Cam. He's very honest, to my knowledge.
Ld. H. I remember, indeed, when I was turned out of the house he followed me to the gate and wept over me, for which I've heard he'd like to have lost his place. But, however, I must advise with you a little about my behaviour to him; let's in. Boy, bring him up hither, tell him I'll wait on him presently. [Exit Boy.
I shall want you, I believe, here, Trim. [Exeunt.
Re-enter Boy and Trusty.
Boy. My lord will wait on you here immediately. [Exit Boy.
Tru. 'Tis very well, these lodgings are but homely for the Earl of Brumpton. Oh, that damned strumpet—that I should ever know my master's wife for such!—How many thousand things does my head run back to? After my poor father's death the good lord took me, because he was a captain in his regiment, and gave me education. I was, I think, three-and-twenty when this young lord within was christened; what a do there was about calling him Francis! [Wipes his eyes.] These are but poor lodgings for him. I cannot bear the joy, to think that I shall save the family from which I've had my bread.
Enter Trim.
Trim. Sir, my lord will wait you immediately.
Tru. Sir, 'tis my duty to wait him—[As Trim is going] but, sir, are not you the young man that attended him at Christchurch, in Oxford, and have followed him ever since?
Trim. Yes, sir, I am.
Tru. Nay, sir, no harm, but you'll thrive the better for it.
Trim. I like this old fellow; I smell more money. [Aside. Exit.
Tru. I think 'tis now eight years since I saw him—he was not then nineteen—when I followed him to the gate, and gave him fifty guineas, which I pretended his father sent after him.
Enter Lord Hardy.
Ld. H. Mr. Trusty, I'm very glad to see you look very hale and jolly; you wear well. I'm glad to see it—but your commands to me, Mr. Trusty.
Tru. Why, my lord, I presume to wait on your lordship. My lord, you're strangely grown; you're your father's very picture, you're he, my lord; you are the very man that looked so pleased to see me look so fine in my laced livery, to go to Court. I was his page when he was just such another as you. He kissed me afore a great many lords, and said I was a brave man's son, that taught him to exercise his arms. I remember he carried me to the great window, and bid me be sure to keep in your mother's sight in all my finery. She was the finest young creature; the maids of honour hated to see her at Court. My lord then courted my good lady. She was as kind to me on her death-bed; she said to me, Mr. Trusty, take care of my lord's second marriage for that child's sake. She pointed as well as she could to you. You fell a-crying, and said she should not die; but she did, my lord. She left the world, and no one like her in't. Forgive me, my honoured master. [Weeps, runs to my lord, and hugs him.] I've often carried you in these arms that grasp you; they were stronger then, but if I die to-morrow, you're worth five thousand pounds by my gift—'tis what I've got in the family, and I return it to you with thanks. But alas! do I live to see you want it?[30]
Ld. H. You confound me with all this tenderness and generosity.
Tru. I'll trouble you no longer, my lord, but——
Ld. H. Call it not a trouble, for——
Tru. My good lord, I will not, I say, indulge myself in talking fond tales that melt me, and interrupt my story. My business to your lordship, in one word, is this: I am in good confidence at present with my lady dowager, and I know she has some fears upon her, which depend upon the nature of the settlement to your disfavour, and under the rose—be yourself—I fear your father has not had fair play for his life—be composed, my lord. What is to be done is this: we'll not apply to public justice in this case, 'till we see farther; 'twill make it noisy, which we must not do, if I might advise. You shall, with a detachment of your Company, seize the corpse as it goes out of the house this evening to be interred in the country; 'twill only look like taking the administration upon yourself, and commencing a suit for the estate. She has put off the lying in state, and Lady Harriot's escape with Mr. Campley makes her fear he will prove a powerful friend, both to the young ladies and your lordship. She cannot, with decency, be so busy, as when the corpse is out of the house, therefore hastens it. I know your whole affair; leave the care of Lady Sharlot to me. I'll pre-acquaint her, that she mayn't be frightened, and dispose of her safely, to observe the issue.
Ld. H. I wholly understand you; it shall be done.
Tru. I'm sure I am wanted this moment for your interest at home. This ring shall be the passport of intelligence for whom you send to assault us, and the remittance of it sealed with this, shall be authentic from within the house.
Ld. H. 'Tis very well.
Tru. Hope all you can wish, my lord, from a certain secret relating to the estate, which I'll acquaint you with next time I see you. [Exit.
Ld. H. Your servant——This fellow's strangely honest——Ha! Will.
Enter Campley and Trim.
Will! don't the recruits wait for me to see 'em at their parade before this house?
Trim. Yes; and have waited these three hours.
Ld. H. Go to 'em; I'll be there myself immediately. We must attack with 'em, if the rogues are sturdy, this very evening.
Trim. I guess where——I'm overjoyed at it. I'll warrant you they do it, if I command in chief.
Ld. H. I design you shall. [Trim runs out jumping.
Cam. You seem, my lord, to be in deep meditation.
Ld. H. I am so, but not on anything that you may not be acquainted with. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Covent Garden.
Enter Trim, with a company of ragged fellows, with a cane.
1st Sol. Why then, I find, Mr. Trim, we shall come to blows before we see the French.
Trim. Harkee, friend, 'tis not your affair to guess or enquire what you're going to do; 'tis only for us commanders.
2nd Sol. The French? Pox! they are but a Company of scratching civet cats. They fight!
Trim. Harkee, don't bluster. Were not you a little mistaken in your facings at Steinkirk?
2nd Sol. I grant it; you know I have an antipathy to the French—I hate to see the dogs. Look you here, gentlemen, I was shot quite through the body, look you.
Trim. Prithee, look where it entered at your back.
2nd Sol. Look you, Mr. Trim, you will have your joke, we know you are a wit—but what's that to a fighting man?
Enter Kate.
Kate. Mr. Trim! Mr. Trim!
Trim. Things are not as they have been, Mrs. Kate. I now pay the Company, and we that pay money expect a little more ceremony.
Kate. Will your honour please to taste some right French brandy?
Trim. Art thou sure, good woman, 'tis right? [Drinks. How—French—pray—nay, if I find you deceive me, who pay the men——[Drinks.
Kate. Pray, good master, have you spoken to my lord about me?
Trim. I have, but you shall speak to him yourself. Thou hast been a true campaigner, Kate, and we must not neglect thee. Do you sell grey pease yet of an evening, Mrs. Matchlock? [Drinks again.
Kate. Anything to turn the penny, but I got more by crying pamphlets this year, than by anything I have done a great while. Now I am married into the Company again, I design to cross the seas next year. But, master, my husband, a Temple porter, and a Parliament man's footman, last night by their talk made me think there was danger of a peace; why, they said, all the prime people were against a war.
Trim. No, no, Kate, never fear; you know I keep great company. All men are for a war, but some would have it abroad, and some would have it at home in their own country.
Kate. Ay, say you so? Drink about, gentlemen, not a farthing to pay; a war is a war, be it where it will. But pray, Mr. Trim, speak to my lord, that when these gentlemen have shirts I may wash for 'em.
Trim. I tell you, if you behave well to-night, you shall have a fortnight's pay each man as a reward; but there's none of you industrious. There's a thousand things you might do to help out about this town, as to cry, puff, puff pies—have you any knives or scissors to grind? or, late in an evening, whip from Grub Street, strange and bloody news from Flanders—votes from the House of Commons—buns, rare buns—old silver lace, cloaks, suits, or coats—old shoes, boots, or hats—But here, here, here's my lord a-coming; here's the captain. Fall back into the rank there; move up in the centre.
Enter Lord Hardy and Campley.
Ld. H. Let me see whether my ragged friends are ready and about me.
Kate. Ensign Campley, Ensign Campley, I am overjoyed to see your honour; ha! the world's surely altered, ha!
Cam. 'Tis so, faith! Kate, why thou art true to the cause, with the Company still, honest amazon.
Kate. Dear soul, not a bit of pride in him; but won't your honour help in my business with my lord? Speak for me, noble ensign, do.
Cam. Speak to him yourself; I'll second you.
Kate. Noble captain, my lord! I suppose Mr. Trim has told your honour about my petition. I have been a great sufferer in the service. 'Tis hard for a poor woman to lose nine husbands in a war, and no notice taken; nay, three of 'em, alas, in the same campaign. Here the woman stands that says it. I never stripped a man 'till I first tried if he could stand on his legs, and, if not, I think 'twas fair plunder, except our adjutant, and he was a puppy, that made my eighth husband run the gauntlet for not turning his toes out.
Ld. H. Well, we'll consider thee, Kate, but fall back into the rear. A roll of what? Gentlemen soldiers?
Trim [To Pumkin]. Do you hear that? My lord himself can't deny but we are all gentlemen, as much as his honour.
Ld. H. [Reading]. Gentlemen soldiers quartered in and about Guy Court in Vinegar Yard, in Russel Court in Drury Lane, belonging to the honourable Captain Hardy's Company of Foot—So, answer to your names, and march off from the left. John Horseem, corporal, march easy, that I may view you as you pass by me. Drums Simon Ruffle, Darby Tattoo—there's a shilling for you—Tattoo be always so tight; how does he keep himself so clean?
Trim. Sir, he is a tragedy drum to one of the playhouses.
Ld. H. Private gentlemen: Alexander Cowitch, Humphrey Mundungus, William Faggot, Nicholas Scab, Timothy Megrim, Philip Scratch, Nehemiah Dust, Humphrey Garbage, Nathaniel Matchlock.
Cam. What! Is Matchlock come back to the Company? That's the fellow that brought me off at Steinkirk.
Ld. H. No, sir, 'tis I am obliged to him for that. [Offering to give him money.] There, friend, you shall want for nothing; I'll give thee a halbert too.
Kate. O brave me! Shall I be a sergeant's lady? I' faith, I'll make the drums, and the corporal's wives, and Company-keepers know their distance.
Cam. How far out of the country did you come to list? Don't you come from Cornwall? How did you bear your charges?
Match. I was whipped from constable to constable——
Trim. Ay, my lord, that's due by the courtesy of England to all that want in red coats; besides, there's an Act that makes us free of all corporations, and that's the ceremony of it.
Cam. But what pretence had they for using you so ill? You did not pilfer?
Match. I was found guilty of being poor.
Cam. Poor devil!
Ld. H. Timothy Ragg! O Ragg! I thought when I gave you your discharge, just afore the peace, we should never have had you again. How came you to list now?
Ragg. To pull down the French king.
Ld. H. Bravely resolved! But pull your shirt into your breeches in the mean time. Jeoffrey Tatter—What's become of the skirts and buttons of your coat?
Tatter. In our last clothing in the regiment I served in afore, the colonel had one skirt before, the agent one behind, and every captain of the regiment a button.
Ld. H. Hush, you rogue, you talk mutiny. [Smiling.
Trim. Ay, sirrah, what have you to do with more knowledge than that of your right hand from your left? [Hits him a blow on the head.]
Ld. H. Hugh Clump—Clump, thou growest a little too heavy for marching.
Trim. Ay, my lord, but if we don't allow him the pay he'll starve, for he's too lame to get into the hospital.
Ld. H. Richard Bumpkin! Ha! A perfect country hick. How came you, friend, to be a soldier?
Bump. An't please your honour, I have been crossed in love, and am willing to seek my fortune.
Ld. H. Well, I've seen enough of 'em. If you mind your affair, and act like a wise general, these fellows may do—come, take your orders. [Trim puts his hat on his stick, while my lord is giving him the ring, and whispers orders.] Well, gentlemen, do your business manfully, and nothing shall be too good for you.
All. Bless your honour. [Exeunt Hardy and Campley.
Trim. Now, my brave friends and fellow-soldiers—[Aside.] I must fellow-soldier 'em just afore a battle, like a true officer, though I cane 'em all the year round beside—[Strutting about.] Major-General Trim; no, pox, Trim sounds so very short and priggish—that my name should be a monosyllable! But the foreign news will write me, I suppose, Monsieur or Chevalier Trimont. Seigneur Trimoni, or Count Trimuntz, in the German Army, I shall perhaps be called; ay, that's all the plague and comfort of us great men, they do so toss our names about. But, gentlemen, you are now under my command—huzza! thrice—faith, this is very pleasing, this grandeur! Why, after all, 'tis upon the neck of such scoundrels as these gentlemen that we great captains build our renown. A million or two of these fellows make an Alexander, and as that my predecessor said in the tragedy of him on the very same occasion, going to storm for his Statira, so do I for my dear seamstress, Madam d'Epingle—
When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay;
'Tis beauty calls, and glory leads the way.[31]
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Enter Trusty and Lord Brumpton.
Tru. She knows no moderation in her good fortune; she has, out of impatience to see herself in her weeds, ordered her mantua woman to stitch up anything immediately. You may hear her and Tattleaid laugh aloud—she is so wantonly merry.
Ld. B. But this of Lady Sharlot is the very utmost of all ill. Pray read—but I must sit; my late fit of the gout makes me act with pain and constraint. Let me see——
Tru. She writ it by the page, who brought it me, as I had wheedled him to do all their passages.
Ld. B. [Reads.]
"You must watch the occasion of the servants being gone out of the house with the corpse; Tattleaid shall conduct you to my Lady Sharlot's apartment—away with her—and be sure you bed her——
"Your affectionate Sister,
"Mary Brumpton."
Brumpton? The creature! She called as Frank's mother was? Brumpton! The succuba! What a devil incarnate have I had in my bosom? Why, the common abandoned town women would scruple such an action as this. Though they have lost all regard to their own chastity, they would be tender of another's. Why, sure she had no infancy. She never had virginity, to have no compassion through memory of her own former innocence. This is to forget her very humanity—her very sex. Where is my poor boy? Where's Frank? Does not he want? How has he lived all this time? Not a servant, I warrant, to attend him—what company can he keep? What can he say of his father?
Tru. Though you made him not your heir, he is still your son, and has all the duty and tenderness in the world for your memory.
Ld. B. It is impossible, Trusty; it is impossible. I will not rack myself with the thought, that one I have injured can be so very good—keep me in countenance—tell me he hates my very name, would not assume my title because it descends from me. What's his company?
Tru. Young Tom Campley; they are never asunder.
Ld. B. I am glad he has my pretty tattler—the cheerful innocent Harriot. I hope he'll be good to her; he's good-natured and well-bred.
Tru. But, my lord, she was very punctual in ordering the funeral. She bid Sable be sure to lay you deep enough, she had heard such stories of the wicked sextons taking up people; but I wish, my lord, you would please to hear her and Tattleaid once more——
Ld. B. I know to what thy zeal tends; but I tell you, since you cannot be convinced but that I have still a softness for her—I say though I had so, it should never make me transgress that scrupulous honour that becomes a peer of England. If I could forget injuries done myself thus gross, I never will those done my friends. You knew Sharlot's worthy father—No, there's no need of my seeing more of this woman. I behold her now with the same eyes that you do; there's a meanness in all she says or does; she has a great wit but a little mind—something ever wanting to make her appear my Lady Brumpton. She has nothing natively great. You see I love her not; I talk with judgment of her.
Tru. I see it, my good lord, with joy I see it, nor care how few things I see more in this world. My satisfaction is complete. Welcome old age; welcome decay; 'tis not decay, but growth to a latter being. [Exit, leading Lord Brumpton.
Re-enter Trusty, meeting Cabinet.
Tru. I have your letter, Mr. Cabinet.
Cab. I hope, sir, you'll believe it was not in my nature to be guilty of so much baseness; but being born a gentleman, and bred out of all roads of industry in that idle manner too many are, I soon spent a small patrimony; and being debauched by luxury, I fell into the narrow mind to dread no infamy like poverty, which made me guilty, as that paper tells you; and had I not writ to you, I am sure I never could have told you of it.
Tru. It is an ingenious, pious penitence in you; my Lord Hardy (to whom this secret is inestimable) is a noble-natured man, and you shall find him such, I give you my word.
Cab. I know, sir, your integrity.
Tru. But pray be there; all that you have to do is to ask for the gentlewoman at the house at my Lord Hardy's; she'll take care of you. And pray have patience, where she places you, till you see me. [Exit Cab.] My Lord Hardy's being a house where they receive lodgers, has allowed me convenience to place everybody I think necessary to be by at her discovery. This prodigious welcome secret! I see, however impracticable honest actions may appear, we may go on with just hope—
All that is ours is to be justly bent,
And Heaven in its own cause will bless the event.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—Covent Garden.
Enter Trim and his party.
Trim. March up, march up. Now we are near the citadel, and halt only to give the necessary orders for the engagement. Ha! Clump, Clump! When we come to Lord Brumpton's door, and you see us conveniently disposed about the house, you are to wait till you see a corpse brought out of the house; then to go up to him you observe the director, and ask importunately for an alms to a poor soldier, for which you may be sure you shall have a good blow or two; but if you have not, be saucy till you have. Then when you see a file of men got between the house and the body—a file of men, Bumpkin, is six men—I say, when you see the file in such a posture, that half the file may face to the house, half to the body, you are to fall down, crying murder, that the half file faced to the body may throw it and themselves over you. I then march to your rescue. Then, Swagger, you and your party fall in to secure my rear, while I march off with the body. These are the orders; and this, with a little improvement of my own, is the same disposition Villeroy and Catinat made at Chiari. [Marches off with his party.
SCENE III.—Lord Brumpton's House.
Enter Widow, in deep mourning, with a dead squirrel on her arm, and Tattleaid.
Wid. It must be so; it must be your carelessness. What had the page to do in my bedchamber?
Tat. Indeed, madam, I can't tell. But I came in and catched him wringing round his neck——
Wid. Tell the rascal from me he shall romp with the footmen no more. No; I'll send the rogue in a frock to learn Latin among the dirty boys that come to good, I will. But 'tis ever so among these creatures that live on one's superfluous affections; a lady's woman, page, and squirrel are always rivals.
Poor harmless animal—pretty e'en in death:
Death might have overlooked thy little life—
How could'st thou, Robin, leave thy nuts and me?
How was't importunate, dearest, thou should'st die?
Thou never did'st invade thy neighbour's soils;
Never mad'st war with specious shows of peace;
Thou never hast depopulated regions,
But cheerfully did'st bear thy little chain,
Content—so I but fed thee with this hand.
Tat. Alas, alas! we are all mortal. Consider, madam, my lord's dead too. [Weeps.
Wid. Ay, but our animal friends do wholly die; an husband or relation, after death, is rewarded or tormented; that's some consolation—I know her tears are false, for she hated Robin always; but she's a well-bred, dishonest servant, that never speaks a painful truth. [Aside.]—But I'll resolve to conquer my affliction—never speak more of Robin—hide him there. But to my dress: How soberly magnificent is black—and the train—I wonder how widows came to wear such long tails?
Tat. Why, madam, the stateliest of all creatures has the longest tail; the peacock, nay, 't has of all creatures the finest mien too—except your ladyship, who are a Phœnix——
Wid. Ho! brave Tattleaid! But did not you observe what a whining my Lady Sly made when she had drank a little? Did you believe her? Do you think there are really people sorry for their husbands?
Tat. Really, madam, some men do leave their fortunes in such distraction that I believe it may be——[Speaks with pins in her mouth.
Wid. But I swear I wonder how it came up to dress us thus. I protest, when all my equipage is ready, and I move in full pageantry, I shall fancy myself an embassadress from the Commonwealth of Women, the distressed State of Amazonia—to treat for men. But I protest I wonder how two of us thus clad can meet with a grave face! Methinks they should laugh out like two fortune-tellers, or two opponent lawyers that know each other for cheats——
Tat. Ha! ha! ha! I swear to you, madam, your ladyship's wit will choke me one time or other. I had like to have swallowed all the pins in my mouth——
Wid. But, Tatty, to keep house six weeks, that's another barbarous custom; but the reason of it, I suppose, was that the base people should not see people of quality may be as afflicted as themselves.
Tat. No, 'tis because they should not see 'em as merry as themselves.
Wid. Ha! ha! ha! Hussy, you never said that you spoke last. Why, 'tis just—'tis satire—I'm sure you saw it in my face, that I was going to say it: 'Twas too good for you. Come, lay down that sentence and the pin-cushion, and pin up my shoulder. Harkee, hussy, if you should, as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care I ain't buried in flannel; 'twould never become me, I'm sure.[32] That they can be as merry: Well, I'll tell my new acquaintance—what's her name?—she that reads so much, and writes verses. Her husband was deaf the first quarter of a year; I forget her name. That expression she'll like. Well, that woman does divert me strangely; I'll be very great with her. She talked very learnedly of the ridicule till she was ridiculous; then she spoke of the decent, of the agreeable, of the insensible. She designs to print the discourse; but of all things, I like her notion of the insensible.
Tat. Pray, madam, how was that?
Wid. A most useful discourse to be inculcated in our teens. The purpose of it is to disguise our apprehension in this ill-bred generation of men, who speak before women what they ought not to hear. As now, suppose you were a spark in my company, and you spoke some double entendre, I look thus! But be a fellow, and you shall see how I'll use you. The insensible is useful upon any occasion where we seemingly neglect and secretly approve, which is our ordinary common case. Now, suppose a coxcomb, dancing, prating, and playing his tricks before me to move me, without pleasure or distaste in my countenance, I look at him, just thus; but——Ha! ha! ha! I have found out a supplement to this notion of the insensible, for my own use, which is infallible, and that is to have always in my head all that they can say or do to me. So never be surprised with laughter, the occasion of which is always sudden.
Tat. Oh! my Lady Brumpton [Tattleaid bows and cringes], my lady, your most obedient servant.
Wid. Look you, wench, you see by the art of insensibility I put you out of countenance, though you were prepared for an ill-reception.
Tat. Oh! madam, how justly are you formed for what is now fallen to you—the empire of mankind.
Wid. Oh! sir, that puts me out of all my insensibility at once; that was so gallant—Ha! what noise is that; that noise of fighting? Run, I say. Whither are you going? What, are you mad? Will you leave me alone? Can't you stir? What, you can't take your message with you? Whatever 'tis, I suppose you are not in the plot; not you—Nor that now they're breaking open my house for Sharlot—Not you—Go, see what's the matter, I say, I have nobody I can trust. [Exit Tattleaid] One minute I think this wench honest, and the next false. Whither shall I turn me?
Tat. Madam, madam. [Re-entering.
Wid. Madam, madam, will you swallow me gaping?
Tat. Pray, good my lady, be not so out of humour; but there is a company of rogues have set upon our servants and the burial man's, while others ran away with the corpse.
Wid. How, what can this mean? What can they do with it?—Well, 'twill save the charge of interment—But to what end?
Enter Trusty and a Servant, bloody and dirty, haling in Clump and Bumpkin.
Ser. I'll teach you better manners; I'll poor soldier you, you dog you, I will. Madam, here are two of the rascals that were in the gang of rogues that carried away the corpse.
Wid. We'll examine 'em apart. Well, sirrah, what are you? Whence came you? What's your name, sirrah? [Clump makes signs as a dumb man.
Ser. Oh, you dog, you could speak loud enough just now, sirrah, when your brother rogues mauled Mr. Sable. We'll make you speak, sirrah.
Wid. Bring the other fellow hither. I suppose you will own you knew that man before you saw him at my door?
Clump. I think I have seen the gentleman's face. [Bowing to Bumpkin.
Wid. The gentleman's! The villain mocks me. But friend, you look like an honest man—what are you? Whence came you? What are you, friend?
Bump. I'se at present but a private gentleman, but I was lifted to be a sergeant in my Lord Hardy's Company. I'se not ashamed of my name nor of my koptin.
Wid. Leave the room all. [Exeunt all but Trusty and Tattleaid.] Mr. Trusty—Lord Hardy! O, that impious young man, thus, with the sacrilegious hands of ruffians to divert his father's ashes from their urn and rest—I suspect this fellow [Aside.]—Mr. Trusty, I must desire you to be still near me. I'll know the bottom of this; and to Lord Hardy's lodgings as I am, instantly. 'Tis but the back side of this street, I think. Let a coach be called.—Tattleaid, as soon as I am gone, conduct my brother and his friends to Lady Sharlot. Away with her. Bring mademoiselle away to me, that she may not be a witness.—Come, good Mr. Trusty.
SCENE IV.—Lord Hardy's Lodgings.
Enter Lord Hardy, leading Harriot; Campley, and Trim.
L. Ha. Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect general; but I assure you, sir, I'll never allow you an hero, who could leave your mistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you should have mademoiselle with you.
Trim. No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the men's heads, and such strange resolutions into the women's upon the occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if she were here.
L. Ha. A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [Aside.]—But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If so, pray let me be gone.
Ld. H. No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are things alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give light into, and which I can't believe even she could be guilty of.
L. Ha. Nay, my lord, that's generous to a folly, for even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she would do anything that can come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing woman.
Enter Boy.
Boy. My Lady Brumpton's below.
L. Ha. I'll run, then.
Cam. No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier's wife? Come, we'll rally her to death.
Ld. H. Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for a moment's thought on this occasion. [Exit.
L. Ha. She has more wit than us both.
Cam. Pshaw, no matter for that; be sure, as soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with something else; and laugh at all I say. I'll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We'll fall in slap upon her; she shan't have time to say a word of the running away.
Enter Lady Brumpton and Trusty.
Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship's most obedient servant: This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a readiness but a second husband; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress lying by you.
L. Ha. Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit.
Wid. I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for you have lost the look on't.
Cam. You are in the habit—That was so pretty; nay, without flattery, Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha! ha! ha!
L. Ha. No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha! ha! ha!
Wid. I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what's sufficient for your occasions, or that this pretty gentleman can't supply 'em——[Campley dancing about and trolling. Hey, day! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see; and I don't question but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. Ha! ha!
Cam. Pox, I can say nothing; 'tis always thus with your endeavours to be witty [Aside.]—I saw, madam, your mouth go, but there could be nothing offered in answer to what my Lady Harriot said.—'Twas home—'Twas cutting satire.
L. Ha. Oh, Mr. Campley! But pray, madam, has Mr. Cabinet visited your ladyship since this calamity? How stands that affair now?
Wid. Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, I'll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in distress—but I fear Mr. Campley overhears us.
Cam. And all the tune the pipers played was Toll-toll-doroll. I swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already yours, I could have a tender for this lady.
Wid. Come, good folks, I find we are very free with each other. What makes you two here? Do you board my lord, or he you? Come, come, ten shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. Campley, is it so? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay, you're in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my lord stay? He is not now with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope? Ha! ha! ha!
Cam. Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and his wife too. [Aside.
Enter Lord Hardy.
Ld. H. Because your ladyship is, I know, in very much pain in company you have injured, I'll be short—Open those doors—There lies your husband's, my father's body; and by you stands the man accuses you of poisoning him.
Wid. Of poisoning him!
Tru. The symptoms will appear upon the corpse.
Ld. H. But I am seized by nature—How shall I view,
a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins conveyed
to me this vital force and motion?
I cannot bear that sight—
I am as fixed and motionless as he—
[They open the coffin, out of which jumps Lady Sharlot.[33]
Art thou the ghastly shape my mind had formed?
Art thou the cold, inanimate—bright maid?
Thou giv'st new higher life to all around.
Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey me?
Whither transported by my pleasing fury?
The season vanishes at thy approach;
'Tis morn, 'tis spring—
Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way.
Why is my fair unmoved—my heavenly fair?
Does she but smile at my exalted rapture?
L. Sh. Oh! sense of praise, to me unfelt before,
Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear.
How sweet applause is from an honest tongue!
Thou lov'st my mind—hast well affection placed;
In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter.
Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover;
Immutable as the object of thy flame!
I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love.
Pure, I approach thee; nor did I with empty shows,
Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence,
Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul;
Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it:
Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter
My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.[34]
[Reclines on Hardy.
L. Ha. Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed; the greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I protest I'll never be won so; you shall begin again with me.
Cam. Prithee, why dost name us poor animals? They have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaintance Tom and Harriot.
Ld. H. So we did indeed, but you'll pardon us.
Cam. My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein I should rejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. [Embracing.
L. Sh. Harriot.}
}[Embracing.]
L. Ha. Sharlot.}
Wid. Sir, you're at the bottom of all this; I see you're skilled at close conveyances. I'll know the meaning instantly of these intricacies. 'Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. My husband's death was sudden. You and the burial fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my husband's body, or I'll try you for his murder; which I find you'd put on me, thou hellish engine!
Tru. Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach people in misery. You're undone, madam.
Wid. What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [Trusty exit hastily.]—Do you design to let the villain escape? How justly did your father judge, that made you a beggar with that spirit! You meant just now you could not bear the company of those you'd injured.
Ld. H. You are a woman, madam, and my father's widow. But sure you think you've highly injured me.
[Here Lord Brumpton and Trusty half enter and observe.
Wid. No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle; I must justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wholly alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are Earl of Brumpton.
Ld. H. Insolent woman! it was not me my good father disinherited; 'twas him you represented. The guilt was thine; he did an act of justice.
Lord Brumpton, entering with Trusty.
Ld. B. Oh, unparalleled goodness!
Tattleaid and Mademoiselle at the other door entering.
Tru. Oh! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come.
Wid. What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, living?
Ld. B. [Turning from her, running to his son.] Oh, my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot! [All kneeling to him.] Oh, my children! Oh, oh! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture! my son! my son! I shall expire in the too mighty pleasure! my boy!
Ld. H. A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour! Oh! grant me, Heaven, grant me moderation!
Wid. A son, an heir! Am I neglected then?
What? can my lord revive, yet dead to me?
Only to me deceased—to me alone,
Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan?
Ld. B. 'Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat, nor can I answer.
Wid. You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that's I suppose not taken from a play? That's as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and life are equal; or I'll still wear my mourning 'cause you're living.
Tru. Value her not, my lord; a prior obligation made you incapable of settling on her, your wife.
Ld. B. Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her—Oh, my child!
Tru. Look you, madam, I'll come again immediately. Be not troubled, my dear lords——[Exit.
Cam. Trusty looks very confident; there is some good in that.
Re-enter Trusty with Cabinet.
Cab. What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then——
Tru. Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, retract this for your hand-writing.—My lord, this gentleman, since your supposed death, has lurked about the house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid, who upon your decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy him off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your closet, where he saw your lordship reading. Struck with horror, and believing himself (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation of your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a year before you ever saw her.
All. How? [All turn upon her disdainfully.
Wid. No more a widow then, but still a wife.
[Recovering from her confusion.
I am thy wife—thou author of my evil
Thou must partake with me an homely board,
An homely board that never shall be cheerful;
But every meal embittered with upbraidings.
Thou that could'st tell me, good and ill were words,
When thou could'st basely let me to another,
Yet could'st see sprights, great unbeliever!
Coward! Bug-beared penitent——
Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys
To thy dishonour; despicable thing,
Dishonour thee? Thou voluntary cuckold.
[Cabinet sneaks off, Widow flings after him,
Tattleaid following.
Ld. B. I see you're all confused as well as I. Ye are my children, I hold you all so; and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her injuries, yet had I ne'er been roused from that low passion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend's child. I am glad that scorn's confirmed by her being that fellow's, whom, for my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house?
Tru. Never to speak on't more, my lord.
Ld. B. You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a
crisis[35] in your country.
And on this great occasion, Tom, I'll mount
Old Campley which thy father gave me,
And attend thee a cheerful gay old man,
Into the field to represent our county.
My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves
To France, shall mount thy father's son
Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy,
While I and Trusty follow weeping after:
But be thou honest, firm, impartial,
Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee,[36]
Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes;
Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely
Screen thy faults 'gainst law, behind the
Laws thou makest
But thou against my death, must learn a supererogatory morality.
[To Lord Hardy.
As he is to be just, be generous thou:
Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck
With sounds and appellations; title is
No more, if not significant
Of something that's superior in thyself
To other men, of which thou may'st be
Conscious, yet not proud—But if you swerve
From higher virtue than the crowd possess,
Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee.
You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge
Upon your honour, of others' lives and fortunes;
Because that honour's dearer than your own.
Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord
For when our shining virtues bless mankind,
We disappoint the livid malcontents,
Who long to call our noble Order useless.
Our all's in danger, sir, nor shall you dally
Your youth away with your fine wives.
No, in your country's cause you shall meet death,
While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it.
Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to
draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things
are, I had like to have been a fatal instance.
Cam. But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit; you've been extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance; you'll see, my lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I designed for my own wedding I'll compliment the general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her?
Trim. I will, but I can't. There's a countryman of hers without, by accident.
Cam. Ay, but is he a dancer?
Trim. Is a Frenchman a dancer? Is a Welshman a gentleman? I'll bring him in.
[Here a dance and the following songs.
Set by Mr. Daniel Purcell.[37]
Sung by Jemmie Bowin.
I.
On yonder bed supinely laid,
Behold thy loved expecting maid:
In tremor, blushes, half in tears,
Much, much she wishes, more she fears.
Take, take her to thy faithful arms,
Hymen bestows thee all her charms.
II.
Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair,
To raise thy joy, and lull thy care;
Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease,
But joy, divided, to increase:
To mourn with her exceeds delight,
Darkness with her, the joys of light.
Sung by Mr. Pate.
I.
Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned,
Rise from your urns, and save your dying story,
Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned,
For mighty William seizes all your glory.
II.
Again the British trumpet sounds,
Again Britannia bleeds;
To glorious death, or comely wounds,
Her godlike monarch leads.
III.
Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,
Celestial minds from clay untie,
Let coward spirits dwell below,
And only give the brave to die.
Ld. B. Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the stage of life you're in. Don't follow love when nature seeks but ease; otherwise you'll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm pursuits of glory are over with you; for fame and rest are utter opposites.
You who the path of honour make your guide,
Must let your passion with your blood subside;
And no untimed ambition, love, or rage
Employ the moments of declining age;
Else boys will in your presence lose their fear,
And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Lord Hardy.
Love, hope and fear, desire, aversion, rage,
All that can move the soul, or can assuage,
Are drawn in miniature of life, the stage.
Here you can view yourselves, and here is shown
To what you're born in sufferings not your own.
The stage to wisdom's no fantastic way,
Athens herself learned virtue at a play.
Our author me to-night a soldier drew,
But faintly writ, what warmly you pursue:
To his great purpose, had he equal fire,
He'd not aim to please only, but inspire;
He'd sing what hovering fate attends our isle,
And from base pleasure rouse to glorious toil:
Full time the earth to a new decision brings;
While William gives the Roman eagle wings:
With arts and arms shall Britain tamely end,
Which naked Picts so bravely could defend?
The painted heroes on th' invaders press,
And think their wounds addition to their dress;
In younger years we've been with conquest blest,
And Paris has the British yoke confessed;
Is't then in England, in lost England, known,
Her kings are named from a revolted throne?
But we offend—You no examples need,
In imitation of yourselves proceed;
'Tis you your country's honour must secure,
By all your actions worthy of Namur:
With gentle fires your gallantry improve,
Courage is brutal, if untouched with love:
If soon our utmost bravery's not displayed,
Think that bright circle must be captives made;
Let thoughts of saving them our toils beguile,
And they reward our labours with a smile.
THE LYING LOVER:
OR
THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP.
"Hæc nôsse salus est adolescentulis."[38]—Tertullian.
The Lying Lover: or the Ladies' Friendship, a Comedy, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703, and ran for six nights. It was published by Bernard Lintot on January 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.), Mills (Lovemore), Cibber (Latine), Pinkethman (Storm), and Bullock (Charcoal), together with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers (Penelope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was originally produced. The plot was taken from Le Menteur, by Corneille, who had borrowed from Ruiz de Alarcon's Verdad Sospechosa. Steele is, of course, solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the end of the piece. Samuel Foote afterwards made much use of Steele's play in his Liar.
To His Grace the
DUKE OF ORMOND.[39]
My Lord,
Out of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my infancy,[40] your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this Comedy at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind, good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a purpose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover of mankind as your Grace; and if your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself.
'Twas the irresistible force of this humanity in your temper that has carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other motive than a passionate regard for the glory of your country; since before you entered into its service, you were possessed of its highest honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your birth gave you, without repeating the glorious actions by which it was acquired.
But there cannot be less expected from the son of an Ossory, than to contemn life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn of gain, and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of arms; all which engaging qualities your noble family has exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in others had been invidious, was a security to the Crown, when lodged in the House of Ormond.
Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great an expectation, that it seemed impossible there could be anything left which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained under your command; and Providence thought fit to give the wealth of the Indies into his hands, who only could despise it; while, with a superior generosity, he knows no reward but in opportunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours, made me feel, before I was sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent of mind is hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon me, that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains, by assuring your Grace that I am,
My Lord,
Your Grace's most obedient
And most devoted
Humble Servant,
Richard Steele.
THE PREFACE.
Though it ought to be the care of all Governments that public representations should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to the manners, laws, religion, and policy of the place or nation in which they are exhibited; yet is it the general complaint of the more learned and virtuous amongst us, that the English stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought, therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth.
In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced with as much agility and life as he brought with him from France, and as much humour as I could bestow upon him in England. But he uses the advantages of a learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, without the circumspection and good sense which should always attend the pleasures of a gentleman; that is to say, a reasonable creature.
Thus he makes false love, gets drunk, and kills his man; but in the fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with the compunction and remorse which is suitable to a man's finding himself in a gaol for the death of his friend, without his knowing why.
The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that distress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from those images which the religion of our country tells us we ought to tremble at with horror.
But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage into her consideration;[41] and we may hope, by her gracious influence on the Muses, wit will recover from its apostasy; and that, by being encouraged in the interests of virtue, it will strip vice of the gay habit in which it has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native dress of shame, contempt, and dishonour.
PROLOGUE.
All the commanding powers that awe mankind
Are in a trembling poet's audience joined,
Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit,
And at their feet assembled men of wit:
Our author, therefore, owns his deep despair
To entertain the learned or the fair;
Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends,
To pardon what he does, for what he intends;
He aims to make the coming action move
On the dread laws of friendship and of love;
Sure then he'll find but very few severe,
Since there's of both so many objects here.
He offers no gross vices to your sight,
Those too much horror raise for just delight;
And to detain the attentive knowing ear,
Pleasure must still have something that's severe.[42]
If then you find our author treads the stage
With just regard to a reforming age;
He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due
Mercy to him, for justice done to you.