"THE SIMPERING IDIOT"
with an everlasting smile on her countenance. "Poor mamma was so ill!—he—he—he! we really thought she would have died—he! But then Dr Blister was so attentive and funny. Oh la!—oh la! how he did laugh, and made such a deal of fun, that poor mamma absolutely sat up in bed, and he!—he!—he!—laughed, absolutely laughed outright. But, really, Mrs Wotton, really that is such a beautiful little pony which you have got feeding on the green, and it looked so comical at me in passing—he! he!—and your little boy, Bobby, rides it so gracefully—ha! ha!—and he fell so prettily. But be not alarmed, Mrs Wotton, the boy is only a little, just a very little hurt about the head—he! he!—only about the head, ma'am. I assure you don't be alarmed. Pray—pray, don't!—he!—he! I think I see little Bobby tumbling heels up, head down. A pretty boy, indeed, your little Bobby. But, bless me, Mrs Wotton, don't ring the bell—he!—he! I saw Bobby carefully carried into the gardener's cottage at the gate, with the whip still in his hand, and—but he did not bleed severely——Oh la!—oh la! I hope I have not alarmed you, ma'am. Good-morning—good-morning."
There goes that insensible piece of everlasting giggle. She has no more heart than that poker, and no more mercy than an enraged cobbler, making use of it to chastise a drunken spouse. There she goes from house to house, from morn to night, with all the external marks of contentment and high delight, and yet with an inward feeling of envy and ill-will, which is a perfect hell. But here comes, with a copy of the "Laus Stultitiæ" by Erasmus, in one pocket, and a play of Æschylus in the Other.