SCENE.—Woodvil Hall.

SANDFORD. MARGARET.

(As from a Journey.)

SANDFORD The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen any thing more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

MARGARET How bears he up against the common rumour?

SANDFORD With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.

MARGARET I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?

SANDFORD As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.

MARGARET I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

SANDFORD I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shewn. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him) and appeared to be touched with a sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.

MARGARET The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour should have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.—Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?

SANDFORD An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.

MARGARET A good rest to us all.

SANDFORD Thanks, lady.



ACT THE FIFTH

JOHN WOODVIL (dressing).

JOHN How beautiful, (handling his mourning) And comely do these mourning garments shew! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within.— Alas! what part or portion can I claim In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, Which other mourners use? as namely, This black attire, abstraction from society, Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, A cleaving sadness native to the brow, All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal away the sense of loss almost) Men's pity, and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off, As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. (Pauses, and observes the pictures.) These pictures must be taken down: The portraitures of our most antient family For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd, To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Ann the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: Telling me, I must be his famous John.) But that was in old times. Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes, Have backward tainted all their noble blood, Rased out the memory of an ancient family, And quite revers'd the honors of our house. Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? The secret history of his own times, And fashions of the world when he was young: How England slept out three and twenty years, While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king: The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, And Beauties of the court of James the First.

Margaret enters.

JOHN Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honor's brightness. You bring some images of old times, Margaret, That should be now forgotten.

MARGARET Old times should never be forgotten, John. I came to talk about them with my friend.

JOHN I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.

MARGARET If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, The offence no longer lives. O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age) You came a wooing to his daughter, John. Do you remember, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) I kept the honors of my maiden pride? I was your favourite then.

JOHN O Margaret, Margaret! These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, Could not so separate, but now in this My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

MARGARET Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, There dwell

"Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure,"

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint— Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion.

JOHN O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts, My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love, In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. I was not always thus. (Weeps.)

MARGARET Thou noble nature, Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John, Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.

JOHN What would'st thou, lady, ever-honor'd Margaret?

MARGARET That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come— John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement.

JOHN Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

MARGARET (rising) Go whither, John?

JOHN Go in with me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

MARGARET That I will, John.— (Exeunt.)



SCENE.—An inner Apartment.

(John is discovered kneeling.—Margaret standing over him.)

JOHN (rises) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

JOHN They are gone.— Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth. (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know.

MARGARET Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity, This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

JOHN How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen. Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN Now Margaret weeps herself. (A noise of bells heard.)

MARGARET Hark the bells, John.

JOHN Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET I know it.

JOHN Saint Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells.

MARGARET Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN I have been there already.

MARGARET How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

JOHN I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET Well, John.

JOHN Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people.

And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open, (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd, For all things felt like mystery).

MARGARET Yes.

JOHN So entering in, not without fear, I past into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame, And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little hassock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven.



* * * * *



THE WITCH

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (1798)



* * * * *

CHARACTERS

Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Pairford. Stranger.

* * * * *



SERVANT One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. Being o'er-task'd in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begged an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy: but he refused her— And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. She looked at him as one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this:— (Sir Francis told the words)

A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times-killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse.

And still she cried

A mischief, And a nine-fold-withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed, Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; So he described it.

STRANGER A terrible curse! What followed?

SERVANT Nothing immediate, but some two months after Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay, And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there; And, when they asked him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to shew the place, Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, And prick'd him with a pin.— And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway And begged an alms.

STRANGER But did the witch confess?

SERVANT All this and more at her death.

STRANGER I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.



* * * * *



Mr. H——

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

As it was performed at Drury Lane Theatre, December, 1806

"Mr. H——, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see Mr. H——, and answering that they would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. But thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off——."

—Theatrical Examiner.



* * * * *

CHARACTERS

Mr. H—— Mr. Elliston. BELVIL Mr. Bartley. LANDLORD PRY Mr. Wewitzer. MELESINDA Miss Mellon. Maid to Melesinda. Mrs. Harlowe. Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.

SCENE.—Bath

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

Spoken by Mr. Elliston

If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, All civil well-bred authors do the same. Survey the columns of our daily writers— You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar, When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. With two stout seconds, just of their own gizard, Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard! Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms, Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. Where the dispensers of the public lash Soft penance give; a letter and a dash— Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing, And loses half her grossness by curtailing. Faux pas are told in such a modest way,— The affair of Colonel B—— with Mrs. A—— You must forgive them—for what is there, say, Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant To such a very pressing Consonant? Or who poetic justice dares dispute, When, mildly melting at a lover's suit, The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute? Even in the homelier scenes of honest life, The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, Initials I am told have taken place Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race; And Cabbage, ask'd by Brother Snip to tea, Replies, "I'll come—but it don't rest with me— I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." O should this mincing fashion ever spread From names of living heroes to the dead, How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head, As each lov'd syllable should melt away— Her Alexander turned into Great A—— A single C. her Caesar to express— Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S—— And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H——.

* * * * *

MR. H——

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

* * * * *

ACT I

SCENE.—_A Public Room in an Inn—Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c.

Enter Mr. H._

MR. H. Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?

LANDLORD Yes, Sir.

MR. H. You have paid him?

LANDLORD There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled up, no name, only blank—"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who he shall say "Dr."

MR. H. Why, Mr. H. to be sure.

LANDLORD So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it. He says, he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.

MR. H. Rot his impertinence, bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me with his scruples.

LANDLORD I shall, Sir. [Exit.]

Enter a Waiter.

WAITER Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace of pheasants for Mr. H.

MR. H. Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best respects to his master. Presents it seems will find me out, with any name, or no name.

Enter Second Waiter.

SECOND WAITER Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door.

MR. H. Give him a shilling, that is what these fellows come for.

SECOND WAITER He has sent up to know by what name your Honour will please to be inserted.

MR. H. Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous.

[Exit Second Waiter.]

Enter Third Waiter.

THIRD WAITER Two letters for Mr. H. [Exit.]

MR. H. From ladies (opens them). This from Melesinda, to remind me of the morning call I promised; the pretty creature positively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her (affectedly). This from her cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (opening it)—Oh, "this evening"—"Tea and cards"—(surveying himself with complacency). Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favourite among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of thy unfortunate—pshaw!

Enter Fourth Waiter.

FOURTH WAITER Sir, one Mr. Printagain is enquiring for you.

MR. H. Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down.

FOURTH WAITER What name shall I tell him, Sir?

MR. H. Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.

[Exit Fourth Waiter.]

Enter Fifth Waiter.

FIFTH WAITER Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.

MR. H. Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head? Now I shall be teazed by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away.

FIFTH WAITER I would have done so, Sir; but the object of his call now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to.

MR. H. Why, me.

FIFTH WAITER Yes, Sir.

MR. H. Me, me, me, who else, to be sure?

FIFTH WAITER Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name of his benefactor.

MR. H. Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot be obliged to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he must know the name, birth, parentage, and education of his benefactor. I warrant you, next he will require a certificate of one's good behaviour, and a magistrate's licence in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so to—give an alms. Any thing more? FIFTH WAITER

Yes, Sir: here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent to remind you of your promise to bail him.

MR. H. Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. Here is more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man had better be without a nose, than without a name. I will not live long in this mutilated, dismembered state; I will to Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name; but then, hang it, there is none in mine to answer to it. [Exit.]

(While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been observing him curiously.)

FIRST GENTLEMAN Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?

SECOND GENTLEMAN Who? why 'tis Mr. H.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Has he no more name?

SECOND GENTLEMAN None that has yet transpired. No more! why that single letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is already received into all the first families.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Wonderful! yet nobody knows who he is, or where he comes from!

SECOND GENTLEMAN He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity; dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers are all dying for fear the daughters should get him; and for the daughters, he may command them as absolutely as—. Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him.

FIRST GENTLEMAN And is it possible that a mere anonymous—

SECOND GENTLEMAN Phoo! that is the charm, Who is he? and What is he? and What is his name?—The man with the great nose on his face never excited more of the gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than this new-comer with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the wives and maids of Bath; his simply having lodgings here, draws more visitors to the house than an election. Come with me to the parade, and I will shew you more of him. [Exeunt.]



SCENE.—In the Street.

(MR. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him.)

BELVIL My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen for so many years? it must, it can be no other than Jack (going up to him). My dear Ho——

MR. H. (Stopping his mouth.) Ho——! the devil, hush.

BELVIL Why sure it is—

MR. H. It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless.

BELVIL My dear Ho——

MR. H. (Stopping him.) Don't name it.

BELVIL Name what?

MR. H. My curst, unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for a time.

BELVIL I understand you—Creditors, Jack?

MR. H. No, I assure you.

BELVIL Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at your heels?

MR. H. I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.

BELVIL You ha'n't taken a purse?

MR. H. To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjectures, you must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name.

BELVIL Ridiculous! 'tis true your's is none of the most romantic, but what can that signify in a man?

MR. H. You must understand that I am in some credit with the ladies.

BELVIL With the ladies!

MR. H. And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune—

BELVIL Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.

MR. H. My figure—

BELVIL Airy, gay, and imposing.

MR. H. My parts—

BELVIL Bright.

MR. H. My conversation—

BELVIL Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.

MR. H. But then my name—damn my name.

BELVIL Childish!

MR. H. Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blest with one which sighing virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the paternal. But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) would endure to be called Mrs.——?

BELVIL Ha! ha! ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge, the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck.

MR. H. Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho—

BELVIL Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are really ashamed of the family name?

MR. H. Aye, and of my father that begot me, and my father's father, and all their forefathers that have borne it since the conquest.

BELVIL But how do you know the women are so squeamish?

MR. H. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two old maids.

BELVIL That was hard indeed, Jack.

MR. H. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered their consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name; and rivals have declined my challenges, because they pretended it was an ungentlemanly name.

BELVIL Ha, ha, ha, but what course do you mean to pursue?

MR. H. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be content to take me as Mr. H.

BELVIL Mr. H.?

MR. H. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one likes to be as near the truth as possible.

BELVIL Certainly. But what then? to get her to consent—

MR. H. To accompany me to the altar without a name—in short to suspend her curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest shall pronounce the irrevocable charm, which makes two names one.

BELVIL And that name—and then she must be pleased, ha, Jack?

MR. H. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with, heark'e (whispers)—(musing) yet hang it, 'tis cruel to betray her confidence.

BELVIL But the family name, Jack?

MR. H. As you say, the family name must be perpetuated.

BELVIL Though it be but a homely one.

MR. H. True, but come, I will shew you the house where dwells this credulous melting fair.

BELVIL Ha, ha, my old friend dwindled down to one letter. [Exeunt.]



SCENE.—An Apartment in MELESINDA'S House.

MELESINDA sola, as if musing.

MELESINDA H.H.H. Sure it must be something precious by its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio, that is no surname; what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet—pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No, 'tis none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard, high born Howard, that would do; may be it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him, and from his own lips I will once for ever be resolved.

Enter MR. H.

MR. H. My dear Melesinda.

MELESINDA My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear allegiance to,—to be enamoured of inarticulate sounds, and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.

MR. H. My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it whim, humour, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.

MELESINDA Oh! H.H.H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn I must and will know it this very night.

MR. H. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not have a secret to withhold.

MELESINDA My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I call you till we are married?

MR. H. Call me? call me any thing, call me Love, Love! aye, Love, Love will do very well.

MELESINDA How many syllables is it, Love?

MR. H. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a vengeance. One, two, three, four,—what does it signify how many syllables?

MELESINDA How many syllables, Love?

MR. H.

My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this childish curiosity.

MELESINDA How many letters are there in it?

[Exit MR. H. followed by MELESINDA repeating the question.]



SCENE.—A Room in the Inn. (Two Waiters disputing.)

FIRST WAITER Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.

SECOND WAITER Sir Hardy Hardcastle, I tell you.

FIRST WAITER The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.

SECOND WAITER The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.

FIRST WAITER The Hammonds.

SECOND WAITER Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin with an H?

FIRST WAITER So does Hammond for that matter.

SECOND WAITER Faith, so it does if you go to spell it. I did not think of that. I begin to be of your opinion; he is certainly a Hammond.

FIRST WAITER Here comes Susan Chambermaid, may be she can tell.

Enter Susan.

BOTH Well, Susan, have you heard any thing who the strange gentleman is?

SUSAN Haven't you heard? it's all come out; Mrs. Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says, they were holding a sort of cummitty about it.

BOTH What? What?

SUSAN There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from hisfigger and the appearance he cuts, and his sumpshous way of living, and above all from the remarkable circumstance that his surname should begin with an H., that he must be—

BOTH Well, well—

SUSAN Neither more nor less than the Prince.

BOTH Prince!

SUSAN The Prince of Hessy-Cassel in disguise.

BOTH Very likely, very likely.

SUSAN Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she knows it.

FIRST WAITER Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels.

SECOND WAITER Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.

SUSAN Fiddle of the newspapers, who else can it be?

BOTH That is very true (gravely).

Enter Landlord.

LANDLORD Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has been bawling for somebody to help him off with his boots. (The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out.)

(Solus.) The house is turned upside down since the strange gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into corners and speculating, ostlers and stable-boys speculating in the yard, I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too, for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat, and not seeming to care whether thay have any thing or no; and after all what does it signify? I hate such curious—odso, I must take this box up into his bed-room—he charged me to see to it myself—I hate such inquisitive—I wonder what is in it, it feels heavy (Reads) "Leases, title deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and wills. But I wouldn't—no I wouldn't—it is a pretty box too—prettily dovetailed—I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd cut my fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty—what have I to do—curse the keys, how they rattle—rattle in one's pockets—the keys and the halfpence (takes out a bunch and plays with them). I wounder if any of these would fit; one might just try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should I be the richer for knowing? (All this time he tries the keys one by one.) What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate people that are always prying, poking and prying into things,—thrusting their finger into one place—a mighty little hole this—and their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but what is that to me? I wouldn't go to—no no—but it is odd little rusty should just happen. (While he is turning up the lid of the box, MR. H. enters behing him unperceived.)

MR. H. What are you about, you dog?

LANDLORD Oh Lord, Sir! pardon; no thief as I hope to be saved. Little Pry was always honest.

MR. H. What else could move you to open that box!

LANDLORD Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth. This box happened to be lying—that is, I happened to be carrying this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and so—little rusty happened to fit—

MR. H. So little rusty happened to fit!—and would not a rope fit that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been moved: all is safe, but it was as well to frighten him a little (aside).

Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, and suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish curiosity—

LANDLORD That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.

MR. H. For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I think.

LANDLORD Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.

MR. H. An apt name, you have a prying temper. I mean, some little curiosity, a sort of inquisitiveness about you.

LANDLORD A natural thirst after knowledge you may call it, Sir. When a boy I was never easy, but when I was thrusting up the lids of some of my school-fellows' boxes,—not to steal any thing, upon my honour, Sir,—only to see what was in them; have had pens stuck in my eyes for peeping through key-holes after knowledge; could never see a cold pie with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for lifting up the crust,—just to try if it were pigeon or partridge,—for no other reason in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed, more than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short, Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth.

MR. H. You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some bureau or other, just to see what is in it.

LANDLORD That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside out,—just for curiosity. The blankets I have been made to dance in for searching parish-registers for old ladies' ages,—just for curiosity! Once I was dragged through a horse-pond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass doors to it, while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing,—just for curiosity!

MR. H. A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, Mr. Pry, first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the favour to carry your curiosity so far, as to enquire if my servants are within.

LANDLORD I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,—I think I hear them coming,—shall make bold to leave you, Sir.

[Exit.]

MR. H. Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going anonymous!

Enter two Footmen.

FIRST FOOTMAN You speak first.

SECOND FOOTMAN No, you had better speak.

FIRST FOOTMAN You promised to begin.

MR. H. They have something to say to me. The rascals want their wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favour to be asked when they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain at the best. I think I must not be close with them. Well, David—well, Jonathan.

FIRST FOOTMAN We have served your honour faithfully——

SECOND FOOTMAN Hope your honour won't take offence——

MR. H. The old story, I suppose—wages?

FIRST FOOTMAN That's not it, your honour.

SECOND FOOTMAN You speak.

FIRST FOOTMAN But if your honour would just be pleased to——

SECOND FOOTMAN Only be pleased to——

MR. H. Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste.

FIRST FOOTMAN Just to——

SECOND FOOTMAN Let us know who it is——

FIRST FOOTMAN Who it is we have the honour to serve.

MR. H. Why me, me, me; you serve me.

SECOND FOOTMAN Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.

MR. H. Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, a gay master, an indulgent master?

FIRST FOOTMAN Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor servants, the principal mortification.

SECOND FOOTMAN When we get over a pot at the public-house, or in a gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their pleasures—when the question goes round, who is your master? and who do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman——

FIRST FOOTMAN We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr. H.

SECOND FOOTMAN Or Squire H.

MR. H. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable personages; but I hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate review of all that you have said, I think fit not to tell you any more of my name, than I have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to the rest of the world.

FIRST FOOTMAN Why then, Sir, you may suit yourself.

SECOND FOOTMAN We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.

FIRST FOOTMAN We don't chuse to serve Mr. H.

SECOND FOOTMAN Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet——

FIRST FOOTMAN That lives in Chris-cross Row.

MR. H. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless rascals! Go hang, starve, or drown!—Rogues, to speak thus irreverently of the alphabet—I shall live to see you glad to serve old Q—to curl the wig of great S—adjust the dot of little i—stand behind the chair of X, Y, Z—wear the livery of Et-caetera—and ride behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and!

[Exit in a rage.]



ACT II

SCENE.—A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.—A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen, among them MELESINDA.

FIRST LADY I wonder when the charming man will be here.

SECOND LADY He is a delightful creature! Such a polish——

THIRD LADY Such an air in all that he does or says——

FOURTH LADY Yet gifted with a strong understanding——

FIFTH LADY But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true name is?

FIRST LADY They say, his very servants do not know it. His French valet, that has lived with him these two years——

SECOND LADY There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right: my coachman——

FIRST LADY I have it from the very best authority: my footman——

SECOND LADY Then, Madam, you have set your servants on——

FIRST LADY No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of conning at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that consequence.

SECOND LADY That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head with nobody's business but my own.

MELESINDA But then, she takes care to make everybody's business her own, and so to justify herself that way——(aside).

FIRST LADY My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.

MELESINDA Nothing. SECOND LADY Give it a name.

MELESINDA Perhaps it is nameless.

FIRST LADY As the object——Come, never blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?

MELESINDA This? it is a cross: how do you like it?

SECOND LADY A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a great staring H.

(Here a general laugh.)

MELESINDA Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and nothing but a cross.

FIRST LADY A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.

MELESINDA Intolerable spite!

(MR. H. is announced.)

(Enter MR. H.)

FIRST LADY O, Mr. H. we are so glad——

SECOND LADY We have been so dull——

THIRD LADY So perfectly lifeless——You owe it to us, to be more than commonly entertaining.

MR. H. Ladies, this is so obliging——

FOURTH LADY O, Mr. H. those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty things, they have got up——

FIFTH LADY I have worked that sprig you commended—I want you to come——

MR. H. Ladies——

SIXTH LADY I have sent for that piece of music from London.

MR. H. The Mozart—(seeing Melesinda.)—Melesinda!

SEVERAL LADIES AT ONCE Nay positively, Melesinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself.

(While the Ladies are pressing about MR. H. the Gentlemen shew signs of displeasure.)

FIRST GENTLEMAN We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is come.

SECOND GENTLEMAN Damn him, I will affront him.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of these ladies.

SECOND GENTLEMAN If we could be heard——

(The ladies pay no attention but to MR. H.)

MR. H. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. (Hums an air.) I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be agreeable to these——Did you speak?

FIRST GENTLEMAN And affects absence of mind, Puppy!

MR. H. Who spoke of absence of mind, did you, Madam? How do you do, Lady Wearwell—how do? I did not see your ladyship before—what was I about to say—O—absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things—the most mal-a-propos—without meaning to give the least offence, upon my honour—sheer absence of mind—things I would have given the world not to have said.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Do you hear the coxcomb?

FIRST LADY Great wits, they say——

SECOND LADY Your fine geniuses are most given——

THIRD LADY Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious——

MR. H. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great nabob's, that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly suspected of—being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a lapsus, to take care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to presents —you understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's consideration and my own, and, to do myself justice, behaved with tolerable circumspection for the first half hour or so—till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression of the poet, which calls them "fair defects."

FIRST LADY It is Pope, I believe, who says it.

MR. H. No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? O, "fair defects." This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the phrase—that led to an enumeration of all the various words which might have been used instead of "defect," as want, absence, poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the progress of the argument (as the denouement will shew) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connexion of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the question to him, Pray, Sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees? You may guess the confusion which followed.

FIRST LADY What a distressing circumstance!

SECOND LADY To a delicate mind—

THIRD LADY How embarrassing—

FOURTH LADY I declare I quite pity you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Puppy!

MR. H. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elbow; and a good-natured Duchess, who does every thing with a grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to myself, and—covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies—I withdrew.

FIRST LADY How charmingly he tells a story.

SECOND LADY But how distressing!

MR. H. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion—speaking of absence of mind, my foible—says he, my dear Hogs—

SEVERAL LADIES Hogs——what—ha—

MR. H. My dear Hogsflesh—my name—(here an universal scream)—O my cursed unfortunate tongue!—H, I mean—Where was I?

FIRST LADY Filthy—abominable!

SECOND LADY Unutterable!

THIRD LADY Hogs——foh!

FOURTH LADY Disgusting!

FIFTH LADY Vile!

SIXTH LADY Shocking!

FIRST LADY Odious!

SECOND LADY Hogs——pah!

THIRD LADY A smelling bottle—look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her circumstances.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Good time of day to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.

SECOND GENTLEMAN The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.

MR. H. This is too much—flesh and blood cannot endure it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN What flesh?—hog's-flesh?

SECOND GENTLEMAN How he sets up his bristles!

MR. H. Bristles!

FIRST GENTLEMAN He looks as fierce as a hog in armour.

MR. H. A hog!——Madam!——(here he severally accosts the ladies, who by turns repel him).

FIRST LADY Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't want a partner.

SECOND LADY Greatly flattered by your preference; but believe I shall remain single.

THIRD LADY Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no thoughts of altering my condition.

FOURTH LADY Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must not look for any thing further.

FIFTH LADY No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but have no thoughts of changing my name.

SIXTH LADY Must tell you, Sir, that if by your insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with him?

OLD LADY Must beg you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats?

MR. H. I shall go mad!—to be refused by old Mother Damnable—she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever married or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy; her juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of tradition!—old Mother Damnable!

[Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him.]



SCENE.—The Street. BELVIL and another Gentleman.

BELVIL Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would be highly diverting, if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant share of good nature, and is a man of honour. Notwithstanding all that has happened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as you say?

GENTLEMAN O intolerably—they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to have marks of the plague, and as fast; when before they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say.

BELVIL Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's favourites commonly hold their envied pre-eminence. Well, I must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn.

GENTLEMAN Either there or at Melesinda's.—Adieu.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE.—MR. H——'S Apartment.

MR. H. (solus) Was ever any thing so mortifying? to be refused by old Mother Damnable!—with such parts and address,—and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.—O my cursed name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive, that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it out—for it sticks in my throat and will choak me.

My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van or a Mac, or an Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.—Mynheer Van Hogsflesh—or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,—or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,—but downright blunt———. If it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a colour, as Black, Grey, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month, as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchin; or the name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had been something, but Ho———.

(Walks about in great agitation,—recovering his calmness a little, sits down.)

Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling ring, the purity-figuring glove, the envy-pining bride-maids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell, the ambiguous blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring drum.—No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of caudle. (Sings in a melancholy tone) Lullaby, Lullaby,—hush-a-by-baby—how like its papa it is!—(makes motions as if he was nursing). And then, when grown up, "Is this your son, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me,—a sad young dog,—just what his father was at his age,—I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!

Enter Landlord.

MR. H. Landlord, I must pack up to-night; you will see all my things got ready.

LANDLORD Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue Boar,—sorry any thing has happened.

MR. H. He has heard it all.

LANDLORD Your Honour has had some mortification, to be sure, as a man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine market.

MR. H. Pigs!

LANDLORD What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.

MR. H. Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose he don't mean to affront me.

LANDLORD What is done can't be undone; you can't make a silken purse out of a sow's ear.

MR. H. As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment it.

LANDLORD Does but hogment it, indeed, Sir.

MR. H. Hogment it! damn it, I said, augment it.

LANDLORD Lord, Sir, 'tis not every body has such gift of fine phrases as your Honour, that can lard his discourse.

MR. H. Lard!

LANDLORD Suppose they do smoke you—

MR. H. Smoke me?

LANDLORD One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same; it is all pork.

MR. H. That's another of your phrases, I presume. (Bell rings, and the Landlord called for.)

LANDLORD Anon, anon.

MR. H. O, I wish I were anonymous.

[Exeunt several ways.]



SCENE.—Melesinda's Apartment.

(MELESINDA and Maid.)

MAID Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a foolish—what signifies a name? Hogs—Hogs—what is it—is just as good as any other for what I see.

MELESINDA Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly edge the—

MAID Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by nature, that don't follow—his name don't make him any thing, does it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do, you never see him go to the trough—

MELESINDA Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her intentions—

MAID For instance, Madam, my name is Finch—Betty Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton—no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said courted me—his name was Lion—Francis Lion, a tailor; but though he was fond enough of me, for all that, he never offered to eat me.

MELESINDA How fortunate that the discovery has been made before it was too late. Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an inextricable engagement, before—

MAID No great harm, if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a poke—and what then? Oh, here he comes creeping—

Enter MR. H. abject.

Go to her, Mr. Hogs—Hogs—Hogsbristles—what's your name? Don't be afraid, man—don't give it up—she's not crying—only summat has made her eyes red—she has got a sty in her eye, I believe—(going.)

MELESINDA You are not going, Betty?

MAID O, Madam, never mind me—I shall be back in the twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say. [Exit.]

MR. H. Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have betrayed your confidence, but it was love that prompted him; who would have tricked you by an unworthy concealment into a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed to attach to a name—but with it you would have shared a fortune not contemptible, and a heart—but 'tis over now. That name he is content to bear alone—to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no meaning —some spot where his native tongue has never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill manners—where no Englishman—(Here Melesinda, who has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh.) Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not inharmonious.

MELESINDA Oh!

MR. H. Who knows but among the female natives might be found—

MELESINDA Sir! (raising her head).

MR. H. One who would be more kind than—some Oberea—Queen Oberea.

MELESINDA Oh!

MR. H. Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT Mr. Belvil. [Exit.]

Enter BELVIL.

MR. H. In Monornotopa (musing.)

BELVIL Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg pardon, Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can adjust—not a word—will you, Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the arbitrator—strange—hark'e, Jack, nothing has come out, has there? you understand me. Oh I guess how it is—somebody has got at your secret, you hav'n't blabbed it yourself, have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my heart—Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you—

MR. H. No power of man can relieve me (sighs) but it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root—here it will lie.

BELVIL No power of man? not a common man, I grant you; for instance, a subject—it's out of the power of any subject.

MR. H. Gnawing at the root—there it will lie.

BELVIL Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed; but not by a subject—(shews a Gazette).

MR. H. Gnawing at the root (suddenly snatches the paper out of Belvil's hand); ha! pish! nonsense! give it me—what! (reads) promotions, bankrupts—a great many bankrupts this week—there it will lie (lays it down, takes it up again, and reads) "The King has been graciously pleased"—gnawing at the root—"graciously pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh"—the devil—"Hogsflesh, Esq., of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal licence and authority"—O Lord! O Lord!—"that he and his issue"—me and my issue—"may take and use the surname and arms of Bacon"—Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon—"in pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq. his late uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:"—grateful respect! poor old soul——here's more—"and that such arms may be first duly exemplified"—they shall, I will take care of that—"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's Office."

BELVIL Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in your way of your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favour, by the name of Mr. Bacon.

(Takes their hands and joins them, which Melesinda seems to give consent to with a smile.)

MR. H. Generous Melesinda!—my dear friend—"he and his issue," me and my issue—O Lord!—

BELVIL I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.

MR. H. Bacon, Bacon, Bacon—how odd it sounds. I could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me already—methinks I could look through Nature—there was Friar Bacon, a conjurer—I feel as if I could conjure too—

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door, enquiring if you see company, Madam.

MR. H. "Surname and arms"—

MELESINDA Shew them up.—My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy.

Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly.

FIRST LADY My dear Melesinda, how do you do?

SECOND LADY How do you do? We have been so concerned for you—

OLD LADY

We have been so concerned—(seeing him)—Mr. Hogsflesh—

MR. H. There's no such person—nor there never was—nor 'tis not fit there should be—"surname and arms"—

BELVIL It is true what my friend would express; we have been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gentleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative.

MR. H. "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"—

FIRST LADY I am sure we all join in hearty congratulation—(sighs).

SECOND LADY And wish you joy with all our hearts—(heigh ho!)

OLD LADY And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many years—(cries).

BELVIL Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.

FIRST LADY Hope you intend to stay—

SECOND LADY With us some time—

OLD LADY In these parts—

MR. H. Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for the favours you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's (turning to the old Lady) good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future favours—(accosts them severally in the order in which he was reftised by them at the assembly)—Madam, shall always acknowledge your politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner. Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for any thing further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and you

Your ever grateful servant takes his leave. Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve; See, while you kindly mean to mortify Another, the wild arrow do not fly, And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken; Your shafts have miss'd their aim—Hogsflesh has saved his Bacon.



* * * * *



THE PAWNBROKER'S DAUGHTER

A FARCE

(1825)

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

FLINT, a Pawnbroker. DAVENPORT, in love with Marian. PENDULOUS, a Reprieved Gentleman. CUTLET, a Sentimental Butcher. GOLDING, a Magistrate. WILLIAM, Apprentice to Flint. BEN, Cutlet's Boy. MISS FLYN. BETTY, her Maid. MARIAN, Daughter to Flint. LUCY, her Maid.

* * * * *



ACT I.

SCENE I.—An Apartment at Flint's house.

FLINT. WILLIAM.

FLINT Carry those umbrellas, cottons, and wearing-apparel, up stairs. You may send that chest of tools to Robins's.

WILLIAM That which you lent six pounds upon to the journeyman carpenter that had the sick wife?

FLINT The same.

WILLIAM The man says, if you can give him till Thursday—

FLINT Not a minute longer. His time was out yesterday. These improvident fools!

WILLIAM The finical gentleman has been here about the seal that was his grandfather's.

FLINT He cannot have it. Truly, our trade would be brought to a fine pass, if we were bound to humour the fancies of our customers. This man would be taking a liking to a snuff-box that he had inherited; and that gentlewoman might conceit a favourite chemise that had descended to her.

WILLIAM The lady in the carriage has been here crying about those jewels. She says, if you cannot let her have them at the advance she offers, her husband will come to know that she has pledged them.

FLINT I have uses for those jewels. Send Marian to me. (Exit William.) I know no other trade that is expected to depart from its fair advantages but ours. I do not see the baker, the butcher, the shoemaker, or, to go higher, the lawyer, the physician, the divine, give up any of their legitimate gains, even when the pretences of their art had failed; yet we are to be branded with an odious name, stigmatized, discountenanced even by the administrators of those laws which acknowledge us; scowled at by the lower sort of people, whose needs we serve!

Enter Marian.

Come hither, Marian. Come, kiss your father. The report runs that he is full of spotted crime. What is your belief, child?

MARIAN That never good report went with our calling, father. I have heard you say, the poor look only to the advantages which we derive from them, and overlook the accommodations which they receive from us. But the poor are the poor, father, and have little leisure to make distinctions. I wish we could give up this business.

FLINT You have not seen that idle fellow, Davenport?

MARIAN No, indeed, father, since your injunction.

FLINT I take but my lawful profit. The law is not over favourable to us.

MARIAN Marian is no judge of these things.

FLINT They call me oppressive, grinding.—I know not what—

MARIAN Alas!

FLINT Usurer, extortioner. Am I these things?

MARIAN You are Marian's kind and careful father. That is enough for a child to know.

FLINT Here, girl, is a little box of jewels, which the necessities of a foolish woman of quality have transferred into our true and lawful possession. Go, place them with the trinkets that were your mother's. They are all yours, Marian, if you do not cross me in your marriage. No gentry shall match into this house, to flout their wife hereafter with her parentage. I will hold this business with convulsive grasp to my dying day. I will plague these poor, whom you speak so tenderly of.

MARIAN You frighten me, father. Do not frighten Marian.

FLINT I have heard them say, There goes Flint—Flint, the cruel pawnbroker!

MARIAN Stay at home with Marian. You shall hear no ugly words to vex you.

FLINT You shall ride in a gilded chariot upon the necks of these poor, Marian. Their tears shall drop pearls for my girl. Their sighs shall be good wind for us. They shall blow good for my girl. Put up the jewels, Marian. [Exit.]

Enter Lucy.

LUCY Miss, miss, your father has taken his hat, and is slept out, and Mr. Davenport is on the stairs; and I came to tell you—

MARIAN Alas! who let him in?

Enter Davenport.

DAVENPORT My dearest girl—

MARIAN My father will kill me, if he finds you have been here!

DAVENPORT There is no time for explanations. I have positive information that your father means, in less than a week, to dispose of you to that ugly Saunders. The wretch has bragged of it to his acquaintance, and already calls you his.

MARIAN O heavens!

DAVENPORT Your resolution must be summary, as the time which calls for it. Mine or his you must be, without delay. There is no safety for you under this roof.

MARIAN My father—

DAVENPORT Is no father, if he would sacrifice you.

MARIAN But he is unhappy. Do not speak hard words of my father.

DAVENPORT Marian must exert her good sense.

LUCY (As if watching at the window.) O, miss, your father has suddenly returned. I see him with Mr. Saunders, coming down the street. Mr. Saunders, ma'am!

MARIAN Begone, begone, if you love me, Davenport.

DAVENPORT You must go with me then, else here I am fixed.

LUCY Aye, miss, you must go, as Mr. Davenport says. Here is your cloak, miss, and your hat, and your gloves. Your father, ma'am—

MARIAN O, where, where? Whither do you hurry me, Davenport?

DAVENPORT Quickly, quickly, Marian. At the back door.—

[Exit Marian with Davenport, reluctantly; in her flight still holding the jewels.]

LUCY Away—away. What a lucky thought of mine to say her father was coming! he would never have got her off, else. Lord, Lord, I do love to help lovers.

[Exit, following them.]



SCENE II.—A Butcher's Shop.

CUTLET. BEN.

CUTLET Reach me down that book off the shelf, where the shoulder of veal hangs.

BEN

Is this it?

CUTLET No—this is "Flowers of Sentiment"—the other—aye, this is a good book. "An Argument against the Use of Animal Food. By J.R." That means Joseph Ritson. I will open it anywhere, and read just as it happens. One cannot dip amiss in such books as these. The motto, I see, is from Pope. I dare say, very much to the purpose. (Reads.)

"The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he sport and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops his flowery food, And licks the hand"—

Bless us, is that saddle of mutton gone home to Mrs. Simpson's? It should have gone an hour ago.

BEN I was just going with it.

CUTLET Well go. Where was I? Oh!

"And licks the hand just raised to shed its blood."

What an affecting picture! (turns over the leaves, and reads).

"It is probable that the long lives which are recorded of the people before the flood, were owing to their being confined to a vegetable diet."

BEN The young gentleman in Pullen's Row, Islington, that has got the consumption, has sent to know if you can let him have a sweetbread.

CUTLET Take two,—take all that are in the shop. What a disagreeable interruption! (reads again). "Those fierce and angry passions, which impel man to wage destructive war with man, may be traced to the ferment in the blood produced by an animal diet."

BEN The two pound of rump-steaks must go home to Mr. Molyneux's. He is in training to fight Cribb.

CUTLET Well, take them; go along, and do not trouble me with your disgusting details.

[Exit Ben.]

CUTLET (Throwing down the book.) Why was I bred to this detestable business? Was it not plain, that this trembling sensibility, which has marked my character from earliest infancy, must for ever disqualify me for a profession which—what do ye want? what do ye buy? O, it is only somebody going past. I thought it had been a customer.—Why was not I bred a glover, like my cousin Langston? to see him poke his two little sticks into a delicate pair of real Woodstock—"A very little stretching ma'am, and they will fit exactly"—Or a haberdasher, like my next-door neighbour—"not a better bit of lace in all town, my lady—Mrs. Breakstock took the last of it last Friday, all but this bit, which I can afford to let your ladyship have a bargain—reach down that drawer on your left hand, Miss Fisher."

(Enter in haste, Davenport, Marian, and Lucy.)

LUCY This is the house I saw a bill up at, ma'am; and a droll creature the landlord is.

DAVENPORT We have no time for nicety.

CUTLET What do ye want? what do ye buy? O, it is only you, Mrs. Lucy.

Lucy whispers Cutlet.

CUTLET I have a set of apartments at the end of my garden. They are quite detached from the shop. A single lady at present occupies the ground floor.

MARIAN Aye, aye, any where.

DAVENPORT In, in.—

CUTLET Pretty lamb,—she seems agitated. Davenport and Marian go in with Cutlet.

LUCY I am mistaken if my young lady does not find an agreeable companion in these apartments. Almost a namesake. Only the difference of Flyn, and Flint. I have some errands to do, or I would stop and have some fun with this droll butcher. Cutlet returns.

CUTLET Why, how odd this is! Your young lady knows my young lady. They are as thick as flies.

LUCY You may thank me for your new lodger, Mr. Cutlet.—But bless me, you do not look well?

CUTLET To tell you the truth, I am rather heavy about the eyes. Want of sleep, I believe.

LUCY Late hours, perhaps. Raking last night.

CUTLET No, that is not it, Mrs. Lucy. My repose was disturbed by a very different cause from what you may imagine. It proceeded from too much thinking.

LUCY The deuce it did! and what, if I may be so bold, might be the subject of your Night Thoughts?

CUTLET The distresses of my fellow creatures. I never lay my head down on my pillow, but I fall a thinking, how many at this very instant are perishing. Some with cold—

LUCY What, in the midst of summer?

CUTLET Aye. Not here, but in countries abroad, where the climate is different from ours. Our summers are their winters, and vice versa, you know. Some with cold—

LUCY What a canting rogue it is! I should like to trump up some fine story to plague him. [Aside.]

CUTLET Others with hunger—some a prey to the rage of wild beasts—

LUCY He has got this by rote, out of some book.

CUTLET Some drowning, crossing crazy bridges in the dark—some by the violence of the devouring flame—

LUCY I have it.—For that matter, you need not send your humanity a travelling, Mr. Cutlet. For instance, last night—

CUTLET Some by fevers, some by gun-shot wounds—

LUCY Only two streets off—

CUTLET Some in drunken quarrels—

LUCY (Aloud.) The butcher's shop at the corner.

CUTLET What were you saying about poor Cleaver?

LUCY He has found his ears at last. (Aside.) That he has had his house burnt down.

CUTLET Bless me!

LUCY I saw four small children taken in at the green grocer's.

CUTLET Do you know if he is insured?

LUCY Some say he is, but not to the full amount.

CUTLET Not to the full amount—how shocking! He killed more meat than any of the trade between here and Carnaby market—and the poor babes—four of them you say—what a melting sight!—he served some good customers about Marybone—I always think more of the children in these cases than of the fathers and mothers—Lady Lovebrown liked his veal better than any man's in the market—I wonder whether her ladyship is engaged—I must go and comfort poor Cleaver, however.—[Exit.]

LUCY Now is this pretender to humanity gone to avail himself of a neighbour's supposed ruin to inveigle his customers from him. Fine feelings!—pshaw! [Exit.]

(Re-enter Cutlet.)

CUTLET What a deceitful young hussey! there is not a word of truth in her. There has been no fire. How can people play with one's feelings so!—(sings)—"For tenderness formed"—No, I'll try the air I made upon myself. The words may compose me—(sings).

A weeping Londoner I am, A washer-woman was my dam; She bred me up in a cock-loft, And fed my mind with sorrows soft:

For when she wrung with elbows stout From linen wet the water out,— The drops so like to tears did drip, They gave my infant nerves the hyp.

Scarce three clean muckingers a week Would dry the brine that dew'd my cheek: So, while I gave my sorrows scope, I almost ruin'd her in soap.

My parish learning I did win In ward of Farringdon-Within; Where, after school, I did pursue My sports, as little boys will do.

Cockchafers—none like me was found To set them spinning round and round. O, how my tender heart would melt, To think what those poor varmin felt!

I never tied tin-kettle, clog, Or salt-box to the tail of dog, Without a pang more keen at heart, Than he felt at his outward part.

And when the poor thing clattered off, To all the unfeeling mob a scoff, Thought I, "What that dumb creature feels, With half the parish at his heels!"

Arrived, you see, to man's estate, The butcher's calling is my fate; Yet still I keep my feeling ways. And leave the town on slaughtering days.

At Kentish Town, or Highgate Hill, I sit, retired, beside some rill; And tears bedew my glistening eye, To think my playful lambs must die!

But when they're dead I sell their meat, On shambles kept both clean and neat; Sweet-breads also I guard full well, And keep them from the blue-bottle.

Envy, with breath sharp as my steel, Has ne'er yet blown upon my veal; And mouths of dames, and daintiest fops, Do water at my nice lamb-chops.

[Exit, half laughing, half crying.]



SCENE III.—A Street.

(Davenport, solus.)

DAVENPORT Thus far have I secured my charming prize. I can appretiate, while I lament, the delicacy which makes her refuse the protection of my sister's roof. But who comes here?

(Enter Pendulous, agitated.) It must be he. That fretful animal motion—that face working up and down with uneasy sensibility, like new yeast. Jack—Jack Pendulous!

PENDULOUS It is your old friend, and very miserable.

DAVENPORT Vapours, Jack. I have not known you fifteen years to have to guess at your complaint. Why, they troubled you at school. Do you remember when you had to speak the speech of Buckingham, where he is going to execution?

PENDULOUS Execution!—he has certainly heard it. (Aside.)

DAVENPORT What a pucker you were in overnight!

PENDULOUS May be so, may be so, Mr. Davenport. That was an imaginary scene. I have had real troubles since.

DAVENPORT Pshaw! so you call every common accident.

PENDULOUS Do you call my case so common, then?

DAVENPORT What case?

PENDULOUS You have not heard, then?

DAVENPORT Positively not a word.

PENDULOUS You must know I have been—(whispers)—tried for a felony since then.

DAVENPORT Nonsense!

PENDULOUS No subject for mirth, Mr. Davenport. A confounded short-sighted fellow swore that I stopt him, and robbed him, on the York race-ground at nine on a fine moonlight evening, when I was two hundred miles off in Dorsetshire. These hands have been held up at a common bar.

DAVENPORT Ridiculous! it could not have gone so far.

PENDULOUS A great deal farther, I assure you, Mr. Davenport. I am ashamed to say how far it went. You must know, that in the first shock and surprise of the accusation, shame—you know I was always susceptible—shame put me upon disguising my name, that, at all events, it might bring no disgrace upon my family. I called myself James Thomson.

DAVENPORT For heaven's sake, compose yourself.

PENDULOUS I will. An old family ours, Mr. Davenport—never had a blot upon it till now—a family famous for the jealousy of its honour for many generations—think of that, Mr. Davenport—that felt a stain like a wound—

DAVENPORT Be calm, my dear friend.

PENDULOUS This served the purpose of a temporary concealment well enough; but when it came to the—alibi—I think they call it—excuse these technical terms, they are hardly fit for the mouth of a gentleman, the witnesses—that is another term—that I had sent for up from Melcombe Regis, and relied upon for clearing up my character, by disclosing my real name, John Pendulous—so discredited the cause which they came to serve, that it had quite a contrary effect to what was intended. In short, the usual forms passed, and you behold me here the miserablest of mankind.

DAVENPORT (Aside). He must be light-headed.

PENDULOUS Not at all, Mr. Davenport. I hear what you say, though you speak it all on one side, as they do at the playhouse.

DAVENPORT The sentence could never have been carried into—pshaw!—you are joking—the truth must have come out at last.

PENDULOUS So it did, Mr. Davenport—just two minutes and a second too late by the Sheriff's stop-watch. Time enough to save my life—my wretched life—but an age too late for my honour. Pray, change the subject—the detail must be as offensive to you.

DAVENPORT With all my heart, to a more pleasing theme. The lovely Maria Flyn—are you friends in that quarter, still? Have the old folks relented?

PENDULOUS They are dead, and have left her mistress of her inclinations. But it requires great strength of mind to—

DAVENPORT To what?

PENDULOUS To stand up against the sneers of the world. It is not every young lady that feels herself confident against the shafts of ridicule, though aimed by the hand of prejudice. Not but in her heart, I believe, she prefers me to all mankind. But think what the world would say, if, in defiance of the opinions of mankind, she should take to her arms a—reprieved man!

DAVENPORT Whims! You might turn the laugh of the world upon itself in a fortnight. These things are but nine days' wonders.

PENDULOUS Do you think so, Mr. Davenport?

DAVENPORT Where does she live?

PENDULOUS She has lodgings in the next street, in a sort of garden-house, that belongs to one Cutlet. I have not seen her since the affair. I was going there at her request.

DAVENPORT Ha, ha, ha!

PENDULOUS Why do you laugh?

DAVENPORT The oddest fellow! I will tell you—But here he comes.

Enter Cutlet.

CUTLET (To Davenport.) Sir, the young lady at my house is desirous you should return immediately. She has heard something from home.

PENDULOUS What do I hear?

DAVENPORT 'Tis her fears, I daresay. My dear Pendulous, you will excuse me?—I must not tell him our situation at present, though it cost him a fit of jealousy. We shall have fifty opportunities for explanation. [Exit.]

PENDULOUS Does that gentleman visit the lady at your lodgings?

CUTLET He is quite familiar there, I assure you. He is all in all with her, as they say.

PENDULOUS It is but too plain. Fool that I have been, not to suspect that, while she pretended scruples, some rival was at the root of her infidelity!

CUTLET You seem distressed, Sir. Bless me!

PENDULOUS I am, friend, above the reach of comfort.

CUTLET Consolation, then, can be to no purpose?

PENDULOUS None.

CUTLET I am so happy to have met with him!

PENDULOUS Wretch, wretch, wretch!

CUTLET There he goes! How he walks about biting his nails! I would not exchange this luxury of unavailing pity for worlds.

PENDULOUS Stigmatized by the world—

CUTLET My case exactly. Let us compare notes.

PENDULOUS For an accident which—

CUTLET For a profession which—

PENDULOUS In the eye of reason has nothing in it—

CUTLET Absolutely nothing in it—

PENDULOUS Brought up at a public bar—

CUTLET Brought up to an odious trade—

PENDULOUS With nerves like mine—

CUTLET With nerves like mine—

PENDULOUS Arraigned, condemned—

CUTLET By a foolish world—

PENDULOUS By a judge and jury—

CUTLET By an invidious exclusion disqualified for sitting upon a jury at all—

PENDULOUS Tried, cast, and—

CUTLET What?

PENDULOUS HANGED, Sir, HANGED by the neck, till I was—

CUTLET Bless me!

PENDULOUS Why should not I publish it to the whole world, since she, whose prejudice alone I wished to overcome, deserts me?

CUTLET Lord have mercy upon us! not so bad as that comes to, I hope?

PENDULOUS When she joins in the judgment of an illiberal world against me—

CUTLET You said HANGED, Sir—that is, I mean, perhaps I mistook you. How ghastly he looks!

PENDULOUS Fear me not, my friend. I am no ghost—though I heartily wish I were one.

CUTLET Why, then, ten to one you were—

PENDULOUS Cut down. The odious word shall out, though it choak me.

CUTLET Your case must have some things in it very curious. I daresay you kept a journal of your sensations.

PENDULOUS Sensations!

CUTLET Aye, while you were being—you know what I mean. They say persons in your situation have lights dancing before their eyes—blueish. But then the worst of all is coming to one's self again.

PENDULOUS Plagues, furies, tormentors! I shall go mad! [Exit.]

CUTLET There, he says he shall go mad. Well, my head has not been very right of late. It goes with a whirl and a buzz somehow. I believe I must not think so deeply. Common people that don't reason know nothing of these aberrations.

Great wits go mad, and small ones only dull; Distracting cares vex not the empty skull: They seize on heads that think, and hearts that feel, As flies attack the—better sort of veal.

[Exit.]



ACT II

SCENE.—At Flint's.

FLINT. WILLIAM.

FLINT I have overwalked myself, and am quite exhausted. Tell Marian to come and play to me.

WILLIAM I shall, Sir. [Exit.]

FLINT I have been troubled with an evil spirit of late; I think an evil spirit. It goes and comes, as my daughter is with or from me. It cannot stand before her gentle look, when, to please her father, she takes down her music-book. Enter William.

WILLIAM Miss Marian went out soon after you, and is not returned.

FLINT That is a pity—That is a pity. Where can the foolish girl be gadding?

WILLIAM The shopmen say she went out with Mr. Davenport.

FLINT Davenport? Impossible.

WILLIAM They say they are sure it was he, by the same token that they saw her slip into his hand, when she was past the door, the casket which you gave her.

FLINT Gave her, William! I only intrusted it to her. She has robbed me. Marian is a thief. You must go to the Justice, William, and get out a warrant against her immediately. Do you help them in the description. Put in "Marian Flint," in plain words—no remonstrances, William—"daughter of Reuben Flint,"—no remonstrances, but do it—

WILLIAM Nay, sir—

FLINT I am rock, absolute rock, to all that you can say—A piece of solid rock.—What is it that makes my legs to fail, and my whole frame to totter thus? It has been my over walking. I am very faint. Support me in, William. [Exeunt]



SCENE.—The Apartment of Miss Flyn.

MISS FLYN. BETTY.

MISS FLYN 'Tis past eleven. Every minute I expect Mr. Pendulous here. What a meeting do I anticipate!

BETTY Anticipate, truly! what other than a joyful meeting can it be between two agreed lovers who have been parted these four months?

MISS FLYN But in that cruel space what accidents have happened!—(aside)—As yet I perceive she is ignorant of this unfortunate affair.

BETTY Lord, madam, what accidents? He has not had a fall or a tumble, has he? He is not coming upon crutches?

MISS FLYN Not exactly a fall—(aside)—I wish I had courage to admit her to my confidence.

BETTY If his neck is whole, his heart is so too, I warrant it.

MISS FLYN His neck!—(aside)—She certainly mistrusts something. He writes me word that this must be his last interview.

BETTY Then I guess the whole business. The wretch is unfaithful. Some creature or other has got him into a noose.

MISS FLYN A noose!

BETTY And I shall never more see him hang——

MISS FLYN Hang, did you say, Betty?

BETTY About that dear, fond neck, I was going to add, madam, but you interrupted me.

MISS FLYN I can no longer labour with a secret which oppresses me thus. Can you be trusty?

BETTY Who, I, madam?—(aside)—Lord, I am so glad. Now I shall know all.

MISS FLYN This letter discloses the reason of his unaccountable long absence from me. Peruse it, and say if we have not reason to be unhappy.

(Betty retires to the window to read the letter, Mr. Pendulous enters.)

MISS FLYN My dear Pendulous!

PENDULOUS Maria!—nay, shun the embraces of a disgraced man, who comes but to tell you that you must renounce his society for ever.

MISS FLYN Nay, Pendulous, avoid me not.

PENDULOUS (Aside.) That was tender. I may be mistaken. Whilst I stood on honourable terms, Maria might have met my caresses without a blush.

(Betty, who has not attended to the entrance of Pendulous, through her eagerness to read the letter, comes forward.)

BETTY Ha! ha! ha! What a funny story, madam; and is this all you make such a fuss about? I should not care if twenty of my lovers had been—— (seeing Pendulous)—Lord, Sir, I ask pardon.

PENDULOUS Are we not alone, then?

MISS FLYN 'Tis only Betty—my old servant. You remember Betty?

PENDULOUS What letter is that?

MISS FLYN O! something from her sweetheart, I suppose.

BETTY Yes, ma'am, that is all. I shall die of laughing.

PENDULOUS You have not surely been shewing her——

MISS FLYN I must be ingenuous. You must know, then, that I was just giving Betty a hint—as you came in.

PENDULOUS A hint!

MISS FLYN Yes, of our unfortunate embarrassment.

PENDULOUS My letter!

MISS FLYN I thought it as well that she should know it at first.

PENDULOUS 'Tis mighty well, madam. 'Tis as it should be. I was ordained to be a wretched laughing-stock to all the world; and it is fit that our drabs and our servant wenches should have their share of the amusement.

BETTY Marry come up! Drabs and servant wenches! and this from a person in his circumstances!

(Betty flings herself out of the room, muttering.)

MISS FLYN I understand not this language. I was prepared to give my Pendulous a tender meeting. To assure him, that however, in the eyes of the superficial and the censorious, he may have incurred a partial degradation, in the esteem of one, at least, he stood as high as ever. That it was not in the power of a ridiculous accident, involving no guilt, no shadow of imputation, to separate two hearts, cemented by holiest vows, as ours have been. This untimely repulse to my affections may awaken scruples in me, which hitherto, in tenderness to you, I have suppressed.

PENDULOUS I very well understand what you call tenderness, madam; but in some situations, pity—pity—is the greatest insult.

MISS FLYN I can endure no longer. When you are in a calmer mood, you will be sorry that you have wrung my heart so. [Exit.]

PENDULOUS Maria! She is gone—in tears. Yet it seems she has had her scruples. She said she had tried to smother them. Mermaid Betty intimated as much.

Re-enter Betty.

BETTY Never mind Retty, sir; depend upon it she will never 'peach.

PENDULOUS 'Peach!

BETTY Lord, sir, these scruples will blow over. Go to her again, when she is in a better humour. You know we must stand off a little at first, to save appearances.

PENDULOUS Appearances! we!

BETTY It will be decent to let some time elapse.

PENDULOUS Time elapse!

Lost, wretched Pendulous! to scorn betrayed, The scoff alike of mistress and of maid! What now remains for thee, forsaken man, But to complete thy fate's abortive plan, And finish what the feeble law began?

[Exeunt.]

Re-enter Miss Flyn, with Marian.

MISS FLYN Now both our lovers are gone, I hope my friend will have less reserve. You must consider this apartment as yours while you stay here. 'Tis larger and more commodious than your own.