SEDUCTION: A COMEDY.
AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.
BY THOMAS HOLCROFT.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON▪ PATERNOSTER-ROW.
M. DCC. LXXXVII.
PROLOGUE.
[]DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
- Sir Frederic Faſhion, Mr. PALMER.
- Lord Morden, Mr. KEMBLE.
- General Burland, Mr. AICKIN.
- Lapelle, Mr. BATES.
- Bailiff, Mr. CHAPLIN.
- Mr. Wilmot, Mr. KING.
- Lady Morden, Miſs FARREN.
- Harriet, Mrs. WILSON,
- Emily, Mrs. BRERETON.
- Mrs. Pinup, Miſs TIDSWELL.
- Mrs. Modely, Miſs POPE.
The time within twelve hours. The ſcene is the houſe of Lord Morden, and does not change; and the ſtage is never vacant, but at the end of an act. The action is ſingle.
PREFACE.
[]THE immortal Author of Hudibras af⯑firms, the hardeſt taſk in the world is to write a play; it is, therefore, no wonder that writers of plays are prone to regard their la⯑bours with fondneſs, even to partiality; or that they ſhould perceive with regret the light eſteem in which a part of the literary world have lately affected to hold them. Works of rudi⯑ment, of diſquiſition, nay, even, of mere compilation, are often treated by criticiſm with a reſpect which a comedy, or tragedy, where wit, invention, genius, and all the higheſt faculties of the mind have, or ought to have, been employed, ſeldom meets. The theatre, however it may be debaſed by the nightly intruſion of unhappy and improper perſons, has a moſt powerful and good in⯑fluence on morals, which increaſes with in⯑duſtry, and as the means of gaining admiſſion among the lower claſs increaſe. Much time is there ſpent to the beſt, the nobleſt, of pur⯑poſes; the body's fatigues are forgotten, the mind is beguiled of its cares, the ſad heart is made merry, fictitious ſorrow obliterates real, and the ſoul, imbibing virtuous and heroic principles, is rouſed and impelled to actions that honour not only individuals but nations, and give a dignity to human nature. Thoſe who can doubt this are to be pitied. And it is piteous, moſt piteous, that, not only the learned, but, the political world ſhould treat the ſtage with neglect; nay, with contempt: [vi] that they do not combine, and employ the high powers they poſſeſs to the encouragement and perfection of an art which, being, in its own nature, ſo delightful, ſo faſcinating, is capable of contributing, ſo infinitely, to the happineſs, as well as to the pleaſure, of man⯑kind.
Theſe ideas have long, and often, occurred to my mind, where they have acted with in⯑creaſing force. If I have written a comedy which, perfectly moral in its tendency, and counteracting a faſhionable vice that is in danger of becoming a vulgar one, has charms ſufficient to attract ſpectators, I am of opinion I have done my country an eſſential ſervice. That ſome who read this may call me vain or preſumptuous is, to me, totally indifferent. The theatre is a ſubject of ſuch conſequence to virtue, happineſs, and man, that I cannot forbear ſpeaking of it with a ſenſe of feeling which, I fear, I cannot impart.
I muſt now undertake a taſk of a very dif⯑ferent and painful nature; the cauſe of my undertaking it ſhall be given, when I have told my ſtory.
In the ſummer of 1785, I wrote the Opera of the Choleric Fathers, and the Comedy of Seduction. They were both put into the hands of Mr. Harris, on certain conditions; the ſubſtance of which was that, if, after read⯑ing, he ſhould approve the pieces, they were both to be played, during the enſuing ſeaſon, the firſt in November, and the latter in January, [vii] or the beginning of February, 1786. They were read by Mr. Harris, and both accepted, on theſe conditions; and ſo preciſe, ſo per⯑fectly explained, were they that they were re⯑duced to writing. However, certain objec⯑tions ariſing, on the part of Mr. Harris, con⯑cerning benefit nights (not the time of perform⯑ing the pieces, for that remained determined) I, myſelf, tore the written agreement; ſaying, I thought it improbable men, who meant ho⯑neſtly and honourably, ſhould differ in trifles; and that each other's word was ſufficient.
When Mr. Harris had read Seduction, though he objected to parts, he was, yet, ſo well pleaſed with the whole, that he ſaid, with evident, and peculiar, ſatisfaction, I had given the theatre a comedy which, he thought, would do it no harm.
Having made his objections, alterations were agreed on, and the comedy taken back. Further to prove how fully the word of Mr. Harris was engaged, how perfectly he under⯑ſtood himſelf pledged to abide by his agree⯑ment, while the Opera of the Choleric Fathers was preparing for repreſentation, Mr. Harris ſent to me, to make a new propoſal, which, according to him, would highly benefit the theatre. This was that, inſtead of January, I ſhould ſuffer the comedy to be brought out before Chriſtmas, becauſe he had a new panto⯑mime (Omai) that would, in all probability, be greatly beneficial to the theatre, after Chriſtmas, and that his ſeaſon would then [viii] be filled up, and, probably, exceedingly pro⯑ductive. That my intereſt might not ſuffer by this arrangement, he promiſed, in com⯑penſation, to ſuffer the new pantomime to be played for my third benefit, and, if the comedy ran a certain number of nights, for my fourth. When he made this propoſition I deſired time to conſider, and conſult my friends; and, at laſt, from a ſincere wiſh to oblige Mr. Harris, and ſerve the theatre, acquieſced. This pro⯑ject, however, was deranged; not by me, or Mr. Harris; but by an event highly vexatious to both, and which I ſhall not relate now; perhaps never.
In the mean time, the play had received ſome alterations, and the inſertion of a cha⯑racter ſo atrocious, yet ſo frequent, in this town, as to make, in the opinion of Mr. Harris, the repreſentation of it dangerous. Accordingly, this was to be expunged, ſtill further alterations were undertaken, and the comedy, a third time, delivered, as it is at pre⯑ſent played, about the beginning of December, 1785. It will be neceſſary to remark that, before this, the Choleric Fathers had been performed, and did not take that run which Mr. Harris expected, and I had hoped; and that, knowing the changeable diſpoſition of Mr. Harris, I cautioned him againſt ſuffering this mediocrity of ſucceſs to influence, and prejudice, his mind againſt the comedy. He aſſured me it ſhould not.
I muſt likewiſe ſtate that, ſo ſelf-denying [ix] was I, and deſirous of promoting the welfare of the theatre, when Mr. Harris informed me, by Mr. Lewis, he had no further hopes from the Opera, which had then been played ſeven nights, and that he would allow me the eighth inſtead of the ninth night, but adding he doubted whether I ſhould clear expences; I, though there was no probability of loſs, and, certainly, ſome of gain, gave up my third night to the theatre; telling Mr. Lewis I would not deprive Mr. Harris of a night, un⯑der ſuch circumſtances.
The Comedy remained with Mr. Harris, who, I was told, was gone out of town, till the beginning of January, without my re⯑ceiving any information of its being preparing for rehearſal. I began to be alarmed; and, unable to obtain an interview, or even diſ⯑cover where Mr. Harris was, I wrote a letter to him, expreſſive of theſe alarms. I need not deſcribe what my feelings were, a few days after, on receiving the comedy back, with a letter from Mr. Harris, in which theſe feelings were indeed little reſpected, inform⯑ing me it could not ſucceed. The manner of ſending it back was, almoſt, as extraordinary as the act. It was brought, looſely tied up with packthread, in a bit of dirty brown pa⯑per, unſealed, by the ſervant of Mr. O'Keefe. I mean not to inſinuate any poſſible diſad⯑vantage to the character of Mr. O'Keefe: far to the contrary. I have often heard him ho⯑nourably mentioned. Neither can I ſay how [x] it came into his hands, or that he knew what it was; but this is no palliation of Mr. Harris's conduct. I returned no anſwer; it would have been exceedingly wrong to have truſted the irritated mind at ſuch a moment.
I will now give my reaſons for relating this tranſaction to the world. To pretend I did not feel all the indignation which conduct like this muſt kindle, would be to aſſume an apathy contrary to nature; and, even, to virtue. This, however, has worn off: I act coolly, at pre⯑ſent, and from a ſenſe of duty, not revenge. As far as relates to myſelf, I would wiſh the affair might never more be remembered; but, if men in ſimilar ſituations might act thus always with impunity, as they too often do, what means could the weak and unprotected find of obtaining redreſs; what ſecurity in their dealings with a man, who, regardleſs of probity, and yielding to the caprice of opi⯑nion, the dictates of pride, or the narrow motives of ſelf-intereſt, does not ſcruple to break his word, ſo pledged, and engagements thus formal?
This narrative will ſcarcely be more diſ⯑agreeable to Mr. Harris to read than it has been to me to write: it is not my own cauſe I plead, for that was gained in the ſucceſs of my Comedy; but the cauſe of the weak againſt the ſtrong; the cauſe of hereafter genius againſt hereafter injuſtice; the cauſe of the man, who, endowed with gifts of which Nature herſelf is proud, but deprived of every [xi] benefit of Fortune, ſhall devote his days and nights to ſtudy, and ſuffer every abſtinence with reſignation, and, even with delight, cheered by the ſweet hope of being ſome time known for what he is. There is a momentary intoxication, a delirium of ſoul, in this hope, which not the daily privation of pleaſures, the diſappointments of years, the labours of a life, nor injuſtice itſelf can counterbalance. It is this godlike ſenſation which has given the mind an impetus, and made it produce works ſo various, and ſo vaſt, that, glancing at their amplitude and ſublimity, it ſtands confounded at its own powers!
That I may avoid all appearance of min⯑gling flattery with an appeal to juſtice, I ſhall forbear deſcribing the conduct of the Proprie⯑tors of Drury-Lane; except ſaying, they have behaved to me like Gentlemen, and men of honour.
My heart will not, however, ſuffer me to be equally reſerved, and ſilent, concerning Mr. King. The moment he was convinced the producing of this Comedy would proba⯑bly ſerve, not injure, the Theatre, his zeal and activity, in my cauſe, were indefatigable: how very eſſentially his powers, as an actor, have contributed to its ſucceſs is too public for me (had I a wiſh ſo ſelfiſh) to conceal. But this is not the firſt debt of gratitude from me to Mr. King; his friendſhip, or his philanthropy, while I was ſtruggling into notice, and com⯑bating with adverſe fortune, did me a gene⯑rous [xii] kindneſs which never can, nor ever ought to be forgotten.
The Town have beheld, with delight and ſurpriſe, the increaſing excellence of Miſs Farren; and, thinking ſhe had attained per⯑fection, have been aſtoniſhed, when they ſaw her next, at their own miſtake. In the pre⯑ſent inſtance, her exertions, and even the very manner of them, have been as pleaſing to me, as they were beneficial to the Comedy. I can only add, ſhe has excelled herſelf; and, though that thought be old, it never was more properly applied.
Having mentioned theſe, it were injuſtice to the reſt of the performers not to thank them; both for the diſplay of talents, the merits of which are well known, and the ardour, I may ſay the anxiety, they teſtified for my ſucceſs. Yes, I moſt ſincerely thank them all; and only forbear to name them, individually, becauſe I cannot find expreſſions, various and warm enough, to convey my thoughts, without making true and well deſerved praiſe aſſume the form of laboured panegyric.
Upper Mary-le-bone Street, March, 1787.
SEDUCTION: A COMEDY.
[]ACT I.
SCENE I.
TWENTY minutes paſt ten!—a ſhameful time of the morning for a gentleman's gentleman to be diſturbed.—My Lord has loſt his money, can't ſleep himſelf, and won't ſuffer others to take their natural reſt.
SCENE II. LAPELLE, Mrs. PINUP, from Lady Morden's dreſſing-room.
I declare, upon my honour, this is a moſt monſtrous time of night for a lady's [2] gentlewoman to be kept up; dozing over a dull novel, or nodding in an antichamber and an arm chair, while others are taking their pleaſure, and loſing their eſtates, among their friends.
Good morrow, Mrs. Pinup.
Good morrow, Mr. Lapelle! Good night, you mean.—I have not been in bed yet!
No!
That vile bedſide bell!—They'll wear me haggard before I am old! Knew I ſhould not reſt long, ſo threw myſelf down in my clothes; and, juſt as I was got into a ſound ſleep, tingle, tingle, tingle; up I muſt get, to dreſs my lady, who, for my part, I be⯑lieve, never ſleeps at all.
Why, yes; your faſhionable folks are a kind of ghoſts, that walk of nights, and greatly trouble the repoſe of valets and lady's maids—and late hours, like white paint, are excellent promoters of crack'd complexions.
I declare, upon my honour, I am as tired as—as—
A hackney coach horſe, on a rainy Sunday.
Yes—and as drowſy as—
An alderman at an oratorio—Your Lady had a deal of company at her rout—Was Sir Frederick Faſhion there?
To be ſure.
He is a prodigious favourite with your Lady, I think.
Favourite!—There are ſtrange doings in this world!—Staid I know not how long, after every body elſe was gone!
What, alone, with your Lady?
Alone, with my Lady!
Indeed!—Was Mrs. Modely at the rout?
Yes—but don't aſk me any queſtions; it's impoſſible I ſhould ſay ten words more: I am talking in my ſleep now.—When I get up, in the morning, that is, about three o'clock in the afternoon, I'll tell you all; ſo good night.
SCENE III.
A wonderful change in a ſhort time!—Lady Morden, young, handſome, and full of ſpirits, was, not a month ago, reſerved in her conduct, fond of her huſband, contented with home, and, indeed, a miraculous kind of ex⯑ception among wives of quality. Whereas, now, ſhe has ſuddenly turned fantaſtical in dreſs, capricious in temper, free of ſpeech, and, what we half-bred folks ſhould call, light of carriage. She games with the women, coquettes with the men, and ſeems, in every reſpect, ambitious to become—a woman of faſhion. As for my Lord—why—he is a man of faſhion.
SCENE IV. GENERAL BURLAND, LAPELLE.
Is your Lady up, Mr. Lapelle?
Yes, Sir—I believe ſhe has never been in bed.
Who—what do you mean?
My Lady had a rout laſt night.
A rout—and never in bed? Im⯑poſſible!
Yes! but it's very true, Sir.
Lady Morden! She whom, but a few weeks ſince, I left ſo ſingular, ſo eminent an example of ſimplicity, and purity of manners!
Sir Frederick Faſhion was here.
Sir Frederick Faſhion!
He ſtaid after every body elſe had re⯑tired.
What! alone, with Lady Morden?
So her Ladyſhip's woman, who is ſcarcely yet undreſſed, informed me.
Why, then, all hopes of goodneſs, in this world, are vaniſhed!—Go—bid my daughter, my Emily, come to me.
She is not ſtirring, I fancy, Sir.
But I fancy ſhe is, Sir; I am ſure ſhe is.—What, Sir, ſhe had not a rout, to keep her up all night!
She was of my Lady's party, I believe, Sir.
Go—go—pray, go, and do as I bid you.
SCENE V.
What will this town, this world, come to! The only perfectly amiable, the only enchantingly virtuous woman I knew, faſci⯑nated at laſt, and ſinking into the gulph of depravity!—She will drag down my Emily too!—No! I'll hide her in a foreſt, ſeclude her in a cave, rather than ſuffer her to be infected by the peſtiferous breath of this contagious town.—But is ſhe not already tainted?—Of my Lady's party!—She that I left her with as a pattern, [5] commanded her to obſerve, to ſtudy, to imitate, in all things!
SCENE VI. GENERAL BURLAND, LAPELLE.
Well, where is my daughter?
I have called her woman, and ſhe will call Miſs Emily.
I'll call her myſelf—and it ſhall be the moſt ungentle call ſhe has long heard from me.
SCENE VII. LAPELLE, HARRIET, in the dreſs of a Croat.
Who comes here? Some foreign ſhar⯑per, I dare ſay—One of my Lord's morning duns for laſt night's debts.
Hark you, young man; may I be aſking you where I will find my Lord Morden?
He is not come down, Sir.
Oh, that, I ſuppoſe, is becaſe he is not up.
My Lord told me he expected a gentleman, or two, would call—but he has had ſo many calls lately—
That he is a little ſlow in anſwering?
Rather—Riches, regularity, and roaſt beef, will ſoon, I fear, take their leave of our houſe.
Faidth, and that may viry will be; for they are all three become great vagabonds. Riches is turned Amirican pedlar, Regularity a Pruſſian grenadier, and as for Roaſt Beef, why, the Frinch are now ſo fond of good ould Eng⯑liſh [6] faſhions, that poor Roaſt Beef is tranſported alive to Paris.
My Lord, I believe, is a little out of caſh, at preſent.
Will, now, that is viry prudent of him to put it out: for, whin a man finds he can't keep his caſh himſelf, he is viry right to lit odther people keep it for him.
Nay, then, I don't know a more care⯑ful gentleman.
Careful? Why, ſure, always whin a a man of ſpirit begins to take care of his money, 'tis becaſe he has none.
Well, Sir, if you will pleaſe to leave your card, his Lordſhip, I ſuppoſe, will know who has called.
Indeed and he won't.
How ſo, pray, Sir?
Faidth, for a viry good raiſon—He niver ſaw me in his life.
Who then ſhall I ſay?—
And is it my name you would know?
If you pleaſe.
Let me ſee—What the white divle is my name now?—Oh!—Char-les Phelim O'Fire⯑away; an Iriſhman by accident, a gintleman by policy, and a captain of Croats, in the Auſtrian ſarvis, by deſign.—Do you underſtand that riddle now?
Not clearly.
I did not intind you ſhould—What time can I ſee my Lord?
Moſt likely, about one.
Will, then, give him this litter, and inform his Lordſhip I will take the liberty of calling, this afternoon, to bid him a good-mor⯑row.
SCENE VIII. LAPELLE, LORD MORDEN.
[7]Lapelle!
So! here he comes, already.
My Lord.
What time is it?
Eleven o'clock, my Lord.
What a damn'd night have I paſſed!—Is my coffee ready?
I'll go and ſee, my Lord.
SCENE IX. LORD MORDEN.
This head ache!—No reſt!—Oh for half an hour's ſleep!—A curſed ſilly courſe of life, mine!—But there is no ac⯑counting in the morning for the conduct of over-night.
SCENE X. LORD MORDEN, LAPELLE with coffee.
This is not half ſtrong enough—get me ſome as ſtrong as poſſible.—Any meſſage?
This letter, my Lord.
SCENE XI. LORD MORDEN.
From Lady Weſtbrook, I ſee.
—‘Um—A young lady in diſguiſe!—um—Will relate her own ſtory!—um—um—Rely on your honour to keep her ſecret, and ſerve her cauſe! [8] —Would have addreſſed myſelf to Lady Mor⯑den, but for reaſons which you ſhall know hereafter!—’
SCENE XII. LORD MORDEN, LAPELLE, with more coffee.
Who brought this letter?
An Iriſh gentleman, in a foreign dreſs.
A gentleman!
Said he would call about one, my Lord.
Shew him into my room, and inform me the inſtant he comes.
General Burland is here.
General Burland! Zounds!
Came to town late laſt night, my Lord.
Tell him I am come down.
SCENE XIII. LORD MORDEN.
Muſt not let him ſee the preſent temper of my mind—My guardian once, he is determined ne⯑ver to think me of age—I need not his reproof to increaſe my preſent chagrin; my own follies, and Lady Morden's unexpected, unaccountable reverſe of conduct, are ſufficient—He will lay it all to me; and, perhaps, with reaſon!—Heigho!—Here he comes—Really, one of theſe very prudent, plain-ſpoken friends is a very diſagreeable perſon, in theſe our moments of folly.—Well, I muſt aſſume a cheerfulneſs I don't feel, and ward off his wiſdom with raillery.
SCENE XIV. LORD MORDEN, GENERAL BURLAND.
[9]Good morrow, my Lord.
General, good morrow.
You ſeem ſcarcely awake.
Slept ill—troubled with the night-mare.
Your troubles, I am afraid, are rapidly increaſing.
How ſo, General?
Lady Morden had a rout, laſt night!
Oh! and forgot to ſend you a card, I ſuppoſe.—Is that my fault?
You are merry, my Lord; but he who drinks poiſon, out of a frolic, will ſoon be glad to ſend for a phyſician, out of fear; and the chances are the doctor will come too late.
Trope and figure!
My Lord! my Lord! this levity is unſeaſonable: bluſhes, and ſhame, would better become you.
Pff! They are out of faſhion.
Yes, you leave your friends to bluſh for your faults.
My friends are very good; nay, indeed, generous; for, were they but to ſpare a ſingle bluſh for each of their own faults, they would have none to beſtow on mine.
Fie! The mirth of a mad-man is ſport only to boys—I was your guardian, I wiſhed to prove myſelf your friend. 'Twas I firſt diſcovered that, then, angelic woman who is, now, Lady Morden; I was the cauſe of her [10] union with you; and I am, therefore, account⯑able to myſelf, to her, and to ſociety, for her conduct.
That is, you are a kind of ſecond-hand ſponſor—Godfather-in-law, as it were.
Very well, Sir! proceed! de⯑ſpiſe reproof! ridicule advice!
Nay, good doctor, you really wrong me; 'tis not the advice, but the phyſic, I hate—At leaſt, I hate the form under which it is adminiſtered—But, pray, tell me; when laſt you ſaw Lady Morden, did you perceive any ſymptoms of that degeneracy, in her Lady⯑ſhip, you, now, complain ſo loudly of?
None! I thought it impoſſible!
And is it not rather extraor⯑dinary, then, that my example ſhould, ſo ſud⯑denly, ſubdue what, within this month, ſeemed ſo invulnerable?
It is extraordinary, my Lord! moſt extraordinary! but not leſs true; and, had you any ſenſe of your duty to yourſelf, your family, or ſociety, the truth of it would make you tremble!
See how differently different people underſtand things! My acquaintance are, every day, wiſhing me joy of her Ladyſhip's re⯑formation; and telling me how ſurpriſingly ſhe has retrieved her character, in the world.
And Sir Frederic Faſhion, no doubt, among the reſt!
Hem!—yes—yes. He is one of our very firſt men, you know; and he is quite in [11] raptures with her—ſwears ſhe was born to lead and outſhine us all.
The ap⯑probation of ſo great an adept muſt give you vaſt pleaſure!
Hem!—a—infinite!—Not but this ſudden change has, rather, ſurpriſed me.
How ſo?
Juſt as you left town, her Lady⯑ſhip's melancholy ſeemed increaſing—wandering over the houſe, like a perturbed ſpirit, as the play ſays, mournfully clanking her chains, and frightening the gentle ſmiles and pleaſures from her, ſhe ſeemed to way-lay me, and, with moving look, and melting eye, intreat compaſ⯑ſion; till, egad, I, really, at laſt, began to pity her.
You did!
Yes—But, ſuddenly forſaking the—penſeroſo, ſhe broke in upon me, one morn⯑ing, and, with an air of levity and good hu⯑mour, and a ſmall tincture of reproach, then, and there, read me a very pretty, wifelike, re⯑monſtrance.
To which you liſtened with a truly picktooth inſenſibility.
Yes—You know my way.
And what was the ſubject of her diſcourſe?
Why, chapter the firſt was a recapitulation of my agreeable follies, and her own perverſe virtues.—She was no partaker in my pleaſures—I had forgot every endearment—She was left to dine, ſup, and ſleep, by herſelf—I dined, ſupped, and ſlept, nobody knew where.—She more recluſe than the abbeſs of a convent: [12] I more uncertain than the price of ſtocks, or the place of prime miniſter.
And what did you ſay to this?
I muſt face it out.
Say? What could I ſay to ſuch a ſimple woman?
You did not attempt to deny the charge, then?
What ſhould I deny? 'Twas every ſyllable true; and every ſyllable in my praiſe.
Humph!—Then you do not think, the ſweets of affection ought, ſometimes, to alleviate the bitterneſs of neglect.
Sweets! pſhaw! they are too cloying to the ſtomach, and ought to be taken ſparingly.—I am fond of ſweet muſic, but too much of it ſets me to ſleep.—Beſides, a wife, like a barrel organ, can only play one ſet of tunes.
Well, Sir, but the concluſion?
A very unexpected one, I aſ⯑ſure you—I miſunderſtood this for a declara⯑tion of war; and, with a ſmile, was very oblig⯑ingly about to intreat her Ladyſhip would hatch her melancholy into miſchief her own way: when, turning ſhort upon me, ſhe curtſied, ſeemed abaſhed, began to apologize, applaud my conduct, ridicule the ſillineſs of her own, and promiſed to become as faſhionable a Lady as I, or any Lord in Chriſtendom, could wiſh.
Your increaſe of happineſs is, then, prodigious?
Hem!—a—unſpeakable.—Lady Morden, I own, was, certainly, a kind of— [13] Demi-Angel, tho' my wife—but, then, her—her goodneſs ſeemed to throw one at ſuch a diſtance—ſo much in the back ground that there was only one figure noticed in the picture!
'Tis well, Sir, you are ſo per⯑fectly ſatisfied.
Nay, General, I will own, I have often felt a kind of inclination, a ſort of wiſh, as it were, to become very prudent, and wiſe, and—and all that—but, really, one has ſo much to do that one does not know where to be⯑gin.—Beſides, you very good kind of people, you—upon my honour, you are, in many re⯑ſpects, the moſt queer, preciſe, particular, ſpecies of beings, and have ſuch ſtrange notions!—In⯑ſtead of taking one's pleaſure, and doing juſt what one likes beſt, which, you know, is ſo na⯑tural, one muſt live for the good of one's country, love one's wife and children, pay tradeſmen, look over accounts, reward merit, and a thouſand other of the—the moſt ridiculous whims—and what nobody, abſolutely, nobody does.
Intolerable profligacy!—I have liſtened to you, my Lord, with grief, vexation, aſtoniſhment, and pity!—Your mind is degraded; and the more dangerouſly ſo becauſe you believe your worſt vices to be your greateſt merits! You have had honour, happineſs, and pleaſure, of the moſt perfect kind, within your power; and you have rejected them, to claſp their ſhadows! To merit pity by miſconduct is humiliating; but, by miſconduct to incur contempt is, to a manly ſpi⯑rit, inſupportable; and the latter will, I fear, be ſuddenly your Lordſhip's fate. Did not the re⯑membrance of your noble father affect me, I ſhould look upon your approaching puniſhment [14] with apathy; becauſe you wilfully have plunged to perdition: but, for your Lady, if I cannot retrieve, if I cannot ſave her, I ſhall mourn in⯑deed!
SCENE XV.
Faith, this good general is, like a cuckoo, always in a tune.
He has rea⯑ſon!—I have laboured to laugh at my own follies; but the farce is over, the forced jeſt forgot⯑ten, and the ſorcereſs Recollection conjures up the ugly phantom Diſguſt!—Why, what a child am I!—Oh! Lady Morden—pſhaw!—abſurd!—I will not make myſelf the butt, and by-word, of my acquaintance—I—I—I will laugh—ha, ha, ha!—laugh at my Lady's gallantries.—I jealous!—I!—that have daily made jealouſy a ſtanding jeſt; the criterion of an ill-bred, vulgar, mind!—No, no, no.
SCENE XVI. LORD MORDEN, LADY MORDEN, in an undreſs, SIR FREDERIC FASHION.
No, no, Sir Frederic; you are partial.
Not in the leaſt, Madam.
Yes, you are—good morrow to your Lordſhip—yes, you are.—I feel, I ſtill retain a leaven of former ſilly prejudices; but a little colliſion, among you people of ſuperior faſhion, will ſoon wear theſe aſperities ſmooth, and bring them to bear a proper poliſh.
Ah! Madam, you have a leaven of ſomething celeſtial; which we inferior people wonder at, but cannot imitate!
So!
Fie! flatterer!—but you are always ſaying civil things; and that, I fancy, makes you ſo agree⯑able.
No, Lady Morden; you wrong me—my tongue is forced to give utterance to the effuſions of my heart—By heaven, you are an angel! and I am, invo⯑luntarily, obliged to repeat, and repeat, and re⯑peat, that you are an angel!—You muſt not be angry with me, for I cannot help it.
No, no—angry! no—Tho', I really believe, I do improve—don't I, my Lord?
Certainly, Madam, certainly!
Yes—I have diſcovered that one of my moſt capital errors, formerly, was be⯑ing too ſenſible of my own defects.—I find that to wear, on one's countenance, an open, and avowed, conſciouſneſs that one poſſeſſes every grace and perfection, is the grand ſecret of really poſſeſſing them: or, at leaſt, of perſuading the world one really does, which is the ſame thing.
Your Ladyſhip is very right; nothing can put a face of real faſhion out of countenance: the placid features are all fixed.
Oh, immoveable!—Like the owner's names, cut in braſs and nailed to their doors.
Ha, ha, ha! Charming!
Do but obſerve one of our well-bred beaus, at a public aſſembly, and you will ſee him enter, plant himſelf in a ſpot, elevate [16] his eye-brows, fix his eyes, half open his mouth, and ſtand like an automaton, with its head turn⯑ing on a pivot.
Ha, ha, ha! Charming! Charming!
But, don't you think this a little tending to the ridiculous, Madam?
Oh dear, no!—Nothing can be ridiculous that's faſhionable.
Oh, no, impoſſible!
Formerly, I ſhould have bluſhed if ſtared at; but, now, I find, the only way is to ſtare again—without looking—that is, without betraying the leaſt indication of knowing whether one is looking towards the man, or the wall—thus.
Ha, ha, ha! your Ladyſhip is very right: modeſty—modeſty is an obſolete bugbear.
Yes, and, like the—the ghoſt in the tragedy, has been ſtared out of doors.
Oh, the very quakers deſpiſe it, at preſent.
Yes—'tis a ſhabby fellow, whoſe acquaintance every body wiſhes to drop.—To be ſure, I was a moſt abſurd creature: was not I, my Lord?
I—upon my honour, Madam—I—you—no—no—not abſurd—no.
Oh fie—not abſurd—why, do you know, Sir Frederic—ha! ha! ha!—I—ha! ha! ha! I was, downright, in love with his Lordſhip.
Ha, ha, ha! in love with his Lordſhip?
Ha, ha, ha! upon my honour, 'tis true!—is it not, my Lord?
Ha, ha, ha!—ye—ye—yes—Madam, yes.
Thought him the moſt charm⯑ing man in—in—in the whole world!
Ha, ha, ha! Is that poſſible?
Why, it—it is ſcarcely credible!—But—but ſuch is the fact—Nay! I doated on him—and continually reproached myſelf, for wanting power, and attractions, to obtain my Lord's affection!—For I never blamed him—Ha, ha, ha!—I—ha, ha, ha!—I uſed to ſit whole nights, while my Lord was out, watching and weeping; and whole days ſtudying which way I could regain his love!
Regain, Lady Morden!—Why, was his Lordſhip ever ſo unfaſhionable as—as—?
As to love his wife—Why, yes, really—I—I do believe he was ſo ſingular, for—for a whole fortnight.
Why! ha, ha, ha! Why, were you, Lord Morden?
Ha, ha, ha!—I—I—
I don't know, Sir, what I was.
Nay, don't be out of counte⯑nance, my Lord! You hear, I have the juſtice to relate my own foibles, as well as your Lordſhip's—and mine—mine were infinitely the greateſt.—It is exceedingly ſtrange, but, ſo—faſcinated—was I that, ha, ha, ha!—I—ha, ha, ha!
—I am verily perſuaded, I could have died, with pleaſure, to have inſured his affection.
Ha, ha, ha!—
I cannot bear it.
Ha, ha, ha! Theſe things are unaccountable.
Ay, one wonders how one could be ſo weak!—Oh, Sir Frederic! I am going to Chriſtie's. There is a painting I have a mind to purchaſe. They tell me 'tis very fine.
What is the ſtory, Madam?
The Metamorphoſis of Actaeon.
Ha, ha, ha! A faſhionable ſubject.
Yes—that—tha—that is the very reaſon I wiſh to have it.—Poor Actaeon is taken at the preciſe moment when the—the change is taking place.
In his forehead?
Yes. I am going down there, now; will you go with me, Sir Frederic?
With pleaſure, Madam—Ha, ha, ha! poor Actaeon!
Ay, poor Actaeon!—Adieu, my Lord.
SCENE XVII.
Madam!
'Sdeath! what am I about? Shall I, at laſt, ſink into one of the vulgar; and become jealous?—Wretched about a—oh, no! Actaeon!
Sure all men are ideots, and never know the value of that moſt ineſtimable jewel, a lovely and a loyal wife, till in danger of having it purloined.
ACT II.
[19]SCENE I. LAPELLE (coming from the door of the antichamber, as if he had been liſtening).
SO, Mr. Iriſhman, by accident! A lady, in diſguiſe! That's the riddle, is it?—But, huſh!
SCENE II. LORD MORDEN, dreſſed, HAR⯑RIET, (from the antichamber.)
Leave the room—I am ſorry we were diſturbed; your ſtory, Ma⯑dam, has intereſted me deeply: though too re⯑prehenſible for the irregularities of my own con⯑duct, I cannot but condemn the licentious liber⯑tiniſm of this Sir Frederic—Indeed, I—I have reaſon, perhaps, to dread it.
A man of honour, among men, the ruin of woman he thinks as neceſſary to his fame as to his pleaſure; and, like too many others of your cruel ſex, holds it no crime to make war upon thoſe who cannot defend themſelves.
But what do you propoſe, by this diſguiſe, Madam?
There is a contract, which I, in⯑deed, refuſed, but which he forced upon me, to demonſtrate, as he ſaid, the purity of his inten⯑tions, [20] wherein he bound himſelf, in a penalty of ten thouſand pounds, to marry me within a month: for, in his fictitious raptures, he proteſted no ſum, no proofs, could ſufficiently expreſs the ardour, and ſanctity, of his affection.
And have you this contract?
Oh, no! The day preceding that on which it was my good fortune to diſcover his real deſigns, he aſked to ſee, and artfully ex⯑changed it, for a counterfeit copy.
This contract you wiſh to re⯑gain?
If poſſible; or ſome other unequi⯑vocal means of detection.
And force him to marry you?
Oh, no—To own the truth, I have a generous and a conſtant lover, who, perhaps, has been a little ill uſed.
As moſt generous and con⯑ſtant lovers are.
'Tis too true.—To avenge him, and humble the pride of one who thinks himſelf too cunning for our whole ſex, is my determination.
Well, Madam, ours is a com⯑mon cauſe—But, as we have both been impru⯑dent, and invited misfortune, we muſt both en⯑deavour to conceal our true feelings, maſk our ſuſpicions, and—Huſh! Here he comes; and with him a lady, whoſe principles are as free as his own; but who has had the art ſo well to con⯑ceal her intrigues, and preſerve appearances, that ſhe is every where received in ſociety.—I will introduce you, in your aſſumed character.
Not now; let us withdraw—when he is alone. The fewer eyes are on me, the leſs liable I ſhall be to a diſcovery.
SCENE III. MRS. MODELY and SIR FREDERIC.
Really, Sir Frederic, there is no accounting for the ſtrangeneſs of your preſent taſte!—I pity you!—I foreſee the downfall of your reputation!—What, you! who have van⯑quiſhed ſo many elegant coquettes, and driven ſo many happy lovers mad; you! who were the very ſoul of our firſt ſocieties, and whoſe pre⯑ſence made palpitate the hearts of belles and beaux; the firſt with hope and delight, the latter with fear and envy; you! ſighing at the feet of a prude, and become the rival of a huſband!
Deplorable!
Have not you, for this month paſt, buried yourſelf in Lady Morden's ſober ſo⯑ciety, and dozed over crown whiſt with her, night after night?—Nay, have not you attended her even to church; and, there, with a twang, joined the amen chorus of charity-children, pau⯑pers, and pariſh-clerks; ſitting with your face drawn as long as its ſhadow at ſun-ſet; and a look as demure and diſmal—
As poor Doctor Fauſtus, waiting for the Devil to come and fetch him—Ha, ha, ha!—Granted.
And what do you think has been ſaid of you, mean while, in the polite circles you have abandoned?—Your very beſt friends have been the very firſt to condemn you.
That's natural—When we are guilty of any folly, our very beſt friends are al⯑ways [22] the very firſt to condemn us; to ſhew they neither adviſe nor countenance us.
I thought the gay, young, beauty, beſieged by pleaſures, ſurrounded by flatteries, who believes herſelf the goddeſs ſhe is painted, to fix her wandering fancy, to humble and bring her to a ſenſe of frailty; or, to ſup⯑plant the happy, the adored, lover, while yet the breath is warm that vows eternal conſtancy; theſe, I imagined, were the only atchievements worthy Sir Frederic Faſhion!
Theſe have their eclat. But, to initiate a youthful, beauteous, wife, who, from her childhood, has been accuſtomed to ſay her prayers, believe in virtue, and rank conjugal in⯑fidelity among the moſt heinous of the ſeven deadly ſins; to teach her to doubt, fear, wiſh, tremble, and venture; to be a witneſs, after⯑ward, of her repentance; her tears involuntarily falling, her eyes motionleſs, her form fixed, and the ſevere ſaint transformed to a ſtatue of weeping ſin; to read her fall in the public papers; be praiſed, reproached, admired, and curſt, in every family in England; in ſhort, to be for ever im⯑mortalized, in the annals of gallantry, and the hero of the tea-table for a whole month, for this will be no common vulgar wonder, this were glory equal to my ambition! And this glory I am determined to acquire: nay, it is, already, within my graſp.—This day, or, rather, this night, this very, bleſſed, ecſtatic, night, ſhall I gain the greateſt of all my victories!
Inſulting!
Nay, my dear Mrs. Modely, you know my enthuſiaſin, and muſt not take excep⯑tions—Nor can I, ſurely, be blamed. Lady [23] Morden is a concealed hoard of native ſweets, that delights the ſenſes: while the made-up beau⯑ties we commonly meet, like artificial flowers, are all ſhew, and no fragrance.
Raptures!
Inferior to her, in form and per⯑fection, as the Venus of a Dutch image-hawker to the genuine Grecian Antique!
It matters not waſting your rhe⯑toric on this topic; for I will not give my conſent to your purſuing this affair any further, Sir Fre⯑deric.
You will not?
I will not.
Ha, ha, ha! Don't provoke me, my dear Mrs. Modely; don't provoke me.
Nay, no threatening.
Ha, ha, ha!—Well—To arms then—War is the word.
The choice remains with you.
Ha, ha, ha!
Lady Morden is my relation; and, though I deſpiſe prudery, and know the world—
That you do, indeed!
Yet—you can hardly ſuppoſe I will ſilently acquieſce in her ruin!
Ha, ha, ha! You—you forget yourſelf, dear Madam—Theſe qualms would do vaſtly well, in ſome places; but, to me!—
And why not to you, Sir!—Though I do allow myſelf a little liberty of con⯑ſcience—
Not a little.
And though you—you—know I do, muſt I—In ſhort, I have another favourite [24] project, which I am determined not to give up.
Oh ho! But it will be beſt to avoid a rupture.—
May I aſk what this favourite project may be?
You know the public affront General Burland gave me, laſt winter; and you cannot ſuppoſe I have forgotten it.
No; I know you better.—
Oh! the General is an eccentric mortal; licenſed to ſay any thing; and, inſtead of being liſtened to, is laughed at.
Yes; but I am determined he ſhall be puniſhed.
Which way?
His daughter, Emily, is a pretty, ſimple, girl—I mean, untutored, in the world.
True!
To ſee her married to a man of faſhion would, at leaſt, break his heart.
Infallibly!
Your fortune, I believe, Sir Frederic, like your family ſeat, begins to want repairs; and ſhe is a rich heireſs, with twenty thouſand pounds at her own diſpoſal, beſide the General's eſtate, which muſt be hers—Why do you laugh ſo?
Oh! the delights of anticipation!
An—an—anticipation!
It is a part of my plan to carry her off, I mean, to let her carry me off, this very night.
Who? Emily?
Emily.
To night!
This active, this important, this bliſsful, night!
Lend me your eau de luce, you divle!
Ha, ha, ha!—This ſurpriſe from you, Mrs. Modely, is the ſupreme of pane⯑gyric.
And have you made any ad⯑vances to Emily?
Yes, yes—Ha, ha, ha!—I made advances to her, and ſhe made advances to me—The conqueſt was too eaſy—Were it not for the circumſtance of the elopement, which will give the ſauce a flavour the food wants, it would ſcarcely invite my appetite.
But Lady Morden—
Is mine, whenever I pleaſe to make my final attack. I am no bad orator, in general; but, in company with her, I ſeem in⯑ſpired—am, abſolutely, aſtoniſhed at my own eloquence!—Nay, I have ſeveral times ſpoken with ſuch energy, enthuſiaſm, and momentary conviction, in praiſe of virtue, that I have, actu⯑ally, been in imminent danger of making a con⯑vert of myſelf!
In praiſe of virtue?
In praiſe of virtue. There is no making one of theſe virtuous viſionaries rational, but by flattering their bigotry, and pretending to adore their idol; by purſuing which method, I have inured her to, and made her as familiar with, what is prudiſhly called vice, and vicious ſentiments, as ſhe is with her own thoughts.
Yes, yes, vile rake: but, re⯑member, I'll have no concern in this affair!—I—
Oh, poh! Ay, ay, that is un⯑derſtood—You [26] wink—and know nothing of the matter.
Nay, but I, here, publicly pro⯑teſt againſt your proceedings!
And will privately do your utmoſt to promote them.
I exclaim againſt ſuch licen⯑tiouſneſs!
I know you do—But, if you are thus tender of her Ladyſhip's reputation, you will feel no repugnance at aſſiſting me to irritate hi [...] Lordſhip's ſenſibility.
What do you mean?
To confeſs the truth, I am a lit⯑tle piqued at Lord Morden's want of feeling—I wiſh I could make him jealous.
Jealous! Fie! He is too well bred.
That's unfortunate.—The antics of a jealous huſband add highly to the enjoy⯑ment, as well as the reputation, of an amour.—The poor man is ſo injured, ſo enraged, ſo diſ⯑treſſed, ſo induſtrious to publiſh his calamity, and is ſo ſincerely pitied, and laughed at—muſt, poſitively, rouſe my Lord to a ſenſe of his mis⯑fortune; or it will want poignancy—A turtle feaſt without French wines!
Well, ſhould I find any oppor⯑tunity of aiding you—
Ay, ay; I have no doubt of your zeal in the cauſe.
Nay, but, don't miſtake me—I only mean as far as teazing his Lordſhip is con⯑cerned.
Oh! Certainly—certainly.
If his Lordſhip had any real [27] cauſe for jealouſy, I ſhould, for Lady Morden's ake, be the—the—the—the—the moſt miſerable creature upon earth.
To be ſure.
But you ſeem mighty ſecure of your conqueſt.
I am no novice; I can tell when a woman's time is come.—Beſides, her Ladyſhip has granted me a rendezvous.
When?
Why, this very evening, to be ſure.
Where?
Here, in this very houſe.
Since you are ſo very certain, how came you not to take advantage of being alone with her, after the rout?
I did: that is, ſhould have done, had we not been interrupted.
By whom?
A new footman—an odd kind of—Oh! here the very fellow comes.
SCENE IV. MRS. MODELY, SIR FREDERIC, GABRIEL, loitering and leering.
What does the rude lout peer at?
Country curioſity.
Did—did—did your Ladyſhip's honour call?
No.
I—I thought, mayhap, you wanted my Lord.
What ſhould I want your Lord for, think you, friend?
Nay, marry, that's more nur I can tell.
What is your name?
Gabriel, an't pleaſe you.—In my laſt place, they uſed to call me the Sly Simpleton.
And who did you live with laſt?
Why, you an heard of my Lady's brother, the rich nabob, that be juſt come over fro' th' Eaſtern Indies?
Mr. Wilmot?
Ees.—I do come fro' his eſtate, out o' Staffordſhire.
You are part of the live ſtock?
Anon!
Were you in his ſervice?
N—E—Ees.
How long?
Better nur a week.
What ſort of a man is he?
Humph!—A be well enough, when a's pleaſed—tho' I canno' ſay as I do like him much, for a meaſter.
Why ſo?
Becauſe a'l neither let a ſervant tell lies nur take money.
Indeed!
No—A'wonnot—whereof, here, I find, I canno' pleaſe my Lady, if I donna tell lies; and, I am ſure, I canno' pleaſe myſelf, if I donna take money.
Ha, ha, ha!
Ha, ha, ha! So, he did not ſuit you?
No.—A's too high flown, as 'twere, in's notions—
Which way?
A makes a great caſe o' what a calls friendſhip, and honour, and honeſty, and ſuch like; and, you know, if a poor ſarvant gis heed to that there ſort o'ſtuff—a's not likely to get rich.
Upon my word!
So Mr. Wilmot's head is full of ſuch nonſenſe, is it?
Oh! a's brimful of ſuch nonſenſe—and ſo were I, while I lived wi' he; which wur the reaſon, as I do ſuppoſe, that they called me a Simpleton—but I am not ſo ſimple as folk think me.
My dear Mrs. Modely, leave me, for a moment, with this fellow.—You'll be upon the watch, to throw in any hints, or aids, you happen to ſee neceſſary, and apropos?
Yes, yes—that is, for Emily, and the elopement—but, be cautious; a defeat would turn the tables upon us, and make us the jeſt of the whole town, friends and enemies.
How can you fear it?
Nay, I do not; I know my ſex, and I know you.
SCENE V. SIR FREDERIC, GABRIEL.
Gabriel is your name, you ſay?
Ees.
You ſeem a ſharp kind of fellow, and one that underſtands his own intereſt.
Ees—I underſtand my own intereſt.
Are you, if occaſion ſhould offer, willing to do me a piece of ſervice?
Humph!—What will you gi' me?
I ſee you are a ſenſible fellow▪ and come to the point, at once.
Ees.—I love to come to the point.
And you would not betray me, to any body?
Why—not unleſs ſomebody were to pay me better.
Upon my honour, thou art the honeſteſt rogue I ever met with.
Ees—that I be.
Here—here is money for thee—and, obſerve, as thou ſeemeſt perfectly to under⯑ſtand a bargain, thou ſhalt have more, in pro⯑portion to thy fidelity and capacity; and, more⯑over—Canſt thou read and write?
Ees.
Well, then, be faithful, and I will get thee a place in the exciſe—And, now, obſerve—I—I have a—very great reſpect—and friendſhip for your Lady.
Ees, ees—As we ſen ith' country, you have more nur a month's mind to her.
How, ſirrah!—Dare you ſuppoſe I have?—
Nay, now, belike, you think me a ſimpleton too!—Your great folk ſuppoſen a ſarvant has neither ears nor eyes—But, lord, they are miſtaken!—Ecod, their ears are often plaguy long.—What, mun, I wur no' ſo faſt aſleep as you thought me, i' the paſſage, this morning.
The raſcal!
Belike, becaſe I be a country lad, you reckon I ſhould think it ſtrange, like, that one gentleman ſhould teak a liking to another gentleman's wife; but, lord, I know, well [31] enough, that's nought, here—I ha' learned a little o' what's what—
Nay, friend Gabriel, I am more and more convinced, thou art a clever, acute, fellow.
Lord, mun, your worſhip need no' be ſo ſhy, like—You do know, you ha' pro⯑miſed me a place—an places that are no' bought one way—mun be bought another.
Well ſaid, friend Gabriel.
An, as for keeping o' family ſecrets, donno' you fear me; becaſe why, I do find they be a ſarvant's beſt parkizites—For, an it wur na for family ſecrets, how ſhould ſo many poor coun⯑try Johns ſo very ſoon become gentlemen?
This fellow's thoughts run all in one channel; his ruling paſſion is money; the love of that ſharpens his intellects, and opens his eyes and ears.—Well, Gabriel, you ſhall find me generous as a Prince, provided—Here's ſomebody coming—go into the next room; I'll ſpeak with you preſently.
Ees.—But I do hope your honour's worſhip wunna forget the place, like?
Never fear.
SCENE VI. SIR FREDERIC, EMILY.
My angel! My life!—
Huſh!—My papa is coming, and wants to take me away with him, home.
Away!
Yes—huſh—take no notice.
SCENE VII. GENERAL BURLAND, SIR FREDERIC, EMILY.
Come, Emily; are you ready?
I am always ready, and happy, to obey my dear papa; but, ſurely, Sir, you will not let me leave Lady Morden, without ſo much as bid⯑ding her adieu?
I'll write a card of thanks to her Ladyſhip, with your reſpects, and as many compliments as you pleaſe.
Nay, but, dear Sir, conſider—it will ſeem too abrupt. Lady Morden is ſo good, ſo kind—I would not give her a moment's pain for the world.—Beſides, I have ſo many obligations to her Ladyſhip.
I begin to be afraid, child, left you ſhould have too many obligations to her Ladyſhip.
Let me only ſtay to-night, and to-morrow morning I will go, with all my heart, and as early as you pleaſe, if you deſire me.
I proteſt ſhe is bantering him!—Oh! the charming malicious little angel!
—Ay, General, let Emily ſtay to-night; I will anſwer for her, ſhe will go to-morrow morning, as ſoon as you pleaſe, if you deſire her.
You will anſwer for her!—
Yes—Won't you permit me, Emily?
My dear papa knows I never attempt to break my word.
Yes, my child; I do know, you have, hitherto, been unſpotted, and pure, as the morn blown lily; and my anxiety that you ſhould remain ſo makes me thus deſirous of your quitting this houſe.—When I brought you here, theſe doors did not, ſo eaſily, fly open, at [33] the approach of ſuch fine, ſuch accompliſhed, gentlemen as Sir Frederic Faſhion.
By heavens, he anticipates his misfortunes!
Do, my dear papa, conſent only for to-day; I don't aſk any longer.
I could hug the charming hypocrite!
Well, well, Emmy; you know, I never deny you any thing: for, indeed, you never yet aſked any thing that could give the moſt anxious and affectionate father a moment's pain.
I thank you, dear, dear Sir; you have made me happy.
By my life, I ſhall find this a much more agreeable affair than I hoped!—Yes, General—you—you are a very good papa.
You think ſo?
Yes—I do, upon my ſoul.
Then I am what you, I am afraid, will never be.
SCENE VIII. SIR FREDERIC.
Ha, ha, ha! He does not ſuſpect we are ſo ſoon to be ſo nearly related—Ha, ha, ha! I ſhould like to be preſent when he firſt hears the news—He—he will foam and bounce like a cork from a bottle of champaigne.
SCENE IX. SIR FREDERIC, LORD MORDEN, from the Anti-chamber.
Well, Sir Frederic, is her Ladyſhip returned?
Yes; ſhe is dreſſing for dinner.—She bought the Actaeon.
She did?
Oh, yes.—She is a charming wo⯑man!—the eyes of the whole room were upon her. There were ſome ſmart things ſaid—One ob⯑ſerved a likeneſs between me and Actaeon; another thought it bore a far greater reſemblance to your Lordſhip.
Ha, ha, ha! About the head, no doubt?
For my part, I ſaid, I thought the likeneſs was very capable of being improved.
You were very kind.
Oh, pray, have you heard that Sir Peter Pry is going to ſue for a bill of divorce?
No.
'Tis very true. I ſhould not have ſuſpected Sir Peter of ſuch vulgar revenge; but, I find, our married men of faſhion are far leſs liberal in their ſentiments than the Ladies.
Ha, ha, ha! Yes; they often want a woman's philoſophy in theſe matters.
Yes—they are waſps, that fly and feed wherever they can find honey, but retain a ſting for any marauder that ſhall approach their neſts.
Somewhat ſelfiſh, I own.
Much more liable to be jealous than the women—and jealouſy, your Lordſhip knows, is the moſt ridiculous, ill-bred, con⯑temptible thing in nature!
Ha, ha, ha! Yes, yes—ha, ha, ha! Perfectly deſpicable.
Oh, nothing ſo laughable as the [35] vagaries of a jealous huſband: no creature ſuf⯑fers ſo much, or is pitied ſo little.
Ha, ha, ha! Ay—the thefts of love are applauded, not puniſhed.
Yes, and the poor robb'd huſ⯑band, watchman like, twirls his rattle, alarms the neighbourhood, and collects aſſiſtants, who never fail to aid the thief, and laugh at him and his loſs.
Ye—ye—yes. Ha, ha, ha!—A huſband is a very ſtrange, ignominious animal.
A jealous huſband!
A paltry, mechanical—
Without an idea of life, or manners!
Ha, ha, ha! Very true—But, come with me; there's a young gentleman, in the anti-chamber, of a good family, who wiſhes to be introduced to you—A very pretty fellow—Has an ambition to do ſomething which ſhall give him eclat, and is, therefore, deſirous of being known to us men of the world.
Well! I am yours for a few minutes; but I muſt attend Lady Morden at her toilette, preſently.
ACT III.
[36]SCENE I. GENERAL BURLAND, LORD MORDEN, meeting: GABRIEL introduces GENE⯑RAL BURLAND.
WELL, my Lord, is Lady Morden to be ſeen?
Oh! Ees, your worſhip, hur will be, anon; for yonder is Sir Frederic, helping the maid to dreſs her ladyſhip.
Helping to dreſs her Ladyſhip?
Ees—They ſent me for ſome milk of roſes, here—
and, would you believe it, I wur ſich an oaf, I had never heard, before, that roſes gave milk.
Ah!—You are ſome half-taught country booby.
Why, ſo I do find; for, in the coun⯑try, the folk do only clear-ſtarch their aprons and ruffles; but, here, ecod, they clear-ſtarch their faces.
Well, go, carry in your milk; and inform her Ladyſhip I am waiting her lei⯑ſure—
Ecod, here they all come, your ho⯑nour; and rare and merry they be. But you [...] Londoneers do lead a rare, ranting, life!
SCENE II. GENERAL BURLAND, LORD MORDEN, SIR FREDERIC, LADY MORDEN, MRS. MODELY. The three laſt from Lady Morden's Dreſſing-Room, laughing.
[37]Ha, ha, ha!—Oh! You whim⯑ſical toad! You—Ha, ha, ha!—You have half-killed me!—I am glad to ſee you in town, Ge⯑neral—We have been drawing the characters of our acquaintance, and Mrs. Modely, and Sir Frederic Faſhion, have been ſo droll, and ſo ſa⯑tirical!
Ah! No doubt.
I could not have thought there was ſo much ſatisfaction in remembering the failings of one's friends.
Oh! It makes one ſo cheerful!
And keeps one ſo charmingly in countenance!
Which you ſtand in very great need of.
I aſſure your Ladyſhip, you have an exquiſite turn for ſatire; you cut with exceſſive keenneſs; and, yet, with a dexterity that makes the very patient tingle with pleaſure.
You are partial, ‘A little more experience will make theſe things quite familiar; but habit only can give one perfect eaſe.’
‘Oh! Habit—Habit is a won⯑derful thing!—Have you heard the anecdote of the Newmarket-Jockey?’
‘No; what is it?’
‘Why, a Jockey, having had a bad run at the laſt October meeting, was wil⯑ling to correct the errors of Fortune by turning his lead to gold; accordingly, on Epping Foreſt, he ſtopped Major Warboys, and bade him deliver; to which the Major, being one of thoſe ſingular officers who think it ſome diſ⯑grace to be robb'd, replied by firing his piſtol—The ball happened to be fatal—the horſe ſet off—and, to ſhew the effect of habit, the body of the Jockey kept its ſeat as far as the ſtable door, and there deliberately tumbled off; nay, ſome go ſo far as to aſſert it was ſeen to riſe in the ſtirrups; but that, I believe, wants con⯑firmation.’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Pſhaw! You tragi-comic wretch!’
I think you had not much com⯑pany laſt night.
Your Lordſhip was ſo well bred, and made your viſit ſo ſhort, elſe you would have found a great deal.
Oh, yes, they poured in, from all quarters.
Sir Nathan Neaptide, the yellow admiral, came.
An agreeable gueſt!
Oh! rude as his own boatſwain.
‘Would teach a ſtarling blaſ⯑phemy, rather than want good converſation.—’
‘He attempts ſatire.’
‘But utters abuſe.’
That makes him ſo much re⯑ſpected.
Yes; like a chimney-ſweeper in a crowd, he makes his way by being dirty.
I proteſt, your Ladyſhip is pro⯑digiouſly brilliant to-day!
No, no—Though I am a vaſt admirer of wit. A perſon of wit has one very pe⯑culiar, and enviable, advantage.
What is that, madam?
Long life.
Long life!
Yes. A wit has more ideas, conſequently lives longer, in one hour than a fool in ſeven years.
For which reaſon, your Ladyſhip is, already, three times the age of old Par.
Dear, Sir Frederic, that is ſo gallant.
And ſo new.
Why, yes—This is the firſt time I ever heard a Lady told ſhe was old, and re⯑ceive it as a compliment!
But, your viſitors—Who had you next?
There was Sir Jeremy Still-life.
And his bouquet. He primmed himſelf up in one corner, and ſeemed to think that, like the image of a Saint on a holy⯑day, he was powdered and painted on purpoſe to be adored.
He was not ſingular in that.
Oh, no; there was a whole row of them that, like jars and mandarins on a man⯑tle-piece, look'd vaſtly ornamental, and ſerved charmingly to fill up vacancies.
Every trifle has its uſe.
Lord Index came, and ſtalk'd round the rooms, as if he had been loaded with the wiſdom of his whole library.
Yes, he look'd as ſolemn as a monkey after miſchief.
And drew up his face in form, like a writ of inquiry into damages, with a Take-notice engroſſed in front.
He would not ſtay late, for his Lordſhip is as careful of his health as he is vain of his underſtanding.
And, yet, he is but a kind of ruſh-candle; he may glimmer a long while, but will never give much light.
It ſeems ſtrange that your peo⯑ple, who have acquired a little knowledge, al⯑ways think they poſſeſs an infinite deal; while thoſe, who are the beſt informed, appear con⯑tinually conſcious of wanting more.
Not ſtrange at all, my Lord. Amaſſing knowledge is like viewing the ſun through a teleſcope; you enlarge the object, but you deſtroy the glare.
Did not you obſerve that, not⯑withſtanding the pearl-powder, my Lady Bloom's neck looked remarkably ſallow?
Oh! As a Jew's face under a green umbrella.
The widow Twinkle, as uſual, talked a vaſt deal about reputation.
One is apt to admire a thing one wants.
She always takes infinite pains to place her reputation, like broken china in a buffet, with the beſt ſide outward.
She may plaiſter, and cement, but will never bring it to bear handling.
Mr. Penſive, the poet, came in, too.
Yes, but as nobody took any notice of him, he preſently went out again.
A great proof of his good ſenſe.
Your poets, and ſheriff's-officers, are a kind of people every body has heard of, but that nobody chooſes to know.
Or, if you are under the ne⯑ceſſity of receiving a private call from them, now and then, it would be quite diſgraceful to be ſeen with them in public.
Your Ladyſhip uſed to be very partial to Mr. Penſive.
Yes, her Ladyſhip uſed to have many ſingular partialities. She was once par⯑tial to merit and virtue, wherever ſhe found them: ſhe had a partiality for order, oeconomy, and domeſtic duties, likewiſe: nay, ſhe even went ſo far as to cheriſh a partiality for your Lord⯑ſhip!
Ha! ha! ha! Odious par⯑tialities!
Ha! ha! ha!
Ma—Ma—Madam!—Odious?
Ha! ha! ha! To—to be ſure, Sir!—Is it not odious to be unfaſhion⯑able?
Certainly—Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Ha, ha, ha!—I proteſt, General, you—Ha, ha, ha! You are too ſevere.
Am I?
Ha! ha! ha! You are, really.
Ha! ha! ha! Yes, you are, indeed, General.
Ha! ha! ha! Yes, yes, you abſolutely are.
Humph—Why don't you laugh, my Lord?
I do. Ha! ha! ha!—I—I—I do, General—Though, as to ſeverity, I own I—I don't ſee it in that light.
No!
No—I cannot accuſe myſelf of any fault; unleſs the love of pleaſure be one.
Hah!
And your cata⯑logue of pleaſures, I fancy, is pretty extenſive.
Not half ſo extenſive as one could wiſh.
A dice-box, for inſtance, is one.
A very principal one.
My ſhort experience hardly en⯑titles me to venture an opinion, but I find a wonderful ſimilarity between gaming and a cold bath—You have a—a tremor—a—a heſitation, at firſt; but, having once plunged in, you are thrown into the moſt delightful glow!
Oh, an ardent tingling—
Beware, Sir, that a ſhivering fit does not ſucceed.
Ha! ha! ha!
Ha! ha! ha!—You really have no mercy, General—You hit ſo often, and ſo hard, egad!
I'm vaſtly—happy—to ſee you [43] all ſo merry—Tho'—upon my honour—I can't find out the jeſt.
That is ſtrange, when you yourſelf make it.
Not in the leaſt—There is many a profeſſed joker who does not underſtand his own wit.
I am tired, diſ⯑guſted, with this mixture of folly and wicked⯑neſs—
May I intrude ſo far upon your Ladyſhip as to obtain half an hour's private con⯑verſation?
Why—Upon my word—Ge⯑neral—I—I have ſo many affairs on hand, to day, that I muſt beg you—to excuſe me:—To⯑morrow, you may command me, for as long as you pleaſe.
Ay, do, General, have the com⯑plaiſance to wait till to-morrow, when my Lady will be more at leiſure.
Well, madam▪ I did not uſe to be thought an intruder, by your Ladyſhip, and will not begin now—But, ſince I cannot have the honour to tell you privately, I ſtill think myſelf bound to do my duty, and in⯑form you, publicly, you are in the hands of ſharpers, "who will filch from you your good name"—
Nay, perhaps, you are on the very eve of deſtruction!—Oh guile!—Can it be!—My heart is full!—I—
Lady Morden—I have no utterance—But, if there be ſuch a thing as ſympathy, ſome ſmall portion of the horror I now feel will communi⯑cate itſelf to you.
SCENE III. LORD MORDEN, SIR FREDE⯑RIC, LADY MORDEN, MRS. MODELY.
[44]The—the General—has the—ſtrangeſt way of—affecting—and—harrowing—Has not he, my Lord?
Ye—yes—Upon my honour, he—he—I don't know how—
Ha, ha, ha!—The General—The General is a true Don Quixote. He firſt creates giants, and then kills them.
Yes. Ha! ha! ha!—His head is full of—of windmills to grind moral ſenti⯑ments—But, come, Mrs. Modely, you have not ſeen my new purchaſe.
Oh, what the Actaeon?
Is it come home?
Oh, yes—I could not reſt till I had it.
Come, my Lord—I long to ſee it!
The tints are charming!
So I hear—The grouping ex⯑cellent!
Oh, delightful!
SCENE IV. HARRIET, from the Anti-chamber, SIR FREDERIC.
[45]Hiſt!—Sir Frederic!
Oh!—Well, Sir, how proceeds your amour? I thought you had been buſied in ſchemes about that affair.
Faidth, and I am ſo—But I don't believe I can ſucceed, without your aſſiſtance.
Perhaps, you are a little ſcrupu⯑lous about the means.
Me!—Indeed and you have miſtaken your man—Why, you don't think, Sir Frederic, I regard the complaints or tears of women!—You and I, ſure, ſeek our own gratification, not their happineſs—For, if the love of man ſought only the happineſs of woman, faidth, there would be nothing but dull marriages, fond huſ⯑bands, and legitimate children; and we ſhould loſe all the ſatisfaction of ſeducing wives, ruining daughters, and of bringing ſo many fine, ſweet, innocent, craters upon the town!
Oh, it would ſtrangely reverſe the order of things.
Order!—Faidth, and it would occa⯑ſion a bliſſed confuſion—in Doctor's Commons.
For my part, preſent pleaſure is my purſuit; I never diſturb my imagination with diſmal conjectures, on future conſequences.
Faidth, and you are right—For, as you ſay, it would be diſmal enough to trace theſe conſequences into—into ſtreets, and hoſpi⯑tals, and—places that the imagination ſickens at.
Marriage, you ſay, is not your object.
Oh, no! I don't like that ſaid ma⯑trimony muſic.
A mortgaged rent-roll, only, can make it ſupportable. A wife is like a child's whiſtle, which every breath can play upon, but which no art can make melodious.
Faidth, and you have viry proper notions about wives. So, whin the dare crater gave a marriage hint, why, I told her a dale of boiſter, conſarning an old croſs fadther, and be⯑ing under age, and that I could not marry theſe three months. For, you know, one does not ſtand for a good double handful of oaths, and lies, whin one wants to ruin a ſweet, kind, angel, that one loves.
Ha, ha, ha!—Suppoſe you were to make a ſham marriage.
A ſham marriage?—Faidth, and I would make that, if there were not a parcel of low raſcals, that make halters.
Pſhaw! That's a paltry, me⯑chanical, fear.
But, you—you were telling me, you know, of—a—ſcheme—
Oh! The contract.
Ay, faidth! The contract. You ſaid you would ſhew it me.
I will—I have brought it for that purpoſe
I, lately, found it an efficacious expedient.
And ſucciſsful?
Would have been, but for an unlucky accident.
But there is one ſmall impidimint.
What is that?
Weſtminſter hall.
Baw! A houſe of cards.
Oh, and that it is; for 'tis ſupported by knaves, and full of tricks.
Here—here is the very contract I myſelf gave.
Ay!
And here a counterfeit copy, with a few ſlight, but eſſential, alterations.
I underſtand—To put the change upon her.
Which you may eaſily take, or make, an opportunity to do.
Will, thin, lind them both to me; and, faidth, you ſhall ſee fine divarſion.
No—I—I'll have them copied for you. This is ſigned, and ſealed
Arrah, what of that?—Ha! ha! ha! Sure, you are not afraid you would be obliged to marry a man?
No—The only danger, in truſt⯑ing them to you, is that of loſing them. And, even then, there could be no ill conſequence; except by falling into the hands of one who is far enough from London.
Ay, ay, lit me have them—I give you my honour to make a proper uſe of them.
Ha, ha, ha! You are a promiſing youth, and it would be a pity ſuch talents ſhould be baulked—So, here—here.
Promiſing? Oh, faidth, and I hope to ſurpriſe even you, yourſilf. You ſhall pri⯑ſently hear of the ſucciſs of your ſchaimes.
SCENE V. SIR FREDERIC, GABRIEL.
[48]There a' goes—Hop, ſtep, and jump!—
—Ecod, ſhe does it featly!
She! What's that you ſay?
How a' ſkipp'd into the carriage!—There! Off it drives! Whur-r-r-r! Rattling away!
What does the fellow mean?—S'death!—Sure!—Who are you talking of?
Why, of that Iriſh, gentleman-like, Lady.
Lady!
I wur coming ſtraight to tell you—There is a plot, mun, againſt you!
A plot!
Nay, you are too late!—A's gone!—Three ſtreets off by this.
Confuſion!
Ees—She means to breed a confuſion.
Who?
Miſs Harriet.
Harriet!—By heavens 'tis ſhe!—
Ees—'tis ſhe.
Secure fool! Ineffable ideot!—And, yet, in that diſguiſe, Lucifer himſelf could not have diſcovered her!—And who told you?
Why, his worſhip's gentleman, Mr. Lapelle—A' o'erheard her tell my Lord aw her plot.
What courſe ſhall I take?
Suppoſe I wur to watch, and, when ſhe comes back, let your worſhip know?
Do ſo—But be very careful—And be very ſecret.
Ees, ees; I remember the place, mun.
Away—be watchful and be re⯑warded.
SCENE VI. SIR FREDERIC.
This is a thunder ſtroke!—Lord Morden in the plot, too!—It will come to Lady Morden's ears, I ſhall be blown, all my plans diſconcerted, myſelf laughed at, and my reputation eternally ruined!—
Ha!—There is one way to prevent the miſchief, yet—By heavens, it can⯑not fail!—I will go to Lady Morden, and, with feigned penitence, tell her every circum⯑ſtance, myſelf; only making her believe I knew Harriet, when I returned the contract. She wiſt admire my candour, think my contrition real▪ and thus will I turn this ſeeming diſaſter to ex⯑cellent account, by making it an additional proof of ſincerity, and affection for her Ladyſhip!—Dear Wit, I thank thee; thou never forſakeſt me at a criſis!—Indeed!—My Lord! And my young Lady!—Ah, ha!—But you ſhall find one, perhaps, who can plot, as deeply as yourſelves.
ACT IV.
[50]SCENE I. LORD MORDEN, LAPELLE.
INTO what an abyſs of evils have I plunged, through in⯑experience, want of reflection, and an abſurd imitation of faſhionable follies!—Lapelle.
My Lord.
Is the young—young gentleman returned?
No, my Lord.
I am on the rack!—The liber⯑ties in which Lady Morden permits this Sir Frederic are inſupportable!—Unable to be ſilent, and aſhamed to complain, I am tortured, by contending paſſions.—Lapelle—Let me know the inſtant—the—the young gentleman comes back.
Yes, my Lord.
Stay—
What if I were to inform Lady Morden of this affair?—Surely, ſhe could not ſhut her eyes againſt ſuch a palpable, ſuch an unprincipled, attempt at ſe⯑duction!—
Go, and tell your Lady, I beg to ſpeak with her, a moment.
SCENE II. LORD MORDEN.
[51]What an abſurd being is man!—Not a fort⯑night ago, Lady Morden was totally indifferent to me; and, now I am in danger of loſing her, I find I love her—To diſtraction love her!—Yet to ſink into a civil, ſober, domeſtic, man—To become the ſtanding jeſt of all thoſe high⯑ſpirited companions whoſe ſociety I have courted, whoſe maxims I have pretended to admire!—
SCENE III. LORD MORDEN, LADY MORDEN.
So, my Lord, in melancholy contemplation; and at home, too!
Yes, madam.
Lud! I wonder how your Lordſhip can endure home! Of all places, in the world, home is, certainly, the moſt diſagree⯑able.
Did not your Ladyſhip meet Lapelle?
Lapelle! no.
I—I wiſhed to ſee your Lady⯑ſhip.
To ſee me! What can your Lordſhip poſſibly want with me?
To ſpeak to you.
Speak to me!—You perfectly ſurpriſe me.
On a ſubject which—I—I ſcarcely know how to begin.
Ha! ha! ha! What can have made your Lordſhip ſo ſerious? Ha! ha! ha! [52] I declare, I never ſaw you look ſo grave be⯑fore!—This muſt be ſome very important ſe⯑cret, that can occaſion your Lordſhip to look ſo very diſmal!—I vow, I am quite impatient—Come, my Lord—Why don't you proceed?
I—I begin to find—I have been very fooliſh.
Ha, ha, ha! Is that the ſecret?
I—I feel I have been to blame.
To blame, my Lord! How? Which way?—Or, if you have, how does it concern me?
Your Ladyſhip uſed to think our intereſts inſeparable.
For which your Lordſhip al⯑ways laughed at me. And, I freely own, I was a very ſilly—out of the way woman.
Perhaps not, madam.
How, my Lord!—Not?—Your Lordſhip is very polite, but you know very well I was.
Lady Morden, you once loved me—You yourſelf, not long ſince, kindly owned you did.
Very true, my Lord; but why—why now ſhould you reproach me with my fol⯑lies?
I feel the ſeverity of your re⯑proof—It is no more than I merit!
I, real⯑ly, don't underſtand your Lordſhip!—I—I meant no reproof—We loved each other as long as it was agreeable to us, and, if my paſſion happened to out-laſt your Lordſhip's, that was none of your fault. Theſe are the principles of—of all rational people, you know, my Lord.
They are principles, madam, that, from my ſoul, I wiſh I had never heard!
Upon my honour, you aſtoniſh me!—Have not I learnt them from you, your⯑ſelf?
Unjuſtifiable, madam, as my conduct may have been, I never carried them to the ſame exceſs as Sir Frederic Faſhion.
Sir Frederic Faſhion may, perhaps, be as capable [...] reformation as your Lordſhip.
Your Ladyſhip may—may [...] partial.
Partial!
Who ſo great a libertine as [...] Sir Frederic?
Has been—He has [...] enough to confeſs it.
Has been!—Madam, [...] exiſts a preſent proof of deliberate ſeduction!—An injured Lady!—
Oh! What the— [...] the Croat.
Madam!
What's your ſurpriſe, my Lo [...] ▪ Don't I tell you he has confeſſed all his follie [...] [...] me?
But, madam, did he menti [...] the contract?
To be ſure! And the— [...] counterfeit copy—With the generous manne [...] [...] which he, juſt now, returned Harriet the origin [...] ▪ though ſhe thought he did not know her.
I am petrified!—Lady M [...] ⯑den—I perceive, I have loſt your affections.
My Lord—I am above diſ⯑ſimulation. Yes—I own I have a paſſion, too permanent to be ſhaken; and the ſatisfaction of a ſelf-aſſurance that he who, at preſent, poſſeſſes my heart, will not, ſo ſoon, be weary of me, as he who had it before.
You cut me to the ſoul!—Did you know what I feel!
Feel, my Lord! Ha, ha, ha! Oh fie!—Your Lordſhip is a man of faſhion, not of feeling.
Hovering miſchief, madam, has quickened benumbed nature in me.
Oh! let me conjure you, Lady Morden, to reflect on your preſent ſituation! I have conducted you to the horrid precipice of guilt, and deſtruction! Oh ſuffer me to ſave, to ſnatch, you from danger!
Ha, ha, ha!
SCENE IV. LORD MORDEN, LADY MORDEN, SIR FREDERIC.
Ha, ha, ha! How now, my Lord! Ha, ha, ha! Making love to your wife?
Ha, ha, ha! Oh! Sir Frede⯑ric, if you had but come a little ſooner, you would have heard the moſt delightful morality!
Ha, ha, ha! Morality from my Lord?
Yes, Sir, morality from my Lord!
Ha, ha, ha! Nay, I aſſure you, he is quite ſerious.
Rejected! Ridiculed! De⯑ſpiſed! Their ſport! Their ſcorn!—Their ſub⯑ject for open ſarcaſm, laughter, and contempt! Oh! Inſupportable.
SCENE V. LADY MORDEN, SIR FREDE⯑RIC.
Ha, ha, ha! My Lord has a mind to fall in love with me, once more.
Nobody, but my Lord, madam, would ever have ceaſed, a moment, to love you!
Well, Sir Frederic, and may I, then, at laſt, flatter myſelf I have found that ſympathy of ſoul, for which I ſo long have ſighed?
Alas, madam, I dare not rank myſelf your equal!—No, I dare not!—There is ſuch infinitude of perfection in your every thought, look, and expreſſion, that to merit you were to be, as you are, ſomething celeſtial!—Yet, ſuch virtue as mere humanity may arrive at, I will exhauſt nature with endeavours, and weary heaven with prayers, to acquire!
There is, ſurely, ſome ſecret charm in your words.
Did I think the gratification of any ſiniſter paſſion influenced my preſent con⯑duct; were it not my hope to remove you from the cold embrace of ſatiated apathy, to the ſwee and endleſs tranſports of love, founded on, per⯑mit me to ſay, on a congeniality of ſoul and ſen⯑riment; did I not feel an innate conviction that there, already, ſubſiſts, between us, a tie of the moſt indiſſoluble nature, an immaculate tie, a [56] marriage of the mind, ſuperior infinitely to all human inſtitutions; did I not think, and feel, thus, I would, inſtantly, dreadful as the image is [...] thought, renounce that heaven which I have had the preſumption to contemplate, nay aſpire to poſſeſs!
And if, after all this, you ſhould prove falſe, Sir Frederic!
Falſe, madam!—Oh! Let me conjure you to inflict any puniſhment on me, ra⯑ther than that of ſuſpecting my ſincerity!—Thus, [...]eeling, on this angelic hand, I vow—
SCENE VI. LADY MORDEN, SIR FRE⯑DERIC, LORD MORDEN.
I cannot reſiſt the impulſe which—How!—Sir Frederic!
My Lord.
So, madam!
So, Sir.
You can liſten to morality from [...]ers, madam, if not from me!
Oh! I—I have no diſlike to a [...]non, when I—admire the preacher.
Madam—If you have no reſpect [...] my honour, you might have ſome for my feelings, and—
A, a—Hold, [...]ld, my Lord—You are beginning your diſ⯑ [...]ſe again; but I am in a hurry, and will hear [...] draw your concluſions ſome other opportu⯑ [...] ▪
Madam—
Nay, I will, upon my honour.
SCENE VII. LORD MORDEN, SIR FREDERIC.
[57]Hold, Sir; a word with you, if you pleaſe.
With me, my Lord?
With you.
Willingly. Your Lordſhip ſeems in ſo pleaſant a humour—
Sir, I am in a humour neither to be trifled with nor ſneered at.
Ha, ha, ha! I can aſſure your, Ha, ha, ha! your Lordſhip, no man is happier to ſee you in your preſent temper than I am.
Look you, Sir Frederic, you and I have been too long of the ſame ſchool for me to be ignorant of your principles. But I be⯑gin to deteſt them!
Ha, ha, ha!
They are now, at this very mo⯑ment, rending my heart. They have planted a neſt of adders in my boſom.—In ſhort, Sir—You muſt forbear your viſits to Lady Morden.
My Lord—
I am ſerious—determined.
Ha, ha, ha! When her Ladyſhip gives me this advice, it may—perhaps—be fol⯑lowed.
It muſt and ſhall be followed, Sir, when I give it.
Ha, ha, ha!
Ridiculous as it may appear, to you, and ſuch as you, I feel, and will aſſert, a huſband's rights.
Ha, ha, ha! I congratulate your [58] Lordſhip, on the keenneſs, and delicacy, of your feelings; they give me great pleaſure; infinite pleaſure, upon my ſoul. Ha, ha, ha!—As to—a huſband's rights, I—have no doubt, you will—very ſhortly—be in full poſſeſſion of them all.
Sir, I will have you know, I am, at preſent, in full poſſeſſion of them all.
May be ſo, egad!
And can no longer forbear telling you, I believe you to be a villain.
Ah, now, your Lordſhip is per⯑fectly explicit.
SCENE VIII. LORD MORDEN, SIR FREDE⯑RIC, GABRIEL, who runs fearleſs between them, and looks firſt at one, then at the other.
How now, ſirrah! How dare you take this liberty?
Nay, ecod, there do ſeem to be ſome danger in it; an I had not dared to dare, but that I thought that your Lordſhip wou'd na ſtick I.
Be gone, ſirrah!
Nay, but my Lady ſent me, and would be glad to ſpeak wi' your honour's wor⯑ſhip.
With me?
Oh no! Not wi' your Lordſhip's ho⯑nour's worſhip; but wi' his worſhip's honour, Sir Frederic Faſhion.
This is no place, my Lord: we'll ſettle this buſineſs to-morrow—To-morrow, my Lord—To-morrow—
SCENE IX. LORD MORDEN, GABRIEL.
[59]Damnation!—Torture!—To-morrow?—He has ſome concealed meaning—‘A thouſand little circumſtances tell me, ſome miſchief is brooding—I could not have be⯑lieved Lady Morden ſo confirmed, ſo far gone, in guilt.—The behaviour of them all, their dark alluſions, their ſarcaſms, pointed at me, convince me, they are acting in conjunction, to hold me up’—How now, ſirrah! What do you ſtand gaping at?—How durſt you come between us?
Why, ecod, I knew that, wi' us, i'th country, murder would have been againſt the commandements; and I had forgot that, here, in town, you have no commandements.
This fool can ſee the exceſſes of paſſion in their true light.
I'm ſorry 'at I angered your Lord⯑ſhip's worſhip; becaſe as why, I wur determined to do like the reſt of my neighbours; for, ſar⯑tinly, wur a body to keep the commandements, while every body elſe is breaking them—a'd be a poor devil, indeed.
Belike, your Lordſhip be a bit jealouſy, like?
How, ſirrah!
Nay, I ſhould no' a' wondered an you wur—An I had no' been told that your Londoneers be never jealouſy, like.
Should not have wondered!—Why not, ſirrah?
Nay, ecod, I munna tell!
Tell what?
Nay, that's it—As I ſaid, I munna tell!
Speak all you know, inſtantly, or—
Nay, nay, donna be in a paſſion, your worſhip—I be no gooſe, you munna ſpit me.
Speak, I ſay—I'll have your ſecret, or your ſoul.
Ecod, I believe, your worſhip will be puzzled to find either—Tho' that Sir Frederic be an old fox—A's uſed to ſteal chicken.
Be explicit; what has he done?
Done—Oh!—A's—
What?
Promiſed me a place!
Zounds!
And, moreover, a' ga' me a purſe; which is better ſtill: for, your worſhip's grace do know that, an egg, in hand, is better nur a hen, in expectation.
Suppoſe, ſirrah, I give you my purſe, too.
Nay, ecod, an you gi' it me—I b'lieve, I ſhall—I ſhall take it.
There, Sir.
Thank your worſhip's Lordſhip.—
SCENE X. LORD MORDEN, HARRIET.
Why, hark you, ſirrah!—Come back!—Why, raſcal!
St! My Lord! My Lord!
Aſtoniſhing effrontery!
My Lord!
Oh! Madam, I am diſtracted.
Have patience, but for one quarter of an hour, and I hope to rid you of all your fears, and inflict that puniſhment, on the author of them, which he dreads moſt.
How, Madam?
By expoſing him; making him what he delights to make others, a ſubject of laughter and contempt.
Which way, Madam?
We may be overheard; ſtep with me into the antichamber, and I'll inform you.
SCENE XI. GABRIEL, SIR FREDERIC.
Sir Frederic!—Sir Frederic!
Well, what's the matter? How cameſt thou off with his Lordſhip?
Off? Ecod, I—I wiſh you may come off as well.
I!
Ees.—Why, mun, there be the bai⯑liffs, below!
Bailiffs!
Ees—Sent by the Iriſh gentleman, lady I mean, a'ter your worſhip!—Ecod, hur is detarmined to ha' you, ſafe!
The Devil! What's to be done!—Is ſhe with them?
No; hur be come back, and is gone into the antichamber, wi' my Lord.
And has not ſeen them?
Likely not.
Here, quick, change clothes with me, and tell them you are Sir Frederic Faſhion.
Me!—Ecod, thank you for that—No, no—I would na' be in your coat, for fifty pound!
Fool! they durſt not detain you.
I'll take care they ſhan't.
S'death! What's to be done?
Ecod—Suppoſe—Suppoſe I wur to go, and tell the Iriſh gentleman ſomebody wanted hur; and ſo make 'em arreſt ſhe?
Ha! Exquiſite fellow! I con⯑ceive—Away, ſend her inſtantly!
SCENE XII. SIR FREDERIC, TWO BAILIFFS.
Is your name Sir Frederic Faſhion, Sir?
No, Sir; but Sir Frederic will be here, directly; if you have any buſineſs with him.
Have your handkerchief ready, ſhould he make any noiſe, for fear of a reſcue—This is a very ſerious affair.
Pray, Sir, what kind of perſon is Sir Frederic?
Um—a handſome—agreeable little gentleman, and very young.
May I aſk, Sir, how he is dreſſed?
Gad! well remember'd.—
Dreſſed, oh! he is dreſſed for—for the maſquerade—Here he comes.
SCENE XIII. SIR FREDERIC, BAILIFFS, HARRIET.
[63]Well, Sir Frederic! Ha, ha, ha! How goes your ſcheme.
Oh, ho!—Faidth, and are you ſo jocular?
I have been thinking this is a dangerous buſineſs, and would adviſe you not to give the girl that contract—It may bring you into trouble.
You hear!
Oh! Faidth, and ſhe has it ſafe enough.
Sir Frederic Faſhion
you are my priſoner, Sir,—I have a ſpecial writ againſt you.
Ha, ha, ha! Againſt me!—Arrah, frind, but you are making a bit of a bull here.
We know what we are about, Sir; my carriage is below; you ſhall be treated like a gentleman; but we muſt beg you to go with us, inſtantly, and without noiſe.
I tell you, friend, you miſtake the perſon.
SCENE XIV. SIR FREDERIC, HARRIET, BAILIFFS, GABRIEL.
Here, Sir Frederic; here be a card, from Colonel Caſtoff, wi' his compliments.
Sirrah! Me!
Ees, to be ſure!
Sir, we muſt be gone.
This is a concerted trick—Here—
SCENE XV. GABRIEL, SIR FREDERIC.
Did not I do it rarely?
Do!—I could wonder and wor⯑ſhip thee! In half a year, thou would'ſt make an aſs of Machiavel!—Oh that I could but retrieve that curſed contract.
I do think I could get it.
Ay!—Nay, I do, almoſt, begin to believe in miracles! Which way?
No matter for that—What will you gi' me?
Whatever thou canſt wiſh—A hundred guineas—
And the place in the Exciſe?
Any thing, every thing!—Run, try, fly!—Think, ſucceed, and I'll make an Emperor of thee!
Ees—I'll be Emperor of Exciſe-men.
SCENE XVI. SIR FREDERIC, MRS. MODELY, EMILY.
The ſhrewdneſs, and abilities, of this fellow are amazing!
Yes, my ſweet little Emily, the greateſt beauty in London would be envied, had ſhe made ſuch a conqueſt.
Ah!—▪You ſay ſo.—
Say! Why, to-morrow morning, the whole town will be in a flame!
Well, that will be pure!
Oh! Sir Frederic—
My life! My ſoul! My tranſport!
What ſweet words!
You are very much obliged to me, I aſſure you.—I have been ſpeaking to my ſweet, dear, little Emily, here, in your behalf.
Then, Madam, I am, inexpreſ⯑ſibly, obliged to you!
Yes, Mrs. Modely is very much your friend, and very much my friend—A'n't you, Mrs. Modely?
Yes, my little dear; I am, in⯑deed, very much your friend: and, if I had not the beſt opinion in the world of Sir Frederic, would not have ſpoken as I have.
Well, Sir Frederic, have you ordered the chaiſe and four?
Yes!—Huſh!
Nay, you may ſay any thing before Mrs. Modely. I have told her all; for, you know, ſhe is my friend.
Yes, yes, Sir Frederic; be aſſured, I will not betray any ſecret, the keeping of which will make my dear Emily ſo happy!
Yes, we ſhall be ſo happy!—You know, Sir Frederic, you ſwear to marry me.
Solemnly!
Well, but, ſwear it again; now, be⯑fore Mrs. Modely.
By all the ſaints!
Saints! Pſhaw! You ſhould ſwear by—by my bright eyes, that dim the ſtars.
Oh! By thoſe bright eyes, that dim the blazing Sun.
And—and, my beauties, that eclipſe the bluſhing Moon!
Ay, by thoſe, and all your burn⯑ing charms, I ſwear.
To marry me, the moment we come to Scotland?
The moment we come to Scot⯑land.
And, if we are purſued—
To fight for you! Die for you!
Oh! That will be delightful!—
The Devil it will!
Come, let us ſet off!—My bandbox is ready!
That is impoſſible, my angel!
Impoſſible?
I have not ordered the chaiſe, till ten o'clock.
Oh dear! What, two whole hours longer!
They are two ages, I grant—
Forgive my fears, my deareſ Emily; but, tho' the pleaſure of your company is the moſt precious thing on earth—a—a—yet—
What, you want me gone?
Rather than you ſhould think ſo unkindly, I will run the hazard of being ſur⯑priſed, and eternally ſeparated from you.
Will you! I am ſure you don't love me then—However, I'll go.—You will be ſure to be ready, the moment the clock ſtrikes ten.
SCENE XVII. SIR FREDERIC, MRS. MODELY.
[67]Time is precious—Here have been ſuch plots, againſt me!
Plots!
Oh! I have eſcaped Scylla and Charybdis! But wind and tide are, now, both with me—Lady Morden is to meet me, here, in half an hour. Thro' that door is her chamber.
Oh, you vile creature!
What prude, to-morrow, will dare pretend that woman, and education, are a match for man, and nature?
And ſo you will perſiſt in your wickedneſs, in ſpite of my perſuaſions!
Lady Morden has, ſtill, all the rhodomontade of love, in her brain—Thinks of nothing but cooing-conſtancy, and eternal rap⯑tures!
Simple woman!
Except, indeed, tormenting her huſband; which ſeems to give the ſin a double ſweetneſs.
Or ſhe would be no wife!
So, as ſoon as I am gone off with Emily, I will have a conſolatory epiſtle deli⯑vered to her.
Compaſſionate toad!
Here it is, ready written; and, if I don't flatter myſelf, a maſter-piece.
Let me ſee! Let me ſee!
No, you ſhall hear.
‘Dear Madam, Tho' you are an angel, if there are other angels, am I to blame?’
Certainly not.
‘If man is naturally in⯑conſtant, and if I am a man—am I to blame?’
Certainly not.
‘If nature has made variety the higheſt enjoyment—am I to blame?’
Certainly not.
‘If, ſince happineſs is the purſuit of us all, I am happy as often as I can—am I to blame?’
Certainly not.
‘Farewell, Madam; circumſtances, as you will find, force me, thus ſuddenly, from your arms, in which, I own, I found heaven centered: but, if you ſhould call me cruel, perjured, and ungrateful, becauſe I act naturally, and therefore rationally—am I to blame?’
Certainly not!—Well, as I live, this is a maſter-ſtroke! Perfectly as I thought I knew you, you have aſtoniſhed me!
Yes; 'tis the true Socratic mode—But, now, my dear Mrs. Modely, go you to Emily, prevent her diſturbing us, and keep her in readineſs.
Well! remember, every thing is at ſtake, and be yourſelf.
Fear me not; that preſcience, which, they ſay, is the forerunner of all great events, gives me a happy aſſurance of ſucceſs: a confidence, that makes ſucceſs certain.
ACT V.
[69]SCENE I.
I Cannot keep from this houſe!—There is a fore⯑boding of miſchief, which haunts, and perturbs, my imagination!—And, I fear, with reaſon!—The malignant joy, the ſmothered exult, the ob⯑ſcure, ironical, ſatire, which ran through the diſcourſe of that Sir Frederic, were not without a meaning.—I wiſh I had not conſented to let Emily ſtay—He ſneered, I remember, at the moment: nay, it ſeemed the ſneer of triumph!—I wiſh ſhe were ſafe, at my own houſe.—Poor Lady Morden!—And, is it poſſible?—Such rectitude of heart!—Such purity of ſentiment!—I wiſh Emily were at home—Should my child, my darling fall, I were a wretch indeed!
SCENE II. GENERAL, LORD MORDEN.
I am miſerable! diſtracted! racked!—The thunderbolt has ſtruck before I heard it!—Oh that its exterminating power had been final! But it has maimed, and deformed, and left a full feeling of wretchedneſs!
How now, my Lord?
General!—I am a wretch!—An irretrievable, eternal, wretch!
What, and are you come to a ſenſe of this, now it is too late?
There's the miſery!—The curſe is accompliſhed, and hope is fled!
Why, ay! Such is the infatua⯑tion of folly, and vice, they will not believe ven⯑geance has an arm, till its fatal gripe is felt!
I cannot ſupport theſe tortures!—Oh that it were poſſible!—
What?
To reclaim Lady Morden.
What then? Another month and Sir Frederic Faſhion, or any other libertine of faſhion, might take her.
Never!—Never!—Were her affections once again mine, the ſtroke of death, only, ſhould ſeparate us!
Well, my Lord, if you are, at laſt, convinced of the im⯑menſity of your loſs—I pity you!
Oh, would you could relieve!
Would I could!—But, you were a witneſs how ineffectual my endeavours were. However, walk with me, into the antichamber, and let us conſult what is beſt to be done.—Her principles, I fear, are ſhaken; the only rock on which virtue can ſtand ſecure.
Sapped, deſtroyed!—She avows her intents! Unbluſhingly avows them! And, recapitulating my errors, my crimes, dares me to complain of, or notice, hers! Scorns and con⯑temns me, and juſtly too, that ſuch a thing as I [71] ſhould pretend to repeat, or reſpect, the word virtue!
It is what every huſband, every father of a family, muſt expect! His ſmalleſt foibles will ſtand as precedents for a ſwarm of follies; and, if he has any vices, they will propa⯑gate a hideous brood, that ſhall extirpate his name from the earth, or overwhelm it with ob⯑loquy!
SCENE III. GABRIEL, SIR FREDERIC.
Come, mun!—Your worſhip, come!
Are they gone?
Ees.
Well, what haſt thou done?—Where is Harriet?
Oh, I ha' her ſafe.
Thou!
Ees, mun—For, when the Bailiffs found out a wur a woman, they wur parfitly ravenous!
And let her go?
Ees.
S'death!
But, I ſecured her.
Secured! Impoſſible! How?
Nay, never do you mind how—I tell'ee, I ha' her ſafe.
But where are the Bailiffs?
In this houſe.
The devil they are!
Ees, they be—waiting for your wor⯑ſhip.
Death and deſtruction!
But what o'that? I a'got the contract, mun.
Haſt thou?
Ees, here it is.
Precious fellow! I could worſhip thee!—Give it me.
Nay, hold there!—I wunna do that.
Won't!
No—I wunna.
Pſhaw! Make no words, but de⯑liver it—and, here—here is—
Nay, put up your paper, for I wun⯑na part wi' mine.
S'death, fellow!
Nay, be mild tempered—ſtand where you be; for an you ſtir another ſtep, I'll call the Bailiffs.
Cunning ſcoundrel!—He has me in his power, and time preſſes.—Well, Gabriel, be faithful, and, depend on't, I'll make thee a clever fellow.
Why, ecod, I think I am like a Mon⯑mouth-ſtreet coat—ready made.
Thou remembereſt the inſtruc⯑tions I gave thee?
Parfitly.
The chaiſe is to wait, at the corner of the ſtreet.
Ees.
Thou art to convey Emily's bandbox away, privately; and, if any queſtions are aſked, to ſay it is Lady Morden's.
Ees.
Haſt thou taken care of the letter, I gave thee?
Care! Ees, ees; I a' ta'en good care on't.
Obſerve, thou art to deliver, it to Lady Morden, half an hour after we are de⯑parted.
Half an hour before you are departed.
Zounds! No, half an hour after, man.
Oh! Ees, ees; half an hour after.
Now begone.
But—but, how will your worſhip get by the Bailiffs?
S'death, that's true!—Is there no diſguiſe?
Why—ees—there be a long great⯑coat i'th' hall.
Ay, true!—Bring it me.
Nay, nay—I'll put it on firſt, and let 'em ſee me—ſo, then, when they ſee you, they'll think it be I—
Excellent! Where are Lord Morden, and the General?
I'th' t'other chamber.
Unlucky! I wiſh they were any where elſe.
Oh!—an that be all, I'll ſoon make 'em budge.
How?
Nay!—Lord, you're ſo quiſitive!—I tell you, I'll do't—I'll ſaunter thro' this door, lock it, and ſend 'em packing thro' t'other.
Thou art the prince of plotters—Away, be vigilant.
Oh! never do you fear me!
SCENE IV. SIR FREDERIC, LADY MORDEN.
[74]This fellow would outwit a whole conclave of Cardinals!
Well, Sir Frederic! here I am, you ſee; punctual to my promiſe.
Oh, Madam, how can I repay this bounty!—this condeſcenſion!—Never!—My life were a poor ſacrifice, to ſuch ſweetneſs and ſuch charms!
Sir Frederic, this is a trying, a deciſive moment! I am going to be either the moſt happy or the moſt wretched of women! You tell me, it is your wiſh, your reſolution, to be no longer that general lover, that man of the world, you have, hitherto, been thought.
Say not, dear Lady, it is either my wiſh or reſolution! Heaven can teſtify, I have not the power to be any thing, but what it ſhall pleaſe you to make me!
I have owned to you that, the levity I have lately affected is not natural to me▪ that my heart ſighs for an acquaintance, a mate▪ that, like itſelf, is ſubject to all the ſweet emo⯑tions of ſenſibility!—Yes, it was the firſt wiſh of my ſoul to find this correſpondent heart! A heart beating with the ſame ardour, vibrating to the ſame ſenſations, panting for the ſame pleaſures, ſhrinking from the ſame pangs; pliant, yet firm; gentle, yet aſpiring; paſſionate, yet pure!—Such I once thought Lord Morden's—Should I, a ſecond time, be deceived!
I am poor in proofs of ſincerity! I have none to offer!—My former errors are preſent puniſhments! To deny or even palliate them would imply intentional deceit; and this is a moment in which I would wiſh for men and gods to be witneſſes of my truth!—I have had, I own, moſt libertine opinions of your gentle ſex; but theſe I, now, ſolemnly renounce!—Had I, before, met with a Lady Morden, I ſhould, be⯑fore, have made this renunciation!—But, per⯑haps, the women it has been my misfortune to know deſerved, in part, the light eſteem in which I held them.—Never, till now, did I find one who could mutually inſpire ſuch paſſion and re⯑ſpect! Such agitated, burning, hopes! Such excruciating fears, or thoughts ſo ſanctified, as thoſe I, this moment, feel!
Yet, Sir Frederic, I cannot help obſerving your converſation, in ſociety, ſeems ſtill tinged with the impurity of your for⯑mer libertine principles.
I own, Lady Morden, with con⯑fuſion own, I have not hitherto had the courage, or, perhaps, I have wanted ſtrength to ſtem the torrent: but, aided by you, I feel, I dare pro⯑miſe any thing!
I confeſs, Sir Frederic, the mind finds ſome difficulty in rooting out fears, planted in it by reiterated accuſations. The ſtories the world tells of you are dreadful! And, yet, there is ſuch heartfelt conviction attends your preſent words that, to me, it is impoſſible to liſten and retain a doubt.
This generous confidence tranſ⯑ports me, fills me with gratitude, and inſpires [76] rapturous hope!
Oh, gently ſuffer me to conduct you, where love lies, in panting, breathleſs, ecſtaſy—
SCENE V.
How now!
Belike—You dunna want company?
No, Sir.
I thought as much—
Begone, in⯑ſtantly!
Nay! Hands off!
I ſhan't ſtir, till I have delivered my meſſage.
What meſſage? What have you to ſay?
Why the chaiſe and four be come.
How?
The bandbox ready.
Infernal booby!
Miſs Emily waiting.
Begone, I ſay.
Gone!—Nay, ſartinly, you would no' ha' I run away wi' her.
Ha, ha, ha!
Lady Morden!
Ha, ha, ha!—Why, ſurely, you! The never failing victor! The fertile-brained Sir Frederic Faſhion! who knows not defeat, and who never, yet, was at a loſs for ſtratagems! [77] Though you are taken ſomewhat unawares, you cannot want invention!
You'll pardon me, Madam, if I want underſtanding to comprehend your meaning.
Indeed!—Well, if you are ſo very dull of apprehenſion—am I to blame?
Madam!
Oh!—Do you recollect—this letter?
How!—Faithleſs fiend!
Keep off, or dread the chaſtiſement I am prompted, inſtantaneouſly, to inflict!
Chaſtiſement!—What is this?—Who are you?
A man!—You are—
For heaven's ſake, brother!—
Brother!
Gabriel Wilmot; whoſe head is ſo full of the nonſenſe of friendſhip, honour, and honeſty!
I'll be revenged, however.
SCENE VI.
Turn, wretch, and receive your puniſhment from this arm!
Oh, for ſhame!—Look to the Lady—
Oh, General!—Oh, my Lord!
My life! My ecſtaſy! My ſaviour!
SCENE VII.
Bleſs me, what uproar—Hey day!—
So, ſo! Here is a very pretty denouement to our plot, indeed!—
I ſee, good folks, you are all embroiled here; and, as it is a very diſagreeable thing to be preſent at fa⯑mily diſputes, I'll—
Pray, Madam, ſtay, and re⯑ceive the compliments of the company—Mine, and your friend Emily's, in particular.
Oh, with pleaſure!
Mr. Wilmot! My beſt brother!—Though you have, in part, acquainted me with what is paſt, yet, it is ſo ſudden—And you! my deareſt Lady! To find you ſtill the ſame is joy unſpeakable!
The taſk of making you ſup⯑poſe I had effectually become what I ſeemed, was, indeed, moſt painful; but the loſs of your affec⯑tion were not pain! 'Twere horror!—I told you my paſſion was too permanent to be ſhaken—Ah! how could you imagine I meant another? Or think it poſſible I ever could forget that chaſte, that ardent, that eternal, love, I have ſo re⯑peatedly vowed?
Oh for words!—I am all love! gratitude! rapture! and amazement!
And ſo is Sir Frederic, appa⯑rently—Nay, even you, Madam, ſeem a little ſurpriſed.
Me! Oh dear, no.
Dear Sir, though you are a deep and excellent plotter, if there have been counterplots—am I to blame?
Certainly not.
If man is ſometimes vain, pre⯑ſumptuous, and unprincipled, and if you are a man—am I to blame?
Certainly not.
If I aſſumed a mean diſguiſe, that I might aid a ſiſter, to detect, and expoſe, the mean machinations of Seduction—am I to blame?
Certainly not.
If, following the advice of this dear Lady
ſimplicity has made cun⯑ning outwit itſelf—am I to blame?
Certainly not.
If, ſince happineſs is the pur⯑ſuit of us all, I wiſh to be as happy as poſſible—
am I to blame?
Certainly not.
Certainly not—So, the catechiſm being ended, the ſcholars may depart.
Certainly not.
Sir!
You forget the bailiffs.
Beſides, Sir Frederic, before you go, you muſt give me leave to introduce you to—
SCENE THE LAST.
[80]—This Lady.
Harriet!
Yes, Sir—that Harriet, whom, hear⯑ing ſhe had happineſs in view, and proportioning your ideal triumph to the weight of miſery you might entail, you raiſed heaven and earth to bring to wretchedneſs, and ruin.
Upon my honour, you—you are a ſad man, Sir Frederic!—A very ſad man!
But your vanity is humbled—you, now, ſtand detected; and, inſtead of envied, you will be ſneered at by the depraved, pitied by the good, and, henceforth, avoided by the cre⯑dulous young creatures you, ſo manfully, have delighted to involve in guilt, and deſtruction!
A very dangerous man, indeed, Sir Frederic!
Ay! beware of him, Madam.
Oh! I—I will!
Yes, Sir, the finger of ſcorn points where it ought: you are expoſed, and my re⯑ſentment is appeaſed.
Then, Madam—the—the con⯑tract—
There it is, Sir.
I never meant to make any other uſe of it than what has [81] been better effected, by different means.
Madam!—
No thanks, Sir.
No; they would ſit a little awkwardly.
And now, Sir Frederic, if, af⯑ter this leſſon, you ſhould ſtill retain your for⯑mer principles, and practices, and, hereafter, re⯑ceive a ſtill ſeverer puniſhment, I hope you will acknowledge—we are not to blame.
Appendix A EPILOGUE.
[]* The verſes, between inverted commas, were requeſted from, and written by, a gentleman whoſe literary abilities are great, and well known; and the following were, conſequently, omitted.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4167 Seduction a comedy As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane By Thomas Holcroft. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-57CA-F