THE IRON CHEST: A PLAY; IN THREE ACTS. WRITTEN BY GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER. WITH A PREFACE.
Firſt repreſented at the THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE, on SATURDAY, 12th MARCH, 1796.
"THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS"
"By Mr. KEMBLE," &c.
DUBLIN: PRINTED BY THOMAS BURNSIDE, FOR P. WOGAN, J. RICE, AND G. FOLINGSBY. 1796.
PREFACE.
[]HAVING been, for ſome time, a labourer in the Drama, and finding it neceſſary to con⯑tinue my labours, I cannot help endeavouring to guard the paſt from miſrepreſentation, leſt my ſupineneſs may injure the future. Con⯑ſcious that a prejudice has been created againſt the Play which I now ſubmit to the Reader, and conſcious how far I am innocent of raiſing it, it were ſtupid to ſit down in ſilence, and thus tacitly acknowledge myſelf guilty of dulneſs;— dumbly confeſs I have been deficient in the knowledge of my trade, damn myſelf for a bungling workman, and fix a diſrepute upon every article which may, hereafter, come from my hands.
Thanks to you, Ladies and Gentlemen! you have been kind cuſtomers to me; and I am proud to ſay that you have ſtamped a faſhion upon my goods. Baſe, indeed, and ungrateful were the attempt, after your favours, ſo long received and continued, to impoſe upon you [iv] a clumſy commodity, and boaſt it to be ware of the beſt quality that I ever put up to ſale! No— on the word of an honeſt man, I have beſtowed no ſmall pains upon this Iron Cheſt, which I offer you. Inſpect it; examine it; you ſee the maker's name is upon it. I do not ſay it is perfect; I do not pretend to tell you it is of the higheſt poliſh; there is no occaſion for that:— many of my brethren have preſented you with mere linings for cheſts, and you have been con⯑tent:—but, I truſt, you will find that my Iron Cheſt will hold together, that it is tolerably ſound, and fit for all the purpoſes for which it was intended.
Then how came it to fall to pieces, after four days wear?—I will explain that:—but alas! alas! my heart doth yearn, when I think on the taſk which circumſtance has thruſt upon me.
Now, by the Spirit of Peace, I Swear! were I not doomed to explore the rugged wind⯑ings of the Drama, I would wrap myſelf in mute philoſophy, and repoſe calmly under the dark ſhade of my grievance, rather than endure the pain, and trouble, of this explanation.— I cannot, however, cry "Let the world ſlide:" I muſt purſue my journey; and be active to clear away the obſtacles that impede my progreſs.
I am too callous, now, to be annoyed by thoſe innumerable gnats and inſects, who daily dart their impotent ſtings on the literary traveller; and too knowing to diſmount, and waſte my time in whipping graſshoppers:—but here is a ſcowling, ſullen, black Bull, right athwart my road;—a monſter of magnitude, of the Boeotian breed, perplexing me in my wander⯑ings through the entangled labyrinth of Drury! [v] he ſtands ſulkily before me, with ſides, ſeem⯑ingly impenetrable to any laſh, and tougher than the Dun Cow of Warwick!—His front out-fronting the brazen bull of Perillus!—He has bellowed, Gentlemen! Yea, he hath bellowed a diſmal ſound! A hollow, unvaried tone, heaved from his very midriff, and ſtriking the liſtener with torpor!—Would I could paſs the animal quietly, for my own ſake!—and, for his, by Jupiter! I repeat it, I would not will⯑ingly harm the Bull.—I delight not in baiting him.—I would jog as gently by him as by the aſs that grazes on the common: but he has obſtinately blocked up my way—he has already toſſed and gored me, ſeverely—I muſt make an effort, or he batters me down, and leaves me to bite the duſt.
The weapon I muſt uſe is not of that bril⯑liant, and keen quality, which, in a ſkilful hand, neatly cuts up the ſubject, to the delight, and admiration, of the bye-ſtanders: It is a homely cudgel of Narrative; a blunt batoon of Matter of fact; affording little diſplay of art in the wielder; and ſo heavy in its nature, that it can merely claim the merit of being appropriate to the opponent at whom it is levelled.
Pray, ſtand clear!—for I ſhall handle this club vilely: and if any one come in my way, he may chance to get a rap, which I did not intend to beſtow upon him. Good venal and venomous gentlemen, who dabble in ink for pay or from pique, and who have dubbed yourſelves Criticks, keep your diſtance now! Run home to your garrets!—Fools! ye are but Ephemera at beſt; and will die ſoon enough, in the paltry courſe of your inſignificant natures, without thruſting [vi] your ears (if there be any left you) into the heat of this perilous action.—A vaunt!—well, well, ſtay if ye are bent upon it, and be pert and buſy;—your folly, to me, is of no moment.*
I haſten now to my Narrative.
I agreed to write the following Play, at the inſtance of the chief Proprietor of Drury-Lane Theatre; who, unconditionally, agreed to pay me a certain ſum for my labour:—and this certain ſum, being much larger than any, I believe, hitherto offered on ſimilar occaſions, created no ſmall jealouſy among the Parnaſſian Sans Culottes; ſeveral of whom have, of late, been vapidly induſtrious to level, to the muddy ſurface of their own Caſtalian ditch, ſo Ariſ⯑tocratico-Dramatick a bargainer. The Play, as faſt as written, (piecemeal) was put into re⯑hearſal: But let it here be noted, gentle reader! that a rehearſal, in Drury-Lane, (I mean as far as relates to this Iron Cheſt) is lucus à non lucendo. They yclep it a rehearſal, I conjecture, becauſe they do NOT rehearſe. I call the loved ſhade of Garrick to witneſs; nay, I call the leſs loved preſence of the then acting Manager to avow,—that there never was one fair rehearſal of the Play.—Never one rehearſal, wherein one, or two, or more, of the Performers, very eſſential to the piece, were not abſent: and all the rehearſals which I attended, ſo ſlovenly, and irregular, that the ragged maſter of a theatrical Barn, might have bluſhed for [vii] the want of diſcipline in the pompous Director of His Majeſty's Servants, at the vaſt and aſtoniſhing new-erected Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane.
It is well known, to thoſe converſant with the buſineſs of the ſtage, that no perfect judg⯑ment can be formed of the length of a Play, apparent to the ſpectator, nor of the general effect intended to be produced, until the private repetitions, among the actors, have reduced the buſineſs into ſomething like lucidus ordo:— then comes the time for the judicious author to take up his pruning-knife, or handle his hatchet. Then he goes luſtily to work, my maſters! upon his curtailments, or additions; his tranſ⯑poſitions, his loppings, his parings, trimmings, dockings, &c. &c. &c. As in the writing, ſo in the rehearſal.
But, woe is me! while I was patiently wait⯑ing the expected criſis, a circumſtance occurred which compelled me to watch a criſis of a leſs agreeable nature. A fever attacked me, as I ſat beneath the damp dome of Drury, and drove me, malgrè moi, to bed; where I lay during a week, till three hours before the Play was exhibited. In addition to the unavoidable injury ariſing from the author's abſence, Mr. KEMBLE, the acting-manager, and principal performer in the piece, was, and had been for a few days, previous to my own illneſs, confined [viii] to his chamber, by indiſpoſition. I lay little ſtreſs, indeed, upon his temporary incapacity to perform his managerical duty; his mode of diſ⯑charging it, hitherto, was productive of little benefit to me;—Still it was ſome drawback— for were a mere Log thrown amidſt a Theſpian community, and nominated its dull and ponder⯑ous Ruler, ſtill the block, while in its place, would carry ſome ſway with it:—but his non-attendance as an actor, ſo much engaged in the Play, was particularly detrimental.
Nay, even the Compoſer of the muſick— and here let me breathe a ſigh to the memory of departed worth and genius, as I write the name of STORAGE—even he, could not preſide in his department. He was preparing an early flight to that abode of harmony, where choirs of Angels ſwell the note of welcome to an honeſt, and congenial ſpirit.
Here then was a direct ſtop to the buſineſs? No ſuch thing. The Troops proceeded with⯑out leaders: In the dark, Meſſieur.!—"Sans eyes, Sans every thing." The Prompter, it is true, a kind of non-commiſſioned officer, headed the Corps, and a curious march was made of it!
But, lo! two days, or three, (I forget which) previous to the public repreſentation, up roſe King KEMBLE! like Somnus from his ebon bed, to diſtribute his dozing directions among his ſubjects.
[ix]He came, ſaw, and pronounced the Piece to be ripe for exhibition. It was ordered to be performed immediately. News was brought to me, in my ſickneſs, of the mighty Fiat; and, although I was told, officially, that due care had been taken to render it worthy of public attention, I ſubmitted with doubt and trembling to the decree. My doubts, too, of this boaſted care, were not a little increaſed by a note, which I received from the Prompter, written by the Manager's order, three hours only, before the firſt repreſentation of the Play:—wherein, at this late period, my conſent was, abruptly, requeſted to a tranſpoſition of two of the moſt material ſcenes in the ſecond act: and the reaſon given for this curious propoſal was, that the preſent ſtage of Drury—where the Architect and Machiniſt, with the judgment and ingenuity of a Politician and a Wit to aſſiſt them, had combined to outdo all former theatrical out⯑doings—was ſo bunglingly conſtructed, that there was not time for the carpenters to place the lumbering frame-work, on which an Abbey was painted, behind the repreſentation of a Library, without having a chaſm of ten minutes in the action of the Play; and that in the middle of an act.—Such was the fabrication of that New Stage, whoſe "extent and powers" have been ſo vauntingly advertiſed, under the claſſick management of Mr. KEMBLE, in the edifying exhibition of Pantomimes, Proceſſions, Pageants, Triumphal Cars, Milk white Horſes, and Elephants!
As I did not chuſe to alter the conſtruction of my Play, without deliberation, merely to ſkreen the ill-conſtruction of the Houſe, I would [x] not liſten to the modeſt, and well timed demand, of turning the progreſs of my fable topſy turvy.
Very ill, and very weak, from the effects of the fever, which ha [...] not, yet, left me, I made an effort, and went to the Theatre, to witneſs the performance. I found Mr. KEMBLE, in his dreſſing-room, a ſhort time before the curtain was drawn up, taking Opium Pills: and, nobody who is acquainted with that gentleman will doubt me when I aſſert, that, they are a medicine which he has long been in the habit of ſwallowing. He appeared to me very unwell; and ſeemed, indeed, to have imbibed,
The Play began; and all went ſmoothly, till a trifling diſapprobation was ſhewn to the character perſonated by Mr. DODD;—the ſcene in which he was engaged being much too long: A proof of the neglect of thoſe whoſe buſineſs it was to have informed me (in my unavoidable abſence from the Theatre) that it appea [...]ed in the laſt rehearſals, to want curtail⯑ment. I conſidered this, however, to be of no great moment; [...] Mr. KEMBLE was to appear immediately in a ſub [...]quent ſcene, and much was expected from his execution of a part, written expreſsly for his powers.
And, here, let me deſcribe the requiſites for the character which I have attempted to draw, that the world may judge whether I have taken a wrong meaſure of the perſonage whom I pro⯑poſed to fit: premiſing that I have worked for him before, with ſucceſs, and, therefore, it [xi] may be preſumed that I am ſomewhat acquaint⯑ed with the dimenſions of his qualifications.— I required, then, a man
A man of whom it might be ſaid,
Look at the actor;—and will any body do him the injuſtice to declare that he is deficient in theſe qualifications? It would puzzle any author, in any time or country, from Aeſchylus down, even, to the Tranſlator of Lodoiſka—and really, gentlemen, I can go no lower—to find a figure and face better ſuited to the purpoſe. I have endeavour'd, more-over, to pourtray Sir Ed⯑ward Mortimer as a man ſtately in his deport⯑ment, reſerved in his temper, myſterious, cold, and impenetrable, in his manner: and the can⯑did obſervers, I truſt, will allow that Mr. KEMBLE is thouroughly adequate to ſuch a perſonation.
To complete my requiſitions, I demanded a performer who could enter into the ſpirit of a character proceeding upon romantic, half-witted principles, abſtracted in his opinions, ſophiſticated in his reaſonings, and who is thrown into ſitua⯑tions where his mind and conduct ſtand, tiptoe, on the extremeſt verge of probability. Here, ſurely, I have not miſtaken my man; for if I am able to form any opinion of him, as an Actor,—and my opinion, I know, is far from [xii] ſingular,—his chief excellence almoſt approaches that ſtyle which the learned denominate Carica⯑ture. Poſſibility on the ſtretch, paſſion over-leaping it's cuſtomary bound, movements of the ſoul, ſullen, or violent, very rarely ſeen in the common courſe of things, yet ſtill may be ſeen —in theſe is his element. As our language is ſaid to have ſunk under the vaſt conception of MILTON, ſo does the modeſty of nature ſuffer a depreſſion beneath the unwieldy imaginings of Mr. KEMBLE. He ſeldom deigns to accompany the Goddeſs in her ordinary walks; when ſhe decently paces the regular path, with a ſober ſtep, and a ſtraight perſon: but he kindly aſſiſts her when ſhe is, doubtleſs, in need of aſſiſtance —when ſhe appears out of her way, crazy and crooked.
The arrogant fault of being more refined than Refinement, more proper than Propriety, more ſenſible than Senſe, which, nine times in ten, will diſguſt the ſpectator, becomes frequent⯑ly, an advantage to him, in characters of the above deſcription.
In ſhort, Mr KEMELE is a paragon-repre⯑ſentative of the Luſus Naturae: and were Mr. KEMBLE ſewed up in a ſkin, to act a hog in a pantomime, he would act a hog with ſix legs better than a hog with four.
If any one aſk why I choſe to ſketch a Luſus Naturae when it might better become an author to be chaſte in his delineation, I can only reply that, I did ſo to obtain the aſſiſtance of Mr. KEMBLE in his beſt manner; and that now, I do moſt heartily repent me: for never, ſure, did man place the main ſtrength of his building upon ſo rotten a prop!
[xiii]Well, the great actor was diſcovered, as Sir Edward Mortimer, in his library. Gloom and deſolation ſat upon his brow; and he was habited, from the wig to the ſhoe-ſtring, with the moſt ſtudied exactneſs. Had one of King CHARLES the Firſt's portraits walked from its frame, upon the boards of the Theatre, it could not have afforded a truer repreſentation of ancient and melancholy dignity.
The picture could not have looked better— but, in juſtice to the picture, it muſt alſo be added, that, the picture could ſcarcely have acted worſe.
The ſpectators, who gaped with expectation at his firſt appearance, yawned with laſſitude before his firſt exit. It ſeemed, however, that illneſs had totally incapacitated him from per⯑forming the buſineſs he had undertaken. For his mere illneſs he was entitled to pity; for his conduct under it, he, undoubtedly, deſerved cenſure.
How can Mr. KEMBLE, as a Manager, and an Actor, juſtify his thruſting himſelf forward in a new Play, the material intereſt of which reſted upon his own powers, at a moment when he muſt be conſcious that he had no powers at all?—Mr. KEMELE owes a duty to the publick, to his employer, and to an author writing for his employer's houſe. How does he treat the claimants upon his ſervice, in this inſtance? Exactly, thus—he inſults the underſtanding of the firſt, and injures the intereſts of the two laſt, by calling in a crowd to an entertainment which he knows he muſt mar.
I requeſted him, at the end of the firſt act, to order an apology to be made for his indiſpo⯑ſition, [xiv] leſt the uninformed or malicious, might attribute the ponderoſity of the performer to the heavineſs of the author. I was anxious to diſavow all right and title to thoſe pigs of lead which did not belong to me, and of which Mr. KEMBLE was the juſt proprietor. But no—he peremptorily declared he would not ſuffer an apology to be made! It ſhould have been made (if at all) before the play began.—Then why was it not made?—He did not, then, imagine that illneſs would have diſabled him.—So, then, a man quits his chamber, after an attack which has, evidently, weakened him extremely, and he has no bodily feel, no internal monitor, to whiſper to him that he is feeble, and that he has not recovered ſufficient ſtrength to make a violent exertion!—This mode of reaſoning, adopted by Mr. KEMBLE, is much in the ſpirit of that clown's, who did not know whether he could play on the fiddle 'till he tried. Be it noted, alſo, that Mr. KEMBLE was ſwallowing his opium pills, before the play began, becauſe he was ill:—but opium cauſes ſtrange oblivious effects; and theſe pills muſt have occaſioned ſo ſudden a lapſe in Mr. KEMBLE's memory, that he forgot when he took them, why he took them, or that he had taken them at all.—The doſe muſt have been very powerful.—Still, for the reaſons already ſtated, I preſſed for an apology; ſtill Mr. KEMBLE continued obſtinate in oppoſing it. His indiſpoſition, he ſaid, was evident; he had coughed very much upon the ſtage, and an apology would make him "look like a fool.."
Good-nature in exceſs becomes weakneſs; but I never yet found, in the confined courſe of [xv] my reading, that good-nature and folly would bear the ſame definition: Mr. KEMBLE, it ſhould ſeem (and he produced, at leaſt, mana⯑gerical authority for it) conſidered the terms to be ſynonimous. Freely, however, forgiving him for his unkindneſs, in refuſing to gratify a poor devil of an author,—who, very anxious for his reputation, was very moderate in his requeſt—I do, in all chriſtian charity, moſt ſincerely wiſh that Mr. KEMBLE may never find greater cauſe to look like a fool than an apology for his indiſpoſition.
At length, by dint of perſeverance, I gained my point. A proprietor of the Theatre was called in upon the occaſion, whoſe mediation in my favour carried more weight with the Acting Manager than a hapleſs Dramatiſt's entreaty; and the apology was, in due form, delivered to the audience.
One third of the Play, only, was yet per⯑formed; and I was, now, to make up my mind, like an unfortunate traveller, to purſue my painful journey, through two ſtages more, upon a broken-down Poſter, car whoſe back lay all the baggage for my expedition. Miſerably, and moſt heavily in hand, did the Poſter pro⯑ceed!—He groaned, he lagged, he coughed, he winced, he weezed!—Never was ſeen ſo ſorry a jade! The audience grew completely ſoured, and, once completely ſoured, every thing, naturally, went wrong. They recurred to their diſapprobation of poor DODD—and ob⯑ſerve what this produced. I muſt relate it.
Mr. KEMBLE had juſt plodded through a ſcene, regardleſs of thoſe loud and manifeſt tokens that the Criticks delight not in the [xvi] "drowſy hums" with which he rang night's "yawning peal," when DODD appeared to him on the Stage; at whoſe entrance the clamour was renewed. Then, and not till then, did the Acting Manager, who had been deaf as any poſt to the ſupplications of the author for an apology—then did he appear ſuddenly ſeized with a fit of good nature. He voluntarily came forward "to look like a fool," and beg the indulgence of the town. He feared he was the unhappy cauſe of their diſapprobation; he entreated their patience, and hoped he ſhould ſhortly gain ſtrength, to enable them to judge, on a future night, what he handſomely termed the merits of the Play. Here was friendſhip! Here was adroitneſs! While the Publick were teſtifying their diſguſt at the Piece, through the medium of poor DODD, Mr. KEMBLE, with unexampled generoſity, took the whole blame upon his own ſhoulders, and heroically ſaved the author, by ſo timely an interpoſition. I was charmed with this maſter-ſtroke, and, at the impulſe of the moment, I thanked him. But, alas! how narrow is the ſoul of man! how diſtruſtful in its movements, how ſcanty in its acknowledgments, how perplexing to itſelf in its combinations! Had I, afterwards, looked on the thing ſimply and nakedly, by itſelf, why the thing is a good-natured thing: but I muſt be putting other circumſtances by the ſide of it, with a plague to me! I muſt be puzzling myſelf to ſee if all fits; if all is of a piece. And what is the reſult?—Miſerable that I am! I have loſt the pleaſure of evincing a gratitude, which I thought I owed, becauſe I no longer feel myſelf a debtor. Had I abandoned my mind [xvii] to that placid negligence, that luxurious con⯑fidence, which the inconſiderate enjoy, it had never occurred to me that Mr. KEMBLE, fore⯑ſeeing, perhaps, that an aggrieved author might not be totally ſilent—ſteped forward with this ſpeech to the publick, as a kind of ſalvo, (ſhould a ſtatement be made) for his rigidity in the firſt inſtance. It had never occurred to me that Mr. KEMBLE was ſufficiently hiſſed, yawned at, laughed at, and coughed down, to have made his apology before Mr. DODD appeared: It had never occurred to me that his making his apology at a previous moment would have anſwered the ſame purpoſe to me, and not to him: It had never occurred, in ſhort, that there is ſuch a thing as oſtentatious humility, and a politick act of kindneſs; and that I ſhould have waited the ſequel of a man's conduct, before I thanked him for one inſtance of ſeeming good will, cloſe upon the heels of ſtubborn ill-nature, and in the midſt of exiſting, and palpable injury. The ſequel will ſhew that I was premature in my acknowledgment—but before I come to the ſequel, a word or two (I will be brief) to cloſe my account of this, the firſt night's, eventful hiſtory. The Piece was concluded, and given out, for a ſecond performance with much oppo⯑ſition.
Friends, who never heard the Play read, ſhook their heads; Friends, who had heard it read, ſcarcely knew it again: Several, I doubt not, of the impartial, who choſe to be active, actively condemned; and enemies, of courſe, rejoiced in an opportunity of joining them.
No opportunity could be fairer. The Play was, at leaſt, a full hour too long; and had [xviii] Job himſelf ſat to hear it he muſt have loſt his patience. But, if, gentle reader, thou poſſeſſeſt Job's quality, and haſt followed me thus far, in my Narrative, it will appear to thee (for I doubt not thy retention and combination) that I was unable to curtail it effectually, at the pro⯑per time—the laſt rehearſals. I was, then, laid flat, my dear friend, as you remember I have told you, by a fever. The Acting Manager did attend the laſt rehearſals, and ſuffered the piece to be produced, uncut, to "drag its ſlow length along" ſurcharged with all his own incapacity, and all his opium.
How, then, do I ſtand indebted, according to the articles of this night's ſtatement? I owe to Mr. KEMBLE,
- For his illneſs, COMPASSION,
- For his conduct under it, CENSURE,
- For his refuſing to make an apology, A SMILE!
- For his making an apology, A SNEER,
- For his miſmanagement, A GROAN,
- For his acting, A HISS.
This account is ſomewhat like the Tavern bill, picked from Falſtaff's pocket, when he is ſnorting behind the arras. There is but one halfpenny worth of compaſſion to this intolera⯑ble deal of blame.
Now for the ſequel.—I have ſhewn, I think, that Mr. KEMBLE, in the firſt inſtance, under⯑took a duty which he could not perform: I have now to affirm, with all the difficulty of proving a negative full in my face, that he afterwards, made a mockery of diſcharging a duty which he would not perform.
[xix]After a week's interval, to give him time to recruit his ſtrength; and the Author time to curtail, and alter, the Play; (for the impreſſion which the Miſ-Manager and Actor, had con⯑trived to ſtamp rendered alteration neceſſary) it was a ſecond time repreſented.
I muſt, here, let the uninformed reader into a ſecret;—but I muſt go to Newmarket to make him underſtand me.—No, Epſom will do as well; and that is nearer home.—It often hap⯑pens, at a Race, that a known Horſe, from whom good ſport is expected, diſappoints the crowd by walking over the courſe.—He does not miſs an inch of the ground; but affords not one jot of diverſion, unleſs ſome pleaſure is received in contemplating his figure. Now, an actor can do the very ſame thing. He can walk over his part: He can miſs no more of his words than the Horſe does of his way: he can be as dull, and as tedious, and as good-looking as the Horſe in his progreſs:—The only difference between the two animals is,—that the Horſe brings in him who bets upon him a gainer; but the luckleſs wight who has a large ſtake depend⯑ing upon the actor is, decidedly, certain to loſe. There is a trick, too, that the Jockies practiſe, which is called, I think, playing booty. This conſiſts in appearing to uſe their utmoſt en⯑deavour to reach the winning-poſt firſt, when they are already determined to come in the laſt. The conſequence is, that all, except the know⯑ing ones, attribute no fault to the Jockey, but damn the Horſe for a ſluggard.—An actor can play booty if he chuſes:—he can pretend to whip and ſpur, and do his beſt, when the Connoiſſeur knows, all the while, he is ſhirking:—but [xx] Sluggard is the unmerited appellation given by the majority to the innocent author..
Mr. KEMBLE chiefly choſe to be Horſe, and walked over the ground. Every now and then (but ſcarcely enough to ſave appearances) he gave a ſlight touch of the Jockey, and played booty.
Whether the language which is put into the mouth of Sir Edward Mortimer be above mediocrity, or below contempt, is not to the preſent purpoſe: but the words he is made to utter certainly convey a meaning; and the cir⯑cumſtances of the ſcenes afford an opportunity to the Performer of playing off his mimick emotions, his tranſitions of paſſion, his ſtarts, and all the trickeries of his trade. The devil a trick did Mr. KEMBLE play but a very ſcurvy one! His emotions and paſſions were ſo rare, and ſo feeble, that they ſeaſoned his general inſipidity, like a ſingle grain of wretched pepper thrown into the largeſt doſe of water-gruel that ever was adminiſtered to an invalid. For the moſt part, he toiled on, line after line, in a dull current of undiverſified ſound, which ſtole upon the ear far more drowſily than the diſtant mur⯑murings of Lethe; with no attempt to break the lulling ſtream, or check its ſleep-inviting courſe.
Frogs in a marſh, flies in a bottle; wind in a crevice, a preacher in a field, the drone of a bagpipe, all, all yielded to the inimitable, and ſoporific monotony of Mr. KEMBLE!
The very beſt Dramatick writing, where paſſion is expreſſed, if delivered languidly by the Actor, will fail in it's intended effect: and I will be bold enough to ſay that were the Curſe in King Lear new to an audience, and they heard [xxi] it uttered, for the firſt time, in a croak, fainter than a crow's in a conſumption, it would paſs unnoticed, or appear vapid to the million.
If I raiſe a critical clatter about my ears, by this aſſertion, which ſome may twiſt into a profanation of Shakſpeare, I leave it to Horace, who can fight battles better than I, to defend me.
That Mr. KEMBLE did not miſconceive the Part is certain; for he told me, ſome time before the Play was acted, that he feared the exertions requiſite, in Sir Edward Mortimer, would ſtrain his lungs more than Octavian, in the Mountaineers.
That he can ſtrain his lungs, to good purpoſe, in Octavian, is well known; and, after this, his own intimation, how will he eſcape the charge of wilful and direct delinquency, when, with ſuch a conception of the Part, and with health recovered, he came forward in the true ſpirit of Bottom, and "aggravated his voice ſo that he roared you as gentle as any ſucking dove?" *
He inſulted the Town, and injured his Em⯑ployer, and the Author, ſufficiently in the firſt inſtance: in the ſecond he added to the inſult and injury an hundred-fold: and as often as he mangled the Character (three or four times, I am uncertain which, after the firſt night's per⯑formance) he heaped aggravation upon aggrava⯑tion.
[xxii]The moſt miſerable mummer, that ever diſgraced the walls of a Theatre, could not have been a ſtronger drawback than Mr. KEMBLE.— He was not only dull in himſelf, but the cauſe of dulneſs in others. Like the baleful Upas of Java, his peſtiferous influence infected all around him. When two Actors come forward, to keep up the Shuttle cock of ſcenick-fiction, if one plays ſlovenly, the other cannot maintain his game. Poor BANNISTER, Jun. would he ſpeak out (but I have never preſſed him, and never ſhall preſs him to ſay a word upon the ſubject) could bear ample teſtimony to the truth of this re⯑mark. He ſuffered like a man under the cruelty of M [...]zentius. All alive himſelf, he was tied to a corpſe, which he was fated to drag about with him, ſcene after ſcene, which weighed him down, and depreſſed his vigour. Miſs FARREN, too, who might animate any thing but a ſoul of lead, and a face of iron, experienced the ſame fate.
I could proceed, and argue, and reaſon, and diſcuſs, and tire the reader, as I have tired my⯑ſelf (it is now, my good friend, one o'clock in the morning) to prove, further, that Mr. KEMBLE was unſound in my cauſe, and that he ruined my Play:—But I will deſiſt here. I think I have proſed enough to manifeſt that my argu⯑ments are not unfounded.
They who are experienced in Dramaticks will, I truſt, ſee that I have made a fair extenua⯑tion of myſelf—they who are impartial will, I hope, be convinced that I have ſet down nought in malice.
The only queſtion that may ariſe to ſhake, materially, the credit of all I have ſaid, is— [xxiii] "How is it probable that Mr. KEMBLE ſhould injure you thus, without provocation? Is it in nature? Is it in man?" I can merely anſwer that I am unconſcious of having given him cauſe for provocation; that if I have given him cauſe, he has taken a bad mode of revenge; that Mr. KEMBLE's nature has frequently puzzled me in my obſervation upon it; and that I think him a very extraordinary man.
But let him take this with him, ſhould this crudely written Preface ever fall in his way. I have committed it to paper currente calamo. I mean no alluſion, no epithet, to apply to him as a private individual. As a private individual I give him not that notice which it might, here, be impertinent to beſtow:—but I have an un⯑doubted right to diſcuſs his merits, or demerits, in his publick capacities of Manager and Actor: and my cauſe of complaint gives me a good reaſon as well as right. His want of conduct, his neglect, his injuſtice, his oppreſſion, his fineſſe, his perſon, his face, are in this point of view all open to my animadverſion.
And I would animadvert ſtill further, did I not think I had already ſaid ſufficient to gain the object of guarding my own reputation. That object has ſolely ſwayed me in dwelling ſo long upon a "plain tale," encumbered with ſo fatiguing a Hero as JOHN KEMBLE.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.
[]I AM indebted for the ground-work of this Play to a Novel entitled "Things as they are, or the Adventures of Caleb Williams; written by William Godwin." Much of Mr. GODWIN's ſtory I have omitted; much, which I have adopted, I have compreſſed; much I have added; and much I have taken the liberty to alter.
All this I did that I might fit it, in the beſt of my judgment, to the ſtage.
I have cautiouſly avoided all tendency to that which, vulgarly, (and wrongly, in many in⯑ſtances) is termed Politicks; with which, many have told me, Caleb Williams teems.
The ſtage has, now, no buſineſs with Poli⯑ticks: and, ſhould a Dramatick Author en⯑deavour to dabble in them, it is the Lord Chamberlain's office to check his attempts, before they meet the eye of the Publick. I peruſed Mr. GODWIN's book, as a tale replete with intereſting incident, ingenious in its arrange⯑ment, [xxvi] maſterly in its delineation of character, and forcible in its language. I conſidered it as right of Common; and, by a title which cuſ⯑tom has given to Dramatiſts, I encloſed it within my theatrical paling. However I may have tilled the l [...]nd, I truſt he diſcovers no intentional injury to him, in my proceeding.
To all the Performers (excepting Mr. KEMBLE) I offer my hearty thanks for their exertions; which would have ſerved me more, had not an actor, "dark as Erebus," caſt a gloom upon them, which none of their efforts, however brilliant, could entirely diſperſe.
But this does not diminiſh my obligations to them:—ſo much, indeed, I owe to them, that, when the Play was laſt performed, it was riſing, ſpite of Erebus, in favour with the Town. It was, then, advertiſed, day after day, at the bottom of the Play-bills, for repetition, till the promiſſory advertiſement became laughable; and, at length, the Advertiſement and the Play were dropt together.
If, after the foregoing Preface, I ſhould at a future period, bring the Play forward in the Hay-market Theatre, I am fully aware of the numbers who from party and pique, may now oppoſe it. I am aware, too, of the weight which a firſt impreſſion leaves upon the minds of the moſt candid:—Still, ſo ſtrong is my confidence in the genuine deciſion of a London audience, who have a fair opportunity of ex⯑erciſing their judgment and feelings, (which they have not had, yet, in reſpect to this Play) that I believe I ſhall venture an appeal.
The Piece is, now, printed as it was acted on the firſt night; that they who peruſe it may [xxvii] decide whether, even in that ſhape, (with all the misfortunes, before enumerated, with which it was doomed to ſtruggle) it ſhould be, for ever, conſigned to moulder on the ſhelf.
The Songs, Duets, and Choruſſes, are in⯑tended merely as vehicles for muſical effect. Some criticks have pompouſly called them Lyrick Poetry—that by raiſing them to dignity they may more effectually degrade them: as men lift a ſtone very high, before they let it fall, when they would completely daſh it to pieces.
I, now, leave the gentle reader to the peruſal of the Play—and, leſt my Father's memory may be injured by miſtakes; and, in the con⯑fuſion of after-times, the Tranſlator of Terence, and the Author of The Jealous Wife, be ſup⯑poſed guilty of the Iron Cheſt; I ſhall, were I to reach the Patriarchal longevity of Methuſa⯑leh, continue (in all my Dramatick publications) to ſubſcribe myſelf
Dramatis Perſonae.
[]- Sir Edward Mortimer, Mr. Kemble!!!
- Fitzharding, Mr. Wroughton.
- Wilford, Mr. Banniſter, jun.
- Adam Winterton, Mr. Dodd.
- Rawbold, Mr. Barrymore.
- Samſon, Mr. Suett.
- Boy, Maſter Walſh.
- Cook, Mr. Hollingſworth.
- Peter, Mr. Banks.
- Walter, Mr. Maddocks.
- Simon, Mr. Webb.
- Gregory, Mr. Trueman.
- Armſtrong, Mr. Kelly.
- Orſon, Mr. R. Palmer.
- 1ſt Robber, Mr. Dignum.
- 2d Robber, Mr. Sedgwick.
- 3d Robber, Mr. Banniſter.
- Robber's Boy, Maſter Webb.
- Helen, Miſs Farren.
- Blanch, Mrs Gibbs.
- Dame Rawbold, Miſs Tidſwell.
- Barbara, Signora Storace.
- Judith, Miſs De Camp.
SCENE, in the New Foreſt, in Hampſhire, and on its Borders.
[]THE IRON CHEST; A PLAY, IN THREE ACTS.
ACT I.—
SCENE I.
GLEE.
Where's father?
Five o'clock, and father not yet returned from New Foreſt! An he come not ſhortly, the Sun will riſe, and roaſt the veniſon on his ſhoulders.— Siſter Barbara!—Well, you rich men have no bowels for us lowly! they little think, while they are gorg⯑ing on the fat haunch of a goodly buck, what fatigues we poor honeſt ſouls undergo in ſtealing it.—Why, ſiſter Barbara!
I am here brother Samſon,
Here! marry, out upon you for an idle baggage! why, you crawl like a ſnail.
I prithee, now, do not chide me, Samſon.
'Tis my humour. I am father's head man in his poaching. The rubs I take from him, who is above me, I hand down to you, who are below me. 'Tis the way of office—where every miſerable devil domineers it over the next more miſerable devil that's under him. You may ſcold ſiſter Margery, an you will—ſhe's your younger by a twelvemonth.
Truly brother, I would not make any one unhappy, for the world. I am content to do what I can to pleaſe; and to mind the houſe.
Truly, a weighty matter! Thou art e'en ready to hang thyſelf, for want of ſomething to white away time. What haſt thou much more to do than to trim the faggots, nurſe thy mother, boil the pot, patch our jackets, kill the poultry, cure the hogs, ſeed the pigs, and comb the children?
Many might think that no ſmall charge, Samſon.
A mere nothing.—While father and I (bate us but the mother and children) have the credit of purloining every ſingle thing that you have the care of. We are up early, and down late, in the exerciſe of our induſtry.
I wiſh father and you would give up the calling.
No—there is one keen argument to prevent us.
What's that, brother?
Hunger. Wouldſt have us be rogues, and let our family ſtarve? Give up poaching and deer-ſtealing! Oons! doſt think we have no conſcience? Yonder ſits mother, poor ſoul—old, helpleſs, and crazy.
Alas! brother, 'tis heart-aching to look upon her. This very time three years ſhe got her maim. It was a piteous tempeſt.
Aye—'twas rough weather.
I never paſs the old oak that was ſhivered that night, in the ſtorm, but I am ready to weep. It remembers me of the time when all our poor family went to ruin.
Piſh—no matter: The cottage was blown down—the barn fired—father undone.—Well, land⯑lords are flinty hearted—no help! what then? We live, don't we?
Troth, brother, very ſadly. Father has grown deſperate; all is fallen to decay. We live by pilfering on the Foreſt—and our poor mother diſtract⯑ed, and unable to look to the houſe. The rafter, which fell in the ſtorm, ſtruck ſo heavy upon her brain, I fear me, 'twill never again be ſettled.
Children! Barbara! where's my eldeſt daughter? She is my darling.
I am here, mother.
Peace, fool! you know ſhe's doating.
Look to the cattle, Barbara! We muſt to market to-morrow. My huſband's a rich man. We thrive! we thrive! Ha, ha, ha!—oh!
Oh brother! I cannot bear to ſee her thus— though, alas! we have long been uſed to it. The little ones too—ſcarce cloathed—hungry—almoſt ſtarving!—Indeed, we are a very wretched family.
Hark! Methought I heard a tread.—Hiſt! be wary. We muſt not open in haſte, for fear of ſurpriſe.
DUET.
Who knocks at this dead hour?
A friend.
Attend.
Roebuck.
Open now by candle-light.
Bar the door. So, ſoftly.
What ſucceſs, father?
Good: my limbs ache for't.
O brave huſband! Welcome from the court. Thou ſhalt be made a knight; and I a lady. Ha! ha!
Reſt, reſt, poor ſoul! How you ſtand!
The chair, you gander.
Why, how you ſtand! the chair, you gander!
Here—take my gun—'tis unſcrewed.— The keepers are abroad. I had ſcarce time to get it in my pocket.
Fie! 'tis ſharp work! Barbara, you jade, come hither.
Barbara, you jade, come hither.
Who bid thee chide her, lout! Kiſs thy old father, wench. Kiſs me I ſay.—So—why doſt tremble? I am as rough as a tempeſt. Evil fortune has blown my lowring nature into turbulence: but thou art a bloſſom that doſt bend thy head ſo ſweetly under my guſts of paſſion, 'tis pity they ſhould e'er harm thee.
Indeed, father, I am glad to ſee you ſafe returned.
I believe thee. Take the keys. Go to the locker, in the loft, and bring me a glaſs to recruit me.
Well, father, and ſo—
Peace—I ha' ſhot a buck.
O rare! Of all the ſure aims on the borders of the New Foreſt, here, give me old Gilbert Rawbold; though I, who am his ſon, ſay it, that ſhould not ſay it.—Where have you ſtow'd him, father?
Under the furze, behind the hovel. Come night again, we will draw him in, boy. I have been watch'd.
Watch'd! O, the peſtilence! our trade will be ſpoiled if the Groom-Keepers be after us. The law will perſecute us, father.
Doſt know Mortimer?
What, Sir Edward Mortimer? Aye, ſure. He is head Keeper of the Foreſt. 'Tis he who has ſhut himſelf up in melancholy. Sees no rich, and does ſo much good to the poor.
He has done me nought but evil. A gun cannot be carried on the border, here, but he has ſcent on't at a league's diſtance. He is a thorn to me. His ſcouts this night were after me—all on the watch. I'll be revenged—I'll—So, the brandy.
'Tis right, ifaith!
That 'tis I'll be ſworn; for I ſmuggled it myſelf. We do not live ſo near the coaſt for nothing.
Sir Edward Mortimer, look to it!
Sir Edward Mortimer! O, dear father, what of him?
Aye, now thou art all agog! Thou would'ſt hear ſomewhat of that ſmooth-tongued fellow, his ſecretary—his clerk, Wilford; whom thou ſo often meet'ſt in the foreſt. I have news on't. Look how you walk thither again. What, thou wouldſt betray me to him, I warrant;—conſpire againſt your father.
Aye; conſpire againſt your father—and your tender loving brother, you viper, you!
Beſhrew me, father, I meant no harm: and, indeed, indeed, Wilford is as handſome a— I mean as good a youth as ever breathed. If I thought he meant ill by you, I ſhould hate him.
When didſt ſee him laſt?—Speak!
You terrify me ſo, father, I am ſcarce able to ſpeak. Yeſternoon, by the copſe. 'Twas but to read with him the book of ſonnets he gave me.
That's the way your ſly, grave rogues, work into the hearts, of the females. I never knew [7] any good come of a girl's reading ſonnets, with a learned clerk, under a copſe.
Let me hear no more of your meetings. I am content to think you would not plot my undoing.
I?—O father!
But he may plot yours. Mark me—For⯑tune has thruſt me forth to prowl, like the wolf;— but the wolf is anxious for its young. I am an outcaſt whom hunger has hardened. I violate the law; but feeling is not dead within me▪ and, cal⯑lous villain as I am accounted, I would tear that greater villain piecemeal, who would violate my child, and rob an old man of the little remains of comfort, wretchedneſs has leſt him.
How now!
There! an they be not after us already. I'll—We have talk'd, too, 'till tis broad day light.
Open, good maſter Raw⯑bold; I would ſpeak to you ſuddenly.
O heaven! 'tis the voice of Wilford him⯑ſelf.
Wilford! I'am glad on't—Now he ſhall— I'am glad on't. Open the door: Quickly, I ſay. He ſhall ſmart for it.
Are you mad, father? 'Tis we ſhall ſmart for it. Let in the keeper's head man! The hind quarter of a buck has hung theſe fourteen days, in the pantry.
Open, I ſay.
O Lord! I defy any ſecretary's noſe not to ſmell ſtolen veniſon the moment 'tis thruſt into our hovel.
Save you, good people. You are Gilbert Rawbold, as I take it.
I am. Your meſſage here, young man, bodes me no good: but I am Gilbert Rawbold—and here's my daughter. Do'ſt know her?
Ah, Barbara, good wench! how fares it with you?
Look on her well—then conſult your own conſcience. 'Tis difficult, haply, for a ſecretary to find one. You are a villain.
You lie. Hold, I crave pardon. You are her father. She is innocent, and you are unhappy: I reſpect virtue and misfortune too much to ſhock the one or inſult the other.
Sdeath! why meet my daughter in the foreſt?
Becauſe I love her.
And would ruin her.
That's a ſtrange way of ſhewing one's love, methinks. I have a ſimple notion, Gilbert, that the thought of having taken a baſe advantage of a poor girl's affection might go nigh to break a man's ſleep, and give him unquiet dreams: now, I love my night's reſt, and ſhall do nothing to diſturb it.
Would'ſt not poiſon her mind?
'Tis not my method, friend, of doſing a patient. Look ye, Gilbert; Her mind is a fair flower, ſtuck in the rude ſoil, here, of ſurrounding ignorance, and ſmiling in the chill of poverty:— I would feign cheer it with the little ſun-ſhine I poſſeſs of comfort and information. My parents were poor like her's; Should occaſion ſerve, I might, haply, were all parties agreed, make her my wife. To offer aught elſe would affect her, you, and myſelf; and I have no talent at making three people uneaſy at the ſame time.
Your hand. On your own account, we are friends.
O dear father!
Be ſilent. Now to your errand. 'Tis from Mortimer.
I come from Sir Edward.
I know his malice. He would oppreſs me with his power. He would ſtarve me and my family. Search my houſe.
No, father, no. You forget the hind quarter in the pantry.
Let him do his worſt: but let him beware. A tyrant; a villain.
Harkye—he is my maſter. I owe him my gratitude;—every thing:—and had you been any but my Barbara's father, and ſpoken ſo much againſt him, my indignation had work'd into my knuckles, and cram'd the words down your ruſty throat.
I do begin to perceive how this will end. Father will knock down the ſecretary as flat as a buck.
Why am I ſingled out? Is there no mark for the vengeance of office to ſhoot its ſhaft at but me. This morning, as he dog'd me in the foreſt —
Huſh, Rawbold. Keep your counſel.— Should you make it publick he muſt notice it.
Did he not notice it?
No matter—but he has ſent me thus early, Gilbert, with this relief to your diſtreſſes, which he has heard of. Here are twenty marks for you and your family.
From Sir Edward Mortimer?
'Tis his way;—but he would not have it mention'd. He is one of thoſe judges who, in their office, will never warp the law to ſave offenders; but his private charity bids him aſſiſt the needy, before their neceſſities drive them to crimes which his public duty muſt puniſh.
Did Mortimer do this! did he! heaven bleſs him! Oh, young man, if you knew half the miſery—my wife—my children—Shame on't! I have ſtood many a tug, but the drops now fall in ſpite of me. I am not ungrateful; but I cannot ſtand it. We will talk of Barbara when I have more man about me.
Farewell. I muſt home to the lodge quickly. Ere this, I warrant, I am look'd for.
Farewell.
QUINTETTO.
Give us food, good brother, pray!
Oh, fire and faggot! what a ſqualling!
Do not chide 'em.—
Oh, think on little Barbara.
Give us food!
Curſe their ſqualling.
Adieu! adieu!
Damn their bawling.
SCENE II. An old faſhioned Hall, in Sir EDWARD MORTIMER's Lodge.
Softly, varlets, ſoftly! See you crack none of the ſtone flaggons. Nay, 'tis plain your own breakfaſts be toward, by your ſkuttling thus. A goodly morning! Why, you giddy-pated knave,
is it ſo you carry a diſh of pottery? No heed of our good maſter, Sir Edward Mortimer's ware? Fie, Peter Pickbone, fie!
I am in haſte, maſter Steward, to break my faſt.
To break thy faſt!—to break thy neck, it ſhould ſeem. Ha! ha! good i'faith!—Go thy ways, knave!
'Tis thus the rogues ever have me. I would feign be angry with them, but, ſtraight a merry jeſt paſſeth acroſs me, and my choler is over. To break thy neck it ſhould ſeem! ha, ha! 'twas well conceited, by St. Thomas!—My table-book, for the buſineſs of the day. Ah, my memory holds not as it did. It needs the ſpur.
Nine and forty years have I been houſe-ſteward and butler. Let me ſee.—Six winters ago, come Chriſtmas eve, died my old maſter, Sir Marma⯑duke —Ah! he was a heavy loſs. I look'd to drop before him. He was hale and tough:—but, thank heaven, I ha' ſeen him out, my dear old maſter! Let me ſee—my tables:
Maſter Steward! Good maſter Winterton?
Who calls merry old Adam Winterton? Ha, Jacob Cook! Well bethought—the dinner. Nay, I bear a brain: thinking men will combine. I never ſee Jacob Cook but it reminds me of ordering dinner. We muſt have—what ſay my tables— we muſt have, Jacob—Nay, by St. Thomas, I perceive 'twas Chriſtmas eve ſeven years died my good old maſter, Sir Marmaduke.
I pray you diſpatch me, good maſter ſteward. I would beſtir in time.
Then I would counſel thee to riſe earlier, Jacob; for truth to ſay thou art a ſluggard. Ha! good i'faith!—Let me ſee;—Dinner—oh! Haſt thou prepared the fare I order'd yeſter-night?
All kill'd, and ready: but will not Sir Edward Mortimer pall on his diet? 'Tis the very ſame bill of fare we ſerv'd yeſterday.
Hey—let me ſee—I have ſettled the dinners throughout the week in my tables. Now, by our lady, I have miſtaken, and read Thurſday twice over!—Ha! ha!—A peſtilence upon me! Well, Sir Edward, (heaven bleſs him!) muſt bear with me. He muſt e'en dine to-day on what he dined on yeſterday!—'tis too late to be changed. Get thee gone, knave, get thee gone.
—
—Age has ſo overdone this old dry-bones he'll ſhortly tumble from the ſpit.— "Thurſday twice over!"—This comes of being able to read. An old buzzard!
Theſe fatigues of office ſomewhat wear a man. I have had a long leaſe on't. I ha' ſeen out Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, and King James. 'Tis e'en almoſt time that I ſhould retire, to begin to enjoy myſelf. Eh! by St. Thomas! hither trips the fair miſtreſs Blanch. Of all the waiting gentle⯑women I ever looked on, during the two laſt reigns, none ſtir'd my fancy like this little roſe-bud.
A good day, good Adam Winterton.
What wag! what tulip! I never ſee thee but I am a ſcore of years the younger.
Nay, then, let us not meet often, or you will ſoon be in your ſecond child-hood.
What, you come from your miſtreſs, the Lady Helen, in the foreſt here; and would ſpeak with Sir Edward Mortimer, I warrant?
I would. Is his melancholy worſhip ſtirring yet?
Fie, you mad-cap! He is my maſter, and your Lady's friend.
Yes, truly, it ſeems, her only one, poor Lady: he protects her now ſhe is left an orphan.
A bleſſing on his heart! I would it were merrier. Well, ſhe is much beholden to Sir Edward for his conſolation: and he never affords her his advice but his bounty is ſure to follow it.
Juſt ſo a crow will nouriſh its neſtling: be croaks firſt, and then gives her food.
Ha, ha! good i'faith!—but wicked. Thy company will corrupt, and lead me aſtray. Should they happen to marry, (and I have my fancies on't,) I'll dance a galliard with thee in the hall, on the round Oak table. Sbud! when I was a youth, I would ha' caper'd with St. Vitus, and beat him.
You are as likely to dance, now, as they to marry. What has hindered them, if the parties be agreed?—yet I have, now, been with my miſtreſs theſe two years; ſince Sir Edward firſt came hither, and placed her in the cottage, hard by his lodge.
Tuſh! family reaſons.—Thou knoweſt nothing: thou art ſcarce catch'd. Two years back, when we came from Kent, and Sir Edward firſt entered on his office, here, of Head Keeper, thou wert a Colt, running wild about New Foreſt. I hired you myſelf to attend on madam Helen.
Nay I ſhall never forget it. But you were as frolickſome, then, as I, methinks. Doſt remember the box on the ear I gave thee, Adam?
Peace, peace, you pie! an you prate thus I'll ſtop your mouth. I will, by St. Thomas!
An I be inclined to the contrary, I do not think you are able to ſtop it.
Out, you baggage! thou haſt more tricks than a kitten. Well, go thy ways. Sir Edward is at his ſtudy, and there thou wilt find him. Ah, miſtreſs Blanch! had you but ſeen me in the early part of Queen Elizabeth's reign!
How old art thou now, Adam?
Four ſcore, come Martlemas: and, by our Lady, I can run with a lapwing.
Canſt thou?—Well ſaid!—Thou art a merry old man, and ſhalt have a kiſs of me, on one condition.
Shall I! odſbub, name it, and 'tis mine.
Then, catch me.
Peſtilence on't! there was a time when my legs had ſerv'd:—but, to ſpeak truth, I never thruſt them, now, into my ſcarlet hoſe that they do not remember me of two ſticks of red ſealing-wax. I was a clean limb'd ſtripling, when I firſt ſtood behind Sir Marmaduke's arm chair, in the old Oak eating-room.
SONG. Adam Winterton.
Every new act of Sir Edward's charity ſets me a thinking; and the more I think the more I am puzzled. 'Tis ſtrange that a man ſhould be ſo ill at eaſe, who is continually doing good. At times, the wild glare of his eye is frightful; and, laſt night, when I was writing for him, in the library, I could not help fancying I was ſhut up with the devil — I would ſtake my life there's a ſecret; and I could almoſt give my life to unravel it. I muſt to him for my morning's employment.
Ah! boy! Wilford! ſecretary! whither away, lad?
Mr. Winterton!—Aye, marry, this good old man has the clue, could I but coax him to give it me.—A good morning to you, Sir!
Yea, and the like to thee, boy. Come, thou ſhalt have a cup of Canary, from my corner cup-board, yonder.
Not a drop.
Troth, I bear thee a good will for thy honeſt old dead father's ſake.
I do thankfully perceive it, Sir. Your placing me in Sir Edward's family, ſome nine months ago, when my poor father died, and left me friend⯑leſs, will never out of my memory.
Tut, boy, no merit of mine in aſſiſting the friendleſs. 'Tis our duty, child. I could never abide to ſee honeſt induſtry chop fallen. I love to have folks merry about me, to my heart.
I would you could inſtil ſome mirth into our good maſter Sir Edward. You are an old domeſtick—the only one he brought with him, two years back, from Kent,—and might venture to give his ſpirits a jog. He ſeems devour'd with ſpleen and melancholy.
You are a prying boy.—Go to.—I have told thee, a ſcore of times, I would not have thee [17] curious about our worthy maſter's humour. By my troth, I am angry with thee. What a boy like you? —a—Thou haſt put me in choler. Continue this, and I'll undo thee;—I'll un—ſbud! I'll un⯑protect thee.—Ha, good, i'faith! nay, marry, my rage holds not long:—flaſh and out again. Unpro⯑tect thee!—ha! 'twas exceeding good by St. Thomas!
I ſhould ceaſe to pry, Sir, would you but once, (as I think you have more than once ſeem'd inclined) gratify my much-raiſed curioſity.
Well ſaid, 'ifaith, I do not doubt thee. I warrant thou wouldſt ceaſe to enquire, when I had told thee all thou wouldſt know.—What, green⯑horn, didſt think to trap the old man?—Go thy ways, boy! I have a head.—Old Adam Winterton can ſift a ſubtle ſpeech to the bottom.
Ah, good ſir, you need not tell me that. Young as I am, I can admire that experience, in another, which I want myſelf.
There is ſomething marvellous engaging in this young man. You have a world of promiſe, boy. Sixty years ago, in Queen Elizabeth's time, I was juſt ſuch another. I remember Marian Potpan, the farmer's daughter, of Stocks Green, was then enamour'd of me. Well, beware how you offend Sir Edward.
I would not, willingly, for the world. He has been the kindeſt maſter to me. He has in⯑form'd my mind, reliev'd my diſtreſſes, cloath'd me, ſhelter'd me:—but, whilſt my fortunes ripen in the warmth of his goodneſs, the frozen gloom of his countenance chills me.
Well, well, take heed how you prate on't. Out on theſe babbling boys! There is no keeping a ſecret with younkers in a family.
What then there is a ſecret!—'Tis as I gueſſed after all.
Why, how now, hot-head?—Mercy on me! an this tinder-box boy do not make me ſhake with apprehenſion. Is it thus you take my frequent counſel?
Dear ſir, 'tis your counſel which moſt I covet. Give me but that; admit me to your confi⯑dence; ſteer me with your advice, which I ever held excellent, and, with ſuch a pilot, I may ſail proſperouſly through a current which, otherwiſe, might wrerk me.
'Tis melting to ſee how unfledged youth will ſhelter itſelf, like a chicken, under the wing of ſuch a tough old cock as myſelf! Well, well, I'll think on't, boy.
The old anſwer.—Yet, he ſoftens apace: could I but clench him now—Faith, ſir, 'tis a raw morning; and I care not if I taſte the canary your kindneſs offer'd.
Aha! lad! ſay'ſt thou ſo? Juſt my modeſt humour when I was young. I ever refuſed my glaſs at firſt, but I came to it ere I had quitted my company. Here's the key of the corner cup⯑board, yonder. See you do not crack the bottle, you heedleſs gooſe, you!
Ha! fill it up. Od! it ſparkles curiouſly.— Here's to— I prithee, tell me now, Wil⯑ford; didſt ever in thy life ſee a waiting-gentle⯑woman, with a more inviting eye than the little Mrs Blanch?
Here's Mrs. Blanch—
Ah, wag! well, go thy ways! Well, when I was of thy age—odſbud! no mat⯑ter; 'tis paſt, now;—but here's the little Mrs. Blanch—
'Tis thought, here, Sir Edward means to marry her lady, Madame Helen.
Nay, I know not. She has long been enamour'd of him, poor lady! when he was the gay, the gallant Sir Edward, in Kent. Ah, well! two years make a wond'rous change!
Yes, 'tis a good tough love, now-a-days, that will hold out a couple of twelve-months.
Away, I mean not ſo, you giddy pate! He is all honour; and as ſteady in his courſe as the ſun: yet I wonder ſometimes he can bear to look upon her.
Eh? why ſo? Did not he bring her, under his protection, to the Foreſt; ſince, 'tis ſaid, ſhe loſt her relations?
Huſh, boy! on your life do not name, her uncle—I would ſay her relations.
Her uncle! wherefore? Where's the harm in having an uncle, dead or alive?
Peace, peace! In that uncle lies the ſecret.
Indeed! how good Adam Winterton? I prithee, how?
Ah! 'twas a heavy day! Poor Sir Edward is now a broken ſpirit—but if ever a good ſpirit walk'd the earth in trunk hoſe, he is one.
Let us drink Sir Edward's health.
That I would, tho' 'twere a mile to the bottom—
Ha, 'tis cheering, i'faith! Well, in troth, I have a regard for thee, boy, for thy father's ſake.
Oh, good ſir! and this uncle, you ſay—
Of Madam Helen—ah! there lies the miſchief.
What miſchief can be in him? why, he is dead.
Come nearer—ſee you prate not now, on your life. Our good maſter, Sir Edward, was arraign'd on his account, in open court.
Arraign'd! how mean you?
Alas, boy! tried.—Tried for—nearer yet—his murder.
Mu—mu—Murder!
Why, what! why, Wilford! out, alas! the boy's paſſion will betray all! what, Wilford, I ſay!
You have curdled my blood!
What, varlet, thou dareſt not think ill of our worthy maſter?
I—I am his ſecretary. Often alone with him at dead midnight, in his library. The candles in the ſockets—and a man glaring upon me who has committed mur—ugh!
Committed! Thou art a baſe lying knave, to ſay it: and while I wear a rapier, I'll— tuſh! Heaven help me! I forget I am fourſcore. Well, well—hear me, pettiſh boy, hear me. Why, look now, thou doſt not attend.
I—I mark; I mark.
I tell thee, then, our good Sir Edward was beloved in Kent, where he had returned a year before from his travels. Madam Helen's uncle was hated by all the neighbourhood, rich and poor. A mere brute, doſt mark me.
Like enough: but when brutes walk upon two legs, the law of the land, thank Heaven! will not ſuffer us to butcher them.
Go to, you fire-brand! Our good maſter labour'd all he could, for many a month, to ſoothe his turbulence; but in vain. He pick'd a quarrel with Sir Edward, in the publick county aſſembly; nay, the ſtrong ruffian ſtruck him down, and trampled on him. Think on that, Wilford; on our good maſter Sir Edward, whoſe great ſoul was nigh to burſt with the indignity.
Well, but the end on't.
Why, our young maſter took horſe, for his own houſe, determined, as it appear'd, to ſend a challenge to this white-liver'd giant in the morning.
I ſee. He kill'd him in a duel. That's another kind of butchery, which the law allows not; true humanity ſhudders at, and falſe honour juſtifies.
See, now, how you fly off! Sir Edward's revenge, boy, was baffled. For his antagoniſt was found dead in the ſtreet, that night; killed, by ſome unknown aſſaſſins, on his return from the aſſembly.
Indeed! unknown aſſaſſins!
Nay, 'tis plain, our good Sir Edward had no hand in the wicked act: for he was tried, as [21] I told you, at the next aſſize. Mercy on me! 'twas a crowded court; and both gentle and ſimple threw up their caps, at his acquital! Heaven be thank'd! he was cleared beyond a ſhadow of doubt.
He was; I breathe again. 'Twas a happy thing. 'Twas the only way left of cleanſing him from a foul ſuſpicion.
Out alas! lad, 'tis his principal grief. He is full of nice feeling, and high-flown honour: and the thought of being tried, for ſuch a crime, has given him his hear's wound. Poor gentleman! he has ſhun'd the world ever ſince. He was once the life of all company—but now!
Winterton!
Hark! ſome one calls. Out on thee, thou haſt ſunk my ſpirits into my heels. Who calls merry old Adam Winterton?
Adam Winterton! come hither to me.
Nay, by our lady, 'tis Sir Edward himſelf! —Peſtilence on't! if I ſeem ſad now, 'twill be noted. I come, good Sir Edward.
My throat's parch'd, and my blood freezes. A quart of brandy couldn't moiſten the one nor thaw the other. This accounts, then, for all. Poor, unhappy gentleman! This unravels all, from the firſt day of my ſervice—when a deep groan made me run into the library, and I found him locking up his papers, in the Iron Cheſt, as pale as aſhes.—Eh?— What can be in that cheſt!—Perhaps ſome proof of —no I ſhudder at the ſuggeſtion—'Tis not poſſible one ſo good can be guilty of—I know not what to think —nor what to reſolve. But curioſity is rouſed, and, come what may, I'll have an eye upon him.
SCENE III.—A Library.
[22]Ah! bleſs your honour!
They kill'd his dog?
Ah! you've a kindly heart!
Is Wilford waiting?
Send him in, I prithee.
I ſhall, ſir. Heaven bleſs you! heaven bleſs you!
I fear'd I might ſurprize you, ſir.
Surprize me!
Learnt!
Sir!
Laſt night, ſir?
Aye;—it treats of Alexander.
Is this the high-flown honour, and delicate feeling, old Winterton talk'd of, that cannot bear a glance at the trial?—Delicate! had I been born under a throttling planet, I had never ſurvived this collaring. This may be guilt. If ſo—well, what have I to do with the knowledge on't!—what could I do? cut off my benefactor! who gives me bread! who is reſpected for his virtues, pitied for his miſ⯑fortunes, loved by his family, bleſs'd by the poor!— Pooh! he is innocent. This is his pride and ſhame. He was acquitted—Thouſands witneſs'd it—thouſ⯑ands rejoiced at it—thouſands —eh? the key left in the iron cheſt! Circumſtance and myſtery tempt me at every turn. Ought I—no matter. Theſe are no common incitements and I ſubmit to the impulſe. I heard him ſtride down the ſtairs. It opens with a ſpring I ſee. I tremble in every joint.
I had forgot the key and——la! by hell!
Kill you!
Remember! I ſhall never while I live for⯑get it: nay, I ſhall never while I live forgive myſelf. My knees knock together ſtill; and the cold drops ſtand on my forehead, like rain-water on a pent⯑houſe.
Wilford!
Eh? Barbara! How cameſt thou here?
With my father, who waits below to ſee Sir Edward.
He—He is buſied; he cannot ſee him now. He is with his brother.
Troth, I am ſorry for it. My poor father's heart is burſting with gratitude, and he would fain eaſe it by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor. Oh, Wilford, your's is a happy lot to have ſuch a maſter as Sir Edward.
Happy? Oh! yes—I—I am very happy
Mercy! has any ill befallen you?
No; nothing. 'Tis all my happineſs. My happineſs is like your father's gratitude, Barbara; and, at times, it goes near to choak me.
Nay, I'm ſure there's more in this. Bleſs me, you look pale! I cou'dn't bear to ſee you ill, or uneaſy, Wilford.
Cou'dn't you, Barbara? Well, well, I ſhall be better preſently. 'Tis nothing of import.
Truſt me, I hope not.
Well, queſtion me no more on't now, I beſeech you, Barbara.
Believe me, I would not queſtion you but to conſole you, Wilford. I would ſcorn to pry into any one's grief; much more your's, Wilford, to ſa⯑tisfy a buſy curioſity. Though, I am told, there are ſuch in the world who would.
I—I am afraid there are, Barbara. But come, no more of this. 'Tis a paſſ [...]g cloud on my ſpirits, and will ſoon blow over.
Ah! could I govern your fortunes, foul weather ſhould ne'er harm you.
Should not it, ſweet! Kiſs me.
The lips of a woman are a ſovereign cordial for melancholy.
DUETT.
When I am grieved, love! oh, what would you ſay?
Sweet little Barbara, &c.
Poor little Barbara, &c.
When we grow old, love! then what will you ſay?
Sweet little Barbara, &c.
Poor little Barbara, &c.
ACT II.
[29]SCENE I.—The New Foreſt.
GO to—I tell thee, Orſon, (as I have told thee more than once) thou art too ſanguinary.
And, I tell you, Captain Armſtrong—but always under favour, you being our leader—you are too humane.
Humanity is ſcarcely counted a fault: if ſo, 'tis a fault on the right ſide.
Umph! perhaps not with us. We are robbers.
And why ſhould robbers lack humanity? They who plunder moſt reſpect it as a virtue, and make a ſhew on't to gild their vices. Lawyers, Phyſicians, Placemen, all—all plunder and ſlay, but all pretend to humanity.
They are Regulars, and plunder by licence.
Then let us Quacks ſet the regulars a bet⯑ter example.
This humanity, Captain, is a high horſe you are ever beſtride upon. Some day, mark my word, he'll fling you.
Cruelty is a more dangerous beaſt:—When the rider's thrown, his brains are kick'd out, and no one pities him.
Like enough; but your tough horſeman, who ventures boldly, is never diſmounted. When I am engaged in a deſperate chace, (as we are, Captain,) I ſtick at nothing. I hate milk ſops.
And love mutiny. Take heed, Orſon, I have before caution'd you not to glance at me.
I ſay nothing: but if ſome eſcape to inform againſt us, whom we have rob'd, 'tis none of my fault. Dead men tell no tales.
Wretch! Speak that again, and you ſhall tell none.
Flaſh away!—I don't fear death.
More ſhame for thee; for thou art unfit to meet it.
I know my trade. I ſet powder, ball, and rope, at defiance.
Brute! You miſtake headſtrong inſenſibility for courage. Do not miſtake my horror of it for cowardice: for I, who ſhudder at cruelty, will fell your boldneſs to the earth, when I ſee you practiſe it. Submit.
I do. I know not what 'tis, but I have told you, often, there is ſomething about you awes me. I cannot tell—I could kill twenty to your one.
There 'tis.—Thou wouldſt dart upon the weak unguarded man, like a tyger. A ferocious animal, whether crawling or erect, ever ſlinks from fair oppoſition.
My courage was never yet doubted, Captain.
Your nerves, fool. Thou art a mere machine. Could I but give it motion, I would take an oak from the foreſt, here, clap a flint into it for heart, and make as bold a fellow as thou art. Liſten to my orders.
I obey.
Get thee to our den. Put on thy diſguiſe —then hie thee to the market town for proviſion, for our company. Here—Here is part of the ſpoil we took yeſter-night: ſee you bring an honeſt account of what you lay out.
My honour!—
Well, I do not doubt thee, here. Our profeſſion is ſingular; its followers do not cheat one another. You will not be back till duſk. See you fall not on any poor ſtraggling peaſant, as you return.
I would fain encounter the ſolitary man, who is ſometimes wandering by night about the foreſt. He is rich.
Not for your life. 'Tis Sir Edward Mortimer, the head keeper. Touch him not; 'tis too near home. Beſides, he is no object for plunder. I have watch'd him, at midnight, ſtealing from his lodge, to wander like one crazed. He is good, too, to the poor; and ſhould walk unmoleſted by Charity's charter. 'Twere pity that he who adminiſters to neceſſity, all day, ſhould be rifled by neceſſity at night. An thou ſhouldſt meet him, I charge thee ſpare him.
I muſt, if it be your order. This ſparing doctrine will go nigh, at laſt, to ſtarve all the thieves. When a man takes to the trade of a wolf, he ſhould not go like a lamb to his buſineſs.
This fellow is a downright villain: Har⯑den'd and relentleſs. I have felt, in my penury, the world trample on me. It has driven me to take that, deſperately, which wanting I ſhould ſtarve. Death! my ſpirit cannot brook to ſee a ſleek knave walk neg⯑ligently by his fellow in miſery, and ſuffer him to rot. I will wrench that comfort from him which he will not beſtow.—But nature puts a bar:—Let him admi⯑niſter to my wants, and paſs on:—I have done with him.
SCENE II. The Hall in SIR EDWARD MOR⯑TIMER's Lodge.
Sir!
Where is Sir Triſtful? Where's Don Me⯑lancholy?
Who, ſir?
My brother, knave, Sir Edward Mortimer.
He was with you, but now, ſir
It was not I, ſir,
Whoſe company?—
My own, knave.
Sir, I ſhall.
Would you ſpeak with me, Sir?
Ave. child. I'm going now to read you.
Yes, Sir, I ſee that.
My name is Blanch, Sir—born, here, in the foreſt.
Sbud! I muſt be a Keeper in this foreſt. Whither art going, ſweet one?
Home, ſir.
Why, would'nt you relieve her, Sir?
Right willingly Sir.
Nay, piſh!—my charity!—
Blanch, Sir?
Have you ſeen her?
Who calls?—eh!—'tis ſir Edward.
Mum!
I ſeem to interrupt you.
Hold your tongue. Oons! boy, you muſt not tell.
Not!
Not! not to be ſure:—why, 'tis a ſecret.
Aye, indeed!
For me. alone.
Alone, ſir!
Yes,—begone.
Fool! breathe no more.
Brother, you are too harſh with that poor boy.
So have I!
Well, I have done.
Well, well; I hope I have been.
Betray'd!
Ten thouſand fears.
Oh!
You'll promiſe to be gay?
I'll do my beſt.
SCENE III. HELEN'S COTTAGE.
Are you he that wiſh to enter in my ſer⯑vice?
Yes, ſo pleaſe you, Madam Helen, for want of a better.
Why, I have ſeen you in the foreſt— at Rawbold's cottage. He is your father, as I think.
Yes, ſo pleaſe you, Madam; for want of a better.
I fear me you may well ſay that. Your father, as I have heard, bears an ill name, in the foreſt.
Alas! madam he is obliged to bear it— for want of a better. We are all famiſh'd, madam: and the naked and hungry have ſeldom many friends to ſpeak well of them.
If I ſhould hire thee, who will give thee a character?
My father, madam.
Why ſirrah, he has none of his own.
The more fatherly in him, madam, to give his ſon what he has need of, for himſelf. But a knave is often applied to, to vouch for a good ſervant's honeſty. I will ſerve you as faithfully as your laſt footman; who, I have heard, ran away this morning.
Truly, he did ſo.
I was told on't, ſome half hour ago; and ran, hungrily, hither, to offer myſelf. So, pleaſe you, let not poverty ſtand in the way of my prefer⯑ment.
Should I entertain you, what could you do to make yourſelf uſeful?
Any thing. I can wire hares, ſnare partridges, ſhoot a buck, and ſmuggle brandy, for you, madam.
Fie on you, knave! 'Twere fitter to turn you over to the Verderors of the foreſt, for puniſh⯑ment, than to encourage you in ſuch practices.
I would practiſe any thing better, that might get me bread. I would ſcrape trenchers, fill buckets, and carry a meſſage. What can a man do! He can't ſtarve.
Well, ſirrah, to ſnatch thee from evil, I care not if I make trial of thee?
No! will you?
Nineteen in twenty might queſtion my prudence for this:—but, whatever loſs I may ſuffer from thy roguery, the thought of having open'd a path to lead a needy wanderer back to virtue, will more than repay me.
O, bleſs you, lady! If I do not prove virtuous never truſt in man more. I am overjoy'd!
Get thee to the kitchen. You will find a lively there will ſuit you.
A livery! O, the father! Virtuous and a livery, all in a few ſeconds! Heaven bleſs you!
Well, get you to your work.
I go, madam. If I break any thing to day, beſeech you let it go for nothing; for joy makes my hand tremble. Should you want me pleaſe to cry Samſon, and I am with you in a twinkling. Heaven bleſs you! Here's fortune▪
Blanch ſtays a tedious time. Heaven ſend Mortimer's health be not worſe! He is ſadly altered ſince we came to the foreſt. I dream'd laſt night, of the fire he ſaved me from; and I ſaw him, all freſh, in manly bloom, bearing me through the flames, even as it once happened.
How now, wench! You have almoſt tired my patience.
And my own legs, madam. If the old faotman had not made ſo much uſe of his, by running away, they might have ſpared mine.
Yes, I have, madam.
A little breath, madam, and I will an⯑ſwer all duly.
That's impoſſible, lady.
I am not ſkill'd in eye-talking, madam. I have been uſed to let my diſcourſe ride upon my tongue, and, I have been told, 'twill trot at a good round pace upon occaſion.
Then, madam, I ſaw Sir Edward in his library: and deliver'd your letter. He will be here either in the evening, or on the morrow: 'tis uncertain which—for his brother, Capt. Fitzharding, is arrived on a viſit to him.
Frolickſome enough, if you knew all— but not ſo harmleſs.
He'll ſcarce be here to night.
Who? Sir Edward? Haply not, madam: but his letter may chance to ſpecify further parti⯑culars.
You talk'd to me ſo much of reading eyes, madam, that I e'en forgot the letter. Here it is.
I would they were wedded once, and all this trembling would be over. I am told your married lady's feelings are little rouſed in reading letters from a huſband.
This ſudden turn of fortune might puff ſome men up with pride. I have look'd in the glaſs already:—and if ever man look'd braver in a glaſs than I, I know nothing of finery.
Hey day! who have we here?
Oh, lord! this is the maid.—I mean the waiting-woman. I warrant we ſhall be rare company, in a long winter's evening.
Why, who are you?
I'm your fellow-ſervant:—the new comer. The laſt footman caſt his ſkin in the pantry this morning, and I have crept into it.
Why, ſure, it cannot be!—Now I look upon you again, you are Samſon Rawbold—old Rawbold's ſon, of the foreſt here.
The ſame; I am not like ſome upſtarts; When I am proſperous, I do not turn my back on my poor relations.
What, has my lady hired thee?
She has taken me, like a pad nag, upon trial.
I ſuſpect you will play her a jade's trick, and ſtumble in your probation. You have been caught tripping, ere now.
An I do not give content 'tis none of my fault. A man's qualities cannot come out all at once. I wiſh you would teach me a little how to lay a cloth.
You are well qualified for your office truly, not to know that!
To ſay truth, we had little practice that way at home. We ſtood not upon forms. We had ſometimes no cloth for a dinner.
And, ſometimes, no dinner for a cloth.
Juſt ſo. We had little order in our family.
Well, I will inſtruct you.
That's kind. I will be grateful. They tell me I have learnt nothing but wickedneſs yet: but I will inſtruct you in any thing I know, in return.
There I have no mind to become your ſcholar. But be ſteady in your ſervice, and you may outlive your beggary, and grow into reſpect.
Nay, an riches rain upon me, reſpect will grow of courſe. I never knew a rich man yet who wanted followers to pull off their caps to him.
SCENE IV.—The LIBRARY.
[47]I would Sir Edward were come! The dread of a fearful encounter is, often, as terrible as the encounter itſelf. Yet my encounters with him, of late, are no trifles. Some few hours back, in this very room, he held a loaded piſtol within an inch of my brains. Well, that was paſſion—he threw it from him on the inſtant, and—eh!—He's coming.— No. The old wainſcot cracks, and frightens me out of my wits: and, I verily believe, the great folio dropt on my head, juſt now, from the ſhelf, on purpoſe to encreaſe my terrors.
What's that?—'Tis he himſelf! Mercy on me! he has lock'd the door!—What is going to become of me!
Wilford!—Is no one in the picture-gallery?
Lock yonder door.
The door, Sir!
Do as I bid you.
I! Oh, Sir!—
Your confidence ſhall not be—
You muſt ſwear.
Swear, Sir!—will nothing but an oath, then—
For mercy's ſake, forbear! you terrify me!
Well I—
No retreating!
There it is.—Her Uncle!
Her uncle!
O, heaven!
His aſſaſſin.
What you that—mur—the murder— I am choak'd!
Empty! Groveling fool!
How!
You dare not.
Dare not!
Not half-a-ſecond.
Oh!—well, what's the matter?
This houſe is no houſe for me. Fly I will, I am reſolved:—but whither? His threats ſtrike terror into me; and were I to reach the pole, I doubt whether I ſhould elude his graſp. But to live here a ſlave—ſlave to his fears,—his jealouſies! Night's coming on. Darkneſs be my friend! for I will forth [54] inſtantly. The thought of my innocence will cheer me as I wander through the gloom. Oh! when guilty Ambition writhes upon his couch, why ſhould bare-foot Integrity repine, though his ſweet ſleep be canopied with a ragged hovel!
SCENE V.—The inſide of an Abbey, in ruins. Part of it converted into an habitation for Robbers. Various entrances to their apart⯑ment, through the broken arches of the build⯑ing, &c. &c.
Well, ſirrah! have you been upon the ſcout? Are any of our gang returning?
No, Judith! not a ſoul.
The rogues tarry thus to fret me.
Why, indeed, Judith, the credit of your cookery is loſt among thieves. They never come punctual to their meals.
No tidings of Orſon yet, from the market town?
I have ſeen nothing of him,
Brat! thou doſt never bring me good news.
Judith, you are ever ſo croſs with me!
That wretch Orſon ſlights my love of late. Hence, you hemp-ſeed, hence! Get to the broken porch of the abbey, and watch. 'Tis all you are good for.
You know I am but young yet, Judith, but with good inſtructions, I may be a robber in time.
Away, you imp! you will never reach ſuch preferment.
So! I hear ſome of our party
Why muſt you keep your noiſe, ſirrah?
Nay, Judith, 'tis one of the firſt ſteps we boys learn in the profeſſion. I ſhall ne'er come to good, if you check me ſo. Huzza! here come two!
So! you have found your road at laſt. A murrain light upon you! is it thus you keep your hours!
What, hag, ever at this trade! Ever grumbling?
I have reaſon. I toil to no credit; I watch with no thanks. I trim up the table for your return, and no one returns in due time to notice my induſtry. Your meat is ſcorch'd to cinders. Rogues, would it were poiſon for you!
How the fury raves! Here, take my carbine; 'twas levell'd, ſome half hour ſince, at a traveller's head.
Hah, hah, hah! Rare! Didſt ſhoot him?
Shoot him? No. This devil in petticoats thinks no more of ſlaying a man, than killing a cock⯑chafer. I never knew a woman turn to miſchief, that ſhe did not outdo a man, clean.
Did any of you meet Orſon on your way?
Aye, there the hand points. When that fellow is abroad you are more ſavage than cuſtomary; and that is needleſs.
None of our comrades come yet? They will be finely ſoak'd.
Aye, the rain pours like a ſpout upon the ruins of the old abbey wall here.
I'm glad on't. May it drench them, and breed agues! 'twill teach them to keep time.
Peace! thou abominable railer. A man had better dwell in purgatory, than have thee in his habitation.—Peace, devil! or I'll make thee repent.
You! 'tis as much as thy life is worth to move my ſpleen.
What, you will ſet Orſon, your cham⯑pion, upon me?
Coward! he ſhould not diſgrace himſelf with chaſtiſing thee.
Death and thunder!—
Aye, attack a woman, do! it ſuits your hen-hearted valour. Aſſault a woman!
Well—paſſion hurried roe. But I have a reſpect for the ſoft ſex, and am cool again. Come, Judith, be friends.—Nay, come, do; and I will give thee a farthingale, I took from a lawyer's widow.
Where is it?
You ſhall have it.
Well—I— Hark!
Soft! I think I hear the foot of a comrade.
MUSICAL DIALOGUE AND CHORUS.
See! hither comes Orſon at laſt. He walks in like Plenty, with proviſion on his ſhoulder.
O, Orſon!—why did'ſt tarry, Orſon? I began to fear. Thou art cold and damp. Let me wring the wet from thy cloaths. O! my heart leaps to ſee hee.
Mark how this ſhe-bear hugs her bruin!
Stand off! This hamper has been weariſome enough. I want not thee on my neck.
Villain! 'tis thus you ever uſe me. I can revenge:—I can—do not, dear Orſon! do not treat me thus.
Let a man be ever ſo ſweet temper'd, he will meet ſomewhat to ſour it. I have been vex'd to mad⯑neſs.
How now, Orſon, what has vex'd thee now?
A prize has ſlipt through my fingers.
Aye! marry, how?
I met a ſtraggling knave on foot, and the rogue reſiſted. He had the face to tell me that he was thruſt on the world to ſeek his fortune; and that the little he had about him was his all. Plague on the proviſion at my back! I had no time to rifle him: —but I have ſpoil'd him for fortune ſeeking, I war⯑rant him.
How?
Why I beat him to the ground. Whether he will e'er get up again the next paſſenger may diſ⯑cover.
Ha! Ha! O, brave,! That's my valiant Orſon!
Orſon, you are ever diſobeying our Cap⯑tain's order. You are too remorſeleſs and bloody.
Take heed, then, how you move my anger, by telling me on't. The affair is mine—I will anſwer to the conſequence.
I hear our Captain's ſignal. Here he comes. Ha!—he is leading one who ſeems wounded.
Gently, good fellow! come, keep a good heart!
You are very kind. I had breathed my laſt, but for your care. Whither have you led me?
Where you will be well treated, young⯑ſter. You are now among as honourable a knot of men as ever cried "ſtand" to a traveller.
How: among robbers!
Why ſo the law's cant calls us gentlemen who live at large.
So! for what am I reſerved!
Fear nothing. You are ſafe in this aſylum. Judith, lead him in. See ſome of my linen ready, and look to his wound.
I do not like the office. You are ever at theſe tricks. 'Twill ruin us in the end. What have we to do with charity?
Turbulent wretch! obey me.
Well, I ſhall. Come, fellow, ſince it muſt be ſo.
Anon, I'll viſit you myſelf, lad.
Heaven bleſs you! whate'er becomes of my life—and faith, I am almoſt weary on't—I am bound to your charity. Gently, I pray you—my wound pains. Gently!
I would I knew which of you had done this.
Wdy what's the matter, Captain?
Cruelty is the matter. Had not accident led me to the ſpot where he lay, you poor boy had bled to death. I learn'd his ſtory, partly, from him, [59] on the way: and know how baſely he has been handled by one of you. Well, time muſt diſcover him: for he, who had brutality enough to commit the action, can ſcarcely have courage enough to confeſs it.
Courage, Captain, is a quality, I take it, little wanted by any here. What ſignify words—I did it.
I ſuſpected thee, Orſon. 'Tis ſcarce an hour ſince he, whom thou haſt wounded, quitted the ſervice of Sir Edward Mortimer, in the foreſt, here; and enquiry will doubtleſs be made.
Nay then we are diſcover'd.
Now, mark what thou haſt done. Thou haſt endanger [...]d the ſafety of our party; thou haſt broke my order (tis not the firſt time, by many) in attacking a paſſenger:—and what paſſenger? One whoſe unhappy caſe ſhould have claim'd thy pity. He told you he had diſpleaſed his maſter—left the houſe of comfort, and with his ſcanty pittance, was wandering round the world to mend his fortune. Like a butcher, you ſtruck the forlorn boy to the earth, and left him to languiſh in the foreſt. Would any of our brave comrades have done this?
—None! None!
Comrades, in this caſe, my voice is ſingle. But if it have any weight, this brute, this Orſon, ſhall be thruſt from our community, which he has diſgrac⯑ed. Let it not be ſaid, brothers, while want drives us to plunder, that wantonneſs prompts us to butchery.
O brave Captain! away with him!
You had better ponder on't, ere you provoke me.
Raſcal! do you mutter threats. You cannot terrify us. Our calling teems with danger—we are not to be daunted by the treachery of an informer. We defy you. Go. Yon dare not hurt us. You dare not ſacrifice ſo many brave, and gallant fellows, to your revenge, and proclaim yourſelf ſcoundrel. Begone.
Well, if I muſt, I muſt. I was always a friend to you all: but if you are bent on turning me out—why—fare you well.
Aye, aye—Away, away.
Farewell then.
Come, comrades—Think no more of this. Let us drown the choler we have felt in wine and revelry.
FINALE.
ACT III.
[61]SCENE I. WINTERTON's Room, in SIR EDWARD MORTIMER's Lodge.
SAMSON, you muſt drink no more.
One more glaſs, Miſtreſs Blanch, and I ſhall be better company. 'Twill make me loving.
Nay, then, you ſhall not have a drop.
I will:—and ſo ſhall you too.
Who knows but it may make you the ſame?
You are wond'rous familiar, Mr Lout.
I would not willingly offend. I will endea⯑vour at more reſpect. My humble duty to you.
I would counſel you to be cautious of drinking, Samſon. Conſider where you are. We are now, remember, in Sir Edward Mortimer's Lodge.
In the Butler's room;—where drinking has always a privilege.
What, another!
Do not fear. 'Twill not make me familiar again. My lowly reſpects to yon.
This ſame old Winterton's wine has a marvellous choice flavour. I wonder whether 'twas ſmuggled.
Should you totter with this, now, in the morning, 'twould go nigh to ſhake your office to the foundation, before night. My Lady would never pardon you.
'Twould be hard to turn me adrift, for getting drunk, on the ſecond day of my ſervice.
Truly, I think 'twould be reaſon ſufficient.
'Twould not be giving a man a fair trial. How ſhould ſhe know but I intend to be ſober for a year after?
How ſhould ſhe know, indeed! or any one elſe, who has heard of your former rogueries.
Well, the worſt fault I had was being a ſportſman.
A ſportſman! out on you, rogue! you were a poacher.
Aye, ſo the rich nick-name us poor brothers of the field; and lay us by the heels when we do that for hunger which they practiſe for amuſement. Can⯑not I move you to take a thimble-full, this cold morning?
Not a drop, I
Hark! I think I hear old Winterton coming back. By our lady, Miſtreſs Blanch, we have made a deſperate hole in the bottle, ſince he left us.
We! why, you ſlanderous rogue, I have not taſted it.
No—'tis not he.
No matter; he will be back on the inſtant. Leave this idle guzzling, if you have any ſhame. Think we are attending madam Helen, in her viſit to Sir Edward, on his ſudden ſickneſs. Think, too, on the confuſion from Wilford's flight. Is it a time for you, ſo, to tipple, when the whole houſe is in diſtreſs and melancholy?
Alas! I have too tender a heart, Miſtreſs Blanch; and have need of ſomewhat, in the midſt of this ſorrow, to cheer my ſpirits
This wine will ſhortly give your profeſ⯑ſion of amendment the lie.
Let it give me the lie: 'Tis an affront I can eaſily ſwallow. Come, a bargain—an you will take one glaſs with me, I will give over.
Well, on that condition—
Agreed— for that will juſt finiſh the bottle.
I will drink no health, now, but of thy giving.
Then liſten and edify.—May a man never inſult a woman with his company, when drunk⯑enneſs has made him a brute!
With all my heart:—But a woman knows that man may be made a brute, when wine is clean out of the queſtion. Eh! Here comes the old man, in real earneſt.
Well, I am here again.—What madcap? —In truth, I have a world of care. Our good maſter taken ill on a ſudden. Wilford flown:—A baſe, ungrateful boy!—One that I was ſo fond of:—And to prove ſuch a profligate! I began to love the young villain like my own child. I had mark'd down the unfortunate boy, in my laſt teſtament: I had— Bleſs me! my cold is wondrous troubleſome to my eyes, this morning. Ah! 'tis a wicked world:— But old Winterton keeps a merry heart ſtill. Do I not, pretty miſtreſs Blanch?
I hope you do, Adam.
Nay, on ſecond thought, I do not keep it; for thou haſt ſtolen it from me, tulip! ha! good ifaith!—
Ha! ha!—Well ifaith that is a good jeſt! ha! ha!
Doſt think ſo, varlet? "Thou haſt ſtolen it from me, tulip!" Well, it was; it was exceeding pleaſant, by St. Thomas! Heigho! I muſt e'en take a glaſs to conſole me. One cup to—eh! mercy on me! why the liquor has flown. Ha! the bottle has leak'd, haply.
Yes, Sir:—I crack'd that bottle, myſelf, in your abſence.
Crack'd! Why what a careleſs gooſe art thou! theſe unthrifty knaves!—ah▪ times are ſadly changed for the worſe, ſince I was a boy.
Doſt think ſo, Adam?
Queſtion any man, of my age, and he will ſay the ſame. Domeſticks never broke bottles in queen Elizabeth's time. Servants were better then— aye, marry, and the bottles were better bottles. 'Tis a degenerate world! Well; heigho!
Why doſt ſigh thus, Adam?
In truth, this is as heavy a day for me!—
I hope not, Adam. Gome, come, things are not ſo bad, I warrant thee. You have long drank ſmilingly of the cup of life, Adam; and when a good man takes his potion without murmuring, Providence ſeldom leaves the bittereſt drop at the bottom. What is the matter, Adam?
Alas! nothing but evil. Theſe attacks come on our worthy maſter as thick as hail, and weaken him daily. He has been grievous ill, in the night, poor ſoul! and ne'er ſlept a wink ſince I brought him the news.
What news, good Adam?
Why of Wilford's flight!—A reprobate! The ſhock of his baſeneſs has brought on Sir Edward's old ſymptoms.
What call you his old ſymptoms?
The ſhivering, and trembling its, which have troubled him theſe two years. I begin to think the air of this foreſt doth nouriſh agues. I can never move him to drink enough of canary. I think, in my conſcience, I had been aguiſh myſelf, in theſe woods, had I not drank plenty of canary.
Maſs, when I am ill, this old boy ſhall be my apothecary.
Well, well, he may mend. Do not fancy the worſt, ere worſe arrives, Adam.
Nay, worſe has arrived already. Blanch. Aye! marry, how?
Wilford's villany. Sir Edward ſays, he has proofs of the blackeſt treachery againſt him.
Indeed!
It chills my blood to think on't! I had mark'd out the boy as a boy of promiſe—A learned [65] boy! He had the backs of all the books in our library by heart: and now a hue and cry is after him. Mercy on me! if the wretched lad be taken, Sir Ed⯑ward will bring him to the charge. We none know what 'tis yet; but time will ſhew.
You ſurpriſe me! Wilford turn diſho⯑neſt! I could ſcarce have credited this; and after two years trial, too.
O, monſtrous! to turn rogue after two years! Had it happened after two days, indeed, 'twere not to be wonder'd at.
Mr. Winterton, there is a young woman of the foreſt, would ſpeak with you.
Out on't! Theſe cottagers time their buſi⯑neſs vilely. Well, bid her come in, Simon.
And, Miſtreſs Blanch, your lady would ſee you anon, in the breakfaſt parlour.
I come quickly. Be not caſt down, now, Adam; keep thy old heart merry ſtill.
Ha! in truth, I know not well, now, what would mend my ſpirits.
What think you of the kiſs I promis'd?
Ah, wag! go thy way Od! thou haſt nimble legs. Had I o'ertaken thee yeſterday—Ah! well, no matter.
Come, I will not leave thee comfortleſs, in theſe ſad times Here—Here is my hand, Adam.
Thou wilt ſhew me a light pair of heels again, now.
No, in faith. Come; 'tis more than I would offer to every one. Take it.
That I will, moſt willingly.
Do not play the rake now, and boaſt of my favours; for I am told there is a breed of puppies will build ſtories, to a ſimple girl's prejudice, on [66] ſlighter encouragement than this. Be not you one of thoſe empty coxcombs, and ſo adieu, Adam.
Nay, I was never given to vaunt. 'Sbud! if I had, many a tale had been told, ſixty years back, of young, luſty Adam Winterton.—Eh! why what doſt thou titter at, ſcapegrace?
I, ſir?—Not I
I had forgot this varlet. Peſtilence on't I Should this knave prate of my little gallantry, I trem⯑ble for the good name of poor Miſtreſs Blanch!
May I come in, good your worſhip?
Aye, marry, that thou may'ſt, pretty one. —Well, though many things have declined, ſince I was a boy, female-beauty keeps its rank ſtill. I do think there be more pretty women now than there were in Queen Elizabeth's reign.
Fleſh! this is our Barbara.
Well, and what wouldſt have, ſweet one, with old Adam—Eh! by St. Thomas, why thou art ſhe I have ſeen, ere now, with Wilford.
Beſeech you, tell me where he is, ſir?
Alas, child, he's gone—flown! Eh? what —why art not well, child?
Nothing, ſir—I only—I hoped he would have called at our cottage, ere he quitted the foreſt. Is there no hope that he may come back, ſir?
None, truly, except force bring him back. Alas, child! the boy has turn'd out naught; and juſ⯑tice is dogging him at the heels.
What Wilford, ſit?—my poor—O, ſir, my heart is burſting! I pray you, pardon me. Had he paſs'd our cottage in his flight, I would have ran out, and follow'd him all the world over.
To ſee what love will do! Juſt ſo did Jane Blackthorn take on for me, when Sir Marmaduke carried me to London, in the hard winter.
Beſeech you, forgive me, ſir! I only came to make enquiry, for I had heard a ſtrange tale. I would not have my ſorrows make me troubleſome to your worſhip.
To me? poor wench! nay, that thou art not. I truſt, child, I never turned a deaf ear, yet, to the unfortunate. 'Tis man's office to liſten to the ſorrows of a woman, and do all he can to ſoothe them. Come, come, dry thy tears, chicken.
I look'd to have been his wife ſhortly, ſir. He was as kind a youth—And, I am ſure, he wanted not gratitude. I have heard him talk of you, as you were his father, ſir.
Did he? Ah! poor lad. Well, he had good qualities; but, alas! he is now a reprobate. Poor boy! To think, now, that he ſhould ſpeak kindly of the old man, behind his back!
Alas, this is the ſecond flight to bring un⯑happineſs to our poor family!
The ſecond! How do'ſt mean, wench?
My brother, ſir, left our cottage ſuddenly, yeſterday morning; and we have no tidings of him ſince.
Lo you, now, where he ſtands, to glad the hearts of his diſconſolate relations! Siſter Barbara, why doſt not know me?
Eh! No—Sure it can't—Brother Samſon?
Mr. Samſon—Head ſerving man to the Lady Helen, of the New Foreſt.
O, the fortune! can it be! what gain'd thee ſo good a place, Samſon?
Merit. I had no intereſt to back me. Mine is a rare caſe—I was promoted on the ſcore of my virtues.
Out upon thee! thy knaveries have been the talk of the whole foreſt; and furniſh'd daily food for converſation.
Truly, then, converſation has fared better upon them than I. But my old character is laid aſide with my old jerkin. I am now exalted.
An I have any forecaſt in deſtiny, friend, thou bidſt fair, one day, to be more exalted.— Ha! good ifaith! Come, you muſt to the kitchen, knave. I muſt thither myſelf, to give order for the day.
Muſt I return home, then, your worſhip, with no tidings?
Ah! heaven help me! what havock doth wanton Cupid make with us all! Well, tarry about the houſe, with thy brother; we may hear ſomewhat, haply, anon. Take care of thy ſiſter, knave; and mark what I have ſaid to thee.—"Thou bidſt fair one day to be more exalted." Had well, it was exceeding pleaſant, by St. Thomas!
Well, Barbara, and how fares father?
He has done nought but chide, ſince you diſappear'd, Samſon. It has ſour'd him with us all.
Well, I will call, ſoon, and ſet all even.
Will yuo, brother?
I will. Bid him not be caſt down. I will protect the Rawbold family.
Truly, brother, we are much in need of protection.
Do not fear. Lean upon my power. I am head of all the male domeſticks, at Madam Helen's.
O, the father! of all! and how many be there, brother?
Why, truly, not ſo many as there be at the Lodge, here. But I have a boy under me, to chop wood, and draw water.
The money we had from Sir Edward's bounty, is nearly gone in payment of the debt our father owed. You know he had ſhortly been im⯑priſon'd, elſe.
My ſtock is ſomewhat low, too.—But, no matter. Keep a good heart. I am now a riſing man. I will make you all comfortable.
Heaven bleſs you, Samſon!
In three months, I look for a quarter's wages; and then Dick ſhall have a ſhirt. I muſt now take you roundly to taſk.
Me, brother!
Aye, marry. You would throw yourſelf away on this Wilford—who▪ as the ſtory goes, is little better than the devil's own imp.
O, brother! be not ſo uncharitable. I know not what is againſt him, but he has not been heard yet. Conſider too—were all our actions, at home, to be ſifted, I fear me, we might not eſcape blameleſs.
Aye, but he, it ſeems, is falling, and we are upon the riſe; and that makes all the difference. Maſs! how gingerly men will ſift the faults of thoſe who are getting up hill in the world; and what a rough ſhake they give thoſe who are going down⯑ward!
I would not be one of thoſe ſiſters, brother.
No,—I warrant, now, thou wouldſt marry this vagabond.
That I would, brother. He has cheer'd me in my diſtreſs, and I would ſooner die than leave him, now he is unfortunate.
Haſt thou no reſpect for the family? Thou wilt bring endleſs diſgrace on the name of Rawbold. Shame on you! to take away from our reputation, when we have ſo little!
I thought, brother, you would have ſhewn more pity for your poor ſiſter.
Tuſh! Love's a mere vapour.
Ah! brother.
DUETT.
[70]I.
II.
III.
From break of the mornings, &c,
SCENE II. A Room in Sir EDWARD MOR⯑TIMER's Lodge.
[71]Sooth, you look better now; indeed you do.
Thou'rt a ſweet flatterer!
What couldſt thou do to laugh away my ſickneſs?
And what wouldſt thou preſcribe?
Think on thee, Helen?
My Helen!
Indeed I do.
I ſee it in your looks, now, you are better▪
Scarce poſſible, ſo ſuddenly!
What?
Would you could ſhake them off!
I would I could!
I'll hunt him through the world!
Why, look you there now! Pray be calm.
His own ingratitude.
O, very true.
Would you ſleep now?
No, Helen, no. I tire thy patient ſweet⯑neſs.
Somewhat, Adam.
O, no buſineſs now!
Who has thus importuned you?
Of Wilford!
Well, diſpatch!
Farewel, awhile, ſweet!
How myſelf?
To the very ſpot.
Do it.
Nay, ſoftly.
Be brief, and to your purpoſe.
Where is he hid?
Hard by; with robbers.
It ſeems, then, thou'rt a thief?
Where lies their haunt?
Give me your honour, firſt—
I pledge it, for your ſafety.
There may be danger in my ſtay here. I will e'en ſlink off, in the confuſion I have rais'd. I value not the reward. I hang my comrades, and that ſhall content me.
Head ſerving man to madam Helen, Sir.
A cold paſtime!
Aye, Sir; 'twas killing work. I've left it off.
Think you they will be back ſoon?
I was unfit to ſerve him, Sir.
Unfit!
Indeed!
Mine!—O, good Heaven!
Collect your firmneſs. You will need it all.
O, you are juſt! I would all men were ſo!
Then, all my youthful hopes are blighted in the bud! The breath of my powerful perſecutor will wither them. Let me recall my actions.—My breaſt is unclog'd with crime. This charge is to be open;—in the eye of the world; of the laws —Then, why ſhould I fear? I am native of a happy ſoil where juſtice guards equally the life of its pooreſt and richeſt inhabitant. Let him inflict his menaces upon me, in ſecret; Let him torture my mind and body; he ſhall not, cannot, touch my good name.
O, Wilford!
Barbara! at ſuch a time, too!
To be brought back, thus, Wilford! and to go away without ſeeing me! without thinking of me!
It was not ſo.—I was haſtening to your cot⯑tage, Barbara, when a ruffian, in the foreſt, encoun⯑ter'd and wounded me.
Wounded you!
Be not alarm'd 'Tis not, as I thought yeſternight, of moment. One of his party took me to the Abbey ruins, and gave me timely ſuccour.
And, was it ſo! was it ſo, Wilford?
Aye, Barbara. When I was drag'd hither, the whole troop eſcaped, or they had vouch'd for the truth on't.
I would they had not eſcaped. For all here ſay that you had fled to join them.
What! join with robbers! what next ſhall I be charged with!
Bethink you, Wilford—the time is ſhort: I know your heart is good; but—
But what? Can you ſuſpect it, too, Barbara!
O! mine is ſo link'd with it, that I would follow you through beggary, through priſons, Wil⯑ford.
Priſon! The ſound, now, makes me ſhudder!
If in a haſty moment you have done aught to wrong Sir Edward, throw yourſelf on his mercy; —ſue for pardon.
For pardon!—I ſhall go mad! Pardon! I am innocent.—Heaven knows I am innocent.
Heaven be thank'd!—The family is all ſummon'd. O, Wilford! my ſpirits ſink within me.
I am, now, but a ſorry comforter. —Come, Barbara; be tranquil. You ſee I am ſo. Don't—don't you, Barbara?
You muſt attend in the next room.
What, Walter, is it you? Pray tell me if—
Do not queſtion me. I hold no diſcourſe with any of your ſtamp.
Your tone is ſtrangely changed on the ſud⯑den. What have I done?
You are going to be tried. That's enough for me.
I might rather claim your pity on that ſcore, Walter.
What, pity a man that's going to be tried? O, monſtrous!
Well, fare you well. I will not upbraid you, Walter. You have many in the world to coun⯑tenance you. Blacken well your neighbour, and nine in ten are in haſte to cry ſhame upon him, ere he has time, or opoprtunity, to wipe off the accuſation. I follow you.
Do ſo.
Be of good cheer. I go arm'd in honeſty, Barbara. I can bear every thing. Every thing, ſave [85] making you the partner of my misfortunes. That, Barbara—I am ſure you love me——That would give me a pang which would—Farewell!
Alas! I tremble for his ſafety! ſhould they tear him from me!——
SONG.—BARBARA.
Is not Sir Edward coming, Adam?
Good man! you have been ever kind to me.
Here's a chair, your worſhip.
Now, to the point, I pray you.
What is it you ſuſpect?
—That he has rob'd me.
Rob'd! I! O, horrible!
And well I may!
You oftentimes have ſaid ſo.
Is that ſervant here?
'Twas I, Sir.
'Tis moſt true.
I witneſs'd that, with wonder.
Aye, ſpeak to that:—it was a ſolemn in⯑terview.
It was a theme of—No.
What ſaid you to him?
O, mercy!
How now? What's there?
Make it appear ſo.—But look there; look there!
O! fie on't, fie!
Do you not know—
What?
The very words I utter'd! I am tongue-tied.
What do you anſwer, Sir?
I will not have it thus.
O, 'tis deep laid!—Theſe, too, to give a colour!
What?
Marks of blood upon it.
Plain! plain!—Stay! he revives.
O, mercy on me!
Sir, the officers.
Away, knave! Send them hence—the boy is innocent.
What, Wilford?
'Twere beſt to raiſe him, Sir.
Soft, who comes here?
Helen—'Twas I that——
Oh, he's convulſed!
O, Wilford! I have flown to you! You are innocent.—The whole houſe now has it, you are innocent. Thank Heaven! Speak; tell me— How—how was it, dear, dear Wilford?
I cannot tell you now, Barbara. Another time: But it is ſo.—I cannot ſpeak now.—
Nor I, ſcarce, for joy! See! hither come your fellows, to greet you. I am ſo happy!
Joy! Wilford.
Peace, peace, I pray you. Our maſter is taken ill: So ill, my fellows, that I fear me he ſtands in much danger. That you rejoice in my acquittal, I perceive, and thank you. Sir Edward's brother will explain further to you: I cannot. But believe this:—Heaven, to whoſe eye the dark move⯑ments of guilt are manifeſt, will ever watch over, [96] and ſuccour the innocent, in their extremity. Cla⯑mour not now your congratulations to me, I entreat you: Rather, let the ſlow, ſtill voice of gratitude be lifted up to Providence, for that care ſhe ever beſtows upon thoſe deſerving her protection!
FINALE.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4006 The iron chest a play in three acts Written by George Colman the younger With a preface First represented at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane on Saturday 12th March 1796. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5CC1-3