effects on it, indeed! by hanging upon every young fellow's neck, that does but ask her the question. Frank. Whatever faults Charlotte may have, madam, I never knew her take pleasure in exposing those of other people. Lady W. What do you mean, sir? Frank. I mean, madam, that as she does not read Aristotle, Plato, Plutarch, or Seneca, she is neither romantic or vain of her pedantry; and as her learning never went higher than the Tatler, her manners are consequently natural, modest, and agreeable. Sir G. Ah! well said, Frankly. [Aside. Lady W. Since I am told you were once in love with her, I shall say no more, but leave her own immediate behaviour to confirm your good opinion of her virtues. Ha, ha! [Exit. Soph. I don't know any man alive, that looks upon the degeneracy of mankind with so discerning an eye as Mr. Granger; but I am afraid it will therefore draw him into my misfortune, of being as odious to the illiterate of his sex, as I am to those of mine. Gran. If that were as just a reason, madam, for your having a favourable opinion of me, as it is for my perfect admiration of you, we should each of us have still as many friends as any wise man or woman ought to desire. Frank. Do you mind that, sir? [Apart. Sir G. A sly rogue! he knows how to tickle her up, I see. [Apart. Soph. And yet the rude world will say, perhaps, that our mutual enmity to them has reduced us to a friendship for one another. Gran. That's a reproach can never reach you, madam; so much beauty cannot but have its choice of friends and admirers: a form so bright and perfect, like a comet in the hemisphere, wherever it comes, must set mankind a gazing. Soph. Fie! Mr. Granger! Sir G. What, a dickens! will she swallow that blazing star now? [4part. Frank. Ay, as he has dress'd it, and drink after it too, sir. Soph. I mind not multitudes. [Apart. Gran. Pardon me, I know you have a soul above them; and I really think it the misfortune of your person, to have been so exquisitely fair, that where your virtue would preserve, your eyes destroy; they give involuntary love; where'er you pass, in spite of all your innocence, they wound-Juvenumque prodis publica cura. Soph. Alas! my eyes are turned upon myself. What charms, then, can you suppose, I could have for a world, that has so few for me? Beside, at most, the men of modern gallantry gaze upon a woman of real virtue, only as atheists look into a fine church, from curiosity, not devotion. Gran. All men are not infidels; of me, at least, you have a convert: and though the sensual practice of the world had made me long despair of such perfection in a mortal mould; yet when the rays of truth celestial broke in upon my sense, my conscious heart at once confessed the deity; I prostrate fell a proselyte to virtue; and now its chaste desires enlarge my soul, and raise me to seraphic joy. Soph. Harmonious sounds, celestial transports! [Aside. Sir G. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! was ever such a wicked thief! Odsheart, he'll make her go to prayers with him, presently! [Aside. Soph. No more; we are observed. These heavenborn emanations of the soul desire not vulgar ears. Some fitter time may offer-till when Gran. Till then, be hush'd our joys. [Granger leaves her and joins the Men, while Sophronia walks apart, musing. Soph. Our joys, indeed! such was, in Paradise, our first parents' joy, before they fell from innocence to shame. Frank. [To Granger] Why did you not go on with her? We thought you were in a fine way. Sir Gilbert and I were just going to steal off. Gran. Soft and fair, sir. A lady of her delicacy must be carried, like a taper new-lighted, gently forward; if you hurry her, out she goes. Sir G. You're right, you're right. Now you shall see me manage her a little. I'll speak a good word for you-a-hum Gran. Hush! not for the world, sir—Death, you'll spoil all! Don't you see she is in contemplation? Sir G. What if she be, man? We must not humour her till she is stark mad, neither. Sophronia, how dost thou do, child? Soph. [Repeating] -The earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill: Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs Sir G. Very pretty, I protest; very pretty. These amorous scraps of fancy in thy head, make me hope that love is not far from thy heart, Sophy. Soph. Love, sir, was ever, in my heart; but such a love, as the blind Homer of this British isle, in rhymeless harmony, sublimely sings Sir G. Well, and, pr'ythee, what does he say of it? Love refines Soph. The thought, and heart enlarges; has his seat] By which to heavenly love thou may'st ascend. Sir G. Very good again; and troth, I'm glad to hear thou art so heartily reconciled to it. Soph. Easier than air with air, if spirits embrace, Desiring SirG. Ah! there, I doubt, we are a little crazy. [Aside. Soph. This iron age, so fraudulent and bold, Touch'd with this love, would be an age of gold. Sir G. Oh, lud! Oh, lud! this will never do. [Aside. Gran. So, she has given the old gentleman his bellyfull, I see. Well, sir, how do you find her? Sir G. Ah, poor soul, piteous bad! all upon the tantivy again! You must e'en undertake her yourself; for I can do no good upon her. But here comes love of another kind. Enter CHARLOTTE, WITLING, and LADY WRANGLE. Char: Oh, sister! here's Mr. Witling has writ the prettiest cantata, sure, that ever made music enchanting. Soph. I am glad, sister, you are reconciled to any of his performances. Wit. Oh. fie, madam, she only rallies- A mere trifle. Frank. That I dare swear it is. You Wit. Ha, ha! no doubt on't; if you could like it, it must be an extraordinary piece, indeed, Tom. see, my little rogue, we have soured him already. [Aside to Charlotte. Lady W. Mr. Frankly is a mere modern critic, that makes personal inclination the rule of his judgment; but to condemn what one never saw, is making short work, indeed. Frank. With submission, madam, I can see no great rashness in presuming that a magpie can't sing like a nightingale. Wit. No, nor an owl look like a peacock, neither. Ha, ha! Lady W. and Char. Ha, ha, ha! Lady W. Perfectly pleasant. Char. Oh, wit to an infinity! Frank. Much good may do you with your canarybird, madam. [To Charlotte. Char. Oh, sir, am sorry you are exhausted! but when wit is upon the lee, no wonder it runs into rude-` ness. Mr. Witling, the cantata. Lady W. Oh, by all means! Come, dear sir, no more apologies. [To Witling. Gran. See, sir, Mr. Wittling is going to entertain us. Sir G. Ay, that must be rare stuff indeed. Wit. But, madam, if I sing, you shall promise me to dance, then. Char. Oh, any composition! I'll do it with all my heart. Lady W. But the words. Wit. Well, ladies, since you will have it Sir G. He is a cursed while about it, methinks— Wit. You must know, then, this cantata is of a different species from the passion generally expressed in our modern operas; for there you see your lover usually approaches the fair lady with sighs, tears, torments, and dying. Now, here I show you the way of making love like a pretty fellow; that is, like a man of sense, all life, and gaiety-As for example Char. Pray, mind. Wit. [Reading] Thus to a pensive swain, Who long had lov'd in vain, Of gaining hearts From cold disdain, To his despairing friend imparts. So far recitative-Now for the air-A-hum, hum! |