The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe HunchbackThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The HunchbackAuthor: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: October 1, 2002 [eBook #3480]Most recently updated: October 8, 2007Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUNCHBACK ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The HunchbackAuthor: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: October 1, 2002 [eBook #3480]Most recently updated: October 8, 2007Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition by David Price
Title: The Hunchback
Author: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry Morley
Author: James Sheridan Knowles
Editor: Henry Morley
Release date: October 1, 2002 [eBook #3480]Most recently updated: October 8, 2007
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUNCHBACK ***
Transcribed from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
byJAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES
CASSELL & COMPANY,Limited:london,paris,new york & melbourne.1887.
James Sheridan Knowles was born at Cork in 1784, and died at Torquay in December, 1862, at the age of 78. His father was a teacher of elocution, who compiled a dictionary, and who was related to the Sheridans. He moved to London when his son was eight years old, and there became acquainted with William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. The son, after his school education, obtained a commission in the army, but gave up everything for the stage, and made his first appearance at the Crow Street Theatre, in Dublin. He did not become a great actor, and when he took to writing plays he did not prove himself a great poet, but his skill in contriving situations through which a good actor can make his powers tell upon the public, won the heart of the great actor of his day, and as Macready’s own poet he rose to fame.
Before Macready had discovered him, Sheridan Knowles lived partly by teaching elocution at Belfast and Glasgow, partly by practice of elocution as an actor. In 1815 he produced at the Belfast Theatre his first play,Caius Gracchus. His next play,Virginiuswas produced at Glasgow with great success. Macready, who had, at the age of seventeen, begun his career as an actor at his father’s theatre in Birmingham, had, on Monday, October 5th, 1819, at the age of twenty-six, taken the Londoners by storm in the character of Richard III Covent Garden reopened its closed treasury. It was promptly followed by a success inCoriolanus, and Macready’s place was made. He was at once offered fifty pounds a night for appearing on one evening a week at Brighton. It was just after that turn in Macready’s fortunes that a friend at Glasgow recommended to him the part of Virginius in Sheridan Knowles’s play lately produced there. He agreed unwillingly to look at it, and says that in April, 1820, the parcel containing the MS. came as he was going out. He hesitated, then sat down to read it that he might get a wearisome job over. As he read, he says, “The freshness and simplicity of the dialogue fixed my attention; I read on and on, and was soon absorbed in the interest of the story and the passion of its scenes, till at its close I found myself in such a state of excitement that for a time I was undecided what step to take. Impulse was in the ascendant, and snatching up my pen I hurriedly wrote, as my agitated feelings prompted, a letter to the author, to me then a perfect stranger.” Bryan Procter (Barry Cornwall) read the play next day with Macready, and confirmed him in his admiration of it.
Macready at once got it accepted at the theatre, where nothing was spent on scenery, but there was a good cast, and the enthusiasm of Macready as stage manager for the occasion half affronted some of his seniors. On the 17th of May, 1820, about a month after it came into Macready’s hands,Virginiuswas produced at Covent Garden, where, says the actor in his “Reminiscences,” “the curtain fell amidst the most deafening applause of a highly-excited auditory.” Sheridan Knowles’s fame, therefore, was made, like that of his friend Macready, and the friendship between author and actor continued. Sheridan Knowles had a kindly simplicity of character, and the two qualities for which an actor most prizes a dramatist, skill in providing opportunities for acting that will tell, and readiness to make any changes that the actor asks for. The postscript to his first letter to Macready was, “Make any alterations you like in any part of the play, and I shall be obliged to you.” When he brought to the great actor his play ofWilliam Tell—Caius Gracchushad been produced in November, 1823—there were passages of writing in it that stopped the course of action, and, says Macready, “Knowles had less of the tenacity of authorship than most writers,” so that there was no difficulty about alterations, Macready having in a very high degree the tenacity of actorship. And so, in 1825,Tellbecame another of Macready’s best successes.
Sheridan Knowles continued to write for the stage until 1845, when he was drawn wholly from the theatre by a religious enthusiasm that caused him, in 1851, to essay the breaking of a lance with Cardinal Wiseman on the subject of Transubstantiation. Sir Robert Peel gave ease to his latter days by a pension of £200 a year from the Civil List, which he had honourably earned by a career as dramatist, in which he sought to appeal only to the higher sense of literature, and to draw enjoyment from the purest source. Of his plays time two comedies[1]here given are all that have kept their place upon the stage. As one of the most earnest dramatic writers of the present century he is entitled to a little corner in our memory. Worse work of the past has lasted longer than the plays of Sheridan Knowles are likely to last through the future.
H. M.
(AS ORIGINALLY PERFORMED AT COVENT GARDEN IN 1832.)
Julia
Miss F.Kemble.
Helen
MissTaylor.
Master Walter
Mr. J. S.Knowles.
Sir Thomas Clifford
Mr. C.Kemble.
Lord Tinsel
Mr.Wrench.
Master Wilford
Mr. J.Mason.
Modus
Mr.Abbott.
Master Heartwell
Mr.Evans.
Gaylove
Mr.Henry.
Fathom
Mr.Meadows.
Thomas
Mr.Barnes.
Stephen
Mr.Payne.
Williams
Mr.Irwin.
Simpson
Mr.Brady.
Waiter
Mr.Heath.
Holdwell
Mr.Bender.
Servants
Mr. J.Cooper.Mr.Lollett.
On one sideSir Thomas Clifford, at a table, with wine before him; on the other,Master Wilford,Gaylove,Holdwell, andSimpson, likewise taking wine.
Wilf. Your wine, sirs! your wine! You do not justice to mine host of the Three Tuns, nor credit to yourselves; I swear the beverage is good! It is as palatable poison as you will purchase within a mile round Ludgate! Drink, gentlemen; make free. You know I am a man of expectations; and hold my money as light as the purse in which I carry it.
Gay. We drink, Master Wilford. Not a man of us has been chased as yet.
Wilf. But you fill not fairly, sirs! Look at my measure! Wherefore a large glass, if not for a large draught? Fill, I pray you, else let us drink out of thimbles! This will never do for the friends of the nearest of kin to the wealthiest peer in Britain.
Gay. We give you joy, Master Wilford, of the prospect of advancement which has so unexpectedly opened to you.
Wilf. Unexpectedly indeed! But yesterday arrived the news that the Earl’s only son and heir had died; and to-day has the Earl himself been seized with a mortal illness. His dissolution is looked for hourly; and I, his cousin in only the third degree, known to him but to be unnoticed by him—a decayed gentleman’s son—glad of the title and revenues of a scrivener’s clerk—am the undoubted successor to his estates and coronet.
Gay. Have you been sent for?
Wilf. No; but I have certified to his agent, Master Walter, the Hunchback, my existence, and peculiar propinquity; and momentarily expect him here.
Gay. Lives there anyone that may dispute your claim—I mean vexatiously?
Wilf. Not a man, Master Gaylove. I am the sole remaining branch of the family tree.
Gay. Doubtless you look for much happiness from this change of fortune?
Wilf. A world! Three things have I an especial passion for. The finest hound, the finest horse, and the finest wife in the kingdom, Master Gaylove!
Gay. The finest wife?
Wilf. Yes, sir; I marry. Once the earldom comes into my line, I shall take measures to perpetuate its remaining there. I marry, sir! I do not say that I shall love. My heart has changed mistresses too often to settle down in one servitude now, sir. But fill, I pray you, friends. This, if I mistake not, is the day whence I shall date my new fortunes; and, for that reason, hither have I invited you, that, having been so long my boon companions, you shall be the first to congratulate me.
[Enter Waiter]
Waiter. You are wanted, Master Wilford.
Wilf. By whom?
Waiter. One Master Walter.
Wilf. His lordship’s agent! News, sirs! Show him in!
[Waiter goes out]
My heart’s a prophet, sirs—The Earl is dead.
[EnterMaster Walter]
Well, Master Walter. How accost you me?
Wal. As your impatience shows me you would have me.My Lord, the Earl of Rochdale!
Gay. Give you joy!
Hold. All happiness, my lord!
Simp. Long life and health unto your lordship!
Gay. Come!We’ll drink to his lordship’s health! ’Tis two o’clock,We’ll e’en carouse till midnight! Health, my lord!
Hold. My lord, much joy to you!
Simp. All good to your lordship!
Wal. Give something to the dead!
Gay. Give what?
Wal. Respect!He has made the living! First to him that’s gone,Say “Peace!”—and then with decency to revels!
Gay. What means the knave by revels?
Wal. Knave?
Gay. Ay, knave!
Wal. Go to! Thou’rt flushed with wine!
Gay. Thou sayest false!Though didst thou need a proof thou speakest true,I’d give thee one. Thou seest but one lord here,And I see two!
Wal. Reflect’st thou on my shape?Thou art a villain!
Gay. [Starting up.] Ha!
Wal. A coward, too!Draw!
[Drawing his sword.]
Gay. Only mark him! how he struts about!How laughs his straight sword at his noble back.
Wal. Does it? It cuffs thee for a liar then!
[StrikesGaylovewith his sword.]
Gay. A blow!
Wal. Another, lest you doubt the first!
Gay. His blood on his own head! I’m for you, sir!
[Draws.]
Clif. Hold, sir! This quarrel’s mine!
[Coming forward and drawing.]
Wal. No man shall fight for me, sir!
Clif. By your leave,Your patience, pray! My lord, for so I learnBehoves me to accost you—for your own sakeDraw off your friend!
Wal. Not till we have a bout, sir!
Clif. My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet!Ill greet it those who love you—greeting thusThe herald of it!
Wal. Sir, what’s that to you?Let go my sleeve!
Clif. My lord, if blood be shedOn the fair dawn of your prosperity,Look not to see the brightness of its day.’Twill be o’ercast throughout!
Gay. My lord, I’m struck!
Clif. You gave the first blow, and the hardest one!Look, sir; if swords you needs must measure, I’mYour mate, not he!
Wal. I’m mate for any man!
Clif. Draw off your friend, my lord, for your own sake!
Wilf. Come, Gaylove! let’s have another room.
Gay. With all my heart, since ’tis your lordship’s will.
Wilf. That’s right! Put up! Come, friends!
[Wilfordand Friends go out.]
Wal. I’ll follow him!Why do you hold me? ’Tis not courteous of you!Think’st thou I fear them? Fear! I rate them butAs dust! dross! offals! Let me at them!—Nay,Call you this kind? then kindness know I not;Nor do I thank you for’t! Let go, I say!
Clif. Nay, Master Walter, they’re not worth your wrath.
Wal. How know you me for Master Walter? ByMy hunchback, eh!—my stilts of legs and arms,The fashion more of ape’s than man’s? Aha!So you have heard them, too—their savage gibesAs I pass on,—“There goes my lord!” aha!God made me, sir, as well as them and you.’Sdeath! I demand of you, unhand me, sir!
Clif. There, sir, you’re free to follow them! Go forth,And I’ll go too: so on your wilfulnessShall fall whate’er of evil may ensue.Is’t fit you waste your choler on a burr?The nothings of the town; whose sport it isTo break their villain jests on worthy men,The graver still the fitter! Fie for shame!Regard what such would say? So would not I,No more than heed a cur.
Wal. You’re right, sir; right,For twenty crowns! So there’s my rapier up!You’ve done me a good turn against my will;Which, like a wayward child, whose pet is off,That made him restive under wholesome check,I now right humbly own, and thank you for.
Clif. No thanks, good Master Walter, owe you me!I’m glad to know you, sir.
Wal. I pray you, now,How did you learn my name? Guessed I not right?Was’t not my comely hunch that taught it you?
Clif. I own it.
Wal. Right, I know it; you tell truth. I like you for’t.
Clif. But when I heard it saidThat Master Walter was a worthy man,Whose word would pass on ’change soon as his bond;A liberal man—for schemes of public goodThat sets down tens, where others units write;A charitable man—the good he does,That’s told of, not the half; I never moreCould see the hunch on Master Walter’s back!
Wal. You would not flatter a poor citizen?
Clif. Indeed, I flatter not!
Wal. I like your face—A frank and honest one! Your frame’s well knit,Proportioned, shaped!
Clif. Good sir!
Wal. Your name is Clifford—Sir Thomas Clifford. Humph! You’re not the heirDirect to the fair baronetcy? HeThat was, was drowned abroad. Am I not right?Your cousin, was’t not?—so succeeded youTo rank and wealth, your birth ne’er promised you.
Clif. I see you know my history.
Wal. I do.You’re lucky who conjoin the benefitsOf penury and abundance; for I knowYour father was a man of slender means.You do not blush, I see. That’s right! Why should you?What merit to be dropped on fortune’s hill?The honour is to mount it. You’d have done it;For you were trained to knowledge, industry,Frugality, and honesty,—the sinewsThat surest help the climber to the top,And keep him there. I have a clerk, Sir Thomas,Once served your father; there’s the riddle for you.Humph! I may thank you for my life to-day.
Clif. I pray you say not so.
Wal. But I will say so!Because I think so, know so, feel so, sir!Your fortune, I have heard, I think, is ample!And doubtless you live up to’t?
Clif. ’Twas my rule,And is so still, to keep my outlay, sir,A span within my means.
Wal. A prudent rule!The turf is a seductive pastime!
Clif. Yes.
Wal. You keep a racing stud? You bet?
Clif. No, neither.’Twas still my father’s precept—“Better oweA yard of land to labour, than to chanceBe debtor for a rood!”
Wal. ’Twas a wise precept.You’ve a fair house—you’ll get a mistress for it?
Clif. In time!
Wal. In time! ’Tis time thy choice were made.Is’t not so yet? Or is thy lady loveThe newest still thou seest?
Clif. Nay, not so.I’d marry, Master Walter, but old use—For since the age of thirteen I have livedIn the world—has made me jealous of the thingThat flattered me with hope of profit. BargainsAnother would snap up, might be for me:Till I had turned and turned them! Speculations,That promised, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty,Ay, cent-per-cent. returns, I would not launch in,When others were afloat, and out at sea;Whereby I made small gains, but missed great losses.As ever, then, I looked before I leaped,So do I now.
Wal. Thou’rt all the better for it!Let’s see! Hand free—heart whole—well-favoured—so!Rich, titled! Let that pass!—kind, valiant, prudent—Sir Thomas, I can help thee to a wife,Hast thou the luck to win her!
Clif. Master Walter!You jest!
Wal. I do not jest. I like you! mark—I like you, and I like not everyone!I say a wife, sir, can I help you to,The pearly texture of whose dainty skinAlone were worth thy baronetcy! FormAnd feature has she, wherein move and glowThe charms, that in the marble, cold and still,Culled by the sculptor’s jealous skill and joinèd there,Inspire us! Sir, a maid, before whose feet,A duke—a duke might lay his coronet,To lift her to his state, and partner her!A fresh heart too!—a young fresh heart, sir; oneThat Cupid has not toyed with, and a warm one—Fresh, young, and warm! mark that! a mind to boot;Wit, sir; sense, taste;—a garden strictly tended—Where nought but what is costly flourishes!A consort for a king, sir! Thou shalt see her!
Clif. I thank you, Master Walter! As you speak,Methinks I see me at the altar-foot!Her hand fast locked in mine!—the ring put on!My wedding-bell rings merry in my ear;And round me throng glad tongues that give me joyTo be the bridegroom of so fair a bride!
Wal. What! sparks so thick? We’ll have a blaze anon!
Servant. [Entering.] The chariot’s at the door.
Wal. It waits in time!Sir Thomas, it shall bear thee to the bowerWhere dwells this fair—for she’s no city belle,But e’en a sylvan goddess!
Clif. Have with you!
Wal. You’ll bless the day you served the Hunchback, sir!
[They go out.]
[EnterJuliaandHelen.]
Helen. I like not, Julia, this your country life.I’m weary on’t!
Julia. Indeed? So am not I!I know no other; would no other know!
Helen. You would no other know! Would you not knowAnother relative?—another friend—Another house—another anything,Because the ones you have already please you?That’s poor content! Would you not be more rich,More wise, more fair? The song that last you learnedYou fancy well; and therefore shall you learnNo other song? Your virginal, ’tis true,Hath a sweet tone; but does it follow thence,You shall not have another virginal?You may, love, and a sweeter one; and soA sweeter life may find than this you lead!
Julia. I seek it not. Helen, I’m constancy!
Helen. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen,An owl, a bat,—where they are wont to lodgeThat still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters.Thou’rt constancy? I am glad I know thy name!The spider comes of the same family,That in his meshy fortress spends his life,Unless you pull it down and scare him from it.And so thou’rt constancy? Ar’t proud of that?I’ll warrant thee I’ll match thee with a snailFrom year to year that never leaves his house!Such constancy forsooth!—a constant grubThat houses ever in the self-same nutWhere he was born, till hunger drives him out,Or plunder breaketh through his castle wall!And so, in very deed, thou’rt constancy!
Julia. Helen, you know the adage of the tree;—I’ve ta’en the bend. This rural life of mine,Enjoined me by an unknown father’s will,I’ve led from infancy. Debarred from hopeOf change, I ne’er have sighed for change. The townTo me was like the moon, for any thoughtI e’er should visit it—nor was I schooledTo think it half so fair!
Helen. Not half so fair!The town’s the sun, and thou hast dwelt in nightE’er since thy birth, not to have seen the town!Their women there are queens, and kings their men;Their houses palaces!
Julia. And what of that?Have your town-palaces a hall like this?Couches so fragrant? walls so high-adorned?Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen,As these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens!See me a May-day queen, and talk of them!
Helen. Extremes are ever neighbours. ’Tis a stepFrom one to the other! Were thy constancyA reasonable thing—a little lessOf constancy—a woman’s constancy—I should not wonder wert thou ten years henceThe maid I know thee now; but, as it is,The odds are ten to one, that this day yearWill see our May-day queen a city one!
Julia. Never! I’m wedded to a country life:O, did you hear what Master Walter says!Nine times in ten the town’s a hollow thing,Where what things are is nought to what they show;Where merit’s name laughs merit’s self to scorn!Where friendship and esteem that ought to beThe tenants of men’s hearts, lodge in their looksAnd tongues alone. Where little virtue, withA costly keeper, passes for a heap;A heap for none that has a homely one!Where fashion makes the law—your umpire whichYou bow to, whether it has brains or not!Where Folly taketh off his cap and bells,To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest!Where to pass current you must seem the thing,The passive thing, that others think; and notYour simple, honest, independent self!
Helen. Ay: so says Master Walter. See I notWhat can you find in Master Walter, Julia,To be so fond of him!
Julia. He’s fond of me!I’ve known him since I was a child. E’en then,The week I thought a weary, heavy one,That brought not Master Walter. I had thoseAbout me then that made a fool of me,As children oft are fooled; but more I lovedGood Master Walter’s lesson than the playWith which they’d surfeit me. As I grew up,More frequent Master Walter came, and moreI loved to see him! I had tutors then,Men of great skill and learning—but not oneThat taught like Master Walter. What they’d show me,And I, dull as I was, but doubtful saw,—A word from Master Walter made as clearAs daylight! When my schooling days were o’er—That’s now good three years past—three years—I vowI’m twenty, Helen!—well, as I was saying,When I had done with school, and all were gone,Still Master Walter came! and still he comes,Summer or winter—frost or rain! I’ve seenThe snow upon a level with the hedge,Yet there was Master Walter!
Helen. Who comes here?A carriage, and a gay one—who alights?Pshaw! Only Master Walter! What see you,Which thus repairs the arch of the fair brow,A frown was like to spoil?—A gentleman!One of our town kings! Mark!—How say you now?Wouldst be a town queen, Julia? Which of us,I wonder, comes he for?
Julia. For neither of us;He’s Master Walter’s clerk, most like.
Helen. Most like!Mark him as he comes up the avenue;So looks a clerk! A clerk has such a gait!So does a clerk dress, Julia!—mind his hose—They’re very like a clerk’s! a diamond loopAnd button, note you, for his clerkship’s hat,—O, certainly a clerk! A velvet cloak,Jerkin of silk, and doublet of the same,—For all the world a clerk! See, Julia, see,How Master Walter bows, and yields him place,That he may first go in—a very clerk!I’ll learn of thee, love, when I’d know a clerk!
Julia. I wonder who he is!
Helen. Wouldst like to know?Wouldst for a fancy ride to town with him?I prophesy he comes to take thee thither!
Julia. He ne’er takes me to town! No, Helen, no!To town who will, a country life for me!
Helen. We’ll see!
[EnterFathom.]
Fath. You’re wanted, madam.
Julia. [Embarrassed.] Which of us?
Fath. You, madam.
Helen. Julia! what’s the matter? Nay,Mount not the rose so soon! He must not see itA month hence. ’Tis loves flower, which once she wears,The maid is all his own.
Julia. Go to!
Helen. Be sureHe comes to woo thee! He will bear thee hence;He’ll make thee change the country for the town.
Julia. I’m constancy. Name he the town to me,I’ll tell what I think on’t!
Helen. Then you guessHe comes a wooing?
Julia. I guess nought.
Helen. You do!At your grave words, your lips, more honest, smile,And show them to be traitors. Hie to him.
Julia. Hie thee to soberness.
[Goes out.]
Helen. Ay, will I, when,Thy bridemaid, I shall hie to church with thee.Well, Fathom, who is come?
Fath. I know not.
Helen. What! Didst thou not hear his name?
Fath. I did.
Helen. What is’t?
Fath. I noted not.
Helen. What hast thou ears for, then?
Fath. What good were it for me to mind his name?I do but what I must do. To do thatIs labour quite enough!
Wal. [Without.] What, Fathom!
Fath. Here.
Wal. [Entering.] Here, sirrah! Wherefore didst not come to me?
Fath. You did not bid me come.
Wal. I called thee.
Fath. Yes.And I said “Here;” and waited then to knowYour worship’s will with me.
Wal. We go to town.Thy mistress, thou, and all the house.
Fath. Well, sir?
Wal. Mak’st thou not ready then to go to town?Hence, knave, despatch!
[Fathomgoes out.]
Helen. Go we to town?
Wal. We do;’Tis now her father’s will she sees the town.
Helen. I’m glad on’t. Goes she to her father?
Wal. No:At the desire of thine she for a term shares roof with thee.
Helen. I’m very glad on’t.
Wal. What!You like her, then? I thought you would. ’Tis timeShe sees the town.
Helen. It has been time for thatThese six years.
Wal. By thy wisdom’s count. No doubtYou’ve told her what a precious place it is.
Helen. I have.
Wal. I even guessed as much. For thatI told thee of her; brought thee here to see her;And prayed thee to sojourn a space with her;That its fair space, from thy too fair report,Might strike a novice less—so less deceive her.I did not put thee under check.
Helen. ’Twas right,—Else had I broken loose, and run the wilder!So knows she not her father yet: that’s strange.I prithee how does mine?
Wal. Well—very well.News for thee.
Helen. What?
Wal. Thy cousin is in town.
Helen. My cousin Modus?
Wal. Much do I suspectThat cousin’s nearer to thy heart than blood.
Helen. Pshaw! Wed me to a musty library!Love him who nothing loves but Greek and Latin!But, Master Walter, you forget the mainSurpassing point of all! Who’s come with you?
Wal. Ay, that’s the question!
Helen. Is he soldier orCivilian? lord or gentleman? He’s rich,If that’s his chariot! Where is his estate?What brings it in? Six thousand pounds a year?Twelve thousand, may be! Is he bachelor,Or husband? Bachelor I’m sure he isComes he not hither wooing, Master Walter?Nay, prithee, answer me!
Wal. Who says thy sexAre curious? That they’re patient, I’ll be sworn;And reasonable—very reasonable—To look for twenty answers in a breath!Come, thou shalt be enlightened—but propoundThy questions one by one! Thou’rt far too aptA scholar! My ability to teachWill ne’er keep pace, I fear, with thine to learn.
[They go out.]
[EnterJulia, followed byClifford.]
Julia. No more! I pray you, sir, no more!
Clif. I love you!
Julia. You mock me, sir!
Clif. Then is there no such thingOn earth as reverence; honour filial, the fearOf kings, the awe of supreme heaven itself,Are only shows and sounds that stand for nothing.I love you!
Julia. You have known me scarce a minute!
Clif. Say but a moment, still I say I love you!Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth;Springs by the calendar; must wait for the sun—For rain;—matures by parts;—must take its timeTo stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It ownsA richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed!You look for it, and see it not; and lo!E’en while you look, the peerless flower is up.Consummate in the birth!
Julia. Is’t fear I feel?Why else should beat my heart? It can’t be fear!Something I needs must say. You’re from the town;How comes it, sir, you seek a country wife?Methinks ’twill tax his wit to answer that.
Clif. In joining contrasts lieth love’s delight.Complexion, stature, nature, mateth it,Not with their kinds, but with their opposites.Hence hands of snow in palms of russet lie;The form of Hercules affects the sylph’s;And breasts, that case the lion’s fear-proof heart,Find their meet lodge in arms where tremors dwell!Haply for this, on Afric’s swarthy neck,Hath Europe’s priceless pearl been seen to hang,That makes the orient poor! So with degrees,Rank passes by the circlet-graced brow,Upon the forehead, bare, of notelessnessTo print the nuptial kiss. As with degreesSo is’t with habits; therefore I, indeedA gallant of the town, the town forsake,To win a country wife.
Julia. His prompt replyMy backward challenge shames! Must I give o’er?I’ll try his wit again. Who marries meMust lead a country life.
Clif. The life I’d lead!But fools would fly from it; for O! ’tis sweet!It finds the heart out, be there one to find;And corners in’t where store of pleasures lodge,We never dreamed were there! It is to dwell’Mid smiles that are not neighbours to deceit;Music, whose melody is of the heart;And gifts, that are not made for interest,—Abundantly bestowed by Nature’s cheek,And voice, and hand! It is to live on life,And husband it! It is to constant scanThe handiwork of Heaven. It is to conIts mercy, bounty, wisdom, power! It isTo nearer see our God!
Julia. How like he talksTo Master Walter! Shall I give it o’er?Not yet. Thou wouldst not live one half a year!A quarter mightst thou for the noveltyOf fields and trees; but then it needs must beIn summer time, when they go dressed.
Clif. Not it!In any time—say winter! Fields and treesHave charms for me in very winter time.
Julia. But snow may clothe them then.
Clif. I like them fullAs well in snow!
Julia. You do?
Clif. I do.
Julia. But nightWill hide both snow and them, and that sets inEre afternoon is out. A heavy thing,A country fireside in a winter’s night,To one bred in the town,—where winter’s said,For sun of gaiety and sportiveness,To beggar shining summer.
Clif. I should likeA country winter’s night especially!
Julia. You’d sleep by the fire.
Clif. Not I; I’d talk to thee.
Julia. You’d tire of that!
Clif. I’d read to thee.
Julia. And that!
Clif. I’d talk to thee again.
Julia. And sooner tireThan first you did, and fall asleep at last.You’d never do to lead a country life.
Clif. You deal too harshly with me! Matchless maid,As loved instructor brightens dullest wit,Fear not to undertake the charge of me!A willing pupil kneels to thee, and laysHis title and his fortune at your feet.
Julia. His title and his fortune!
[EnterMaster WalterandHelen.—Julia, disconcerted, retires with the latter.—Cliffordrises.]
Wal. So, Sir Thomas!Aha! you husband time! Well, was I right?Is’t not the jewel that I told you ’twas?Wouldst thou not give thine eyes to wear it? Eh?It has an owner, though,—nay, start not,—oneThat may be bought to part with’t, and with whomI’ll stand thy friend—I will—I say, I will!A strange man, sir, and unaccountable:But I can humour him—will humour himFor thy sake, good Sir Thomas; for I like thee.Well, is’t a bargain? Come, thy hand upon it.A word or two with thee.
[They retire.JuliaandHelencome forward.]
Julia. Go up to town!
Helen. Have I not said it ten times o’er to thee?But if thou likest it not, protest against it.
Julia. Not if ’tis Master Walter’s will.
Helen. What then?Thou wouldst not break thy heart for Master Walter?
Julia. That follows not!
Helen. What follows not?
Julia. That IShould break my heart, because we go to town.
Helen. Indeed?—Oh, that’s another matter. Well,I’d e’en advise thee then to do his will;And, ever after, when I prophesy,Believe me, Julia!
[They retire.Master Waltercomes forward.]
[EnterFathom.]
Fath. So please you, sir, a letter,—a post-haste letter! The bearer on horseback, the horse in a foam—smoking like a boiler at the heat—be sure a posthaste letter!
Wal. Look to the horse and rider.
[Opens the letter and reads.]
What’s this? A testament addressed to me,Found in his lordship’s escritoire, and thenceDirected to be taken by no handBut mine. My presence instantly required.
[Sir Thomas,Julia, andHelencome forward.]
Come, my mistresses,You dine in town to-day. Your father’s will,It is, my Julia, that you see the world;And thou shalt see it in its best attire.Its gayest looks—its richest fineryIt shall put on for thee, that thou may’st judgeBetwixt it, and this rural life you’ve lived.Business of moment I’m but thus advised of,Touching the will of my late noble master,The Earl of Rochdale, recently deceased,Commands me for a time to leave thee there.Sir Thomas, hand her to the chariot. Nay,I tell thee true. We go indeed to town!
[They go out.]
[EnterFathomandThomas.]
Thos. Well, Fathom, is thy mistress up?
Fath. She is, Master Thomas, and breakfasted.
Thos. She stands it well! ’Twas five, you say, when she came home; and wants it now three-quarters of an hour of ten? Wait till her stock of country health is out.
Fath. ’Twill come to that, Master Thomas, before she lives another month in town! three, four, five six o’clock are now the hours she keeps. ’Twas otherwise with her in the country. There, my mistress used to rise what time she now lies down.
Thos. Why, yes; she’s changed since she came hither.
Fath. Changed, do you say, Master Thomas? Changed, forsooth! I know not the thing in which she is not changed, saving that she is still a woman. I tell thee there is no keeping pace with her moods. In the country she had none of them. When I brought what she asked for, it was “Thank you, Fathom,” and no more to do; but now, nothing contents her. Hark ye! were you a gentleman, Master Thomas,—for then you know you would be a different kind of man,—how many times would you have your coat altered?
Thos. Why, Master Fathom, as many times as it would take to make it fit me.
Fath. Good! But, supposing it fitted thee at the first?
Thos. Then would I have it altered not at all.
Fath. Good! Thou wouldst be a reasonable gentleman. Thou wouldst have a conscience. Now hark to a tale about my lady’s last gown. How many times, think you, took I it back to the sempstress?
Thos. Thrice, may be.
Fath. Thrice, may be! Twenty times, may be; and not a turn too many, for the truth on’t. Twenty times, on the oath of the sempstress. Now mark me—can you count?
Thos. After a fashion.
Fath. You have much to be thankful for, Master Thomas. You London serving-men have a world of things, which we in the country never dream of. Now mark:—Four times took I it back for the flounce; twice for the sleeves; three for the tucker—How many times in all is that?
Thos. Eight times to a fraction, Master Fathom.
Fath. What a master of figures you are! Eight times—now recollect that! And then found she fault with the trimmings. Now tell me, how many times took I back the gown for the trimmings?
Thos. Eight times more, perhaps!
Fath. Ten times to a certainty. How many times makes that?
Thos. Eighteen, Master Fathom, by the rule of addition.
Fath. And how many times more will make twenty?
Thee. Twice, by the same rule.
Fath. Thou hast worked with thy pencil and slate, Master Thomas! Well, ten times, as I said, took I back the gown for the trimmings; and was she content after all? I warrant you no, or my ears did not pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattern sempstress had not touched the gown, for nought had she done but botched it. Now what think you had the sempstress done to the gown?
Thos. To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress’s art.
Fath. The sempstress’s art! Thou hast hit it! Oh, the sweet sempstress! the excellent sempstress! Mistress of her scissors and needles, which are pointless and edgeless to her art! The sempstress had done nothing to the gown; yet raves and storms my mistress at her for having botched it in the making and mending; and orders her straight to make another one, which home the sempstress brings on Tuesday last.
Thos. And found thy fair mistress as many faults with that?
Fath. Not one! She finds it a very pattern of a gown! A well-sitting flounce! The sleeves a fit—the tucker a fit—the trimmings her fancy to a T—ha! ha! ha! and she praised the sempstress—ha! ha! ha! and she smiles at me, and I smile—ha! ha! ha! and the sempstress smiles—ha! ha! ha! Now, why did the sempstress smile?
Thos. That she had succeeded so well in her art.
Fath. Thou hast hit it again! The jade must have been born a sempstress! If ever I marry, she shall work for my wife. The gown was the same gown, and there was my mistress’s twentieth mood!
Thos. What think you will Master Walter say when he comes back? I fear he’ll hardly know his country maid again. Has she yet fixed her wedding-day?
Fath. She has, Master Thomas. I coaxed it from her maid. She marries, Monday week.
Thos. Comes not Master Walter back to-day?
Fath. Your master expects him. [A ringing.] Perhaps that’s he. I prithee go and open the door; do, Master Thomas, do; for proves it my master, he’ll surely question me.
Thos. And what should I do?
Fath. Answer him, Master Thomas, and make him none the wiser. He’ll go mad, when he learns how my lady flaunts it! Go! open the door, I prithee. Fifty things, Master Thomas, know you, for one thing that I know! You can turn and twist a matter into any other kind of matter; and then twist and turn it back again, if needs be; so much you servants of the town beat us of the country, Master Thomas. Open the door, now; do, Master Thomas, do!
[They go out.]
[EnterMaster HeartwellandMaster Waltermeeting.]
Heart. Good Master Walter, welcome back again!
Wal. I’m glad to see you, Master Heartwell!
Heart. How,I pray you, sped the mighty business whichSo sudden called you hence?
Wal. Weighty, indeed!What thou wouldst ne’er expect—wilt scarce believe!Long-hidden wrong, wondrously come to light,And great right done! But more of this anon.Now of my ward discourse! Likes she the town?How does she? Is she well? Canst match me herAmong your city maids?
Heart. Nor court ones neither!She far outstrips them all!
Wal. I knew she would.What else could follow in a maid so bred?A pure mind, Master Heartwell!—not a taintFrom intercourse with the distempered town;With which all contact was walled out, until,Matured in soundness, I could trust her to it,And sleep amidst infection!
Heart. Master Walter!
Wal. Well?
Heart. Tell me, prithee, which is likelierTo plough a sea in safety?—he that’s wontTo sail in it,—or he that by the chartIs master of its soundings, bearings,—knowsIs headlands, havens, currents—where ’tis bold,And where behoves to keep a good look-out.The one will swim, where sinks the other one?
Wal. The drift of this?
Heart. Do you not guess it?
Wal. Humph!
Heart. If you would train a maid to live in town,Breed her not in the country!
Wal. Say you so?And stands she not the test?
Heart. As snow stands fire!Your country maid has melted all away,And plays the city lady to the height;Her mornings gives to mercers, milliners,Shoemakers, jewellers, and haberdashers;Her noons, to calls; her afternoons, to dressing;Evenings, to plays and drums; and nights, to routs,Balls, masquerades! Sleep only ends the riot,Which waking still begins!
Wal. I’m all amaze!How bears Sir Thomas this?
Heart. Why, patiently;Though one can see with pain.
Wal. She loves him? Ha!That shrug is doubt! She’d ne’er consent to wed himUnless she loved him!—never! Her young fancyThe pleasures of the town—new things—have caught,Anon their hold will slacken; she’ll becomeHer former self again; to its old trainOf sober feelings will her heart return;And then she’ll give it wholly to the manHer virgin wishes chose!
Heart. Here comes Sir Thomas;And with him Master Modus.
Wal. Let them pass:I would not see him till I speak with her.
[They retire into one of the Arbours.]
[EnterCliffordandModus.]
Clif. A dreadful question is it, when we love,To ask if love’s returned! I did believeFair Julia’s heart was mine—I doubt it now!But once last night she danced with me, her hand,To this gallant and that engaged, as soonAs asked for? Maid that loved would scarce do this?Nor visit we together as we used,When first she came to town. She loves me lessThan once she did—or loves me not at all.
Mod. I’m little skilled, Sir Thomas, in the world:What mean you now to do?
Clif. Remonstrate with her;Come to an understanding, and, at once,If she repents her promise to be mine,Absolve her from it—and say farewell to her.
Mod. Lo, then, your opportunity—she comes—My cousin also:—her will I engage,Whilst you converse together.
Clif. Nay, not yet!My heart turns coward at the sight of her.Stay till it finds new courage! Let them pass.
[CliffordandModusretire into the other Arbour.]
[EnterJuliaandHelen.]
Helen. So, Monday week will say good morn to theeA maid, and bid good night a sober wife!
Julia. That Monday week, I trust, will never come,That brags to make a sober wife of me!
Helen. How changed you are, my Julia!
Julia. Change makes change.
Helen. Why wedd’st thou, then?
Julia. Because I promised him!
Helen. Thou lovest him?
Julia. Do I?
Helen. He’s a man to love!A right well-favoured man!
Julia. Your point’s well favoured.Where did you purchase it? In Gracechurch Street?
Helen. Pshaw! never mind my point, but talk of him.
Julia. I’d rather talk with thee about the lace.Where bought you it? In Gracechurch Street, Cheapside,Whitechapel, Little Britain? Can’t you sayWhere ’twas you bought the lace?
Helen. In Cheapside, then.And now, then, to Sir Thomas! He is justThe height I like a man.
Julia. Thy feather’s justThe height I like a feather! Mine’s too short!What shall I give thee in exchange for it?
Helen. What shall I give thee for a minute’s talkAbout Sir Thomas?
Julia. Why, thy feather.
Helen. Take it!
Clif. [Aside toModus.] What, likes she not to speak of me?
Helen. And nowLet’s talk about Sir Thomas—much I’m sureHe loves you.
Julia. Much I’m sure, he has a right!Those know I who would give their eyes to beSir Thomas, for my sake!
Helen. Such too, know I.But ’mong them none that can compare with him,Not one so graceful.
Julia. What a graceful setYour feather has!
Helen. Nay, give it back to me,Unless you pay me for’t.
Julia. What was’t to get?
Helen. A minute’s talk with thee about Sir Thomas.
Julia. Talk of his title, and his fortune then.
Clif. [Aside.] Indeed! I would not listen, yet I must!
Julia. An ample fortune, Helen—I shall beA happy wife! What routs, what balls, what masques,What gala-days!
Clif. [Aside.] For these she marries me!She’ll talk of these!
Julia. Think not, when I am wed,I’ll keep the house as owlet does her tower,Alone,—when every other bird’s on wing.I’ll use my palfrey, Helen; and my coach;My barge, too, for excursion on the Thames:What drives to Barnet, Hackney, Islington!What rides to Epping, Hounslow, and Blackheath!What sails to Greenwich, Woolwich, Fulham, Kew!I’ll set a pattern to your lady wives!
Clif. [Aside.] Ay, lady? Trust me, not at my expense.
Julia. And what a wardrobe! I’ll have change of suitsFor every day in the year! and sets for days!My morning dress, my noon dress, dinner dress,And evening dress! Then will I show you laceA foot deep, can I purchase; if not,I’ll specially bespeak it. Diamonds too!Not buckles, rings, and earrings only—butWhole necklaces and stomachers of gems!I’ll shine! be sure I will.
Clif. [Aside.] Then shine away;Who covets thee may wear thee;—I’m not he!
Julia. And then my title! Soon as I put onThe ring, I’m Lady Clifford. So I takePrecedence of plain mistress, were she e’enThe richest heiress in the land! At townOr country ball, you’ll see me take the lead,While wives that carry on their backs the wealthTo dower a princess, shall give place to me;—Will I not profit, think you, by my right?Be sure I will! marriage shall prove to meA never-ending pageant. Every dayShall show how I am spoused! I will be knownFor Lady Clifford all the city through,And fifty miles the country round about.Wife of Sir Thomas Clifford, baronet—Not perishable knight—who, when he makesA lady of me, doubtless must expectTo see me play the part of one.
Clif. [Coming forward.] Most true;But not the part which you design to play.
Julia. A listener, sir!
Clif. By chance, and not intent,Your speech was forced upon mine ear, that ne’erMore thankless duty to my heart discharged!Would for that heart it ne’er had known the senseWhich tells it ’tis a bankrupt, there, where mostIt coveted to be rich, and thought it was so!O Julia, is it you? Could I have setA coronet upon that stately brow,Where partial nature hath already boundA brighter circlet—radiant beauty’s own—I had been proud to see thee proud of it,So for the donor thou hadst ta’en the gift,Not for the gift ta’en him. Could I have pouredThe wealth of richest Croesus in thy lap,I had been blest to see thee scatter it,So I was still thy riches paramount!
Julia. Know you me, sir!
Clif. I do. On Monday weekWe were to wed—and are—so you’re content;The day that weds, wives you to be widowed. TakeThe privilege of my wife; be Lady Clifford!Outshine the title in the wearing on’t!My coffers, lands, all are at thy command;Wear all! but, for myself, she wears not me,Although the coveted of every eye,Who would not wear me for myself alone.
Julia. And do you carry it so proudly, sir?
Clif. Proudly, but still more sorrowfully, lady!I’ll lead thee to the church on Monday week.Till then, farewell and then, farewell for ever!O Julia, I have ventured for thy love,As the bold merchant, who, for only hopeOf some rich gain, all former gains will risk.Before I asked a portion of thy heart,I perilled all my own; and now, all’s lost!
[CliffordandModusgo out.]
Julia. Helen!
Helen. What ails you, sweet?
Julia. I cannot breathe—quick, loose my girdle, oh!
[Faints.]
[Master WalterandMaster Heartwellcome forward.]
Wal. Good Master Heartwell, help to take her in,Whilst I make after him! and look to her!Unlucky chance that took me out of town!
[They go out severally.]
[EnterCliffordandStephen, meeting.]
Ste. Letters, Sir Thomas.
Clif. Take them home again,I shall not read them now.
Ste. Your pardon, sir,But here is one directed strangely.
Clif. How?
Ste. “To Master Clifford, gentleman, now styledSir Thomas Clifford, baronet.”
Clif. Indeed!Whence comes that letter?
Ste. From abroad.
Clif. Which is it?
Ste. So please you, this, Sir Thomas.
Clif. Give it me.
Ste. That letter brings not news to wish him joy upon. If he was disturbed before, which I guessed by his looks he was, he is not more at ease now. His hand to his head! A most unwelcome letter! If it brings him news of disaster, fortune does not give him his deserts; for never waited servant upon a kinder master.
Clif. Stephen!
Ste. Sir Thomas!
Clif. From my door removeThe plate that bears my name.
Ste. The plate, Sir Thomas!
Clif. The plate—collect my servants and instruct themTo make out each their claims, unto the endOf their respective terms, and give them inTo my steward. Him and them apprise, good fellow,That I keep house no more. As you go home,Call at my coachmaker’s and bid him stopThe carriage I bespoke. The one I haveSend with my horses to the mart whereatSuch things are sold by auction. They’re for sale;Pack up my wardrobe, have my trunks conveyedTo the inn in the next street; and when that’s done,Go round my tradesmen and collect their bills,And bring them to me at the inn.
Ste. The inn!
Clif. Yes; I go home no more. Why, what’s the matter?What has fallen out to make your eyes fill up?You’ll get another place. I’ll certifyYou’re honest and industrious, and allThat a servant ought to be.
Ste. I see, Sir Thomas,Some great misfortune has befallen you?
Clif. No!I have health; I have strength; my reason, Stephen, andA heart that’s clear in truth, with trust in God.No great disaster can befall the manWho’s still possessed of these! Good fellow, leave me.What you would learn, and have a right to know,I would not tell you now. Good Stephen, hence!Mischance has fallen on me—but what of that?Mischance has fallen on many a better man.I prithee leave me. I grow sadder whileI see the eye with which you view my grief.’Sdeath, they will out! I would have been a man,Had you been less a kind and gentle one.Now, as you love me, leave me.
Ste. Never masterSo well deserved the love of him that served him.
[Stephengoes out.]
Clif. Misfortune liketh company; it seldomVisits its friends alone. Ha! Master Walter,And ruffled too. I’m in no mood for him.
[EnterMaster Walter.]
Wal. So, Sir—Sir Thomas Clifford! what with speedAnd choler—I do gasp for want of breath.
Clif. Well, Master Walter?
Wal. You’re a rash young man, sir;Strong-headed and wrong-headed, and I fear, sir,Not over delicate in that fine senseWhich men of honour pride themselves upon!
Clif. Well, Master Walter?
Wal. A young woman’s heart, sir,Is not a stone to carve a posy on!Which knows not what is writ on’t; which you may buy,Exchange, or sell, sir, keep or give away, sir:It is a richer—yet a poorer thing;Priceless to him that owns and prizes it;Worthless, when owned, not prized; which makes the manThat covets it, obtains it, and discards it—A fool, if not a villain, sir.
Clif. Well, sir?
Wal. You never loved my ward, sir!
Clif. The bright HeavensBear witness that I did!
Wal. The bright Heavens, sir,Bear not false witness. That you loved her notIs clear—for had you loved her, you’d have pluckedYour heart from out your breast, ere cast her from your heart!Old as I am, I know what passion is.It is the summer’s heat, sir, which in vainWe look for frost in. Ice, like you, sir, knowsBut little of such heat! We are wronged, sir, wronged!You wear a sword, and so do I.
Clif. Well, sir!
Wal. You know the use, sir, of a sword?
Clif. I do.To whip a knave, sir, or an honest man!A wise man or a fool—atone for wrong,Or double the amount on’t! Master Walter,Touching your ward, if wrong is done, I thinkOn my side lies the grievance. I would not say soDid I not think so. As for love—look, sir,That hand’s a widower’s, to its first mate swornTo clasp no second one. As for amends, sir,You’re free to get them from a man in whomYou’ve been forestalled by fortune, for the spiteWhich she has vented on him, if you stillEsteem him worth your anger. Please you readThat letter. Now, sir, judge if life is dearTo one so much a loser.
Wal. What, all gone!Thy cousin living they reported dead!
Clif. Title and land, sir, unto which add love!All gone, save life and honour, which, ere I’ll lose,I’ll let the other go.
Wal. We’re public here,And may be interrupted. Let us seekSome spot of privacy. Your letter, sir.
[Gives it back.]
Though fortune slights you, I’ll not slight you; notYour title or the lack of it I heed.Whether upon the score of love or hate,With you and you alone I settle, sir.We’ve gone too far. ’Twere folly now to partWithout a reckoning.
Clif. Just as you please.
Wal. You’ve doneA noble lady wrong.
Clif. That lady, sir,Has done me wrong.
Wal. Go to, thou art a boyFit to be trusted with a plaything, notA woman’s heart. Thou knowest not what it is!And that I’ll prove to thee, soon as we findConvenient place. Come on, sir! you shall getA lesson that shall serve you for the restOf your life. I’ll make you own her, sir, a pieceOf Nature’s handiwork, as costly, freeFrom bias, flaw, and fair, as ever yetHer cunning hand turned out. Come on, sir! come!
[They go out.]