GROUP
A
Farce
ACT I.
Scene I. A little dark Parlour in Boston:
Guards standing at the door.
Hazlerod, Crusty Crowbar, Simple Sapling, Hateall, and Hector Mushroom.
Simple.
I know not what to think of these sad times,
The people arm'd,—and all resolv'd to die
Ere they'll submit.——
Crusty Crowbar.
I too am almost sick of the parade
Of honours purchas'd at the price of peace.
Simple.
Fond as I am of greatness and her charms,
Elate with prospects of my rising name,
Push'd into place,—a place I ne'er expected,
My bounding heart leapt in my feeble breast.
And ecstasies entranc'd my slender brain.—
But yet, ere this I hop'd more solid gains,
As my low purse demands a quick supply.—
Poor Sylvia weeps,—and urges my return
To rural peace and humble happiness,
As my ambition beggars all her babes.
Crusty.
When first I listed in the desp'rate cause,
And blindly swore obedience to his will,
So wise, so just, so good I thought Rapatio,
That if salvation rested on his word
I'd pin my faith, and risk my hopes thereon.
Hazlerod.
Any why not now?—What staggers thy belief?
Crusty.
Himself—his perfidy appears—
It is too plain he has betray'd his country;
And we're the wretched tools by him mark'd out
To seal its ruins—tear up the ancient forms,
And every vestige treacherously destroy,
Nor leave a trait of freedom in the land.
Nor did I think hard fate wou'd call me up
From drudging o'er my acres,
Treading the glade, and sweating at the plough,
To dangle at the tables of the great;
At bowls and cards to spend my frozen years;
To sell my friends, my country, and my conscience;
Profane the sacred sabbaths of my God;
Scorn'd by the very men who want my aid
To spread distress o'er this devoted people.
Hazlerod.
Pho—what misgivings—why these idle qualms,
This shrinking backwards at the bugbear conscience;
In early life I heard the phantom nam'd,
And the grave sages prate of moral sense
Presiding in the bosom of the just;
Or planting thongs about the guilty heart.
Bound by these shackles, long my lab'ring mind,
Obscurely trod the lower walks of life,
In hopes by honesty my bread to gain;
But neither commerce, or my conjuring rods,
Nor yet mechanics, or new fangled drills,
Or all the iron-monger's curious arts,
Gave me a competence of shining ore,
Or gratify'd my itching palm for more;
Till I dismiss'd the bold intruding guest,
And banish'd conscience from my wounded breast.
Crusty.
Happy expedient!—Could I gain the art,
Then balmy sleep might sooth my waking lids,
And rest once more refresh my weary soul.
Hazlerod.
Resolv'd more rapidly to gain my point,
I mounted high in justice's sacred seat,
With flowing robes, and head equip'd without,
A heart unfeeling and a stubborn soul,
As qualify'd as e'er a Jefferies was;
Save in the knotty rudiments of law,
The smallest requisite for modern times,
When wisdom, law, and justice are supply'd
By swords, dragoons, and ministerial nods,
Sanctions most sacred in the Pander's creed,
I sold my country for a splendid bribe.
Now let her sink—and all the dire alarms
Of war, confusion, pestilence, and blood,
And tenfold mis'ry be her future doom—
Let civil discord lift her sword on high,
Nay, sheath its hilt e'en in my brother's blood;
It ne'er shall move the purpose of my soul;
Tho' once I trembled at a thought so bold;
By Philalethes's arguments, convinc'd,
We may live Demons, as we die like brutes,
I give my tears, and conscience to the winds.
Hateall.
Curse on their coward fears, and dastard souls,
Their soft compunctions and relented qualms,
Compassion ne'er shall seize my steadfast breast
Though blood and carnage spread thro' all the land;
Till streaming purple tinge the verdant turf,
Till ev'ry street shall float with human gore,
I Nero-like, the capital in flames,
could laugh to see her glotted sons expire,
Tho' much too rough my soul to touch the lyre.
Simple.
I fear the brave, the injur'd multitude,
Repeated wrongs, arouse them to resent,
And every patriot like old Brutus stands,
The shining steel half drawn—its glitt'ring point
Scarce hid beneath the scabbard's friendly cell,
Resolv'd to die, or see their country free.
Hateall.
Then let them die—The dogs we will keep down—
While N——'s my friend, and G—— approves the deed,
Tho' hell and all its hell-hounds should unite,
I'll not recede to save from swift perdition
My wife, my country, family, or friends.
G——'s mandamus I more highly prize
Than all the mandates of th' etherial king.
Hector Mushroom.
Will our abettors in the distant towns
Support us long against the common cause,
When they shall see from Hampshire's northern bounds
Thro' the wide western plains to southern shores
The whole united continent in arms?——
Hateall.
They shall—as sure as oaths or bond can bind;
I've boldly sent my new-born brat abroad,
Th' association of my morbid brain,
To which each minion must affix his name,
As all our hope depends on brutal force,
On quick destruction, misery, and death;
Soon may we see dark ruin stalk around,
With murder, rapine, and inflicted pains;
Estates confiscate, slav'ry, and despair,
Wrecks, halters, axes, gibbeting and chains,
All the dread ills that wait on civil war;——
How I could glut my vengeful eyes to see
The weeping maid thrown helpless on the world,
Her sire cut off.—Her orphan brothers stand,
While the big tear rolls down the manly cheek.
Robb'd of maternal care by grief's keen shaft,
The sorrowing mother mourns her starving babes,
Her murder'd lord torn guiltless from her side,
And flees for shelter to the pitying grave
To screen at once from slavery and pain.
Hazlerod.
But more complete I view this scene of woe,
By the incursions of a savage foe,
Of which I warn'd them, if they dare refuse
The badge of slaves, and bold resistance use.
Now let them suffer—I'll no pity feel.
Hateall.
Nor I!——But had I power, as I have the will,
I'd send them murm'ring to the shades of hell.
End of the First Act.
ACT II.
The scene changes to a large dining room. The table furnished with bowls, bottles, glasses, and cards.——The Group appear sitting round in a restless attitude. In one corner of the room is discovered a small cabinet of books, for the use of the studious and contemplative; containing, Hobbs's Leviathan, Sipthorp's Sermons, Hutchinson's History, Fable of the Bees, Philalethes on Philanthropy, with an appendix by Massachusettensis, Hoyl on Whist, Lives of the Stuarts, Statutes of Henry the Eighth, and William the Conqueror, Wedderburne's speeches, and acts of Parliament, for 1774.
Scene I.
Hateall, Hazlerod, Monsieur, Beau Trumps, Simple, Humbug, Sir Sparrow, &c., &c.
Scriblerius.
——Thy toast, Monsieur,
Pray, why that solemn phiz:—
Art thou, too, balancing 'twixt right and wrong?
Hast thou a thought so mean as to give up
Thy present good, for promise in reversion?
'Tis true hereafter has some feeble terrors,
But ere our grizzly heads are wrapt in clay
We may compound, and make our peace with Heav'n.
Monsieur.
Could I give up the dread of retribution,
The awful reck'ning of some future day,
Like surly Hateall I might curse mankind,
And dare the threat'ned vengeance of the skies.
Or like yon apostate——
[Pointing to Hazlerod, retired to a corner to read Massachusettensis.
Scriblerius.
Well quit thy post;——Go make thy flatt'ring court
To Freedom's Sons and tell thy baby fears;
Shew the foot traces in thy puny heart,
Made by the trembling tongue and quiv'ring lip
Of an old grandsire's superstitious whims.
Monsieur.
No,——I never can——
So great the itch I feel for titl'd place,
Some honorary post, some small distinction,
To save my name from dark oblivion's jaws,
I'll hazard all, but ne'er give up my place,
For that I'll see Rome's ancient rites restor'd,
And flame and faggot blaze in ev'ry street.
Beau Trumps.
——That's right, Monsieur,
There's nought on earth that has such tempting charms
As rank and show, and pomp, and glitt'ring dress,
Save the dear counters at belov'd Quadril,
Viner unsoil'd, and Littleton, may sleep,
And Coke lie mould'ring on the dusty shelf,
If I by shuffling draw some lucky card
That wins the livres, or lucrative place.
Hum Humbug.
When sly Rapatio shew'd his friends the scroll,
I wonder'd much to see thy patriot name
Among the list of rebels to the state,
I thought thee one of Rusticus's sworn friends.
Beau Trumps.
When first I enter'd on the public stage
My country groan'd beneath base Brundo's hand,
Virtue look'd fair and beckon'd to her lure,
Thro' truth's bright mirror I beheld her charms
And wish'd to tread the patriotic path
And wear the laurels that adorn his fame;
I walk'd a while and tasted solid peace
With Cassius, Rusticus, and good Hortensius,
And many more, whose names will be rever'd
When you, and I, and all the venal herd,
Weigh'd in Nemesis, just impartial scale,
Are mark'd with infamy, till time blot out
And in oblivion sink our hated names.
But 'twas a poor unprofitable path,
Nought to be gain'd, save solid peace of mind,
No pensions, place or title there I found;
I saw Rapatio's arts had struck so deep
And giv'n his country such a fatal wound,
None but his foes promotion could expect;
I trim'd, and pimp'd, and veer'd, and wav'ring stood,
But half resolv'd to shew myself a knave,
Till the Arch Traitor prowling round for aid
Saw my suspense and bade me doubt no more;—
He gently bow'd, and smiling took my hand,
And whispering softly in my list'ning ear,
Shew'd me my name among his chosen band,
And laugh'd at virtue dignifi'd by fools,
Clear'd all my doubts, and bade me persevere
In spite of the restraints, or hourly checks
Of wounded friendship, and a goaded mind,
Or all the sacred ties of truth and honour.
Collateralis.
Come, 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth.
Can you suppose there yet is such a dupe
As still believes that wretch an honest man?
The later strokes of his serpentine brain
Outvie the arts of Machiavel himself,
His Borgian model here is realiz'd
And the stale tricks of politicians play'd
Beneath a vizard fair——
——Drawn from the heav'nly form
Of blest religion weeping o'er the land
For virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost.
Beau Trumps.
I think with you——
——unparalleled his effront'ry,
When by chican'ry and specious art,
'Midst the distress in which he'd brought the city,
He found a few (by artifice and cunning,
By much industry of his wily friend
The false Philanthrop——sly undermining tool,
Who with the Syren's voice——
Deals daily round the poison of his tongue)
To speak him fair—and overlook his guilt.
They by reiterated promise made
To stand his friend at Britain's mighty court,
And vindicate his native injur'd land,
Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds.
But mark the traitor——his high crimes gloss'd o'er
Conceals the tender feelings of the man,
The social ties that bind the human heart;
He strikes a bargain with his country's foes,
And joins to wrap America in flames.
Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin,
As if more deep to fix the keen insult,
Or make his life a farce still more complete,
He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic,
And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp,
Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive,
He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her,
But laughs within——then sobs——
——Alas! my country?
Hum Humbug.
Why so severe, or why exclaim at all,
Against the man who made thee what thou art?
Beau Trumps.
I know his guilt,—I ever knew the man,
Thy father knew him e'er we trod the stage;
I only speak to such as know him well;
Abroad I tell the world he is a saint,
But as for int'rest I betray'd my own
With the same views, I rank'd among his friends:
But my ambition sighs for something more.
What merits has Sir Sparrow of his own,
And yet a feather graces the fool's cap:
Which did he wear for what himself achiev'd,
'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir——
But I'll suspend my murm'ring care awhile;
Come, t' other glass——and try our luck at Loo,
And if before the dawn your gold I win,
Or e'er bright Phœbus does his course begin,
The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile shore
Should waft her lofty floating towers o'er,
Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main,
Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain,
The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress,
Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess,
It would invigorate my sinking soul,
For then the continent we might control;
Not all the millions that she vainly boasts
Can cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;——
But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race,
Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace,
Or draw their swords in such a hated cause,
In blood to seal a N——'s oppressive laws,
They'll spurn the service;——Britons must recoil,
And shew themselves the natives of an isle
Who sought for freedom, in the worst of times
Produc'd her Hampdens, Fairfaxes, and Pyms.
But if by carnage we should win the game,
Perhaps by my abilities and fame:
I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car,
And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air.
Like Phaëton, I'd then out-strip the wind,
And leave my low competitors behind.
Finis.