"THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN."
In an early number of The International we mentioned a MS. comedy by the late Mrs. Osgood, in connection with the commendations which the dramatic pieces of that admirable woman and most charming poet had received from Sheridan Knowles and other critics in that line. We transcribe the opening scene of the play, which strikes us as excellently fitted for the stage. The friends of the lamented authoress will perceive that it is an eminently characteristic production, though having been written at an early age it scarcely illustrates her best style of dialogue.
ACT FIRST.—SCENE FIRST.
A room in the Chateau de Beaumont. Victorine de Vere and Rosalinde—the former sitting.
Rosalinde.—But consider, sweet lady, you have been betrothed from childhood to my lord the Count. You say it was your father's dying wish that you should marry him, and he has been brought up to consider you his own.
Victorine.—And for that reason wed I not the Count;
I might have loved him had I not been bid,
For he is noble, brave, and passing kind.
But, Rosalinde, when 'mid my father's vines,
A child I roamed, I shunned the rich, ripe fruit
Within my reach, and stretched my little arm
Beyond its strength, for that which farthest hung,
Though poorest too perchance. Years past away,
The wilful child is grown a woman now,
Yet wilful still, and wayward as the child.
(She Sings.)
Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest
That ever illumined the brow of a queen,
I should think the least one that were wanting, the fairest,
And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen.
Tho' the diamond should lighten there, regal in splendor,
The topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,
And the emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender—
If the pearl were not by, I should sigh for the pearl!
Though you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers
That Summer is waking in forest and field,
I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers
For some little blossom spring only could yield.
Take the rose, with its passionate beauty and bloom,
The lily so pure, and the tulip so bright—
Since I miss the sweet violet's lowly perfume,
The violet only my soul can delight!
I prize not Henri—for a breath, a nod,
Can make him mine for ever. One I prize
Whose pulse ne'er quickened at my step or voice,
Who cares no more for smile from Victorine,
Whom princes sue—than Victorine for them.
But he shall love me—ay, and when he too
Lies pleading at my feet!—I make no doubt
But I shall weary of mine idle whim,
And rate him well for daring to be there!
Ros.—Please you, my lady, who is this new victim?
Vic.—Whom think you, Rosalinde? Eugene Legard! the brave young captain—lover of Carille—betrothed to her—about to marry her!
Ros.—But who's Carille, my lady?
Vic.—(Impatiently.) Now know you not the youthful village belle whose face my gallant cousin raves about? I would he'd wed the girl, and leave Legard and me as free, to wed! (Enter the Count.) What, torment! here again! (Exit Rosalinde.)