THE DESERTER. A NEW MUSICAL DRAMA, As it is performed at the THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.
DUBLIN: Printed for J. POTTS, D. CHAMBERLAINE, W. SLEATER, and R. MONCRIEFFE. MDCCLXXIII.
To the PUBLIC.
[][]LE DESERTEUR, is well known to have been theſe five years the moſt fa⯑vourite Muſical Piece on the French ſtage: ſo great indeed has been its ſucceſs, that in this ſhort time it has been tranſlated into three languages; one of which tranſlations we have lately ſeen at the King's Theatre in the Hay-market, under the title of Il Deſer⯑tore.
Indeed, when you once admit the circum⯑ſtance of Henry's conſeſſing himſelf a de⯑ſerter, nothing can be more truly intereſting than ſome of the incidents; but yet they were brought about in a way peculiarly cal⯑culated for the French ſtage: the reſolution of Henry was too ſudden, too unprepared, as well as the circumſtance of the mock-wedding that precedes it; and throughout the piece there were a number of cold inani⯑mating occurrences, that had very little, if any, relation to the main deſign; and, add to this, it was never intended for an Opera, for the author himſelf calls it a Comedy, in⯑terſperſed with Songs.
It was thought, therefore, that if the un⯑neceſſary incidents were expunged, and thoſe retained were rendered more probable; if, [4] by making an uniform partition between the dialogue and the ſongs, it could be brought more to wear the complexion of an Opera, The Deſerter might be entitled to a favour⯑able reception on the Engliſh ſtage: how far theſe ſuggeſtions were reaſonable, the public (who are the beſt judges, and by whoſe arbitration I ſhall always be proud to abide) will determine.
With regard to the Muſic, as I found it a work of great invention, I ſhould have kept it in its original ſtate, had it been poſ⯑ſible; but beſides the exceſſive length of the ſongs, the continual breaks into recitative, the frequent ſudden alterations of the ſtile, and above all, that ſameneſs which ſo parti⯑cularly characterizes the French Muſic, I found it much too grave to ſtand the leaſt chance of ſucceſs in an after-piece: I, there⯑fore, ſelected what I thought the beauties; and what I could not effect by having re⯑courſe to the original, I have endeavoured to ſupply myſelf.
In juſtice to the French compoſer, I think it abſolutely neceſſary to declare, that the ſongs, beginning "One conduct's for both love and war;" "The nymph who in my boſom reigns;" "Mr. Simkin, I'd have you to know;" and "The whims of folks in love;" are wholly my own; and that the firſt air in the piece, and that beginning, "My life's three parts [5] diminiſh'd," are by Philidor, a name of no inconſiderable note in the muſical world.
I have nothing to add but that I take this opportunity of making my acknowledgments to the performers for the ſupport they were of to this piece; I would, indeed, but that I deſpair of finding words worthy the occaſi⯑on, expreſs my gratitude to the public for their favourable reception of it.
Dramatis Perſonae.
[]- HENRY,
- Mr. Vernon,
- RUSSET,
- Mr. Baniſter,
- SIMKIN,
- Mr. Dibdin,
- SKIRMISH,
- Mr. Parſons,
- FLINT,
- Mr. Wright,
- FIRST SOLDIER,
- Mr. Ackman,
- SECOND SOLDIER,
- Mr. Fawcet,
- THIRD SOLDIER,
- Mr. Kear,
- FOURTH SOLDIER,
- Mr. Courtney.
- LOUISA,
- Mrs. Smith,
- JENNY,
- Mrs. Wrighten,
- MARGARET,
- Mrs. Love.
[] THE DESERTER.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
What can all this feaſting be for?
I'll give you, while I wind up this bottom and another, and you ſhan't find it out.
Why then if you know ſo well, why don't you tell us what it is?
Ah, I thought you would none of you gueſs it; this grand ſeaſting at the Ducheſs's is becauſe the King's coming to the camp.
Who told you ſo?
I had it from Gaffer Ruſſet himſelf.
Does the King come to the camp to-day?
Why yes, I knew that.
Then as ſure as can be, I know what will happen.
Why, what will happen?
There will be two weddings in the village before to-morrow night.
How ſo?
Why is not Henry, the young ſoldier, to mar⯑ry Louiſa, Gaffer Ruſſet's daughter, as ſoon as the review's over?
Not if I can prevent it.
Well, that's but one wedding!
Yes, but Jenny can tell you whoſe wedding t'other's to be.
How ſhould I know?
Ah, you wont ſay any thing before folks, becauſe you're aſham'd!
What do you mean?
As if you did not know—
Not I indeed.
Why, did not you promiſe me, that when Henry married Louiſa you'd marry me?
Yes, yes, and I'll keep my word; whenever Henry marries Louiſa, I'll marry you.
SCENE II.
[9]Well, well, but child—
Indeed, father, 'tis impoſſible; I never can conſent to ſuch a thing.
Odds heart, Louiſa, there's no harm in it. Neighbours, come round here, I'll tell you the whole affair; you know what a dear good lady the Ducheſs is?
Ah, ſhe's a dear good lady indeed, and we all of us ought to do every thing ſhe orders us.
I and my family in particular ought, for ma⯑ny's the good thing ſhe has given me, and my old dame; then how kind ſhe was to all my poor child⯑ren! ſhe ſtood god-mother to this, and had her chriſ⯑tened after her own name.
Louiſa!
Well, now we come to the point: Henry, you know who was bred up with my girl, and in⯑tended from his infancy for her huſband, is a ſoldier.
So he is.
And becauſe ſhe has a value for every thing that belongs to me, this good lady, about three weeks ago, ſent to the colonel for his diſcharge, that the young folks may live at home at their eaſe, and be as happy as the day is long.
That will be charming and comfortable for you, neighbour.
[8]Yes, but now comes the miſchief of it; what has occaſion'd it, I don't know; I never ſaw any harm of the lad, but there are always buſy tongues in this village, doing people ill-offices; and ſuch reports, within theſe few days, have reached the Ducheſs's ears, that ſhe is determined to ſee further into this buſineſs, before ſhe gives Louiſa the portion ſhe pro⯑miſed her.
You may thank me for that.
But he'll be here to-day; and ſo well I know his heart, that I am ſure he'll clear himſelf to their confuſion, who could ſo vilely traduce him.
Perhaps not.
Well, child, I am ſure you can't wiſh it more than I do; nothing has ever pleas'd me ſo much as the thought of your coming together; I wiſh to ſee you married with all my heart: for I ſhall then have nothing to do, but to liſten to the prattle of your children, and prepare myſelf to follow poor Dorothy.
But as I was telling you, the Ducheſs hearing of theſe reports, is determined that we ſhall make a trial of his affections.
Indeed, father, there's no neceſſity for it; he loves me moſt ſincerely.
Nay, nay, child, I really think your love car⯑ries you away too much in this affalr; it can do no harm; 'tis only an innocent frolick; you are to make believe as if you were a bride, and let me ſee who—oh, you ſhall be the bridegroom.
Shall I? I'cod I'm glad of that.
But above all, I muſt inſtruct you, Jenny, in your part; you are to ſit here, and tell Henry, when he comes, that Louiſa and Simpkin were married yeſ⯑terday.
The very thing I wiſh'd.
I am vex'd to death that this trick ſhould be play'd him: I can judge by myſelf what he'll feel: if I was told ſuch a thing of him, how miſerable I ſhould be.
But he'll be ſo much the happier, when he finds out the deceit, child.
Well, well, dont't make yourſelf uneaſy, I dare ſay he loves you as ſincerely as you think he does; if ſo, he'll ſoon be undeceived, and we ſhall finiſh the day as happily as we could wiſh: in the mean time let us think of what we have to do; we are to pretend we came from the church; the fiddles and bagpipes are to go firſt, then the lads and laſſes follow; after which, mind this now, we are to go to the Ducheſs's manſion in grand proceſſion, and there to be feaſted like ſo many princes and princeſſes.
I'cod that will ſuit me nicely.—But Gaffer Ruſ⯑ſet, Jenny ſays, you told her, the feaſting was to be for the king.
For us, and the king; yes, yes, the king, after he and his courtiers have had an entertainment at the ducheſs's, goes to review the camp, where the ſoldiers are all to appear under arms.—Ah, girls! that's what none of you know any thing about; when the king goes to the camp, then's the time—the drums beat—the fifes play—the colours are flying—and—and—Lord—Lord! what a charming thing war is!
It muſt be then when one comes home again, and its all over.
There's no life like the life of a ſoldier: and then for love! let the girls take care of their hearts: I remember I won my Dorothy juſt after I came from ſuch a review now as there may be to-day,
Ah, indeed, the ſoldiers make ſad work with young womens hearts ſure enough.
And how can it be otherwiſe?
But come, come, we muſt go and prepare ourſelves; you have not much time to ſpare, and ſee where he comes hurrying a-long there; there now he clambers up yonder hill—well done, ſaith!—Ah, your lovers have no gout to ſtop them. Come, child—neighbours, come along.
Cruel father!
SCENE III.
[14]But I hear muſic, what can this be? All the vil⯑lagers are coming this way—it ſeems like a wedding—I'll retire—How I envy this couple!
Charming! He has hid himſelf—pretend not to ſee him—don't turn your head that way—he's look⯑ing at you now!
How cruel not to let me have one look!
No, you muſt look at nobody but me now; I am the bridegroom, you know.
Jenny, be ſure you play your part well.
Never fear me—My part's a much more dif⯑ficult one than they imagine.
SCENE IV.
Good day, young woman.
'Twas paſſing nigh, &c.
Young woman!
'Twas paſſing nigh, &c.
Pray tell me what wedding that is?
What! that wedding?
Yes.
Do you want to know whoſe wedding it is?
Ay, ay.
What, that wedding that went paſt?
Yes, yes.
Why, 'tis a wedding in the village here.
But whoſe, I aſk you?
Are you making a jeſt of me? anſwer me, I beg of you.
Why I do anſwer you, don't I?
What, again! Whoſe is this wedding? Whoſe is it? Speak, or I'll—did not I ſee amongſt them?—diſtraction!—will you anſwer, you?
Lord, you are ſo impatient! why then the wed⯑ding is Louiſa's, old Ruſſet's daughter, the invalid ſol⯑dier.
Louiſa's wedding!
Yes, ſhe was married yeſterday.
Married! good heavens! Are you ſure of what you ſay? Do you know Ruſſet?
Do I know him? to be ſure I do. Why he is bailiff to the Ducheſs. What makes you ſo uneaſy? you ſeem as if you had an intereſt in it.
An intereſt in it! Oh!
Dear me, if I remember right, you are the young man that every body thought ſhe'd be married to: O law! what wickedneſs there is in this world! I am ſure I very ſincerely pity you.
I'm oblig'd to you for your concern.
Nay, it is not more upon your account than my own, that I am uneaſy.
How ſo?
Why ſhe was not content with making you miſerable, but ſhe muſt make me ſo too: the vile wretch ſhe's married to, has perjur'd himſelf; for he has ſworn a thouſand and a thouſand times to marry me.
What falſehood and treachery!
If I was you I would not bear it quietly; not but ſhe'd brazen it all out; for I tax'd her with it my⯑ſelf, and ſhe only laugh'd in my face, and told me that you and I might go and mourn together, like two tur⯑tles, the loſs of our mates.
Inſulting creature!
Yes, and for my part I ſaid to myſelf, ſays I, 'twould be a good joke to take her at her word; but then again I thought that though revenge is ſweet, yet people have their likings, and their diſlikings; and as for me, to be ſure, I can't pretend to ſuch a good young man as you.
In famous wretch! well might ſhe keep her eyes fix'd upon the ground; but I'll ſee her, upbraid her with her infidelity, and leave her to the guilty reproaches of her own ungrateful heart.
Young man—
Well, what do you ſay?
I believe you did not rightly hear what I ſaid.
Oh! I have no time for trifling.
SCENE V.
[17]Poor ſoul! how he takes it to heart; but I muſt follow him; for if I loſe this opportunity, I may not find it ſo eaſy to get another. But, ſtay, upon ſe⯑cond thoughts, if I can but make a tool of Simkin, and by that means alarm Louiſa, I ſhall every way gain my ends; for if ſhe once believes him capable of ſlighting her, I am ſure ſhe has too much ſpirit ever to ſee him again.
Oh, Jenny, I am glad I have found you; what do you think brought me away from Louiſa and them?
I neither know nor care.
Why, I was afraid you'd be jealous.
I jealous!
Why yes, you know, becauſe I pretended to be Louiſa's huſband.
No, I'd have you to know, I am not jealous; I am only vex'd to think I have been ſuch a fool, to liſten to you ſo long, you baſe creature, you!
If I did not think there was ſomething the mat⯑ter, by your looking ſo croſs.
And enough to make one; you know I can't help loving you, and this is the way you return my af⯑fection.
Why you know 'twas only in play.
In play!—I could ſee plain enough, how your eyes ſparkled upon the bare mention of being the bride⯑groom.
Now, Jenny, if you would but hear me ſpeak—
Speak! get out of my ſight, you perjur'd wretch! I was fool enough not to credit what I heard of you, but I dare ſay 'tis all true.
Why, what did you hear of me?
That it was you who invented all theſe reports about Henry.
Me! as I am a living Chriſtian, Jenny—
Don't ſay a word to me, you have made me miſerable, and now you want to inſult me.
Indeed I don't; you can't think now, how hap⯑py I could make you, if you wou'd only hear me three words—
Don't talk to me of happineſs, for I never ſhall be happy again as long as I live.
How dearly ſhe loves me! what a pity it is ſhe won't let me clear up this affair.
And then that demure little minx; oh, I could tear her eyes out; I was always afraid of it, and now I am convinc'd that her pretended love for Henry, was nothing but a contrivance to blind me the eaſier.
Dear, dear—
But, however, you have both miſs'd your aim, for Henry behaves as he ought to do, and holds her arts in contempt; nay, he told me himſelf he had fix'd his affections upon a more worthy object.
He did!
Yes, he did, and you may go and tell her ſo; and as for me,
SCENE VI.
[19]Why, what the deuce has got hold of her? for my ſhare, I believe all the folks in our village are gone mad—mad! I'cod, I'll be hang'd if any Bedlamites are half ſo mad as folks in love.
SCENE VII.
I'll tell you, my boys, how the matter ſtands; if we can but catch hold of him, the ſummum bonum of the thing is this, he'll be firſt try'd and then ſhot.
Yes, but ſuppoſe we don't catch hold of him?
Why then he'll neither be try'd nor ſhot.
No more he won't.
But I have been thinking how we ſhall do to know him.
Ay, you are a fool in theſe matters, I'll tell you how you'll know him; here! here! I've got his name and his marks
Hannibal Firebrand, ſix foot and an inch high, of an orange tawney complexi⯑on, a Roman noſe, and the letters R. T. burnt in the palm of his hand; the devil's in it if we can miſs him.
Well, but you need not have taken all this pains, for you know he was your pot companion.
Faith, I forgot that.
And would you go for to lift your hand againſt your friend?
Againſt my friend! ay, againſt my father, if he was to deſert; but ſtay, ſtand by, perhaps this is he!
Where ſhall I fly? the unhappy have no friends; all I meet make a ſcoff of my ſufferings.
It muſt be him.
Keep back.
Are the inhabitants of this place turned brutes? have they no compaſſion?
There, you ſee how it is, none of the peo⯑ple will ſkreen him, they are honeſt, and refuſe to do it; I'll take care the king ſhall know what good ſub⯑jects he has.
At my home, where I expected to receive ſo kind a welcome, I am ſurrounded with enemies.
There! there! he ſays he expected to receive a kind welcome from the enemy.
So he does.
To deſert one ſo kind.
Ah! 'twas an infamous thing of you ſure enough.
Life is not worth keeping upon ſuch terms, and this inſtant could I lay it down with pleaſure.
Mark that!
I'll go directly, and—
Not ſo faſt, if you pleaſe: hey! why, this is not the deſerter, that's my friend; but no matter, one deſerter's as good as another.
Do you ſuſpect me for a deſerter?
No, we don't ſuſpect you; we know you for one.
Me!
Me! yes you! how ſtrange you make of this matter; why, did we not hear you confeſs that you expected a kind welcome from the enemy? I'll tell you what, I am not fond of making people uneaſy, but every word you have uttered will be a bullet in your guts.
What if I favour this, and ſo get rid of all my woes at once—Oh! Louiſa, you have broke my heart!
What are you talking to yourſelf about? Come, come, you are a deſerter, and muſt go with us.
Shall I or not?—by heav'n, I will—I own it, I am a deſerter—lead me where you pleaſe.
There, he confeſſes it, and we ſhall have the reward.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
THERE's ſome water for you to drink; a table and a chair, and yonder's your bed; but if you go on at the rate you have begun, there will be no great trouble in making it.—I am a deſerter, I have deſerted; I believe you'll find, you had better not have confeſs'd quite ſo ſoon:—why, what a devil of a fellow you muſt be. But, come, as I ſaid be⯑fore, there's ſome water for you, and if you chuſe to have any thing better—for money, d'ye ſee—you un⯑derſtand me right—for money—and faith, if you have any, you have no great reaſon to be ſparing of it, for, I believe, your buſineſs will ſoon be ſettled.—Do you chuſe any wine?
No, no.
Well, very well; if you won't have wine, you muſt drink water.
Falſe, falſe Louiſa!—Oh, heaven!
But you ſeem a little down in the mouth about this buſineſs; never mind it, 'twill ſoon be over; you are to ſuffer at five; in the mean time I'll ſend a lodger of mine to you, he'll put you in ſpirits, by that you have drank a glaſs together; his name is Skirmiſh; he's a de⯑viliſh hearty fellow.
That a few hours ſhould ſink me from the ex⯑pectation of ſo much happineſs to this abyſs of miſery! Perſidious woman!
Here, my boy, who wants me? who calls for Skirmiſh? Comrade, did you want me?
Me! no.
Why, yes you did. Ho, ho, houſe! here, houſe! we'll have a glaſs together; as we never ſaw one another before, we'll now begin to renew our acquaintance.
Can you tell me, if I could get a ſheet of writing paper?
Yes, ſurely, you ſhall have that: here, houſe! houſe, I ſay! where the devil are you all? But heark'ee friend! what a confounded miſtake you have made here! A miſtake! damme, you have made two miſ⯑takes! I can prove it: In the firſt place, to deſert at all was a miſtake; then to confeſs it, Oh, damn it, that was a miſtake indeed! I am but a ſilly ignorant fellow; but had I been in your place, had he been my ſerjeant, my general, nay, my corporal, I would have ſaid, No, I am no deſerter. No, no, my lad, Skirmiſh ſcorns to deſert.
SCENE II.
There's a young woman without aſking for a ſoldier
I ſuppoſe it muſt be you ſhe wants.
Yes, yes, its me I warrant you; let her come in, but give me the wine though
Ah, ah, a ſmart wench, faith!
Good heavens! what do I ſee? You here!
Me, Henry!
Is it poſſible!
Oh, ho, I ſmoke this buſineſs; comrade, I'm off, I'm off; ſhe's your ſiſter, I ſuppoſe, or your couſin but that's no buſineſs of mine; madam, no offence, I hope; my name is Skirmiſh, I underſtand what good breeding is; I'm off; brother ſoldier, faith, ſhe's a fine girl! I'll go and walk a little in the court-yard; d'ye mind me, I'm off—mum.
This inſult, Loniſa, is beyond enduring! Is it not enough?—but I will not upbraid you.
Hear me but a moment!
Away! don't I know you falſe?—barbarous, faithleſs wretch!
Don't mind me; don't let me diſ⯑turb you; I only come to fetch the wine, for I believe you don't care to drink; will you take a ſup? no—well, your ſervant—I'm off again.
It is not from your hands, but from your fa⯑ther's, that I ſhall expect—
'Tis true, my father!—
That infamous old man! but go—I have no more to ſay. Oh, Louiſa! I doat upon you ſtill! is it poſſible you can intirely have forgot me?
Believe me, Henry!
But with what aſſurance!—what compoſure!
I ſhould not be compos'd, if I was really to blame.
O thou perfidious woman!
Enjoy your error.
My error?
With one word I could convince you.
With one word! ſpeak it then if you dare.
I am not married then.
Not married!
'Twas entirely my father's doings; his ſcheme to—
O cruel! 'Tis to no purpoſe whether 'twas you or him.
The Ducheſs—
Don't name her; you dare not ſhew yourſelf to her.
'Twas her who ordered the whole affair?
How!
What I tell you is true; ſome reports to your difadvantage having reach'd her, which I then knew, and we have ſince found to be falſe, ſhe ordered this mock-wedding (for ſuch only it was) to prove your af⯑fections; ſo that every thing you ſaw and heard was contrived on purpoſe to deceive you, and the whole Affair was but a joke.
Was but a joke?
Oh, heavens! my heart will burſt.
What means this grief, my love? do you ſtill doubt the truth of what I ſay?
No, Louiſa; 'tis becauſe I believe you.
Here's my father. Oh, Sir! I am glad you are come. Aſk him what's the matter; make him tell the cauſe of his diſtreſs.
Henry, my dear boy, good day to you; I am overjoy'd to ſee you; well, all matters are clear'd up, and you may take Louiſa for your pains; when ever you will, I give her to you.
I beſeech you, deſire your daughter to ſtep into the court-yard for a minute or two.
Why ſo?
Oblige me; only deſire ſhe will.
Louiſa, we have ſomething to ſay to each other; ſtep out for a minute or two, I'll call you back preſently.
Louiſa, 'tis an age ſince I ſaw you laſt.
And yet you ſend me away from you already.
You ſhall come back again immediately.
I was ſurpris'd to hear you was put in priſon, though they tell me 'tis but for a trifle. I am over-joyed to ſee you; the Ducheſs will ſoon get you releas'd, and then—but you ſeem thoughtful.
Will you promiſe me to do whatever I requeſt.
That I will, provided it is in my power.
I beg of you to take your daughter away with you; we muſt take leave of one another.
Why I know that, don't I? you muſt go back to your regiment.
Well, return hither two days hence, and aſk for a dragoon, named Skirmiſh, he will deliver you a let⯑ter—and for me—
O I know well enough what you mean; you'll be at the camp, the king's to be there.
Have you command enough of yourſelf not to betray any thing to your daughter of what I am going to tell you?
To be ſure I have.
I am afraid ſhe'll return before—
No, no, we're very ſafe.
This wedding trick—
Yes, 'twas I manag'd it.
It threw me into deſpair—
Good! very good! I knew it would.
And in my fury—
Ha, ha, ha, what you was furious then? de⯑lightful!
O cruel father! O unfortunate accident! this wedding has undone us all; he has con⯑feſs'd himſelf a Deſerter, and is condemn'd to ſuffer death.
What's this I hear?
She knows it all.—O torture!
A deſerter! condemn'd! Henry, can this be as ſhe ſays?
'Tis but too true.
Good heavens!
You are wanted without.
Me?
You—you muſt go directly.
Adieu, Louiſa!
For heav'ns ſake, Sir! where is he gone, who wants him?
Only ſome friends.
Surely, it can't be to—
Oh, no! 'tis not for that yet—'tis too ſoon awhile, about five or ſix—perhaps, it may be ſeven firſt.
Oh, ſupport me, Sir!
No child, we may yet prevent it. I'll go to the ducheſs, and tell her the whole affair.
She has brought me into this trouble.
I'll ſeek her this inſtant, do you follow me.
Oh, Sir! on my knees, I beſeech you.
There's no occaſion for kneeling to me; what would you have?
Is not the king to be at the camp to day?
Yes, and what then?
Tell me, Sir; in ſuch a caſe, 'tis an act of juſ⯑tice; the king ſurely will do juſtice.
Certainly; he never does otherwiſe.
Alas, Sir! I am poor, ſo very poor—
That won't hinder it a bit; the king's too good to deſpiſe folks becauſe they are poor.
But 'tis for you I mean.
For me?
To thank you with; to intreat you; here is a ſmall ornament, of no great value indeed; I give you this, Sir, I wiſh I had more to give; 'tis ſilver; delay it but till to-morrow.
Do what, delay it!
hey! it ſeems to me to be hollow: are you ſure 'tis ſilver?
This ſuſpence is dreadful.
Why, I'll tell you; I can't abſolutely delay his execution: but I'll let him have as much wine as ever he can drink:—what gone!—Gad, this girl has a gene⯑rous ſpirit.
SCENE IV.
Come along, what the devil are you afraid of? Here's a young man wants to ſee this ſoldier, and the girl that was here: where are they?
She's gone away.
But, where's he?
He was ſent for out to ſome friends; he'll be here again.
If you pleaſe, Sir, I'll follow the gentleman.
You and I muſt take a glaſs together.—So this ſoldier is your couſin, is he?
Yes, Sir.
Sit yourſelf down then; and he was ſent here yeſterday?
Yes, Sir.
Well then, ſit down, I tell you.
But, Sir.
Sit down, I ſay; ſit down there;—hell and fury, will you ſit down when I bid you? there!—now we'll take a glaſs together; he'll ſoon be here; come fill.
Sir, I thank you, but I am not dry; beſides I don't care much for drinking, without knowing my company.
Without knowing your company! why, you little ſtarv'd ſniveling—an't you in company with a gen⯑tleman? but drink this minute, or I'll—
I will, Sir, if you won't be angry.
Not I; I won't be angry: ſo you ſay that—
I, Sir? I did not ſay any thing.
Well then, if you did not ſay any thing, ſing:—ſing me a ſong.
I am not in ſpirits for ſinging.
Spirits! why, a ſong will raiſe your ſpirits; come, ſing away.
But Sir, I can't ſing.
Ever while you live, ſing.
Indeed, Sir, I can't.—
You can't—why, then I will.
Well, but, Sir.
Sit ſtill, I tell you; I am going to ſing.
But—I wiſh you, couſin—
He can't be long now; hear my ſong.
There's ſomething like a ſong for you! now we'll ſing together.
Together?
Ay, both together.
But, Sir, I don't know your ſong.
Why, who the devil wants you to ſing my ſong?
I never ſaw ſuch a man in my life: how ſhall I get away from him?—Sir!
Well, what d'ye ſay?
I believe there's ſomebody looking for you yon⯑der.
Is there?
O, you young dog! I'll be after you; but ſtay, here comes the poor unfortunate young man, his couſin.
SCENE V.
How are your ſpirits? Take a ſup of this: Oh! here's your writing paper.
Thank you, friend; oh, my heart! I wiſh I could have ſeen Louiſa once more.
Ah, you're a happy man, you can write!
Oh, my curſed ſtars, what a wretched fellow I am!
Why, what's the matter?
The matter?—Confuſion!—I bluſh to ſay it; but ſince it muſt out, what will you ſay to ſuch a poor, miſerable—and but this one misfortune, fit to be a ge⯑neral: if I had known how to write, I might have had a regiment five years ago; but company is the ruin of us all; drinking with one, and drinking with another;—why, none here; I was in hopes here that I ſhou'd be able to ſtudy a little; but the devil a bit; no ſuch thing as getting the bottle out of one's hand: ah! if I could hold the pen as I have held the bottle, what a charming hand I ſhould have wrote by this time.
Skirmiſh, do me one favour.
What is it?
May I depend upon you?
To the laſt drop of my blood.
Promiſe me to deliver this letter.
I'll go directly.
You can't go with it now; you are a priſoner, you know.
Damn it, ſo I am; I forgot that: well, but to-morrow I ſhall have my liberty, and then—
A perſon, whoſe name is Ruſſet, will be here to enquire after me; deliver it to him.
May I periſh, if I fail.
Let me ſpeak to you.
SCENE VI.
[32]Yes, yes, you vile huſſey, 'twas all your fault.
Well, have not I confeſs'd it?
Confeſs'd it, indeed! is not the poor young man going to loſe his life, and all upon your account?
I own it, I own it; I never ſhall 'joy myſelf again as long as I live; I ſhall ſee his ghoſt every night.
And it ſerves you right; and I'll tell you more news for your comfort; I would not marry you now you've been ſo wicked, if you was worth your weight in gold.
Ah! you need not talk; for you know well enough, you was told to run after him to call him back, and you never once offered to move.
Why, how could I? I was the bridegroom, you know.
See, there he is!
Bleſs us, how alter'd he looks!
Good day, aunt; good day;
give us leave, brother ſoldier.
Yes, yes, I'll go; I won't diſturb you; I'll go and ſee what they are doing; I am afraid no good, for the time draws near.
Ah, my poor boy! can you forgive us? 'twas all our doing.
No, 'twas my doing.
Let us ſay no more about it; 'twas an unfortu⯑nate affair: where's Louiſa, and her father?
Ah! poor man! her father came running into the village, like one diſtracted; flung himſelf on the ground, tore his hair; we could not get him to ſpeak to us.
And Louiſa, who has ſeen her?
We none of us can tell where ſhe is.
How! no one know where ſhe is gone? ſome accident ſure has happened to her?
Don't afflict yourſelf ſo.
Aunt, if ſhe is ſound, I muſt rely on you to comfort her; don't ſuffer her out of your ſight; this is now all the ſervice you can do me; your nephew muſt die; for my ſake, therefore, look upon her as your niece; ſhe ſhould have been ſo in reality.
I promiſe you.
I could wiſh to ſee her again.
SCENE, the laſt.
Comrade, I am ſorry to bring you bad news, but you muſt now behave yourſelf like a man; the hell-hounds are coming for you.
Already?
They are, indeed; here, here, you've occaſion enough for it; drink ſome of this.
I am obliged to you,—none. Aunt, adieu! tell my Louiſa, I thought on her to my laſt moment; and, oh, my heart! bear up a little, and I ſhall be rid of this inſupportable miſery.
Oh, Lord, what ſhall we do? I'd give all I have in the world to prevent it.
And for me, I'd part with the very cloaths of my back.
If you could but ſee Louiſa!
Ay, if you could but ſee Louiſa!
We'll give you, Sir, all the money we have, if you'll only ſtay till we fetch the young woman, that was here juſt now.
Well, I am ſure no body can ſay, but as how I am always ready to ſerve every body I can:—what have you got?
Why, here's a little piece of gold, and ſome ſilver.
And here's my little ſtock: I am ſure every farthing.
And there's all mine.
Well, good nature is my pride and pleaſure; are you ſure you have given me all?
I am ſure I have.
And ſo have I.
And I too, indeed.
Why then, what ſignifies hiding good news? the young man's repriev'd.
How?
Here's a meſſenger from the camp.
Let me ſit down.
I ſhall die with pleaſure.
Lord, lord, I ſhall leap out of my ſkin.
Where is he? where's my boy, my ſon? Lou⯑iſa, Henry, has done it all!—Louiſa has ſav'd your life!
Charming angel! tell me how, dear Sir?
As the army were returning to the camp, aſſiſt⯑ed in her reſolution by her love for you, to the aſtoniſh⯑ment of all who ſaw her, ſhe ruſh'd like lightning through the ranks, made her way to the king himſelf, fell at his feet,—and, after modeſtly relating the circumſtances of thy innocence, and her own diſtreſs, vow'd never to riſe till ſhe obtain'd the life of her lover: the king, having heard her ſtory with that clemency which always ac⯑companies a noble mind, granted thy life to her inter⯑ceſſion; [35] and the pomp paſs'd on amidſt the acclamati⯑ons of the people.
Charming generous creature!
Death and damnation!
Why, what ails you, Skirmiſh?
The king at the camp, and I not there!
I ſhall love my couſin Louiſa for it as long as I live.
The king wept, and the nobles fill'd her lap with money; which ſhe threw to the ground, leaſt it ſhould retard her in her way to you.
How can I reward ſuch tenderneſs?
See, ſee, here ſhe comes.
My Henry!
My Louiſa!
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5456 The deserter A new musical drama as it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-61C2-B