flattering—too partial. ⁠But are you sure, my Lord, that Lady Worrymore has never heard any part of this speech before?—no morsel of it, dropping from your lips unguardedly? ⁠No: I have been too much offended with her of late to repeat to her one word of it. She does not even know that I have prepared a speech on the subject. ⁠A fortunate forbearance! ⁠And I reckoned, too, that her surprise would be the greater after its success in the House; as no doubt it would, had the measure been brought forward at the time that was appointed for it. ⁠Then all is safe.—There is a gentle knock at ​the door. Permit me. (Opens the door, and enter Lady Shrewdly, with a box in her hand.) ⁠In busy preparation, I see.—And I, too, have been busy, and have found my way up the back staircase without meeting any body.—How do you get on?

⁠I assure your Ladyship we get on famously. I think our plot sure of success. None of the finer parts of the speech are lost upon this young man. He has a native taste, though uncultivated: he will do justice to them all.

⁠With the help of this wig, and a proper solemnity. (Taking a wig from the box, which she puts upon Blount's head.) There; who but must admire the sapient countenance of the great orator Mr. O'Honikin?—And has Clermont's sonnet been exchanged for the more precious gem of his lordship? ⁠I have taken care of that, and it is now in Lady Worrymore's own keeping, under promise that the sealed envelope is not to be opened till the reading hour. ⁠I'm glad of it. Adieu, then, till we meet at ​the place of trial, and, I trust, of triumph, my Lord. (Going.) ⁠Nay, you must stay just to hear him read one of his favourite passages. ⁠I thank you very much; but I am in a particular hurry. ⁠Nay, nay; but a short passage, and I'll read it myself. ⁠Indeed, I am in a hurry. ⁠You must hear it. I'll detain you but a few moments. (Running her up to the wall, as she tries to make her escape.) ⁠Let me go, I beseech you: I hear Lady Worrymore coming.

⁠[Exit hastily, while he looks round in alarm.

⁠I hear nobody coming. ⁠It was but a trick to get away. ​ ⁠What a desperate haste she must be in! (Going to the table, and seeing the Amanuensis at a loss.) Write on, my friend: what's the matter? ⁠There's something wrong here. ⁠That's impossible. ⁠There must be a page wanting. ⁠Truly, so there is. I must have dropt it in the library.

⁠[Exit into the library.

⁠Silly fellow, to mention such a discovery! It would have made as good sense without the page as with it.

⁠Bring light here: I can see nothing.
⁠[Exit Amanuensis, carrying a light, and Blount following. ​

⁠Have you been listening, Tim? You seem mightily diverted. ⁠I had no occasion to listen; for I contrived business for myself, as it were, and stole quietly into the room, and saw all the company, and the oration-man busy in his vocation: and hard work it is, I'll assure you. ⁠Hard work! it is only words out of his mouth, is it not? A country curate would think nothing on 't. ⁠Only words out of his mouth, say ye? Both legs and arms are at work, like any weaver busy on the treadles: and for making of mouths, and grinning and staring under the curls of that blouzing wig of his, it's impossible for me to gi' you any notion on 't. I would not undertake to supply either lords or ladies wi' such a turbullion ​of roaring, and thumping, and winnowing of arms, for a month's wages twice told. I've seen the stage doctor at Barth'lomew fair, but he is but a joke to it. Listen, man! you can hear him through the wall.

⁠(Blount's voice heard without.)

⁠Faith, so I do!—And how does my Lady take it? ⁠Ay, she has nearly as hard work in admiring him, as he has with his eloquence, as they call it. Lord help her to a soberer way of commending folks, for her body's sake! She'll be in a fever by the evening. ⁠Never mind that; she's an able-bodied person enough, for all that she casts up her eyes, and smells at her bottle of salts so often.—But here comes Mr. Clermont's Ned. ⁠Is my master here? ⁠Yes, but he came last of all the company: my Lady inquired for him twenty times over, before he appeared. ​ ⁠What kept him so long, I wonder? ⁠It was more wonderful that he got here at all. ⁠How so? ⁠He has been in all the raggamuffin places in London, after a raggamuffin foreigner. ⁠And did he find him? ⁠No; it was all labour lost. But I have just discovered where he is certainly to be found; and if you would let me into the room for a moment, that I may whisper it in his ear, I should be greatly obliged to thee, Tim. ⁠Let ye into the room! Not till ye gi' me a good silver sixpence, I warrant ye. ⁠A silver sixpence, for speaking to my own master! ⁠Ay; and for seeing as good a show as any ​body ever paid half a crown to gape at.—List! list! he's roaring again.

⁠(Blount's voice heard as before.)

⁠Well; I must speak to my master, be the cost what it may. ⁠Come along, then.⁠[Exeunt.

The grand Library; Blount is discovered standing on a platform, with a table before him and his MS. oration in his hand, surrounded by Lord and Lady Worrymore, Lady Shrewdly, Miss Frankland, Clermont, &c, &c., while a general murmur of applause is heard, as the scene opens.

⁠Pardon me for a moment. (Takes a glass of water from the table and drinks it slowly.) ⁠Was there ever any thing so eloquent?—Is it not sublime?—And you love poetry, Lady ​Tweedle; is it not poetical, too? A scholar like you, Mr. Clermont, must know how to appreciate its excellence. ⁠His learning were of little value else. Those who have studied Demosthenes and Cicero will know what to think of this, pretty accurately. ⁠I am delighted to hear you say so, Sir John. Demosthenes! Cicero! Oh, it makes my heart stir within me to hear those names pronounced! and those only who love their immortal works can do justice to the eloquence of Mr.O'Honikin. ⁠And you like it, Lady Worrymore?—And you like it. Sir John?—Both very right: he's a clever fellow; both very right. What do you say, Mr. Clermont? ⁠Every one is right to be pleased when he can. ⁠What an observation, applied to the fervour of our admiration! ⁠Don't be so grave, my dear Sir: have patience ​—have patience: your pretty sonnet will claim its own share of admiration presently. (Going with great complacency from one person to another.) I hope you like him?—I hope you like the speech. Very good; all very clever. At least, I am told so—it does not become me to speak. ⁠Have a care: you'll discover all with that false modesty. ⁠No, no! I'm cunning; I manage very well. (Aloud.) My Lady Worrymore, what did you think of that part about the Ploughman and the Lark, and the waving of the poppies?—very fine, was it not? No, no! I don't mean fine, neither; rather too fanciful. ⁠You are a cold critic, my Lord. It requires a kindred spirit with the writer's to admire such exquisite imagery. ⁠Very right; so it does, and you are akin to him, dear wife. ⁠Hush! he has recovered, and is going to resume ​ ⁠"I have now, my Lords—I mean, my honourable friends—put you in possession of the views, ideas, and opinions of a humble individual, who has cogitated on this momentous subject with a sincere, a pure, a vivid, an ardent desire to enlighten the understandings, to rouse the proper feelings, of others; and I am free to confess, that I feel it to be my duty, humble individual as I am; I feel it to be my duty, and am free to confess, that it will give me the most unfeigned delight and satisfaction, if I have but roused one spirit to its duty—warmed one bosom with the feelings which ought to be felt on such a momentous subject—loosened from the trammels of prejudice one intelligent, enlightened, and intellectual compatriot." (Bows affectedly, and lays down the paper, whilst a murmur of applause fills the room.) ⁠What a beautiful conclusion, Mr. Clermont! Can one say more of it than that it is worthy of the divine passages which preceded it? ⁠That is exactly what 1 should say of it, and I am glad it will satisfy your Ladyship. ​

⁠O that word satisfy! I'll speak no more to you. (Running eagerly to Blount as he descends from the platform.) O my dear Mr. O'Honikin! you have laid us under eternal obligations. I shall now know what the ancient orators of Greece would have been, had they lived in our own times.

⁠And spoken upon the corn laws. ⁠And you are pleased, Sir John? And you are enchanted. Lady Worrymore? ⁠Yes; rather more so, I believe, than your Lordship.

⁠Very right; I find no fault with you for that, my Lady; it is right to be enchanted with a clever thing, let others feel as they may. Is it not, Miss Frankland? Is it not, Lady Tweedle? (Clapping Blount's shoulder.) O, my dear Orator! you have done your part to admiration: you have given such expression to my thoughts.

⁠What does he say? ​ ⁠That I—I—his Lordship does me the honour to say that I have given expression to his thoughts; graciously insinuating, that the poor ideas I have just delivered are akin to those which he himself entertains. ⁠Which are always akin to whatever he happens to hear last. ⁠And must, in this bright metropolis, find a goodly clan of relations. ⁠And, my dear Mr. O'Honikin! what alternations of humility and generous confidence! The humble individual, who feels it to be his duty to rouse to action, to warm with—— How did it go? ⁠O, dear Lady, you make me blush!—To rouse to duty—warm to feeling—loosen from the trammels of prejudice my enlightened, intelligent, and intellectual compatriots. All that a humble individual like myself could possibly hope to achieve. ​ ⁠And has he not achieved it? has he not, my love? ⁠What, is he here again! ⁠Be quiet, my Lord, or you'll betray the whole. ⁠Well, well! I'm as quiet as a mouse. ⁠But you forget the sonnet, Lady Worrymore, in your admiration of the speech. ⁠I beg your pardon, Mr. Clermont; I beg a thousand pardons. ⁠One, Madam, is more than enough.

⁠This most prized and precious packet. (Opening it and holding out a paper to Clermont.) Pray, dear Sir, do you now occupy the seat of Mr. O'Honikin, and emparadise our souls with the effusions of your divine muse. ​

⁠Pardon me, Madam; myself and my verses are utterly unworthy to occupy the place of such superlative predecessors. ⁠Nay, nay; you will read them yourself; no one else would give them their proper expression. ⁠Excuse me: excuse me. ⁠And excuse me, also, for presuming to offer my husky voice for that service which Mr. Clermont too modestly declines. ⁠How delightfully obliging! but I fear it will exhaust you too much. ⁠Not a bit, not a bit! to it, dear Orator, and give us the sonnet, too. ​ ⁠Delightful, delightful! I expected to be charmed with your sonnet, Mr. Clermont, but this outdoes all expectation. ⁠And all patience at the same time, Madam. ⁠Nay, don't let the modesty of genius suppose that we could possibly think it tedious. How delightful the lady must have been to whom that sonnet was addressed! A young lady, as the title gives notice. ⁠The younger the better, I'm sure, for receiving such verses. ⁠What does he say? Does his modesty shrink from praise? ⁠My Lord, I can suffer this no longer; so ​much honour thrust upon me, to which I have no pretensions, is—— ⁠Come this way, and receive a private word in your ear.

⁠Let me speak to him, my Lord, and do you enjoy your secret triumph. (Draws Clermont away to a corner where she continues speaking to him in dumb show.)

⁠Was such beautiful poetry, with such a modest poet, ever yet combined?

⁠He blushed deeply, indeed: and, methinks, (fixing his eyes on Miss Frankland) he has a fair friend here who sympathises with his modesty, if one may judge from the colour of her cheeks. Ah! when shall I receive such proofs of sympathy?

⁠When you blush at all, Sir John. You can scarcely expect from your friends this token of sympathy till you give them an opportunity. ⁠Yes, our poet blushed a little, I believe, as I ​read his verses; he was scarcely aware of their excellence. ⁠How should he; how should he? One makes but slight account of one's own. It is a pretty thing enough in its way; but you honour it too much, perhaps. He, he, he! (Chuckling and rubbing his hands.) Don't you think so, Lady Tweedle? Don't you think so, Miss Fussit? Don't you think so, my love? ⁠You tread on my flounces, my Lord. Honour such a poem too much? it is impossible! I'll have a gadfly painted on my fan, and worship it. ⁠So will I—so will we all. ⁠And what more will you do, dear ladies, to honour your divine poet? ⁠And our divine orator, too, Mr. O'Honikin. ⁠Crown their busts with laurels, my Lady Worrymore, with your own fair hands. ⁠Charming! that is the classical tribute which ​my heart pants to bestow. I would not live an hour without doing it, if I had but their busts and a garland, ⁠I'll find the busts this very evening, my love, if you'll find the laurels. ⁠Thank you, my Lord! How amiable it is in you to be so ready in honouring the merit of others! Let it then be so arranged, and this evening in the garden, before sunset, the tribute shall be paid; to which solemnity (curtseying around her) I bid ye all. ⁠Bravo, my dear wife! Done like a most courteous and graceful lady. He! he! he! I thought it would please you. Did you mark the last line of it, ending thus—"Ball-room, bank, and bower?" It cost the poet some trouble, no doubt, to find such alliteration as that. ⁠Unless it came by the Muse's inspiration, which is a convenient help for any poet, and saves the frail bark of his fancy a plaguy course of tacking. But you say nothing of the beginning of the piece, which shows such richness of expression: ​

steeping, as it were, the brightness of the sun in his own brightness. This is what may be called supererogation or opulence of language.

⁠So it is: a most ingenious and judicious remark. ⁠You are a clever fellow, O'Honikin. ⁠As good a critic as an orator. ⁠Ay, there is some little refreshment, I suppose, in the next room. Pray do us the honour. (Offering his arm to a lady.)
⁠[Exeunt.