The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, Vol. I, No. 2, February 1810 (2024)

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AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER II.

rise and progress of the drama in greece—origin oftragedy—thespis—æschylus, “the father of the tragic art”—hisastonishing talents—his death.

It has been already remarked that at a very early period, considerablymore than three thousand years ago, the Chinese and other nations in theeast understood the rudiments of the dramatic art. In their crude,anomalous representations they introduced conjurers, slight of hand menand rope dancers, with dogs, birds,, snakes and even mice whichwere trained to dance, and in their dancing to perform evolutionsdescriptive of mathematical and astronomical figures. To this day thevestiges of those heterogeneous amusem*nts are discernible all overIndostan: but that which will be regarded by many with surprise, is thatin all countries pagan or christian the drama in its origin, with thedancings and spectacles attending it have been intermixed with divineworship. The Bramins danced before their god Vishnou, and still hold itas an article of faith that Vishnou had himself, “in the olden time”danced on the head of a huge serpent whose110tail encompassed the world.That very dance which we call a minuet, has been proved by an ingeniousFrenchman, to be the same dance originally performed by the priests inthe temple of Apollo, and constructed by them, to be symbolical of thezodiac; every figure described by the heavenly bodies having acorrespondent movement in the minuet: the diagonal line and the twoparallels representing the zodiac generally, the twelve steps of whichit is composed, representing the twelve signs, and the twelve months ofthe year, and the bow at the beginning and the end of it a profoundobedience to the sun. About the year four hundred after the building ofthe city of Rome, the Romans, then smarting under great public calamity,in order to appease the anger of heaven, instituted theatricalperformances, as feasts in honour of their gods. The first Spanish playswere founded, sometimes on the loves of shepherds, but much morefrequently on points of theology, such as the birth of Christ, thepassion, the temptation in the desert and the martyrdom of saints. Themost celebrated dramatic poet of Portugal, Balthazar, wrote dramas whichhe called Autos chiefly on pious subjects—and the prelate Trissino, thepope’s nuncio, wrote the first regular tragedy, while cardinal Bibienais said to be the author of the first comedy known in Italy, after thebarbarous ages. The French stage began with the representation of, by the priests, who acted sacred history on a stage, andpersonated divine characters. The first they performed was the historyof the death of our Saviour, from which circ*mstance the company whoacted, gave themselves the name of the confraternity of the passion: andin England one single paper which remains on record, proves that theclergy were the first dramatists. This paper is a petition of the clerksor clergy of St. Paul’s to king Richard the Second, and dated in 1378which prayed his majesty to prohibit a company of unexpert people fromrepresenting the history of the Old Testament, to the great prejudice ofthe said clergy, who had been at great charge and expense to representthe same at christmas.

111It would be little to the purpose, to dwell longer on that part of thehistory of the drama, which lies back in the darkness of remoteantiquity. Having shown that it did exist, in some shape or other, ofwhich but very imperfect traces remain, and of course very inadequatenotions can be collected, all further inquiry backward would be but theloss of so much time and trouble. The scope of human knowledge isextended at too heavy a price when the industry which might be moreusefully applied, is exercised in hunting down origins into theobscurity of times so extremely distant. Where the greatest pains havebeen lavished on that sort of research, little knowledge has beengained; and the most diligent inquirers have been compelled either toconfess that they were baffled, or rather than own their disappointment,to substitute fable for fact, and pass the fictions of imagination forhistorical truths.

It is in the records of Greece the dramatic art first presents itself inthe consistent shape and with the circ*mstantial detail of authentichistory. There, plays were first moulded into regular form, and dividedinto acts. Yet the people of that country knew so little of its havingpreviously existed in any shape, in any other country, that thedifferent states contested with each other, the honour of havinginvented it; each asserting its claim with a warmth that demonstratesthe high sense they entertained of its importance: and surely what sucha people highly valued is entitled to the respect of all other nations.Of the drama, therefore, it might perhaps be enough to say that it wasnursed in the same cradle with Eloquence, Philosophy, and Freedom, andthat it was so favourite a child of their common parents, that theycontended, each for an exclusive right to it. The credit of having firstgiven simplicity, rational form, and consequent interest to theatricalrepresentations has, by the universal concurrence of the learned, beenawarded to Attica, whose genius and munificence erected to the dramathat vast monument the temple of Bacchus, the ruins of which are yetdiscernible and admired by all travellers of taste and erudition.

112The origin of tragedy is a subject of curious contemplation. A richplanter of Attica, finding, one day, a goat devouring his grapes, killedit, and invited the peasantry to come and feast upon it. He gave themabundance of wine to drink, intoxicated with which they daubed theirfaces with the lees, ornamented their heads with chaplets made of thevine branches, and then danced, singing songs in chorus to Bacchus allthe while round the animal destined for their banquet. A feast so veryagreeable was not likely to go unrepeated; and it was soon reduced to acustom which was pretty generally observed in Attica, during thevintage. On those occasions the peasants, absolved from all reserve byintoxication, gave a loose to their animosities against the opulent, andin token of defiance of their supposed oppressors, went in bodies totheir houses, and in set terms of abuse and sarcasm, called aloud forredress of their grievances. The novelty of the exhibition drew amultitude round them who enjoyed it as a new species of entertainment.Far from preventing it, the magistrates authorized the proceeding inorder that it might serve as an admonition to the rich; taking specialcare, however, that no positive violence should be resorted to, and thusmaking it a wholesome preventive of public disorder. To this yearlyfestival which was called “the feast of the goat” the people of allparts were invited; and as this extraordinary spectacle was performed ina field near the temple of Bacchus, it was gradually introduced into theworship of that god. Hymns to the deity were sung both by priests andpeople in chorus while the goat was sacrificing, and to these hymns thename was given of Tragodia (tragedy) or “the song of the goat.”

During these exhibitions the vintagers, intoxicated with wine and joy,revenged themselves not only on the rich by publishing and satirizingtheir injustice, but on each other with ridicule and sarcasm. In theirother religious festivals also, choruses of fauns and bacchantssongs and held up individuals to public ridicule. From such an humblegerme has sprung up an art which in all parts of the world has, forcenturies, administered to the advancement of poetry and elegant113literature, and to the delight and improvement of mankind.

To these performances succeeded pieces composed by men of poeticaltalents, in some of which the adventures of the gods were celebrated andin others the vices and absurdities of individuals were attacked withmuch asperity. The works of all those poets probably died with them; noris there any reason to believe that the loss of them is to beregretted—they are mentioned here only because they form a link in thechain of this history. By them, such as they were, however, theinfluence of the drama was established so far that it was soon foundnecessary to regulate it by law; the players who entered intocompetition at the Pythian games being enjoined to representsuccessively the circ*mstances that had preceded, accompanied andfollowed the victory of Apollo over Python. Some years after this, cameSusarion of Megara, the first inventor of comedy who appeared at thehead of a company of actors attacking the vices of his time. This was562 years before Christ, and in twenty-six years after, that is 536before Christ, appeared Thespis.

Thespis has the credit of being the first inventor of regular tragedy.Disgusted with the nonsensical trash exhibited on the subject ofBacchus, and indignant, or pretending to be so, at the insult offered bysuch representations to that deity, he wrote pieces of a new kind, inwhich he introduced recitation, leaving Bacchus entirely out, lashingthe vices and follies of the times, and making use, for the first time,of fiction. Though his representations were very rustic and imperfectthey still make the first great era in the history of the tragic art:and they must be allowed to have made no slight impression upon thepublic mind, when it is remembered that they called forth the oppositionof Solon, the great lawgiver of Athens; who, on seeing therepresentations of Thespis, sternly observed, that if falsehood andfiction were tolerated on the stage they would soon find their way intoevery part of the republic. To this Thespis answered, that the fiction114could not be harmful which every one knew to be fiction; that beingavowed and understood, it lost its vicious character, and that ifSolon’s argument were true, the works of Homer deserved to be burned.Solon, however, exercised his authority upon the occasion, andinterdicted Thespis not only from writing but from teaching the art ofcomposing tragedies at Athens. Whether Thespis was supported by thepeople in contradiction to Solon, or whether he contrived to follow hisbusiness in some other part of Attica, out of the jurisdiction of thatgreat man, is not known; but he certainly disregarded the interdict, andnot only wrote tragedies, but instructed others in their composition.For Phrynicus, the tragic poet of Athens, (the first who introduced afemale character on the stage) was his disciple.

In less than half a century after Thespis had, by his ingenuity, soimproved the dramatic art as to form an era in its history, arose theillustrious personage, whose further improvements and astonishingpoetical talents justly obtained for him the high distinction of “TheFather of Tragedy.” Æschylus, in common with all the natives of Attica,was bred to arms. The same genius which, applied to poetry, placed himat the head of tragic writers, raised him in the field to a high rankamong the greatest captains of antiquity. At the celebrated battles ofMarathon, Salamis and Platæa he distinguished himself in a manner thatwould have rendered his name forever illustrious as a warrior, if thesplendor of his martial fame were not lost in the blaze of his poeticalglories. Descended from some of the highest Athenian blood, he was earlyplaced under Pythagoras to learn philosophy, and at the age oftwenty-one was a candidate for the prize in poetry. Thus illustrious asa philosopher, a warrior and a poet, it is no wonder that he was held inthe highest respect and consideration by his countrymen. He wrotesixty-six, or, as some say, ninety tragedies, forty of which wererewarded with the public prize. Of all these, seven only have escapedthe ravages of time, and descended to us perfect.

115Thespis, who had gone before him, still left the Grecian stage in astate of great rudeness and imperfection, and, what was worse, in acondition of low buffoonery. Before Thespis tragedy consisted of no morethan one person, who sung songs in honour of Bacchus. Thespis introduceda second performer; such was the state of the Grecian stage whenÆschylus arose, and made an illustrious epoch in the history of thedrama. Before him the chorus was the principal part of the performance;but he reduced it to the state of an assistant, which was introducedbetween the acts to heighten the effect by recitation or singing, and byexplaining the subject in its progression. He introduced another actor,which made his dramatis personæ three. He divided his pieces into acts,and laid the foundation of those principles of dramatic poesy upon whichAristotle afterwards built his rules. Thespis and his successors beforeÆschylus, acted from a cart in the streets: neither his actors norhimself were distinguished by any more than their ordinary dress.Æschylus built a theatre, embellished it with appropriate scenery,machinery, and decorations, and clothed his actors with dresses suitableto their several characters. This would have been effecting much if hehad done nothing more; but to the theatre which he erected, he addedplays worthy of being represented with the splendor of suchpreparations. Abandoning the monstrous extravagancies and uncouthbuffoonery of his predecessors, he took Homer for his guide, andcomposed pieces which for boldness and terrible sublimity have neverbeen surpassed. His fiery imagination, when once on the wing, soaredbeyond the reach of earth, and seemed to spurn probability, and todelight in gigantic images and tremendous prodigies. No poet ever hadsuch talents for inspiring terror. When his tragedy of Eumenides wasrepresented, many children died through fear, and several pregnant womenactually miscarried in the house, and it is related of him that nothingcould surpass the terrible ferocity of his countenance while, under theinspiration of his sublime Muse, he composed his tragedies.

116The mind of this very extraordinary man was comprehensive, energetic,vigorous, and fiery: of him may with equal truth be said what doctorJohnson has said of our Shakspeare:

Existence saw him spurn her wide domain.

For his imagination, daring, wild, and disorderly, resorted to theagency of preternatural beings, and in one of his plays called up thedead, with a degree of skill which Shakspeare only has surpassed, andnone but Shakspeare could at all equal. He selected his subjects fromthe highest regions of sublimity, and his morals, always excellent, areenforced by the most dreadful examples of divine vengeance. To sum uphis character in a few words—Longinus, the prince of Critias, says ofhim that he had a noble boldness of expression, with an imaginationlofty and heroic, and his claim to the sublime has never been contested.At the same time it must be owned that his style is, at least to modernreaders, obscure, and that his works are considered the most difficultof all the Greek classics. The improvements he made in the drama seemedto his to bespeak an intelligence more than human;wherefore, to account for hisworks, they had recourse tofable, and related that the god Bacchus revealed himself to himpersonally, as he lay asleep under the shade of a vine, commanded him towrite tragedy, and inspired him with the means. This story is verygravely told by the historian Pausanias.

There is little doubt that Æschylus felt a gratification in putting downthe monstrous rhapsodies to Bacchus and the other deities, with whichthe idolatrous priests of that day blindfolded and deceived the people;his plays having frequent cuts upon the gross superstition which thendarkened the heathen world. For some expressions which were deemedimpious he was condemned to die. Indeed christian scholars particularlymark a passage in one of his tragedies in which he palpably predicts,the downfall of Jupiter’s authority, as if he had foreseen thedispersion of heathenism. The multitude117were accordingly going to stonehim to death when they were won over to mercy by the remonstrances andintreaties of his brother Amynias who had commanded a squadron of shipsat the glorious battle of Salamis, and was regarded as one of theprincipal saviours of his country. This brave man reminded the peoplewhat they owed to his brother Æschylus for his valour at Marathon and atPlatæa, and then of what they owed himself for his conduct at Salamis,in which bloody but glorious battle he had been chiefly supported bythat brother whom they were now ungratefully going to put todeath:—having said this, he threw aside his cloak and exposing his armfrom which the hand had been cut off, “Behold,” he cried—“behold this,and let it speak for my brother and myself!” The multitude relented, andwere all at once clamorous in their applause and benediction of the twobrothers. The highminded Æschylus however was so incensed at theingratitude of the mob and the slight they put upon him, that he retiredinto Sicily where he lost his life by a most singular accident. Havingwandered into the fields, an eagle which had mounted into the air with atortoise, for the purpose of dropping it upon a rock in order to breakthe shell, mistaking the bald head of Æschylus for a stone, let theanimal fall upon it, and killed him on the spot. The Athenians gave himthe honour of a pompous public funeral with orations, and all that coulddenote their respect for the hero, the philosopher, the poet, and thefather of the tragic art—and succeeding tragedians made it a ceremonyto perform plays at his tomb.

To complete the glories of this wonderful man, the ruins of the theatrehe planned and erected, furnished the Romans with the model, upon whichthey afterwards raised those magnificent edifices which still are theobjects of admiration and delight with the world, and of imitation withthe scientific professors of architecture.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF MRS. WARREN.

Mrs. Ann Warren, whose name has, for some years, stood so high intheatrical annals, was the daughter of Mr. John Brunton, who as an actorand a manager, maintained a respectable rank in Great Britain, while heremained upon the stage; and all his life has been considered a man ofgreat worth, and an estimable gentleman. Having received a goodclassical education under the tuition of the reverend Mr. Wilton,prebendary of Bristol, Mr. Brunton was bound apprentice to a wholesalegrocer in Norwich, and when his time was out, married a Miss Friend, thedaughter of a respectable merchant of that city, soon after which hewent to London, and entered into business, as a tea-dealer and grocer inDrury-Lane. Here he became acquainted with Mr. Joseph Younger, who wasat the time prompter at Covent Garden theatre, and though no actorhimself, knew stage business as well as any man in England. Mr. Younger,discerning in Mr. Brunton good talents for an actor, advised him to trythe experiment, and gave him such strong assurances of success, that heagreed to make the attempt and actually made his first appearance in thecharacter of Cyrus for his friendly adviser’s benefit, sometime in theyear 1774. His reception in this character was so very encouraging thathe again came forward before the end of the season, and played thecharacter of Hamlet for the benefit of Mr. Kniveton. So completely didthe event justify Mr. Younger’s opinion, and evince his discernment thatMr. Brunton soon found it his interest to abandon commerce, and takeentirely to the stage. At this time his eldest daughter, the subject ofthe present memoir, was little more than five years of age. Havingsettled his affairs in London, and sold off his stock in trade, Mr.Brunton returned to the city of Norwich in which he got an engagement,and met all the encouragement, he could hope for, being considered thebest actor that had ever appeared on that stage. From this he wasinvited to Bath and Bristol, where he continued to perform for fiveyears, and at the end of that time returned119to the Norwich theatre ofwhich he became manager. Mr. B.’s family had now become very numerous;he had six children,—a charge which in England would be thought to leantoo heavy upon a very large estate—and yet with nothing more than theincome which he derived from his professional industry, did thisexemplary father tenderly rear and genteelly educate that family.

From the circ*mstances of her situation, and from her earlyaccomplishments and success as an actress, it will be imagined by many,that Miss Brunton was early initiated in stage business; that she hadseen every play acted, and had studied and imitated the many greatmodels of her time, the Barrys, the Bellamys, the Yeates, and theSiddonses; that under a father so well qualified to instruct her, hertalents were brought forth in the very bud, by constant exercise, andthat while yet a child she had learned to personate the heroine. Whatthen will the reader’s surprise be, when he is informed that she hadseen very few plays; perhaps fewer than the general run of citizens’daughters—and that the stage was never even for an instant contemplatedas a profession for her till a very short time before her actualappearance in public. The fact is, that Mr. Brunton’s conduct throughlife was distinguished no less by prudence and discretion, than by alofty regard to the honourable estimation of his family. While hehimself drudged upon the stage and faced the public eye, his family,more dear to him, lived in the repose of retired life, and instead offluttering round the scenes of gayety and dissipation, or haunting thetheatre before or behind the curtain, Mrs. Brunton trained her childrento domestic habits, and contented herself with qualifying her daughtersto be like herself, good wives and mothers. Not in the city but in thecountry near Bath did Mr. Brunton live in an elegant cottage, where hislittle world inhaled the pure air of heaven, and grew up ininnocence—Mrs. Brunton herself being their preceptress. Nothing wasfarther from his thoughts than that any of his daughters possessedrequisites for the stage; they were all very young, even the eldest, ourheroine, had but turned past120fifteen, and, exclusive of her youth, hada lowness of stature and an exility of person, than which nothing couldbe farther from suggesting ideas of the heroine, or of tragicimportance, when one day, by desire of her mother, she recited someselect passages in her father’s presence. He listened with mixedemotions of astonishment and delight—a new train of thought shot acrosshis mind; he put her over and over again to the trial, and at everyrepetition had additional motives to admire and to rejoice. Then, forthe first time, was he aware of the mine which lay concealed in hisfamily under modesty and reserve, and then, for the first time, heresolved that she should try her fate upon the stage, his fond heartprognosticating that his darling would, ere long, be the darling ofthe people. That she should possess such an affluence of endowment,without letting it earlier burst upon her father’s sight, is evidence ofa share of modesty and diffidence as rare as lovely, and well worthyimitation, if under the present regime the imitation of such virtueswere practicable.

As this circ*mstance exhibits our heroine’s private character in a mostexalted and amiable view, so it demonstrates the native powers of hergenius. Let it only be considered!—while she yet fell, by two months,short of sixteen years of age, or in other words while she had yetscarcely advanced a step from the date of childhood, without anyprevious stage practice, without the advantage of studying, in theperformances of other actresses, what to do, or what to avoid, she comesforward, for the first time, in one of the most arduous characters intragedy, and at one flight mounts to the first rank in her profession.It is a circ*mstance unexampled in the records of the stage, and wouldbe incredible if not too universally known to be doubted.

Mr. Brunton immediately on discovering the treasure he possessed,resolved to bring it forth to public view. The time was nearly at handwhen he was to take his benefit, and he judiciously thought that therecould not be a more happy way of introducing her with advantage than inthe pious office of aiding him on that occasion—nor can the most livelyimagination,121conceive an object more interesting than a creature soyoung, so lovely, and so much wiser than her years standing forward toencounter the hazards and the terrors of that most trying situation incheerful obedience to a father’s will, and for a father’s benefit. Theselection of the character of Euphrasia for her, while he played theaged father, Evander, who is supposed to be sustained by the nourishmentgiven from his daughter’s bosom, was judicious, as it formed acoincidence of fact and fiction, which if it had been only moderatelysupported by her performance, could scarcely fail to excite in everybosom, in the house, the most lively and interesting sensations. Nothingthat paternal affection, and good sense could dictate were wanting onthe part of Mr. Brunton. Of the short time he had for instructing her,no part was lost. The appearance of Mr. Brunton’s daughter in Euphrasia,with a prologue written for the occasion, was announced, andnotwithstanding there were not wanting wretches mean and miserableenough to trumpet abroad her youth and smallness of stature, asinsurmountable obstacles to her personating the Grecian daughter, morejust ideas of her, or perhaps curiosity brought a full house. Mr.Brunton himself spoke the prologue, which was written for him by theingenious Mr. Meyler, and was as follows:

Such an appeal, delivered with all the powers of an excellent speaker,and enforced by the genuine and unfeigned feelings of a father’s heart,told home—peals of applause gave assurance that her entrance wasstrewed with flowers, and that at least, her reception, would correspondwith his fondest wishes.

The accounts that have been given by spectators of the events of thatnight are extremely interesting. Many, no doubt, went there with aprepossession, raised by the unfavourable reports of her personalappearance; and if lofty stature were indispensibly necessary to aheroine, no external appearance could be much less calculated topersonify a Thalestris than Miss Brunton’s—but the mighty mind soonmade itself to be felt, and every idea of personal dimensions vanished.“The audience (says a British author) expected to see a mawkin, but sawa Cibber—the applause was proportionate to the surprise: every mouthemitted her praise, and she performed several parts in Bath and Bristol,a phenomenon in the theatrical hemisphere.” Though the trepidationfrom such an effort diminished her powers at first, thesweetness of her voice struck every ear like a charm: the applause that123followed invigorated her spirits so far that in the reciprocation of aspeech or two more, her fine clear articulation struck the audience withsurprise, and when, more assured by their loud approbation, she came tothe speech:

she seemed to pour forth her whole heart and soul in the words, andemitted such a blaze as filled the house with rapture and astonishment.In a word, no actress at the highest acmé of popularity ever receivedgreater applause. Next day her performance was the topic of every circlein Bath. Horatia in the Roman Father, and Palmyra in Mahomet, augmentedher reputation, and in less than a month the fame of this prodigy, forsuch she appeared to be, had reached every town and city of GreatBritain and Ireland.

It was natural to imagine that such extraordinary powers would not belong suffered to waste themselves upon the limited society of countrytowns. Mr. Harris, as soon as he received intelligence on which he coulddepend, upon the subject of Miss Brunton’s talents, resolved to behimself an eye-witness of her performance, and set off to Bath with aview, if his judgment should concur with that of the public of thatcity, to offer her an engagement at Covent Garden. To see her was todecide; he resolved to have her if possible, and lost no time to makesuch overtures at once as could not well be refused. These included anengagement at a very handsome salary for her father; her own of coursewas liberal—when one considers how long Mrs. Siddons had appeared uponthe stage before she got a firm footing on the London boards, one cannotbut be astonished at the rise of this lady at one124leap from thethreshold to the top of her profession. It is worthy of observation thatthe real children of nature generally burst at once upon the view inexcellence approaching to perfection; while the mere artists of thestage lag behind, labouring for years, before they attain the summit oftheir ambition; when their consummate art and their skill in concealingthat art (ars celare artem) if they have it, entitles them at last tothe highest praise. Mrs. Bellamy was one of those children of nature.Before she appeared, Quingave judgment against her: yet thefirst night she performed he was so struck with her excellence, that,impatient to wipe away his injustice by a candid confession heemphatically exclaimed, “My child, the spirit is in thee.” Garrick it issaid never surpassed his first night’s performance: and the Othello ofBarry’s first appearance, and the Zanga of Mossop’s never were equalledby any other actors, nor were ever surpassed even by themselves.

Such was the impression made by this phenomenon, even before she leftthe country for London, that the presses teemed with tributes to herextraordinary merit, in verse and prose. Learning poured forth it praisein deep and erudite criticism—Poetry lavished its sparkling encomium insonnets, songs, odes, and congratulatory addresses, while the lightretainers to literature filled the magazines and daily prints withanecdotes, paragraphs, bon-mots, and epigrams. In a word, there was forsometime no reading a newspaper, or opening a periodical publicationwithout seeing some production or other addressed to Miss Brunton. Fromthe number which appeared the following is deservedly selected, for theelegance of its Latin and the beauty of its thoughts:

The following very elegant poem, published as a version of this ode, israther a than a translation. What Gibbon said of Pope’s Homermay with some truth be applied to it: “It has every merit but that ofresemblance to the original.” Might not a version equally elegant, butadhering more closely to the original, and preserving more of itspeculiar genius be found in America. We wish some of our readers whofeel the inspiration of a happy Muse would make the experiment.

It was on the 17th of October, 1785, that Miss Brunton made her firstappearance at Covent Garden theatre in the character of Horatia. Thepublic had anxiously looked for her, and the house was crowded toreceive her. The venerable Arthur Murphy wrote a prologue for theoccasion, in which he displayed his accustomed delicacy and judgment. Itwas as follows, and was well spoken by Mr. Holman:

It would be superfluous, and indeed only going over the same groundalready beat at Bath, to describe Miss Brunton’s reception on her firstappearance in London. Suffice it to say that plaudits and evenexclamations of delight were, if possible, more rapturous and moreincessant at Covent Garden than at Bath. Of the reputation thus quickly128acquired, she never, to the day of her death, lost an atom; butcontinued to perform, in different parts of England, with accumulatingfame, till her marriage deprived the people of England of her talents.

Mr. Robert Merry, a gentleman well known in the literary world, andrendered conspicuous by some pretty poetry published under the name ofDella Crusca, had the honour of rendering himself so agreeable to MissBrunton that she suffered him to lead her to the altar. He was of agentleman’s family, and received his education under that mass oflearning, doctor Parr, was a man of brilliant genius, amiabledisposition, elegant manners, with a fine face and person. Being a bonvivant and a little addicted to play, as well as to other fashionableand wasteful frivolities of high life, his affairs were in a veryunpleasant state, but for this there was an abundant remedy in hiswife’s talents; and perhaps (with her aid) a little in his own too.Family pride, however, forbid it. He was much swayed by his relatives,particularly by two old maiden aunts, who were, or affected to bewounded at his marrying an actress. Nothing but his withdrawing his wifefrom the stage could assuage their wrath or heal thewound and Mrs.Merry, in a spirit of obedience to her husband, and of amiable feelingfor his situation, which will ever do honour to her memory, complied;and as soon as her engagement at Covent Garden expired (in 1792) leftthe stage, to the great regret, and a little to the indignant contemptfor the old ladies, of the whole British nation.

Mr. and Mrs. Merry soon after paid a visit to the continent, where theylived for a little more than a year, when they returned to England, andsettled in retired life in the country and there remained till the year1796, when they removed to America. Mr. Brunton, the father of Mrs.Merry, was, no less than the old ladies alluded to, and on much moresubstantial grounds, averse to her marriage with Mr. Merry, and stillmore to her coming to America. In obedience to a higher duty, however,she followed the fortunes of her husband, and with the most poignantregret left her129native country and her father, to sojourn in a strangeland. On the 19th of September, 1796, they sailed from the Downs, and onthe 19th of October following landed at New-York.

Few country theatres in Great Britain have been able to boast of so gooda company as that which assembled at Philadelphia on the seasonsucceeded Mrs. Merry’s arrival. The theatre opened on the fifth ofDecember, with Romeo and Juliet, and the Waterman. The elegant andinteresting Morton played Romeo—Mrs. Merry Juliet; all the charactershad excellent representatives, and Mrs. Merry appeared to the audience abeing of a superior kind. That winter she played all her best parts, butthough supported by such a company it often happened that the receiptswere insufficient to pay the charges of the house, and the season was,on the whole, extremely unsuccessful; a circ*mstance which at first viewwill excite surprise, but at the time might reasonably have beenexpected. This will be understood when the general financial conditionof the city is called to recollection. Every one who has known thecountry but for a few years back must remember the almost generalbankruptcy occasioned by the failure of land speculating men of opulenceand high credit. During that time commerce in all its classes sensiblyfelt the shock, and business languished in all its branches. No wonderthat the theatre, which can only be fed by the superflux of all otherdepartments of society, should droop, neglected and unsupported. Theprices then too were higher than now—the boxes a dollar and aquarter—the pit a dollar. And here we cannot help expressing a wish,founded we believe on justice and common sense, that admittance to thepit were raised:—first, because it is, at least, equal if notpreferable to the boxes; and next because it would in some degree tendto exclude many who, though fit to sit only in the upper gallery, maketheir way into the pit to the great annoyance of those decent wellbehaved people who go to enjoy and understand the play, and not toblackguard and speak aloud.

When the theatre was closed, according to civil regulation, the company,went to New-York. At that time Hallam130and Hodgkinson had possession ofboth the theatres of that city—the old one in John-street, and the newone at the Park. The Philadelphia company, still bleeding from thewounds of the unsuccessful season, and urged by necessity for futuresupport, applied to Hallam and Hodgkinson to rent them the theatre inJohn-street. Guided by a policy, rational enough and perhaps justifiableon principles of self-defence, though certain not very liberal, and inthe end greatly injurious to themselves, the York proprietorsperemptorily refused. The circus of Ricketts, the equestrian, inGreenwich-street then presented itself, and the Philadelphia companyopened in full force. In order to oppose them, Hallam and Hodgkinsoninvited Mr. Sollee with his company to John-street. The Philadelphiacompany, however, made a very successful campaign of it. Sollee also hadhis visitors, and the consequence to H. and H. was that when they cameto open the new house they played to thin or rather empty boxes; thetown being saturated with theatrical exhibitions, and a little exhaustedtoo of the cash disposable for such recreations.

In New-York as well as Philadelphia, and indeed in every place whereMrs. M. went, she was no sooner seen than admired; and the impressionshe never failed to make at first sight remained, not only uneffaced butmore deeply augmented in proportion as she was seen, even to the end ofher life. She afterwards visited Baltimore and other places, andwherever she went, was the polar star to which the attention of all wasdirected.

While she was proceeding in this career of success her felicity met withthe most cruel interruption by the sudden death of her husband, whichhappened at Baltimore in the latter end of the year 1798. Mr. Merry hadnot laboured under any specific physical complaint from which his deathcould in the smallest degree be apprehended. On the day before christmashe was apparently well, had walked out into the garden, and was soonafter followed by some friends who found him lying senseless on theground. Medical aid was immediately called in—several attempts weremade to draw blood from131him but without the least success; thephysicians pronounced it an apoplectic case, and from every circ*mstancethe conclusion was that his death was instantaneous and without pain.Mr. Merry was large and of a plethoric habit; and to that his death may,in some sort, and was then entirely ascribed. But circ*mstances appearedafter his death which led to a conclusion that concealed sorrow, mighthave had some share in it. From refined motives of tenderness for abeloved wife’s feelings, and that loftiness of spirit which clings tothe perfect gentleman, he concealed the state of his affairs in England,which had for some time been in a rapid decline, and of the completeruin of which he had a short time before been fully informed. Hispatrimonial estate had been foreclosed and sold under a mortgage, and heremained debtor for a considerable sum after the sale. To this effect aletter was found after his death. As soon as this was discovered, everyone who knew his exquisite sensibility, reflected with astonishment uponthe delicacy which dictated and the fortitude with which he managed hisconcealment, and felt deep and sympathetic sorrow for the anguish hemust have been privately enduring while he endeavoured to dress his facewith tranquillity and to converse with his accustomed cheerfulness andease. Smothered grief is one of the most deadly inmates; and it isreasonable to believe that a paroxysm of violent emotion in a momentwhen solitude gave an opportunity for giving a loose to reflection,operating upon a plethoric habit, occasioned his sudden dissolution.

That Mr. Merry was a gentleman of great private worth we believe theevidence of all those to whom familiar intercourse had revealed hisdisposition; that he was learned and accomplished in a very eminentdegree no one has ever denied; and that he was a man of genius, his“Della Crusca,” and the many witty and satirical epigrams he wrote forthe public prints under the signature of “Tom Thorne,” abundantly prove.But the pen of state vengeance was raised against him, and his poeticalfame was immolated as an expiation for his political offences. Attachedto French revolutionary,132or, as they were then called, jacobinprinciples, to a degree which even Foxites censured, he was viewed withabhorrence by one party, and with no great regard by the other; so thatwhen the witty author of the Pursuits of Literature drew his sword, andthe sarcastic author of the Baviad and Mæviad lifted his axe against himthere was no one to ward off the blows. There is a fact respecting Mr.M. which, though it does not properly belong to this biographicalsketch, yet as it is curious enough to apologize for its introduction,we take the liberty to relate. The celebrated Mrs. Cowley, under thename of “Anna Matilda,” and Mr. M. under that of “Della Crusca,”corresponded with and admired each other, without being known or evensuspected by one another, or, for some time, by the public. Theseproductions formed a new era or rather a new school of poetry, whichexcited such attention and curiosity that every art was resorted to inorder to discover the authors. It was at length whispered abroad, andthen what most surprised the world was, that the two persons weretotally strangers to each other.

Mrs. Merry remained a widow for more than four years: she then, on thefirst of January 1803, married Mr. Wignell, the manager of thePhiladelphia theatre, who died in seven weeks after their marriage. Forthree years and a half she retained the name of Wignell, when thepresent manager solicited her hand so successfully that she consented,and took the name of Warren, on the 15th of August, 1806. By thismarriage the property and management of the Philadelphia theatredevolved upon Mr. Warren; than whom, exclusive of the personalattachment that subsisted between them, she could not have pitched uponany one person more competent to the care of her property or thedirection of the theatre; or one more worthy of the sacred trust ofbeing a parent and a guardian to her infant daughter. For near two yearsthey lived together in a state of ease and felicity which bid fair tolast for years, when he being obliged to attend his company to theircustomary summer stations, Mrs. Warren, then in a far advanced state ofpregnancy, desired133to go along with him. Aware of the fatigue, theinconveniences, and the privations to which she would, in alllikelihood, be exposed, during her journey southward, and still more inher accouchement, which must necessarily take place before his return,he endeavoured to prevail upon her to stay behind. But “Fate came intothe list,” and she would go. Arrived at Alexandria, he took a largecommodious house, and put it in a condition sufficiently comfortable;Mrs. Warren was in lusty health, and as the time approached all was fairand promising. By one of those turns, however, which it pleasesProvidence for his own wise purposes frequently to ordain, to mock ourbest hopes and baffle our most sanguine expectations, this admirablewoman was, contrary to every antecedent prognostic, visited in hertravail with epileptic fits, in which she expired, “leaving,” (as thesublime Burke no less truly than pathetically said on the death ofdoctor Johnson,) “not only nothing to fill her place, but nothing thathas a tendency to fill it.”

Here, we let the curtain drop. Neither her private nor her publiccharacter can derive additional lustre from any pen.

PORTRAIT OF THE CELEBRATED BETTERTON.

Mr. Thomas Betterton, dramatist and actor, was born in Tothill-street,Westminster; and after having left school, is said to have been putapprentice to a bookseller. It is supposed he made his first appearanceon the stage about the year 1657, at the opera house, which was thenunder the direction of sir William Davenant. He went over to Paris totake a view of the French scenery, and on his return,134made suchimprovements, as added greatly to the lustre of the English stage.

The professional merits of this great man were of a kind so perfectlyunequivocal and unalloyed that there never was heard one dissentingvoice upon the subject of his superiority to all other actors. He stoodso far above the highest of his profession that competition beinghopeless there was no motive for envy.

Of the few who lived to see him and Garrick, the far greater number gavehim the palm, with the exception of Garrick’s excellence in low comedy.Indeed he seems to have combined in himself the various powers of thethree greatest modern actors, of Garrick, except as before excepted, ofBarry, and of Mossop; add to which, he played Falstaff as well as Quin.The present writer got this from old Macklin, who was stored withanecdotes of his predecessors.

Of Betterton, Colley Cibber speaks thus, in his apology for his ownlife:

“Betterton was an actor, as Shakspeare was an author, both withoutcompetitors! formed for the mutual assistance, and illustration of eachother’s genius! how Shakspeare wrote, all men who have a taste fornature may read, and know—but with what higher rapture would he stillbe read, could they conceive how Betterton played him! Then might theyknow, the one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write!pity it is, that the momentary beauties flowing from a harmoniouselocution, cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that theanimated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breathand motion that presents them; or at best can but faintly glimmerthrough the memory, or imperfect attestation of a few survivingspectators. Could how Betterton spoke be as easily known as what hespoke, then might you see the Muse of Shakspeare in her triumph, withall her beauties in their best array, rising into real life, andcharming her beholders. But alas! since all this is so far out of thereach of description, how shall I show you Betterton? Should I thereforetell you, that all the Othellos,135Hamlets, Hotspurs, Mackbeths, andBrutuses, whom you may have seen since his time, have fallen far shortof him; this still would give you no idea of his particular excellence.Let us see then what a particular comparison may do! whether that mayyet draw him nearer to you?

“You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the first appearance of hisfather’s spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferationrequisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thundered withapplause; though the misguided actor was all the while (as Shakspeareterms it) tearing a passion into rags—I am the more bold to offer youthis particular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sate byhim, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me withsome ,if I thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passionwith the ghost, which though it might have astonished, it had notprovoked him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech, thepassion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or animpatience, limited by filial reverence, to inquire into the suspectedwrongs that may have raised him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire toknow what a spirit so seemingly distressed, might wish or enjoin asorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave! this wasthe light into which Betterton threw this scene; which he opened with apause of mute amazement! then rising slowly, to a solemn, tremblingvoice, he made the ghost equally terrible to the spectator, as tohimself! and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which theghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was stillgoverned by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising intothat seeming outrage, or wild defiance of what he naturally revered. Butalas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and meaning too little,to keep the attention more pleasingly awake, by a tempered spirit, thanby mere vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor themost difficult to reach. In this none yet have equalled Betterton. But Iam unwilling to show his superiority only by recounting the errors ofthose, who now cannot136answer to them, let their farther failingstherefore be forgotten! or rather, shall I in some measure excuse them!For I am not yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the falsejudgment of the spectator, as the actor. While the million are so apt tobe transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; whilethey take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, itis no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be also tempted,at this easy rate, to excite it. Shall I go a little farther? and allowthat this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error? I meanthat dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness ofpronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults thatso frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have thefewest admirers. That this is an error of ancient standing seems evidentby what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, viz.

Be not too tame, neither, &c.

The actor, doubtless, is as strongly tied down to the rules of Horace asthe writer:

He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to asleeping audience: but this never was the fault of Betterton; and it hasoften amazed me to see those who soon came after him, throw out in someparts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Bettertonhimself could not but have applauded. And yet in the equally shiningpassages of the same character, have heavily dragged the sentiment alonglike a dead weight; with a long-toned voice, and absent eye, as if theyhad fairly forgot what they were about. If you have never made thisobservation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it.

“A farther excellence in Betterton, was, that he could vary his spiritto the different characters he acted. Those wild impatient starts, thatfierce and flashing fire, which he137threw into Hotspur, never came fromthe unruffled temper of his Brutus (for I have more than once, seen aBrutus as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, inhis dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steadylook alone supplyed that terror, which he disdained an intemperance inhis voice should rise to. Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, likean unheeding rock, he repelled upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhapsthe very works of Shakspeare will better let you into my meaning:

And a little after,

There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c.

Not but in some part of this scene, where he reproaches Cassius, histemper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth whichbecomes a man of virtue; yet this is that hasty spark of anger, whichBrutus himself endeavours to excuse.

“But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet show, at once, thephilosopher and the hero, yet the image of the actor’s excellence willbe still imperfect to you, unless language could put colours in ourwords to paint the voice with.

“Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum, is enjoining animpossibility. The most that a Vandyke can arrive at, is to make hisportraits of great persons seem to think; a Shakspeare goes fartheryet, and tells you what his pictures thought; a Betterton steps beyondthem both, and calls them from the grave, to breathe, and be themselvesagain, in feature, speech, and motion. When the skilful actor shows youall these powers at once united, and gratifies at once your eye, yourear, your understanding. To conceive the pleasure rising from suchharmony, you must have been present at it! ’tis not to be told you!

138“There cannot be a stronger proof of the charms of harmonious elocution,than the many, even unnatural scenes and flights of the false sublime ithas lifted into applause. In what raptures have I seen an audience, atthe furious fustian and turgid rants in Nat. Lee’s Alexander theGreat! for though I can allow this play a few great beauties, yet it isnot without its extravagant blemishes. Every play of the same author hasmore or less of them. Let me give you a sample from this. Alexander, ina full crowd of courtiers, without being occasionally called or provokedto it, falls into this rhapsody of:

Can none remember? Yes, I know all must!

And therefore they shall know it again.

When these flowing numbers come from the mouth of a Betterton, themultitude no more desired sense to them, than our musical connoisseursthink it essential in the celebrated airs of an Italian opera. Does notthis prove, that there is very near as much enchantment in thewell-governed voice of an actor, as in the sweet pipe of a eunuch? If Itell you, there was no one tragedy, for many years, more in favour withthe town than Alexander, to what must we impute this its command ofpublic admiration? not to its intrinsic merit, surely, if it swarms withpassages like this I have shown you! If this passage has merit, let ussee what figure it would make upon canvas, what sort of picture wouldrise from it. If Le Brun, who was famous for painting the battles ofthis hero, had seen this lofty description, what one image could he havepossibly taken from it? In what colours would he have shown us Gloryperched upon a beaver? how would he have drawn Fortune trembling? or,indeed, what use could he have made of pale139Fates, or immortalsriding upon billows, with this blustering god of his own making atthe head of them! where, then, must have lain the charm, that oncemade the public so partial to this tragedy? why plainly, in the graceand harmony of the actor’s utterance. For the actor himself is notaccountable for the false poetry of his author; that, the hearer is tojudge of; if it passes upon him, the actor can have no quarrel to it;who, if the periods given him are round, smooth, spirited, andhigh-sounding, even in a false passion, must throw out the same fire andgrace, as may be required in one justly rising from nature; where thosehis excellencies will then be only more pleasing in proportion to thetaste of his hearer. And I am of opinion, that to the extraordinarysuccess of this very play, we may impute the corruption of so manyactors, and tragic writers, as were immediately mislead by it. Theunskilful actor, who imagined all the merit of delivering those blazingrants, lay only in the strength, and strained exertion of the voice,began to tear his lungs, upon every false, or slight occasion, to arriveat the same applause. And it is hence I date our having seen the samereason prevalent, for above fifty years. Thus equally misguided too,many a barren-brained author has streamed into a frothy flowing style,pompously rolling into sounding periods,—roundlynothing; of which number, in some of my former labours, I am somethingmore than suspicious, that I may myself have made one, but to keep alittle closer to Betterton.

“When this favourite play I am speaking of, from its being toofrequently acted, was worn out, and came to be deserted by the town,upon the sudden death of Monfort, who had played Alexander with success,for several years, the part was given to Betterton, which, under thisgreat disadvantage of the satiety it had given, he immediately revivedwith so new a lustre, that for three days together it filled the house;and had his then declining strength been equal to the fatigue the actiongave him, it probably might have doubled its success; an uncommoninstance of the power and intrinsic merit of an actor. This I mentionnot only to prove what irresistible pleasure140may arise from a judiciouselocution, with scarce sense to assist it; but to show you too, thatthough Betterton never wanted fire, and force, when his characterdemanded it; yet, where it was not demanded, he never prostituted hispower to the low ambition of a false applause. And further, that when,from a too advanced age, he resigned that toilsome part of Alexander,the play, for many years after never was able to impose upon the public;and I look upon his so particularly supporting the false fire andextravagancies of that character, to be a more surprizing proof of hisskill, than his being eminent in those of Shakspeare; because there,truth and nature coming to his assistance he had not the samedifficulties to combat, and consequently, we must be less amazed at hissuccess, where we are more able to account forit

(To be continued.)

141

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

PHILADELPHIA THEATRE.

All those plays are well known. From the peculiar circ*mstancesattending their performance they call for a share of particularattention, which would otherwise be superfluous. Where there issomething new, and much to be admired, it would be inexcusable to benigg*rd of our labour, even were the labour painful, which in thisinstance it is not. The performance of Master Payne pleased us so muchthat we have often since derived great enjoyment from the recollectionof it; and to retrace upon paper the opinions with which it impressedus, we now sit down with feelings very different from those, which, atone time, we expected to accompany the task. Without the leasthesitation we confess, that when we were assured it would become ourduty to examine that young gentleman’s pretensions, and compare hissterling value with the general estimate of it, as reported from otherparts of the union, we felt greatly perplexed.142On one hand strictcritical justice with the pledge which is given in our motto,imperiously forbidding us to applaud him who does not deserve it, staredus in the face with a peremptory inhibition from sacrificing truth toceremony, or prostrating our judgment before the feet of publicprejudice: while, on the other we were aware that nothing is soobstinate as error—that fashionable idolatry is of all things the mostincorrigible by argument, and the least susceptible of conviction—thatwhile the dog-star ofis vertical over a people, there isno reasoning with them to effect; and that all the efforts of commonsense are but given to the wind, if employed to undeceive them, till thebrain fever has spent itself, and the public mind has settled down to astate of rest. We had heard Master Payne’s performances spoken of in astyle which quite overset our faith. Not one with whom we conversedabout him spoke within the bounds of reason: few indeed seemed tounderstand the subject, or, if they did, to view it with the sober eyeof plain common rationality. The opinions of some carried their owncondemnation in their obvious extravagance; and hyperbolical admirationfairly ran itself out of breath in speaking of the wonders of thiscisatlantic young Roscius.

While we knew that half of what was said was utterly impossible, wethought it due to candor to believe that such a general opinion couldnot exist without some little foundation; that in all likelihood the boyhad merit, considerable for his years and means, to which his puerilitymight have given a peculiar recommendation, and that when he came to beunloaded by time and public reflection of that injurious burthen ofidolatrous praise, which to our thinking had all the bad effects ofcalumny, we should be able to find at bottom something that could beapplauded without impairing our veracity, deceiving the public, orjoining the multitude in burning the vile incense of flattery under theboy’s nose, and hiding him from the world and from himself in a cloud ofpernicious adulation.

143But how to encounter this reigning humour was the question: to renderhis reasoning efficacious, the critic must take care not to make itunpalatable. And here the general taste seemed to be in directopposition to our reason and experience; for we had not yet (even in thecase of young Betty, with the aggregate authority of England, Ireland,and Scotland in his favour) been free from scepticism: the Roscio-maniacontagion had not yet infected us quite so much: in a word, we had nofaith in miracles, nor could we, in either the one case or the other,screw up our credulity to any sort of unison with the pitch of themultitude. We shall not readily forget the mixed sensations of concernand risibility with which, day after day, from the first annunciation ofMaster Payne’s expected appearance at Philadelphia, we were obliged tolisten to the misjudging applause of his panegyrists. There is anarrowness of heart, and a nudity of mind too common in our nature,under the impulse of which few people can bring themselves to do homageto one person without magnifying their incense by the depreciation ofsome other. According to these a favourite has not his proper station,till all others are put below him; as if there was no merit positive,but all was good but by comparison. In this temper there certainly is atleast as much malice to one as kindness to the other: but an honourableand beneficent wisdom gives other laws for human direction, and dictatesthat in the house of merit there are not only many stories, but manyapartments in each story: and that every man may be fairly adjudicatedall the praise he deserves without thrusting others down into the groundfloor to make room for him. Yet not one in twenty could we find topraise Master Payne, without doing it at the expense of others. “He issuperior to Cooper,” said one; “he speaks better than Fennell,” said asecond: these sagacious observations too, are rarely accompanied by amodest qualification, such as “I think,” or “it is my opinion”—butnailed down with a peremptory is. This is the mere naked offspring of amuddy or unfinished mind, which, for want of discrimination144to pointout the particular beauties it affects to admire, accomplishes its willby a sweeping wholesale term of comparison, more injurious to him theypraise than to him they slight. Nay, so far has this been carried, thatsome who never were out of the limits of this union have, by a kind oftelescopical discernment, viewed Cooke and Kemble in comparison withtheir new favourite, and found them quite deficient. We cannot readilyforget one circ*mstance: a person said to another in our hearing at theplayhouse, “You have been in England, sir, don’t you think Master Paynesuperior to young Betty?” “I don’t know, sir, having never seen MasterBetty,” answered the man; “I think he is very much superior,” repliedthe former—“You have seen Master Betty then, sir,” said the latter;“No, I never did,” returned he that asked the first question, “but I amsure of it—I have heard a person that was in England say so!!”—Thiswas the pure effusion of a mind subdued to prostration by wonder. InEngland this was carried to such lengths, that the panegyrists of youngBetty seemed to vie with each other in fanatical admiration of thattruly extraordinary boy. One, in a public print, went so far as toassert, that Mr. Fox (who, as well as Mr. Pitt, was at young Betty’sbenefit when he played Hamlet) declared the performance was little, ifat all, inferior to that of his deceased friend Garrick. With the verysame breath in which we read the paragraph we declared it to be afalsehood. Mr. Fox had too much judgment to institute thecomparison—Mr. Fox had too much benignity to utter such a maliciouslibel upon that noble boy.

These considerations naturally augmented our anxiety, and we did mostheartily wish, if it were possible, to be relieved from the task ofgiving an opinion of Master Payne. For in addition to his youthfulness,we knew that he wanted many advantages which young Betty possessed. Theinfant Roscius of England, had, from his very infancy, been in a stateof the best discipline; being from the time he was five years of age,daily exercised in recitation of poetry, by his145mother, who shone inprivate theatricals; and having been afterwards prepared for the stage,and hourly tutored by Mr. Hough, an excellent preceptor. By his fathertoo, who is one of the best fencers in Europe, he was improved ingracefulness of attitude—and nature had uncommonly endowed him for thereception of those instructions. Of such means of improvement MasterPayne was wholly destitute, for there was not a man that we could hearof in America who was at once capable and willing to instruct him.Self-dependent and self-taught as he must be, we could see no feasiblemeans by which he could evolve his powers, be they what they might, toadequate effect for the stage. We deemed it scarcely possible that hecould have got rid of the innumerable provincialisms which must cling tohis youth: and we laid our account at the best with meeting a fineforward boy who would speak, perhaps not very well either, by rote; andtaking the most prominent favourite actor of his day, as a model, be amere childish imitator. We considered that when young people do anything with an excellence disproportioned to their years, they are viewedthrough a magnifying medium; and that being once seen to approach to theperfection of eminent adults, they are, by a transition sufficientlyeasy to a wondering mind, readily concluded to excel them. Thus Bettywas said to surpass Kemble and Cooke; and thus young Payne was roundlyasserted to surpass Cooper and Fennell. Such were the feelings andopinions with which we met Master Payne on his first appearance, forwhich the tragedy of Douglas was judiciously selected; and we own thatthe first impression he made upon our minds was favourable to histalents in this way: He appeared to be just of that age which we shouldthink least advantageous to him; too young to enforce approbation byrobust manly exertion of talents; too far advanced to win over thejudgment by tenderness; or by a manifest disproportion between his ageand his efforts, to excite that astonishment which, however shortlived,is, while it lasts, despotic over the understanding. Labouring,146therefore, under most of the disadvantages without any of theadvantages of puerility, candor and common sense pronounced at once thatmuch less of the estimation in which he was held, was to be ascribed tohis boyishness, and of course much more to his talents than we had beenled to imagine. If, therefore, he got through the character handsomely,and still carried the usual applause along with him, we directlyconceived that there would be just ground for thinking it not entirelythe result of prejudice, nor by any means undeserved.

At his entrance he seemed a little intimidated, as if he were dubious ofhis reception; nor could he for some minutes himself of thatfeeling, though he was received with the most flattering welcome;—thistransient perturbation gave a very pleasing effect to his first words;and when he said, “My name is Norval,” he uttered it with a pause whichseemed to be the effect of the modest diffidence natural to such acharacter upon being introduced into a higher presence than he had everbefore approached. Had this been the effect of art it would have beenfine—perhaps it was—but we thought it was accidental.

The utter impossibility of a beardless boy of sixteen or seventeenyears, at all assimilating to the character of a warrior and mightyslayer of men, is of itself an insuperable obstacle to the completepersonification of certain characters by a young gentleman of the ageand stature of Master Payne. He might speak them with strictpropriety—he might act them with feeling and spirit; but had he thegeneral genius of Garrick—the energies of Mossop—the beauty of Barry,the elocution of Sheridan, and the art of Kemble, he could not with thefeminine face and voice, and the unfinished person inseparable from suchtender years, personate them: nor so long as he is seen or heard canthe perception of his nonage be excluded, or he be thought to representthat character, to the formation of which, not gristle, nor fair, roundsoft lineaments, but huge bone and muscle, well-knit joints, knottylimbs, and the hard face of Mars are147necessary. If we find, as we do inmany great works of criticism, objections made to the performance ofseveral characters by actors of high renown merely for their deficiencyin personal appearance—if the externals of Mr. Garrick are stated byhis warmest panegyrists as unfitting him for characters of dignity orheroism, even to his exclusion from Faulconbridge, Hotspur, &c. and ifwe find that the greatest admirers of Barry considered the harmony andsoftness of his features, as reducing his Macbeth, Pierre, &c. to poorlukewarm efforts, how can it be expected that a boy, just started fromchildhood, should present a true picture of a warrior or a philosopher?We premise this for the purpose of having it understood that what we areto say of Master Payne is to be subject to these deductions, and that inthe praise which it is but just to bestow upon him, we exclude all ideaof external resemblance to the characters. Of the mental powers, theinforming spirit, the genius, the feeling which he now discloses, andthe rich promise they afford of future greatness—of these it is, weprofess to speak: further we cannot go without insincerity, untruth, andmanifest absurdity.

As might have been expected from Master Payne’s limited means of stageinstruction, he several times discovered want of judgment. In the speechin which Norval tells his story, he trespassed on propriety in hisefforts to throw an air of martial ardor into his expressions; bysuddenly changing the key and raising the tone of his voice, andspeaking with increased rapidity the words that more immediately relatedto fighting, erecting them into a kind of alto relievo above the levelof the rest; particularly in “I had heard of battles,” &c. “We foughtand conquered,” &c. all which is a narrative that should be deliveredwith humility, and a strict avoidance of any thing like vainglory, oregotism, studiously softening down, with modest air, those details ofhis own prowess which the author has necessarily given to thecharacter.

Had Master Payne had a Hough to instruct him, or a Cooke for his model,he would have escaped the error into148which he fell in that part of thefourth act in which Norval describes the hermit who instructed him: hewould have known that acting what he narrates is highly improper—indeedabsurd; as it is acting in the first person, and speaking in the thirdat one and the same time. While he repeated the words

Master Payne cut those figures, and described the square and thecrescent with his hands—a great error! A better lesson cannot beoffered to a young actor on this subject than may be found in the novelof Peregrine Pickle, in which doctor Smollet ridicules Quin the playerfor acting narrative in Zanga.

Master Payne would find it his interest to avoid as much as may be, longdeclamatory speeches, till his organs are enlarged and confirmed. But inthose parts in which Douglas discloses his lofty spirit, and no less inall the pathetic parts, he far exceeded expectation, and deserved allthe applause he received.

There was, in his delivering these lines, an expression of tendernesswhich appealed forcibly to the heart; and was rendered still morestriking by the abrupt transition to his sword,

which he executed with a felicity that nothing but consummate149genius could accomplish. Again he blazed out with the true spiritin the following lines:

That part, however, in which he disclosed not only exquisite feeling buta soundness of judgment that would do honour to an experienced actor,was where Glenalvon taunts him, for the purpose of rousing his spirit toresentment. In that speech particularly which begins,

The suppression of his indignation in this and the succeedingpassages—the climax of passion marked in his face, his tone and hisaction, when he says to himself

If this were told!——

the gradation thence to

Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self?

till at last he flames into ungovernable rage in

was altogether a string of beauties such as it rarely falls to the lotof the critic to commemorate. Had age and personal hardihood been added,it would have defied the cavils of the most churlish criticism, anddeprived even enmity of all pretence to censure.

The next striking beauty he disclosed was in his reply to Randolph, whenthe latter offers his arbitration between him and Glenalvon.

150The cold peremptory dignity he threw into these words was beautifullyconceived, and executed in a masterly manner: nor was he less successfulin the transition to an expression of poignant but smothered sensibilityin the next line:

His delivery of this and all the other lines of the speech that followedit, deserved the thunders of applause with which it was greeted—it was,indeed, admirable.

In impassioned feeling lies Master Payne’s strength. Hence his lastscene was deeply affecting. Though we could well have spared thatKembleian dying trope, his rising up and falling again. It is because weseriously respect Master Payne’s talents that we make this remark:clap-traps and stage trick of every kind cannot be too studiouslyavoided by persons of real parts.

It would be injustice to omit one passage—

In the break, the pause, and the last four words he was inimitably fine.

In Master Payne’s performance of this character we perceived manyfaults, which call for his own correction. They are, we think, such ashe has it in his power to get rid of. As they are general and pervadeall his performances, we reserve our observations upon them till weclose the course of criticism we are to bestow upon him, when we mean tosum up our opinion of his general talents. Meantime we beg leave toremind him that Mr. Garrick himself, after he had been near forty yearsupon the stage, often shut himself up for days together restudying andrehearsing parts he had acted with applause a hundred times before. Satsapienti.

Nature has bestowed upon this young gentleman a countenance of no commonorder. Its expression has not yet unfolded itself; but we entertain nodoubt that when manhood151and diligent professional exercise shall havebrought the muscles of his face into full relief, and strengthened itslines, it will be powerfully capable of all the inflexions necessary fora general player. At present the character of his physiognomy isperfectly discernible only upon a near view. When he advances towardsthe front of the stage, the lines may be perceived from that part of thepit and boxes which are near the orchestra; even then the shades are sovery much softened by youth, and the parts so rounded, and so utterlyfree from acute angles, that they can, as yet, but faintly expressstrong, turbulent emotions, or display the furious passions. In a boy ofhis age, this, so far from being a defect, is a beauty, the reverse ofwhich would be unnatural; and if it were a defect, every day that passesover his head would remedy it. What is now wanting in muscularexpression, is in a great measure supplied by his eye, which glows withanimation, and intelligence, and at times speaks the language of a soulreally impassioned. Upon a close view, when apart from the factitiousaids and incumbrances of stage-lights, costume, and paint, he must be ashallow-sighted physiognomist who would not at the first glance bestruck by Master Payne’s countenance. A more extraordinary mixture ofsoftness and intelligence never were associated in a human face. Theforehead is particularly fine; Lavater would say that genius and energywere enthroned there; and over the whole, though yet quite boyish, thereis a strong expression of what is called manliness; by which is to beunderstood, not present, but the indications of future manliness. Howstrongly and distinctly this is characterised in the boy’s face, may becollected from an anecdote which, exclusive of its application to thissubject, we think well worth relating on account of the other partyconcerned in it.

A day or two before Master Payne left Philadelphia he and a friend ofhis walking in a remote part of the city, were encountered by a strangeold woman, who requested alms with an earnestness which exactedattention. The gentleman who was in company with our youth, and from152whom we deliver the story, being an Irishman, instantly recognizing inthe petitioner, an unhappy countrywoman, stopped, surveyed her with morethan cursory regard, and put his hand into his pocket in order to giveher money. As there was in her aspect that which bespoke something thathad once been better accommodated, and had claims above a commonmendicant, he was searching in his pocket for a suitable piece ofsilver, when the generous boy outstripping him, put unostentatiously,into the old lady’s hand some pieces of silver. She viewed them—drewback—gazed upon him for some seconds with a fixed look of wonder,delight and affection, then lifting up her eyes to heaven, in a tone ofvoice, and with a solemnity which no words can express, exclaimed, “Maythe great God of heaven shower down his blessings on your infant years,and manly face!” Quickness of conception beyond all other people is nowallowed, even by the English, to be characteristic of the people ofIreland, once considered by those of the sister kingdom as the Bæotiansof Britain; and we are disposed to concur with the Irish gentleman, who,in his exultation and honest prejudice said, “that the woman might beknown to be Irish from her warm gratitude, her quick discernment, andher elegant extemporaneous compliment.” In fact, if Edmund Burkehimself, who exceeded all mankind in the quickness and elegance ofcomplimentary replies, had been considering the matter a whole hour, hecould not have uttered anything to surpass it.

Of Master Payne’s person we cannot speak (nor do we hope) so favourablyas of his face. And we much fear that he will not undergo the pain ofmending it by abstinence from indulgence. Early hours, active or evenhard exercise, particularly of the gymnastic kind, and diligentunremitting study are as indispensable to his fame, if he means to be aplayer, as food or drink are to his support. In general his action iselegant—his attitudes bold and striking; but of the former he sometimesuses too much, and in his appropriation of the latter he is not alwayssufficiently discriminating. This was particularly observable in hisperformance of Frederick153in Lover’s Vows—a character in which we shallhave occasion to speak of him, and with great praise in a future number.His walk too, which in his own unaffected natural gait is notexceptionable, he frequently spoils by a kind of pushing step, at openwar with dignity of deportment. It would be well for this younggentleman if he had never seen Mr. Cooper. Perhaps he will be startledat this; and flatters himself that he never imitates that gentleman. Wecan readily conceive him to think so even at the moment he is doing it.To imitate another, it is not necessary to intend to do so. Every day oftheir lives men imitate without the intervention of the will. Themanners of an admired, or much-observed individual, insensibly rootthemselves in a young person’s habits—he draws them into his system, ashe does the atmosphere which surrounds him. We doubt very much whetherMr. Cooper himself would not be surprised if he knew how much heimitates Kemble. Though seemingly a paradox, we firmly rely upon it—Mr.Cooper may be aiming at Cooke, when he is by old habitual taint reallyhitting Kemble.1On this subject of imitation much is to be said.Kemble rose when every bright luminary of the stage had set. Being thebest of his day, in the metropolis, he has become the standard of actingto the young and inexperienced; more from pride than want of judgment hegoes wrong; his system of acting is radically vitious; but as it makeslabour pass as a substitute for genius, by transferring expression fromits natural organs to the limbs, and making attitude and action thechief representatives of the passions and the feelings, it not onlyfascinates because it catches the eye, but is adopted because extremelyconvenient to the vast majority of young adventurers on the stage, who,possessing neither the feelings fit for the profession, nor the organs,nor the154genius to express them if they had, are glad to find asubstitute for both. Hence the system of Mr. Kemble has spread like aplague—infected the growing race of actors, mixed itself with the verylife-blood of the art, and extended its contagion through every newbranch, even to the very last year’s bud. Thus Mr. Kemble is imitated bythose who never saw him. Let us tell Master Payne that it is the veryworst school he could go to, this of the statuary. It is as muchinferior to the old one—to that of Garrick, Barry, Mossop, and nature,as the block of marble from which the Farnesian Hercules was hewed, isto the god himself. Of its superiority we need urge no farther proofthan that of Mr. Cooke, who, though assuredly inferior to several of theold stock, and groaning under unexampled intemperance, has in spite ofevery impediment which artful jealousy and envy of his talents couldraise against him, risen so high in public estimation, that even whenjust reeking from offences which would not have been endured in Garrickor Barry, his return is hailed with shouts, as if it were a nationaltriumph. And why?—because he is of the old school, and scorns thecajolery of statue-attitude and stage-trick.

We speak thus freely to Master Payne because we think he has talentsworth the interposition of criticism, and if we speak at all, must speakthe whole truth. The praise we give him might well be distrusted, iffrom any false delicacy we slurred over his defects and errors. The mostdangerous rock in his way will be adulation. Sincerely we wish him to beassured that those who mix their applause with a proper alloy of censureare his best friends. Indiscriminate flatterers are no better than thesnake which besmears its prey with slime, only to gorge it the moreeasily.

On reviewing what we have written, we find no observation on MasterPayne’s voice, in which nature has been very bountiful to him. We heardhim a few times, with no little pain strain it out of its compass. Heneed not do so; since, judiciously managed, it is equal to all thepurposes of his profession. Those are dangerous experiments, by which he155may spoil a voice naturally clear, melodious, and of tolerablecompass. His pronunciation is at times hurtful to a very nice ear. He isnot to imagine that he has spoken as he ought when he has uttered wordsas they are pronounced in general conversation. There are some, and highones too, who will say “good boy” when they mean “goodbye;” and it wouldnot be at all impossible to hear a very fine lady say that she was daownin taown, to buy a gaown. We do not accuse Master Payne of this; but attimes a little of the a cheats the o of its good old round rights;so distantly however, as not to be noticed except by a very accurateear—but he ought not to let any ear discover it.

To the correct orthoepist, several persons on the stage give offence inthe pronunciation of the pronoun possessive my—speaking it in all caseswith the full open y, as it would rhyme to fly, which should only bewhen it is put in contradistinction to thy or his, or any otherpronoun possessive: in all other cases it should be sounded like me.This is a pure Americanism, not practised in any other place where theEnglish language is spoken, and, so far as it goes, deprives the word ofa quality of nice distinctness.

It gives us great pleasure to communicate to our readers theintelligence that Master Payne’s success at Richmond, even surpassedthat which he had met before. From a letter submitted to our perusal wehave, with permission, made the following extract: “Wednesday nightPayne arrived; Thursday was the first day of his performance; the othernights, being Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday andSaturday, when the house closed for the season; and on Sunday hedeparted in the mail stage. This flying visit (of ten days only)produced him upwards of seventeen hundred dollars!!”

It was our intention to confine our remarks on this occasion entirely toMaster Payne. It seemed to us that the interest taken by the public inthis native plant, the novelty of his appearance, and, indeed, his ownmerits, laid claim to a very156particular discussion of his performances:but as we read over the play for that purpose, Mr. M‘Kenzie’s OldNorval forced itself so imperiously upon our remembrance, that we couldnot drop the subject without doing justice to that gentleman’sperformance and our own feelings. It was a specimen of acting andspeaking we little expected to meet with: masterly, chaste, andexquisitely affecting; no less gratifying to the critical ear than tothe feeling heart. We particularly admired his attestation to heaven ofhis innocence:

And his pathetic supplication for mercy:

The first of these he poured forth with an expression of simplesincerity, and the second with a gentle earnestness, so humble, sopassionately moving, that none but the most hardened hearts could resistit. Even the gallery felt its force and made the house resound with itsrude applause—’twas well; and we may say with Pierre,

We could have hugged the greasy rogues; they pleased us.

As in the two former passages Mr. M‘Kenzie presented a specimen ofexquisitely pathetic expression, so he evinced his skill and powers ofspeaking in that speech which may be called the pride of theplay—perhaps of all Scottish poetry too, in which he relates thefinding of the child:

157Randolph is a character of which we doubt whether Cooke himselfcould make any thing. Mr. Warren did all that is usually done for him.

Partial as we are to Mr. Wood’s acting generally, we did not perceive inhis performance of Glenalvon any thing to please us very much, oraugment his reputation.

In Lady Randolph, Mrs. Barrett would deserve much commendation, if shecould get rid of a few faults in her speaking. Her feelings and personalappearance are finely adapted to the character.

A correspondent at Baltimore, of whose judgment we think highly, hassent us the following communication, and expressed a wish that we shouldpublish it—at the same time acknowledging that it had been printed insome periodical paper. As we wish to oblige our correspondent, and thereis no opinion in it which, according to our present idea of the companyviolently militates against our own, we give it a place.

While so interesting a scene is now acting upon the great theatre of theworld, and as the chief performer has recently closed one of the actswith a very important incident, it may, by many be considered as arelaxation, to employ a few minutes in taking a concise view of our ownlittle theatre; the leader of which has also so lately closed hiscampaign in Baltimore.

I am the more desirous of offering a few remarks upon this subject, fromhaving occasionally heard observations indicating some disapprobationrelative to our theatrical arrangements. Such impressions, we flatterourselves, a little more information upon the subject, and a candidreconsideration will do away. From a knowledge of the state of thetheatres in other parts of the continent, we feel ourselves perfectlysafe in declaring, that ours is most unquestionably entitled to thefirst place, whether we have reference to the performers composing thecompany, the scenery, dresses, decorations or music.

158In tragedy and genteel comedy, Mr. Wood must certainly be consideredpreeminent, with the exception of Mr. Cooper only, who thoughperhaps2excelling him in some tragical characters, is considered by many goodjudges, as by no means his superior in many appertaining to genteelcomedy.

Mrs. Wood ranks high in the same line; the correct style in which shegives the sense of her author, the refinement of her taste and her clearand distinct utterance, must always ensure to her the approbation of anenlightened audience; we feel some reluctance in adding that heruniformity of declamation, and something in her tones approaching tomonotony, retard her progress to that excellence to which thequalifications abovementioned must evidently lead her.

Mr. Warren, viewed only as a performer, will be found fairly deservingof our praise. In the arduous character of the “inimitable andunimitated Falstaff” he has no rival on this side the Atlantic. In theother class of characters, to which he modestly confines himself, he isalways correct and respectable.

In Mr. Cone, we see a young performer gradually rising in estimation. Tothe manners of a gentleman, he adds a habit of discrimination, theeffect of a liberal education; and could he get over a certaininflexibility of voice, (whether arising from nature or habit we knownot) he must very soon become a distinguished performer.

Mr. M‘Kenzie is also a most respectable and useful actor: his person andmanner give him many advantages in performing characters requiringdignity and firmness of deportment; as Glenalvon in Douglas, he isexcellent; and those who have witnessed his performance of sir ArchyM‘Sarcasm and sir Pertinax M‘Sycophant, will unite with us in paying himthe tribute of applause for his correct personification of the wilyScotchman.—His talents do not seem calculated for genteel comedy ingeneral.

159Mrs. Barrett must be considered as a very useful actress; her figure iswell adapted to the characters she undertakes, and her generaldeportment upon the stage immediately indicates her perfect acquaintancewith the boards.

Mrs. Wilmot needs not our panegyric to call forward that publicattention she has so long merited; her qualifications as an actress areuncommonly general—whether we see her in genteel comedy, or in theEnglish opera, we are equally gratified with the diversity of hertalents. As a singer, her voice and judgment are equally conspicuous,and those who have seen her in the character of Ophelia, will readilyadmit her claim to the pathetic.

In addition to Mrs. Wilmot as a vocal performer, we have Mrs. Seymour,who possesses much sweetness and melody of tone, and whose modest andunassuming manner of giving her songs is not their smallest attraction.

In low comedy where shall we find a competitor to Jefferson? The onlyperformer who seems to bear the comparison for a moment is Twaits; butalthough we willingly subscribe to his merits, yet we can by no meansadmit him capable of that variety of character for which Mr. Jeffersonis so distinguished.

Mr. Blisset is also very prominent in the same line—Together with afund of humour he possesses a whimsical eccentricity of character whichis always diverting; his voice however, is frequently too weak to beheard in the remote parts of the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Francis have long enjoyed the favour of the public.Francis has much comic talent, sometimes, however, he is led by it, alittle too much into the caricature. Mrs. F. is not less diverting, andremarkable for her appropriate manner of dressing for old characters; aproperty very estimable. The ladies too often sacrifice a correctrepresentation of the character in this respect, to an unconquerableaversion they so naturally retain of appearing old and ugly.

Mr. West, lately added to the company, seems to promise something in lowcomedy; and Mr. Hardinge, in Irish160characters, and vocal parts willcertainly be an acquisition to the theatre. Although our dramatispersonæ do not afford much strength as to their vocalsome ofthose abovenamed, with the assistance of Wilmot and Jacobs, form a groupsufficient to render a musical piece very entertaining.

It should be recollected, that in all theatrical companies, there mustnecessarily be a number of inferior rank; performers of merit will nottake the minor parts abounding in every dramatic piece; and while wecondemn a want of excellence in the performer, we should consider, thatdid he possess more talent, he would not fill that situation.

Our orchestra will assuredly bear the strictest scrutiny.—The names ofGillingham and Niniger are sufficient of themselves to stamp itscharacter. The other accompaniments are very respectable andsufficiently numerous. The scenery, as far as the scale of the stagewill admit, is frequently beautiful, sometimes superb. The illuminatedwings recently exhibited in some of the pieces last produced, are new tothis country, and have a very brilliant effect: they do much credit toMessrs. Robins and Stewart in the painting-room. The dresses of theprincipal performers are rich and beautiful; to those who are acquaintedwith European theatres, it will not be considered as amplifying, when weassert, that we do not yield to them in that species of decoration. Themanagement of the scenery is as correct and subject to as fewinterruptions as possible; and the expedition with which one actsucceeds another, can be only appreciated by those who have witnessedthe tedious delay so often experienced in other places.

We are assured no pains have been spared by the manager to procure themost eminent performers; nor is any opportunity omitted to takeadvantage of the accidental presence of any performer, whose engagementpromises to gratify the town.

This theatre has taken the lead in getting up every thing novel, ineither branch of the drama, and that in a style very much superior toany other establishment of the kind upon the continent. It must beevident that it is the wish, as it is161the interest of the manager, toconduct the trust committed to him upon the most liberal principles:that which pleases the public most, is most favourable to him.

It must be observed, that the limits of a sketch like this, could onlyadmit of a very concise and general view of the subject. The writer hasno farther connexion or interest in the theatre, than that he holds incommon with those who are partial to dramatic entertainments, and whothink with him that a well regulated theatre, which is the only publicamusem*nt Baltimore can boast of, instructs while it amuses, andconduces much to that grace and elegance of conversation and manners sofascinating in private life.

IRISH MUSIC.

In the last number, the reader was presented with a short sketch uponthe subject of Irish music, in a letter from the celebrated poet Moore.That gentleman very philosophically ascribes the mixture of levity andmelancholy which is discernible in the character, as well as the musicof the original native Irish, to political circ*mstances. All who havepaid attention to the airs of that country must have perceived that theyare extremely lively and exhilarating, or delightfully plaintive andmelancholy. The former may be considered as displaying the ground-work,or the natural temperament, the other the superinduced adventitiouscharacter, derived from poverty and oppression. A writer of considerabletalents and intimate knowledge of the subject (Mr. Walker) adverting tothe poetry as well as the music of Ireland, speaks as follows:

“We see that music maintained its ground in this country even after theinvasion of the English, but its style suffered162a change; for thesprightly Phrygian gave place to the grave Doric, or the soft Lydianmeasure. Such was the nice sensibility of the bards, such was theirtender affection for their country, that the subjections to which thekingdom was reduced affected them with the heaviest sadness. Sinkingbeneath this weight of sympathetic sorrow, they became a prey tomelancholy: hence the plaintiveness of their music: for the ideas thatarise in the mind are always congenial to, and receive a mixture fromthe influencing passion. Another cause might have occurred in the onejust mentioned, in promoting a change in the style of our music; thebards often driven together with their patrons, by the sword ofoppression, from the busy haunts of men, were obliged to lie concealedin marshes, and in glyns and vallies resounding with the noise offalling waters, or filled with portentous echoes. Such scenes as these,by throwing a settled gloom over the fancy, must have considerablyincreased their melancholy; so that when they attempted to sing, it isnot to be wondered at that their voices, thus weakened by strugglingagainst heavy mental depression, should rise rather by minor-thirds,which consist but of four semitones, than by major-thirds which consistof five. Now almost all the airs of this period are found to be set inthe minor-third, and to be of the sage and solemn nature which Miltonrequires in his IlPenseroso.”3

To illustrate his position, Mr. Walker introduces the followinganecdote: “About the year 1730, one Maguire, a vintner, resided nearCharing Cross, London. His house was much frequented, and his skill inplaying on the harp was an additional incentive: even the duke ofNewcastle and several of the ministry sometimes condescended to visitit. He was one night called upon to play some Irish tunes; he did so;they were plaintive and solemn. His guests demanded the reason, and hetold them that the native composers were too deeply distressed at thesituation of their163country, and her gallant sons, to be able to composeotherwise. But, added he, take off the restraints under which theylabour, and you will not have reason to complain of the plaintiveness oftheir notes.

“Offence was taken at these warm effusions: his house became graduallyneglected, and he died soon after of a broken heart. An Irish harper whowas a of Maguire, and like him, felt for the sufferings ofhis country, had this distich engraven on his harp:

But perhaps the melancholy spirit which breathes through the Irish musicand poetry, may be attributed to another cause; a cause which operatedanterior and subsequent to the invasion of the English: we mean theremarkable susceptibility of the Irish to the passion of love; a passionwhich the munificent establishment of the bards left them at libertyfreely to indulge. While the mind is enduring the torments of fear,despair or hope, its effusions cannot be gay. The greater number of theproductions of those amorous poets, Tibullus, Catullus, Petrarch andHammond, are elegiac. The subject of their songs is always love, andthey seem to understand poetry to be designed for no other purpose thanto stir up that passion in themind

164

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

COLONEL THORNTON’S DEPARTURE FROM YORKSHIRE.

Every true sportsman of this county must regret to hear that what hasbeen for sometime rumoured has at last taken place. Colonel Thornton hasbeen induced to part with Falconer’s-hall, and if the report is true, wehave to congratulate him in having selected the most enviable andprincely domain in England, a residence unparalleled in its situation,either for a man of fashion, a bon vivant, or a sportsman. Afterhaving given the very best sport in hawking, coursing and hunting, atScarborough, Falconer’s-hall, and to the Saltergate Club, the colonel, afew days since, proceeded through York, in his way to Spy Park, inWiltshire, followed by a cavalcade, (such as attracted the attention ofthe whole of this place) in the following order:

First, the boat-wagon, so well known by the opponents of my lord Milton,and held by the owner invaluable, from having conveyed not less thanthree thousand independent free-holders of this virtuous county to vote,and ultimately, in spite of ministerial influence, to elect lord Milton,a of that man, the pattern of patriotism and unexampledrectitude, Charles Watson Wentworth, marquis of Rockingham;—this wagon,admirably contrived for the carrying of luggage or loose dogs, coveredwith the skins of stags, fallow-deer and roebucks killed by the colonel,nets, otter spears, fishing rods, and guns, drawn by four thorough-bredcream-coloured Arabian mares bred by the king. Next a dog-cart, whichcarried milk-white terriers, and beautiful gray-hounds; these were allsheeted and embroidered with the different matches they had won: thenovelty of this appeared to excite particular gratification. Thehuntsman, mounted upon a powerful, fine gray hunter, followed by animmense pack (judged not less than one hundred couple) of stag-hounds,fox-hounds, and otter-hounds, and lively lap-dog beagles. A stud-groomand four grooms, each leading165a thorough-bred horse, the descendants,as it was said, of Jupiter;—deer-skins covered them by way of housing.A keeper appropriately dressed, with three brace of pointers. Thefalconer in green and silver, surrounded by hawks, and on his fist avenerable grand-duke, closed this procession. Following, we understand,there were nine wagon loads of old wine and ale, brought from ThornvileRoyal, inestimable from its age, and held by the duke of York as thefinest wine in the kingdom. These wines, moved at such an immenseexpense, were from twenty-five to an hundred years old.

Many sportsmen, though delighted with the coup d’œil, could notforbear saying they should never see such sport as they had enjoyed withthe colonel, and envied those who were now to partake of his amusem*ntsand hospitality in Wiltshire.

The distance we understand this cavalcade is to travel, is about twohundred miles. A farther account of this very valuable removal, andtheir safe arrival at their destination (and such was the sincere wishof all the spectators) we hope to give hereafter.

Spy Park is situated in that part of the county of Wilts called NorthWiltshire, which is very dissimilar, in geographical features andnatural characteristics, to the southern portion of the county. Whilstthe former is distinguished by its numerous inclosures, dairy farms, andmanufacturing towns, the latter is chiefly occupied by thewide-spreading downs called Salisbury Plain.

Spy Park has, for many generations, been the property of the Bayntonfamily, some of whom appear to have been knights of St. John ofJerusalem, in the time of Henry II. The late sir Edward Baynton Holt,bart. died at the advanced age of ninety, in January, 1800, when hisestates devolved to his son and heir, sir Andrew Baynton Holt, who hasrecently sold or let Spy Park to colonel Thornton.

166The mansion is a plain but spacious building, seated in a park whichabounds with fine old oak and other timber trees. The grounds arediversified by bold swells and winding vallies, and command at variousstations, some extensive and interesting prospects. To the south-eastthe bold promontory called Roundaway-hill, presents its steep acclivity,with its commanding encampment on the summit. A range of loftychalk-hills extend thence for several miles to the east, on the southernface of which is the White-Horse of Cherril, and above it is anotherencampment, called Oldbury-castle.

At the extremity of the park, towards the west, the grounds slopegradually to the river Avon, and its fertile meadows; and at an oldgate, called the Spy, a very extensive tract of country is unfolded.Whilst the plantations of Bowden Park, and the venerable abbey ofLayco*ck, attract the eye near the fore-ground, the lofty free-stonehills around Bath are seen in the middle distance, and a large tract ofGloucestershire is observed extending to the north-east; whilst the morepicturesque and romantic features of Somersetshire are beheld,stretching to the horizon, in the west and south-western directions. Thepark includes an area of nearly eight miles in circumference, and duringthe residence of the late sir Edward, its venerable forest-like treeswere sacredly preserved from the axe; they were, however, I am informed,considerably thinned by the last proprietor.

Since the publication of colonel Thornton’s departure from Yorkshire,the following letter has appeared in the public prints:

I am happy to inform the public, through the medium of your interestingpaper, that the cavalcade of colonel Thornton at this place, wasdistinguished by a junction of an immense number of sporting and othervaluable paintings; together with a collection of rare exotic plants,and three wagon loads of bald-faced and other red deer, roebucks,Asiatic deer, and party-coloured fallow deer; a garde chasse had thecharge of two brace of Russian and French wild167boars, the latterunderstood to be a present from Napoleon, in return for seventy coupleof high-bred fox-hounds, descended from the famous old Conqueror, andsent to the emperor Napoleon during the last peace, whose high mettleafforded him the most exquisite gratification. A brace of cormorantswith silver rings around their necks, and broke in for fish-hunting;together with ichneumons and pole-cat ferrit, for rat-hunting, and somebeautiful milk-white Muscovy ducks, and a number of high-bred bloodmares, foals, colts, fillies, and the two famous horses, the Esterhazyand Theodolite, closed this splendid procession; and it is understoodthat on their arrival at Spy Park they were met by the colonel and somesporting friends, who expressed their astonishment, that after havingtravelled through such almost impassable roads, amid torrents of rain,and particularly the lap-dog beagles, not more than thirteen inches anda half in height, and consequently often swimming, they should havearrived without the least injury.

I am, &c.

a spectator.

Chippenham.

At Rockdale races, the Brighton shepherd, so well known as a pedestrian,was matched against a horse of the honourable captain Harley Rodney’s(rode by lord Rodney), for one hundred yards. This race, from itsnovelty, excited very considerable attention, and was won by theshepherd.

A short time since, Rickets, the celebrated Hampshire pedestrian,undertook, for a wager of five guineas, to run seventeen miles in twohours, which he performed in one hour and forty-nine minutes. He hasundertaken, for one hundred guineas, to run twenty miles in two hours,and will attempt it soon.

An extraordinary feat of pedestrianism was performed, by a man of thename of Williams, steward to Mr. Crouch.168He was backed for twentyguineas, to go twenty miles in two hours. He started at Hammersmith, anddid the distance in unfavourable weather, in seven minutes within thegiven time. His track was from Colnbrook, and to return to near theMagpies.

THE BUXTON BIT AND CHARLTON BRADOON.

The former useful as well as elegant appendage to the harness of thedashing chariot of the day is just introduced by Charles Buxton, esq.The advantages arising from this improvement are obvious: in respect totheir infallible quality of preventing the numberless accidents whichdaily occur by horses running away, they are peculiarly desirable. Thesebits are made upon a very simple construction; they give the person whohas the reins in hand, the power of checking the horse by the most easymovement imaginable, however light in hand, or hard in mouth (boring onthe bit) he may be. There are four loops in this regulating bit; in allothers there is only one. Mr. Buxton very much opposes the principle onwhich lord Hawke, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. Thornhill act, with respect tothe chain, instead of the pole pieces. The Charlton bradoon, a favouritefor more than twenty years, has lost its consequence by the newinvention; the bearing rein now passes through the throat lash, butformerly it only entered the bit, and went straight to the territ.

The two divines who rendered themselves so very conspicuous at the latepunching match, at Moulsey, excuse themselves by observing, that theapostolic injunction, “a bishop should be no striker,” was neverintended to restrain the conduct of the inferior clergy.

A match was made a short time ago, for one hundred guineas, play or pay,for a hack mare, the property of Mr. Sitwell, to perform fifty-six milesin four hours, with half an hour stoppage allowed for feeding. The matchwas undertaken soon after, from a spot near Shillingford, Berks, to169Haunston, and the mare did her task in seven minutes less than the giventime. She performed chiefly by the trot, and baited after going half thedistance in three minutes less than half the time. The odds wereconsiderably against the performance.

A HARE CHASED BY A FLOCK OF GEESE!

A flock of geese belonging to Mr. Lloyd, of the town-house, at Marford,seven miles from Chester, lately set a hare on the top of that hill,when poor puss, bursting from the cackling tribe, ran down the hill andwas pursued by the whole flock, some flying, some running with extendedwings till they overtook her, when puss slyly gave them the double; and,returning, was so closely pursued by the irritated flock as to be takenalive by a servant-girl of Mrs. Pate’s, as she was attempting the latchin her mistresses garden, in the presence of upwards of twentyspectators. Her carcass was afterwards made a present of to awedding-party in that.

THE WALKING-POST.

The name of this extraordinary person, whose labours surpass any of theboasted pedestrian achievements, is William Brackbank. He is a native ofMillom, in Cumberland. He daily performed the distance betweenWhitehaven and Ulverstone, on foot, under the disagreeable circ*mstanceof frequently wading the river at Muncaster, by which place heconstantly went, which is at least three miles round; and, including thedifferent calls he had to make, at a short distance from the road, hisdaily task was not short of forty-seven miles. He is at presentwalking-post from Manchester to Glossop, in Derbyshire, a distance ofsixteen miles, which he performs every day, Sundays excepted; returnsthe same evening, and personally delivers the letters, newspapers, &c.in that populous and commercial county, to all near the road, whichmakes his daily task not less than thirty-five miles, or upwards; andwhat is more extraordinary, he has170performed this business, for upwardsof two years, without the intervention of a day, except Sunday, and hasnever varied a quarter of an hour, from his usual time of arriving atGlossop. He performs all this in less than twelve hours a day.

A foot-race was run in the park between a lieutenant Hawkey and a Mr.Snowden of Nottingham-street. The distance was two hundred yards, thestakes fifty guineas, and the performers not being professional runners,some betting took place. The race was won by about a yard by Mr.Snowden, and the distance was performed in twelve seconds.

PUGILISM.

A battle took place at Wilsden Green, between Tom O’Donnell, and acountryman, by trade a boot-closer. They fought forty-five hard rounds,in which the countryman got a severe beating. Having boasted before thebattle that he could beat any man, he left the field of action, as maybe supposed, a little ashamed of himself.

A severe battle was fought at Marlborough-common, Wilts, by Mr. Howell,hatter, and Mr. Titcomb, both of Marlborough. Soon after eight they setto, the former seconded by Mr. Mead, collar-maker, and the latter by anostler at the Castle-inn. The first three rounds were in favour ofHowell, who laughed at his antagonist, and told him if he could notstrike harder he had better have staid at home; but the fourth round putan end to his laughing, having received a left-handed blow on his head,which cut his ear, and brought him to the ground; although he neverrecovered this blow, yet he stood twenty-five rounds and showed goodbottom, but was so exhausted by the loss of blood, and so severelybeaten in the body as well as his face, that he gave in to Titcomb, whosaid he had no objection to such exercise every morning in the week.

171A pitched battle for one hundred guineas, was fought at Bognor, Bucks,between a farmer of the name of Mitchell, who resides at Bognor, and apublican of the name of George. The match was made in consequence of adispute respecting their merits as boxers. The battle lasted fifty-fiveminutes, in the presence of about one thousand spectators. It was what aprofessional boxer would have termed gluttony from beginning to ending.There was no advantage in skill, strength or bottom, the former of whichneither of the champions possessed, but it was fighting in earnest at ascratch, until one was knocked down. Mitchell at length gave in, but hewas able to walk away, which was not the case with the victor, who wasput to bed at the house next the scene of action. The victor wasseconded by Jones, a professional bruiser from London.

A remarkable instance of the effects of fear on irrational animalslately occurred in Blickling Park, Norfolk, during the races there: Atthe very height of sport, a covey of partridges sprang up, and wereflying across the ground, when overcome with alarm at the noise andbustle of the scene, they fell lifeless among the crowded throng, andwere picked up by some of the spectators.

A singular occurrence lately took place at Cobham church: The earl ofDarnley was followed there by one of his pointers, which shortly becamemad, and threw the whole congregation into confusion and alarm. Acountryman, with great courage, procured a rope, and slipped it roundthe animal’s neck, and hung him across one of the pews. Fortunately noperson sustained any injury.

A most enormous shark was lately caught by the fishermen at Hastings; itwas entangled in seventeen of their nets, and completely broke them all;but being wounded and nearly spent, they contrived to tow on shore thismonster of the deep. It measures thirty feet in length, and upwards of172twenty in circumference, and is supposed to weigh at least ten ton; hasfour rows of teeth, and the throat is so large that it could swallow aman with the greatest ease. It is considered to be the largest of thespecies ever met with in any of the seas of Europe. Colonel Bothwell haspurchased it for his friend Mr. Home, the surgeon, of Sackville-street,who intends to dissect it, and place the skeleton in his museum.

MISCELLANY.

A more lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of thestage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies ofthe British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which,with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebratedperiodical work in London.

To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of GreatBritain and Ireland.

respected sir,

Denied access to your sacred person, I avail myself of the press tosolicit your notice. You have, doubtless, by this time totally forgottenpoor Theobaldus Secundus, for short memories are not the exclusiveproperty of great wits. Truth is said to lie at the bottom of a well,and as your worship seldom looks beyond the surface, I am not surprisedthat she should hitherto have eluded your researches. If fate hasordained my inkstand to be the bucket that shall draw her from herwatery grave for your edification, I expect a premium174from your humanesociety for my pains. If not, “you may kill the next Percy yourself.” Iam now to solicit your patience, while I recount my adventures, in doingwhich I shall ape the dignity rather than the prolixity, of the runawayprince of Troy, when seated on the high bed of the enamoured queen ofCarthage.

I am, may it please your worship, grand nephew to the renowned LewisTheobald, one of those numerous broth-spoiling commentators, who havesmothered poor Shakspeare in the onion sauce of conjectural criticism.My great uncle was, with reverence be it spoken, a great blockhead; butthat was no fault of his, he being a younger brother, and the familygenius being vested in my grandfather, with remainder to his sons intail male. From my earliest childhood I have looked upon Shakspeare asthe real king of England, and the two winter theatres as his properpalaces. “The period spent on stubborn Troy,” has now elapsed, since Ibegan a commentary on the plays of our immortal bard. O, the rivers ofink that I have exhausted in cleansing his Augean page from theblack-letter filth heaped upon it by his different commentators! Thetask was laborious, but such labour is my delight. The waters of Avonsuit my palate better than Boniface’s ale. “I eat my Shakspeare, I drinkmy Shakspeare, and (when certain players enact him) I always sleep uponmy Shakspeare.”

Apollo was a doctor of physic as well as a doctor of divinity, andDryden, we are told, took his physic whenever he wanted to borrow hisinspiration. A dramatic writer of the present day writes tragedy in ahelmet facing a mirror. Ever while you live encourage the imagination!My faith in Shakspeare is so unbounded, that I verily believe thehell-broth of Macbeth’s witches would, if properly mixed, engender areal armed head and bloody child. I lately at a great expense, collectedall the materials in my kitchen-copper; I must own the experiment failed;but I found out the cause. The resurrection man, whom I employed to getme the “liver of blaspheming Jew,” had made free with the corpse of a175very religious man of that persuasion. I must be more carefulanother time—but this is foreign to our present purpose.

Having completed my commentary, my parched hopes sighed for the goldenshower, which I expected from presenting my dedication to your worship.The times were tempting, your two winter playhouses were at that timeexperiencing a nightly overflow, and a Tragedy was, as she should be,all the rage! I knew not the cause, but rejoicing in the effect, huddledmy manuscript into my great-coat pocket, and trotted to your residencein Portland-place. For be it known, sir, to those whom it may concern,(your tradesmen) that you no longer reside within five minutes’ walk ofthe Royal Exchange. Formerly you passed your evenings in posting yourleger, and shaking your head at the follies of Fashion; you now exhaustthat portion of the day in posting to the opera, or shaking your heelsat Willis’s rooms, and your elbows at the Union Club. If I felt pleasedat finding you at home, how was my satisfaction increased, by hearingfrom a yellow-bellied waspish footman that you were busy with the firsttragedian of the day? Good! said I to myself, this must be Kemble: thereis no man better able to appreciate my labours—I’ll break in upon themwithout ceremony. On approaching your worship’s door, I heard the words“knuckle down” articulated in a shrill voice. I thought this an oddexclamation for the first tragedian of the day; but how was I petrifiedwith astonishment, on entering the room, to find you on your knees,playing at marbles with the little Roscius! Speechless with admiration Iretired unperceived. To have deranged a single taw would, in my mind,have been a sacrilege as great as an attempt to upset the balance of theCopernican system. I had scarce time to reflect on your improvement indramatic taste, when I learned that you had engaged a Roscia at yourtheatre in Covent-Garden. Indeed, so wide had your love of the risinggeneration at that time extended, I was credibly informed that Genoa wason the point of shipping a squalling Roscium for the edification of youropera-house, when the bubble burst like the gas of the Pall-Mall176lamp-lighter: Reason’s dragon-teeth had been buried long enough, and arace of men succeeded. The worshipful John Bull acted the part of thecow, in Tom Thumb. Ridicule, that infallible emetic of sick minds, hadeased your stomach of its baby incumbrance; Miss Mudie returned to hermamma, and Master Betty also retired to break Priscian’s head, and hidehis own in the bosom of alma mater.

How elastic is hope when a man thinks he has written a good book, andwhat mortal ever supposed himself the author of a bad one? Quassasreficit rates. I again collected my darling notes on Shakspeare, and inthe firm hope that your stomach was well disposed to its naturalaliment, assaulted your door with face as brazen as the knocker Ihandled. It was Saturday night, and your yellow barouche was waiting atthe door, but I confidently reckoned upon five minutes’ conversationwith you, ere you repaired to the evening lecture, to which I concludeda sober man like you was about to adjourn. While hesitating upon the fitmode to address you, a figure descended the stairs, which, at firstsight, I mistook for an Alguazil, in a plethora, but upon nearerapproach found to be your worshipful self, posting to the opera, clad ina great-coat of the newest cut, all fringe and frippery, the offspringof a German tailor. You and your cloak were so enveloped in frogs andself-conceit, that I could compare you to nothing but king Pharaoh,inoculated with a plague greater than any in Egypt, an Italian singer.After desiring me in a surly tone, to call tomorrow morning, yourworship mounted your vehicle, and scampered away to the region ofrecitative. O, cried I, in bitterness of spirit, why has John Bull, myrevered patron, quitted his city residence? in his warehouse he hasbales of cotton in abundance, and might, like the wise Ulysses, stuffhis large and long ears with a portion of that commodity, to enable himto escape the snares of the Haymarket syren.

Those who have patrons must also have patience. I dissembled my chagrin,and you may remember, most worshipful sir, that I called the ensuingday, at two o’clock, to allow177you time to ponder on the morning’sservice. Alas! I was now fated to be forestalled by a son of France, asI had before been by a daughter of Italy. Both kingdoms boast the sameemperor, and their natives come hither upon the same embassy. While Iand Shakspeare were kicking our heels in the hall, you and Mons.Deshayes were kicking yours before a pier glass in the drawing-room. Ihad soon the satisfaction to observe your worship endeavouring toimitate the te-totum pirouettes of that agile gentleman, in doing whichyou bore a much stronger resemblance to the dervise in the Arabian Tale,inasmuch, as after spinning some time, you threw down a purse, which thewily foreigner, as light of finger as of foot, did not fail to pocket.This, to be sure was no time for Shakspeare; I, therefore, left yourworship, hoodwinked by the Frenchman, so turn about three times andcatch whom you may.

I now sported the sullens in dignified retirement—but it would not do:murder will out, and so will manuscripts. I resolved to make one moreeffort. But were I to bring to your recollection all the mortifyingrepulses I endured, I should quite destroy that patience of which youstand so much in need, to listen to the debates at the next meeting ofyour common council. At one time, naked from the waist upwards, you werewaging war with Belcher, the Hittite: at another, you had taken aninvisible girl into keeping: your cash was drained by lotteries,missionaries, and mountebanks of all sorts and sizes: boys, even thedeaf, the dumb, and the blind, quitted their asylum in St. George’sFields, for a more lucrative one on the boards of your theatres. Yourcomic operas were, like Muzio Clementi’s carts, mere vehicles for music,and vehicles withal of such a clumsy fabric, that poor Euterpe, when shetook her nightly airings, reminded the spectator of Punch’s wife in awheelbarrow; every expense was incurred, and every scribbler taken intopay, except poor Shakspeare and his poorer commentator.

One morning, about eleven o’clock, as I was indulging myself in asolitary ramble over Blackfriars-bridge, I espied178your well-knownbarouche, which I followed, and observed to stop at the Elephant andCastle! Heighday! said I, this is a metamorphosis indeed! John Bull hasreturned to nature at last. He prefers “the sanded floor that gritsbeneath the tread,” to a Persian carpet, and a pot of porter to the“wines of France and milk of Burgundy.” I’ll go and smoke a pipe withhim! here again I was in error, your carriage having passed thepublic-house, and stopped at a methodist meeting adjoining. It seemsyour worship had, with religious abhorrence, passed by the Elephant andCastle, but borrowing in part the imagery of that sign, had convertedyour half-reasoning self into a clumsy Christian, with a bundleof contraband goods at your back. One Joanna, it seems, was thepriestess of this temple, and your worship had commenced so strong aflirtation with the Lambeth sybil, that all the world looked uponwedlock as inevitable. As I stood in the porch, I overheard your amatorysighs and groans which sounded in my ears like Boreas wooing Vulcanthrough a cranny in a chimney-corner. On approaching your pew, how was Istruck with the change in your physiognomy! Your face heretofore as redand round as the full moon, had, by the joint influence of that planetand the aforesaid Joanna, extended itself to a length, which Momusforbid mine should ever attain, unless when reflected from atable-spoon, at the Piazza coffee-house!

It was now confidently reported, that the days of Jeremy Collier hadreturned: that the theatres were to be shut up, his majesty’s servantsto receive their arrears of scarlet cloth, for regimentals to serve himin the capacity of foot-soldiers: that the slayers of Syntax, who hadstuffed their mouths with melo-drames, and other pernicious compounds,were to turn hewers of wood, and that your worship would license nopantomimes, except those exhibited in the Blackfriars andTottenham-court roads.

This intelligence rather pleased than alarmed me. I believed it only toa certain extent, conceiving the fact to be, that my respected patronwas sick of silk banners and Peruvian179suns, exhausting more gold thanthey engendered, and that a ray of true taste was hereafter to dawn uponthe dramatic horizon. “The theatre,” exclaimed I, “is the school ofmorality; and morality and religion are inseparable.” Without stoppingto prove my syllogism, I seized my commentary, and with a head and agreat-coat pocket full of my immortal labours, called once more inPortland-place. You received me with civility, desired me to take aseat, and treated me with a cup of chocolate, declining to take anyyourself, on account of a nausea at your stomach, which I ascribed to acertain sentimental pill you had lately swallowed, rolled up in theshape of a comedy, and for which I undertook to prescribe. You requestedme with eagerness to do so, and I drew my manuscript from my pocket,thinking the golden moment at hand. I conjured you to consider, that indramatic entertainments the love of show was like the love of money, andincreased by indulgences, beyond the power of a manager to gratify: Iproved by mathematical demonstration, that small theatres wanted nothingbut good dialogue to support them: I entreated you to send your gorgeoustrumpery to rag-fair, and to diminish your overgrown Drury, which no mancould now think of entering unaccompanied by a telescope and anear-trumpet. All the persuasions of a Tully, all the energy of aWaithman, were enlisted into my harangue; which finished by exhortingyour worship to step back half a century in your dramatic career, to aperiod when theatrical property was somewhat more than a mouthful ofmoonshine;—when Shakspeare was, indeed as he should be, and whennothing was talked of in this great metropolis, save the great Goliathof Stratford, on the banks of the Avon, and little David, of theAdelphic terrace, on the banks of the Thames.

This eloquent harangue was no sooner concluded, than your worship burstinto a horse-laugh, and stamping your foot on the floor, the room wasinstantly filled with as motley a group as ever giggled decorum out ofcountenance at a masquerade: among whom I recognized a zany, with a blue180perriwig, bestriding a large goose, and brandishing a golden egg,whilst your worship was clapping your hands in all the raptures ofapplause. “Perdition seize this fellow,” cried your worship, pointing tome, “his tongue chatters like a cherry-clapper, and lies like theprospectus of a new magazine! All you, my pimps, parasites, andpensioners—my leading mistresses and led captain—my mummers andmelo-dramatists, who conspire to drill holes in the breeches-pockets ofJohn Bull, that his coin may not corrode for want of circulation; ifever this fellow enters my house again, with his deer-stealing Stratfordvagabond under his arm, tie them both up in a hopsack, and throw theminto the Thames

Such treatment, sir, I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.When I expected the golden apple,—to be then pelted with a golden egg,was too much for human endurance; I, therefore, took my leave with thefollowing address: “May your worship’s stage be glutted with monsters,running upon all fours, with your own taste! May wit and humour wingtheir flight to another region, and the mighty void be supplied bymaukish sentiment, horse-collar grins, wood-demons, and othershow-cattle of the Smithfield muses! May you be visited by a locusttribe of scribblers, who shall conspire to torment that groaning martyr,the Press, with ducal lampoons, drowsy epics, and zig-zag heroics! WithHope the upholsterer, and Bryon the idler, with Joe Miller in quarto,Genius in thin duodecimo, Leadenhall romances, and Puritan biography:and should your worship ever find yourself deviating from the path ofvirtue, may Hannah Glasse preserve your temperance, Hannah More yoursoberness, and Anacreon Moore your chastity!”

One word more, sir, and I take my leave. It was the opinion of Ophelia’sgrave digger, that your worship was to the full as mad as thehare-brained lover of that young lady. This circ*mstance gives thatroyal youth a title to your first regards: my annotations on Hamlet,Prince of Denmark, shall accordingly be submitted to your considerationat our next monthly meeting,

I am, &c.,

Theobaldus Secundus.

181

DR. YOUNG.—THE BROTHERS.

Young, the celebrated author of the Night Thoughts, wrote a tragedycalled the Brothers, and appropriated the profits of his third nights ofthe representation for the benefit of some public charity. But theproceeds falling short of one thousand pounds, which he had expectedwould have been raised in this way, he very bountifully supplied thedeficiency by an additional donation.

OTHELLO BURLESQUED.

There was formerly in the Northern Liberties a petty theatre, calledNoah’s Ark, from its being in the neighbourhood of a tavern, of whichthat was the sign. A ludicrous circ*mstance took place there abouttwenty years ago; a hobble-de-hoy, of the name of Purcell, with a wizenface like “Death and Sin,” having met with misfortunes, hired thetheatre for one night, and advertised Othello for his benefit. He playedhimself the character of the valiant Moor. As he had many friends whomade considerable exertions in his favour, the house was crowded. Hisacting was so truly ludicrous, that the audience instead of letting fallthe pearly drops over their cheeks, were in an unceasing roar oflaughter. Between the play and the farce a drunken fellow of the name ofVaughan was to deliver the celebrated epilogue of “Bucks, have at yeall.” He had made the most solemn promise to abstain from his usual dropof grog till he had performed his tour of duty. But alas! poor humannature, like other great men, he yielded to the temptation of a flowingbowl. When he came on the stage, and had just made a beginning—

“Ye social friends—

A slight hiss was heard, which enraged him so much that he stopped, andlooked among the audience with indignation, trying to discover whatjealous rival was endeavouring to discompose him—a silence ensued for aminute; Vaughan then began again:

182About ten or a dozen persons then hissed pretty loudly. Vaughan stampedon the floor, clenched his fist, struck his thigh, and cried out in aloud voice, “damn you, ye black-guards—I wish I had you here—I’d soonsettle you.” A universal hiss took place—the enraged orator was peltedoff the stage, and poor Purcell had to come forward and make an apology.In this extemporaneous effort, his success was as splendid as in hisperformance of Othello. He hoped, he said, the ladies and gentlemenwould not go for to say, for to do, for to think that he was at all toblame—that it was all Dr. Vaughan’s fault—for though he had promisedto keep sober till the play was over, he had got as drunk as David’s sowbefore it began. This elegant harangue produced the desired effect, andappeased the angry passions of the gods and goddesses. A parley ensued.Peace was made. A promise was given that Vaughan should be allowed toproceed without hissing—and he accordingly came out and recited theepilogue, now and again looking among the audience to discover who wasmurmuring a slight hiss, which the keen ears of the speaker would notlet escape. As soon as he was done, he had the high gratification of auniversal hiss from almost every individual in the house, and was oncemore pelted off in spite of all his ire and loudly vociferated threats.

VANDERMERE.

This performer was the most complete Harlequin that ever trod theBritish stage. His agility was to the last degree astonishing. He hasleaped through a window on the stage, when pursued by the clown, fullthirteen feet high. Whenever he was in the play-bills in Dublin, heattracted crowded houses. One night, when he had a prodigious leap toperform, the persons behind the scenes who were to have received him ina blanket, were not prepared in time, and of course he fell on theboards, and was miserably bruised. He then took a most solemn oath, thathe would never leap again on the stage. Nor did he violate his oath.Thenceforward,183when he performed Harlequin, George Dawson, anotheractor about his size, and very active, was attired in the party-colouredrobes. Whenever in the course of the pantomime a leap was requisite,Vandermere passed off on one side—Dawson came in on the other, andleaped. Then Vandermere returned and went through the Harlequiniantricks.

VOLTAIRE’S IDEA OF ORIGINALITY IN WRITING.

A young poet having consulted him on a tragedy full of extraordinaryincidents, Voltaire pointed out to him the defects of his piece. Thewriter replied, that he had purposely forsaken the beaten track ofCorneille and Racine. “So much the worse,” replied Voltaire,“originality is nothing but judicious imitation.”

One day when his Irene was performing at the house of the marquis deVillette, a celebrated actress reciting her part rather negligently,Voltaire said to her, “Really, mademoiselle, it is unnecessary for me towrite verses of six feet, if you gulp down three of them.”

On the performance of one of his tragedies, the success of which wasequivocal, the abbe Pellegrin complained loudly that Voltaire had stolensome verses from him. “How can you, who are so rich,” said the abbe,“thus seize upon the property of another?” “What! have I stolen fromyou?” replied Voltaire; “then I no longer wonder that my piece has metwith so little approbation.”

KNOW THYSELF.

There is an anecdote related in the Memoirs of the Court of Louis XIV,which reflects some credit on that monarch’s understanding, and may beof service to multitudes of the bourgeoisie of every city in theworld, if properly digested and acted upon.

185A negociant, who took the lead of all the rest in Paris, was inparticular favour with the king, and without formality consulted by him,in all that he wished to know relating to mercantile affairs. At lengththe man of the counting-house, whose wealth was enormous, felt hisambition excited, and nothing would content him but a title. Aftermany fruitless overtures, Louis at last granted his request, and nevertreated him with friendly familiarity again. The trader, exceedinglyhurt at this neglect, made free one day to inquire the cause. “It isyour own fault,” said the monarch, “you have degraded yourself—you werethe first as a merchant—you are the lowest as a peer.”

MADAME MARE AND FLORIO.

This once celebrated singer has, according to German papers, retired toan estate in Poland. During her late residence at Moscow, her companionFlorio, was involved in a very unpleasant affair. A letter, signedRichard Florio, written in French, and filled with invectives againstthe Russian government, was put into the post office at St. Petersburgh.The person it was addressed to handed it over to the police. Florio wasarrested at Moscow, and conveyed prisoner to St. Petersburgh. Here,however he was speedily released, his name being not Richard, butCharles, and it appearing that he was totally ignorant of the Frenchlanguage. The emperor Alexander overhearing of the circ*mstances, madeFlorio a present of a handsome sum of money, over and above the expenseshe had been put to in his journey from Moscow.

LEWIS’S RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE.

That celebrated comedian, the inimitable Lewis, retired from the stagein May last, to devote the residue of his days to tranquil domesticenjoyment. His talents and prudence have enabled him to sit down withproperty sufficient for all the rational purposes of life. Since hisretirement he made a186transfer in the bank of five thousand pounds toeach of his three daughters, and now, say the wits of London, many aBassanio will doubtless say, their

It was on the night of his own benefit that Mr. Lewis took a formal andfinal farewell of the public, under circ*mstances so honourable to himas no actor, perhaps has ever been able to boast of. During thethirty-six years he had been a player, he had never once fallen underthe displeasure of his audience. The play was “Rule a Wife and have aWife,” in which he performed the Copper Captain. After the comedy, whenthe curtain dropped, Mr. Lewis came forward and addressed the house inthe following words:

187During the delivery of this address, Mr. Lewis was evidently muchaffected. His voice faultered, and the tear started from his eye. Theaudience were also much affected at this parting scene, and took leaveof their favourite with loud and universal acclamations. The house wascrowded to excess.

Thus (says the London writer) every hour is seen stealing from thisstock of harmless pleasure, and our theatrical register serves only torecord our losses. What can we put in balance against the death ofParsons, Suett, Palmer, and King, and the retirement of Mrs. Mattocks,Miss Pope, and Mr. Lewis?—Nothing. What is there in prospect?—thefurther loss of Mrs. Siddons and Mrs. Jordan. These two stars of thefirst magnitude will also soon be missing in the theatrical hemisphere,and where is he who can say that he has discovered any promise that thislight will, in our time, be repaired?—Nowhere.

“The greatest fires are out, and glimmering night succeeds.”

On his taking a final leave of the Dublin stage, Mr. Lewis spoke thefollowing address:

MAN AND WIFE.

The Comedy annexed to this number.

The favourable reception which this comedy met in London, will no doubtinduce the managers of America to produce it on their boards. For thisreason it has been selected by the editors.

In the general reception of this comedy on the stage, the author hasbeen more successful than in the judgment it has received from thepress. Of the criticisms which have appeared in the London publications,we have seen two, which disagree with each other on its merits. That thereception by a large audience and the opinion of a critic should differ,is not at all surprising. In the present instance one of those criticsis at complete variance with the audience, and says “it is as dull asthe ministerial benches, and yet as patriotic as the opposition.” Theeditors reserve their opinion till they see it acted.

CORRESPONDENCE.

The conductors thank “Dramaticus” for his communications, to which theywill pay the proper attention. Though the series for the month ofFebruary is complete, they have made room for four of the articles withwhich he has favoured them.

1

OR,

MORE SECRETS THAN ONE:

A COMEDY.

BY SAMUEL JAMES ARNOLD, ESQ.

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP, PHILADELPHIA;
INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM
M‘ILHENNY, BOSTON.

SMITH AND MAXWELL, PRINTERS.

1810.

3

MAN AND WIFE;

OR,

MORE SECRETS THAN ONE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

ACT I.

SCENEI.—Abelcottage. Enter Abel Grouseand Fanny.

Ab. Gr. Don’t tell me of your sorrow and repentance girl. You’vebroke my heart. Married hey? and privately too—and to a lord into thebargain! So, when you can hide it no longer, you condescend to tell me.Think you that the wealth and title of lord Austencourt can silence thefears of a fond father’s heart? Why should a lord marry a poor girl likeyou in private, if his intentions were honourable? Who should restrainhim from publicly avowing his wife?

Fanny. My dearest father, have but a little patience, and I’ll explainall.

Ab. Gr. Who was present, besides the parson, at your wedding?

Fanny. There was our neighbour, the attorney, sir, and one of hisclerks, and they were all—

Ab. Gr. My heart sinks within me—but mark me. You may remember I wasnot always what now I seem to be. I yesterday received intelligencewhich, but for this discovery, had shed a gleam of joy over my remainingdays. As it is, should your husband prove the villain I suspect him,that intelligence will afford me an opportunity to resume a character inlife which shall make this monster lord tremble. The wrongs of Abel,the poor but upright man, might have been pleaded in vain tohim, but as I shall soon appear, it shall go hard but I will make thegreat man shrink before me, even in his plenitude of pride and power.

Fanny. You terrify me, sir, indeed you do.

Ab. Gr. And so I would. I would prepare you for the worst that mayus: for should this man, this lord, who calls himself yourhusband—

Fanny. Dearest father, what can you mean? Who calls himself myhusband! He is my husband.

Ab. Gr. If he is your husband, how does he dare to pay hisaddresses, as he now publicly does, to the daughter of sir WilloughbyWorret, our neighbour. I may be mistaken. I’m in the midst here of oldacquaintances, though in this guise they know me not. They shall soonsee me amongst them. Not a word of this, I charge you. Come girl, thislord shall own you. If he does not, we will seek a remedy in those lawswhich are at once the best guardians of our rights and the surestavengers of our wrongs. [Exeunt.

SCENEII.—A parlour in sir W. Worret’s house. The breakfastprepared, urn, &c. Sir Willoughby reading the newspaper. He rises andrings the bell; then pulls out his watch.

Sir W. Three quarters of an hour since breakfast was first announcedto my wife. My patience is exhausted. Oh wedlock, wedlock! why did Iever venture again into thy holy state—of misery! Of all the taxes laidon mankind by respect to society and the influence of example, no one isso burthensome as that which obliges a man to submit to a thousand illsat home, rather than be suspected of being a bad husband abroad. (enterservant) Go to your lady.

Serv. I told her ladyship five times before, sir Willoughby, thatbreakfast was waiting.

Sir W. Then tell her once more, and that will make six, and say Iearnestly request the favour she will hasten to breakfast, as while shestays I starve.

Serv. Yes, sir Willoughby, but she’ll stop the longer for the message.(Aside going out.) [Exit.

Sir W. My wife is the very devil. It seems that she’d be miserable ifshe did not think me happy; yet her tenderness is my eternal torment;her affection puts me in a fidget, and her fondness in a fever.

Enter servant.

Serv. My lady says she wont detain you a moment, sir Willoughby.[Exit.

Sir W. The old answer. Then she’s so nervous. A nervous wife is worsethan a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, yournervous patients are always ailing, but never die. Zounds! why do Ibear it? ’tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world,and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage ofbeing esteemed a good husband. (Lady is heard speakingbehind) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in aminute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to deathto teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me onhaving so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist;every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what amiserable mortal I am.

Lady W. (behind) And harkye, William, (entering with servant) tellthe coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William,run with these books immediately to the rector’s; and William, bring upbreakfast this moment.

Will. Yes, my lady: (aside) Lord have mercy upon us! [Exit.

Lady W. My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you arealways so indulgent that you really spoil me. I’m sure you think me atiresome creature.

Sir W. No, no, my life, not at all. I should be4very ungrateful if Ididn’t value you just exactly as highly as you deserve.

Lady W. I certainly deserve a good scolding: I do indeed. I think ifyou scolded me a little I should behave better.

Sir W. Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that alittle more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society.

Lady W. And yet, sir Willoughby, you must acknowledge that my timeis ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance ofso large an establishment undoubtedly requires.

Sir W. Why, true, my love; but somehow I can’t help thinking, that, asmy fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergoso much fatigue: for instance, I do think that the wife of a baronetof 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than inhunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom incounting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brownsugar.

Lady W. (in tears) This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is veryunkind.

Sir W. So! as usual, here’s a breeze springing up. What the devilshall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg meto scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply withyour request.

Lady W. No, sir Willoughby, I am only surprised that you should solittle know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for youradvantage.

Sir W. That’s the very thing I complain of. You do degrade yourself.Your economy, my life, is downright parsimony: your vigilance issuspicion; your management is meanness; and you fidget your servantstill you make them fretful, and then prudently discharge them becausethey will live with you no longer. Hey!,I must sooth her: forif company comes, and finds her in this humour, my dear-boughtreputation as a good husband is lost forever. (Enter servant withbreakfast.) Come, come, my dear lady Worret, let us go to breakfast,come (sitting down to breakfast) let us talk of something else. Come,take your tea.

Lady W. (to servant) Send William to speak to me. [Exit servant.

Sir W. Where’s Helen?

Lady W. I have desired her to copy a few articles into the familyreceipt book before breakfast; for as her marriage will so shortly takeplace, it is necessary she should complete her studies.

Sir W. What, she’s at work, I suppose, on the third folio volume.

Lady W. The fifth, I believe.

Sir W. Heaven defend us! I don’t blame it; I don’t censure it at all:but I believe the case is rather unprecedented for an heiress of12,000l. a year to leave to posterity, in her own hand writing, fivefolio volumes of recipes, for pickling, preserving, potting, and pastry,for stewing and larding, making ketchup and sour krout, oyster patties,pies, jellies, jams, soups, sour sauce, and sweetmeats.

Lady W. Oh, sir Willoughby! if young ladies of the present day paidmore attention to such substantial acquirements, we should have betterwives and better husbands.

Sir W. Why that is singularly just.

Lady W. Yes, if women were taught to find amusem*nt in domesticduties, instead of seeking it at a circulating library, assemblies, andballs, we should hear of fewer appeals to Doctor’s Commons and the courtof King’s Bench.

Sir W. Why that is undeniably true (aside) and now, as we have amoment uninterrupted by family affairs—

Enter William.

Lady W. Is the carriage come?

Will. No, my lady.

Lady W. Have you carried the books?

Will. No, my lady.

Lady W. Then go and hasten the coachman.

Will. No, my lady—yes, my lady.

Lady W. And William, send up Tiffany to Miss Helen’s room, and bid hersay we expect her at breakfast.

Will. Miss Helen has been in the park these two hours.

Sir W. (Laughs aside.)

Lady W. How! in the park these two hours? Impossible. Send Tiffany toseek her.

Will. Yes, my lady. [Exit.

Sir W. So, as usual, risen with the lark, I suppose.

Lady W. Her disobedience will break my heart.

Sir W. Zounds! I shall go mad. Here’s a mother-in-law going to breakher heart, because my daughter prefers a walk in the morning to writingculinary secrets in a fat folio family receipt book!

Lady W. Sir Willoughby, sir Willoughby, it is you who encourage her indisregarding my orders.

Sir W. No such thing, lady Worret, no such thing: but if the girllikes to bring home a pair of ruddy cheeks from a morning walk, I don’tsee why she is to be balked of her fancy.

Lady W. Ruddy cheeks, indeed! Such robust health is becoming only indairy maids.

Sir W. Yes, I know your taste to a T. A consumption is always a key toyour tender heart; and an interesting pallid countenance will at anytime unlock the door to your best affections: but I must be excused if Iprefer seeing my daughter with the rosy glow of health upon her cheek,rather than the sickly imitations of art, which bloom on the surfacealone, while the fruit withers and decays beneath—but zounds! don’tspeak so loud, here’s somebody coming, and they’ll think we arequarrelling. (Helen sings behind) So here comes our madcap.

Enter Helen.

Helen. Good morning, good morning. Here, papa, look what a beautifulposy of wild flowers I have gathered. See, the dew is still upon them.How lovely they are! To my fancy, now, these uncultivated productions ofnature have more charms than the whole garden can equal. Why can we notall be like these flowers, simple and inartificial, with the stamp ofnature and truth upon us?

Lady W. Romantic stuff! But how comes it, Miss Helen, that my ordersare thus disobeyed?

Helen. Why lord, mamma, I’ll tell you how it was; but first I must eatmy breakfast; so I’ll sit down and tell you all about it. (sits down.)In the first place, I rose at six, and remembering I was to copy out thewhole catalogue of sweetmeats, and as I hate all sweet things, (somesugar, if you please, papa) I determined to take one run round the parkbefore I sat down to my morning’s work: so taking a crust of bread and aglass of cold water, which I love better than (some tea, if you please,mamma) any thing in the world, out I flew like a lapwing; stopped at thedairy; and (some cream, if you please, papa) down to the meadows andgathered my nosegay; and then bounded home, with a heart full of gayety,and a rare appetite for—some roll and butter, if you please, mamma.

Lady W. Daughter, this levity of character is unbecoming your sex, andeven your age. You see none of this offensive flightiness in me.

Sir W. Come, come, my dear lady Worret. Helen’s gayety is natural.Helen, my love, I have charming news for you. Every thing is at5last arranged between lord Austencourt and me respecting your marriage.

Helen. Why now, if mamma-in-law had said this, I should have thoughtshe meant to make me as grave as herself.

Lady W. In expectation that Helen will behave as becomes her in thismost important affair of her life, I consent to pass over her negligencethis morning in regard to my favourite receipts.

Helen. I hate all receipts, sweet, bitter, and sour.

Lady W. Then we will now talk of a husband.

Helen. I hate all husbands, sweet, bitter, and sour.

Sir W. Whoo! Helen, my love, you should not contradict your mamma.

Helen. My dear papa, I don’t contradict her; but I will not marry lordAustencourt.

Lady W. This is too much for my weak nerves. I leave you, sirWilloughby, to arrange this affair, while I hasten to attend to mydomestic duties.

Sir W. (aside to lady W.) That’s right; you’d better leave her tome. I’ll manage her, I warrant. Let me assist you—there—I’ll soonsettle this business. (Hands lady Worret off.)

Helen. Now, my dear papa, are you really of the same opinion as herladyship?

Sir W. Exactly.

Helen. Ha! ha! lud! but that’s comical. What! both think alike?

Sir W. Precisely.

Helen. That’s very odd. I believe it’s the first time you’ve agreed inopinion since you were made one: but I’m quite sure you never can wishme to marry a man I do not love.

Sir W. Why no, certainly not; but you will love him; indeed youmust. It’s my wife’s wish, you know, and so I wish it of course. Come,come, in this one trifling matter you must oblige us.

Helen. Well, as you think it only a trifling matter, and as I thinkit of importance enough to make me miserable, I’m sure you’ll give upthe point.

Sir W. Why no, you are mistaken. To be sure I might have given itup; but my lady Worret, you know—but that’s no matter. Marriage is aduty, and tis incumbent on parents to see their children settled in thathappy state.

Helen. Have you found that state so happy, sir?

Sir W. Why—yes—that is—hey? happy! certainly. Doesn’t every bodysay so? and what every body says must be true. However, that’s not tothe purpose. A connexion with the family of lord Austencourt isparticularly desirable.

Helen. Not to me, I assure you, papa.

Sir W. Our estates join so charmingly to one another.

Helen. But sure that’s no reason we should be joined to one another.

Sir W. But their contiguity seems to invite a union by a marriagebetween you.

Helen. Then pray, papa, let the stewards marry the estates and give mea separate maintenance.

Sir. W. Helen, Helen, I see you are bent on disobedience to my ladyWorret’s wishes. Zounds! you don’t see me disobedient to her wishes; butI know whereabouts your objection lies. That giddy, dissipated youngfellow, his cousin Charles, the son of sir Rowland Austencourt, hasfilled your head with nonsensical notions and chimeras of happiness.Thank Heaven, however, he’s far enough off at sea.

Helen. And I think, sir, that because a man is fighting our battlesabroad, he ought not to be the less dear to those whom his courageenables to live in tranquillity at home.

Sir W. That’s very true: (aside) but I have an unanswerableobjection to all you can say. Lord Austencourt is rich, and Charles is abeggar. Besides sir Rowland himself prefers lord Austencourt.

Helen. More shame for him. His partial feelings to his nephew, andunnatural disregard of his son, have long since made me hate him. Inshort, you are for money, and choose lord Austencourt: I am for love,and prefer his poor cousin.

Sir W. Then, once for all, as my lady Worret must be obeyed, I nolonger consult you on the subject, and it only remains for you to retainthe affection of an indulgent father, by complying with my will (I meanmy wife’s) or to abandon my protection. [Exit.

Helen. I won’t marry him, papa, I won’t, nor I won’t cry, though I’vea great mind. A plague of all money, say I. Oh! what a grievousmisfortune it is to be born with 12,000l. a year? but if I can’t marrythe man I like, I won’t marry at all; that’s determined: and every bodyknows the firmness of a woman’s resolution, when she resolves oncontradiction. [Exit.

SCENEIII.—O’Dedimus’s office. Boxes round the shelves. O’Dedimusdiscovered writing at an office table. A few papers and parchments,&c.

O’Dedimus. There! I think I’ve expressed my meaning quite plainly,(reads) “Farmer Flail, I’m instructed by lord Austencourt, yourlandlord, to inform you, by word of letter, that if you can’t afford topay the additional rent for your farm, you must turn out.” I thinkthat’s clear enough. “As to your putting in the plea of a large family,we cannot allow that as a set off; because, when a man can’t afford tosupport seven children with decency, he ought not to trouble himself toget them.” I think that’s plain English.

“Your humble servant,

“CORNELIUS O’DEDIMUS,

“Attorney at law.

“P.S. You may show this letter to his lordship, to convince him I havedone my duty; but as I don’t mean one word of it, if you’ll come to meprivately, I’ll see what can be done for you, without his knowing anything of the matter,” and I think that’s plain English.

Enter gamekeeper with a countryman in custody.

O’Ded. Well, friend, and what are you?

Countryman. I be’s a poacher: so my lord’s gamekeeper here do say.

O’Ded. A poacher! Faith that’s honest.

Gamekeeper. I caught him before day-light on the manor. I took awayhis gun and shot his dog.

O’Ded. That was bravely done. So, you must pamper your long stomachwith pheasants and partridges, and be damned to ye! Will you preferpaying five pounds now, or three month’s hard labour in the house ofcorrection?

Countrym. Thank ye, sir, I don’t prefer either, sir.

O’Ded. You must go before the justice. He’ll exhort you, and commitye.

Countrym. Ees, I do know that extortion and commission, and suchlike, be the office of the justice; but I’ll have a bit of law, pleasepunch. He ha’ killed my poor dog, that I loved like one o’ my ownchildren, and I’ve gotten six of ’em, Lord bless ’em.

O’Ded. Six dogs!

Countrym. Dogs! No, children, mun.

O’Ded. Six children! Och, the fruitful sinner!

Countrym. My wife be a pains-taking woman, sir. We ha’ had this poordog from a puppy.

O’Ded. Shut your ugly mouth, you babbler.—Six children! Oh! we mustmake an example of this fellow. An’t I the village lawyer? and an’t Ithe terror of all the rogues of the parish? (aside to him.) You mustplead “not guilty.”

Countrym. But I tell you, if that be guilt, I be guilty.

6O’Ded. Why, you blundering booby, if you plead guilty, how will I everbe able to prove you innocent?

Countrym. Guilty or innocent, I’ll have the law of him, by gum. He hasshot my poor old mongrel, and taken away my musket; and I’ve lost myday’s drilling, and I’ll make him pay for it.

O’Ded. A mongrel and a musket! by St. Patrick, Mr. Gamekeeper, and youhave nately set your foot in it.

Gamekeeper. Why, sir, its a bad affair, sir. ’Twas so dark, I couldn’tsee; and when I discovered my mistake, I offered him a shilling to makeit up, and he refused it.

O’Ded. (aside to gamekeeper.) Harkye, Mr. Gamekeeper; he has oneaction against ye for his dog, and another for false imprisonment.(aloud) I love to see the laws enforced with justice: (aside) butI’ll always help a poor man to stand up against oppression. (togamekeeper) He has got you on the hip, and so go out and settle itbetween yourselves, and do you take care of yourself: (tocountryman) and do you make the best of your bargain. [Exeunt.

Parish officer brings forward the sailor.

Officer. Here’s a vagrant. I found him begging without a pass.

O’Ded. Take him before his worship directly. The sturdy rogue ought tobe punished.

Sailor. Please your honour, I’m a sailor.

O’Ded. And if you’re a sailor, an’t you ashamed to own it? A beggingsailor is a disgrace to an honourable profession, for which the countryhas provided an asylum as glorious as it is deserved.

Sailor. Why so it has: but I an’t bound for Greenwich yet.

O’Ded. (aside to him.) Why, you’re disabled, I see.

Sailor. Disabled! What for? Why I’ve only lost one arm yet. Blessye, I’m no beggar. I was going to see my Nancy, thirty miles further onthe road, and meeting some old messmates, we had a cann o’ grogtogether. One cann brought on another, and then we got drinking theking’s health, and the navy, and then this admiral, and then t’otheradmiral, till at last we had so many gallant heroes to drink, that wewere all drunk afore we came to the reckoning; so, your honour, as mymessmates had none of the rhino, I paid all; and then, you know, theyhad a long journey upwards, and noaboard; so I lent one alittle, and another a little, till at last I found I had no coin left inmy locker for myself, except a cracked teaster that Nancy gave me; and Icouldn’t spend that, you know, though I had been starving.

O’Ded. And so you begged!

Sailor. Begged! no. I just axed for a bit of bread and a mug o’ water.That’s no more than one Christian ought to give another, and if you callthat begging, why I beg to differ in opinion.

O’Ded. According to the act you are a vagrant, and the justice maycommit ye; (aside to the officer) lookye, Mr. Officer—you’re in thewrong box here. Can’t you see plain enough, by his having lost an arm,that he earns a livelihood by the work of his hands; so lest he shouldbe riotous for being detained, let me advise you to be off. I’ll sendhim off after you with a flea in his ear—the other way.

Officer. Thank ye, sir, thank ye. I’m much obliged to you for youradvice, sir, and shall take it, and so my service to you. [Exit.

O’Ded. Take this my honest lad; (gives money) say nothing about it,and give my service to Nancy.

Sailor. Why now, heaven bless you honour forever; and if ever you’rein distress, and I’m within sight of signals, why hang out your bluelights; and if I don’t bear down to your assistance, may my gun beprimed with damp powder the first time we fire a broadside at the enemy.[Exit.

O’Dedimus rings a bell.

O’Ded. Ponder! Now will this fellow be thinking and thinking, till hequite forgets what he’s doing. Ponder, I say! (enter Ponder.) Here,Ponder, take this letter to farmer Flail’s, and if you see Mrs. Muddle,his neighbour, give my love and duty to her.

Ponder. Yes, yes, sir; but at that moment, sir, I was immersed inthought, if I may be allowed the expression; I was thinking of the vastdifference between love and law, and yet how neatly you’ve spliced themtogether in your last instructions to your humble servant, Peter Ponder,clerk.—Umph!

O’Ded. Umph! is that your manners, you bear-garden? Will I never beable to larn you to behave yourself? Study me, and talk like agentleman, and be damn’d to ye.

Ponder. I study the law; I can’t talk it.

O’Ded. Cant you? Then you’ll never do. If your tongue don’t run fasterthan your client’s, how will you ever be able to bother him, you booby?

Ponder. I’ll draw out his case; he shall read, and he’ll botherhimself.

O’Ded. You’ve a notion. Mind my instructions, and I don’t despair ofseeing you at the bar one day. Was that copy of a writ sarved yesterdayupon Garble, the tailor?

Ponder. Aye.

O’Ded. And sarve him right too. That’s a big rogue, that runs in debtwid his eyes open, and though he has property, refuses to pay. Is hesafe?

Ponder. He was bailed by Swash the brewer.

O’Ded. And was the other sarved on Shuttle, the weaver?

Ponder. Aye.

O’Ded. Who bailed him?

Ponder. Nobody. He’s gone to jail.

O’Ded. Gone to jail! Why his poverty is owing to misfortune. Hecan’t pay. Well, that’s not our affair. The law must have its course.

Ponder. So Shuttle said to his wife, as she hung crying on hisshoulder.

O’Ded. That’s it; he’s a sensible man; and that’s more than his wifeis. We’ve nothing to do with women’s tears.

Ponder. Not a bit. So they walked him off to jail in a jiffey, if Imay be allowed the expression.

O’Ded. To be sure, and that was right. They did their duty: though forsartin, if a poor man can’t pay his debts when he’s at liberty, he wontbe much nearer the mark when he’s shut up in idleness in a prison.

Ponder. No.

O’Ded. And when he that sent them there comes to make up his lastaccount, ’tis my belief that he wont be able to show cause why a billshouldn’t be filed against him for barbarity. Are the writings all readyfor sir Rowland?

Ponder. All ready. Shall I now go to farmer Flail’s with the letter?

O’Ded. Aye, and if you see Shuttle’s wife in your way, give my serviceto her; and d’ye hear, as you’re a small talker, don’t let the littleyou say be so cursed crabbed; and if a few kind words of comfort shouldfind their way from your heart to your tongue, don’t shut your uglymouth, and keep them within your teeth. You may tell her that if she canfind any body to stand up for her husband, I shan’t be over nice aboutthe sufficiency of the bail. Get you gone.

Ponder. I shall. Let me see! farmer Flail—Mrs. Muddle, hisneighbour—Shuttle’s wife—and a whole string of messages and7memorandums—here’s business enough to bother the brains of anyordinary man! You are pleased to say, sir, that I am too much addictedto thinking—I think not. [Exit Ponder.

O’Ded. By my soul, if an attorney wasn’t sometimes a bit of a rogue,he’d never be able to earn an honest livelihood. Oh Mr. O’Dedimus! whyhave you so little when your heart could distribute so much!

Sir Rowland, without.

Sir Row. Mr. O’Dedimus—within there!

O’Ded. Yes, I’m within there.

Enter sir Rowland.

Sir Row. Where are these papers? I thought the law’s delay was onlyfelt by those who could not pay for its expedition.

O’Ded. The law, sir Rowland, is a good horse, and his pace is slow andsure; but he goes no faster because you goad him with a golden spur; butevery thing is prepared, sir; and now, sir Rowland, I have an ugly sortof an awkward affair to mention to you.

Sir Row. Does it concern me?

O’Ded. You know, sir Rowland, at the death of my worthy friend, thelate lord Austencourt, you were left sole executor and guardian to hisson, the present lord, then an infant of three years of age.

Sir Row. What does this lead to? (starting)

O’Ded. With a disinterested view to benefit the estate of the minor,who came of age the other day, you some time ago embarked a capital of14,000l. in a great undertaking.

Sir Row. Proceed.

O’Ded. I have this morning received a letter from the agent, statingthe whole concern to have failed, the partners to be bankrupts, and theproperty consigned to assignees not to promise, as a final dividend,more than one shilling in the pound. This letter will explain the rest.

Sir Row. How! I was not prepared for this—What’s to be done?

O’Ded. When one loses a sum of money that isn’t one’s own, there’s butone thing to be done.

Sir Row. And what is that?

O’Ded. To pay it back again.

Sir Row. You know that to be impossible, utterly impossible.

O’Ded. Then, sir Rowland, take the word of Cornelius O’Dedimus,attorney at law, his lordship will rigidly exact the money, to theuttermost farthing.

Sir Row. You are fond, sir, of throwing out these hints to hisdisadvantage.

O’Ded. I am bold to speak it—I am possessed of a secret, sir Rowland,in regard to his lordship.

Sir Row. (alarmed.) What is it you mean?

O’Ded. I thought I told you it was a secret.

Sir Row. But to me you should have no secrets that regard my family.

O’Ded. With submission, sir Rowland, his lordship is my client, aswell as yourself, and I have learned from the practice of the courts,that an attorney who blabs in his business has soon no suit to his back.

Sir Row. But this affair, perhaps, involves my deepest interest—mycharacter—my all is at stake.

O’Ded. Have done wid your pumping now—d’ye think I am a basket fullof cinders, that I’m to be sifted after this fashion?

Sir Row. Answer but this—does it relate to Charles, my son?

O’Ded. Sartinly, the young gentleman has a small bit of interest inthe question.

Sir Row. One thing more. Does it allude to a transaction whichhappened some years ago—am I a principal concerned in it?

O’Ded. Devil a ha’porth—it happened only six months past.

Sir R. Enough—I breathe again.

O’Ded. I’m glad of that, for may-be you’ll now let me breathe to tellyou that as I know lord Austencourt’s private character better than youdo, my life to a bundle of parchment, he’ll even arrest ye for themoney.

Sir R. Impossible, he cannot be such a villain!

Abel Grouse. (without) What ho! is the lawyer within?

Sir Row. Who interrupts us?

O’Ded. ’Tis the strange man that lives on the common—his name is AbelGrouse—he’s coming up.

Sir R. I’ll wait till you dismiss him, for I cannot encounter any oneat present. Misfortunes crowd upon me; and one act of guilt has drawnthe vengeance of Heaven on my head, and will pursue me to the grave.[Exit to an inner room.

O’Ded. Och! if a small gale of adversity blows up such a storm asthis, we shall have a pretty hurricane by and by, when you larn a littlemore of your hopeful nephew, and see his new matrimonial scheme fall tothe ground, like buttermilk through a sieve.

Enter Abel Grouse.

Abel Grouse. Now, sir, you are jackall, as I take it, to lordAustencourt.

O’Ded. I am his man of business, sure enough; but didn’t hear beforeof my promotion to the office you mention.

Ab. Gr. You are possessed of all his secret deeds.

O’Ded. That’s a small mistake—I have but one of them, and that’s thedeed of settlement on Miss Helen Worret, spinster.

Ab. Gr. Leave your quibbling, sir, and speak plump to the point—ifhabit hasn’t hardened your heart, and given a system to your knavery,answer me this: lord Austencourt has privately married my daughter?

O’Ded. Hush!

Ab. Gr. You were a witness.

O’Ded. Has any body told you that thing?

Ab. Gr. Will you deny it?

O’Ded. Will you take a friend’s advice?

Ab. Gr. I didn’t come for advice. I came to know if you will confessthe fact, or whether you are villain enough to conceal it.

O’Ded. Have done wid your bawling—sir Rowland’s in the next room!

Ab. Gr. Is he? then sir Rowland shall hear me—Sir Rowland!—he shallsee my daughter righted—Ho there! Sir Rowland!

O’Ded. (aside) Here’ll be a devil of a dust kicked up presentlyabout the ears of Mr. Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law!

Enter Rowland.

Sir Row. Who calls me?

Ab. Gr. ’Twas I!

Sir Row. What is it you want, friend?

Ab. Gr. Justice!

Sir Row. Justice! then you had better apply there, (pointing toO’Dedimus.)

Ab. Gr. That’s a mistake—he deals only in law—’tis to you that Iappeal—Your nephew, lord Austencourt, is about to marry the daughter ofsir Willoughby Worret.

Sir Row. He is.

Ab. Gr. Never! I will save him the guilt of that crime at least!

Sir Row. You are mysterious, sir.

Ab. Gr. Perhaps I am. Briefly, your nephew is privately married to mydaughter—this man was present at their union—will you see justice doneme, and make him honourably proclaim his wife?

Sir Row. Your tale is incredible, sir—it is sufficient, however, todemand attention, and I warn you, lest by your folly you rouse anindignation that may crush you.

Ab. Gr. Hear me, proud man, while I warn8you! My daughter is thelawful wife of lord Austencourt—double is the to me that she ishis wife: but as it is so, he shall publicly acknowledge her—to you Ilook for justice and redress—see to it, sir, or I shall speedily appearin a new character, with my wrongs in my hand, to hurl destruction onyou. [Exit.

Sir Row. What does the fellow mean?

O’Ded. That’s just what I’m thinking—

Sir Row. You, he said, was privy to their marriage.

O’Ded. Bless ye, the man’s mad!

Sir Row. Ha! you said you had a secret respecting my nephew.

O’Ded. Sir, if you go on so, you’ll bother me!

Sir Row. The fellow must be silenced—can you not contrive some meansto rid us of his insolence?

O’Ded. Sir, I shall do my duty, as my duty should be done, byCornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.

Sir Row. My nephew must not hear of this accursed loss—be secret onthat head, I charge you! but in regard to this man’s bold assertion, Imust consult him instantly—haste and follow me to his house.

O’Ded. Take me wid ye, sir; for this is such a dirty business, thatI’ll never be able to go through it unless you show me the way.[Exeunt.

End of act I.

ACT II.

SCENEI.—A library at Sir Willoughby’s. EnterHelen with Servant.

Helen. Lord Austencourt—true—this is his hour for persecutingme—very well, desire lord Austencourt to come in. (exit servant) Iwon’t marry. They all say I shall. Some girls, now, would sit down andsigh, and moan, as if that would mend the matter—that will never suitme! Some indeed would run away with the man they liked better—but thenthe only man I ever liked well enough to marry—is—I believe, run awayfrom me. Well! that won’t do!—so I’ll e’en laugh it off as well as Ican; and though I wont marry his lordship, I’ll teaze him as heartily asif I had been his wife these twenty years.

Enter lord Austencourt.

Lord A. Helen! too lovely Helen! once more behold before you tosupplicate for your love and pity, the man whom the world calls proud,but whom your beauty alone has humbled.

Helen. They say, my lord, that pride always has a fall some time orother. I hope the fall of your lordship’s hasn’t hurt you.

Lord A. Is it possible that the amiable Helen, so famed for gentlenessand goodness, can see the victim of her charms thus dejected standbefore her.

Helen. Certainly not, my lord—so pray sit down.

Lord A. Will you never be for one moment serious?

Helen. Oh, yes, my lord! I am never otherwise when I think of yourlordship’s proposals—but when you are making love and fine speeches tome in person, ’tis with amazing difficulty I can help laughing.

Lord A. Insolent.(aside) I had indulged a hope, madam, thatthe generosity and disinterested love I have evinced—

Helen. Why as to your lordship’s generosity in condescending to marrya poor solitary spinster, I am certainly most duly grateful—and no onecan possibly doubt your disinterestedness, who knows I am only heiressto 12,000l. a year—a fortune which, as I take it, nearly doubles thewhole of your lordship’s rent roll!

Lord A. Really, madam, if I am suspected of any mercenary motives, theliberal settlements which are now ready for your perusal, mustimmediately remove any such suspicion.

Helen. Oh, my lord, you certainly mistake me—only as my papaobserves, our estates do join so charmingly to one another!

Lord A. Yes:—that circ*mstance is certainly advantageous to bothparties (exultingly.)

Helen. Certainly!—only, as mine is the,perhaps would be the greatest gainer by the bargain.

Lord A. My dear madam, a title and the advantages of elevation in rankamply compensate the sacrifice on your part.

Helen. Why, as to a title, my lord (as Mr. O’Dedimus, your attorney,observes) there’s no title in my mind better than a good title to a fineestate—and I see plainly, that although your lordship is a peer of therealm—you think this title of mine no mean companion for your own.

Lord A. Nay, madam—believe me—I protest—I assure you—solemnly,that those considerations have very little—indeed no influence atall with me.

Helen. Oh, no!—only it is natural that you should feel (as papa againobserves) that the contiguity of these estates seem to invite aunion by a marriage between us.

Lord A. And if you admit that fact, why do you decline the invitation?

Helen. Why, one doesn’t accept every invitation that’s offered, youknow—one sometimes has very disagreeable ones; and then one presentscompliments, and is extremely sorry that a prior engagement obliges usto decline the honour.

Lord A. (aside) Confound the satirical huzzy—But should not thewishes of your parents have some weight in the scale?

Helen. Why, so they have; their wishes are in one scale, and mineare in the other; do all I can, I can’t make mine weigh most, and so thebeam remains balanced.

Lord A. I should be sorry to make theirs preponderate, by calling intheir authority as auxiliaries to their wishes.

Helen. Authority!—Ho! what, you think to marry me by force! do ye mylord?

Lord A. They are resolute, and if you continue obstinate—

Helen. I dare say your lordship’s education hasn’t precluded yourknowledge of a very true, though rather vulgar proverb, “one man maylead a horse to the water, but twenty can’t make him drink.”

Lord A. The allusion may be classical, madam, though certainly it isnot very elegant, nor has it even the advantage of being applicable tothe point in question. However I dodespair to see this resolutionchanged. In the mean time, I did not think it in your nature to treatany man who loves you with cruelty and scorn.

Helen. Then why don’t you desist, my lord? If you’d take an answer,you had a civil one: but if you will follow and teaze one, like a sturdybeggar in the street, you must expect at last a reproof for yourimpertinence.

Lord A. Yet even in their case perseverance often obtains what wasdenied to poverty.

Helen. Yes, possibly, from the feeble or the vain; but genuineCharity, and her sister, Love, act only from their own generous impulse,and scorn intimidation.

Enter Tiffany.

Tiffany. Are you alone, madam?

Helen. No; I was only wishing to be so.

Tiff. A young woman is without, inquiring for sir Willoughby, ma’am; Ithought he had been here.

9Helen. Do you know her?

Tiff. Yes, ma’am; ’tis Fanny, the daughter of the odd man that liveson the common.

Helen. I’ll see her myself—desire her to walk up. [Exit Tiffany.

Lord A. (seems uneasy) Indeed! what brings her here?

Helen. Why, what can be the matter now? your lordship seems quitemelancholy on a sudden.

Lord A. I, madam! oh no!—or if I am—’tis merely a head, or somesuch cause, or perhaps owing to the influence of the weather.

Helen. Your lordship is a very susceptible barometer—when you enteredthis room your countenance was set fair; but now I see the indexpoints to stormy.

Lord A. Madam, you have company, or business—a good morning to you.

Helen. Stay, stay, my lord.

Lord A. Excuse me at present, I have an important affair—anothertime.

Helen. Surely, my lord, the arrival of this innocent girl does notdrive you away!

Lord A. Bless me, madam, what an idea! certainly not; but I have justrecollected an engagement of consequence—some other time—Madam, yourmost obedient—[Exit.

Enter Fanny.

Fan. I beg pardon, madam, I’m fearful I intrude; but I inquired forsir Willoughby, and they showed me to this room. I wished to speak withhim on particular business—your servant, madam.

Hel. Pray stay, my good girl—I rejoice in this opportunity ofbecoming acquainted with you—the character I have heard of you hasexcited an affectionate interest—you must allow me to become yourfriend.

Fanny. Indeed, indeed, madam, I am in want of friends; but you cannever be one of them.

Helen. No! Why so?

Fan. You, madam! Oh no—you are the only enemy I ever had.

Hel. Enemy! This is very extraordinary! I have scarce ever seen youbefore—Assuredly I never injured you.

Fan. Heaven forbid I should wish any one to injure you as deeply.

Hel. I cannot understand you—pray explain yourself.

Fan. That’s impossible, madam—my lord would never forgive me.

Hel. Your lord! Let me entreat you to explain your meaning.

Fan. I cannot, madam; I came hither on business of importance, and notrifling business should have brought me to a house inhabited by one whois the cause of all my wretchedness.

Hel. This is a very extraordinary affair! There is a mixture ofcultivation and simplicity in your manner that affects me strongly—Isee, my poor girl, you are distressed; and though what you have saidleaves on my mind a painful suspicion—

Fan. Oh heavens, madam! stay, I beseech you!—I am not what you thinkme, indeed I am not—I must not, for a moment, let you think of me soinjuriously: yet I have promised secrecy! but sure no promise can bebinding, when to keep it we must sacrifice all that is valuable inlife—hear me, then madam—the struggle is violent; but I owe it tomyself to acknowledge all.

Hel. No, no, my dear girl! I now see what it would cost you to revealyour secret, and I will not listen to it; rest assured, I have no longera thought to your disadvantage: curiosity gives place to interest: forthough ’tis cruelty to inflict a wound, ’tis still more deliberatebarbarity to probe when we cannot hope to heal it. (going.)

Fan. Stay, madam, stay—your generosity overpowers me! oh madam! youknow not how wretched I am.

Hel. What is it affects you thus?—come, if your story is of a naturethat may be revealed, you are sure of sympathy.

Fan. I never should have doubted; but my father has alarmed mesadly—he says my lord Austencourt is certainly on the point of marriagewith you.

Hel. And how, my dear girl, if it were so, could that affect you?Come, you must be explicit.

Fan. Affect me! merciful Heaven! can I see him wed another? He is myhusband by every tie sacred and human.

Hel. Suffering, but too credulous girl! have you then trusted to hisvows?

Fan. How, madam! was I to blame, loving as I did, to trust in vows sosolemn? could I suppose he would dare to break them, because ourmarriage was performed in secret?

Hel. Your marriage, child! Good Heavens, you amaze me! but here we maybe interrupted—this way with me. If this indeed be so all may be wellagain: for though he may be dead to feeling be assured he is alive tofear: the man who once descends to be a villain is generally observedto be at heart a coward. [Exeunt.

SCENEII.—The door of a country inn.—Ponder sitting on aportmanteau.

Ponder. I’ve heard that intense thinking has driven some philosophersmad!—now if this should happen to me, ’twill never be the fate of myyoung patron, Mr. Charles Austencourt, whom I have suddenly met on hissudden return from sea, and who never thinks at all. Poor gentleman, helittle thinks what—

Enter Charles Austencourt.

Charles. Not gone yet? How comes it you are not on the road to myfather? Is the fellow deaf or dumb. Ponder! are ye asleep?

Pon. I’m thinking, whether I am or not.

Charles. And what wise scheme now occupies your thoughts?

Pon. Sir, I confess the subject is beneath me (pointing to theportmanteau.)

Char. The weight of the portmanteau, I suppose, alarms you.

Pon. If that was my heaviest misfortune, sir, I could carry doublewith all my heart. No, sir, I was thinking that as your father, sirRowland, sent you on a cruize, for some cause best known to himself; andas you have thought proper to return for some cause best known toyourself, the chances of war, if I may be allowed the expression, are,that the contents of that trunk will be your only inheritance, or, inother words, that your father will cut you off with a shilling—and nowI’m thinking—

Char. No doubt—thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, thatyou seldom find time for doing. And so you have, since my departure,turned your thinking faculties to the law.

Pon. Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard tolive honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law:and so articled my self to Mr. O’Dedimus, thein our town: butthere is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head everymoment since we met.

Char. Pr’ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.

Pon. Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you,that you are a little—(going off to a distance) a little oddhereabouts, sir; (pointing to his head) a little damned mad, if I maybe allowed the expression!

Char. Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, asyou suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.

Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well themotive—the old story, sir, ha! love!

10Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose,that I—that I can be guilty of such a folly—I should be glad to knowhow you dare venture to think that I——

Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.

Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?

Pon. The old symptoms, sir—in the first place, frequent fits of mycomplaint.

Char. Your complaint?

Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs,fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counterorders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of yoursenses, if I may be allowed the expression.

Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression—’tisimpertinent, ’tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never hadthe fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and,heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!

Pon. Nor I, sir; though I’ve been married these three years, I neveronce sighed for my dear wife in all that time—heigho!

Char. I mustn’t be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for anunobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.

Pon. Then, sir, you mis-took me. I fancy it was in one of your mostdecided unobserving fits that you took me for a blockhead.

Char. Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, andit may be of service to you.

Pon. Sir, I haven’t studied the law for nothing. I’m no fool, if I maybe allowed the expression.

Char. I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful tome.

Pon. And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want ofthat faculty, from your not having found out that before.

Char. I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the stateof my heart.

Pon. Sir, that’s very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with asecret he had himself discovered ten months ago.

Char. Keep it with honour and prudence.

Pon. Sir, I have kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, excepta few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers,and all your neighbours.

Char. Why, zounds! you don’t mean to say that any body, exceptyourself, suspects me to be in love.

Pon. Suspects! no, sir; suspicion is out of the question; it istaken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand juryin the county.

Char. The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show myface—this will never do—my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the powerof love—how ridiculous will it now render me—while the mystery andsacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gaveto the refinement of my feelings—O! I’ll off to sea again—I won’t stayhere—order a post-chaise—no—yes—a chaise and four, d’ye hear?

Pon. Yes, sir; but I’m thinking—

Char. What?

Pon. That it is possible you may alter your mind.

Char. No such thing, sir; I’ll set off this moment; order the chaise,I say.

Pon. Think of it again, sir.

Char. Will you obey my orders, or not?

Pon. I think I will. (aside) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him upinto a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just onthe point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say “ill newstravels apace,” they shall never say that I rode postillion on theoccasion. [Exit into inn.

Char. Here’s a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! knownall over the country! I’m off! and yet to have travelled so far, and notto have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil inlove, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do—but then I may seeher—yes, I’ll see her once—just once—for three minutes, or threeminutes and a half at most—no longer positively—Ponder, Ponder!(enter Ponder) Ponder, I say—

Pon. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, for I’m thinking—

Char. Damn your thinking, sir!

Pon. I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.

Char. I have not altered my mind: but since I am here, I should bewanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on withthe trunk, sir.

Pon. Yes, sir: but if that’s all you want to do, sir, you may spareyourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here hecomes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him—

Char. The devil!

Pon. Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may beallowed the expression. [Exit.

Enter sir Rowland and lord Austencourt.

Char. My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you—

Sir R. How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?

Char. Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome—Ihope you find it so.

Sir R. This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.

Char. Sir, I have it ready at my tongue’s end—My lord, I ask yourpardon—I’m glad to see you too.

Lord A. I wish, sir, I could return the compliment; but thisextraordinary conduct—

Char. No apologies, my lord, for your civil speech—you might easilyhave returned the compliment in the same words, and, believe me, with asmuch sincerity as it was offered.

Sir R. This is no time for dissention, sir—

Lord A. My cousin forgets, sir Rowland, that although united by tiesof consanguinity, birth and fortune have placed me in a stationwhich commands some respect.

Char. No, my lord, for I also am in a station where I too commandrespect, where I respect and am respected. I therefore well know what isdue to my superiors; and this duty I never forget, till those above meforget what they owe to themselves.

Lord A. I am not aware, good cousin, that I have ever yet forfeited mytitle to the respect I claim.

Char. You have, my lord: for high rank forfeits every claim todistinction when it exacts submissive humility from those beneath it,while at the same time it refuses a graceful condescension in exchange.

Sir R. Charles, Charles, these sentiments but ill become the dependentstate in which Fortune has placed you.

Char. Dependent state! Dependent upon whom! What, on him! my titled,tawdry cousin there? What are his pretensions, that he shall presume tobrand me as a poor dependent!—What are his claims to independence?How does he spend the income Fortune has allotted to him? Does herejoice to revive in the mansion of his ancestors the spirit of oldEnglish hospitality? Do the eyes of aged tenants twinkle with joy whenthey hope his coming? do the poor bless his arrival? I say no. He is thelord of land—and is also, what he seems still more proud of, a lord ofparliament; but I will front him in both capacities, and frankly tellhim, that in the first he is a burthen to his own estate, and not a11benefactor; and in the second, a peer but not a prop.

Sir R. Charles, how dare you thus persevere! You cannot deny, rash andfoolish boy, that you are in a dependant state. Your very professionproves it.

Char. O, father, spare that insult! The profession I glory to belongto, is above dependence—yes! while we live and fight, we feel, andgratefully acknowledge, that our pay depends on our king and country,and therefore you may style us dependant; but in the hour of battle wewish for nothing more than to show that the glory and safety of thenation depends on us; and by our death or blood to repay all previousobligation.

Sir R. Dismiss this subject.

Char. With all my heart—My cousin was the subject, and he’s afatiguing one.

Sir R. Though you do not love your cousin, you ought to pay thatdeference to his rank which you refuse to his person.

Char. Sir, I do; like a fine mansion in the hands of a bad inhabitant.I admire the building, but despise the tenant.

Lord A. This insolence is intolerable, and will not be forgotten. Youmay find, hot sir, that Where my friendship is despised, my resentmentmay be feared. I well know the latent motives for this insult. It is thelanguage of a losing gamester, and is treated with deserved contempt bya successful rival. [Exit.

Char. Ha! a successful rival! Is this possible?

Sir. R. It is. The treaty of marriage between lord Austencourt andHelen is this morning concluded.

Char. And does she consent?

Sir R. There can be little doubt of that.

Char. But little doubt! False Helen! Come, come, I know my Helenbetter.

Sir R. I repeat my words, sir. It is not the curse of every parent tohave a disobedient child.

Char. By Heaven, sir, that reflection cuts me to the heart. You haveever found in me the obedience, nay more, the affection of a son, tillcirc*mstance on circ*mstance convinced me, I no longer possessed theaffection of a father.

Sir R. Charles, we are too warm. I feel that I have in some degreemerited your severe reproof—give me your hand, and to convince you thatyou undervalue my feelings towards you, I will now confess that I havebeen employed during your absence, in planning an arrangement which willplace you above the malice of fortune—you know our neighbour, Mrs.Richland—

Char. What, the gay widow with a fat jointure? What of her?

Sir R. She will make not only a rich, but a good wife. I know shelikes you—I’m sure of it.

Char. Likes me!

Sir R. I am convinced she does.

Char. But—what the devil—she doesn’t mean to marry me surely!

Sir R. That will, I am convinced, depend upon yourself.

Char. Will it? then by the Lord, though I sincerely esteem her, Ishall make my bow, and decline the honour at once. No, sir; the heart ismy aim, and all the gold I care for in the hand that gives it, is themodest ring that encompasses the finger, and marks that hand as mineforever.

Sir R. Thus I see another of my prospects blighted! Undutiful,degenerate boy! your folly and obstinacy will punish themselves. Answerme not; think of the proposal I have made you; obey your father’s will,or forever I renounce you! [Exit.

Char. Whoo! here’s a whirligig! I’ve drifted on to a pleasant leeshore here! Helen betrothed to another! Impossible.—Oh Helen! Helen!Zounds! I’m going to make a soliloquy! this will never do! no, I’ll seeHelen; upbraid her falsehood; drop one tear to her memory; regain myfrigate; seek the enemy; fight like a true sailor; die like a Briton;and leave my character and memory to my friends—and my blessing andforgiveness to Helen. [Exit.

End of act II.

ACT III.

SCENEI.—O’Dedimus’s office.Ponder discovered.

Ponder. So! having executed my commission, let me think a little(sits down,) for certain I and my master are two precious rogues(pauses.) I wonder whether or not we shall be discovered, asassistants in this sham marriage (pauses.) If we are, we shall beeither transported or hanged, I wonder which:—My lord’s bribe, however,was convenient; and in all cases of conscience versus convenience,’tis the general rule of practice to nonsuit the plaintiff. Ha! who’shere? The poor girl herself. (Enter Fanny.) I pity her; but I’ve beenbribed; so I must be honest.

Fanny. Oh, sir! I’m in sad distress—my father has discovered myintercourse with lord Austencourt, and says, he is sure my lord means todeny our marriage; but I have told him, as you and your master werepresent, I am sure you will both be ready to prove it, should my lordact so basely.

Pon. I must mind my hits here, or shall get myself into a confoundedscrape—ready to do what, did you say, ma’am, to prove your marriage?

Fan. Yes, as you both were present.

Pon. Present! me! Lord bless me, what is it you mean? Marriage! prove!me! present!

Fan. Why do you hesitate? come, come, you do but jest with me—youcannot have forgotten it—

Pon. Hey? why no! but I can’t say I remember it—

Fan. Sure, sure, you cannot have the barbarity to deny that you were awitness to the ceremony!

Pon. I may be mistaken—I’ve a remarkably short memory; but to thebest of my recollection I certainly—

Fan. Ay, you recollect it—

Pon. I certainly never was present—

Fan. Cruel! you were—indeed, indeed you were.

Pon. But at one wedding in my life.

Fan. And that was mine—

Pon. No, that was mine.

Fan. Merciful Heaven! I see my fate—it is disgrace and misery!

Pon. Bless you, if I could remember it; but I can’t—however I’llspeak to my master about it, and if he recollects it I dare say Ishall.

Fan. I have then no hope, and the fate of the hapless Fanny isdecided.

Pon. Ha! yonder I see comes my master and his lordship. I wonder whatthey are thinking of—they’re coming this way. I think we had betterretire.

Fan. O hide me! hide me! In any corner let me hide my head, fromscorn, from misery, and, most of all, from him—

Pon. You can’t escape that way, so you must come this. They wont thinkof coming here. (puts her into another room) Poor girl! I’ve a greatmind to confess the whole affair. What shall I get by that? Nothing!nothing! Oh! that’s contrary to law! [Exit.

12Enter lord Austencourt and O’Dedimus.

Lord A. Are you certain no one can overhear us?

O’Ded. There’s nobody can hear us except my ould,and she’s as deaf as St. Dunstan’s clock-strikers.

Lord A. There is no time to be lost. You must immediately repair toFanny—tell her my affection is unabated—tell her I shall ever loveher, and make her such pecuniary offers, as shall convince her of myesteem and affection; but we must meet no more. (Fanny utters a crybehind.)

O’Ded. What’s that?

Lord A. We are betrayed!

O’Ded. Och! ’tis only my ould housekeeper.

Lord A. Your housekeeper! I thought you told me she was deaf.

O’Ded. Yes; but she isn’t dumb. Devil a word can she hear forsartin; but she’s apt to say a great many, and so we may proceed.

Lord A. You will easily accomplish this business with Fanny.

O’Ded. I’m afraid not. To tell you the truth, my lord, Idon’t like the job.

Lord A. Indeed! and why, sir?

O’Ded. Somehow, when I see a poor girl with her pretty little eyesbrim full of tears, which I think have no business to be there, I’m moreapt to be busy in wiping them away, than in saying cruel things thatwill make them flow faster; you had better tell her all this yourself,my lord.

Lord A. That, sir, is impossible. If you decline it, I shall findsome one less delicate.

O’Ded. There’s reason in that, and if you send another to her, he maynot be quite so delicate, as you say: so I’ll even undertake it myself.

Lord A. The poor girl disposed of, if the old fool, her father, willbe thus clamorous, we must not be nice as to the means of silencinghim—money, I suppose, is his object.

O’Ded. May be not—If a rich man by accident disables a poor man fromworking, money may make him easy; but when his feelings are deliberatelytortured, devil fly away with the mercenary miser, if he will takeshining dirt as a compensation for cruelty.

Lord A. I can dispense with moral reflections—It may serve yourpurpose elsewhere, but to me, who know your practice, your preaching isridiculous—What is it you propose? If the fellow wont be satisfied bymoney he must be removed.

O’Ded. Faith, ’tis a new way, sure enough, to make reparation to thefeelings of a father, after having seduced daughter under the plea of afalse marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a forged licence!

Fanny (behind.) Oh, heaven! let me pass—I must and will see him(enters.) Oh, my lord! my lord! my husband! (she falls at his feet,he raises her) Surely my ears deceived me—you cannot, cannot mean it!a false marriage! a pretended priest! What is to become of me! In mercykill me! Let me not live to see my broken-hearted father expire withgrief and shame, or live to curse me! Spare me but this, my lord, and Iwill love, forgive, will pray for you—

Lord A. This is a plot against me—You placed her there on purpose tosurprise me in the moment of unguarded weakness.

O’Ded. By St. Patrick, how she came there is a most mysterious mysteryto Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.

Lord A. Fanny, I entreat you, leave me.

Fanny. Oh, do not send me from you! Can you, my lord, abandon thus toshame and wretchedness the poor deluded victim of your treachery!

Lord A. Ha! leave me, I charge you!

Fanny. No, no, my dearest lord! I cannot leave you! Whither shall Ifly, if these arms deny me refuge! Am I not yours? What if these wickedmen refuse me justice! There is another witness who will rise indreadful evidence against you! ’Tis Heaven itself! ’tis there your vowswere heard! ’tis there where Truth resides, your vows are registered!then oh! reflect before you plunge too deep in guilt for repentance andretreat! reflect that we are married!

Lord A. I cannot speak at present; leave me, and we will meet again.

Fanny. Do not command me from you; I see your heart is softened by mytears; cherish the stranger Pity in your breast; ’tis noble, excellent!Such pity in itself is virtue! Oh, cherish it, my lord! nor let theselfish feelings of the world step in to smother it! Now! now, while itglows unstifled in your heart! now, ere it dies, to be revived no more,at once proclaim the triumph of your virtue, and receive into your armsa fond and an acknowledged wife!

Lord A. Ha! impossible! Urge me no more! I cannot, will not hearyou—My heart has ever been your own, my hand must be another’s; stillwe may love each other; still we may sometimes meet.

Fanny. (after a struggle) I understand you! No, sir! Since it mustbe, we will meet no more! I know that there are laws; but to these lawsI disdain to fly! Mine is an injury that cannot be redressed; for theonly mortal witnesses to our union you have suborned: the laws,therefore, cannot do me justice, and I will never, inhuman as you are, Iwill never seek them for revenge. [Exit.

O’Ded. (aside) I’m thinking, that if I was a lord, I should act in aclean contrary way; by the powers now, that man has got what I call atough constitution; his heart’s made of stone like a brick wall—Oh!that a man should have the power of a man, and not know how to behavelike a man!

Lord A. What’s to be done? speak, advise me!

O’Ded. That’s it: have you made up your mind already, that you ask meto advise you?

Lord A. I know not how to act.

O’Ded. When a man’s in doubt whether he should act as an honest man ora rogue, there are two or three small reasons for choosing the rightside.

Lord A. What is’t you mean, sir?

O’Ded. I mean this thing—that as I suppose you’re in doubt whether topersecute the poor souls, or to marry the sweet girl in right earnest.

Lord A. Marry her! I have no such thoughts—idiot!

O’Ded. Idiot! That’s no proof of your lordship’s wisdom to come andask advice of one.—Idiot, by St. Patrick! an idiot’s a fool, and that’sa Christian name was never sprinkled upon Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorneyat law!

Lord A. I can feel for the unfortunate girl as well as you; but theidea of marrying her is too ridiculous.

O’Ded. The unfortunate girl never knew misfortune till she knew you,my lord; and I heartily wish your lordship may never look moreridiculous than you would do in performing an act of justice and mercy.

Lord A. You presume strangely, sir, on my confidence andcondescension!

O’Ded. What! are you coming over me now with the pride of yourcondescension. That for your condescension! When a great man, my lord,does me the honour to confide in me, he’ll find me trusty andrespectful; but when he condescends to make me an agent and a partner inhis iniquity, by your leave from that moment there’s an end ofdistinction between us.

Lord A. There’s no enduring this! Scoundrel!

O’Ded. Scoundrel! ditto, my lord, ditto! If I’m a scoundrel, it wasyou that made me one, and by St. Patrick, there’s a brace of us.

Lord A. (aside) The fellow has me in his power13at present—you seeme irritated, and you ought to bear with me—let us think of this nomore. The father and daughter must both be provided for out of thatmoney which sir Rowland still holds in trust for me.

O’Ded. And if you depend upon that money to silence the old man, youmight as well think to stop a mouse-hole with toasted cheese.

Lord A. Pray explain, sir.

O’Ded. Devil a penny of it is there left. Sir Rowland ventured it in aspeculation, and all is lost—Oh! blister my tongue, I’ve let out thesecret, sure enough!

Lord A. Indeed! and what right had sir Rowland to risk my property? Beassured I will exact every guinea of it.

O’Ded. That’s just what I told him. Sir, says I, his lordship is oneof the flinty-hearted ones, and devil a thirteener will he forgiveyou—but, my lord, it will utterly ruin sir Rowland to replace it.

Lord A. Sir Rowland should have thought of that before he embarked myproperty in a hazardous enterprise. Inform him, sir, from me that Iexpect an instant account of it.

O’Ded. I shall do that thing, sir: but please to reflect a little—themoney so laid out was honestly intended for your advantage.

Lord A. Another word sir, and I shall think it necessary to employanother attorney.

O’Ded. Sir, that’s a quietus—I’ve done—only remember that if youproceed to extremities, I warrant you’ll repent it.

Lord A. You warrant—

O’Ded. Ay, sir, and a warrant of attorney is reckoned decent goodsecurity.

Lord A. Since my uncle has so far forgotten his duty as a guardian, Ihave now an opportunity, which I shall not neglect, to bring him to aproper recollection—you have nothing to do but to obey my orders; andthese are that the fourteen thousand pounds, of which he has defraudedmy estate, shall be immediately repaid. Look to it, sir, and to theother affair you are entrusted with, and see that the law neglects nomeasures to recover what is due to me. [Exit.

O’Ded. And by St. Patrick, if the law gives you what is due to you,that’s what I’m too polite to mention. You’ve had your swing in iniquitylong enough, and such swings are very apt to end in one that’s much tooexalted for my notions. [Exit.

SCENEII.—an apartment at sir Willoughby’s.—Enter sir Willoughby,and William meeting him, the latter delivers a letter.

Will. The gentleman desired me to say he is below, sir.

Sir W. Hey! (reads) “My dear Worret, I hope that a long absence frommy native land has not obliterated the recollection of our friendship. Ihave thought it right to adopt this method of announcing my return, lestmy too sudden appearance should hurt your feelings, by deranging thedelicate nerves of your amiable lady” Hey!

“Ever yours,

“FREDERICK FALKNER.”

Bless my soul! Falkner alive? show the gentleman up.

Will. He’s here, sir.

Enter Falkner.

Falk. My old friend, I rejoice to see you.

Sir W. Friend Falkner, I shan’t attempt to say how welcome your returnis. We all thought you dead and buried. Where have you been all theseyears?

Falk. A wanderer. Let that suffice.

Sir W. I see you still retain your old antipathy to answeringquestions, so I shall ask none—Have you been in France, or among thesavages? Hey! I remember you had a daughter at school—is she alive? isshe merry or miserable? Is she married?

Falk. Zounds what a medley! France and savages! marriage and misery!

Sir W. Ods life, I’m happy to see you! I haven’t been so cheerful orhappy for many a day.

Falk. How’s your wife?

Sir W. Hey! thank ye, sir! why that excellent good woman is in highhealth, in astonishing health! by my troth I speak it with unspeakablejoy, I think she’s a better life now than she was when I married her!(in a melancholy tone.)

Falk. That must be a source of vast comfort to you. Idon’t wonder at your being so cheerful and happy.

Sir W. True—but it isn’t that—that is, not altogether so: no, ’tisthat I once more hold my friend Falkner by the hand, and that mydaughter—you remember your little favourite Helen—

Falkner. I do indeed!

Sir W. You are arrived at a critical moment: I mean shortly to marryher—

Falkner. I forbid the banns!

Sir W. The devil you do!

Falkner. Pshaw! (aside) my feelings o’erstep my discretion. Takecare what you’re about—If you’re an honest man, you’d rather see herdead than married to a villain.

Sir W. To be sure I would; but the man I mean her to marry—

Falkner. Perhaps will never be her husband.

Sir W. The devil he wont! why not?

Falkner. Talk of something else—you know I was always an eccentricbeing—

Sir W. What the devil does he mean? yes, yes you was always eccentric;but do you know—

Falkner. I know more than I wish to know; I’ve lived long enough inthe world to know that roguery fattens on the same soil where honestystarves; and I care little whether time adds to information which opensto me more and more the depravity of human nature.

Sir W. Why, Falkner, you are grown more a misanthrope than ever.

Falkner. You know well enough I have had my vexations in life; in anearly stage of it I married—

Sir W. Every man has his trials!

Falkner. About two years afterwards I lost my wife.

Sir W. That was a heavy misfortune! however you bore it withfortitude.

Falkner. I bore it easily; my wife was a woman without feelings: shehad not energy for great virtue, and she had no vice, because she had nopassion: life with her was a state of stagnation.

Sir W. How different are the fates of men!

Falkner. In the next instance, I had a friend whom I would havetrusted with my life—with more—my honour—I need not tell you then Ithought him the first of human beings; but I was mistaken—he understoodmy character no better than I knew his: he confided to me a transactionwhich proved him to be a villain, and I commanded him never to see memore.

Sir W. Bless me! what was that transaction?

Falkner. It was a secret, and has remained so. Though I should haveliked to hang the fellow, he had trusted me, and no living creature buthimself and me at this day is possessed of it.

Sir W. Strange indeed; and what became of him.

Falkner. I have not seen him since, but I shall see him in a fewhours.

Sir W. Indeed, is he in this neighbourhood?

Falkner. That circ*mstance of my friend, and a loss in the WestIndies, which shook the fabric of my fortune to its foundation, drove mefrom the world—I am now returned to it with better14prospects—myproperty, which I then thought lost, is doubled—circ*mstances havecalled me hither on an important errand, and before we are four andtwenty hours older, you may see some changes which will make you doubtyour own senses for the remainder of your days—

Sir W. You astonish me mightily.

Falkner. Yes, you stare as if you were astonished: but why do I staychattering here? I must be gone.

Sir. W. Nay, pr’ythee now—

Falkner. Pshaw! I have paid my first visit to you, because you are thefirst in my esteem: don’t weaken it by awkward and unseasonableceremony—I must now about the business that brings me here: nointerruption, if you wish to see me again let me have my own way, and Imay, perhaps, be back in half an hour.

Sir W. But I want to tell you that—

Falkner. I know—I know—you want to prove to me that you are the leasttalker, and the best husband in the county: but both secrets must keeptill my return, when I shall be happy to congratulate you—and sofarewell—[Exit.

Sir W. Bless my soul! what can he mean? ‘I forbid the banns’—‘lost mywife’—‘horrid transaction’—‘back again in half an hour’—dearme—John—Thomas! lady Worret! Helen! [Exit.

SCENE.—Aroom in sir Willoughby’shouse—Helen and Charles meeting—Helenscreams—they run towards each other, as if toembrace—Charles stops suddenly.

Helen. Charles! is it you, or is it your spirit?

Char. ’Tis I, madam, and you’ll find I have brought my spirit with me.

Helen. Hey! why what the deuce ails the man?

Char. My presence here, no doubt astonishes you.

Helen. Yes, sir,presence does astonish me, but your manner still more.

Char. I understand you—you would still keep a poor devil in yourtoils, though in his absence you have been sporting with nobler game.

Helen. My good friend, will you descend from your heroical stilts, andexplain your meaning in plain English?

Char. There needs no explanation of my conduct—call it caprice—say,if you please, that I am altered—say I have changed my mind, andlove another better—

Helen. Indeed! and is it come to this! he shall not see he mortifiesme, however—(aside) Since you are in this mind, sir, I wish you hadbeen pleased to signify the same by letter, sir—

Char. By letter?

Helen. Yes, sir,—for this personal visit being rather unexpected, doesnot promise to be particularly pleasant—

Char. I believe so, madam—you did not calculate, I fancy, on thissudden return.

Helen. No, indeed, sir—and should have shown all Christian patienceif this sudden return hadn’t happened these twelve months.

Char. The devil you would! madam!—but I’ll be cool—I’ll cut her tothe heart with a razor of ice—I’ll congeal her with indifference—youmust know, madam—

Helen. Bless me, Charles, how very strangely you look—you’re pale andred, and red and pale, in the same moment! why you can scarcely breathe!and now you tremble so! I’m afraid you are very ill.

Char. Sarcastic!

Helen. You move all over like a ship in a storm!

Char. Vastly well, madam—and now—

Helen. Your teeth chatter!—

Char. Fire and fa*gots, madam, I will speak!

Helen. Do, dear Charles, while your are able—your voice will be gonein a minute or two, and then—

Char. I will be heard! (bawling)

Helen. That you will, indeed, and all over the house, too.

Char. Madam, will you hear me or not?

Helen. I am glad to find there’s no affection of the lungs!

Char. Death and torments! may I be allowed to speak—yes, or no?

Helen. Yes, but gently; and make haste before they call the watch.

Char. Madam, madam—I wish to keep my temper—I wish to be cool.

Helen. Perhaps this will answer the purpose (Fanning him).

Char. (In confusion, after a pause, aside) Is she laughing at menow, or trying to wheedle me into a good humour? I feel, Miss Worret,that I am expressing myself with too much warmth—I must thereforeinform you, that being ordered home with despatches, and having someleisure time on my hands on my return, I thought it but proper as Ipassed the house to call at your door—just to say—a—a—just civillyto say—false! cruel! perfidious girl! you may break the tough heart ofa sailor, but damn me if he will ever own it broke for love of you!

Helen. On my honour, sir, I do not understand what all this means.

Char. You don’t?

Helen. No, sir—if your purpose here is insult, you might, methinks,have found some fitter object than one who has so limited a power toresent it! [Going.

Char. Stay, madam, stay—what a face is there! a smile upon it too:oh, Helen, spare those smiles! they once could wake my soul to ecstasy!but now they rouse it into madness: save them, madam, for a happierlover—save them for lord Austencourt.

Helen. Charles, Charles, you have been deceived: but come, sit downand hear me.

Char. I am all attention, and listen to you with all that patiencewhich the subject demands.

Helen. As you know the world, Charles, you cannot wonder that myfather (in the main a very good father, but in this respect like allother fathers) should wish to unite his daughter to a man whose rank andfortune—

Char. (Rising in anger) Spare yourself the trouble of furtherexplanation, madam; I see the whole at once—you are now going to tellme about prudence, duty, obedience, filial affection, and all thecanting catalogue of fine phrases that serve to gloss over the giddyfrailty of your sex, when you sacrifice the person and the heart at thefrequented shrine of avarice and ambition!

Helen. (Rising also) When I am next inclined to descend toexplanation, sir, I hope you will be better disposed to attend to me.[Going.

Char. A moment, madam! The whole explanation lies in a word—has notyour father concluded a treaty of marriage between you and lordAustencourt?

Helen. He has—

Char. There—’tis enough! you have confessed it—

Helen. (Stifling her tears) Confessed what? you monster! I’veconfessed nothing.

Char. Haven’t you acknowledged that you are to be the wife of another?

Helen. No.

Char. No! won’t you consent then?

Helen. Half an hour ago nothing on earth should have induced me toconsent—but since I see, Charles, of what your temper is capable, Ishall think it more laudable to risk my happiness by obedience to myfather, than by an ill-judged constancy to one who seems so littleinclined to deserve it. [Exit.

15Char. Hey! where am I! zounds, I see my whole error at once! Oh,Helen, Helen—for mercy’s sake one moment more!—She’s gone—and hasleft me in anger! but I will see her again, and obtain herforgiveness—fool, idiot, dolt, ass, that I am, to suffer my cursedtemper to master reason and affection at the risk of losing the dearestblessing of life—a lovely and an amiable woman! [Exit.

End of act III.

ACT IV.

SCENEI.—O’Dedimus’s office—Enter Charles pulling inPonder by the collar.

Char. This way, sirrah, this way, and now out with your confession, ifyou expect mercy at my hands.

Pon. I will, sir, I will: but I expect no mercy at your hands, foryou’ve already handled me most unmercifully—(Charles shakes him) whatwould you please to have me confess, sir?

Char. I have seen old Abel Grouse—he has told me the story of hisdaughter’s marriage with this amiable cousin of mine: now, sirrah,confess the truth—were you present, or were you not? out with it(shakes him).

Pon. Now pray recollect yourself—do, sir—think a little.

Char. Recollect myself?

Pon. Ay, sir, if you will but take time to reflect, you’ll give metime to collect my scattered thoughts, which you have completely shakenout of my pericranium.

Char. No equivocation, answer directly, or though you’re no longer myservant, by heavens I’ll—

Pon. Sir—for heaven’s sake!—you’ll shake nothing more out of me,depend on’t—if you’ll be pleased to pause a moment, I’ll think of ananswer.

Charles. It requires no recollection to say whether you were awitness—

Pon. No indeed, sir, ask my master if I was; besides if I had been, myconscience wouldn’t let me disclose it.

Charles. Your conscience! good, and you’re articled to an attorney!

Pon. True, sir, but there’s a deal of conscience in our office; if mymaster knew I betrayed his secrets even to you, I believe (inconscience,) he’d hang me if he could.

Charles. If my old friend O’Dedimus proves a rogue at last, I shan’twonder that you have followed his example.

Pon. No, sir, for I always follow my master’s example, even though itshould be in the path of roguery; compliment apart sir, I alwaysfollowed yours.

Charles. Puppy, you trifle with my patience.

Pon. No indeed, sir, I never play with edg’d tools.

Charles. You wont acknowledge it then.

Pon. Yes, sir, I’ll acknowledge the truth, but I scorn a lie.

Charles. ’Tis true I always thought you honest. I have ever trustedyou, Ponder, even as a friend: I do not believe you capable of deceivingme.

Pon. Sir, (gulping) I can’t swallow that! it choaks me (falling onhis knees); forgive me, dear master that was; your threats I couldwithstand, your violence I could bear, but your kindness and goodopinion there is no resisting; promise you wont betray me.

Charles. So; now it comes. I do.

Pon. Then, sir, the whole truth shall out, they are married, sir,and they are not married, sir.

Charles. Enigma too!

Pon. Yes, sir, they are married, but the priest was ordained by mymaster, and the license was of his own granting, and so they are notmarried, and now the enigma’s explained.

Charles. Your master then is a villain!

Pon. I don’t know, sir, that puzzles me: but he’s such an honestfollow I can hardly think him a rogue—though I fancy, sir, betweenourselves, he’s like the rest of the world, half and half, or likepunch, sir, a mixture of opposites.

Charles. So! villany has been thriving in my absence. If you feel theattachment you profess why did you not confide this to me before?

Pon. Sir, truth to speak, I did not tell you, because, knowing thenatural gentleness of your disposition, which I have so often admired, Iwas alarmed, lest the sudden shock should cause one of those irasciblefits, which I have so often witnessed, and produce some of those shakesand buffets, which to my unspeakable astonishment, I have so oftenexperienced.

Charles. And which, I can tell you, you have now so narrowly escaped.

Pon. True sir, I have escaped as narrowly as a felon who gets hisreprieve five minutes after execution.

Charles. Something must be done. I am involved in a quarrel with Helentoo! curse on my irritable temper.

Pon. So I say, sir—try and mend it; pray do.

Charles. I am resolved to have another interview with her;—to throwmyself at her feet, and sue for pardon! Though fate should oppose ourunion, I may still preserve her from the arms of a villain, who iscapable of deceiving the innocent he could not seduce: and of planting adagger in the female heart, where nature has bestowed her softestattributes, and has only left it weak, that man might cherish,shelter, and protect it. [Exit.

Pon. So! now I’m a rogue both ways—If I escape punishment one way, Ishall certainly meet it the other. But if my good luck saves me bothways I shall never more credit a fortune-teller: for one once predicted,that I was born to be hanged. [Exit.

SCENEII.—Sir Rowland’s.

Enter Sir Rowland and O’Dedimus.

Sir R. You have betrayed me then!—Did not I caution you to keepsecret from my nephew this accursed loss.

O’Ded. And so you did sure enough, but somehow it slipt out before Isaid a word about it; but I told him it was a secret, and I dare say hewont mention it.

Sir R. But you say, that he demands the immediate liquidation.

O’Ded. Ay, sir, and has given me orders to proceed against you.

Sir R. Is it possible! in a moment could I arrest his impiousprogress; but I will probe him to the quick, did he threaten me, sayyou?—There is however one way to save him from this public avowal ofhis baseness, and me from his intended persecution—a marriage betweenCharles and Mrs. Richland.

O’Ded. The widow’s as rich as the Wicklow mines!

Sir R. The boy refuses to comply with my wishes; we may find means,however, to compel him.

O’Ded. He’s a sailor; and gentlemen of his kidney are generally prettytough when they take a notion in their heads.

Sir R. I am resolved to carry my point. I have reason to believe youadvanced him a sum of money.

16O’Ded. I did that thing—he’s a brave fellow; I’d do that thing again.

Sir R. You did wrong, sir, to encourage a young spendthrift indisobedience to his father.

O’Ded. I did right, sir, to assist the son of a client and the nephewof a benefactor, especially when his father hadn’t the civility to doit.

Sir R. Mr. O’Dedimus, you grow impertinent.

O’Ded. Sir Rowland, I grow old; and ’tis one privilege of age to growblunt. I advanced your son a sum of money, because I esteemed him. Itack’d no usurious obligation to the bond he gave me, and I never cameto ask you for security.

Sir R. You have his bond then—

O’Ded. I have, sir; his bond and judgment for two hundred pounds.

Sir R. It is enough: then you can indeed assist my views,—the dreadof confinement will, no doubt, alter his resolution: you must enter upjudgment, and proceed on your bond.

O’Ded. If I proceed upon my bond, it will be very much against myjudgment.

Sir R. In order to alarm him, you must arrest him immediately.

O’Ded. Sir Rowland, I wish to treat you with respect—but when withouta blush on your cheek you ask me to make myself a rascal, I must eitherbe a scoundrel ready-made to your hands, for respecting you, or a damn’dhypocrite for pretending to do it—I see you are angry, sir, and I can’thelp that; and so, having delivered my message, for fear I should sayany thing uncivil or ungenteel, I wish you a most beautiful goodmorning. [Exit.

Sir R. Then I have but one way left—my fatal secret must be publiclyrevealed—oh horror! ruin irretrievable ispreferable—never—never—that secret shall die with me—(EnterFalkner) as ’tis probably already buried in the grave with Falkner.

Falk. ’Tis false—’tis buried only in his heart!

Sir R. Falkner!

Falk. ’Tis eighteen years since last we met. You have not, I find,forgotten the theme on which we parted.

Sir R. Oh, no! my heart’s reproaches never would allow me! OhFalkner—I and the world for many years have thought you numbered withthe dead.

Falk. To the world I was so—I have returned to it to do an act ofjustice.

Sir R. Will you then betray me?

Falk. During eighteen years, sir, I have been the depositary of asecret, which, if it does not actually affect your life, affects whatshould be dearer than life, your honor. If, in the moment that yourill-judged confidence avowed you as the man you are, and robbed me ofthat friendship which I held sacred as my being—If in that bittermoment I concealed my knowledge of your guilt from an imperiousprinciple of honor, it is not likely, that the years which time hasadded to my life, should have taught me perfidy—your secret still issafe.

Sir R. Oh, Falkner—you have snatched a load of misery from my heart;I breathe, I live again.

Falk. Your exultation flows from a polluted source—I return to theworld to seek you, to warm and to expostulate; I come to urge you tobrave the infamy you have deserved; to court disgrace as the punishmentyou merit: briefly to avow your guilty secret.

Sir R. Name it not for mercy’s sake! It is impossible! How shall Isustain the world’s contempt, its scorn, revilings and reproaches?

Falk. Can he, who has sustained so long the reproaches of hisconscience, fear the world’s revilings?—Oh, Austencourt! Once you had aheart.

Sir R. Sir, it is callous now to every thing but shame; when it lostyou,dearest only friend, its noblest feelings were extinguished:my crime has been my punishment, for it has brought on me nothing butremorse and misery: still is my fame untainted by the world, and I willnever court its contumely.

Falk. You are determined—

Sir R. I am!

Falk. Have you no fear from me?

Sir R. None! You have renewed your promise, and I am safe.

Falk. Nothing then remains for me but to return to that obscurity fromwhence I have emerged—had I found you barely leaning to the side ofvirtue, I had arguments to urge that might have fixed a waveringpurpose; but I find you resolute, hardened and determined in guilt, andI leave you to your fate.

Sir R. Stay, Falkner, there is a meaning in your words.

Falk. A dreadful precipice lies before you: be wary how you tread!there is a being injured by your——by lord Austencourt, see that hemakes her reparation by an immediate marriage—look first to that.

Sir R. To such a degradation could I forget my noble ancestry, henever will consent.

Falk. Look next to yourself: he is not a half villain, and it is notthe ties of consanguinity will save you from a jail. Beware how youproceed with Charles—you see I am acquainted with more than yoususpected; look to it, sir; for the day is not yet passed that byrestoring you to virtue, may restore to you a friend; or should youpersevere in guilty silence, that may draw down unexpected vengeance onyour head— [Exit.

Sir R. Mysterious man! a moment stay! I cannot live in this dreadfuluncertainty! whatever is my fate, it shall be decided quickly. [Exit.

SCENEIII.—An apartment at sir Willoughby’s; a door in the flat.Enter Helen and Charles.

Helen. I tell you, it is unless to follow me, sir. The proud spirityou evinced this morning, might have saved you methinks from thismeanness of solicitation.

Charles. Surely now a frank acknowledgment of error deserves a milderepithet than meanness.

Helen. As you seem equally disposed, sir, to quarrel with my words, asyou are to question my conduct, I fear you will have little cause tocongratulate yourself on this forced and tiresome interview.

Charles. Forced interview! Did ever woman so consider the anxiety ofa lover to seek explanation and forgiveness! Helen, Helen, you tortureme; is this generous?—is it like yourself? surely if you lov’d me—

Helen. Charles—I do love you—that, is, I did love you, but—Idon’t love you, but (aside) ah! now I’m going to make bad worse.

Charles. But what, Helen?

Helen. The violence of temper you have discovered this morning, hasshown me the dark side of your character; it has given a pause toaffection, and afforded me time to reflect—now though I do really andtruly believe that—you—love me Charles.

Sir W. (behind) I must see my daughter directly—where is she!

Enter Tiffany running.

Tiffany. Ma’am, ma’am, your father’s coming up stairs, with a letterin his hand, muttering something about Mr. Charles; as sure as lifeyou’ll be discovered.

17Helen. For heav’n’s sake hide yourself; I would not have him find youhere for worlds—here, step into the music-room.

Charles. Promise me first your forgiveness.

Helen. Charles, retire, I entreat you—make haste, he is here.

Charles. On my knees—

Helen. Then kneel in the next room.

Charles. Give me but your hand.

Helen. That is now at my own disposal—I beseech you go—(Charlesjust gains the door when enter sir Willoughby with a letter in his hand,and Lady Worret.)

Sir W. Gadzooks! Here’s a discovery!

Helen. A discovery, sir? (Helen looks at the door)

Sir W. Ay, a discoveryindeed!—!I’m in a furious passion!

Helen. Dear sir, not with me I hope—

Lady W. Let me entreat you sir Willoughby to compose yourself;recollect that anger is very apt to bring on the gout.

Sir W. Damn the gout, I must be in apassion—my—life—,daughter—

Helen. They know he’s here! so I may as well own it at once.

Lady W. Pray compose yourself, remember we have no proof.

Sir W. Why that’s true—that is remarkably true—I must composemyself—I will—I do—I am composed—and now let me open theaffair with coolness and deliberation! Daughter, come hither.

Helen. Yes, sir—now for it!—

Sir W. Daughter, you are in general, a very good, dutiful, andobedient child—

Helen. I know it, papa—and was from a child, and I always will be.

Lady W. Allow me, sir Willoughby—you are in general, child, a veryheadstrong, disobedient, and undutiful daughter.

Helen. I know it, mamma—and was from a child, and always will be.

Lady W. How, madam!—Remember, sir Willoughby—there is a propermedium between too violent a severity, and too gentle a lenity.

Sir W. Zounds, madam, in your own curs’d economy there is nomedium—but don’t bawl so, or we shall be overheard.

Lady W. Sir Willoughby, you are very ill I’m sure; but I must nowattend to this business, daughter, we have heard that Charles—

Sir W. Lady Worret, my love, let me speak—you know, child, it isthe duty of an obedient daughter, to obey her parents.

Helen. I know it, papa, and when I obey you, I am generallyobedient.

Lady W. In short, child, I say again, we learn that Charles——

Sir W. Lady Worret, lady Worret, you are too abrupt, od-rabbit it,madam, I will be heard: this affair concerns the honor of my family,and on this one occasion, I will be my own spokesman.

Lady W. Oh heavens! Your violence affects my brain.

Sir W. Does it? I wish it would affect your tongue, with all my heart:bless my soul, what have I said! Lady Worret! lady Worret! you drive meout of my senses, and then wonder that I act like a madman.

Lady W. Barbarous man, your cruelty will break my heart, and I shallleave you, sir Willoughby, to deplore my loss, in unavailing despair,and everlasting anguish. [Exit.

Sir W. (aside) I am afraid not: such despair and anguish will neverbe my—happy—lot!—bless me, how quiet the room is—what can be—oh, mywife’s gone! now then we may proceed to business—and so daughter, thisyoung fellow, Charles, has dared to return, in direct disobedience tohis father’s commands.

Helen. I had better confess it all at once—he has, he has, my dearpapa. I do confess it was very, very wrong; but pray now do forgive—

Sir W. I—forgive him! never; nor his father will never forgive him;sir Rowland writes me here, to take care of you; I have before given himmy solemn promise to prevent your meeting, and I am sorry to say, Ihaven’t the least doubt that you know he is here, and will—

Helen. I do confess, he is here, papa.

Sir W. Yes, you’ll confess it fast enough, now I’ve found it out.

Helen. Indeed I was so afraid you would find it out, that I——

Sir W. Find it out! his father writes me word, he has been here in thevillage these three hours!

Helen. In the village! Oh, what, you heard he was in the village!

Sir W. Yes, and being afraid he should find his way to my house—egadI never was brisker after the fox-hounds than I was after you, in fearof finding you at a fault, you puss.

Helen. Oh! you were afraid he should come here, were you?

Sir W. Yes; but I’ll take care he shan’t; however, as my maxim is (nowmy wife doesn’t hear me) to trust your sex no farther than I canpossibly help, I shall just put you, my dear child, under lock and key,’till this young son of the ocean, is bundled off to sea again.

Helen. What! lock me up!

Sir W. Damme if I don’t. Come, walk into that room, and I’ll take thekey with me. (pointing to the room where Charles entered.)

Helen. Into that room?

Sir W. Yes.

Helen. And do you think I shall stay there by myself?

Sir W. No, no. Here Tiffany! (enter Tiffany) Miss Pert here shallkeep you company. I’ll have no whisperings through key-holes, norletters thrust under doors.

Helen. And you’ll really lock me up in that room!

Sir W. Upon my soul I will.

Helen. Now, dear papa, be persuaded; take my advice, and don’t.

Sir W. If I don’t,I wish you may be in Charles Austencourt’s armsin three minutes from this present speaking.

Helen. And if you do, take my word for it I might be in his arms ifI chose, in less than two minutes from this present warning.

Sir W. Might you so? Ha, ha! I’ll give you leave if you can: forunless you jump into them out of the window, I’ll defy the devil and allhis imps to bring you together.

Helen. We shall come together without their assistance, depend on it,papa.

Sir W. Very well; and now, my dear, walk in.

Helen. With all my heart; only remember you had better not. (He putsher in.)

Sir W. That’s a good girl; and you, you baggage, in with you (toTiffany, who goes in.)

Sir W. (shuts the door and locks it) “Safe bind, safe find,” is oneof my lady Worret’s favourite proverbs; and that’s the only reason why Iin general dislike it (going.)

Enter Falkner.

Sir W. Once more welcome, my dear Falkner. What brings you back sosoon?

Falk. You have a daughter—

Sir W. Well, I know I have.

Falk. And a wife.

Sir W. I’m much obliged to you for the information. You have been awidower some years I believe.

Falk. What of that? do you envy me?

Sir W. Envy you! what! because you are a widower? Eh? Zounds, Ibelieve he is laughing at me (aside.)

18Falk. I am just informed that every thing is finally arranged betweenyour lady and his lordship respecting Helen’s marriage.

Sir W. Yes, every thing is happily settled.

Falk. I am sincerely sorry to hear it.

Sir W. You are! I should have thought Mr. Falkner, that my daughter’shappiness was dear to you.

Falk. It is, and therefore I do not wish to see her married to lordAustencourt.

Sir W. Why then what the devil is it you mean?

Falk. To see her married to the man of her heart, with whom I trust tosee her as happy—as you are with lady Worret.

Sir W. Yes, ha! ha! ha! yes! but you are in jest respecting mydaughter.

Falk. No matter! where is Helen?

Sir W. Safe under lock and key.

Falk. Under lock and key!

Sir W. Ay, in that very room. I’ve locked her up to keep her from thathot-headed young rogue, Charles Austencourt. Should you like to see her?She’s grown a fine young woman.

Falk. With all my heart.

Sir W. You’ll be surprised, I can tell you.

Falk. I dare say.

Sir W. We’ll pop in upon her when she least expects it. I’ll bet mylife you’ll be astonished at her appearance.

Falk. Well, I shall be glad to see your daughter; but she must notmarry this lord.

Sir W. No! Who then?

Falk. The man she loves.

Sir W. Hey! oh yes! but who do you mean! Charles Austencourt?(opening the door.)

Enter Lady Worret, suddenly.

Lady W. Charles Austencourt!

Falk. (aloud, and striking the floor with his stick.) Ay, CharlesAustencourt!

Charles. (entering) Here am I. Who calls?

Helen and Tiffany come forward, and Tiffany goes off.

Sir W. Fire and fa*gots! what do I see?

Lady W. Ah Heavens defend me! what do I behold?

Falk. Why, is this the surprise you promised me? The astonishmentseems general. Pray, sir Willoughby, explain this puppet show!

Lady W. Ay! pray sir Willoughby explain—

Sir W. Curse me if I can.

Helen. I told you how it would be, papa, and you would not believe me!

Sir W. So! pray, sir, condescend to inform lady Worret and me, how youintroduced yourself into that most extraordinary situation.

Charles. Sir, I shall make no mystery of it, nor attempt to screen youfrom her ladyship’s just reproaches, by concealing one atom of thetruth. The fact is, madam, that sir Willoughby not only in my hearing,gave Miss Helen his unrestricted permission to throw herself into myarms, but actually forced her into the room where I was quietly seated,and positively and deliberately lock’d us in together!

Lady W. Oh! I shall expire!

Sir W. I’ve heard of matchless impudence, but curse me if this isn’tthe paragon of the species! Zounds! I’m in a wonderful passion!Daughter, I am resolved to have this affair explained to mysatisfaction.

Helen. You may have it explained, papa, but I fear it won’t be toyour satisfaction.

Charles. No, sir, nor to her ladyship’s either, and now, as mysituation here is not remarkably agreeable I take my leave: madam, yourmost obedient, and sir Willoughby, the next time you propose anagreeable surprise for your friends—

Sir W. Harkye sir, how you came into my house I can’t tell, but if youdon’t presently walk out of it.

Charles. I say, I heartily hope that you may accomplish your purpose.

Sir W. Zounds, sir, leave my house.

Charles. Without finding yourself the most astonished of the party![Exit.

Sir W. Thank heaven my house is rid of him.

Lady W. As usual, sir Willoughby, a precious business you’ve made ofthis!

Sir W. Death and furies, my Lady Worret—

Falk. Gently, my old friend, gently: I’m one too many here duringthese little domestic discussions; but before I go, on two points let mecaution you; let your daughter choose her own husband if you wish her tohave one without leaping out of the window to get at him; and be masterof your own house and your own wife if you do not wish to continue, whatyou now are, the laughing-stock of all your acquaintance.— [Exit.

Lady W. Ah! the barbarian!

Sir W. (appears astonished) I’m thunderstruck (makes signs to Helento go before.)

Helen. Won’t you go first, papa?

Sir W. Hey? If I lose sight of you till you’ve explained thisbusiness, may I be laid up with the gout while you are galloping theGretna Green! “Be master of your house and wife if you don’t wish tocontinue, what you now are!—Hey? the laughing-stock of all youracquaintance!” Sir Willoughby Worret the laughing stock of all hisacquaintance! I think I see my self the laughing-stock of all myacquaintance (pointing to the door) I’ll follow you ladies! I’llreform! ’tis never too late to mend! [Exeunt.

End of act IV.

ACT V.

SCENEI.—An apartment at sir Willoughby Worret’s.Enter sir Willoughby and lady Worret.

Sir W. Lady Worret! lady Worret! I will have a reform. I am at lastresolved to be master of my own house, and so let us come to a rightunderstanding, and I dare say we shall be the better friends for it infuture.

Lady W. You shall see, sir Willoughby, that I can change as suddenlyas yourself. Though you have seen my delicate system deranged onslight occasions, you will find that in essential ones I have stillspirit for resentment.

Sir W. I’ll have my house in future conducted as a gentleman’s shouldbe, and I will no longer suffer my wife to make herself the object ofridicule to all her servants. So I’ll give up the folly of wishing to bethought a tender husband, for the real honour of being found arespectable one. I’ll make a glorious bonfire of all your mustycollection of family receipt-books! and when I deliver up your keys toan honest housekeeper, I’ll keep one back of a snug apartment in whichto deposit a rebellious wife.

Lady W. That will be indeed the way to make yourself respectable. Ihave found means to manage you for some years, and it will be my ownfault if I don’t do so still.

Sir W. Surely I dream! what? have you managed me? Hey? Zounds! Inever suspected that. Has sir Willoughby Worret been lead inleading-strings all this time? Death and forty devils, madam, have youpresumed to manage me?

Lady W. Yes, sir; but you had better be silent on the subject, unlessyou mean to expose yourself to your daughter and all the world.

19Sir W. Ay, Madam, with all my heart; my daughter and all the worldshall know it.

Enter Helen.

Helen. Here’s a pretty piece of work!—what’s the matter now, Iwonder?

Lady W. How dare you overhear our domestic dissentions. What businesshave you to know we were quarrelling, madam?

Helen. Lord love you! if I had heard it, I should not have listened,for its nothing new, you know, when you’re alone; though you both lookso loving in public.

Sir W. That’s true—that is lamentably true—but all the worldshall know it—I’ll proclaim it; I’ll print it—I’ll advertiseit!—She has usurped my rights and my power; and her fate, as everyusurper’s should be, shall be public downfall and disgrace.

Helen. What, papa! and won’t you let mamma-in-law rule the roast anylonger?

Sir W. No,—I am resolved from this moment no longer to give way toher absurd whims and wishes.

Helen. You are!

Sir W. Absolutely and immovably.

Helen. And you will venture to contradict her?

Sir W. On every occasion—right or wrong.

Helen. That’s right—Pray, madam, don’t you wish me to marry lordAustencourt?

Lady W. You know my will on that head, Miss Helen!

Helen. Then, papa, of course you wish me to marry CharlesAustencourt.

Sir W. What! no such thing—no such thing—what! marry a beggar?

Helen. But you won’t let mamma rule the roast, will you, sir?

Sir W. ’Tis a great match! I believe in that one point we shallstill agree—

Lady W. You may spare your persuasions, Madam, and leave the room.

Sir W. What—my daughter leave the room? Stay here, Helen.

Helen. To be sure I shall—I came on purpose to tell you the news! oh,tis a pretty piece of work!

Sir W. What does the girl mean?

Helen. Why, I mean that in order to ruin a poor innocent girl, in ourneighbourhood, this amiable lord has prevailed on her to consent to aprivate marriage—and it now comes out that it was all a mock marriage,performed by a sham priest, and a false license!

Lady W. I don’t believe one word of it.

Sir W. But I do—and shall inquire into it immediately.

Lady W. Such a match for your daughter is not to be relinquished onslight grounds; and though his lordship should have been guilty of someindiscretion, it will not alter my resolution respecting his union withHelen.

Sir W. No—but it will mine—and to prove to you, madam, that howeveryou may rule your household, you shall no longer rule me—if the storyhas any foundation—I say—she shall not marry lord Austencourt.

Lady W. Shall not?

Sir W. No, Madam, shall not—and so ends your management, and thusbegins my career of new-born authority. I’m out of leading-strings now,and madam, I’ll manage you, damn me if—I—do—not![Exit Willoughby.

Helen. (to Lady W) You hear papa’s will on that head, ma’am.

Lady W. I hear nothing!—I see nothing!—I shall go mad with vexationand disappointment, and if I do not break his resolution, I amdetermined to break his heart; and my own heart, and your heart, andthe hearts of all the rest of the family. [Exit.

Helen. There she goes, with a laudable matrimonial resolution.!with such an example before my eyes, I believe I shall never haveresolution to die an old maid. Oh, Charles, Charles—why did you take meat my word!—Bless me! sure I saw him then—’tis he indeed! So, mygentleman, are you there? I’ll just retire and watch his motions alittle (retires.)

Enter Charles Austencourt, cautiously.

Charles. What a pretty state am I reduced to? though I am resolved tospeak with this ungrateful girl but once more before I leave her forever; here am I, skulking under the enemy’s batteries as though I wasafraid of an encounter!—Yes, I’ll see her, upbraid her, and then leaveher for ever! !she’s a false, deceitful—dear, bewitching girl,and—however, I am resolved that nothing on earth—not even her tears,shall now induce me to forgive her. (Tiffany crosses the stage.)

Charles.Ha!—,young woman! pray are the family at home?

Tiffany. My lady is at home, sir—would you please to see her?

Charles. Your lady—do you mean your young lady?

Tiffany. No, sir, I mean my lady.

Charles. What, your old lady?—No—I don’t wish to see her. Are allthe rest of the family from home—

Tiffany. No, sir—sir Willoughby is within—I’ll tell him you arehere. (going.)

Charles. By no means—stay—stay! what then, they are all at homeexcept Miss Helen.

Tiffany. She’s at home too, sir—but I suppose she don’t wish to seeyou.

Charles. You suppose!

Tiffany. I’m sure she’s been in a monstrous ill-humour ever since youcame back, sir.

Charles. The devil she has!—and pray now are you of opinion that myreturn is the cause of her ill-humour?

Tiffany. Lord, sir—what interest have I in knowing such things?—

Charles. Interest!—oh, ho! the old story! why harkye, my dear—yourmistress has a lord for her lover, so I suppose he has secured a warmerinterest than I can afford to purchase—however, I know the custom, andthus I comply with it, in hopes you will tell me whether you reallythink my return has caused your young mistress’ ill-humour——(givesmoney).

Tiffany. A guinea! well! I declare! why really, sir—when I say MissHelen has been out of humour on your account, I don’t mean to say it ison account of your return, but on account of your going away again—

Charles. No! my dear Tiffany!

Tiffany. And I am sure I don’t wonder at her being cross about it, forif I was my mistress I never would listen with patience (any more thanshe does) to such a disagreeable creature as my lord, while such agenerous nice gentleman as you was ready to make love to me.

Charles. You couldn’t?

Tiffany. No, sir—and I’m sure she’s quite altered and melancholy gonesince you quarrelled with her, and she vows now more than ever that shenever will consent to marry my lord, or any body but you—(Helen comesforward gently.)

Charles. My dear Tiffany!—let me catch the sounds from your rosylips. (Kisses her)—

Helen. (separating them) Bless me! I am afraid I interrupt businesshere!

Charles. I—I—I—Upon my soul, Madam—what you saw was—

Tiffany. Ye—ye—yes—upon my word, ma’am—what you saw was—

Helen. What I saw was very clear indeed!—

Charles. Hear me but explain—you do not understand.—

20Helen. I rather think I do understand.

Tiffany. Indeed, Ma’am, Mr. Charles was only whispering something Iwas to tell you—

Helen. And pray, ma’am, do you suffer gentlemen in general to whisperin that fashion?—what do you stand stammering and blushing therefor?—why don’t you go?

Tiffany. Yes, ma’am,—but I assure you—

Helen. What! you stay to be whispered to again, I suppose.[Exit Tiffany.

Charles. Let me explain this,—oh, Helen—can you be surprised?

Helen. No, sir, I can’t be surprised at any thing after what I havejust witnessed—

Charles. On my soul, it was excess of joy at hearing you still lov’dme, that led me into this confounded scrape.

Helen. Sir, you should not believe it—I don’t love you. I wont loveyou,—and after what I have just seen, you can’t expect I should loveyou—

Charles. Helen! Helen! you make no allowance for the fears of a manwho loves you to distraction. I have borne a great deal, and can bearbut very little more—

Helen. Poor man! you’re sadly loaded with grievances, to be sure; andby and by, I suppose, like a horse or a mule, or some such stubbornanimal, having more than you can bear, you’ll kick a little, and plungea little, and then down on your knees again!

Charles. I gloried even in that humble posture, while you taught me tobelieve you loved me.

Helen. ’Tis true, my heart was once your own, but I never can, norought to forgive you—for thinking me capable of being unfaithful toyou.

Charles. Dearest dear Helen! and has your anger then no other cause?surely you could not blame a resentment which was the offspring of myfond affection?

Helen. No! to be sure I couldn’t, who could!—but what should I nothave to dread from the violence of your temper, if I consented—to runaway with you?

Charles. Run away with me!—no!—zounds I’ve a chaise in waiting—

Helen. Have you?—then pray let it wait,—no! no! Charles—though Ihaven’t scrupled to own an affection for you, I have too much respectfor the world’s opinion,—let us wait with patience,—time may rectifythat impetuosity of character, which is now, I own, my dread; think ofit, Charles, and beware; for affection is a frail flower, reared by thehand of gentleness, and perishes as surely by the shocks of violence asby the more gradual poison of neglect.

Charles. Dearest Helen! I will cherish it in my heart—’tis a roughsoil I own, but ’tis a warm one; and when the hand of delicacy shallhave cultivated this flower that is rooted there, the blossom shall beeverlasting love!

Helen. Ah you men!—you men! but—I think I may be induced to tryyou.—Meantime, accept my hand, dear Charles, as a pledge of my heart,and as the assurance that it shall one day be your own indeed (hekisses her hand.) There you needn’t eat it—there!—now make yourescape, and farewell till we meet again.—(They are going outseverally)

Enter sir Rowland and sir Willoughby, at opposite sides.

Charles. Zounds! my father!

Helen. Gad-a-mercy! my papa!

Sir R. So, sir! you are here again I find!

Sir W. So! so! Madam! together again, hey? sir Rowland, your servant.

Sir R. I need not tell you, sir Willoughby, that this undutiful boy’sconduct does not meet with my sanction.

Char. No! sir Willoughby—I am sorry to say my conduct seldom meetswith my father’s sanction.

Sir W. Why look ye, sir Rowland, there are certain things that we dolike, and certain things that we do not like—now sir, to cut thematter short, I do like my daughter to marry, but I do not like eitheryour son or your nephew for her husband.

Sir R. This is a very sudden change, sir Willoughby—

Sir W. Yes, sir Rowland, I have made two or three sudden changes today!—I’ve changed my resolution—I feel changed myself—for I’vechanged characters with my wife, and with your leave I mean to change myson-in-law.

Sir R. Of course, sir, you will give me a proper explanation of thelast of these changes.

Sir W. Sir, if you’ll meet me presently at your attorney’s, the thingwill explain itself: this way, young lady if you please—Charles, Ibelieve you are a devilish honest fellow, and I want an honest fellowfor a son-in-law—but I think it is rather too much to give twelvethousand a year for him—this way Miss Helen.[Exit sir Willoughby and Helen.

Sir R. This sudden resolution of sir Willoughby will still moreexasperate him—I must seek him instantly, for the crisis of my fate isat hand; my own heart is witness against me—Heaven is my judge, and Ihave deserved my punishment! [Exit sir R.

Char. So! I’m much mistaken, or there’ll be a glorious bustlepresently at the old lawyer’s—He has sent to beg I’ll attend, and as myheart is a little at rest in this quarter, I’ll e’en see what’s goingforward in that—whether his intention be to expose or to abet avillain, still I’ll be one amongst them; for while I have a heart tofeel and a hand to act, I can never be an idle spectator when insultedvirtue raises her supplicating voice on one side, and persecution daresto lift his unblushing head on the other. [Exit.

SCENEII.—O’Dedimus’s Office.

Enter O’Dedimus and Ponder.

O’Ded. You’ve done the business, you say!

Pon. Ay, and the parties will all be here presently.

O’Ded. That’s it! you’re sure you haven’t blabbed now?

Pon. Blabbed! ha, ha, ha! what do you take me for?

O’Ded. What do I take you for, Mr. Brass? Why I take you for one thatwill never be choked by politeness.

Pon. Why, Lord, sir, what could a lawyer do without impudence? forthough they say “honesty’s the best policy” a lawyer generally finds hispurpose better answered by a Policy of Assurance.

O’Ded. But hark! somebody’s coming already, step where I told you, andmake haste.

Pon. On this occasion I lay by the lawyer and take up the Christian.Benevolence runs fast—but law is lazy and moves slowly. [Exit.

Enter Falkner as Abel Grouse.

Abel Grouse. I have obeyed your summons. What have you to say inpalliation of the injury you have done me?

O’Ded. Faith and I shall say a small matter about it. What I have doneI have performed, and what I have performed I shall justify.

Ab. Gr. Indeed! Can you justify fraud and villany? To business, sir;wherefore am I summoned here?

O’Ded. That’s it! Upon my conscience I’m too modest to tell you.

21Ab. Gr. Nature and education have made you modest: you were born anIrishman and bred in attorney—

O’Ded. And take my word for it, when Nature forms an Irishman, if shemakes some little blunder in the contrivance of his head, it is becauseshe bestows so much pains on the construction of his heart.

Ab. Gr. That may be partially true; but to hear you professsentiments of feeling and justice reminds me of our advertisingmoney-lenders who, while they practise usury and extortion on the world,assure them that “the strictest honor and liberality may be relied on;”and now, sir once more, your business with me.

O’Ded. Sure, sir, I sent for you to ask one small bit of a favour.

Ab. Gr. From me!

O’Ded. Ay, from you; and the favour is, that before you honor me withthe appellation of scoundrel, villain, pettyfogger, and some other suchlittle genteel epithets, you will be pleased to examine my title to suchdistinctions.

Ab. Gr. From you, however, I have no hopes. You have denied yourpresence at the infamous and sacrilegious mockery of my daughter’smarriage.

O’Ded. That’s a mistake, sir; I never did deny it.

Ab. Gr. Ha! you acknowledge it then!

O’Ded. That’s another mistake, sir; for I never did acknowledge it.

Ab. Gr. Fortunately my hopes rest on a surer basis than your honesty.Circ*mstances have placed in one of my hands the scales of Justice, andthe other her sword for punishment.

O’Ded. Faith, sir, though you may be a fit representative of the oldblind gentlewoman called Justice, she showed little discernment when shepitched upon you, and overlooked Mr. Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney atlaw. And now, sir, be pleased to step into that room, and wait a moment,while I transact a little business with one who is coming yonder.

Ab. Gr. I came hither to obey you; for I have some suspicion of yourintentions; and let us hope that one virtuous action, if you havecourage to perform it, will serve as a sponge to all the roguery youhave committed, either as an attorney or as a man.[Exit to an inner room.

O’Ded. That blunt little fellow has got a sharp tongue in his head.He’s an odd compound, just like a great big roasted potato, all crustyand crabbed without, but mealy and soft-hearted within. He takes me tobe half a rogue and all the rest of me a scoundrel—Och, by St. Patrick!I’ll bother his brains presently.

Enter sir Rowland, lord Austencourt, and Charles.

Lord A. Further discussion, sir, is useless. If I am to bedisappointed in this marriage, a still more strict attention to my ownaffairs is necessary.

Sir R. I appeal fearlessly to this man, who has betrayed me, whetheryour interest was not my sole motive in the appropriation of yourproperty.

Lord A. That assertion, sir, I was prepared to hear, but will notlisten to.

Sir R. Beware, lord Austencourt, beware how you proceed!

Lord A. Do you again threaten me? (to O’Dedimus) are my ordersobeyed? is every thing in readiness?

O’Ded. The officers are in waiting!

Charles. Hold, monster! Proceed at your peril. To me you shall answerthis atrocious conduct.

Lord A. To you!

Charles. Ay, sir, to me, if you have the courage of a man.

Lord A. I will no longer support these insults. Call in the officers.

Enter sir Willoughby, lady Worret, and Helen.

Sir W. Hey! zounds! did you take me and my lady Worret for sheriff’sofficers, my lord?

Lord A. I have one condition to propose—if that lady accepts my hand,I consent to stop the proceedings. That alone can alter my purpose.

Charles. Inhuman torturer!

Helen. Were my heart as free as air I never would consent to a unionwith such a monster!

Sir W. And if you would, curse me if I would—nor my lady Worreteither.

Sir R. Let himhis purpose if he dare! I now see the blackcorruptness of his heart; and though my life were at stake I would paythe forfeit, rather than immolate innocence in the arms of suchdepravity.

Lord A. Call in the officers, I say!

O’Ded. (without moving.) I shall do that thing.

Lord A. ’Tis justice I demand! Justice and Revenge alike direct me,and their united voice shall be obeyed.

Falkner. (enters suddenly.) They shall! behold me here, thoumiscreant, to urge it! justice and revenge you call for, and they shallboth fall heavily upon you.

Sir. R. Falkner!

O’Ded. What! Abel Grouse, Mr. Falkner! here’s a transmogrification foryou!

Sir R. How! Falkner and the unknown cottager the same person!

Falk. Ay, sir; the man who cautioned you today in vain; who warned youof the precipice beneath your feet, and was unheeded by you—

Sir R. Amazement! what would you have me do?

Falk. Before this company assist me with the power you possess (andthat power is ample) to compel your haughty nephew to repair the injury,which, in a humbler character, he has done me—

Lord A. He compel me! ridiculous!

Falk. (to sir Rowland.) Insensible to injury and insult, can nothingmove you? Reveal your secret!

Lord A. I’ll hear no more. Summon the officers I say. I am resolved.

Sir R. I too am at last resolved! at length the arm is raised that, indescending must crush you.

Lord A. I despise your united threats! am I to be the sport ofinsolence and fraud? What am I, sir, that thus you dare insult me! Whoam I?

Sir R. No longer the man you seem to be! hear me! before grief andshame shall burst my heart, hear me proclaim my guilt! When the latelord Austencourt dying bequeathed his infant son to my charge, my ownchild was of the same age! prompted by the demons of ambition, andblinded to guilt by affection for my own offspring—I changed thechildren.

Charles. Merciful Heaven!

Sir R. (to lord A.) Hence it follows that you, unnatural monster,are my son!

Sir W. Ods life! Hey! then there is something in the world to astonishme, besides the reformation of my lady Worret.

Lord A. Shallow artifice! Think you I am weak enough to credit thispreposterous fiction, or do you suppose the law will listen to it?

Falk. Ay, sir; the law will listen to it, shall listen to it. I,sir, can prove the fact, beyond even the hesitation of incredulity!

Lord A. You!

Falk. I. You have seen me hitherto a poor man and oppressed me; yousee me now rich and powerful, and well prepared to punish your villany;and thus, in every instance, may oppression recoil on the oppressor.

Lord A. Then I am indeed undone!

O’Ded. Shall I call the officers now, my lord?22Mr. Austencourt, Ishould say; I ask pardon for the blunder: and now, ladies and gentlemen,be pleased to hear me speak. This extraordinary discovery is justexactly what I did not expect. It is true I had a bit of a discoveryof my own to make: for I find that the habits of my profession thoughthey haven’t led me to commit acts of knavery, have too often induced meto wink at them. Therefore as his quandam lordship has now certainlylost Miss Helen, I hope he’ll have no objection to do justice in anotherquarter. [Exit.

Sir R. Oh, Charles! my much injured nephew! how shall I ever dare tolook upon you more?

Charles. Nay, nay, sir, I am too brimful of joy at my openingprospects here (taking Helen’s hand) to cherish any other feeling thanforgiveness and good humour. Here is my hand, sir, and with it I pledgemyself to oblivion of all the past, except the acts of kindness I havereceived from you.

Sir W. That’s a noble generous young dog—My lady Worret, I wonderwhether he’ll offer to marry Helen now?

Lady W. Of course, after what has passed, you’ll think it decent torefuse for a short time: but you are the best judge, sir Willoughby, andyour will shall in future be mine—

Sir W. Shall it—that’s kind—then I will refuse him to please you:for when you’re so reasonable, how can I do otherwise than oblige you.

Lady W. (aside.) Leave me alone to manage him still.

Enter O’Dedimus, introducing Fanny.

Lord A. (seeing Fanny.) Ah, traitor!

O’Ded. Traitor back again into your teeth, my master! and since you’veneither pity for the poor innocent, nor compassion for the little bluntgentleman her father, ’tis time to spake out and to tell you thatinstead of a sham priest and a sham license for your deceitful marriageas you bid me, I have sarved the cause of innocence and my own soul,by procuring a real priest and a real license, and by St. Patrickyou are as much one as any two people in England, Ireland, orScotland!

Fanny. Merciful powers! there is still justice for the unfortunate!

Lord A. (after a conflict of passion.) And is this really so?

O’Ded. You’re man and wife, sure enough. We’ve decent proof ofthis, too, sir.

Lord A. You no doubt expect this intelligence will exasperate me. ’Tisthe reverse. By heaven it lifts a load of guilty wretchedness from myheart.

Fanny. Oh, my lord! my husband!

Falk. Can this be genuine? Sudden reformation is ever doubtful.

Lord A. It is real! my errors have been the fruits of an unbridlededucation. Ambition dazzled me, and wealth was my idol. I have actedlike a villain, and as my conduct has deserved no forgiveness, so willmy degradation be seen without compassion; but this weight of guiltremoved, I will seek happiness and virtue in the arms of my much-injuredFanny.

Fanny. Silent joy is the most heartfelt. I cannot speak my happiness!My father!

Falk. This is beyond my hopes; but adversity is a salutary monitor.

Sir R. Still, Charles, to you I am indebted beyond the power ofrestitution.

Char. My dear father—no—no dear uncle, I mean, here is the reward Ilook for.

Helen. Ah, Charles—my lord, I mean, I beg pardon—to be sure papa,ay, and mamma-in-law too, will now no longer withhold their consent.

Sir W. Who, me? Not for the world—hey! mercy on us! I forgot yourladyship (aside) do you wish me to decline the honor?

Lady W. (aside.) Why no, as matters have turned out.

Char. Then Fortune has indeed smiled on me today!

Falk. The cloud of sorrow is passed, and may the sun of joy that nowillumines my face, diffuse its cheering rays on all around us.

O’Ded. And sir Willoughby and her ladyship will smile most of us all;for every body knows they’re the happiest man and wife among us.

Helen. And while amongst ourselves we anxious trace
The doubtful smile of joy in every face,
There is a smile, which doubt and danger ends——
The smile of approbation from our friends.

THE END.