THE LORD OF THE MANOR, A COMIC OPERA BY JOHN BURGOYNE

AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE;

WITH A PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.

[First staged at Drury Lane Theatre Dec. 1780. Written for his lover the actress Susan Caufield.]

PREFACE.

Among the many unpleasing circumstances at­tending the concealed writer of a dramatic piece (and they are more than are apt at first to occur to him), it is not one of the least considerable to a liberal mind, that other persons become suffer­ers by his failings. Thus while the real Author, on one hand, has enjoyed the compliment of hav­ing the Lord of the Manor ascribed to several men, for whom it is great literary credit to be mis­taken; so, on the other, he has had the pain to see criticism extended from poetical to political principles, and made a vehicle for party reflec­tions upon persons who never saw a line of his writing. Not only have the erroneous guesses shifted from man to man, they have fallen also upon men in a body: different scenes have been given to different pens; and sometimes these supposed writers have multiplied upon the imagina­tion, till they became almost as numerous as the personages of the drama.

Perhaps an apology may be due to every man who has been charged with this foundling; and the more especially as the parent himself means to continue still unknown—confessing ingenuously at the same time, that his temptations to break from his concealment far overbalance his discou­ragements: for after duly weighing every defect of fable, conduct, dialogue, &c. with which the severest critic could tax him, what candidate for praise in poetry would not bear the weight ten­fold, for the sole pride of avowing, in his own name, the songs which by many respectable judges have been attributed to Mr. Sheridan?

It is unnecessary to trouble the reader with the motives upon which so flattering a gratification is resisted.—Some of them perhaps are mere peculi­arities of temper—Suffice it to say, that they are such, upon the whole, as induce this Author to request the few friends, who necessarily have been entrusted with his secret, not to think them­selves at liberty, from any thing here said, to di­vulge it. For his own part he is desirous so far to satisfy the public curiosity (if curiosity remains upon so trifling a subject) as to declare that every word in the following Opera is the production of a single person; and should a mistake still rest upon any individual, it is fit that the burthen should be made as light as possible, by removing some prejudices which have been levelled unjust­ly against the man, whatever may become of others which may have been conceived against the piece.

Be it known, then, that these scenes were writ­ten last summer in the country for mere amuse­ment—to relax a mind which had been engaged in more intense application—and the only view in bringing them upon the stage was a continuation of amusement, encouraged and enhanced by the reflection, that if they were defective in many parts, they were harmless in all; that although they might not correct the follies, they would not offend the morals of the spectators.

It could not but be matter of surprise, and some pain, to a writer intent upon these principles, to find himself accused of having introduced the character of Captain Trepan, for the purpose of impeding the recruiting service of the army. To be thought a bad poet is but a common misfor­tune, and it may be borne with temper and in silence; but the imputation of being an ill-inten­tioned citizen requires an answer, though in this case, it is trusted, a short one will suffice.

The writer has ever conceived, that as to shew the enormous vices of the time in their utmost de­formity ought to be the great end of dramatic satire; so, in a lesser degree, to expose to ridicule any practice that savoured more of abuse than ab­solute vice, had its use. They who think the fal­lacies and frauds of recruiting dealers about this town necessary evils, which ought to be connived at, as contributary to the military strength of the nation, are ignorant of facts, or blind to conse­quences. So little is the writer of that opinion, that he has thought it incumbent upon him to re­store in print the passages which from apprehen­sion of sudden misconstructions, and from no other apprehension, were omitted in the represen­tation. An abler hand might have carried satire on this subject infinitely further, not only with a consciousness of doing no harm, but also a confi­dence of doing good. Let us suppose, for illus­tration sake, that his Majesty were pleased to command the First Part of King Henry IV and to order all the boxes to be kept for the new commanders, which the policy of the times (from the scarcity undoubtedly of veterans) has placed at the head of corps raising or to be raised; and one of the galleries devoted exclusively to the crimp captains and their subalterns—might not public beuefit be united with entertainment by a just exhibition of old Jack Falstaff’s levies? and should it happen that any person present in such an audience were conscious of ‘having misused the King’s press damnably'—or from any other cause were ‘ashamed of his ragamuffins’—surely he could not but feel grateful for so gentle a hint! and we might see effected by wit and mirth, a reformation, which under a harsh sove­reign might have been thought deserving of direct and exemplary reprehension.

A more serious defence can hardly be requisite upon this subject, after publication of the piece. At the Theatre, where the attention naturally (and in this instance most deservedly) has rested much upon the music, the public sentiments sincerely meant to be inculcated may have escaped notice; but, in the closet, the writer, without a shadow of fear, rests his justification from the charge of ill will to the military service, upon passages too nu­merous to be pointed out. He might almost say upon every character of the drama—but particu­larly upon that of Trumore, where the two ex­tremes of that passion which fills, or ought to fill, every youthful breast, is employed to excite mar­tial ardour; in one instance, disappointment and despondency in love are made the motives for en­listing as a private soldier; in the other, success in love, the supreme happiness in human existence, is not admitted as an excuse for relinquishing the military service during the exigencies of our country.

To disavow the aspersion I have mentioned, was the principal purpose of this address to the candour of the reader; but having taken up the pen, I will venture to offer to his further indul­gence a few thoughts upon Opera, and particular­ly that species of it attempted in the ensuing pages. The Opera is a favourite entertainment in all the polite countries of Europe, but in none, that I know of, held subject to the laws of regular drama. There is neither usage nor statute of criticism (if I may use that expression) to try it by, unless we look for such in some musical code. Metastasio, though a very respectable stage writer, has never been brought to the same bar with Corneille or Racine, or any other professors of correct Tragedy. The vital principle and very soul of Italian Opera is music; and provided it be well maintained in composition and execution, every inconsistency, in fable, conduct, or cha­racter, is not only always pardoned, but often applauded.

The French Opera (without entering into the disputed points concerning its music, or denying the many beautiful passages which may be ex­tracted from its poetry) is if possible more absurd than the Italian in its departure from probability. To the powers of sound is added all that decora­tion, machinery, beauty, and grace, can supply to enchant the eye and the fancy; and so forcible, it must be allowed, is their effect, that the judgment receives no shock, when tyrants and lovers, heroes and peasants, gods and devils, are singing and dancing in amicable chorus all together.

The reader will go with me in applying every thing yet said to the serious or great Opera. Another species, but no more of the legitimate family of Comedy than the former is of Tragedy, has been introduced in all the countries I have alluded to. In England both have been in use in our native language, but with very different suc­cess. I have no hesitation in pronouncing an opi­nion, that the adopting what is called recitative into a language, to which it is totally incongruous, is the cause of failure in an English serious Opera much oftener than the want of musical powers in the performers. In countries where the inflection of voice in recitative upon the stage is little more than what the ear is used to in common discourse, the dialogue of the drama is sustained and strength­ened by a great compass of tones, but in our northern climates, in proportion as the ordinary expression comes nearer monotony, recitative, or musical dialogue, will seem the more preposte­rous*.

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* See Mr. Addison upon this subject. Spectator, N° 29, and others of his papers upon the Opera,

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I will not contend (though I have my doubts) that it is impossible for genius to invent, and for voice to deliver, a sort of recitative that the En­glish language will bear. But it must be widely different from the Italian. If any specimens can yet be produced of its having been effected, they will be found to consist only of a few lines intro­ductive of the air which is to follow, and as such received by the ear just as symphony would be. Very few serious pieces, except Artaxerxes, can be recollected upon our Theatre where it has not entirely failed, even when assisted by action: in Oratorios it is, with a few exceptions, and those sustained by accompaniment, a soporific dial even the thunder of Handel’s chorusses are hardly loud enough to overcome.

There may be enthusiasts in music who will treat the disrelish I have described to want of ear. Let ear be understood merely as the organ by which the mind is to receive more or less delight from sublime English verse, and I should be hap­py to see the dispute brought to public issue— the test should be the performance of Alexander’s Feast as now set to music throughout; and the performance of that inimitable ode, with the songs alone preserved in music, and the rest deli­vered by Mrs. Yates without accompaniment, or other melody than her emphatic elocution.

1 trust that in contending against musical dia­logue in English, I shall not be understood to think that all music is inapplicable to the higher compositions of our stage. On the contrary I am convinced that, under judicious management, music is capable of giving them effect beyond what our best authors can attain without it—music can add energy to Shakspeare himself. Indignant as an English audience would be to hear King Lear de­liver himself in recitative, I believe no person, who had a heart or taste, ever contemplated the mute groupe of Cordelia with the aged parent asleep in her lap, and the physician watching by, without an increase of sensibility from the soft music which Mr. Garrick introduced into that scene. The same observation will hold good with respect to the additional horror excited in Macbeth, and delight in the Tempest, from the judicious use of both song and instruments. I cannot help quoting another instance of the application of music which I have always thought a happy one. At the close of the tragedy of the Gamester, when the distress is raised to such a pitch that language fails under it, how forcibly is the impression left upon the audience by music, accompanying the slow descent of the curtain over the mournful picture! How preferable such a conclusion to the usual one of an actor straddling over dead bodies to deliver a tame moral in tame rhyme to the pit, in the same breath, and often in the same tone, in which he is to give out the play! But surely no man can be so void of discernment as not to see clearly the difference between recitative and music thus ap­plied: the one diverts the attention from sense to sound, breaks the propriety and very nerve of our language, and by giving to the expression of the passions cadences of which we never heard an example, nor can form a conception in real life, destroys that delusion and charm of fancy which makes the situations before us our own, and is the essence of dramatic representation: the other, upon the principle of the chorus of the ancients, serves to excite and to combine attention and emotion, and to improve and to continue upon the mind the impressions most worthy to be retained.

I am aware that I have entered further into the grave Drama than my subject required; but the digression will be found excusable, in as much as the same doctrine applies to comic productions, and as it will serve to shorten the trouble of the reader in what I have further to offer.

One branch of Comic Opera which meets with success on our stage is evidently a graft from the Barletta of the Italians; and little as I may ad­mire it in general, I will venture to say, respec­tively to the writing, it is improved in our soil. Midas, the Golden Pippin, and some others, con­sidered as pieces of parody and burlesque, are much better than any Italian Burletta I know. In fact, there is in general in the Italian Drama of this name an insipidity, mixed with a butfoonery too low to be called farcical, which would make the representation insupportable in England, were the language understood, or attended to in any other view than as the introduction and display of exquisite music.

I cannot easily bring myself to allow the higher branch of our Comic Opera to be of foreign ex­traction. From the time the Beggar’s Opera ap­peared, we find pieces in prose, with songs inter­spersed, so approaching to regular Comedy in plot, incident, and preservation of character, as to make them a distinct species from any thing we find abroad—and is it too much to add that the sense, wit, and humour to be found in some of them are sterling English marks by which we may claim the species as our own? The musical pieces at Paris, upon the Theatre called Les Italiens, sprung up from the decline of a sort of drama where half the personages were Italian, as was half the language. When Harlequin and Argentine grew unfashionable, such other representations as served best for an hour of mere dissipation suc­ceeded, and the light and easy music with which they were accompanied made them very popular. But the pieces are either parodies, or founded in general upon materials which would be thought in England too flimsy for any thing but an after-piece. They are composed with an amusing playfulness of imagination, which runs Love through all its divisions, and usually contain abundance of verv pretty vocal music, with a scarcity of incident and little variety of character. It is not intended to degrade or depreciate this style of writing as ap­plicable to a Paris audience: it is only meant to state it more widely separate and distinct from the force and spirit of regular Comedy than our own. They who are unacquainted with the Paris theatre, are referred for judgment upon this subject to the Deserter, Zemira and Azor, and other direct translations; and to Daphne and Amintor, and Thomas and Sally and other after­pieces, very good in their kind, but written after the French manner. The Padlock is alxne this class in display of characters; and the French have nothing upon their Musical Comic Stage, to compare, as resembling Comedy, with lane in a Village, or the Maid of the Mill, or, to take still greater credit to our Theatre, the Duenna.

The Lord of the Manor, although the leading incident of the story is professedly taken from the Silvain of Marmontel, is an humble attempt at the species of Opera which I have ventured to call English, and to describe as a drama the next in gradation below regular Comedy, and which might perhaps be carried a step above it. It will not therefore be thought want of attention to the excellencies of Marmontel’s piece, which as adapted to French manners I believe no man of taste will dispute, but respect and preference to our stage, that induced me to alter and enlarge the plan and conduct of the original, to substitute characters, and to add scenes and circumstances entirely new.

I know not a feature of character preserved from Marmontel, except the sensibility and artless innocence of the young women—qualities, which, to be truly represented, admit of little diversity by change of country.

I should be sorry if taking part, or even the whole of a story from a foreign stage, when such story can be made applicable to onr customs and characters, and is entirely new worked up for that purpose, could be deemed plagiarism, because it would be a confinement to the invention rather pedantic than useful.

But while I am taking credit for borrowing so little as one incident, there may be those who think I had better have borrowed a great deal more. I can only say that translation, or imita­tion, would have cost less pains, as it is easier to spin* sentiment, than to delineate character, and to write twenty songs to please the ear, than half as many lines of such Comedy as ought to satisfy the judgment. I do not contend that a direct copy of Marmontel would not have been a much better thing than my talents have been able to make; I only insist it would not have been English drama. Continued uninterrupted scenes of ten­derness and sensibility (Comedie larmoyante) may please the very refined, but the bulk of an English audience, including many of the best un­derstanding, go to a comic performance to laugh, in some part of it at least. They claim a right to do so upon precedents of our most valued plays: and every author owes it to them, so long as the merriest amongst them shews he is equally capable of relishing and applauding what is elevated and affecting—an observation I have always seen hold good in an English gallery.

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* Filer le Sentiment.

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It might be assuming too much to quote any passages from the Lord of the Manor, as a test that every part of the house can relish refined sen­timent; but were the fact ten times more appa­rent, I should still adhere to my former opinion, and intermix mirth: the censure of a critic of fashion here and there in the boxes, who reckon every thing low which is out of their own sphere, would never persuade me to turn Moll Flagon out of my piece (easy as it would be to conduct the story without her) while she excites so much plea­sure in general, as to prove the character can neither be false in nature, nor void of humour.

And now a few words upon what I conceive would be the plan of writing, were men of genius and taste to try a specimen of correct Musical Comedy.

In a representation which is to hold ‘a mirror up to nature,’ and which ought to draw its chief applause from reason, vocal music should be con­fined to express the feelings of the passions, but never to express the exercise of them. Song, in any action in which reason tells us it would be unnatural to sing, must be preposterous. To fight a duel, to cudgel a poltroon in cadence, may be borne in a Burletta, upon the same principle that in the Serious Opera we see heroes fight lions and monsters, and sometimes utter their last strug­gles for life in song, and die in strict time and tune: but these liberties would be totally inad­missible in the kind of drama which I am recom­mending. My idea might be further explained by a passage in the piece of Marmontel before re­ferred to. It appeared to one of the news-paper critics, that I had been guilty of a great error in not introducing a scene in the Silvain, wherein the Gardes Chasse of the Seigneur attack the sports­man with guns in their hands, threatening to shoot him unless he surrenders his gun, which he persists in preserving. By the by, this sort of authority is more natural in France than I hope it would yet be thought to be in England; but that was not my principal objection. This scene upon the French stage is all in song; and even at Paris, where licence of throwing action into song is so much more in use than it is here, and where I have often seen it excellently performed, the idea of five or six fellows with fusils presented at a gentleman’s head, and their fingers upon the trig­gers, threatening his life in bass notes, he resisting in tenor, and a wife or daughter throwing herself between them in treble, while the spectator is kept in suspense, from what in reality must be a momentary event, till the composer has run his air through all its different branches, and to a great length, always gave me disgust to a great degree.

Music, therefore, if employed to express action, must be confined to dumb shew. It is the very essence of pantomime; and we have lately seen upon the opera stage how well a whole story may be told in dance; but in all these instances music stands in the place of speech, and is itself the only organ to express the sentiments of the actor.

To return to the application of vocal music upon the English Theatre: it must not only be restrained from having part in the exercise or action of the passions; care must be also taken, that it does not interrupt or delay events for the issue of which the mind is become eager. It 'should always be the accessory and not the principal subject of the drama; but at the same time spring out of it in such a manner, that the diffe­rence can hardly be discerned, and that it should seem neither the one nor the other could be spared.

And notwithstanding all these restrictions, vocal music judiciously managed would have many oc­casions to distinguish its own specific charms, at the same time that it embellished, enriched, and elevated regular dramatic compositions. In Tra­gedy, I am convinced, the mind would peculiarly feel its powers:

‘Not touch’d but rapt, not waken’d but inspir’d.’

In the humbler, but not less instructive line of Comedy, its office would be to convey through the sweetest channel, and to establish by the most powerful impressions upon the mind, maxim, ad­monition, sentiment, virtue.

Should anything I have said strike a man of genius and taste with the distinction I have endea­voured to establish between Comic Opera and Musical Comedy, viz. between ‘elaborate trifles’ made secondary to music, and sense and spirit inculcated and sustained by it, new subjects could not be wanting to engage their trials; or if it occurred to men of that description to try an ex­periment upon an old subject, and a poet could be found courageous enough to engraft upon Shakspeare, as has been done upon Milton in Comus; perhaps no subject could be found in the whole range of fancy better fitted for musical comedy than the play of As you like it. In­deed it seems by some songs thrown into the original, that it was the idea of the great author himself. To multiply the songs, excellent mate­rials might be taken from the piece itself, without injury to the eloquent and brilliant passages which are better adapted to the energy of elocution and action. Aud where materials failed in the original, what true votary of the Muse would not find animation and assistance in his inventive facul­ties, from the prospect of being admitted before the public a companion to Shakspeare!

In the mean time the Lord of the Manor has been offered, not as an example, but an excite­ment to improve that species of drama—

funfrar vice cotis; acutum Reddere qvae ferrum valet, exsors ipse secandi.

It would be affectation in me. as well as ingra­titude to the public, to deny the pleasure I have had in the very favourable reception of this piece. At the same time I trust that I am duly sensible how much of the success is to be attributed to the exertions of the performers, the merits of the Orchestra, and the excellence of Mr. Jackson’s composition Among all the circumstances of sa­tisfaction, there is not one more pleasing to the reflection than that the bringing this humble pro­duction upon the stage, has been the means of making me acquainted with a man whose harmony I sincerely believe to be characteristic of his mind, equal to anv exertions, but peculiarly exquisite, when expressive of the social, tender, quiet, and amiable qualities of the human heart.

Before I dismiss this theatrical subject, upon which I have hazarded many opinions that for aught I know may be singly mine, I am free to confess, that in calling upon men of genius to try the effect of my ideas, I have had my eye particularly upon Mr. Sheridan. As an author, he is above my encomium; as a friend, it is my pride to think we are exactly upon a level. From the consideration of him in both those capacities, 1 feel myself more interested than the rest of the world, in a performance he has some time given us reason to expect. His Muse, though without partici­pation of my cause, will naturally and of necessity be the advocate of it, by verifying and exempli­fying true Musical Comedy; and such a sanction from the author whom all respect, will be ren­dered doubly precious to myself by its proceeding also from the man I love.

THE AUTHOR.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Sir John Contrast .....Mr, Parsons

Contract.....Mr. Palmer

Trumore.....Mr. Vernon

Rashly.....Mr. Bannister

Rental.....Mr. Aickin

La Nippe.....Mr. Dodd

Captain Trepan.....Mr. Baddeley

Serjeant Crimp.....Mr. R. Palmer

Huntsman.....Mr. Du Bellamy

Corporal Snap.....Mr. Williams

Annette.....Miss Prudom

Sophia.....Miss Farren

Peggy.....Mrs. Wrighten

MollFlagon.....Mr. Suet

Soldiers, Recruits, Countrymen.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

[At the close of the Overture, a peal of bells is heard at a distance, the curtain continuing down. When the peal is nearly fi­nished the curtain rises, and discovers a mag­nificent entrance to a Park, with a view of a Gothic Castle on an eminence at a distance. On the side-scene, near the park-gate, the out­side of a small neat Farmhouse with a bank of turf before the door, on which Sophia and Annette are seated and at work—Annette throws down her work, and runs to meet Peggy, who enters immediately on the other side—Sophia continues her work pensively.]

Peggy.

Keep it up, jolly ringers—ding dong, mid away with it again, A merry peal puts inv spirits quite in a hey-day—what say you, my little foreigner?

Annette.

You know, Peggy, my spirits are ge­nerally in time and tune with your’s. I was out of my wits for your coming back, to know what was going on—Is all this for the wake?

Peggy.

Wake! An hundred wakes together would not make such a day as this is like to be. Our new landlord, that has bought all this great estate of Castle Manor, is arrived; and Rental the steward, who went up to London upon the purchase, is with him, and is to be continued stew­ard. He has been presenting the tenants—and they are still flocking up to the Castle to get a sight of Sir John—Sir John --

Annette.

What is his name?

Peggy.

I declare I had almost forgot it, though I have heard all about him—Sir John Contrast— Knight and Baronet, and as rich as Mexico—an ox is to be roasted whole—the whole country will be assembled—such feasting—dancing    --

Annette.

Oh! how I long to see it! I hope papa will let us go—do not you, sister?

Sophia.

No, indeed; my hopes are just the reverse; I hate nothing so much as a crowd and noise. Enjoy the gaiety for which your temper is so well fitted, Annette, but do not grudge me what is equally suited to mine—retirement.

Annette.

I grudge it to you only, Sophy, because it nourishes pain.

If an amorous heart

Is distinguish’d by smart,

Let mine still insensible be;

Like the zephyr of spring,

Be it ever on wing,

Blythe, innocent, airy, and free.

Love, embitter’d with tears,

Suits but ill with my years,

When sweets bloom enmingled around;

Ere my homage I pay,

Be the godhead more gay,

And his altars with violets crown’d.

Peggy.

Well said, my mademoiselle; though I hate the French in my heart, as a true English­woman, I’ll be friends with their sunshine as long as I live, for making thy blood so lively in thy veins. Were it not for Annette and me, this house would be worse than a nunnery.

Sophia.

Heigh ho!

Annette.

Aye, that’s the old tune. It’s so all night long—sigh, sigh! pine, pine! — I can hardly get a wink of sleep.

Peggy.

And how is it ever to end? The two fathers are specially circumstanced to make a family alliance. A curate with forty pounds a year has endow’d his son with two sure qualities to entail his poverty, Learning and Modesty; and our gentleman (my master, God bless him!) is possessed of this mansion, a farm of an hundred acres, a gun, and a brace of spaniels—I should have thought the example, so long before your eyes, of living upon love, might have made you.

Sophia.

Charmed with it Peggy—And so indeed I am—It was the life of a mother I can never forget. I do not pass an hour without reflecting on the happiness she enjoyed and diffused—“ May such be my situation! it is my favourite prospect.”

Peggy.

"Aye, ’tis like your favourite moonshine, just of the same substance.” Helpless souls! you have not a single faculty to make the pot boil between you—I should like to see you at work in a dairy—your little nice fingers may serve to rear an unfledged linnet, but Mould make sad work at cramming poultry for market --

Sophia.

But you, my good Peggy, ought not to upbraid me; for you have helped to spoil me by taking every care and labour off my hands—the humility of our fortunes ought to have put us more upon a level.

Peggy.

That’s a notion I cannot bear. I speak my mind familiarly to be sure, because I mean no harm; but I never pretend to be more than a servant: and you were born to be a lady, I’m sure on’t—I see it as sure as the gipsies in every turn of your countenance.—Read Pamela Andrews, and the Fortunate Country Maid.

Sophia.

Have done Peggy, or you’ll make me seriously angry; this seems your particular day of nonsense.

Peggy. No nonsense, but a plain road to for­tune. Our young landlord, Sir John Contrast’s sou, is expected every hour; now get but your silly passion for Trumore out of your head, and my life on’t it will do—I dreamt last night I saw you with a bunch of nettles in your breast for a nosegay; and that’s a sure sign of a wedding—Let us watch for him at the park-gate, and take your aim; your eyes will carry further, and hit surer, than the best gun your father has.

Annette. Peggy, how odd you are!

Peggy. Yes, my whole life has been an oddity —all made up of chequers and chances—you don’t know half of it—but Margery Heartease is always honest and gay; and has a joke and a song for the best and worst of times.

I once was a maiden as fresh as a rose,

And as fickle as April weather;

I lay down without care, and I wak’d from repose,

With a heart as light as a feather.

I work’d with the girls, I play’d with the men,

I was always or romping or spinning;

And what if they pilfer’d a kiss now and then,

I hope ’twas not very great sinning?

I married a husband as young as myself,

And for every frolic as willing;

Together we laugh’d while we had any pelf,

And we laugh’d when we had not a shilling.

He’s gone to the wars—Heav’n send him a prize!

For his pains he is welcome to spend it;

My example, I know, is more merry than wise,

—But, Lord help me, I never shall mend it!

Annette.

It would be a thousand pities you ever should.

Peggy.

But here comes your father, and Ren­tal the steward;—they seem in deep discourse.

Sophia.

Let us go in then; it might displease my father to interrupt them.  

[Exit Sophia.]

Peggy.

Go thy ways, poor girl! thou art more afraid of being interrupted in discoursing with thy own simple heart.

Annette.

Peggy, when do you think my sighing-time will come?

Peggy.

Don’t be too sure of yourself, miss; there is no age in which a woman is so likely to be infected with folly, as just when she arrives at what they call years of discretion. 

[Exeunt.]

[Enter Rashly and Rental.]

Rental.

But you are the only tenant upon the manor that has not congratulated our new lord upon taking possession of his purchase.

Rashly. [Aside]

Strange disposition of events! That he of all mankind should be a purchaser in this county!—I must not see Sir John Contrast.

Rental.

Why so? he is prepared—in giving him an account of his tenants, your name was not forgot.

Rashly.

And pray, my friend, how did you describe me?

Rental.

As what 1 always found you—an hon­est man. One can go no further than that word in praise of a character; therefore, to make him the better acquainted with your’s, 1 was forced to tell him the worst I knew of you.

Rashly.

Good Rental, what might that be?

Rental.

I told him, you had the benevolence of a prince, with means little better than a cottager; that consequently your family was often indebted to your gun (at which you were the best hand in the country) for the only meat in your kitchen.

Rashly.

But what said he to the gun?

Rental.

He shook his head, and said if you were a poacher, woe be to you when his son arrived.

Rashly.

His son!      

Rental.

Yes, his only son in fact. The eldest it seems was turned out of doors twenty years ago, for a marriage against his consent. This is by a second wife, and declared his heir. He gives him full rein to run his own course, so he does not marry—and by all accounts a fine rate he goes at.

Rashly.

And what is become of that elder?

Rental.

Nobody knows. But the old servants who remember him are always lamenting the change.

Rashly.

You know him well.

Rental.

What do you mean?

Rashly.

A discovery that will surprise you—I have lived with you, the many years we have been acquainted—an intimate—a friend—and an im­postor.

Rental.

An impostor!

Rashly.

Your new master, the purchaser of this estate, is an obstinate father—I am a disin­herited son—put those circumstances together, and instead of Rashly, call me         --

Rental.

Is it possible!

Rashly.

Call me Contrast.

Rental.

Mr. Rashly, Sir John Contrast’s son!

Rashly.

Even so—for the sole offence of a marriage with the most amiable of womankind, I received one of Sir John’s rescripts, as he calls the signification of his pleasure, with a note of a thou­sand pounds, and a prohibition of his presence for ever. I knew his temper too well to reply.

Rental.

You must know him best—I had con­ceived him of a disposition more odd than harsh.

Rashly.

You are right; but this oddity has all the effects of harshness. Sir John Contrast has ever thought decision to be the criterion of wis­dom; and is as much averse to retract an error as a right action. In short, in his character there is a continual variance between a good heart and a perverse head; and he often appears angry with all mankind, when in fact he is only out of humour with himself.

Rental.

I always thought you must have been bred above the station I saw you in, but I never guessed how much—could you immediately submit to such a change of situation?

Rashly.

No, I thought of different professions to support the rank of a gentleman. I afterwards placed my eldest daughter, then an infant, under the care of a relation, and went abroad—There my Annette was born, and, for the sake of econo­my, for some years educated. In short, after various trials, I fouud I wanted suppleness for some of my pursnits, and talents perhaps for others; and my last resource was a cottage and love, in the most literal sense of both.

Rental.

But why did you change your name? The pride of Sir John Contrast would never have suffered it to be said, that his son was in the capa­city of a poor farmer.

Rashly.

Our claims were upon the virtues, not the weaknesses of the heart; and when they failed, obscurity was not only choice but prudence. Why give our children the name and knowledge of a rank, that might alienate their minds from the hum­ble life to which they were destined?

Rental.

What a sacrifice! how strange this situation must have appeared to you at first!

Rashly.

My Anna was equally fitted for a cot­tage or a court. Her person, her accomplish­ments, her temper—the universal charm of her society, made our new life a constant source of delight-----         

...............

.....The desert smil’d,

And Paradise was open’d in the wild.’

Encompass’d in an angel’s frame,

An angel’s virtues lay;

Too soon did lieav’n assert the claim,

And call its own away.

     My Anna’s worth, my Anna’s charms,

Must never more return!

What now shall fill these widow’d arms?

Ah, me! my Anna’s urn!

Rental.

Not so, my good sir, you have two living images of her; and for their sakes you must try to work upon this old obdurate—Heaven has sent you together for that purpose.

Rashly.

No, my friend, he is inflexibility itself —I mean to fly him—it must be your part to dis­pose of my farm and little property.

Rental.

Your intention is too hasty—I pretend to no skill in plotting, but 1 think 1 see my way clearly in your case—dear sir, be advised by me—

La Nippe. [Without.]

Hollo! countryman, do you belong to the lodge?

Rashly.

Hey-day, what strange figure have we here?

Rental.

As I live, the young heir’s gentleman. I got acquainted with his character when I was in London to solicit the stewardship, and it is as cu­rious as his master’s.

Rashly.

What countryman is he?

Rental.

True English by birth. He took his foreign name upon his travels, to save his master’s reputation—nothing so disgraceful now-a-days, as to be waited upon by your own countrymen— pray be contented to-----  

[Enter La Nippe, affectedly dressed as a foreign Valet de Chambre, with a little cloak bag made of silk on his shoulder.]

La Nippe.

Hollo! countrymen, which is the nearest way—What, Mr. Rental! faith the sun was so much in my eyes I did not know you.

Rental.

Welcome to Castle Manor, Mr. Home­stall—I forget your French name.

La Nippe.

La Nippe, at your service; and when you see me thus equipped, I hope you’ll for­get my English one.

Rental.

Pray how came you to be on foot?

La Nippe.

A spring of the chaise broke at the bottom of the hill; the boy was quite a bore in tying it up; so 1 took out my luggage, and deter­mined to walk home.

Rashly. The prettiest little package I ever saw.

Rental. What may it contain?

La Nippe. The current utensils of a fine gentle­man—as necessary to his existence as current cash. It is a toilette a chasse, in English, the macaroni’s knapsack. It contains a fresh perfumed fillet for the hair, a pot of cold cream for the face, and a calico under-waistcoat compressed between two sachets a l'adorat de Narcisse; with a dressing of Marechalle powder, court plaister, lipsalve, eau de luce --     

[Rashly smiling.]

Rental. [Laughing.]

To be sure that cargo does not exactly suit the family of the Homestalls.

La Nippe.

Non, non—my master would not trust a black pin in my hands, if I did not talk broken English—I expect him here every minute.

Rental.

What time was he to leave London?

La Nippe.

The chaise was ordered at one this morning—I must allow him an hour for yawning, picking his teeth, and damning his journey—that would bring it to --

Rashly.

Upon my word, a pretty full allowance for such employments.

La Nippe.

Nothing—I have known Lord Dan­gle and his friend Billy Vapid in suspense in St. James’s Street, between a fruit-shop and a gam­bling-house, thrice the time, and the chaise-door open all the while.

Rashly.

Well said, Mr. La Nippe. I see you are a satirist.

Rental.

But what time of the morning had you brought him to?

La Nippe.

Two o’clock—oh, he dares not stay much longer—for he is made up for the journey. I doubt whether he could take himself to pieces; but, if he could, I am sure he could never put him­self together again without my assistance—his curls pinned, his ancles rolled, his --

Rashly.

His ankles rolled? pray what may you mean by that?

La Nippe.

The preservation of a Ranelagh leg —the true mode of keeping it from one season to another—What’s a macaroni without a Ranelagh leg—our’s has carried it hollow six seasons together.

Rashly.

We don’t understand you.

La Nippe.

Why, sir, with six yards of flannel roller to sweat the small, and prop the calf, and only an hour’s attention every day (nothing for a gentleman to spare), to sit with his heels in the air, and keep the blood back, I will undertake to—oh, I’ll leave Nature in the lurch at her best works—and produce a leg with the muscle of a Hercules, and the ankle of the Apollo Belvidere.

Rashly. And is this a common practice?

La Nippe.

Common! what do you think, but to hide the roller, makes the young fellows so damn’d fond of boots at all hours? they can’t leave them off at the play-house now-a-days—but let me be gone.

Rental.

Nay, nay, you have time to spare— He must be many miles off; for it is a hundred and twenty from London,

La Nippe.

Lord help you! I see you have no notion how a genius travels.

Rental.

He cannot fly, I suppose.

La Nippe.

Yes, and in a whirlwind—over orange-barrows and oyster-baskets at every comer. —You may trace his whole journey by yelping dogs, broken-back’d pigs, and dismember’d geese.

Rental.

Ha! ha! ha!

La Nippe.

There’s no describing it in common words—I’ll give you a sample in music.

O’er the pavement when we rattle,

Trim the drivers, sharp the cattle,

How the people gape and wonder!

Whirling with our wheels in chorus,

Ev’ry earthly thing before us,

We come on like peals of thunder!

Cracking, smacking,

Backing, tacking,

Brats here bawling, sir,

Dogs here sprawling, sir,

Now they tumble, now they skip,

Zounds, take care, sir!

Safe to a hair, sir!

Helter, skelter,

Swelter, swelter,

Dust and sun, sir,

Help the fun, sir,

Oh! the glories of the whip!

Rental.

Glories! I am sure it has made you sweat to describe them; and I hardly know if I have a whole bone in my body at hearing them.

La Nippe.

Well, I’m glad it pleases you; but as sure as death my master will get home before me.

[Going.]

Rental.

Never fear; you’ve time enough, I tell you—He stops short at the edge of the forest— His gamekeepers and pointers meet him there— He shoots home.

La Nippe.

What the Devil signifies that? the sportsmen of fashion shoot as fast as they travel. [Whistle without.] Zounds! there’s his whistle— If he finds me loitering here, he’ll vent more oaths in a minute than have been heard in this forest since its foundation.

Rashly.

Sir, you may step into Mr. Rashly’s house till he is gone by.

La Nippe.

I thank you, sir.

Rashly.

My brother here? farewell, Rental—

[Going.]

Rental.

Stay, sir, it is impossible he can have a suspicion of you—Let us see whether he tallies with this impudent fellow’s account—sift him bold­ly—I have a thousand thoughts for you.

Rashly.

If he answers the description I have heard, I shall never keep my temper.

Rental.

Perhaps so much the better—but he is alighting from his horse.

Contrast. [Without.]

Searchum, take up the dogs, one might as well beat for game in Hyde Park.

[Enters, attended with gamekeepers; a gun in one hand, and a silk parasol in the other.] The manors are poached to desolation, the sad­dles are gridirons, and the air is impregnated with scurf and freckle—In another half hour I shall be a Mulatto in grain, in spite of my parasol, by all that’s sultry—but, come, to business—

[Gives the gun to one of his attendants.] Searchum, get warrants immediately for seizing guns, nets, and snares, let every dog in the parish be collected for hanging to-morrow morning—give them a taste of Norfolk discipline—“Nothing like executions to  support government.”

Rashly.

I hope, young gentleman, you will be better advised than to proceed so rashly.

Contrast.

And pray, friend, who may you be, that are so forward with your hope?

Rashly.

A tenant upon this estate these sixteen years, where I have been used to see harmony between high and low established upon the best basis—protection, without pride, and respect, with­out servility.

Contrast.

Odd language for a farmer!—but in plain English it implies indulgence for arrears, and impunity for poaching. And you, sir, what may be your occupation?

Rental.

I have been long, sir, steward at Cas­tle Manor; your father’s goodness continues me so. I’m sorry, sir, you have had no sport -- but your gamekeepers are strangers—if this gentleman had been with you, he knows every haunt of the country.

Contrast.

Oh, I don’t doubt it; and is this gentleman qualified to carry a gun?

Rashly.

I always thought so, sir.

Contrast.

Where is your qualification?

Rashly.

In my birthright as a free man—Na­ture gave the birds of the air in common to us all; and I think it no crime to pursue them, when my heart tells me I am ready, if called upon, to exer­cise the same gun against the enemies of my king and country.

Contrast.

A period again! if it were not for his dress, I should take him for a strolling orator escaped from Soho—but to cut the dispute short —You, Mr. Steward, and you, Mr. Monitor of the forest, take notice that I require unconditional submission in my supremacy of the game.

Rental.

In what manner, sir?

Contrast.

The county gaol shall teach trans­gressors—thanks to my fellow sportsmen in the senate, we have as good a system of game-laws as can be found in the most gentleman-like country upon the continent.

Rashly.

By gentleman-like, I am afraid, young sir, you mean arbitrary—It is true we have such laws—modern and unnatural excrescences, which have grown and strengthened by insensible degrees, ’till they lie upon our statute-book like a wen upon a fair proportion’d body—a deformity fed by wholesome juices.—I hope, sir, we shall have your assistance to remove the evil.

Contrast.

Just the contrary. Though our system be excellent for the preservation of game, it still wants a little foreign enforcement—In France, the insignia of a Lord Paramount of the chase are gallowses with his arms upon every hill in his estate—they embellish a prospect better than the finest clump Brown ever planted. You look at me with surprise, old reformer of the groves.

Rushly.

I confess I do, sir! In days when I frequented the world, a high-bred town spark and a sportsman were the greatest opposites in nature —The beau and the 'squire were always -----

Contrast.

Oh, I begin to take you—your days —the rusticated remains of a ruined Temple Critic —a smatterer of high life from the scenes of Cib­ber, which remain upon his imagination, as they do upon the stage, forty years after the real cha­racters are lost. Thy ideas of a gentleman are as obsolete, old speculator, as the flaxen wig, and ‘stap my vitals.’

Rashly.

May I presume, sir, to ask what is the character that has succeeded?

Contrast.

Look at me --

[Turning rouud.

Rashly.

We were comparing, sir   

Contrast.

Coxcombs—never baulk the word— the first thing in which we differ from your days is, that we glory in our title, and I am the acknow­ledged chief. In all walks of life, it is true ambi­tion to be at the head of a class.

Rashly.

And may I ask, sir, if the class over which you so eminently preside is very numerous?

Contrast.

No, faith; and we diminish every day; the cockade predominates—the times have set nine tenths of our men of fashion upon being their own soldiers—I shou’d as soon have thought of being my own gunsmith.

Rashly.

But is it possible you can have been idle at such times?

Contrast.

Idle!—I never killed more birds any seven days in my life than in the precise week the French were off Plymouth.

Rashly.

Singular character!

Contrast.

Right for once, old Tramontane ----singularity is the secret of refined life. In the present day it connects the Nimrod and the man of taste—thus we hunt our pointers at full speed; our foxes at mid-day; crown the evening with French cookery, and wash down our fatigues with orgeat and icid lemonade.

[Enter La Nippe, running.]

La Nippe.

Sir, sir, ----apart un instant, monsieur—such an adventure! I have discovered such a girl! such a shape! such -----

Contrast. Bete! did you ever know me think of a woman in the country?

La Nippe. [Aside.}

No, nor much anywhere else.

[Takes him aside, and seems eagerly to press him.]

Rental. [Aside to Rashly]

I think I discover Monsieur La Nippe’s business—humour it, I be­seech you, sir, and ask Contrast in.

Rashly.

Sir, will you accept any refreshment my poor house affords?—I hope you take nothing ill I have said?

Contrast.

No, sir, I bear no malice, and I will drink your health in a bowl of milk and water.      

[Aside.] I’d not take the trouble of look­ing at his daughter, if it was not for the hope of being reveng’d of this old crusty de tristibus.

La Nippe. [Aside.]

I must get him into this intrigue, for my own sake with the maid, if not for his with the mistress.          [Exeunt.]

[Enter Trumore.]

Trumore.

How surely and involuntarily my feet bring me to this spot! Conscious scenes! Sophy! Dost thou remember them with my constancy?— Dost thou visit them with my sensibility?

Within this shade, beneath this bough,

We pass’d the tender mutual vow;

Recording loves were list’ning round,

And in soft echoes bless’d the sound.

Come, Sympathy, with aspect fair,

And, soaring Hope, that treads on air,

Smile on our truth, our cause befriend,

And sooth the passions that you blend!

Is it impossible to get a glance at her at a distance? If I could but do it unperceiv’d—

[Enter PEGGY.]

Peggy.

So, sir, do you think I did not spy you from the window, prowling like a fox about a hen-roost? but set your heart at rest, the pullet you are in search of will soon be upon a perch too high for your reach.

Trumore.

What do you mean?

Peggy.

Do you see that castle there? —Sir John Contrast’s great seat—mine are no castles in the air.

Trumore.

Well, what of that?

Peggy.

Well then, if you had my second sight, you wou’d see Sophy in a coach and six white horses driving in at the great gate.

Trumore.

What wou’d you lead my thoughts to!

Peggy.

Patience!—Reason!—Sir John’s son is paying his addresses within—Consult Sophy’s in­terest, and your own too in the end, and resign her.

Trumore.

Horror and distraction! you cannot be in earnest—would Sophia suffer even a look from a stranger without a repulse?

Peggy.

Time enough to repulse when strangers grow impertinent—meanwhile, why not be courted a little? There’s curiosity in it, only to see how many ways the creatures can find to please us.

Trumore.

These are your thoughts—but, So­phia—

Peggy.

Thinks like me, or she’s not a woman. Look ye, I hate to be ill-natur’d—but don’t fancy I’m your enemy, because I’m her friend; and de­pend upon it we all love to be tempted—some few to be sure for the pride of resisting, and that may be Sophy’s case—but ten for one think the plea­sure of yielding worth the chance of repentance. I won’t promise I am not one of the number.

All women are born to believe

In the sweets of the apple of Eve,

If it conies in my eye,

Tis in vain to deny;

I so much long to try,

I must bite though I die—

—Tis done!—and, oh He!

Lack, how silly was I!

Oh, the devilish apple of Eve!

[Exit.]

Trumore. [Alone.]

Tormenting woman! I can­not however but be alarmed, and shall watch your steps closely, young gentleman; yes, my Sophia, I will hover round thee like a watchful spirit— invisible, but anxious to prove thy truth, and, if necessary, to defend it.     

[Exit.]

SCENE II The Inside of Rashly’s House;

Contrast, La Nippe, Rashly, Sopily, Annette.

La Nippe. [Apart to Contrast.]

What do you think of her eyes?

Contrast.

Passable for a village.

La Nippe.

Her complexion! her skin! her delicacy!

Contrast.

Oh, perfectly delicate; .she looks like the diet of her nursery, extract of leveret and pheasant with egg.

Rashly.

Girls, you may retire when you please.

[As they are going off, enter Peggy with a guitar.]

Sophia.

Peggy, what are you doing?

Peggy [Aside]

Gad, but he shall see a "little more of her first.”—It’s only the guitar, madam!—It hung so loose upon the peg, I was afraid the kitten wou’d pull it off—

[Touches the string.]

Lord! it speaks of itself, I think—just as if it wanted—

Contrast. [Aside.]

Music too—a syren com­plete—I am to be tempted by all the enchantments of Calypso’s Grotto—a la bonheur, try your skill, my dear.

Sophia.

Officious girl, carry it back directly.

Contrast.

Oh, by no means, miss, pray favour us with a song.

Rashly.

Come, girls, don’t be ashamed of an innocent and pleasing talent—perhaps the warble of Nature may please Mr. Contrast, from its novelty.

Sophia.

Indeed, sir, I wish to be excused; upon my word, I am not able to sing    

Annette.

Dear sister, sing the song my father made upon a butterfly—I have laugh’d at the insect ever since.

[Sophia sings.]

Hence, reveller of tinsel wing,

Insipid, senseless, trifling thing;

Light spendthrift of thy single day,

Pert insignificance, away!

How joyless to thy touch or taste

Seems all the spring’s profuse repast;

Thy busy, restless, varied range

Can only pall the sense by change.

Contrast.

Bravo, miss; very well indeed    

Peggy. [As going off.]

Gad, I don’t know hrat to make of him; but all great men are of the family of the Whimsicals.

Contrast.

LaNippe, on to the castle; announce me to my father, and get things to cool—I am still hot enough to be page of the presence in the palace of Lucifer. [Horns without.]

What horns are those?

La Nippe. [Looking out.]

Your honour’s mas­ter of the hounds, and your whole limiting equi­page are arrived.

Contrast.

Have they the new liveries?

La Nippe.

They have—and for elegance they would shame the hunt at Fontainebleau.

Contrast.

Let them draw up before the door, I’ll see them as I pass.

[Exit La Nippe.]

One word at parting, friend Rashly.—Your daughters are not without attractions—nor you void of a certain sort of oddity that may be diverting; but your gun must be surrender’d, and from a phea­sant to a squirrel—chasse defendue—no pardon for poaching—and so good day, old Aesop in the shades.

[Exit.]

Rental.

I must follow—but I request you to take no steps till you see me again—give me but time to work in your favour!      

Rashly.

You are too sanguine—but I consent, upon condition that I do not see my father.

Rental.

As yet it is no part of my plan that you should.

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE III. The Outside of the House.

Enter Contrast, La Nifte, and Huntsmen.

La Nippe.

The huntsmen, sir, have been prac­tising a new chorus song; will you hear it?

Contrast.

A hunting song quite breaks my ears, it is a continued yell of horn and morn, wake the day and hark away—but they may begin; I shall hear enough as I walk off.

When the orient beam first pierces the dawn,

And printless yet glistens the dew on the lawn,

We rise to the call of the horn and the hound,

And Nature herself seems to live in the sound.

CHORUS.

Repeat it, quick Echo, the cry is begun,

The game is on foot, boys, we’ll hunt down the sun.

The Chase of old Britons was ever the care,

Their sinews it brac’d, ’twas the image of war.

Like theirs shall our vigour by exercise grow,

Till we turn our pursuit to our country’s foe.

CHORUS.

Repeat it, shrill Echo, the war is begun,

The foe is on foot, boys, we’ll light down the sun.

With spirits thus fir’d, to sleep were a shame,

Night only approaches to alter the game.

Diana’s bright crescent fair Venus shall grace,

And from a new goddess invite a new chase.

Chorus.

Be silent, fond Echo, the whisper’s begun,

The game is on foot, boys, we want not the sun.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II.

SCENE I. A Shrubbery.

[Enter Sophia and Annette, arm in arm.]

Sophia.

I confess, Annette, you are a very forward scholar in affairs of the heart: but would you really persuade me that the women in France scorn to be in love?

Annette.

Just the contrary. Love there is the passion of all ages. One learns to lisp it in the cradle; and they will trifle with it at the brink of the grave; but it is always the cherup of life, not the moping malady, as it is here.

Sophia.

And according to the notions of that fantastical people, how is the passion to be shewn?

Annette.

Oh! in a woman, by anything but confessing it.

Sophia.

Surely, Annette, you must now be wrong: insincerity and artifice may, for aught I know, be the vices of fine folks in courts and cities; but in the rural scenes, where you as well as myself have been bred, I am persuaded the tongue and the heart go together in all countries alike.

Annette.

So they may too: it would be wrong if the tongue told fibs of the heart; but what occasion for telling all the truth?—I wish you saw a girl in Provence as she trips down the mountain with a basket of grapes upon her head, aud all her swains about her, with a glance at one, and a nod at another, and a tap to a third—’till up rises the moon, and up strikes the tabor and pipe—away go the baskets—‘Adieu panniers, Vendage est faite!'—her heart dances faster than her feet, and she makes ten lads happy instead of one, by each thinking himself the favourite.

Sophia.

But the real favourite is not to be in suspense for ever?

Annette.

No, no; she solves the mystery at last, but in a lively key.—[“ A short French  song.”]

Sophia.

I admire your vivacity, Annette; but I dislike your maxims. For my part, I scorn even the shadow of deceit towards the man I love, and would sooner die than give him pain.

Annette.

So wou’d I too, dear sister—but why not bestow pleasures with a smile?

Sophia.

Giddy girl—you know not love.

Annette.

Oh! but you are mistaken—I under­stand sentiment perfectly, and could act it to admi­ration. I cou’d gaze at the moon, prattle to the even­ing breeze, and make a companion of a rose for hours together—“only I don’t like to prick my fingers with it”—a propos now; here’s a charming bush in full blow, and you shall hear me address it ex­actly in your character   

[Sings to a rose.]

Rest, beauteous flow’r, and bloom anew,

To court my passing love;

Glow in his eyes with brighter hue,

And all thy form improve.

And while thy balmy odours steal

To meet his equal breath,

Let thy soft blush for mine reveal

The imprinted kiss beneath.

Sophia.

Get you gone, you trifler—you’ll make me angry.

Annette.

Well, I’ll only stroll with you as far as yonder great tree, and leave you to kiss the rest of the roses to the same tune.   

[Exeunt.]

[Enter La Nippe, beckoning Contrast.]

La Nippe.

Yonder she is—and the young one going away—now’s the time—at her, sir.

Contrast.

It’s a damn’d vulgar business you’re drawing me into, La Nippe—I could never shew my face again if it were known I was guilty of the drudgery of getting a woman for myself.

La Nippe.

What do you mean, sir, that you never make love?

Contrast.

No, certainly, you blockhead—mo­dern epicures always buy it ready-made.

La Nippe.

Aye, and in town it is fitted to all purchasers, like a shoe in Cranburn-alley—but here-----

Contrast.

Is the scene of novelty and experiment—be it so for once—it is the sporting season—I’ll course this little puss myself.” But hold, she is turned, and coming this way.

[Exit La Nippe.]

[Enter Sophia.]

Sophia.

I did not recollect that these walks are no longer to be open for the neighbourhood— How simple was that girl not to remind me! If I should be seen, I may be thought impertinent— and alone too         

Contrast.

So, Miss Rashly, we meet as patly as if you had known my inclinations. .

Sophia. [Aside, and confused.]

He too, of all others!—I know it is an intrusion, sir, to be here —I was retiring.

[To him.]

Contrast.

It is the most lucky intrusion you ever made in your life.

Sophia. [Still confused.]

Permit me, sir, to pass?

Contrast.

Not till you hear your good fortune, my dear. You have attracted in one moment what hundreds of your sex have twinkled their eyes whole years for in vain—my notice. I will bring you into the world myself—your fortune’s made.

Sophia. [Confused and angrily.]

Sir, this sort of conversation is new to me, and I wish it to continue so.  

[Still endeavouring to pass.]

Contrast. [Examining her.]

Yes, she’ll do when she is well dress’d—one sees by her blush how rouge will become her—I shall soon teach her to smile—La belle gorge when adjusted in french stays      —

Sophia. [More angrily.]

Sir, though your lan­guage is incomprehensible, your manners are offensive—I insist upon passing.

Contrast.

Oh, fie, child—the first thing you do must be to correct that frown and this coyness —they have no more to do with thy figure than a red cloak or blue stockings—No, no, my girl, learn to look a man in the face, whatever he says to you—it is one of the first principles for high life; and high as the very pinnacle of female ambi­tion shall thine be—thou shalt drive four poneys with a postillion no bigger than a marmoset.

Sophia.

Insufferable!

Contrast.

You shall make your first appearance in my box at the opera—a place of enchantment you can have no notion of—‘ Have you seen Contrast’s Sultana?’ shall be the cry—‘ All the women in the town are Ethiops to her, or blind­ness confound me’—there’s the language to fix a woman’s reputation!—there’s the secret to make her adored—beauty!—it is not worth that, [Fil­lips his fingers] in comparison of fashion.

Sophia.

Sir, I have tried while I could to treat you with some degree of respect—you put it out of my power—resentment and contempt are the only—

Contrast.

Clarissa Harlow in her altitudes!— what circulating library has supplied you with language and action upon this occasion? or has your antiquated father instructed you, as he has me, in the mode of his days?—Things are reversed, my dear—when we fellows of superior class shew ourselves, the women throw themselves at us; and happy is she we deign to catch in our arms.

[Offers to take hold of her.]

Sophia. [Enraged; and at last bursting into a passion of tears.]

Unheard-of assurance! What do you see in me to encourage such insolence? Or is it the very baseness of your nature, that insults a woman because she has no protector?

[Breaks from him—at the instant]

[Enter Trumore.]

Trumore.

Protection is not so distant as you imagined—compose yourself, my Sophia—I have heard all—leave to me to settle the difference with this unworthy ruffian.

Contrast.

Way-laid, by all that’s desperate—a rustic bully—but I must submit, for I conclude he has a forest mob within call.

Trumore.

A mob to encounter thee!—a mob of fleas—of gnats—of pismires—a wasp would be a sure assassin.—But to be serious, sir—though the brutality of your behaviour calls for chastisement, the meanness of it places you beneath resent­ment.

Contrast.

How he assumes! because I know as little of a quarter-staff, as he of the weapons of a gentleman.

Trumore.

It would indeed be profanation of English oak to put it into such hands—thou outside without a heart—when the mind is nerveless, the figure of a man may be cudgelled with a nettle.

Sophia.

For heaven’s sake, Trumore, be not violent, you make me tremble—no further quarrel.

Trumore.

Another word, sir, and no more— could I suppose you a real sample of our fashionable youth, I should think my country indeed degraded—but it cannot be—away!—and tell your few fellows, if even few exist, that there is still spirit enough among common people to defend beauty and innocence; and when such as you dare affronts like these, it is not rank nor estate, nor even effeminacy, that shall save them.

Contrast.

Very sententious truly—quite Rashly’s flourish.—In Italy now I could have this fellow put under ground for a sequin—in this damned country, we can do nothing but despise him. Boxing was once genteel; but till the fashion returns, it would be as low to accept the challenge of a vulgar as to refuse it to an equal.

[Exit.]

Trumore.

How is my Sophia? happy, happy moment that brought me to your rescue!

Sophia.

If the thoughts you most wish I should entertain of my deliverer can repay you, trace them by your own heart, Trumore; they will harmonize with its tenderest emotions.

Trumore.

Oh, the rapture of my Sophia's pre­ference! thus let me pour forth my gratitude.

[Kneeling, and kissing her hand.]

[Enter Rashly.]

Rashly.

So, inconsiderate pair, is it thus you keep your engagements with me? Neither the duty of one, nor the word of honour of the other, I see, is a sanction—

Trumore.

Restrain your displeasure, sir, till you hear what has happened—no breach of pro­mise—

Rashly.

I have no leisure for excuses, nor for reproaches—fortune more than my resentment is against you. Sophy, my affairs will probably compel me to seek another and a distant home. Prepare yourself to set out with me at an hour’s warning.

Truniore.

What do 1 hear? Sir, part us not— I’1l be your slave to obtain her presence—let me but follow her—let me but enjoy the hopes of at last deserving her.

Sophia.

What have you not already deserved? —If we are to separate, here in a father’s presence I engage to you a faith that time and distance shall never change.

Trumore.

I accept in the same presence the sacred pledge, and will cherish the remembrance of it with a truth, which, like the brilliant ore, proves its purity by its trials.

Superior to this adverse hour

True Love, my fair, shall rise;

The turn of chance, the stroke of power,

A faithful heart defies.

A parent may this frame control

By his severe decree;

But thought, the essence of the soul,

Shall ne’er remove from thee.

Rashly.

Here then break off, and to time and distance leave the further test of your sincerity: at present I can flatter you with no other remedy. —Daughter, return to the house.—Trumore, you must not follow.

Trumore.

I submit; I have saved her from a ruffian—I resign her to a father—and angels assist to guard her!

Rashly.

Come, Sophia—the world is wide, and innocence an universal passport.

TRIO.

Thus when the wintry blasts are near,

The Stork collects her brood,

Trains their weak pinions high in air,

And points the longsonic road.

At length the final flight they try,

Farewell the parent nest,

They seek from fate a milder sky,

Attain it, and are blest.       

[Exeunt.]

[Enter Contrast and La Nippe meeting.]

Contrast. [After a pause.]

Get post-horses for the chaise directly.

La Nippe.

To carry her off, sir?—quick work —I thought how it would be when yon set yourself to it.

Contrast.

I wish you had been among the other curs 1 order’d to be hanged before you had put me upon the trace of her—find me a quick conveyance from this region of barbarism, or the spirit of the place shall be tried upon you—it will be no  'profanation of English oak' to cudgel yon.

La Nippe.

In the name of wonder, what has happened?

Contrast.

Happened! I have been nearly wor­ried by a cursed confounded two-legged mastiff. Where was you, sir, not to be within call?

La Nippe.

Just where I ought to be by the true rule of a valet de chambre’s office all the world over—trying the same game with the maid, I supposed you were trying with the mistress ----[Contrast looks angry.] but, all for your ho­nour’s interest, to make her your friend -----   

Contrast.

Rot her friendship ----I would not expose my nerves to a second encounter with this new piece of Piety in pattens, to secure all the rustic females from the Land’s End to the Orknies.

La Nippe.

You shall not need till she is brought to proper terms. Look ye, sir, Peggy the maid is a sly wench, why not make her a convenient one?—Commission me to pay her price, and she shall deliver this toy into your hands that’s love exactly in your own way, you know.

Contrast.

I would not give five pounds for her, if it were not for vengeance.

La Nippe.

Your vengeance need not stop there. The father, you know, by his own confession, is a poacher. I have enquired of Peggy if he has no enemies—he has but one it seems in the parish; but he is worth a hundred—an attorney—broken by Rashly’s faculty in deciding differences -- this fellow shall saddle him with as many actions for game in half an hour, as shall send him to gaol perhaps for the rest of his days.

Contrast.

Your plan is not unpromising, and you may try one of my rouleaus upon it.—If I could at the same time correct the dog of a lover, I believe I should grow cool again, and put off my journey for the accomplishment.

La Nippe.

It is not impossible ----what think you of a press gang?

Contrast.

Transcendent, if one could be found. The game-laws and the press-act ought always to go hand in hand—and, were they properly en­forced. the constitution might be more bearable to a man of fashion.

La Nippc.

I’ll about this business directly.

Contrast.

Content: meanwhile, I’ll give an airing to my inability upon the lawn. ----Hark ye, La Nippe, before you go, I think the summary of our projects is thus—the father to gaol; the lover to sea; my pointers, if you will, in Rashly’s cham­ber; and his daughter, in exchange, in mine.

La Nippe.

Exactly, sir.

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE II. Inside of Rashly’s House.

[Enter Rashly, and Sophia under his Arm, as continuing a Conversation.]

Rashly.

Besides these peculiarities of my circumstances, and many others which you are yet a stranger to, you must see an insurmountable reason for discontinuing an intercourse with Trumore ----the absence of his father ----it would be indelicate in you, as well as dishonourable in me, to proceed to a union unknown to him, and to which he may have the greatest objcctions.

Sophia.

Dear sir, there wanted no argument to convince me of your tenderness I am intirely at your disposal ----if a tear drops when I obey you, it is an involuntary tribute to my fortune, think it not repugnance to your will.

Rashly.

Be comforted, Sophia, with the reflec­tion, that I lament, and do not blame your attach­ment; you know I agree, both upon experience and principle, that the only basis for happiness in every station of life is disinterested love.

When first this humble roof 1 knew,

With various cares I strove;

My grain was scarce, my sheep were few,

My all of wealth was love.

By mutual toil our board was dress’d;

The stream our drink bestow’d;

But, when her lips the brim had press’d,

The cup with Nectar flow’d.

Content and Peace the dwelling shar’d,

No other guest came nigh,

In them was given, though gold was spar’d,

What gold could newer buy.

No value has a splendid lot

But as the means to prove,

That from the castle to the cot

The all of life was love.

[Enter Annette hastily.]

Annette.

Sir, Mr. Rental is coming into the gate, and with him a strange gentleman I never saw before ----an old man, and Rental is pulling off his hat and bowing; I wonder who he is.

Rashly. [With emotion.]

Sir John Contrast! how my heart throbs at his approach! [Aside] Girls, I have a reason to be concealed; you must not discover I was within ----- [Walks with his daughters to the top of the scene, as giving them direction, and exit—Sophia and Annette remain a little behind the last side-scene.

[Enter Sir John Contrast; Rental fol­lowing.

Sir John. I tell you, Rental, that last cottage shall come down, there is not a male creature about it -- nothing but girls with black eyes, and no industry -- but what sort of dwelling have we here?

Rental.

The seat of innocence, once the seat of more happiness than at present.

Sir John.

The seat of innocence! ----aye, to be sure, and these, I suppose, are the children of innocence that inhabit it.-----

[Perceiving Sophia and Annette, who come timidly forward.]

Sophia. What could my father mean by going away himself, and insisting we shou’d not decline an interview with Sir John Contrast and Rental? ----I have seen enough of the family already.

Annette.

Is that he? Lord! sister, don’t quake; he does not look so ungracious      

[They approach timidly.]

Sir John. [Examining them.]

Zounds! are all my farms over-run thus with evil-eyed wenches?

Rental.

Suspend your opinion, I beseech you, sir, and speak to the young women; the family is indeed worth your notice. ----[Aside.] Now, Na­ture and Fortune, work your way.

Sir John.

Young women, how may you earn your livelihood?

Sophia and Annette. [Embarrassed.]

Sir!

Sir John. [To Rental.]

They are too innocent, I see, to answer a plain question.

Rental.

You alarm them, sir; they are as timid as fawns. My young mistresses, it is Sir John Contrast speaks to you; in your father’s absence, he wants to enquire of you into the circumstances of your family.

Sir John.

What is your father, young woman?

Sophia.

The best of parents.

Sir John.

Not very rich, I imagine?

Sophia.

He is content.

Sir John.

What business does he follow?

Sophia.

He has a small farm of his own; he rents a larger upon this manor—he cultivates both.

Sir John.

You two are not of much service to him, I’m afraid?

Sophia.

Too little sir, ----his indulgence some­times prevents even our feeble attempts ----Mr. Rental knows it is his fault ----but I believe his only one.

Sir John.

What then is your employment?

Sophia.

I work at my needle for him; I read to him; I receive his instructions ----I once receiv’d them from a mother ----I repeat to him her precepts -- they often draw his tears; but he assures me they are pleasing.

Annette.

Yes, but I always stop them for all that — the moment his eyes moisten, I sing or chat­ter them dry.

Sir John.

This is past bearing, Rental ----the seat of innocence! ----it is the seat of witchcraft.

Rental.

Pure Nature, sir.

Sir John.

And what witchcraft’s so powerfid? Have not you learnt that it is a blessing when the sex takes to artifice and affectation? Were women to continue in person and in heart, as Nature forms her favourites among them, they would turn the heads of all mankind.

Rental.

Permit me, sir, to say you are the first that were ever angry at finding them undegenerated.

Sir John.

Have not I suffer’d by it? I lost a son by this sort of artless Nature before—my present Hopeful, it is true, is an exception; Na­ture wou’d stand a poor chance with him against a French heel, and a head as big as a bushel.

Rental.

I am glad, sir, you are easy upon that head.

Sir John. [To Annette.]

Aud so, my little gipsy, (for I find you talk gibberish) your prattle is always at your tongue’s end?

Annette.

Not always ----I can hold my tongue to people I don’t like.—I talk to divert my father —and would do the same now—if it could put you in a humour to be his friend.

Sophia.

Fie, Annette, you are very bold.

Annette.

Sister, I am sure the gentleman is not angry. I shou’d not have ventur’d to be so free, if he had not the very look, the sort of half-smil­ing gravity of papa, when he is pleas’d with me in his heart—and does not care directly to own it.

Sir John.

Wheedling jade!—but, may be, that’s another proof of woman in pure Nature.

Annette.

Indeed, sir, 1 mean no harm; and I am sure you have not thought I did, for sour frowns vanish like summer clouds, before one can well say they are formed.

So the chill mist, or falling shower,

O’erspreads the vernal scene;

And in the vapour of the hour

We lose the sweet serene.

But soon the bright meridian ray

Dispels the transient gloom;

Restores the promise of the day,

And shews a world in bloom.

Sir John.

This is past enduring.—Rental, take notice—the decree is past irrevocably as fate—no reply—this house and all that belongs to it—father, daughters, servants, to the very squirrels and lin­nets, shall ----

Rental.

Be laid low, sir?

Sir John.

Be secur’d! protected! raised!—It shall become the mansion of plenty and joy; and these girls shall pay the landlord in song and sentiment.

Rental.

I thank you in the name of their father. A man more worthy your favour does not live— and you only can save him from his enemies.

Sir John.

Who are they?

Rental.

He has one in particular, honourable and benevolent in his nature, but who vowed enmity to him in a fit of passion, and has obstinately adhered to it ever since.

Sir John.

Does he so? Gad, that’s no fool though! no weathercock!—and how did he de­serve this enmity? But that’s no matter with a man of the decision and wisdom you describe.

Rental.

You'll best decide upon the provocation when the effects of it are laid before you as an impartial judge.

Sir John.

I hate impartiality, and set out on this business upon a quite contrary principle.—Come forward, my little clients, give a kiss of partiality a piece—now I am feed your advocate for even— so come to the Castle in the evening; bring your father with you; let this obstinate dog appear if he dare—my obstinacy is now bound to defeat his, right or wrong—he shall give way, and he may look for an excuse to himself in the eyes of my little charmers.

Rental.

He is very positive.

Sir John.

He shall go to the stocks, if he is.— What, not yield when the interest of my darling is in question? By all that’s steady, I’ll build a new house of correction, and they shall keep the key.

Rental.

But be upon your guard, sir; he will be asserting his former resolutions.

Sir John.

Tell not me of his assertions,

Mine are laws of Medes and Persians;

Vain against them all endeavour,

Right or wrong they bind for ever.

Sophia.

Remember then a daughter’s prayer,

Receive a parent to your care;

Annette.

Frown on his foe’s obdurate plea,

But keep benignant smiles for me.

[Enter Peggy.]

Peggy.

When I see my betters hearty,

How I long to be a party!

Pardon me if I intrude, sir;

I’d be pleasant, but not rude, sir.

Sophia.   

Peggy, have done.

Annette. 

It is Sir Jolrn.

Peggy.

I’m sure he looks compliant.

Sop. and Ann.

From hence he goes,

To crush our foes.

Sir John.

As Jack did once the Giant.

Sophia.

Remember your clients with troubles beset.

Annette.

Remember Sophia, remember Annette.

Sir John. The cause of my clients I’ll never for­get,

The kiss of Sophia, the kiss of Annette.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I. Enter Peggy, and La Nipfe following and courting.

Peggy.

If you offer to be impudent again, you shall have it on both etus instead of one. I tell you I’m a married woman; is not that an answer?

La Nippe.

Yes, of encouragement, my dear— it seldom is an objection in the world I have inhabited.

Peggy.

The world is at a fine pass by your account—But these are some of your outlandish notions—they wou’d make fine cutting of throats among English husbands.

La Nippe. [Laughing.]

Cutting throats! Oh, my sweet Peg, how ignorant you are! I wish your husband was at home with all my heart—I'd shew you how to follow the example  of our betters—I wou’d dine with you both every day, and he should thank me for preserving the peace of his family.

[Puts his arm round her.]

Peggy. [Pushing him.]

Keep your distance, Mr. Assurance—If this be the new style of matri­mony, Heaven keep Sophia clear of it, I say.

La Nippe.

Oh, my dear, you need be in no pain about that. She is not in the least danger.

Peggy.

Why, did not you tell me your master was mad in love for her, and wou’d make my for­tune if I wou’d help him?

La Nippe.

Exactly! but what has that to do with marriage?

Peggy. [In surprise.]

What the deuce has it to do with else?

La Nippe.

Pleasure and profit. He’ll love her out of vanity, if she makes a figure as his mistress; he’d hate for her fashion’s sake, if she was his wife. Let us but get the couple well established in Lon­don—who knows but you and I may be exalted to be their toads.

Peggy.

Toads!

La Nippe.

One takes any name for a fortune, and this is become a fashionable one I assure you. In short, you will be the companion of her plea­sures; dress’d as well as herself; courted by every man who has a design upon her—and make a market of her every day. Oh, you’ll have quite the pull of me in employment.

Peggy.

Indeed!

La Nippe.

Yes, I shall change damnably for the worse in quitting the life of a valet for that of a companion. Follower to what he calls a man of fashion! zounds! I’d rather be a bailiff ’s follower by halt—if it was not for what may come after.

Peggy.

I have no longer any patience with the rogue’s impudence! [Aside.] So, having declar’d yourself a pimp—you wou’d make me a procuress, and Miss Sophy a -----

La Nippe. [Stopping her mouth.]

Hold your  tongue, you jade—and don’t give gross names to characters so much in fashion. Come, don’t be silly and angry now— I have dealt openly with you, knowing you to be a woman of sense and spirit—[Peggy seems angry.] Don’t be in a passion I tell you—here, my dear—here’s a gentle receipt for anger—here—did you ever see this sort of thing before?

[Takes a rouleau of guineas from his pocket.]

Peggy.

What is it?

La Nippe. [Measuring the rouleau on his finger.]

A rouleau! fifty guineas wrapt up in this small compass. One may know it by its make, it is from the first club in town—there it is, escaped from sharpers and creditors, to purchase beauty and kindness.

Peggy. [Aside.]

I could tear his eyes out —is there no way to be even with him?

La Nippe.

Aye, take a minute, my dear, to con­sider— I know but few of your sex wou’d require so much time.

Peggy. [To herself]

No means of fitting the rogue! Gad I have a thought—If I am not too much in a passion to dissemble—I am not much used to artifice—but they say it never fails a woman at a pinch. [Looking kindly.] Why to be sure, I was considering upon that little device— let’s feel, is it heavy?        

[Taking the money.]

La Nippe.

Oh! of great weight.

Peggy.

Law! not at all, I cou’d carry a hundred of them—but pray now tell me fairly what am I to do for it?

La Nippe.

Nothing but an office of good-na­ture—you are to put your mistress into my master’s hands—you women can do more with one another in this sort of business in a day, than a lover )at least such a one as ours) will do in a year.

Peggy.

Lord, how modest you are all at once —speak out—I am to seduce my mistress for -----

La Nippe.

Fie, what names you are giving things again!—you are to remose foolish prejudices; to open a friend’s eyes to their interest— zounds, child! it’s an office for a statesman.

Peggy.

Oh, that’s all

La Nippe.

Not quite all; you know there's a something that regards ourselves, but that goes of course in negociations of this sort.

Peggy.

Oh, does it?—and what do you call this pretty invention?

La Nippe.

An abridgment of polite arithmetic —a purse must be counted, which is troublesome; a note requires reading, which to some persons may be inconvenient—but the rouleau conveys fifty guineas to your pocket without a single chink, and takes up less room than a toothpick case.

Peggy.

This bewitches me, I think.

La Nippe.

Yes, my dear, its always reckon’d bewitching.

The rouleau is form’d with a magical twist,

To conquer caprice or displeasure:

If your object the offer of one should resist.

You have only to double the measure.

It finds to all places its way without eyes,

Without tongue it discourses most sweetly;

To beauty or conscience alike it applies,

And settles the business completely.

Peggy.

Well, who could have thought such a wonderful power,

In a compass so small could be hidden;

To sweeten at once the grapes that are sour,

And purchase e’en fruit that’s forbidden.

A magic so pleasant must surely be right,

Without scruple I pocket the evil,

I'll shew you the proper effect before night,

And leave you to account with the devil.

La Nippe.

Excellent! now you are a girl ex­actly after my own heart—where shall we meet?

Peggy.

Why you must know this is the; day of our wake; and Sir John gives a treat to all the tenants, so everybody will be busy, and so about an hour before sun-set come to the hayrick by the pool of the farm-yard.

La Nippe.

Oh, you jade, I shall have no pati­ence if you make me wait.

Peggy.

I’ll come whenever I am sure the coast is clear ----but in the meantime you shall find a harvest cag, with a sup of cordial to keep up your spirits; in the country we never make a bargain with dry lips.

La Nippe. [Side.]

What the devil. my dairy-maid drinks drams! ----she’ll be fit to cry milk in the streets of London ----I need not have paid so high if I had known that.

Peggy.

Be sure now to be punctual.

La Nippe.

And you to be complying.

Peggy.

Oh, as for that you know—‘ If your object your offer of one should resist,’ &c.

[Exeunt separately, she singing, he nodding.

SCENE II. Booths for a country Wake—a large one in the form of a tent—Recruits in diffe­rent coloured Cockades at work in fitting it up.

Captain Trepan.

Come, stir my lads—briskly, briskly—up with the rest of the advertisements we shall have the wake fill’d before we are ready.

[Enter Rental.]

Rental.

Hey-day! what have we hear? if you have any shew to exhibit, friend, you ought to ask leave before you erect your booth.

Trepan.

Ah, sir, the Lord of the Manor is too good a subject to obstruct my work.—[to the workmen] Bring forward the great butt there, place it in view by the drum and colours.

Rental.

By your dress son should belong to the army; pray, sir, what is your real business?

Trepan.

I am a manufacturer of honour and glory—vulgarly call'd a recruiting dealer ----or, more vulgarly still, a skin merchant. I come to a country wake as to a good market—a little pati­ence, and you shall see my practice—come, paste up more bills—and the devices—they are not half thick enough—where's the lion rampant, with a grenadier’s cap upon his bead?

First Workman.

Here, sir, here.

Trepan.

And the marine device?

Second Workman.

Here it is ----done to the life—the prize boarded; the decks running with arrack punch, and dammed up with gold dust.

Trepan.

Right, lad, place that next the lion. I don’t see the London tailor with his foot upon the neck of the French king.

Third Workman.

Here he is in all his glory.

Trepan.

Paste him upon the other flank of the lion ----so, so, pretty well ----what have you left for the corner?

Fourth Workman.

The East-Indies, Captain, a nabob in triumph, throwing rough diamonds to the young lifers to play at marbles.

Trepan. [To Rental.] 

Very well, very well— sir, how do you like my shop?

Rental.

Faith, sir, the construction seems to be as curious as your employment—I think you call’d yourself a skin merchant.

Trepan.

Mine, sir, is a new trade, but a neces­sary and a happy one, for it flourishes in propor­tion to the spirit of the nation—and if our rulers will but employ it properly—Captain Trepan shall furnish them for next year with twenty thousand new Alexanders at five pence a day.

Rental.

Well, Captain, as you have call’d your's a trade, will you oblige me so much as to explain how it is carried on?

Trepan.

Oh, with pleasure, sir! Suppose new regiments are to be raked—I am applied to— Captain Trepan—that’s my name, sir—How are skins now?—How many may you want?—Five hun­dred ----Why, your honour, answers I, those that are fit for all use, that bear fire, and wear well in all climates, cannot be afforded for less than ten pounds a-piece—we have an inferior sort that we sell by the hundred—I’ll take half and half, says my employer!—Your place of delivery?—Ply­mouth!—Agreed!—and they are on shipboard in a month.

Rental.

But, Captain, sure this business is sub­ject to frauds?

Trepan.

Yes, there are rogues in all trades— but my word is known. I never ran the same recruit through more than three regiments in my life —and that only when we have been hard pressed for a review.

Rental.

Very conscientious, upon my word.

Trepan.

Aye, and my conscience has made me —I export more goods than all the trade together. Let us but have a fair trial with our enemies in any part of the world—and then see if Captain Trepan’s skins don’t figure—but here, Sergeant Crimp, let the recruits fall in.

Rental. [Reading the bills.]

Very fine language, Captain—I see you are a great writer as well as an orator.

Trepan.

I cou’d not do without the talents of both, sir—next to gold and brandy, a glib tongue and a ready pen are the best implements in our trade—novelty in every line, you see “ —new clothes, new arms, new commanders, new -----

Rental.

There 1 doubt a little, whether novelty is so proper—would not old commanders be more encouraging?

Trepan.

No, it is not thought so—old commanders. like old wines, may be good to stick to; but the new sparkles and gets into the head, and presently make it fit to be run against "the wall”—See how my new Colonels stand over the old ones, with their names in capitals as tall as their spontoons.

Rental.

Arranged with a great deal of fancy indeed.

Trepan.

Aye, and meaning too—I can tell you —but do only look at my recruits—do but look at them          [Crimp gives the word March.] there’s stuff for all work—southern rangers, and northern hunters—low-landers and high-landers, and loyals and royals, and chasseurs and dasheurs —I suppose now you would like such a fellow as that.

[Pointing to a smart recruit.]

Rental.

It is a thousand pities he should be shot at.

Trepan.

Be in no apprehension, he’ll never die by powder.

Rental.

What do you mean?

Trepan.

Lord help you! how you might be im­posed upon—he’s my decoy-duck—mere shew goods for the shop-window—not an inch of wear and tear in the whole piece. The dog inherited desertion from his family. His brother was called Quicksilver Jack, he was hanged at last at Berlin, after having served six different princes in the same pair of shoes.

[Enter Trumore. Hastily.]

Trumore.

Which is the commander of the party?

Trepan.

Your pleasure, sir.

Trumore.

A musquet in a regiment upon foreign service.

Trepan.

And a handful of guineas to boot, my lad of mettle; this is something like a recruit.

Rental. [To Trumore]

What’s this—Trumore enlisting—can I believe my eyes?

Trumore.

Yes, and your heart too—which is always on the side of a well-meant action.

Rental.

What has driven yon to such an act of desperation?

Trumore.

Rashly quits the country—I am con­vinced his repugnance to my union with his daugh­ter is the cause. He is provident—I am undone— he is besides in immediate trouble—perhaps going to gaol upon informations for killing game—I must give him a proof of my respect and my friendship—as well as of my resignation.

Rental. [Aside.]

Generous youth! But I’ll let all things go on—if they do not unitedly work upon the old man’s heart, it must be adamant. Cap­tain, you'll see Sir John Contrast.

Trepan.

I shall attest my recruits before him, and this brave fellow at their head.

[Exit Rental.]

Trumore.

I shall be ready, but there is a condi­tion must first be complied with.

Trepan.

Name it.

Trumore.

Twenty guineas to make up a sum for an indispensable obligation—I scorn to take it as enlisting money—you shall be repaid.

Trepan.

You shall have it—anything more?

Trumore. Absence for half an hour—in that time depend upon’t I’ll meet you at the Castle. [Exit.]

[Enter Sergeant Crimp.]

Crimp. [To Trepan.]

Here’s a fine set of coun­try fellows getting round us, a march and a song might do well.

Trepan. [Aside.]

You are right!—[Aloud.] Come, my lads, we’ll give you a taste of a soldier’s life. Corporal Snap, give them the song our officers used to be so fond of; it will please their sweet­hearts as well as themselves—strike up drums.

[Corporal Snap sings.]

Gallant comrades of the blade,

Pay your vows to beauty;

Mars’s toils are best repaid

In the arms of beauty.

With the myrtle mix the vine,

Round the laurel let them twine;

Then to glory, love, and wine

Pay alternate duty.

CHORUS.

Gallant comrades, &c.

SCENE III. Enter Peggy, with an empiy Cay, laughing.

Peggy.

The rogue has drank it every drop; poppy water and cherry brandy together work delightfully—he'll sleep some hours in a charming ditch where I have had him convey’d—pleasant dreams to you, Monsieur La Nippe. What wou’d I give if I con’d requite your master as well.

[Enter Sergeant Crimp and Soldiers.]

Crimp.

My life on’t the dog’s oft—the moment Trepan told me of his pelaver, I suspected he was an old hand, with his voluntary service. and his honour, and his half hour. [Peggy.] Mistress, did you see a young fellow with a scarlet cockade in his hat pass this way?

Peggy.

Not I, indeed, friend; I was otherways employed.

Crimp.

Nay, don’t be cross; we are looking for a deserter; he is described as a likely young fellow. Come, if you can give me intelligence, you shall have half the reward for apprehending him.

Peggy.

Here’s another bribe; one may have them, I see, for betraying either sex. And what would you do with him?

Crimp.

Oh, no harm, as it is the first fault. We should put him in the black hole at present, just to give him the relish of bread and water; the party marches at midnight; he’ll be handcuffed upon the road; but as soon as he gets between decks in a transport, he’ll be perfectly at liberty again.

Peggy.

Gad whoever he is, if I could see him, I’d give him a hint of your intended kindness.— [Looking out.] Hey! who’s this coming? the hero of the plot, young Contrast. [Ruminates.] It would be special vengeance—a bold stroke, it's true, but a public justice to woman-kind— hang fear, I’ll do’t—hark ye, Mr. What-d’ye-call-’em, did you ever see the man you are in search of?

Crimp.

No, but I think I should know him.

Peggy. [Pointing.]

That’s your mark, I fancy.

Crimp.

Gad it must be so; but I don’t see his cockade.

Peggy.

I saw him pull it off, and throw it in the ditch as he came over yonder stile.

Crimp.

All! an old hand, as I suspected—meet me at the Castle, where we shall convict him— you shall have the reward.

Peggy.

To be sure, money does everything; but have some pity upon the young man—you won’t treat him worse Ilian what you told me?

Crimp.

No, no, get you gone, he’ll never know who did his business.

Peggy. [Archly.]

But don’t treat him hardly.

[Exit]

[Enter Contrast yawning; Crimp comes be­hind, and taps him upon the shoulder.]

Crimp. Well overtaken, brother soldier.

Contrast.

Friend, I conclude you are of this neighbourhood, by the happy familiarity that distinguishes it; but at present it is misapplied, you mistake me for some other.

Crimp.

Mistake you—no, no, your legs would discover you among a thousand—I never saw a fellow better set upon his pins.

Contrast. [Looking at his legs.]

Not so much out there.

Crimp.

But where have you been loitering so long? is your knapsack packed; have you taken leave of your sweetheart?—she must not go with you, I can tell you—we are allowed but four women a company for embarkation, and the officers have chosen them all already.

Contrast.

Sure there is some strange quality in this air—the people are not only impudent—but mad.

Crimp.

I shall find a way to bring you to your senses, sir; what did you pull the cockade out of your hat for, you dog?

Contrast.

What the devil can he mean?

Crimp.

Why, you rascal, you won’t deny that you are enlisted to embark immediately for the West-Indies? have not you touched twenty guineas for the legs you are so proud of?—pretty dearly bought.

Contrast.

Now its plain how well you know me —thy own gunpowder scorch me, if I’d lie in a tent two nights to be Captain General of the united Potentates of Europe.

Crimp.

The dog’s insolence outdoes the com­mon—but come, walk on quietly before me.

[Pushing him.]

Contrast.

Walk before you!

Crimp.

Oh, oh! mutinous too      

[Whistles.]

[Enter four or five Soldiers.]

First Soldier.

Here we are, Sergeant! what are your orders?

Crimp.

Lay hold of that fellow; he’s a deserter —a thief—and the sauciest dog in the army.— Have you no handcuffs?

[Enter Moll Flagon.—A Soldiers Coat over her Petticoat, a Giu-hottle by her Side, and a short Pipe in her Mouth.]

Moll.

No occasion for ’em, master Sergeant ----don’t be too hard upon the young man ----brandy be my poison but I like the looks of him—here, my heart take a whiff    

[Offers her pipe.'] What, not burn priming! come, load then.

[Gives him a glass of brandy.]

Contrast.

It is plain these are a set of murderers —no help! no relief!

Moll.

Relief, sirrah! you’re no sentry yet. Sergeant, give me charge of him ----Moll Flagon never fail’d when she answer’d for her man.

Crimp.

With all my heart, honest Moll!—and see what you can make of him.

Moll.

Never fear, I’ll make a soldier and a husband of him -- here, first of all—let’s see—what a damn’d hat he has got—here, change with him, Jack ----

[Puts a cap upon his head.]

Contrast.

Why, only hear me—I’m a man of fashion—

Moll.

Ha! ha! ha! I’ll fashion you presently. [Puts a knapsack upon him.] There, now you look something like -- and now let’s see what cash you have about you.

Contrast.

Very little—but you shall have it every farthing, if you’ll let me go.

Moll. Go, you jolly dog—ay, that you shall, through the world; you and I together I’ll stick to you through life, my son of sulphur.

Come, my soul,

Post the cole,

I must beg or borrow:

Fill the can,

You’re my man;

Tis all the same to-morrow.

Sing and quaff,

Dance and laugh,

A fig for care or sorrow:

Kiss and drink,

But never think;

Tis all the same to-morrow.

Contrast. Oh! I am a man of fashion.

[Exeunt, thrusting him off.]

[Enter Sophia and Annette, crossin"; the stage hastily; Trumore after them.]

Trumore.

Stop, Sophia.

Sophia.

Trumore, this is the only moment I could refuse listening to you. My father is, for aught I know, going to gaol.

Trumore.

Comfort yourself on his part -- I promise you his safety. I would not leave the county ’till I was certain of it. I now take leave of him—of you—and all that makes life dear.

Sophia.

Oh my fears! what means that ribband in your hat?

Trumore.

The ensign of honour, when worn upon true principles. A passion for our country is the only one that ought to have competition with virtuous love—when they unite in the heart our actions are inspiration.

From thine eyes imbibing fire,

I a conqueror mean to prove;

Or with brigliter fame expire,

For my country and my love:

But ambition’s promise over.

One from thee I still shall crave;

Light the turf my head shall cover,

With thy pity on inv grave.

Sophia.

Trumore, this is too much for me— heaven knows how little I am formed for the relish of ambition—these heroic notions, how often do they lead to the misery of ourselves!—of those we leave!—I claim no merit in my apprehensions —alas! they are too selfish.

Trumore.

I came to bid farewell in one short word; but the utterance fails me—Annette, speak for me; and when I am gone, comfort your sister.

Annette.

Indeed, Trumore, it will be out of my power—my notes will now be as melancholy as her own—to sooth her, I must sympathize with her in the alarms of absence and danger.

The sleepless bird from eve to morn

Renews her plaintive strain;

Presses her bosom to the thorn,

And courts th’ inspiring pain.

But, ah! how vain the skill of song,

To wake the vocal air;

With passion trembling on the tongue,

And in the heart despair!

[Enter Rental.]

Rental.

What is here! ----a concert of sorrow? Reserve your tears, my young mistresses, if your smiles will not do the business better, to work upon the old Baronet in the cause of your father ----he is going to be called before him ----let a parent owe his happiness to you in the first place; and may it be an omen for your lover being as fortunate in the next!

Trumore.

Rashly appearing before the justice! I have an interest and a business there before you —I fly to execute it ----then, Fortune, grant me one more look of her, and take me afterwards to thy direction!    

[Exit.]

Rental.

The moment is strangely critical to you all. Come on, young ladies, I have a story for you will surprise and encourage you.

Sophia.

We are guided by you—but what can we hope from our silly tears, opposed to the ma­lice of my father’s enemies?

Rental.

Every thing ----you know not half the interest you possess in the judge.  

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. A large Gothic Hall

Sir John Contrast, followed by Trepan.

Sir John.

I have attested the men, in com­pliance with your beating order ----but no more of your occupation—I’m not for purchasing hu­man flesh—give me the man (aye, and the woman too) that engages upon frank love and kindness, and so to other business.

[Enter Crimp, whispers Trepan.]

Trepan.

One word more, your worship. The Sergeant has just apprehended a deserter. I am sure your worship will be glad to have him con­victed—he is the worst of swindlers.

Sir John.

How do you make him out a swindler?

Trepan.

He borrows for shew the most valuable commodities in the nation, courage and fidelity; and so raises money upon property of which he does not possess an atom.

Sir John.

Does he so?—then bring him in ----I’d rather see one thief of the public punish’d, than an hundred private ones.

Crimp.

Here, Moll, produce your prisoners.

[Lugs in Contrast.]

Sir John.

What, in the name of sorcery, is this! my son in a soldier’s accoutrements!—I should not have been more surprised, if he had been metamorphosed into a fish.

Contrast.

I was in a fair way to be food for one—I should have been shark’s meat before I got half way to the West Indies.

Sir John.

Stark mad, by all that’s fantastical!— Can nobody tell me how he was seized?

Contrast.

Seized! why, by that ruffian, neck and heels; and for my accoutrements, you must ask this harpy, who assisted at my toilette.

Crimp.

A perfect innocent mistake, as I hope to be pardon’d, your worship—I was sent to seek a deserter—with the best legs in England—was it possible not to be deceived? but, thanks to For­tune, here’s a sure acquittal—this baggage put him into my hands as the very person.

[Enter Peggy.]

Peggy.

Only a little retaliation, your worship— a wolf was in full chase of an innocent lamb, that, to be sure, I had foolishly helped to expose to his paws—a trap offered to my hand, and I must own I did set it, and the wolf was caught, as you see. But, indeed, I was coming to your worship, to prevent all further harm. I meant honestly, and a little merrily I confess—I cannot be one without the other for my life.

Contrast.

Plague on you all! this mystery thickens, instead of clearing.

Trepan. It is clear, however, my party is out of the scrape—and as for the fellow really enlisted—

[Enter Trumore.]

Trumore.

He is here to fulfil all engagements.

Trepan.

Well said, my lad of truth; then my twenty guineas are alive again.

Trumore.

You shall see them employ’d; I would have mortgaged ten lives rather than have wanted them.—[To Sir John.] Mr. Rashly is charged with informations for killing game to the amount of forty pounds. By assistance of this gentleman I have made up the sum. The law is cruel to him; to me it is kind; it enables me to shew him the heart he perhaps has doubted. [Lays down the money.] He is free—and now, sir, I am your man, and will follow wherever the service of my country leads.         

[To Trepan.]

Rental. [Coming forward.]

Brave, generous fellow! I foresaw his intent, and would not have baulked it for a kingdom.

Sir John.

Oh, Rental, I am glad you are come; you find me in a wilderness here.

Rental.

A moment, sir, and I’m sure you’ll not mistake your path.

Peggy. [Opening the rouleau.]

The twist is magical, indeed, I think, for I can’t undo it— oh, there it is at last——

[Pours the money upon the table.] Put up yours again, Mr. Trumore ----poor fellow, you’ll want it in your new life.

Contrast.

One of my rouleaus! I have been robbed, I see, as well as kidnapped.

Sir John.

Hussy! how came you by all that money?

Peggy.

Perfectly honestly—I sold my mistress and myself for it—it is not necessary to deliver the goods, for his honour is provided with a mistress; [Pointing to Moll.] and my lover is about as well off.—Come, sir, never look so cross after your money—what fine gentleman would grudge to let an honest man out of gaol, when he can buy his daughter’s modesty into the bargain?

Sir John.

Rental, do you see into this?

Rental.

Clearly, sir, and it must end with re­conciling you to your son.

Sir John.

How! reconcile me to bribery and debauchery!—never—if the dog could succeed with a girl by his face, or his tongue, or his legs, or any thing that nature has given him, why there’s a sort of fair play that might palliate—but there is an unmanliness in vice without passion—death! insipidity is concerted into infamy—but where is this Rashly and his girls?

[Enter Rashly, between his Daughters; they throw themselves at Sir John’s feet—a long pause.]

Sir John, [In the greatest surprise.]

This Rashly! this the father of these girls! And do not his features deceive me?—who is it I see?

Rental.

The son I mean to reconcile—who offended upon principles the most opposite to those you just now condemned—the children of his offence—and thanks only to the inheritance of his virtues, that they are not become the punishment of his poverty.

Contrast.

My elder brother come to light!

Sir John.

Rise till I am sure I am awake—this is the confusion of a delirium.

Rental. [To Rashly.]

Why do not you speak, sir?

Rashly.

What form of words will become me? To say I repent, would be an injury to the dead and living. I have erred, but I have been happy —one duty I can plead; resignation to your will —so may I thrive in the decision of this anxious moment as I never taxed your justice.

Sir John. [After a pause.]

Rental, do you ex­pect I shall ever retract?

Rental.

No, sir, for I was witness to the solemnity of your vow, that you would protect the father of your little clients against all his enemies —right or wrong, they should yield.

Sir John.

Yes, but I little thought how very stubborn an old fellow I should have to deal with.

Rental.

Come forward, clients.

Sophia.

I am overcome with dread.

Sir John.

Come, I’ll make short work of it, as usual—so hear all—my decree is made.

Rental.

Now justice and nature!

Sophia.

Memory and tenderness!

Contrast. [Aside.]

Caprice and passion!

Sir John.

Decision and consistency!—I dis­carded one son for a marriage—I have brought up a second—not to marry—but to attempt to de­bauch his own niece. I’ll try what sort of vex­ation the other sex will produce—so listen, girls— take possession of this castle—it is yours—nay, I only keep my word—you remember how I pro­mised to treat the old obstinate your father was afraid of. This is the house of self-correction, and I give you the key.

Sophia and Annette. [Kneeling.]

Gratitude— love and joy -----    

Sir John.

Up, ye little charmers—your looks have asked my blessing this hour.

Rental.

And now for Trumore, to complete the happiness. Sir John, permit me your ear apart.

[Takes him, aside.]

Contrast.

So! the confusion of chances seems winding up to a miracle, and quite in my favour— the run of these last twelve hours exceeds all cal­culation, strike me pennyless—where is that dog, La Nippe?

[Enter La Nippe, covered with mud.

La Nippe.

Here he is, in a pleasant plight.  

Contrast.

Whence, in the devil’s name, comest thou?

La Nippe.

From the bottom of a black ditch —how I got there I know no more than the man in the moon—I waked, and found myself half smother’d in dirt, lying like King Log in the fable, with a congress of frogs on my back.

Peggy.

My dear, I hope you are satisfied with your bargain, I did my best to settle your busi­ness completely.

La Nippe.

Oh! thou witch of Endor.

[Peggy and La Nippe continue to act in dumb show.]

Sir John.

Another plot upon me, Rental—but does the young fellow say nothing himself for his pretensions?

Trumore.

I have none, sir—they aspired too high when directed to Sophy Rashly; they must cease for ever when I think of Miss Contrast.

John.

Now for the blood of me, I can’t see that distinction. Can you, Contrast?

[To Rashly.]

Rashly.

So far from it, sir, that I think the purity of his attachment to the poor farmer’s daughter, is the best recommendation to the for­tune of the heiress.

Sir John.

I confirm the decree—it is exactly my old way—I have not been apt to retract an action, but no man more ready to correct it by doing the reverse another time. I am now con­vinced mutual affection makes the only true equa­lity in marriage; and in my present humour (I don’t know how long ’twill last) I wish there was not a wedding in the nation formed upon any other interest—what say you, man of fashion?

[To young Contrast.]

Rashly.

Dear sir, don’t treat my brother’s foi­bles too severely. His zeal, to be eminent, only wants a right turn.

Sir John.

Let him find that turn, and he knows I have wherewithal to keep him from the incon­venience of a younger brother, though he loses Castle Manor.

Contrast.

I resign it, and all its appendages. And with all my faults, my brother shall find I am neither envious nor mercenery.—[To La Nippe.] Horses for town instantly; there is my true sphere —and if ever I am caught in a rural intrigue again, may I be tied to an old ram, like my pointers for sheep-biting, and butted into a consistence with the clay of this damned forest.

[Exit, La Nippe following.]

Sir John.

And now to return to my recruit—I promised he should be attested to-night—and so he shall to his bride—if afterwards his country demands his assistance—get him a commission, Sophy, and pray for a short end to the war—a prayer in which every good subject in the nation will join you.

Trumore.

Sir, you have given me a possession that makes all other treasures poor. Witness love and truth, how much I despise the temptation of ambition, when weighed against one hour of So­phia’s society. But these are times when service to the public is a tribute that justice and virtue indiscriminately impose upon private happiness. And the man who refuses, upon their call, a sacri­fice to the exigency of his country, ill deserves to be a sharer in her prosperity.

Rental.

Sir, the tenants from the wake, in eagerness of honest joy, press to be admitted.

Sir John.

Throw open the doors.

Rental.

I hope you will not see a countenance that does not express an interest in the events of Castle Manor.

SCENE V. Draws to an enlargement of the Hall.

[Enter Tenants etc.]

FINALE.

Rashly.

Partners of my toils and pleasures,

To this happy spot repair;

See how justly Fortune measures

Favours to the true and fair:

With chorusses gay

Proclaim holiday

In praise of’the Lord of the Manor;

And happy the song,

If it trains old and young

In the lessons of Castle Manor.

Sophia.

When a mutual inclination

Once a glowing spark betrays,

Try with tender emulation

Which shall lirst excite the blaze:

I plighted my troth

To a generous youth,

I found him at Castle Manor.

To one only be kind,

And leave fashion behind,

’Tis the lesson of Castle Manor.

Trumore.

Gallants, learn from Trumore’s story

To associate in the breast

Truth and honour, love and glory,

And to Fortune leave the rest.

My ambition was fame;

From beauty it came,

From beauty at Castle Manor:

’Tis an honour to arms

To be led by its charms,

Like the soldier of Castle Manor.

Peggy.

Brisk and free, but true to duty,

Sure I've play’d an honest part;

Would you purchase love and beauty,

Be the prize a faithful heart.

Should a knave full of gold

Think Peg’s to be sold,

Let him meet me at Castle Manor:

A bed in the mire

To cool his desire,

Is the lesson of Castle Manor.

Annette.

Though I trip in my expression,

Critics, lend a patient ear;

If coquetting be transgression,

Sisterhood, be not severe.

To love while we live,

And all faults to forgive,

Is the lesson of Castle Manor:

Be friends to our cause,

And make your applause

A new blessing at Castle Manor.