Gallantry | Page 5

have not travestied, unless it were through some
too prudent item of excision.
Remains but to subscribe myself--in the approved formula of
dedicators--as,
MADAM,
Your ladyship's most humble and most obedient servant,
THE AUTHOR.

THE PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY LADY ALLONBY, WHO ENTERS IN A FLURRY
The author bade we come--Lud, I protest!-- He bade me come--and I
forget the rest. But 'tis no matter; he's an arrant fool That ever bade a
woman speak by rule.

Besides, his Prologue was, at best, dull stuff, And of dull writing we
have, sure, enough. A book will do when you've a vacant minute, But,
la! who cares what is, and isn't, in it?
And since I'm but the Prologue of a book, What I've omitted all will
overlook, And owe me for it, too, some gratitude, Seeing in reason it
cannot be good Whose author has as much but now confessed,-- For,
Who'd excel when few can make a test Betwixt indifferent writing and
the best? He said but now.
And I:--La, why excel, When mediocrity does quite as well? 'Tis women
buy the books,--and read 'em, say, What time a person nods, en
négligée, And in default of gossip, cards, or dance, Resolves t' incite a
nap with some romance.
The fool replied in verse,--I think he said 'Twas verses the ingenious
Dryden made, And trust 'twill save me from entire disgrace To cite 'em
in his foolish Prologue's place. Yet, scattered here and there, I some
behold, Who can discern the tinsel from the gold; To these he writes;
and if by them allowed, 'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd, For he
more fears, like, a presuming man, Their votes who cannot judge, than
theirs can.

I
SIMON'S HOUR
As Played at Stornoway Crag, March 25, 1750
"You're a woman--one to whom Heaven gave beauty, when it grafted
roses on a briar. You are the reflection of Heaven in a pond, and he
that leaps at you is sunk. You were all white, a sheet of lovely spotless
paper, when you first were born; but you are to be scrawled and
blotted by every goose's quill."
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

LORD ROKESLE, a loose-living, Impoverished nobleman, and loves
Lady Allonby.
SIMON ORTS, Vicar of Heriz Magna, a debauched fellow, and
Rokesle's creature.
PUNSHON, servant to Rokesle.
LADY ALLONBY, a pleasure-loving, luxurious woman, a widow, and
rich.
SCENE
The Mancini Chamber at Stornoway Crag, on Usk.
SIMON'S HOUR
PROEM:--The Age and a Product of It
We begin at a time when George the Second was permitting Ormskirk
and the Pelhams to govern England, and the Jacobites had not yet
ceased to hope for another Stuart Restoration, and Mr. Washington was
a promising young surveyor in the most loyal colony of Virginia; when
abroad the Marquise de Pompadour ruled France and all its
appurtenances, and the King of Prussia and the Empress Maria Theresa
had, between them, set entire Europe by the ears; when at home the
ladies, if rumor may be credited, were less unapproachable than their
hoop-petticoats caused them to appear, [Footnote: "Oft have we known
that sevenfold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and armed with
ribs of whale."] and gentlemen wore swords, and some of the more
reckless bloods were daringly beginning to discard the Ramillie-tie and
the pigtail for their own hair; when politeness was obligatory, and
morality a matter of taste, and when well-bred people went about the
day's work with an ample leisure and very few scruples. In fine, we
begin toward the end of March, in the year 1750, when Lady Allonby
and her brother, Mr. Henry Heleigh, of Trevor's Folly, were the guests
of Lord Rokesle, at Stornoway Crag, on Usk.

As any person of ton could have informed you, Anastasia Allonby was
the widow (by his second marriage) of Lord Stephen Allonby, the
Marquis of Falmouth's younger brother; and it was conceded by the
most sedate that Lord Stephen's widow, in consideration of her liberal
jointure, possessed inordinate comeliness.
She was tall for a woman. Her hair, to-night unpowdered, had the color
of amber and something, too, of its glow; her eyes, though not
profound, were large and in hue varied, as the light fell or her emotions
shifted, through a wide gamut of blue shades. But it was her mouth you
remembered: the fulness and brevity of it, the deep indentation of its
upper lip, the curves of it and its vivid crimson--these roused you to
wildish speculation as to its probable softness when Lady Allonby and
Fate were beyond ordinary lenient. Pink was the color most favorable
to her complexion, and this she wore to-night; the gown was
voluminous, with a profusion of lace, and afforded everybody an ample
opportunity to appraise her neck and bosom. Lady Allonby had no
reason