"Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt,
Et faciunt propÈ plura dolentibus ex animo, sic
Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur."[9]
Horace, Ars. Poet. 431-3.
The Funeral: or, Grief À-la-Mode, a Comedy, was written in the summer of 1701, and given to Christopher Rich, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in October. Soon afterwards it was acted, and it was published by Jacob Tonson between December 18 and 20, with the date 1702 on the title-page. The music to the songs, by William Croft, appeared between December 16 and 18. The original cast included Cibber (Lord Hardy), Wilks (Campley), Mills (Trusty), Pinkethman (Trim), Norris (Mrs. Fardingale), and Bullock (Kate Matchlock); with Mrs. Verbruggen (Lady Brumpton), Mrs. Rogers (Lady Harriot), and Mrs. Oldfield (Lady Sharlot). The play was revived occasionally in most of the years between 1703 and 1734, and from time to time during the following half-century, the last date, apparently, being April 17, 1799. The plot is entirely original.
To the Right Honourable the
COUNTESS OF ALBEMARLE.[10]
Madam,
Among the many novelties with which your ladyship, a stranger in our nation, is daily entertained, you have not yet been made acquainted with the poetical English liberty, the right of dedication; which entitles us to a privilege of celebrating whatever for its native excellence is the just object of praise, and is an ancient charter, by which the Muses have always a free access to the habitation of the Graces.
Hence it is that this Comedy waits on your Ladyship, and presumes to welcome you amongst us; though indeed, madam, we are surprised to see you bring with you, what we thought was of our own growth only, an agreeable beauty; nay, we must assure you, that we cannot give up so dear an article of our glory, but assert it by our right in you: for if 'tis a maxim founded on the noblest human law, that of hospitality, that every soil is a brave man's country, England has a very just pretence of claiming as a native a daughter of Mr. Scravenmore.
But your Ladyship is not only endeared to us by the great services of your father, but also by the kind offices of your husband, whose frank carriage falls in with our genius, which is free, open, and unreserved. In this the generosity of your tempers makes you both excel in so peculiar a manner, that your good actions are their own reward; nor can they be returned with ingratitude, for none can forget the benefits you confer so soon as you do yourselves.
But ye have a more indisputable title to a dramatic performance than all these advantages; for you are yourselves, in a degenerate low age, the noblest characters which that fine passion that supports the stage has inspired; and as you have practised as generous a fidelity as the fancies of poets have ever drawn in their expecting lovers, so may you enjoy as high a prosperity as ever they have bestowed on their rewarded. This you may possess in an happy security, for your fortunes cannot move so much envy as your persons love.
I am, Madam,
Your Ladyship's most devoted
Humble Servant,
Richard Steele.
PREFACE.
The rehearsal of this Comedy was honoured with the presence of the Duke of Devonshire,[11] who is as distinguished by his fine understanding as high quality. The innocence of it moved him to the humanity of expressing himself in its favour. 'Tis his manner to be pleased where he is not offended; a condescension which delicate spirits are obliged to for their own ease, for they would have but a very ill time of it if they suffered themselves to be diverted with nothing but what could bear their judgment.
That elegant and illustrious person will, I hope, pardon my gratitude to the town, which obliges me to report so substantial a reason for their approbation of this play, as that he permitted it. But I know not in what words to thank my fellow-soldiers for their warmth and zeal in my behalf, nor to what to attribute their undeserved favour, except it be that 'tis habitual to 'em to run to the succour of those they see in danger.
The subject of the drama 'tis hoped will be acceptable to all lovers of mankind, since ridicule is partly levelled at a set of people who live in impatient hopes to see us out of the world, a flock of ravens that attend this numerous city for their carcases; but, indeed, 'tis not in the power of any pen to speak 'em better than they do themselves. As, for example, on a door I just now passed by, a great artist thus informs us of his cures upon the dead:—
W. W., known and approved for his art of embalming, having preserved the corpse of a gentlewoman, sweet and entire, thirteen years, without embowelling, and has reduced the bodies of several persons of quality to sweetness, in Flanders and Ireland, after nine months' putrefaction in the ground, and they were known by their friends in England. No man performeth the like.
He must needs be strangely in love with this life who is not touched with this kind invitation to be pickled; and the noble operator must be allowed a very useful person for bringing old friends together; nor would it be unworthy his labour to give us an account at large of the sweet conversation that arose upon meeting such an entire friend as he mentions.
But to be serious: Is there anything, but its being downright fact, could make a rational creature believe 'twere possible to arrive at this fantastic posthumous folly? Not at the same time but that it were buffoonery rather than satire to explode all funeral honours; but then it is certainly necessary to make 'em such that the mourners should be in earnest, and the lamented worthy of our sorrow. But this purpose is so far from being served, that it is utterly destroyed by the manner of proceeding among us, where the obsequies, which are due only to the best and highest of human race (to admonish their short survivors that neither wit, nor valour, nor wisdom, nor glory can suspend our fate), are prostituted and bestowed upon such as have nothing in common with men but their mortality.
But the dead man is not to pass off so easily, for his last thoughts are also to suffer dissection, and it seems there is an art to be earned to speak our own sense in other men's words, and a man in a gown that never saw his face shall tell you immediately the design of the deceased, better than all his old acquaintance; which is so perfect an hocus-pocus that, without you can repeat such and such words, you cannot convey what is in your hands into another's; but far be it from any man's thought to say there are not men of strict integrity of the long robe, though it is not everybody's good fortune to meet with 'em.
However, the daily legal villanies we see committed will also be esteemed things proper to be prosecuted by satire, nor could our ensuing Legislative do their country a more seasonable office than to look into the distresses of an unhappy people, who groan perhaps in as much misery under entangled as they could do under broken laws; nor could there be a reward high enough assigned for a great genius, if such may be found, who has capacity sufficient to glance through the false colours that are put upon us, and propose to the English world a method of making justice flow in an uninterrupted stream; there is so clear a mind in being, whom we will name in words that of all men breathing can be only said of him; 'tis he[12] that is excellent—
"Seu linguam causis acuit, seu civica jura
Responsare parat, seu condit amabile carmen."[13]
Other enemies that may arise against this poor play are indeed less terrible, but much more powerful than these, and they are the ladies; but if there is anything that argues a soured man, who lashes all for Lady Brumpton, we may hope there will be seen also a devoted heart that esteems all for Lady Sharlot.
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. Wilks.[14]
Nature's deserted, and dramatic art,
To dazzle now the eye, has left the heart;[15]
Gay lights and dresses, long extended scenes,
Demons and angels moving in machines,
All that can now, or please, or fright the fair,
May be performed without a writer's care,
And is the skill of carpenter, not player.
Old Shakespeare's days could not thus far advance;
But what's his buskin to our ladder dance?[16]
In the mid region a silk youth to stand,
With that unwieldly engine at command!
Gorged with intemperate meals while here you sit,
Well may you take activity for wit:
Fie, let confusion on such dulness seize;
Blush, you're so pleased, as we that so we please.
But we, still kind to your inverted sense,
Do most unnatural things once more dispense.
For since you're still preposterous in delight,
Our Author made, a full house to invite,
A funeral a Comedy to-night.
Nor does he fear that you will take the hint,
And let the funeral his own be meant;
No, in old England nothing can be won
Without a faction, good or ill be done;
To own this our frank Author does not fear;
But hopes for a prevailing party here;
He knows he's numerous friends; nay, knows they'll show it,
And for the fellow-soldier, save the poet.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Lord Brumpton.
Lord Hardy, Son to Lord Brumpton, in love with Lady Sharlot.
Mr. Campley, in love with Lady Harriot.
Mr. Trusty, Steward to Lord Brumpton.
Cabinet.
Mr. Sable, an Undertaker.
Puzzle, a Lawyer.
Trim, Servant to Lord Hardy.
Tom, the Lawyer's Clerk.
Lady Brumpton.
Lady Sharlot,
Lady Harriot,
Orphan Sisters, left in ward to Lord Brumpton.
Mademoiselle d'Epingle.
Tattleaid, Lady Brumpton's Woman.
Mrs. Fardingale.
Kate Matchlock.
Visitant Ladies, Sable's Servants, Recruits, &c.
SCENE.—Covent Garden.
THE FUNERAL: OR, GRIEF À-LA-MODE.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE—Covent Garden.
Enter Cabinet, Sable, and Campley.
Cab. I burst into laughter, I can't bear to see writ over an undertaker's door, "Dresses for the Dead, and Necessaries for Funerals!" Ha! ha! ha!
Sab. Well, gentlemen, 'tis very well; I know you are of the laughers, the wits that take the liberty to deride all things that are magnificent and solemn.
Cam. Nay, but after all, I can't but admire Sable's nice discerning on the superfluous cares of mankind, that could lead them to the thought of raising an estate by providing horses, equipage, and furniture, for those that no longer need 'em.
Cab. But is it not strangely contradictory, that men can come to so open, so apparent an hypocrisy, as in the face of all the world, to hire professed mourners to grieve, lament, and follow in their stead their nearest relations, and suborn others to do by art what they themselves should be prompted to by nature?
Sab. That's reasonably enough said, but they regard themselves only in all they act for the deceased, and the poor dead are delivered to my custody, to be embalmed, slashed, cut, and dragged about, not to do them honour, but to satisfy the vanity or interest of their survivors.
Cam. This fellow's every way an undertaker! How well and luckily he talks! His prating so aptly has methinks something more ridiculous in it than if he were absurd. [Aside to Cabinet.
Cab. But, as Mr. Campley says, how could you dream of making a fortune from so chimerical a foundation as the provision of things wholly needless and insignificant?
Sab. Alas, gentlemen, the value of all things under the sun is merely fantastic. We run, we strive, and purchase things with our blood and money, quite foreign to our intrinsic real happiness, and which have a being in imagination only, as you may see by the pudder[17] that is made about precedence, titles, court favour, maidenheads, and china-ware.
Cam. Ay, Mr. Sable, but all those are objects that promote our joy, are bright to the eye, or stamp upon our minds pleasure and self-satisfaction.
Sab. You are extremely mistaken, sir; for one would wonder to consider that after all our outcries against self-interested men, there are few, very few, in the whole world that live to themselves, but sacrifice their bosom-bliss to enjoy a vain show, and appearance of prosperity in the eyes of others; and there is often nothing more inwardly distressed than a young bride in her glittering retinue, or deeply joyful than a young widow in her weeds and black train; of both which, the lady of this house may be an instance, for she has been the one, and is, I'll be sworn, the other.
Cab. You talk, Mr. Sable, most learnedly!
Sab. I have the deepest learning, sir, experience. Remember your widow cousin that married last month.
Cab. Ay! But how could you imagine she was in all that grief an hypocrite? Could all those shrieks, those swoonings, that rising, falling bosom be constrained? You're uncharitable, Sable, to believe it——What colour, what reason had you for it?
Sab. First, sir, her carriage in her concerns with me, for I never yet could meet with a sorrowful relict, but was herself enough to make an hard bargain with me.[18]—Yet I must confess they have frequent interruptions of grief and sorrow when they read my bill—but as for her, nothing, she resolved, that looked bright or joyous should after her love's death approach her. All her servants that were not coal black must turn out; a fair complexion made her eyes and heart ache, she'd none but downright jet, and to exceed all example she hired my mourning furniture by the year, and in case of my mortality tied my son to the same article; so in six weeks' time ran away with a young fellow——Prithee push on briskly, Mr. Cabinet, now is your time to have this widow, for Tattleaid tells me she always said she'd never marry——
Cab. As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign.
Sab. I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one; you know those professions are only to introduce discourse of matrimony and young fellows.
Cab. But I swear I could not have confidence even after all our long acquaintance, and the mutual love which his lordship (who indeed has now been so kind as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a thing of such a nature so unseasonably——
Sab. Unseasonably! Why, I tell you 'tis the only season (granting her sorrow unfeigned): When would you speak of passion, but in the midst of passions? There's a what d'ye call, a crisis[19]—the lucky minute that's so talked of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you must take hold of and push your fortune——But get you in, and you'll best read your fate in the reception Mrs. Tattleaid gives you. All she says, and all she does, nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetition of her ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true lady's woman, and is herself as much a second-hand thing as her clothes. But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen, my people are come I see——[Exeunt Cab. and Camp.
Where in the name of goodness have you all been? Have you brought the sawdust and tar for embalming? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my lord's coat-of-arms?
Ser. Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the Herald's for a coat for Alderman Gathergrease that died last night——He has promised to invent one against to-morrow.
Sab. Ah! Pox take some of our cits, the first thing after their death is to take care of their birth——Pox, let him bear a pair of stockings, he's the first of his family that ever wore one. Well, come you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me that I may sort you. Ha, you! a little more upon the dismal [forming their countenances]; this fellow has a good mortal look—place him near the corpse. That wainscot face must be o' top of the stairs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the entrance of the hall—so—but I'll fix you all myself——Let's have no laughing now on any provocation [makes faces]. Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are.
Boy. Sir, the gravedigger of St. Timothy's-in-the-Fields would speak with you.
Sab. Let him come in.
Grav. I carried home to your house the shroud the gentleman was buried in last night. I could not get his ring off very easily, therefore I brought the finger and all; and sir, the sexton gives his service to you, and desires to know whether you'd have any bodies removed or not. If not, he'll let 'em lie in their graves a week longer.
Sab. Give him my service, I can't tell readily; but our friend, tell him, Dr. Passeport, with the powder, has promised me six or seven funerals this week. I'll send to our country-farm at Kensington Gravel Pits, and our City-house in Warwick Lane for news; you shall know time enough. Harkee, be sure there's care taken to give my Lady Languishe's woman a fee to keep out that young fellow came last from Oxford; he'll ruin us all.
I wonder, Goody Trash, you could not be more punctual, when I told you I wanted you, and your two daughters, to be three virgins to-night to stand in white about my Lady Katherine Grissel's body; and you know you were privately to bring her home from the man-midwife's, where she died in childbirth, to be buried like a maid; but there is nothing minded. Well, I have put off that till to-morrow; go and get your bag of brick-dust and your whiting. Go and sell to the cook-maids; know who has surfeited about town. Bring me no bad news, none of your recoveries again. And you, Mr. Blockhead, I warrant you have not called at Mr. Pestle's, the apothecary: Will that fellow never pay me? I stand bound for all the poison in that starving murderer's shop. He serves me just as Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against water-gruel, a damned healthy slop, that has done me more injury than all the faculty. Look you now, you are all upon the sneer; let me have none but downright stupid countenances——I've a good mind to turn you all off, and take people out of the play-house; but, hang 'em, they are as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours, they never act but when they speak; when the chief indication of the mind is in the gesture, or indeed in case of sorrow in no gesture, except you were to act a widow, or so——But yours, you dolts, is all in dumb show; dumb show? I mean expressive eloquent show: As who can see such an horrid ugly phiz as that fellow's and not be shocked, offended, and killed of all joy while he beholds it? But we must not loiter——Ye stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of all the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter [Makes mouths at them as they pass by him to bring them to a constant countenance]. So, they are pretty well—pretty well——
Enter Trusty and Lord Brumpton.
Tru. 'Twas fondness, sir, and tender duty to you, who have been so worthy and so just a master to me, made me stay near you; they left me so, and there I found you wake from your lethargic slumber; on which I will assume an authority to beseech you, sir, to make just use of your revived life, in seeing who are your true friends, and knowing her who has so wrought upon your noble nature as to make it act against itself in disinheriting your brave son.
Ld. B. Sure 'tis impossible she should be such a creature as you tell me——My mind reflects upon ten thousand endearments that plead unanswerably for her. Her chaste reluctant love, her easy observance of all my wayward humours, to which she would accommodate herself with so much ease, I could scarce observe it was a virtue in her; she hid her very patience.
Tru. It was all art, sir, or indifference to you, for what I say is downright matter of fact.
Ld. B. Why didst thou ever tell me it? or why not in my lifetime, for I must call it so, nor can I date a minute mine, after her being false; all past that moment is death and darkness: Why didst thou not tell me then, I say?
Tru. Because you were too much in love with her to be informed; nor did I ever know a man that touched on conjugal affairs could ever reconcile the jarring humours but in a common hatred of the intermeddler. But on this most extraordinary occasion, which seems pointed out by Heaven itself to disengage you from your cruelty and banishment of an innocent child, I must, I will conjure you to be concealed, and but contain yourself, in hearing one discourse with that cursed instrument of all her secrets, that Tattleaid, and you'll see what I tell you; you'll call me then your guardian and good genius.
Ld. B. Well, you shall govern me, but would I had died in earnest ere I'd known it; my head swims, as it did when I fell into my fit, at the thoughts of it——How dizzy a place is this world you live in! All human life's a mere vertigo!
Tru. Ay, ay, my lord, fine reflections—fine reflections,—but that does no business. Thus, sir, we'll stand concealed, and hear, I doubt not, a much sincerer dialogue than usual between vicious persons; for a late accident has given a little jealousy, which makes 'em over-act their love and confidence in each other. [They retire.
Enter Widow and Tattleaid meeting, and running to each other.
Wid. O, Tattleaid! His and our hour is come!
Tat. I always said, by his churchyard cough, you'd bury him, but still you were impatient——
Wid. Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confidant, my friend, and my servant; and now I'll reward thy pains; for though I scorn the whole sex of fellows, I'll give 'em hopes for thy sake; every smile, every frown, every gesture, humour, caprice and whimsey of mine shall be gold to thee, girl; thou shalt feel all the sweet and wealth of being a fine rich widow's woman. Oh! how my head runs my first year out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood! If thirteen months hence a friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see, what pleasure 'twill be when my Lady Brumpton's footman's called (who kept a place for that very purpose) to make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes. Then, with a pretty sorrow in one's face and a willing blush for being stared at, one ventures to look round and bow to one of one's own quality. Thus [very directly] to a smug pretending fellow of no fortune: Thus [as scarce seeing him] to one that writes lampoons: Thus [fearfully] to one one really loves: Thus [looking down] to one's woman-acquaintance; from box to box thus [with looks differently familiar]: And when one has done one's part, observe the actors do their's, but with my mind fixed not on those I look at, but those that look at me——Then the serenades! The lovers!
Tat. O, madam, you make my heart bound within me. I'll warrant you, madam, I'll manage 'em all; and indeed, madam, the men are really very silly creatures, 'tis no such hard matter——They rulers! They governors! I warrant you indeed!
Wid. Ay, Tattleaid, they imagine themselves mighty things, but government founded on force only is a brutal power. We rule them by their affections, which blinds them into belief that they rule us, or at least are in the government with us——But in this nation our power is absolute. Thus, thus, we sway—[playing her fan]. A fan is both the standard and the flag of England. I laugh to see the men go on our errands; strut in great offices; live in cares, hazards, and scandals; to come home and be fools to us in brags of their dispatches, negotiations, and their wisdom—as my good, dear deceased used to entertain me; which I, to relieve myself from, would lisp some silly request, pat him on the face——He shakes his head at my pretty folly, calls me simpleton, gives me a jewel, then goes to bed so wise, so satisfied, and so deceived!
Tat. But I protest, madam, I've always wondered how you could accomplish my young lord's being disinherited.
Wid. Why, Tatty, you must know my late lord—how prettily that sounds, my late lord! But I say, my late Lord Frible was generosity—I pressed him there, and whenever you, by my order, had told him stories to my son-in-law's disadvantage, in his rage and resentment I (whose interest lay otherwise) always fell on my knees to implore his pardon, and with tears, sighs, and importunities for him, prevailed against him; besides this, you know, I had, when I pleased, fits—fits are a mighty help in the government of a good-natured man; but in an ill-natured fellow have a care of 'em—he'll hate you for natural infirmities, will remember your face in its distortion, and not value your return of beauty.
Tat. O rare madam! your ladyship's a great headpiece; but now, dear madam, is the hard task, if I may take the liberty to say it—to enjoy all freedoms, and seem to abstain, to manage the number of pretenders, and keep the disobliged from prating——
Wid. Never fear, Tattleaid; while you have riches, if you affront one to abuse, you can give hopes to another to defend you. These maxims I have been laying up all my husband's life-time, for we must provide against calamities.
Tat. But now, madam, a fine young gentleman with a red coat, that dances——
Wid. You may be sure the happy man (if it be in fate that there is an happy man to make me an unhappy woman) shall not be an old one again. Age and youth married, is the cruelty in Dryden's Virgil, where Mezentius ties the dead and living together. I'm sure I was tied to a dead man many a long day before I durst bury him——But the day is now my own. Yet now I think on't, Tattleaid, be sure to keep an obstinate shyness to all our old acquaintance. Let 'em talk of favours if they please; if we grant 'em, still they'll grow tyrants to us; if we discard 'em, the chaste and innocent will not believe we could have confidence to do it, were it so; and the wise, if they believe it, will applaud our prudence.
Tat. Ay, madam—I believe, madam—I speak, madam, but my humble sense—Mr. Cabinet would marry you.
Wid. Marry me! No, Tattleaid. He that is so mean as to marry a woman after an affair with her, will be so base as to upbraid that very weakness. He that marries his wench will use her like his wench.—Such a pair must sure live in a secret mutual scorn of each other; and wedlock is hell if at least one side does not love, as it would be Heaven if both did; and I believe it so much Heaven, as to think it was never enjoyed in this world.
Wom. A gentleman to Mrs. Tattleaid——[Exit Tattleaid.
Wid. Go to him.—Bless me, how careless and open have I been to this subtle creature in the case of Cabinet; she's certainly in his interests——We people of condition are never guarded enough against those about us. They watch when our minds boil over with joy or grief, to come in upon us. How miserable it is to have one one hates always about one, and when one can't endure one's own reflection upon some actions, who can bear the thoughts of another upon 'em? But she has me by deep, deep secrets.—The Italians, they say, can readily remove the too much intrusted——Oh! their pretty scented gloves! This wench I know has played me false and horned me in my gallants. O Italy, I could resign all my female English liberty to thee, for thy much dearer female pleasure, revenge!
Well, what's the matter, dear Tatty?
Tat. The matter, madam? why, madam, Counsellor Puzzle is come to wait on your ladyship about the will, and the conveyance of the estate. There must, it seems, be no time lost for fear of things. Fie, fie, madam, you a widow these three hours and not looked on a parchment yet——Oh, impious, to neglect the will of the dead!
Wid. As you say, indeed, there is no will of an husband's so willingly obeyed as his last. But I must go in and receive him in my formalities, leaning on a couch, as necessary a posture as his going behind his desk when he speaks to a client——But do you bring him in hither till I am ready. [Exit.
Tat. Mr. Counsellor, Mr. Counsellor——[Calling.
Puz. 'Servant, good madam Tattleaid; my ancient friend is gone, but business must be minded——
Tat. I told my lady twice or thrice, as she lies in dumb grief on the couch within, that you were here, but she regarded me not; however, since you say 'tis of such moment, I'll venture to introduce you. Please but to repose here a little while I step in; for methinks I would a little prepare her.
Puz. Alas! alas! Poor lady! [Exit Tattleaid. Damned hypocrites! Well, this noble's death is a little sudden. Therefore, pray, let me recollect. Open the bag, good Tom. Now, Tom, thou art my nephew, my dear sister Kate's only son and my heir, therefore I will conceal from thee on no occasion anything, for I would enter thee into business as soon as possible. Know then, child, that the lord of this house was one of your men of honour and sense who lose the latter in the former, and are apt to take all men to be like themselves. Now this gentleman entirely trusted me, and I made the only use a man of business can of a trust—I cheated him. For I, imperceptibly, before his face, made his whole estate liable to an hundred per annum for myself, for good services, &c. As for legacies, they are good or not as I please; for, let me tell you, a man must take pen, ink, and paper, sit down by an old fellow, and pretend to take directions; but a true lawyer never makes any man's will but his own; and as the priest of old among us got near the dying man and gave all to the church, so now the lawyer gives all to the law.
Clerk. Ay, sir; but priests then cheated the nation by doing their offices in an unknown language.
Puz. True; but ours is a way much surer, for we cheat in no language at all, but loll in our own coaches, eloquent in gibberish, and learned in juggle——Pull out the parchment; there's the deed, I made it as long as I could. Well, I hope to see the day when the indenture shall be the exact measure of the land that passes by it; for 'tis a discouragement to the gown that every ignorant rogue of an heir should, in a word or two, understand his father's meaning, and hold ten acres of land by half-an-acre of parchment. Nay, I hope to see the time when that there is, indeed, some progress made in, shall be wholly effected, and by the improvement of the noble art of tautology every inn in Holborn an inn of court. Let others think of logic, rhetoric and I know not what impertinence, but mind thou tautology. What's the first excellence in a lawyer? Tautology. What the second? Tautology. What the third? Tautology—as an old pleader said of action. But turn to the deed [pulls out an immeasurable parchment], for the will is of no force if I please, for he was not capable of making one after the former—as I managed it; upon which account I now wait upon my lady. By the way, do you know the true meaning of the word, a deed?
Clerk. Ay, sir; a deed is as if a man should say the deed.
Puz. Right. 'Tis emphatically so-called because after it all deeds and actions are of no effect, and you have nothing to do but hang yourself, the only obliging thing you can then do——But I was telling you the use of tautology. Read toward the middle of that instrument.
Clerk [reads]. "I, the said Earl of Brumpton, do give, bestow, grant, and bequeath, over and above the said premises, all the site and capital messuage called by the name of Oatham, and all out-houses, barns, stables, and other edifices and buildings, yards, orchards, gardens, fields, arbours, trees, lands, earths, meadows, greens, pastures, feedings, woods, underwoods, ways, waters, watercourses, fishings, ponds, pools, commons, common of pasture, paths, heath-thickets, profits, commodities and emoluments, with their and every of their appurtenances [Puzzle nods and sneers as the synonimous words are repeating, whom Lord B. scornfully mimics] whatsoever, to the said capital messuage and site belonging, or in any wise appertaining, or with the same heretofore used, occupied or enjoyed, accepted, executed, known, or taken as part, parcel, or member of the same; containing in the whole, by estimation, four hundred acres of the large measure, or thereabouts, be the same more or less; all and singular, which the said site, capital messuage, and other the premises, with their and every of their appurtenances are situate, lying, and being——"
Puz. Hold, hold, good Tom; you do come on indeed in business, but don't use your nose enough in reading. [Reads in a ridiculous law-tone until out of breath.] Why, you're quite out—You read to be understood. Let me see it.—"I, the said Earl."—Now again, suppose this were to be in Latin. [Runs into Latin terminations.] Making Latin is only making it no English—"Ego predict—Comes de Brumpton—totas meas barnos—outhousas et stabulas—yardos"—But there needs no further perusal—I now recollect the whole. My lord, by this instrument, disinherits his son utterly, gives all to my lady, and moreover, grants the wards of two fortune-wards to her—id est, to be sold by her, which is the subject of my business to her ladyship, who, methinks, a little overdoes the affair of grief, in letting me wait thus long on such welcome articles. But here——
Enter Tattleaid, wiping her eyes.
Tat. I have in vain done all I can to make her regard me. Pray, Mr. Puzzle—you're a man of sense—come in yourself, and speak reason, to bring her to some consideration of herself, if possible.
Puz. Tom, I'll come down to the hall to you; dear madam, lead on.
[Ex. Clerk one way, Puzzle and Tattleaid another. Lord Brumpton and Trusty advance from their concealment, after a long pause, and staring at each other.
Ld. B. Trusty, on thy sincerity, on thy fidelity to me, thy friend, thy patron, and thy master, answer me directly to one question: am I really alive? Am I that identical, that numerical, that very same Lord Brumpton, that——
Tru. That very lord—that very Lord Brumpton, the very generous, honest, and good Lord Brumpton, who spent his strong and riper years with honour and reputation; but in his age of decay declined from virtue also. That very Lord Brumpton, who buried a fine lady who brought him a fine son, who is a fine gentleman; but in his age, that very man, unreasonably captivated with youth and beauty, married a very fine young lady, who has dishonoured his bed, disinherited his brave son, and dances o'er his grave.
Ld. B. Oh! that damned tautologist, too—that Puzzle and his irrevocable deed! [Pausing.] Well, I know I do not really live, but wander o'er the place where once I had a treasure. I'll haunt her, Trusty, gaze in that false beauteous face, till she trembles—till she looks pale—nay, till she blushes——
Tru. Ay, ay, my lord, you speak a ghost very much; there's flesh and blood in that expression, that false beauteous face!
Ld. B. Then since you see my weakness, be a friend, and arm me with all your care and all your reason——
Tru. If you'll condescend to let me direct you—you shall cut off this rotten limb, your false disloyal wife, and save your noble parts, your son, your family, your honour.
Short is the date in which ill acts prevail,
But honesty's a rock can never fail.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.—Lord Hardy's Lodgings.
Ld. H. Now, indeed, I am utterly undone; but to expect an evil softens the weight of it when it happens, and pain no more than pleasure is in reality so great as in expectation. But what will become of me? How shall I keep myself even above worldly want? Shall I live at home a stiff, melancholy, poor man of quality, grow uneasy to my acquaintance as well as myself, by fancying I'm slighted where I am not; with all the thousand particularities which attend those whom low fortune and high spirit make malcontents? No! We've a brave prince on the throne, whose commission I bear, and a glorious war in an honest cause approaching [clapping his hand on his sword], in which this shall cut bread for me, and may perhaps equal that estate to which my birth entitled me. But what to do in present pressures—Ha! Trim. [Calling.
Trim. My lord.
Ld. H. How do the poor rogues that are to recruit my Company?
Trim. Do, sir! They've ate you to your last guinea.
Ld. H. Were you at the agent's?
Trim. Yes.
Ld. H. Well? And how?
Trim. Why, sir, for your arrears, you may have eleven shillings in the pound; but he'll not touch your growing subsistence under three shillings in the pound interest; besides which you must let his clerk, Jonathan Item, swear the peace against you to keep you from duelling—or insure your life, which you may do for eight per cent. On these terms he'll oblige you, which he would not do for anybody else in the regiment; but he has a friendship for you.
Ld. H. Oh, I'm his humble servant; but he must have his own terms. We can't starve, nor must my fellows want. But methinks this is a calm midnight, I've heard no duns to-day——
Trim. Duns, my lord? Why now your father's dead, and they can't arrest you. I shall grow a little less upon the smooth with 'em than I have been. Why, friend, says I, how often must I tell you my lord is not stirring: His lordship has not slept well, you must come some other time; your lordship will send for him when you are at leisure to look upon money-affairs; or if they are so saucy, so impertinent as to press to a man of your quality for their own—there are canes, there's Bridewell, there's the stocks for your ordinary tradesmen. But to an haughty, thriving Covent Garden mercer, silk or laceman, your lordship gives your most humble service to him, hopes his wife's well. You have letters to write, or you'd see him yourself, but you desire he would be with you punctually such a day, that is to say the day after you are gone out of town.
Ld. H. Go, sirrah, you're scurrilous; I won't believe there are such men of quality. D'ye hear, give my service this afternoon to Mr. Cutpurse, the agent, and tell him I'm obliged to him for his readiness to serve me, for I'm resolved to pay my debts forthwith——
[A voice without. I don't know whether he is within or not. Mr. Trim, is my lord within?]
Ld. H. Trim, see who it is. I ain't within, you know. [Exit Trim.
Trim. [Without.] Yes, sir, my lord's above; pray walk up——
Ld. H. Who can it be? he owns me, too.
Dear Tom Campley, this is kind! You are an extraordinary man indeed, who in the sudden accession of a noble fortune can be still yourself, and visit your less happy friends.
Cam. No; you are, my lord, the extraordinary man, who, on the loss of an almost princely fortune, can be master of a temper that makes you the envy, rather than pity, of your more fortunate, not more happy friends.
Ld. H. O, sir, your servant—but let me gaze on thee a little, I han't seen thee since I came home into England—most exactly, negligently, genteelly dressed! I know there's more than ordinary in this [beating Campley's breast]. Come, confess, who shares with me here? I must have her real and poetical name. Come; she's in sonnet, Cynthia; in prose, mistress.
Cam. One you little dream of, though she is in a manner of your placing there.
Ld. H. My placing there?
Cam. Why, my lord, all the fine things you've said to me in the camp of my Lady Sharlot, your father's ward, ran in my head so very much, that I made it my business to become acquainted in that family, which I did by Mr. Cabinet's means, and am now in love in the same place with your lordship.
Ld. H. How? in love in the same place with me, Mr. Campley?
Cam. Ay, my lord, with t'other sister—with t'other sister.
Ld. H. What a dunce was I, not to know which, without your naming her! Why, thou art the only man breathing fit to deal with her. But my Lady Sharlot, there's a woman—so easily virtuous! So agreeably severe! Her motion so unaffected, yet so composed! Her lips breathe nothing but truth, good sense, and flowing wit.
Cam. Lady Harriot! there's the woman; such life, such spirit, such warmth in her eyes; such a lively commanding air in her glances; so spritely a mien, that carries in it the triumph of conscious beauty; her lips are made of gum and balm. There's something in that dear girl that fires my blood above—above—above——
Ld. H. Above what?
Cam. A grenadier's march.
Ld. H. A soft simile, I must confess! but oh that Sharlot! to recline this aching head, full of care, on that tender, snowy—faithful bosom!
Cam. O that Harriot! to embrace that beauteous[20]——
Ld. H. Ay, Tom; but methinks your head runs too much on the wedding night only, to make your happiness lasting; mine is fixed on the married state. I expect my felicity from Lady Sharlot, in her friendship, her constancy, her piety, her household cares, her maternal tenderness. You think not of any excellence of your mistress that is more than skin-deep——
Cam. When I know her further than skin-deep I'll tell you more of my mind.
Ld. H. O fie, Tom, how can you talk so lightly of a woman you love with honour.—But tell me, I wonder how you make your approaches in besieging such a sort of creature—she that loves addresses, gallantry, fiddles; that reigns and delights in a crowd of admirers. If I know her, she is one of those you may easily have a general acquaintance with, but hard to make particular.
Cam. You understand her very well. You must know I put her out of all her play by carrying it in a humourous manner. I took care in all my actions, before I discovered the lover, that she should in general have a good opinion of me; and have ever since behaved myself with all the good humour and ease I was able; so that she is now extremely at a loss how to throw me from the familiarity of an acquaintance into the distance of a lover; but I laugh her out of it. When she begins to frown and look grave at my mirth, I mimic her till she bursts out a-laughing.
Ld. H. That's ridiculous enough.
Cam. By Cabinet's interest over my Lady Brumpton, with gold and flattery to Mrs. Fardingale, an old maid her ladyship has placed about the young ladies, I have easy access at all times, and am this very day to be admitted by her into their apartment. I have found, you must know, that she is my relation.
Ld. H. Her ladyship has chose an odd companion for young ladies.
Cam. Oh, my lady's a politician. She told Tattleaid one day, that an old maid was the best guard for young ones, for they, like eunuchs in a seraglio, are vigilant out of envy of enjoyments they cannot themselves arrive at. But, as I was saying, I've sent my cousin Fardingale a song, which she and I are to practise to the spinet. The young ladies will be by; and I am to be left alone with Lady Harriot; then I design to make my grand attack, and to-day win or lose her. I know, sir, this is an opportunity you want. If you'll meet me at Tom's,[21] have a letter ready, I'll myself deliver it to your mistress, conduct you into the house, and tell her you are there—and find means to place you together. You must march under my command to-day, as I have many a one under yours.
Ld. H. But 'faith, Tom, I shall not behave myself with half the resolution you have under mine, for to confess my weakness, though I know she loves me, though I know she is as steadfastly mine as her heart can make her; I know not how, I have so sublime an idea of her high value, and such a melting tenderness dissolves my whole frame when I am near her, that my tongue falters, my nerves shake, and my heart so alternately sinks and rises, that my premeditated resolves vanish into confusion, down-cast eyes, and broken utterance——
Cam. Ha! ha! ha! this in a campaigner too! Why, my lord, that's the condition Harriot would have me in, and then she thinks she could have me; but I, that know her better than she does herself, know she'd insult me, and lead me a two years' dance longer, and perhaps in the end turn me into the herd of the many neglected men of better sense, who have been ridiculous for her sake. But I shall make her no such sacrifice. 'Tis well my Lady Sharlot's a woman of so solid an understanding; I don't know another that would not use you ill for your high value.
Ld. H. But, Tom, I must see your song you've sent your cousin Fardingale, as you call her.
Cam. This is lucky enough [Aside]. No; hang it, my lord, a man makes so silly a figure when his verses are reading. Trim—thou hast not left off thy loving and thy rhyming; Trim's a critic, I remember him a servitor at Oxon [Gives a paper to Trim]. I give myself into his hands, because you shan't see 'em till I'm gone. My lord, your servant, you shan't stir.
Ld. H. Nor you neither then. [Struggling.]
Cam. You will be obeyed. [Exeunt. Lord Hardy waits on him down.
Trim. What's in this song? Ha! don't my eyes deceive me—a bill of three hundred pounds——
"Mr. Cash,
"Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or bearer, the sum of three hundred pounds, and place it to the account of,
"Sir,
"Your humble servant,
"Thomas Campley."
[Pulling off his hat and bowing.] Your very humble servant, good Mr. Campley. Ay, this is poetry—this is a song indeed! Faith, I'll set it, and sing it myself. Pray pay to Mr. William Trim—so far in recitativo—three hundred [singing ridiculously]—hun—dred—hundred—hundred thrice repeated, because 'tis three hundred pounds—I love repetitions in music, when there's a good reason for it,—po—unds after the Italian manner. If they'd bring me such sensible words as these, I'd outstrip all your composers for the music prize. This was honestly done of Mr. Campley, though I have carried him many a purse from my master when he was ensign to our Company in Flanders——
My lord, I am your lordship's humble servant.
Ld. H. Sir, your humble servant. But pray, my good familiar friend, how come you to be so very much my humble servant all of a sudden?
Trim. I beg pardon, dear sir, my lord, I am not your humble servant.
Ld. H. No!
Trim. Yes, my lord, I am, but not as you mean; but I am—I am, my lord—in short, I'm overjoyed.
Ld. H. Overjoyed! thou'rt distracted, what ails the fellow? Where's Campley's song?
Trim. Oh! my lord, one would not think 'twas in him. Mr. Campley's really a very great poet; as for the song, 'tis only as they all end in rhyme: Ow—woe—isses—kisses—boy—joy. But, my lord, the other in long heroic blank verse.
[Reading it with a great tone.
Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or order, the sum of—How sweetly it runs! Pactolian guineas chink every line.
Ld. H. How very handsomely this was done in Campley! I wondered, indeed, he was so willing to show his verses. In how careless a manner that fellow does the greatest actions!
Trim. My lord, pray my lord, shan't I go immediately to Cutpurse's?
Ld. H. No, sirrah, now we have no occasion for it.
Trim. No, my lord, only to stare him full in the face after I have received this money, not say a word, but keep my hat on, and walk out. Or perhaps not hear, if any I meet with speak to me, but grow stiff, deaf, and shortsighted to all my old acquaintance, like a sudden rich man as I am. Or, perhaps, my lord, desire Cutpurse's clerk to let me leave fifty pounds at their house, payable to Mr. William Trim, or order, till I come that way, or, a month or two hence, may have occasion for it: I don't know what bills may be drawn upon me. Then when the clerk begins to stare at me, till he pulls the great goose-quill from behind his ear [Pulls a handfull of farthings out] I fall a-reckoning the pieces as I do these farthings.
Ld. H. Well, sirrah, you may have your humour, but be sure you take four score pounds, and pay my debts immediately. If you meet any officer you ever see me in company with, that looks grave at Cutpurse's house, tell him I'd speak with him: We must help our friends. But learn moderation, you rogue, in your good fortune; be at home all the evening after, while I wait at Tom's to meet Campley, in order to see Lady Sharlot.
My good or ill in her alone is found,
And in that thought all other cares are drowned.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Enter Sable, Lord Brumpton and Trusty.
Sab. Why, my lord, you can't in conscience put me off so. I must do according to my orders, cut you up, and embalm you, except you'll come down a little deeper than you talk of; you don't consider the charges I have been at already.
Ld. B. Charges! for what?
Sab. First, twenty guineas to my lady's woman for notice of your death (a fee I've, before now, known the widow herself go halves in), but no matter for that. In the next place, ten pounds for watching you all your long fit of sickness last winter.
Ld. B. Watching me? Why I had none but my own servants by turns.
Sab. I mean attending to give notice of your death. I had all your long fit of sickness last winter, at half-a-crown a day, a fellow waiting at your gate to bring me intelligence, but you unfortunately recovered, and I lost my obliging pains for your service.
Ld. B. Ha! ha! ha! Sable, thou art a very impudent fellow; half-a-crown a day to attend my decease, and dost thou reckon it to me?
Sab. Look you, gentlemen, don't stand staring at me. I have a book at home which I call my Doomsday book, where I have every man of quality's age and distemper in town, and know when you should drop. Nay, my lord, if you had reflected upon your mortality half so much as poor I have for you, you would not desire to return to life thus; in short, I cannot keep this a secret, under the whole money I am to have for burying you.
Ld. B. Trusty, if you think it safe in you to obey my orders after the deed Puzzle told his clerk of, pay it to him.
Tru. I should be glad to give it out of my own pocket, rather than be without the satisfaction of seeing you witness to it.
Ld. B. I heartily believe thee, dear Trusty.
Sab. Then, my lord, the secret of your being alive, is now safe with me.
Tru. I'll warrant I'll be revenged of this unconscionable dog [Aside]—My lord, you must to your closet, I fear somebody's coming. [Exeunt Sable one way, Ld. B. and Trusty another.]
SCENE III.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Lady Sharlot discovered reading at a table; Lady Harriot playing at a glass to and fro, and viewing herself.
L. Ha. Nay, good sage sister, you may as well talk to me [Looking at herself as she speaks], as sit staring at a book, which I know you can't attend. Good Dr. Lucas[22] may have writ there what he pleases, but there's no putting Francis Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of your head, or making him absent from your eyes; do but look at me now, and deny it if you can.
L. Sh. You are the maddest girl——[Smiling.
L. Ha. Look ye, I knew you could not say it and forbear laughing [Looking over Sharlot]. Oh, I see his name as plain as you do—F—r—a—n Fran, c—i—s cis, Francis, 'tis in every line of the book.
L. Sh. [Rising] 'Tis in vain, I see, to mind anything in such impertinent company, but granting 'twere as you say as to my Lord Hardy, 'tis more excusable to admire another than one's self.
L. Ha. No, I think not; yes, I grant you than really to be vain at one's person, but I don't admire myself. Pish! I don't believe my eyes have that softness [Looking in the glass], they ain't so piercing. No, 'tis only stuff the men will be talking. Some people are such admirers of teeth. Lord, what signifies teeth? [Showing her teeth.] A very black-a-moor has as white teeth as I. No, sister, I don't admire myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction in me; I don't know I'm in love myself, only to rival the men.
L. Sh. Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground even of that rival of his, your dear self.
L. Ha. Oh! what have I done to you, that you should name that insolent intruder, a confident opinionative fop. No indeed, if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of both sexes—
The public envy, and the public care,
I shan't be so easily catched—I thank him—I want but to be sure I should heartily torment him, by banishing him, and then consider whether he should depart this life, or not.
L. Sh. Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this vanity in your humour does not at all become you!
La. H. Vanity! All the matter is we gay people are more sincere than you wise folks: All your life's an art. Speak your soul—look you there—[Haling her to the glass] are not you struck with a secret pleasure, when you view that bloom in your looks, that harmony in your shape, that promptitude of your mien?
L. Sh. Well, simpleton, if I am at first so silly, as to be a little taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take pains to correct it.
L. Ha. Pshaw! pshaw! talk this musty tale to old Mrs. Fardingale, 'tis too soon for me to think at that rate.
L. Sh. They that think it too soon to understand themselves, will very soon find it too late. But tell me honestly, don't you like Campley?
L. Ha. The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward thing did not think of getting me so easily. Oh! I hate a heart I can't break when I please. What makes the value of dear china, but that 'tis so brittle? Were it not for that, you might as well have stone mugs in your closet.
L. Sh. Hist, hist, here's Fardingale.
Far. Lady Harriot, Lady Sharlot! I'll entertain you now, I've a new song just come hot out of the poet's brain. Lady Sharlot, my cousin Campley writ it, and 'tis set to a pretty air, I warrant you.
L. Ha. 'Tis like to be pretty indeed, of his writing. [Flings away.
Far. Come, come, this is not one of your tringham trangham witty things, that your poor poets write; no, 'tis well known my cousin Campley has two thousand pounds a year. But this is all dissimulation in you.
L. Sh. 'Tis so, indeed, for your cousin's song is very pretty, Mrs. Fardingale.
[Reads.]
Let not love on me bestow
Soft distress and tender woe;
I know none but substantial blisses,
Eager glances, solid kisses;
I know not what the lovers feign,
Of finer pleasure mixed with pain.
Then prithee give me, gentle boy,
None of thy grief, but all thy joy.[23]
But Harriot thinks that a little unreasonable, to expect one without enduring t'other.
Ser. There's your cousin Campley to wait on you without.
Far. Let him come in, we shall have the song now.
Cam. Ladies, your most obedient servant; your servant, Lady Sharlot—servant Lady Harriot—[Harriot looks grave upon him] What's the matter, dear Lady Harriot, not well? I protest to you I'm mightily concerned [Pulls out a bottle]. This is a most excellent spirit, snuff it up, madam.
L. Ha. Pish—the familiar coxcomb frets me heartily.
Cam. 'Twill over, I hope, immediately.
L. Sh. Your cousin Fardingale has shown us some of your poetry; there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know you're musical.
Cam. She should not have called it my poetry.
Far. No—who waits there—pray bring my lute out of the next room.
Enter Servant with a Lute.
You must know I conned this song before I came in, and find it will go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's[24], who was my mother's intimate acquaintance; my mother's, what do I talk of? I mean my grandmother's. Oh, here's the lute; cousin Campley, hold the song upon your hat.—[Aside to him] 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation.
[Sings and Squalls.]
Let not love, &c.
Oh! I have left off these things many a day.
Cam. No; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, but are not assured enough. Take it higher [in her own squall]. Thus—I know your voice will bear it.
L. Ha. O hideous! O the gross flatterer—I shall burst. Mrs. Fardingale, pray go on, the music fits the words most aptly. Take it higher, as your cousin advises.
Far. Oh! dear madam, do you really like it? I do it purely to please you, for I can't sing, alas!
L. Sh. We know it, good madam, we know it. But pray——
Far. "Let not love," and "substantial blisses," is lively enough, and ran accordingly in the tune. [Curtsies to the company.] Now I took it higher.
L. Ha. Incomparably done! Nothing can equal it, except your cousin sang his own poetry.
Cam. Madam, from my Lord Hardy. [Delivers a letter to Lady Sharlot.]—How do you say, my Lady Harriot, except I sing it myself? Then I assure you I will——
L. Sh. I han't patience. I must go read my letter. [Exit.
Cam. [Sings] Let not love, &c.
Far. Bless me, what's become of Lady Sharlot? [Exit.
L. Ha. Mrs. Fardingale, Mrs. Fardingale, what, must we lose you? [Going after her.
Campley runs to the door, takes the key out, and locks her in.
What means this insolence? a plot upon me—Do you know who I am?
Cam. Yes, madam, you're my Lady Harriot Lovely, with ten thousand pounds in your pocket; and I am Mr. Campley, with two thousand a year, of quality enough to pretend to you. And I do design, before I leave this room, to hear you talk like a reasonable woman, as nature has made you. Nay, 'tis in vain to flounce, and discompose yourself and your dress.
L. Ha. If there are swords, if they are men of honour, and not all dastards, cowards that pretend to this injured person——[Running round the room.
Cam. Ay, ay, madam, let 'em come. That's putting me in my way, fighting's my trade; but you've used all mankind too ill to expect so much service. In short, madam, were you a fool I should not desire to expostulate with you. [Seizing her hand.] But——
L. Ha. Unhand me, ravisher. [Pulls her hand from him, chases round the room, Campley after her.
Cam. But madam, madam, madam, why madam!
Prithee Cynthia look behind you, [Sings.
Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you.
L. Ha. Age, wrinkles, small-pox, nay, anything that's most abhorrent to youth and bloom, were welcome in the place of so detested a creature.
Cam. No such matter, Lady Harriot. I would not be a vain coxcomb, but I know I am not detestable, nay, know where you've said as much before you understood me for your servant. Was I immediately transformed because I became your lover?
L. Ha. My lover, sir! did I ever give you reason to think I admitted you as such?
Cam. Yes, you did in your using me ill; for if you did not assume upon the score of my pretending to you, how do you answer to yourself some parts of your behaviour to me as a gentleman? 'Tis trivial, all this, in you, and derogates from the good sense I know you mistress of. Do but consider, madam, I have long loved you, bore with your fantastic humour through all its mazes. Nay, do not frown, for 'tis no better. I say I have bore with this humour, but would you have me with an unmanly servitude feed it? No, I love you with too sincere, too honest a devotion, and would have your mind as faultless as your person, which 'twould be, if you'd lay aside this vanity of being pursued with sighs, with flatteries, with nonsense [She walks about less violently, but more confused.]—Oh! my heart aches at the disturbance which I give her, but she must not see it. [Aside.]—Had I not better tell you of it now, than when your are in my power? I should be then too generous to thwart your inclination.
L. Ha. That is indeed very handsomely said. Why should I not obey reason as soon as I see it? [Aside.]—Since so, Mr. Campley, I can as ingenuously as I should then, acknowledge that I have been in an error. [Looking down on her fan.
Cam. Nay, that's too great a condescension. Oh! excellence! I repent! I see 'twas but justice in you to demand my knees [kneeling], my sighs, my constant, tenderest regard and service. And you shall have 'em, since you are above 'em.
L. Ha. Nay, Mr. Campley, you won't recall me to a fault you have so lately shown me. I will not suffer this—no more ecstasies! But pray, sir, what was't you did to get my sister out of the room?
Cam. You may know it, and I must desire you to assist my Lord Hardy there, who writ to her by me; for he is no ravisher, as you called me just now. He is now in the house, and I would fain gain an interview.
L. Ha. That they may have, but they'll make little use of it; for the tongue is the instrument of speech to us of a lower form: They are of that high order of lovers, who know none but eloquent silence, and can utter themselves only by a gesture that speaks their passion inexpressible, and what not fine things.
Cam. But pray let's go into your sister's closet while they are together.
L. Ha. I swear I don't know how to see my sister—she'll laugh me to death to see me out of my pantofles,[25] and you and I thus familiar. However, I know she'll approve it.
Cam. You may boast yourself an heroine to her, and the first woman that was ever vanquished by hearing truth, and had sincerity enough to receive so rough an obligation as being made acquainted with her faults. Come, madam, stand your ground bravely, we'll march in to her thus. [She leaning on Campley.
L. Ha. Who'll believe a woman's anger more? I've betrayed the whole sex to you, Mr. Campley. [Exeunt.
Re-enter Lord Hardy and Campley.
Cam. My lord, her sister, who now is mine, will immediately send her hither. But be yourself: Charge her bravely. I wish she were a cannon, an eighteen-pounder, for your sake. Then I know, were there occasion, you'd be in the mouth of her.
Ld. H. I long, yet fear to see her. I know I am unable to utter myself.
Cam. Come, retire here till she appears. [They go back to the door.
L. Sh. Now is the tender moment now approaching. [Aside.] There he is. [They approach and salute each other trembling.] Your lordship will please to sit. [After a very long pause, stolen glances, and irresolute gesture.] Your lordship, I think, has travelled those parts of Italy where the armies are.
Ld. H. Yes, madam.
L. Sh. I think I have letters from you, dated Mantua.
Ld. H. I hope you have, madam, and that their purpose——
L. Sh. My lord? [Looking serious and confused.
Ld. H. Was not your ladyship going to say something?
L. Sh. I only attended to what your lordship was going to say—That is, my lord—But you were, I believe, going to say something of that garden of the world, Italy. I am very sorry your misfortunes in England are such as make you justly regret your leaving that place.
Ld. H. There is a person in England may make those losses insensible to me.
L. Sh. Indeed, my lord, there have so very few of quality attended his Majesty in the war, that your birth and merit may well hope for his favour.
Ld. H. I have, indeed, all the zeal in the world for his Majesty's service, and most grateful affection for his person, but did not then mean him.
L. Sh. But can you indeed impartially say that our island is really preferable to the rest of the world, or is it an arrogance only in us to think so?
Ld. H. I profess, madam, that little I have seen has but more endeared England to me; for that medley of humours which perhaps distracts our public affairs, does, methinks, improve our private lives, and makes conversation more various, and consequently more pleasing. Everywhere else both men and things have the same countenance. In France you meet much civility and little friendship; in Holland, deep attention, but little reflection; in Italy, all pleasure, but no mirth. But here with us, where you have everywhere pretenders or masters in everything, you can't fall into company wherein you shall not be instructed or diverted.
L. Sh. I never had an account of anything from you, my lord, but I mourned the loss of my brother; you would have been so happy a companion for him, with that right sense of yours. My lord, you need not bow so obsequiously, for I do you but justice. But you sent me word of your seeing a lady in Italy very like me. Did you visit her often?
Ld. H. Once or twice, but I observed her so loose a creature, that I could have killed her for having your person.
L. Sh. I thank you, sir; but Heaven that preserves me unlike her, will, I hope, make her more like me. But your fellow traveller—his relations themselves know not a just account of him.
Ld. H. The original cause of his fever was a violent passion for a fine young woman he had not power to speak to, but I told her his regard for her as passionately as possible.
L. Sh. You were to him what Mr. Campley has been to you—Whither am I running?—Poor, your friend—poor gentleman——
Ld. H. I hope then as Campley's eloquence is greater, so has been his success.
L. Sh. My lord?
Ld. H. Your ladyship's——
L. Ha. Undone! Undone! Tattleaid has found, by some means or other, that Campley brought my Lord Hardy hither; we are utterly ruined, my lady's coming.
Ld. H. I'll stay and confront her.
L. Sh. It must not be; we are too much in her power.
Cam. Come, come, my lord, we're routed horse and foot. Down the back stairs, and so out.
Ladies. Ay, ay. [Exeunt.
L. Ha. I tremble every joint of me.
L. Sh. I'm at a stand a little, but rage will recover me; she's coming in.
Wid. Ladies, your servant. I fear I interrupt you; have you company? Lady Harriot, your servant; Lady Sharlot, your servant. What, not a word? Oh, I beg your ladyship's pardon. Lady Sharlot, did I say? My young Lady Brumpton, I wish you joy.
L. Sh. Oh, your servant, Lady Dowager Brumpton. That's an appellation of much more joy to you.
Wid. So smart, madam! but you should, methinks, have made one acquainted—Yet, madam, your conduct is seen through.
L. Sh. My conduct, Lady Brumpton!
Wid. Your conduct, Lady Sharlot! [Coming up to each other.
L. Sh. Madam, 'tis you are seen through all your thin disguises.
Wid. I seen? By whom?
L. Sh. By an all-piercing eye, nay, by what you much more fear, the eye of the world. The world sees you, or shall see you. It shall know your secret intemperance, your public fasting—Loose poems in your closet, an homily on your toilet—Your easy, skilful, practised hypocrisy, by which you wrought upon your husband, basely to transfer the trust and ward of us, two helpless virgins, into the hands and care of—I cannot name it. You're a wicked woman.
L. Ha. [Aside.] O rare sister! 'Tis a fine thing to keep one's anger in stock by one. We that are angry and pleased every half-hour have nothing at all of all this high-flown fury! Why, she rages like a princess in a tragedy! Blessings on her tongue.
Wid. Is this the effect of your morning lectures, your self-examination, all this fury?
L. Sh. Yes it is, madam; if I take pains to govern my passions, it shall not give licence to others to govern them for me.
Wid. Well, Lady Sharlot, however you ill deserve it of me, I shall take care, while there are locks and bars, to keep you from Lord Hardy—from being a leager lady, from carrying a knapsack.
L. Sh. Knapsack! Do you upbraid the poverty your own wicked arts have brought him to? Knapsack! O grant me patience! Can I hear this of the man I love? Knapsack! I have not words. [Stamps about the room.
Wid. I leave you to cool upon it; love and anger are very warm passions. [Exit.
L. Ha. She has locked us in.
L. Sh. Knapsack? Well, I will break walls to go to him. I could sit down and cry my eyes out! Dear sister, what a rage have I been in? Knapsack! I'll give vent to my just resentment. Oh, how shall I avoid this base woman; how meet that excellent man! What an helpless condition are you and I in now! If we run into the world, that youth and innocence which should demand assistance does but attract invaders. Will Providence guard us? How do I see that our sex is naturally indigent of protection! I hope 'tis in fate to crown our loves; for 'tis only in the protection of men of honour that we are naturally truly safe—
And woman's happiness, for all her scorn,
Is only by that side whence she was born.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—Lord Hardy's Lodgings.
Enter Lord Hardy, Campley, and Trim.
Ld. H. That jade Tattleaid saw me upon the stairs, for I had not patience to keep my concealment, but must peep out to see what was become of you.
Cam. But we have advice, however, it seems, from the garrison already—this mistress of Trim's is a mighty lucky accident.
Trim. Ay, gentlemen, she has free egress and regress, and you know the French are the best-bred people in the world—she'll be assistant. But, 'faith, I have one scruple that hangs about me; and that is, look you, my lord, we servants have no masters in their absence. In a word, when I am with mademoiselle I talk of your lordship as only a particular acquaintance; that I do business indeed for you sometimes. I must needs say, cries I, that indeed my Lord Hardy is really a person I have a great honour for.
Ld. H. Pish! is that all? I understand you; your mistress does not know that you do me the honour to clean my shoes or so, upon occasion. Pr'ythee, Will, make yourself as considerable as you please.
Trim. Well, then, your lesson is this. She, out of respect to me, and understanding Mr. Campley was an intimate of my friend, my Lord Hardy, and condescending (though she is of a great house in France) to make manteaus for the improvement of the English—which gives her easy admittance—she, I say, moved by these promises,[26] has vouchsafed to bring a letter from my Lady Harriot to Mr. Campley, and came to me to bring her to him. You are to understand also that she is dressed in the latest French cut; her dress is the model of their habit, and herself of their manners. For she is—but you shall see her. [Exit.
Ld. H. This gives me some life! Cheer up, Tom—but behold the solemnity. Do you see Trim's gallantry? I shall laugh out.
Enter Trim leading in Mademoiselle.
Trim. My dear Lord Hardy, this is Mademoiselle d'Epingle, whose name you've often heard me sigh. [Lord Hardy salutes her.] Mr. Campley—Mademoiselle d'Epingle. [Campley salutes her.]
Mad. Votre servante, gentlemen, votre servante.
Cam. I protest to you I never saw anything so becoming as your dress. Shall I beg the favour you'd condescend to let Mr. Trim lead you once round the room, that I may admire the elegance of your habit? [Trim leads her round.
Ld. H. How could you ask such a thing?
Cam. Pshaw, my lord, you are a bashful English fellow. You see she is not surprised at it, but thinks me gallant in desiring it. Oh, madam! your air! the negligence, the disengagement of your manner! Oh how delicate is your noble nation! I swear there's none but the clumsy Dutch and English would oppose such polite conquerors. When shall you see an Englishwoman so dressed?
Mad. De Englise! poor barbarians; poor savages; dey know no more of de dress but to cover dere nakedness [Glides along the room]. Dey be cloded, but no dressed—But, Monsieur Terim, which Monsieur Campley?
Trim. That's honest Tom Campley.
Cam. At your service, mademoiselle.
Mad. I fear I incur de censure [Pulling out the letter, and recollecting as loth to deliver it], but Mr. Terim being your intimate friend, and I designing to honour him in de way of an husband—so—so—how do I run away in discourse—I never make promise to Mr. Terim before, and now to do it par accident——
Cam. Dear Will Trim is extremely obliging in having prevailed upon you to do a thing that the severity of your virtue, and the greatness of your quality (though a stranger in the country you now honour by your dwelling in it) would not let you otherwise condescend to——
Mad. Oh, monsieur! oh, monsieur! you speak my very thoughts. Oh! I don't know how, pardon me, to give a billet—it so look! O fie! I can no stay after it. [Drops it, runs affectedly to the other end of the room, then quite out; re-enters.] I beg ten tousand pardons for go away to mal-propos. [Curtsies as going.
Ld. H. Your servant, good madam. Mr. Trim, you know you command here. Pray, if Madam d'Epingle will honour our cottage with longer stay, wait on her in and entertain her. Pray, sir, be free.
Trim. My lord, you know your power over me; I'm all complaisance. [Leads her out.
Cam. Now to my dear epistle—
"Sir,
"There is one thing which you were too generous to touch upon in our last conversation. We have reason to fear the Widow's practices in relation to our fortunes, if you are not too quick for her. I ask Lady Sharlot whether this is not her sense to Lord Hardy. She says nothing, but lets me write on. These people always have, and will have, admittance everywhere, therefore we may hear from you.
"I am, sir,
"Your most obedient servant,
"Harriot Lovely."
My obedient servant! Thy obedience shall ever be as voluntary as now—ten thousand thousand kisses on thee, thou dear paper. Look you, my lord, what a pretty hand it is?
Ld. H. Why, Tom, thou dost not give me leave to see it. You snatch it to your mouth so, you'll stifle the poor lady.
Cam. Look you, my lord, all along the lines here went the pen; and through them white intervals her snowy fingers. Do you see, this is her name?
Ld. H. Nay, there's Lady Sharlot's name, too, in the midst of the letter. Why, you'll not be so unconscionable; you're so greedy, you'll give me one kiss sure?
Cam. Well, you shall; but you're so eager. Don't bite me, for you shan't have it in your own hands. There, there, there: Let go my hand.
Ld. H. What an exquisite pleasure there is in this foolery—but what shall we do?
Cam. I have a thought; pry'thee, my lord, call Trim.
Ld. H. Ha, Trim——
Cam. Hold, Mr. Trim. You forget his mistress is there.
Ld. H. Gra'mercy! Dear Will Trim, step in hither.
Cam. Ay, that's something——
Trim, have not I seen a young woman sometimes carry Madam d'Epingle's trinkets for her, coming from my Lady Brumpton's?
Trim. Yes, you might have seen such a one; she waits for her now.
Cam. Do you think you could not prevail for me to be dressed in that wench's clothes, and attend your mistress in her stead thither? They'll not dream we should so soon attempt again——
Trim. Yes, I'll engage it.
Cam. Then we'll trust the rest to our good genius. I'll about it instantly—Harriot Lovely——[Exit, kissing the letter.
SCENE II.—Lady Brumpton's Room.
Enter Widow and Tattleaid.
Wid. This was well done of you; be sure you take care of their young ladyships; you shall, I promise you, have a snip in the sale of 'em.
Tat. I thank your good ladyship.
Wid. Is that the porter's paper of how d'ye's?
Tat. Yes, madam, he just sent it up. His general answer is, that you're as well as can be expected in your condition, but that you see nobody.
Wid. That's right. [Reading names.] Lady Riggle, Lady Formal—Oh! that Riggle, a pert ogler, an indiscreet silly thing, who is really known by no man, yet for her carriage, justly thought common to all; and as Formal has only the appearance of virtue, so she has only the appearance of vice. What chance, I wonder, put these contradictions to each other into the same coach, as you say they called? Mrs. Frances and Mrs. Winifred Glebe—who are they?
Tat. They are the country great fortunes have been out of town this whole year; they are those whom your ladyship said upon being very well born took upon 'em to be very ill bred.
Wid. Did I say so? really I think 'twas apt enough, now I remember 'em. Lady Wrinkle—oh, that smug old woman! There's no enduring her affectation of youth, but I plague her; I always ask whether her daughter in Wiltshire has a grandchild yet or not. Lady Worthy—I can't bear her company, she has so much of that virtue in her heart which I have in my mouth only. [Aside.] Mrs. After-Day—oh that's she that was the great beauty, the mighty toast about town—that's just come out of the small-pox; she's horribly pitted they say; I long to see her and plague her with my condolence. 'Tis a pure ill-natured satisfaction to see one that was a beauty unfortunately move with the same languor and softness of behaviour that once was charming in her—to see, I say, her mortify that used to kill—ha! ha! ha! The rest are a catalogue of mere names or titles they were born to, an insipid crowd of neither good nor bad; but you are sure these other ladies suspect not in the least that I know of their coming?
Tat. No, dear madam, they are to ask for me.
Wid. I hear a coach. [Exit Tat.] I've now an exquisite pleasure in the thought of surpassing my Lady Sly, who pretends to have out-grieved the whole town for her husband. They are certainly coming.—Oh no! here, let me—thus let me sit and think.
[Widow on her couch; while she is raving as to herself, Tattleaid softly brings in the ladies.]
Wretched, disconsolate as I am! Oh welcome, welcome, dear killing anguish! Oh, that I could lie down and die in my present heaviness—but what—how? Nay, my dear, dear lord, why do you look so pale, so ghastly at me? Wottoo, wottoo, fright thy own trembling, shivering wife——
Tat. Nay, good madam, be comforted.
Wid. Thou shalt not have me. [Pushes Tat.
Tat. Nay, good madam, 'tis I, 'tis I, your ladyship's own woman—'tis I, madam, that dress you, and talk to you, and tell you all that's done in the house every day; 'tis I——
Wid. Is it, then, possible? Is it, then, possible that I am left? Speak to me not—hold me not. I'll break the listening walls with my complaints. [Looks surprised at seeing company, then severely at Tattleaid.] Ah! Tattleaid——
1st La. Nay, madam, be not angry at her, we would come in in spite of her. We are your friends and are as concerned as you——
Wid. Ah! madam, madam, madam, madam, I am an undone woman. Oh me! Alas! Alas! Oh! Oh! [All join in her notes.] I swoon—I expire. [Faints.
2nd La. Pray, Mrs. Tattleaid, bring something that is cordial to her. [Exit Tattleaid.
3rd La. Indeed, madam, you should have patience. His lordship was old. To die is but going before in a journey we must all take.
Enter Tattleaid loaded with bottles. 3rd Lady takes a bottle from her and drinks.
4th La. Lord, how my Lady Fleer drinks; I've heard, indeed, but never could believe it of her. [Drinks also.
1st La. But, madam,[27] don't you hear what the town says of the jilt Flirt the men liked so much in the Park? Hark ye—was seen with him in an Hackney-coach—and silk stockings—key-hole—his wig—on the chair——[Whispers by interruptions.
2nd La. Impudent Flirt, to be found out!
3rd La. But I speak it only to you——
4th La. Nor I but to one more——[Whispers next woman.
5th La. I can't believe it; nay, I always thought it, madam——[Whispers the Widow.
Wid. Sure, 'tis impossible! the demure, prim thing! Sure all the world's hypocrisy. Well, I thank my stars, whatsoever sufferings I have, I've none in reputation. I wonder at the men; I could never think her handsome. She has really a good shape and complexion, but no mien; and no woman has the use of her beauty without mien! Her charms are dumb, they want utterance. But whither does distraction lead me—to talk of charms?
1st La. Charms? A chit's, a girl's charms. Come, let us widows be true to ourselves, keep our countenances and our characters, and a fig for the maids—I mean for the unmarried.
2nd La. Ay, since they will set up for our knowledge, why should not we for their ignorance?
3rd La. But, madam, on Sunday morning at church I curtsied to you, and looked at a great fuss in a glaring light dress next pew. That strong masculine thing is a knight's wife, pretends to all the tenderness in the world, and would fain put the unwieldy upon us for the soft, the languid! She has of a sudden left her dairy, and sets up for a fine town-lady, calls her maid Sisly her woman, speaks to her by her surname, Mrs. Cherryfist, and her great foot-boy of nineteen, big enough for a trooper, is striped into a lace coat, now Mr. Page forsooth.
4th La. Oh! I have seen her. Well, I heartily pity some people for their wealth, they might have been unknown else! You'd die, madam, to see her and her equipage. I thought the honest fat tits, her horses, were ashamed of their finery; they dragged on as if they were still at the plough, and a great bashful-looked booby behind grasped the coach as if he held one.
5th La. Alas! some people think there's nothing but being fine to be genteel; but the high prance of the horses, and the brisk insolence of the servants in an equipage of quality, are inimitable, but to our own beasts and servants.
1st La. Now you talk of equipage, I envy this lady the beauty she'll appear in in a mourning coach, 'twill so become her complexion; I confess I myself mourned two years for no other reason. Take up that hood there; Oh! that fair face with a veil. [They take up her hoods.
Wid. Fie, fie, ladies. But I've been told, indeed, black does become—
2nd La. Well, I'll take the liberty to speak it, there's young Nutbrain has long had (I'll be sworn) a passion for this lady; but I'll tell you one thing I fear she'll dislike, that is, he's younger than she is.
3rd La. No, that's no exception; but I'll tell you one, he's younger than his brother.
Wid. Ladies, talk not of such affairs. Who could love such an unhappy relict as I am? But, dear madam, what grounds have you for that idle story?
4th La. Why he toasts you, and trembles when you're spoke of; it must be a match.
Wid. Nay, nay; you rally, you rally; but I know you mean it kindly.
1st La. I swear we do. [Tattleaid whispers the Widow.
Wid. But I must beseech you, ladies, since you have been so compassionate as to visit and accompany my sorrow, to give me the only comfort I can now know, to see my friends cheerful, and to honour an entertainment Tattleaid has prepared within for you. If I can find strength enough I'll attend you; but I wish you'd excuse me, for I've no relish of food or joy, but will try to get a bit down in my own chamber.
All. No, no, you must go with us.
1st La. There's no pleasure without you.
Wid. But, madam, I must beg of your ladyship not to be so importune to my fresh calamity, as to mention Nutbrain any more; I'm sure there's nothing in it. In love with me, quoth a'. [Is helped off. Exeunt.
Enter Mademoiselle, and Campley in women's clothes carrying her things.
Mad. I very glad us be in de ladies' antichamber; I was shamed of you. You, you, such an impudent look; besides, me wonder you were not seized by the constable, when you pushed de man into de kennel.
Cam. Why, should I have let him kissed me?
Mad. No; but if you had hit him wit fan, and say, why sure saucy-box, it been enough; beside, what you hitted de gentleman for offer kiss me?
Cam. I beg pardon, I did not know you were pleased with it.
Mad. Please, no, but me rader be kiss den you, Mr. Terim's friend, be found out. Could not you say when he kiss me, sure saucy-box dat's meat for your master? Besides, you take such strides when you walk—walk—O fie; dese littil pette tiny bits a woman steps. [Showing her step.
Cam. But prithee, mademoiselle, why have you lost your English tongue all of a sudden? Methought when the fellow called us French whores, as we came along, and said we came to starve their own people, you gave him pretty plain English; he was a dog, a rascal, you'd send him to the stocks.
Mad. Ha! ha! ha! I was in a passion and betrayed myself, but you're my lover's friend, and a man of honour, therefore know you'll do nothing to injure us. Why, Mr. Campley, you must know I can speak as good English as you, but I don't for fear of losing my customers. The English will never give a price for anything they understand. Nay, I've known some of your fools pretend to buy with good breeding, and give any rate rather than not be thought to have French enough to know what they were doing; strange and far-fetched things they only like. Don't you see how they swallow gallons of the juice of tea, while their own dock-leaves are trod under foot? But mum; my Lady Harriot.
Madam, votre servante, servante——
L. Ha. Well, mademoiselle, did you deliver my letter?
Mad. Oui.
L. Ha. Well, and how—is that it in your hand?
Mad. Oui.
L. Ha. Well then, why don't you give it me?
Mad. O fie! lady, dat be so right Englise, de Englise mind only de words of de lovers, but de words of de lovers are often lie, but de action no lie.
L. Ha. What does the thing mean? Give me my letter.
Mad. Me did not deliver your letter.
L. Ha. No?
Mad. No, me tell you, me did drop it, to see Mr. Campley how cavalier to take it up. As dese me drop it so monsieur run take it up. [They both run to take it up, Mad. takes it.
L. Ha. Will you give me my letter or not?
Mad. Oui. But dus he do. Dere de letter—very well, very well. O l'amour! You act de manner Mr. Campley—take it up better den I, do' you no see it. [They both run, Harriot gets it.
L. Ha. [Reads.]
"Madam,
"I am glad you mentioned what indeed I did not at that time think of, nor if I had, should I have known how to have spoken of. But bless me more than fortune can, by turning those fair eyes upon, madam,
"Your most faithful,
"Most obedient humble servant,
"Tho. Campley."
What does he mean? "But bless me more—by turning"—Oh, 'tis he himself [Looking about observes Cam. smile]. Oh, the hoyden, the romp, I did not think anything could add to your native confidence, but you look so very bold in that dress, and your arms will fall off, and your petticoats how they hang!
Cam. Mademoiselle, voulez vous de Salville l'eau d'Hongrie, chez Monsieur Marchand de Montpelier—Dis for your teet [Showing his trinkets], de essence, a little book French for teach de elder broders make compliments. Will you, I say, have anything that I have, will you have all I have, madam?
L. Ha. Yes, and for humour's sake, will never part with this box, while I live, ha! ha! ha!
Cam. But, Lady Harriot, we must not stand laughing; as you observe in your letter, delays are dangerous in this wicked woman's custody of you; therefore I must, madam, beseech you, and pray stay not on niceties, but be advised.
L. Ha. Mr. Campley, I have no will but yours.
Cam. Thou dear creature, but [Kisses her hand] harkee then, you must change dresses with mademoiselle, and go with me instantly.
L. Ha. What you please.
Cam. Madam d'Epingle, I must desire you to comply with a humour of gallantry of ours—you may be sure I'll have an eye over the treatment you have upon my account—only to change habits with Lady Harriot, and let her go while you stay.
Mad. Wit all my heart.[28] [Offers to undress herself.
L. Ha. What, before Mr. Campley?
Mad. Oh, oh—very Anglaise! dat is so Englise, all women of quality in France are dress and undress by a valet de chambre; de man chamber-maid help complexion better den de woman. [Apart to L. Harriot.
L. Ha. Nay, that's a secret in dress, mademoiselle, I never knew before, and am so unpolished an English woman as to resolve never to learn even to dress before my husband. Oh! Indecency! Mr. Campley, do you hear what mademoiselle says?
Mad. Oh! Hist—bagatelle.
L. Ha. Well, we'll run in and be ready in an instant. [Exeunt L. Harriot and Mademoiselle.
Cam. Well, I like her every minute better and better. What a delicate chastity she has! There's something so gross in the carriage of some wives (though they're honest too) that they lose their husbands' hearts for faults which, if they had either good nature or good breeding, they know not how to tell 'em of. But how happy am I in such a friend as Hardy, such a mistress as Harriot!
Continue Heaven, a grateful heart to bless
With faith in friendship, and in love success.
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Wid. Mr. Trusty, you have, I do assure you, the same place and power in the management of my Lord Brumpton's estate, as in his life-time. (I am reduced to a necessity of trusting him) [aside.] However Tattleaid dissembles the matter, she must be privy to Lady Harriot's escape, and Fardingale's as deep with 'em both, and I fear will be their ruin, which 'tis my care and duty to prevent. Be vigilant, and you shall be rewarded. I shall employ you wholly in Lady Sharlot's affairs, she is able to pay services done for her. You've sense, and understand me. [Exit Widow.
Tru. Yes, I do indeed understand you, and could wish another could with as much detestation as I do, but my poor old lord is so strangely, so bewitchedly enamoured of her, that even after this discovery of her wickedness, I see he could be reconciled to her, and though he is ashamed to confess to me, I know he longs to speak with her. If I tell Lord Hardy all to make his fortune, he would not let his father be dishonoured by a public way of separation. If things are acted privately, I know she'll throw us all; there's no middle-way, I must expose her to make a reunion impracticable. Alas, how is honest truth banished the world; when we must watch the seasons and soft avenues to men's hearts, to gain it entrance even for their own good and interest! [Exit.
SCENE II.—Lord Hardy's Lodgings.
Enter Lord Hardy, Campley, and Trim.
Ld. H. I forget my own misfortunes, dear Campley, when I reflect on your success.
Cam. I assure you, it moderates the swell of joy that I am in, to think of your difficulties. I hope my felicity is previous to yours; my Lady Harriot gives her service to you, and we both think it but decent to suspend our marriage 'till your and Lady Sharlot's affairs are in the same posture.
Ld. H. Where is my lady?
Cam. She's at my aunt's, my lord. But, my lord, if you don't interpose, I don't know how I shall adjust matters with Mr. Trim for leaving his mistress behind me: I fear he'll demand satisfaction of me.
Trim. No, sir, alas, I can know no satisfaction while she is in jeopardy. Therefore would rather be put in a way to recover her by storming the castle, or other feat of arms, like a true enamoured swain as I am.
Cam. Since we are all three then expecting lovers, my lord, prithee let's have that song of yours which suits our common purpose.
Ld. H. Call in the boy.
I.
Ye minutes bring the happy hour,
And Chloe blushing to the bower;
Then shall all idle flames be o'er,
Nor eyes or heart e'er wander more;
Both, Chloe, fixed for e'er on thee,
For thou art all thy sex to me.
II.
A guilty is a false embrace,
Corinna's love's a fairy-chace;
Begone, thou meteor, fleeting fire,
And all that can't survive desire.
Chloe my reason moves and awe,
And Cupid shot me when he saw.
Trim. Look you, gentlemen, since as you are pleased to say we're all lovers, and consequently poets, pray do me the honour to hear a little air of mine. You must know then, I once had the misfortune to fall in love below myself, but things went hard with us at that time, so that my passion, or as I may poetically speak, my fire was in the kitchen; 'twas towards a cook-maid, but before I ever saw Mrs. Deborah.
Ld. H. Come on then, Trim, let's have it.
Trim. I must run into next room for a lute. [Exit.
Cam. This must be diverting! can the rogue play?
Re-enter Trim, with a pair of Tongs.
Trim. Dear Cynderaxa herself very well understood this instrument, I therefore always sung this song to it, as thus—
I.
Cynderaxa kind and good,
Has all my heart and stomach too;
She makes me love, not hate, my food,
As other peevish wenches do.
II.
When Venus leaves her Vulcan's cell,
Which all but I a coal-hole call;
Fly, fly, ye that above stairs dwell,
Her face is washed, ye vanish all.
III.
And as she's fair, she can impart
That beauty, to make all things fine;
Brightens the floor with wondrous art,
And at her touch the dishes shine.
Ld. H. I protest, Will, thou art a poet indeed. "And at her touch the dishes shine"—and you touch your lute as finely.
Boy. There's one Mr. Trusty below would speak with my lord.
Ld. H. Mr. Trusty? My father's steward? What can he have to say to me?
Cam. He's very honest, to my knowledge.
Ld. H. I remember, indeed, when I was turned out of the house he followed me to the gate and wept over me, for which I've heard he'd like to have lost his place. But, however, I must advise with you a little about my behaviour to him; let's in. Boy, bring him up hither, tell him I'll wait on him presently. [Exit Boy.
I shall want you, I believe, here, Trim. [Exeunt.
Boy. My lord will wait on you here immediately. [Exit Boy.
Tru. 'Tis very well, these lodgings are but homely for the Earl of Brumpton. Oh, that damned strumpet—that I should ever know my master's wife for such!—How many thousand things does my head run back to? After my poor father's death the good lord took me, because he was a captain in his regiment, and gave me education. I was, I think, three-and-twenty when this young lord within was christened; what a do there was about calling him Francis! [Wipes his eyes.] These are but poor lodgings for him. I cannot bear the joy, to think that I shall save the family from which I've had my bread.
Trim. Sir, my lord will wait you immediately.
Tru. Sir, 'tis my duty to wait him—[As Trim is going] but, sir, are not you the young man that attended him at Christchurch, in Oxford, and have followed him ever since?
Trim. Yes, sir, I am.
Tru. Nay, sir, no harm, but you'll thrive the better for it.
Trim. I like this old fellow; I smell more money. [Aside. Exit.
Tru. I think 'tis now eight years since I saw him—he was not then nineteen—when I followed him to the gate, and gave him fifty guineas, which I pretended his father sent after him.
Ld. H. Mr. Trusty, I'm very glad to see you look very hale and jolly; you wear well. I'm glad to see it—but your commands to me, Mr. Trusty.
Tru. Why, my lord, I presume to wait on your lordship. My lord, you're strangely grown; you're your father's very picture, you're he, my lord; you are the very man that looked so pleased to see me look so fine in my laced livery, to go to Court. I was his page when he was just such another as you. He kissed me afore a great many lords, and said I was a brave man's son, that taught him to exercise his arms. I remember he carried me to the great window, and bid me be sure to keep in your mother's sight in all my finery. She was the finest young creature; the maids of honour hated to see her at Court. My lord then courted my good lady. She was as kind to me on her death-bed; she said to me, Mr. Trusty, take care of my lord's second marriage for that child's sake. She pointed as well as she could to you. You fell a-crying, and said she should not die; but she did, my lord. She left the world, and no one like her in't. Forgive me, my honoured master. [Weeps, runs to my lord, and hugs him.] I've often carried you in these arms that grasp you; they were stronger then, but if I die to-morrow, you're worth five thousand pounds by my gift—'tis what I've got in the family, and I return it to you with thanks. But alas! do I live to see you want it?[30]
Ld. H. You confound me with all this tenderness and generosity.
Tru. I'll trouble you no longer, my lord, but——
Ld. H. Call it not a trouble, for——
Tru. My good lord, I will not, I say, indulge myself in talking fond tales that melt me, and interrupt my story. My business to your lordship, in one word, is this: I am in good confidence at present with my lady dowager, and I know she has some fears upon her, which depend upon the nature of the settlement to your disfavour, and under the rose—be yourself—I fear your father has not had fair play for his life—be composed, my lord. What is to be done is this: we'll not apply to public justice in this case, 'till we see farther; 'twill make it noisy, which we must not do, if I might advise. You shall, with a detachment of your Company, seize the corpse as it goes out of the house this evening to be interred in the country; 'twill only look like taking the administration upon yourself, and commencing a suit for the estate. She has put off the lying in state, and Lady Harriot's escape with Mr. Campley makes her fear he will prove a powerful friend, both to the young ladies and your lordship. She cannot, with decency, be so busy, as when the corpse is out of the house, therefore hastens it. I know your whole affair; leave the care of Lady Sharlot to me. I'll pre-acquaint her, that she mayn't be frightened, and dispose of her safely, to observe the issue.
Ld. H. I wholly understand you; it shall be done.
Tru. I'm sure I am wanted this moment for your interest at home. This ring shall be the passport of intelligence for whom you send to assault us, and the remittance of it sealed with this, shall be authentic from within the house.
Ld. H. 'Tis very well.
Tru. Hope all you can wish, my lord, from a certain secret relating to the estate, which I'll acquaint you with next time I see you. [Exit.
Ld. H. Your servant——This fellow's strangely honest——Ha! Will.
Will! don't the recruits wait for me to see 'em at their parade before this house?
Trim. Yes; and have waited these three hours.
Ld. H. Go to 'em; I'll be there myself immediately. We must attack with 'em, if the rogues are sturdy, this very evening.
Trim. I guess where——I'm overjoyed at it. I'll warrant you they do it, if I command in chief.
Ld. H. I design you shall. [Trim runs out jumping.
Cam. You seem, my lord, to be in deep meditation.
Ld. H. I am so, but not on anything that you may not be acquainted with. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Covent Garden.
Enter Trim, with a company of ragged fellows, with a cane.
1st Sol. Why then, I find, Mr. Trim, we shall come to blows before we see the French.
Trim. Harkee, friend, 'tis not your affair to guess or enquire what you're going to do; 'tis only for us commanders.
2nd Sol. The French? Pox! they are but a Company of scratching civet cats. They fight!
Trim. Harkee, don't bluster. Were not you a little mistaken in your facings at Steinkirk?
2nd Sol. I grant it; you know I have an antipathy to the French—I hate to see the dogs. Look you here, gentlemen, I was shot quite through the body, look you.
Trim. Prithee, look where it entered at your back.
2nd Sol. Look you, Mr. Trim, you will have your joke, we know you are a wit—but what's that to a fighting man?
Kate. Mr. Trim! Mr. Trim!
Trim. Things are not as they have been, Mrs. Kate. I now pay the Company, and we that pay money expect a little more ceremony.
Kate. Will your honour please to taste some right French brandy?
Trim. Art thou sure, good woman, 'tis right? [Drinks. How—French—pray—nay, if I find you deceive me, who pay the men——[Drinks.
Kate. Pray, good master, have you spoken to my lord about me?
Trim. I have, but you shall speak to him yourself. Thou hast been a true campaigner, Kate, and we must not neglect thee. Do you sell grey pease yet of an evening, Mrs. Matchlock? [Drinks again.
Kate. Anything to turn the penny, but I got more by crying pamphlets this year, than by anything I have done a great while. Now I am married into the Company again, I design to cross the seas next year. But, master, my husband, a Temple porter, and a Parliament man's footman, last night by their talk made me think there was danger of a peace; why, they said, all the prime people were against a war.
Trim. No, no, Kate, never fear; you know I keep great company. All men are for a war, but some would have it abroad, and some would have it at home in their own country.
Kate. Ay, say you so? Drink about, gentlemen, not a farthing to pay; a war is a war, be it where it will. But pray, Mr. Trim, speak to my lord, that when these gentlemen have shirts I may wash for 'em.
Trim. I tell you, if you behave well to-night, you shall have a fortnight's pay each man as a reward; but there's none of you industrious. There's a thousand things you might do to help out about this town, as to cry, puff, puff pies—have you any knives or scissors to grind? or, late in an evening, whip from Grub Street, strange and bloody news from Flanders—votes from the House of Commons—buns, rare buns—old silver lace, cloaks, suits, or coats—old shoes, boots, or hats—But here, here, here's my lord a-coming; here's the captain. Fall back into the rank there; move up in the centre.
Enter Lord Hardy and Campley.
Ld. H. Let me see whether my ragged friends are ready and about me.
Kate. Ensign Campley, Ensign Campley, I am overjoyed to see your honour; ha! the world's surely altered, ha!
Cam. 'Tis so, faith! Kate, why thou art true to the cause, with the Company still, honest amazon.
Kate. Dear soul, not a bit of pride in him; but won't your honour help in my business with my lord? Speak for me, noble ensign, do.
Cam. Speak to him yourself; I'll second you.
Kate. Noble captain, my lord! I suppose Mr. Trim has told your honour about my petition. I have been a great sufferer in the service. 'Tis hard for a poor woman to lose nine husbands in a war, and no notice taken; nay, three of 'em, alas, in the same campaign. Here the woman stands that says it. I never stripped a man 'till I first tried if he could stand on his legs, and, if not, I think 'twas fair plunder, except our adjutant, and he was a puppy, that made my eighth husband run the gauntlet for not turning his toes out.
Ld. H. Well, we'll consider thee, Kate, but fall back into the rear. A roll of what? Gentlemen soldiers?
Trim [To Pumkin]. Do you hear that? My lord himself can't deny but we are all gentlemen, as much as his honour.
Ld. H. [Reading]. Gentlemen soldiers quartered in and about Guy Court in Vinegar Yard, in Russel Court in Drury Lane, belonging to the honourable Captain Hardy's Company of Foot—So, answer to your names, and march off from the left. John Horseem, corporal, march easy, that I may view you as you pass by me. Drums Simon Ruffle, Darby Tattoo—there's a shilling for you—Tattoo be always so tight; how does he keep himself so clean?
Trim. Sir, he is a tragedy drum to one of the playhouses.
Ld. H. Private gentlemen: Alexander Cowitch, Humphrey Mundungus, William Faggot, Nicholas Scab, Timothy Megrim, Philip Scratch, Nehemiah Dust, Humphrey Garbage, Nathaniel Matchlock.
Cam. What! Is Matchlock come back to the Company? That's the fellow that brought me off at Steinkirk.
Ld. H. No, sir, 'tis I am obliged to him for that. [Offering to give him money.] There, friend, you shall want for nothing; I'll give thee a halbert too.
Kate. O brave me! Shall I be a sergeant's lady? I' faith, I'll make the drums, and the corporal's wives, and Company-keepers know their distance.
Cam. How far out of the country did you come to list? Don't you come from Cornwall? How did you bear your charges?
Match. I was whipped from constable to constable——
Trim. Ay, my lord, that's due by the courtesy of England to all that want in red coats; besides, there's an Act that makes us free of all corporations, and that's the ceremony of it.
Cam. But what pretence had they for using you so ill? You did not pilfer?
Match. I was found guilty of being poor.
Cam. Poor devil!
Ld. H. Timothy Ragg! O Ragg! I thought when I gave you your discharge, just afore the peace, we should never have had you again. How came you to list now?
Ragg. To pull down the French king.
Ld. H. Bravely resolved! But pull your shirt into your breeches in the mean time. Jeoffrey Tatter—What's become of the skirts and buttons of your coat?
Tatter. In our last clothing in the regiment I served in afore, the colonel had one skirt before, the agent one behind, and every captain of the regiment a button.
Ld. H. Hush, you rogue, you talk mutiny. [Smiling.
Trim. Ay, sirrah, what have you to do with more knowledge than that of your right hand from your left? [Hits him a blow on the head.]
Ld. H. Hugh Clump—Clump, thou growest a little too heavy for marching.
Trim. Ay, my lord, but if we don't allow him the pay he'll starve, for he's too lame to get into the hospital.
Ld. H. Richard Bumpkin! Ha! A perfect country hick. How came you, friend, to be a soldier?
Bump. An't please your honour, I have been crossed in love, and am willing to seek my fortune.
Ld. H. Well, I've seen enough of 'em. If you mind your affair, and act like a wise general, these fellows may do—come, take your orders. [Trim puts his hat on his stick, while my lord is giving him the ring, and whispers orders.] Well, gentlemen, do your business manfully, and nothing shall be too good for you.
All. Bless your honour. [Exeunt Hardy and Campley.
Trim. Now, my brave friends and fellow-soldiers—[Aside.] I must fellow-soldier 'em just afore a battle, like a true officer, though I cane 'em all the year round beside—[Strutting about.] Major-General Trim; no, pox, Trim sounds so very short and priggish—that my name should be a monosyllable! But the foreign news will write me, I suppose, Monsieur or Chevalier Trimont. Seigneur Trimoni, or Count Trimuntz, in the German Army, I shall perhaps be called; ay, that's all the plague and comfort of us great men, they do so toss our names about. But, gentlemen, you are now under my command—huzza! thrice—faith, this is very pleasing, this grandeur! Why, after all, 'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels as these gentlemen that we great captains build our renown. A million or two of these fellows make an Alexander, and as that my predecessor said in the tragedy of him on the very same occasion, going to storm for his Statira, so do I for my dear seamstress, Madam d'Epingle—
When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay;
'Tis beauty calls, and glory leads the way.[31]
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Enter Trusty and Lord Brumpton.
Tru. She knows no moderation in her good fortune; she has, out of impatience to see herself in her weeds, ordered her mantua woman to stitch up anything immediately. You may hear her and Tattleaid laugh aloud—she is so wantonly merry.
Ld. B. But this of Lady Sharlot is the very utmost of all ill. Pray read—but I must sit; my late fit of the gout makes me act with pain and constraint. Let me see——
Tru. She writ it by the page, who brought it me, as I had wheedled him to do all their passages.
Ld. B. [Reads.]
"You must watch the occasion of the servants being gone out of the house with the corpse; Tattleaid shall conduct you to my Lady Sharlot's apartment—away with her—and be sure you bed her——
"Your affectionate Sister,
"Mary Brumpton."
Brumpton? The creature! She called as Frank's mother was? Brumpton! The succuba! What a devil incarnate have I had in my bosom? Why, the common abandoned town women would scruple such an action as this. Though they have lost all regard to their own chastity, they would be tender of another's. Why, sure she had no infancy. She never had virginity, to have no compassion through memory of her own former innocence. This is to forget her very humanity—her very sex. Where is my poor boy? Where's Frank? Does not he want? How has he lived all this time? Not a servant, I warrant, to attend him—what company can he keep? What can he say of his father?
Tru. Though you made him not your heir, he is still your son, and has all the duty and tenderness in the world for your memory.
Ld. B. It is impossible, Trusty; it is impossible. I will not rack myself with the thought, that one I have injured can be so very good—keep me in countenance—tell me he hates my very name, would not assume my title because it descends from me. What's his company?
Tru. Young Tom Campley; they are never asunder.
Ld. B. I am glad he has my pretty tattler—the cheerful innocent Harriot. I hope he'll be good to her; he's good-natured and well-bred.
Tru. But, my lord, she was very punctual in ordering the funeral. She bid Sable be sure to lay you deep enough, she had heard such stories of the wicked sextons taking up people; but I wish, my lord, you would please to hear her and Tattleaid once more——
Ld. B. I know to what thy zeal tends; but I tell you, since you cannot be convinced but that I have still a softness for her—I say though I had so, it should never make me transgress that scrupulous honour that becomes a peer of England. If I could forget injuries done myself thus gross, I never will those done my friends. You knew Sharlot's worthy father—No, there's no need of my seeing more of this woman. I behold her now with the same eyes that you do; there's a meanness in all she says or does; she has a great wit but a little mind—something ever wanting to make her appear my Lady Brumpton. She has nothing natively great. You see I love her not; I talk with judgment of her.
Tru. I see it, my good lord, with joy I see it, nor care how few things I see more in this world. My satisfaction is complete. Welcome old age; welcome decay; 'tis not decay, but growth to a latter being. [Exit, leading Lord Brumpton.
Re-enter Trusty, meeting Cabinet.
Tru. I have your letter, Mr. Cabinet.
Cab. I hope, sir, you'll believe it was not in my nature to be guilty of so much baseness; but being born a gentleman, and bred out of all roads of industry in that idle manner too many are, I soon spent a small patrimony; and being debauched by luxury, I fell into the narrow mind to dread no infamy like poverty, which made me guilty, as that paper tells you; and had I not writ to you, I am sure I never could have told you of it.
Tru. It is an ingenious, pious penitence in you; my Lord Hardy (to whom this secret is inestimable) is a noble-natured man, and you shall find him such, I give you my word.
Cab. I know, sir, your integrity.
Tru. But pray be there; all that you have to do is to ask for the gentlewoman at the house at my Lord Hardy's; she'll take care of you. And pray have patience, where she places you, till you see me. [Exit Cab.] My Lord Hardy's being a house where they receive lodgers, has allowed me convenience to place everybody I think necessary to be by at her discovery. This prodigious welcome secret! I see, however impracticable honest actions may appear, we may go on with just hope—
All that is ours is to be justly bent,
And Heaven in its own cause will bless the event.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—Covent Garden.
Enter Trim and his party.
Trim. March up, march up. Now we are near the citadel, and halt only to give the necessary orders for the engagement. Ha! Clump, Clump! When we come to Lord Brumpton's door, and you see us conveniently disposed about the house, you are to wait till you see a corpse brought out of the house; then to go up to him you observe the director, and ask importunately for an alms to a poor soldier, for which you may be sure you shall have a good blow or two; but if you have not, be saucy till you have. Then when you see a file of men got between the house and the body—a file of men, Bumpkin, is six men—I say, when you see the file in such a posture, that half the file may face to the house, half to the body, you are to fall down, crying murder, that the half file faced to the body may throw it and themselves over you. I then march to your rescue. Then, Swagger, you and your party fall in to secure my rear, while I march off with the body. These are the orders; and this, with a little improvement of my own, is the same disposition Villeroy and Catinat made at Chiari. [Marches off with his party.
SCENE III.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Enter Widow, in deep mourning, with a dead squirrel on her arm, and Tattleaid.
Wid. It must be so; it must be your carelessness. What had the page to do in my bedchamber?
Tat. Indeed, madam, I can't tell. But I came in and catched him wringing round his neck——
Wid. Tell the rascal from me he shall romp with the footmen no more. No; I'll send the rogue in a frock to learn Latin among the dirty boys that come to good, I will. But 'tis ever so among these creatures that live on one's superfluous affections; a lady's woman, page, and squirrel are always rivals.
Poor harmless animal—pretty e'en in death:
Death might have overlooked thy little life—
How could'st thou, Robin, leave thy nuts and me?
How was't importunate, dearest, thou should'st die?
Thou never did'st invade thy neighbour's soils;
Never mad'st war with specious shows of peace;
Thou never hast depopulated regions,
But cheerfully did'st bear thy little chain,
Content—so I but fed thee with this hand.
Tat. Alas, alas! we are all mortal. Consider, madam, my lord's dead too. [Weeps.
Wid. Ay, but our animal friends do wholly die; an husband or relation, after death, is rewarded or tormented; that's some consolation—I know her tears are false, for she hated Robin always; but she's a well-bred, dishonest servant, that never speaks a painful truth. [Aside.]—But I'll resolve to conquer my affliction—never speak more of Robin—hide him there. But to my dress: How soberly magnificent is black—and the train—I wonder how widows came to wear such long tails?
Tat. Why, madam, the stateliest of all creatures has the longest tail; the peacock, nay, 't has of all creatures the finest mien too—except your ladyship, who are a Phoenix——
Wid. Ho! brave Tattleaid! But did not you observe what a whining my Lady Sly made when she had drank a little? Did you believe her? Do you think there are really people sorry for their husbands?
Tat. Really, madam, some men do leave their fortunes in such distraction that I believe it may be——[Speaks with pins in her mouth.
Wid. But I swear I wonder how it came up to dress us thus. I protest, when all my equipage is ready, and I move in full pageantry, I shall fancy myself an embassadress from the Commonwealth of Women, the distressed State of Amazonia—to treat for men. But I protest I wonder how two of us thus clad can meet with a grave face! Methinks they should laugh out like two fortune-tellers, or two opponent lawyers that know each other for cheats——
Tat. Ha! ha! ha! I swear to you, madam, your ladyship's wit will choke me one time or other. I had like to have swallowed all the pins in my mouth——
Wid. But, Tatty, to keep house six weeks, that's another barbarous custom; but the reason of it, I suppose, was that the base people should not see people of quality may be as afflicted as themselves.
Tat. No, 'tis because they should not see 'em as merry as themselves.
Wid. Ha! ha! ha! Hussy, you never said that you spoke last. Why, 'tis just—'tis satire—I'm sure you saw it in my face, that I was going to say it: 'Twas too good for you. Come, lay down that sentence and the pin-cushion, and pin up my shoulder. Harkee, hussy, if you should, as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care I ain't buried in flannel; 'twould never become me, I'm sure.[32] That they can be as merry: Well, I'll tell my new acquaintance—what's her name?—she that reads so much, and writes verses. Her husband was deaf the first quarter of a year; I forget her name. That expression she'll like. Well, that woman does divert me strangely; I'll be very great with her. She talked very learnedly of the ridicule till she was ridiculous; then she spoke of the decent, of the agreeable, of the insensible. She designs to print the discourse; but of all things, I like her notion of the insensible.
Tat. Pray, madam, how was that?
Wid. A most useful discourse to be inculcated in our teens. The purpose of it is to disguise our apprehension in this ill-bred generation of men, who speak before women what they ought not to hear. As now, suppose you were a spark in my company, and you spoke some double entendre, I look thus! But be a fellow, and you shall see how I'll use you. The insensible is useful upon any occasion where we seemingly neglect and secretly approve, which is our ordinary common case. Now, suppose a coxcomb, dancing, prating, and playing his tricks before me to move me, without pleasure or distaste in my countenance, I look at him, just thus; but——Ha! ha! ha! I have found out a supplement to this notion of the insensible, for my own use, which is infallible, and that is to have always in my head all that they can say or do to me. So never be surprised with laughter, the occasion of which is always sudden.
Tat. Oh! my Lady Brumpton [Tattleaid bows and cringes], my lady, your most obedient servant.
Wid. Look you, wench, you see by the art of insensibility I put you out of countenance, though you were prepared for an ill-reception.
Tat. Oh! madam, how justly are you formed for what is now fallen to you—the empire of mankind.
Wid. Oh! sir, that puts me out of all my insensibility at once; that was so gallant—Ha! what noise is that; that noise of fighting? Run, I say. Whither are you going? What, are you mad? Will you leave me alone? Can't you stir? What, you can't take your message with you? Whatever 'tis, I suppose you are not in the plot; not you—Nor that now they're breaking open my house for Sharlot—Not you—Go, see what's the matter, I say, I have nobody I can trust. [Exit Tattleaid] One minute I think this wench honest, and the next false. Whither shall I turn me?
Tat. Madam, madam. [Re-entering.
Wid. Madam, madam, will you swallow me gaping?
Tat. Pray, good my lady, be not so out of humour; but there is a company of rogues have set upon our servants and the burial man's, while others ran away with the corpse.
Wid. How, what can this mean? What can they do with it?—Well, 'twill save the charge of interment—But to what end?
Enter Trusty and a Servant, bloody and dirty, haling in Clump and Bumpkin.
Ser. I'll teach you better manners; I'll poor soldier you, you dog you, I will. Madam, here are two of the rascals that were in the gang of rogues that carried away the corpse.
Wid. We'll examine 'em apart. Well, sirrah, what are you? Whence came you? What's your name, sirrah? [Clump makes signs as a dumb man.
Ser. Oh, you dog, you could speak loud enough just now, sirrah, when your brother rogues mauled Mr. Sable. We'll make you speak, sirrah.
Wid. Bring the other fellow hither. I suppose you will own you knew that man before you saw him at my door?
Clump. I think I have seen the gentleman's face. [Bowing to Bumpkin.
Wid. The gentleman's! The villain mocks me. But friend, you look like an honest man—what are you? Whence came you? What are you, friend?
Bump. I'se at present but a private gentleman, but I was lifted to be a sergeant in my Lord Hardy's Company. I'se not ashamed of my name nor of my koptin.
Wid. Leave the room all. [Exeunt all but Trusty and Tattleaid.] Mr. Trusty—Lord Hardy! O, that impious young man, thus, with the sacrilegious hands of ruffians to divert his father's ashes from their urn and rest—I suspect this fellow [Aside.]—Mr. Trusty, I must desire you to be still near me. I'll know the bottom of this; and to Lord Hardy's lodgings as I am, instantly. 'Tis but the back side of this street, I think. Let a coach be called.—Tattleaid, as soon as I am gone, conduct my brother and his friends to Lady Sharlot. Away with her. Bring mademoiselle away to me, that she may not be a witness.—Come, good Mr. Trusty.
SCENE IV.—Lord Hardy's Lodgings.
Enter Lord Hardy, leading Harriot; Campley, and Trim.
L. Ha. Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect general; but I assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an hero, who could leave your mistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you should have mademoiselle with you.
Trim. No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the men's heads, and such strange resolutions into the women's upon the occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if she were here.
L. Ha. A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [Aside.]—But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If so, pray let me be gone.
Ld. H. No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are things alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give light into, and which I can't believe even she could be guilty of.
L. Ha. Nay, my lord, that's generous to a folly, for even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she would do anything that can come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing woman.
Boy. My Lady Brumpton's below.
L. Ha. I'll run, then.
Cam. No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's wife? Come, we'll rally her to death.
Ld. H. Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for a moment's thought on this occasion. [Exit.
L. Ha. She has more wit than us both.
Cam. Pshaw, no matter for that; be sure, as soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with something else; and laugh at all I say. I'll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We'll fall in slap upon her; she shan't have time to say a word of the running away.
Enter Lady Brumpton and Trusty.
Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient servant: This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a readiness but a second husband; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress lying by you.
L. Ha. Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit.
Wid. I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for you have lost the look on't.
Cam. You are in the habit—That was so pretty; nay, without flattery, Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha! ha! ha!
L. Ha. No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha! ha! ha!
Wid. I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's sufficient for your occasions, or that this pretty gentleman can't supply 'em——[Campley dancing about and trolling. Hey, day! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see; and I don't question but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. Ha! ha!
Cam. Pox, I can say nothing; 'tis always thus with your endeavours to be witty [Aside.]—I saw, madam, your mouth go, but there could be nothing offered in answer to what my Lady Harriot said.—'Twas home—'Twas cutting satire.
L. Ha. Oh, Mr. Campley! But pray, madam, has Mr. Cabinet visited your ladyship since this calamity? How stands that affair now?
Wid. Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, I'll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in distress—but I fear Mr. Campley overhears us.
Cam. And all the tune the pipers played was Toll-toll-doroll. I swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already yours, I could have a tender for this lady.
Wid. Come, good folks, I find we are very free with each other. What makes you two here? Do you board my lord, or he you? Come, come, ten shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. Campley, is it so? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay, you're in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my lord stay? He is not now with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope? Ha! ha! ha!
Cam. Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and his wife too. [Aside.
Ld. H. Because your ladyship is, I know, in very much pain in company you have injured, I'll be short—Open those doors—There lies your husband's, my father's body; and by you stands the man accuses you of poisoning him.
Wid. Of poisoning him!
Tru. The symptoms will appear upon the corpse.
Ld. H. But I am seized by nature—How shall I view, a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins conveyed to me this vital force and motion?
I cannot bear that sight—
I am as fixed and motionless as he—
[They open the coffin, out of which jumps Lady Sharlot.[33]
Art thou the ghastly shape my mind had formed?
Art thou the cold, inanimate—bright maid?
Thou giv'st new higher life to all around.
Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey me?
Whither transported by my pleasing fury?
The season vanishes at thy approach;
'Tis morn, 'tis spring—
Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way.
Why is my fair unmoved—my heavenly fair?
Does she but smile at my exalted rapture?
L. Sh. Oh! sense of praise, to me unfelt before,
Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear.
How sweet applause is from an honest tongue!
Thou lov'st my mind—hast well affection placed;
In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter.
Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover;
Immutable as the object of thy flame!
I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love.
Pure, I approach thee; nor did I with empty shows,
Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence,
Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul;
Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it:
Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter
My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.[34]
[Reclines on Hardy.
L. Ha. Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed; the greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I protest I'll never be won so; you shall begin again with me.
Cam. Prithee, why dost name us poor animals? They have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaintance Tom and Harriot.
Ld. H. So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us.
Cam. My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein I should rejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. [Embracing.
L. Sh. Harriot.}
}[Embracing.]
L. Ha. Sharlot.}
Wid. Sir, you're at the bottom of all this; I see you're skilled at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning instantly of these intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my husband's body, or I'll try you for his murder; which I find you'd put on me, thou hellish engine!
Tru. Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach people in misery. You're undone, madam.
Wid. What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [Trusty exit hastily.]—Do you design to let the villain escape? How justly did your father judge, that made you a beggar with that spirit! You meant just now you could not bear the company of those you'd injured.
Ld. H. You are a woman, madam, and my father's widow. But sure you think you've highly injured me.
[Here Lord Brumpton and Trusty half enter and observe.
Wid. No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle; I must justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wholly alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are Earl of Brumpton.
Ld. H. Insolent woman! it was not me my good father disinherited; 'twas him you represented. The guilt was thine; he did an act of justice.
Lord Brumpton, entering with Trusty.
Ld. B. Oh, unparalleled goodness!
Tattleaid and Mademoiselle at the other door entering.
Tru. Oh! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come.
Wid. What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, living?
Ld. B. [Turning from her, running to his son.] Oh, my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot! [All kneeling to him.] Oh, my children! Oh, oh! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture! my son! my son! I shall expire in the too mighty pleasure! my boy!
Ld. H. A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour! Oh! grant me, Heaven, grant me moderation!
Wid. A son, an heir! Am I neglected then?
What? can my lord revive, yet dead to me?
Only to me deceased—to me alone,
Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan?
Ld. B. 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat, nor can I answer.
Wid. You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that's I suppose not taken from a play? That's as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and life are equal; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause you're living.
Tru. Value her not, my lord; a prior obligation made you incapable of settling on her, your wife.
Ld. B. Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her—Oh, my child!
Tru. Look you, madam, I'll come again immediately. Be not troubled, my dear lords——[Exit.
Cam. Trusty looks very confident; there is some good in that.
Re-enter Trusty with Cabinet.
Cab. What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then——
Tru. Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, retract this for your hand-writing.—My lord, this gentleman, since your supposed death, has lurked about the house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid, who upon your decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy him off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your closet, where he saw your lordship reading. Struck with horror, and believing himself (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation of your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a year before you ever saw her.
All. How? [All turn upon her disdainfully.
Wid. No more a widow then, but still a wife.
[Recovering from her confusion.
I am thy wife—thou author of my evil
Thou must partake with me an homely board,
An homely board that never shall be cheerful;
But every meal embittered with upbraidings.
Thou that could'st tell me, good and ill were words,
When thou could'st basely let me to another,
Yet could'st see sprights, great unbeliever!
Coward! Bug-beared penitent——
Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys
To thy dishonour; despicable thing,
Dishonour thee? Thou voluntary cuckold.
[Cabinet sneaks off, Widow flings after him, Tattleaid following.
Ld. B. I see you're all confused as well as I. Ye are my children, I hold you all so; and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low passion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend's child. I am glad that scorn's confirmed by her being that fellow's, whom, for my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house?
Tru. Never to speak on't more, my lord.
Ld. B. You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a crisis[35] in your country.
And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount
Old Campley which thy father gave me,
And attend thee a cheerful gay old man,
Into the field to represent our county.
My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves
To France, shall mount thy father's son
Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy,
While I and Trusty follow weeping after:
But be thou honest, firm, impartial,
Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee,[36]
Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes;
Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely
Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the
Laws thou makest
But thou against my death, must learn a supererogatory morality.
[To Lord Hardy.
As he is to be just, be generous thou:
Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck
With sounds and appellations; title is
No more, if not significant
Of something that's superior in thyself
To other men, of which thou may'st be
Conscious, yet not proud—But if you swerve
From higher virtue than the crowd possess,
Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee.
You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge
Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes;
Because that honour's dearer than your own.
Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord
For when our shining virtues bless mankind,
We disappoint the livid malcontents,
Who long to call our noble Order useless.
Our all's in danger, sir, nor shall you dally
Your youth away with your fine wives.
No, in your country's cause you shall meet death,
While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it.
Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things are, I had like to have been a fatal instance.
Cam. But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit; you've been extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance; you'll see, my lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I designed for my own wedding I'll compliment the general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her?
Trim. I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of hers without, by accident.
Cam. Ay, but is he a dancer?
Trim. Is a Frenchman a dancer? Is a Welshman a gentleman? I'll bring him in.
[Here a dance and the following songs.
Set by Mr. Daniel Purcell.[37]
Sung by Jemmie Bowin.
I.
On yonder bed supinely laid,
Behold thy loved expecting maid:
In tremor, blushes, half in tears,
Much, much she wishes, more she fears.
Take, take her to thy faithful arms,
Hymen bestows thee all her charms.
II.
Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair,
To raise thy joy, and lull thy care;
Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease,
But joy, divided, to increase:
To mourn with her exceeds delight,
Darkness with her, the joys of light.
I.
Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned,
Rise from your urns, and save your dying story,
Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned,
For mighty William seizes all your glory.
II.
Again the British trumpet sounds,
Again Britannia bleeds;
To glorious death, or comely wounds,
Her godlike monarch leads.
III.
Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,
Celestial minds from clay untie,
Let coward spirits dwell below,
And only give the brave to die.
Ld. B. Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the stage of life you're in. Don't follow love when nature seeks but ease; otherwise you'll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm pursuits of glory are over with you; for fame and rest are utter opposites.
You who the path of honour make your guide,
Must let your passion with your blood subside;
And no untimed ambition, love, or rage
Employ the moments of declining age;
Else boys will in your presence lose their fear,
And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.
EPILOGUE.
Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage,
All that can move the soul, or can assuage,
Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage.
Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown
To what you're born in sufferings not your own.
The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way,
Athens herself learned virtue at a play.
Our author me to-night a soldier drew,
But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue:
To his great purpose, had he equal fire,
He'd not aim to please only, but inspire;
He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle,
And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil:
Full time the earth to a new decision brings;
While William gives the Roman eagle wings:
With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end,
Which naked Picts so bravely could defend?
The painted heroes on th' invaders press,
And think their wounds addition to their dress;
In younger years we've been with conquest blest,
And Paris has the British yoke confessed;
Is't then in England, in lost England, known,
Her kings are named from a revolted throne?
But we offend—You no examples need,
In imitation of yourselves proceed;
'Tis you your country's honour must secure,
By all your actions worthy of Namur:
With gentle fires your gallantry improve,
Courage is brutal, if untouched with love:
If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed,
Think that bright circle must be captives made;
Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile,
And they reward our labours with a smile.
