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.]