A GOOD SPEC.-A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

BY B. B. FELTUS.

London. Scene-An Old House in the City.

Characters-MRS. MORLEY; her

Daughter EMMA; her Niece, MISS FANFLAME; MR. MORTON.

MISS F.-Well, I ne'er thought that this old house had been
So full of speculations. Claraville!

That name goes coupled with most weighty marks

Of my good aunt's approval. He is rich,
And for his other qualities-high birth,
And great consideration in the world-
They are as currently received and known

As my ten thousand charms have been in Bath;
Courted as much, too. "Twere not well to lose
Such high advancement as I see must spring
From this alliance, if my cousin Emma
Can be schooled into (others all laughed out)
Prudential motives. To amuse one's self

With here-and-there acquaintainceship which chance
May send to fill up those blank leaves of time,
When nothing serious, nothing of more note
Than raree-shows of sigh-blown sentiment,
Keep life in motion-this for my short stay
May give me occupation.

MRS. M.

Enter MRS. MORLEY.

Well said, niece.

La! this comes from the world. You've spent your days
To better purpose than to throw yourself,
Like beggar's offal, into the embrace
Of the first chance begotten cast-away,
That rubs by you i' the crossing.

MISS F.

Bless me, aunt!

MRS. M.-Your feelings!

Oh, my feelings!

Lud, my child, if you knew all,

You'd say my feelings, and my poor weak nerves,

Were gone for ever.

MISS F.-(Aside.) That indeed I should.
However, aunt, perhaps I can endure

To hear what name the odious creature has :

Of any gentlemanly, humble friend,

Whom we might bend to suit our purposes?

MRS. M.-Well thought on, niece; I've heard there is one Morton, A strange, half-witted, moody, nincompoop,

Who, on the score of poor relationship,

Is quite a standing guest with Claraville.

MISS F.-Many are such; as ignorant of life

As if their wits ran blindfold through the world.

MRS. M.-Ay, ay, but, niece, may not this moon-calf serve,

Like lightships on a strand, to keep us clear,

And give us knowledge of all dangers hid

Between us and our hopes.

Miss F.

La! if I tickle not this gentleman,

O good conceit!

And send him soaring, like a paper kite,

Into an element he ne'er before

Had dared to venture in; while with me abides
The charm to let him gently down again,

Or keep him there for pastime. Ha! ha! ha!
Dear aunt, this is a rare conceit of thine;

Come let's about it.

MRS. M.

My head's full of plans,

All tending to one object-one design

In which my hopes are centered: I would hear
From some one who is near to Claraville,

Even more than common fame may say of him:
Meantime on Emma I'll bestow my time,
And fashion her to meet the meeting tide
Of happiness before her with a heart
High as her fortune.

[Exit MRS. MORLEY.

MISS F.-Oh dear, those laughing fits will break my heart.
Heaven bless me, what a vulgar harridan!

How her tongue fastens on the very words,
That smell like garlic of low company!
Preserve me, all ye Graces, from the touch
Of pestilential cockneys! dwell with me
The phrase exclusive, because not express'd
With this or that peculiar dialect.
O dear, delightful Bath! dear dowagers,
Whose hopes hang on the issue of a card.

Dear crowded rooms, where Fashion's votaries meet

With radiant glances and perpetual smiles;

Those morning visits, and the sweet routine

Of rides, drives, shoppings, novels, notes, and news,
My heart is with you still a poor exchange

:

This moping cousin, and this vulgar aunt.
Yet no; even here these fog-enshrouded glooms
Must yield to my attractions. Come, ye arts,
Which custom hath so realised in me,

That what I am is borrowed more than mine;
Come, ye seductive train of ogles, sighs,
And all of which the vanity of men
Makes guesswork of success, attend on me!
For never yet did such a motley train
Kneel courting fascination from your spells
As this occasion offers.

MRS. MORLEY and MORTON.

MORTON.-Yes, Madam, 'tis a broad inheritance,

And a fine relic of the feudal times

Is the old castle: somewhat modernised,
But not divested of that interest

We always feel on seeing anything

That bears the stamp of ancient grandeur on't.

MRS. M.-La, Sir, this is the very thing I like,

And doubtless there is much fine tapestry,

And pictures of great value.

[Exit.

MORTON. In the great hall there is a Gothic window, Whose shafts are fretted with quaint heraldry,

And rare devices: in the oriel next

There is a picture done by Angelo

Of his great ancestor who fell at Agincourt,
Sir Clarence Claraville.

He is not styl'd “My Lord?”

MORTON. His granduncle was Lord De Claraville,

Who, dying without issue, his estate

Went to his nephew; but the title fell

MORTON. His vote still props the ministerial side,

And t'other day, at levee, he kissed hands

On being appointed of the Privy Council.

MRS. M.. I've heard, too, Sir, he is the pink of fashion;

But I would hope he is not given to play.

MORTON.-NO, Madam; they who know him best find fault With his penurious abstinence from gaming:

For myself, I sometimes tickle Fortune's ribs,

But he stands too secure in his own wealth

To look to chance for filling his exchequer.

MRS. M.- But I have heard he seldom goes to church, And that his morals need the anchorage

Will slide into a casual indiscretion,

But when a real love will fill his heart,

I'll answer for't 'twill not grow less by keeping.

MRS. M.-You'll wonder, Mr. Morton, at these questions;

But the truth is, that Mr. Claraville

Hath paid most marked attentions to my daughter;

And more than that, Sir, hath entreated me

With oft-repeated overtures of marriage;

Wherefore, good Sir, I did make bold from you,
As being a common friend to each of us,

To gain such knowledge of this gentleman
As might support my good opinion of him.
But, Sir, my daughter hath a rich old uncle,
Childless, and without any nearer heir

Than me, his sister. He, of course, must hear of,
And give his sanction and encouragement

EMMA, reclining on a Sofa. Enter MISS FANFLAME.

MISS F.-Poor thing, she sleepeth, if that can be sleep
That shows such sadness. She is weeping still,
And her lips move, as if she did reveal

Her sorrow to some saint that pitied her.
Oh! how her poor heart beats!

As if it wrestled with some agony

I hear it throb,

That haunts her even in sleep. Her cheek is pale,
But fresh, as if the rose that late was there

Had droop'd, but died not.

What a natural grace

Dwells in the rich profusion of her hair,

Floating around her like the drapery

Of a light summer cloud. My pretty cousin-
E.-Alas! I wish my vital spark had flown

With that sweet dream, which hath but left me now

To waking consciousness of what I am.

[Exit.

MISS F.-Canst thou remember what it was thou dream'dst? E.-Methought 'twas twilight, and I stood alone

Upon the shore of a far distant land,

Listing the low-voiced ripples of the tide
That, with a gentle measure in its flow,
Crept slyly onwards. 'Twas a summer eve,
And all around was silent-a deep calm,
Yet eloquent in all sweet impulses,
All joys of souls and sense. I did not speak,
For words were idle when my beating heart
Spoke its own rapture, and all feelings blent
Into one element, one form, one hue,
One harmony of love. And I stood thus,
In hopelessness of full beatitude;

For there was nothing further, nothing more
Which Hope could image to my happiness-

No thought of higher bliss; and tears gushed forth
And were not checked, for there was no one near
More life-like than the living breathing world,
More dull than the pervading sympathy

That smiled in all around me.

E. He clasped me to his heart, his lips met mine,
And, after a long silence of deep joy-

"Believe not we can part"-'twas thus he spoke-
"Thou wert alone-ah, no, that could not be,
Since thou wert happy, thou wert full of joy-
Joy which for thee is only where I am;

But as thou felt it now and knew it not,

'Twas my immortal presence felt unseen."

MISS F.-'Twas a sweet dream, indeed, dear coz., but still Somewhat too high and airy for my taste.

E. Yet, cousin, blame me not if I can't share

A temper so instinctively allied

To worldly maxims.

MISS F.

Nay, dear Emma, why

This trifling? You have heard, and seen-nay, more,
The world hath heard and seen of Claraville.

I've seen whole ball-rooms throb as with one heart,
When he, the lord of manors, no lean ghost

Of an old, outworn race, but one whose waste
Could not outrun the stream of wealth that flow'd
Each year into his coffers-ay, I've seen
Whole ball-rooms quake as if one yawning hope
Were gaping to devour him. And this man,
So rich, so noble, without even one speck
Of any vice that might not suit his rank;
This man, I say again, so rich-in short,
So exquisite, so—

E.

Prithee stop,

And spare the farther mention of a name
Which, oft repeated, wakens in my heart

A feeling near to hatred.

MISS F.

You are mad,

Or other love must so have wrought upon you

That you have not got eyes, or ears, or sense

To measure rightly Claraville's regards.

E. I hear my mother's step. If she should speak
More of a thing so much against my peace
As-as-

MISS F.-Ay, Emma, I know all the rest.
But, fie, to feel so coldly for a man
So worthy of your love, and, what is more,
So rich in fortune's gifts as Claraville.