THE MINIATURE PICTURE: A COMEDY.
PRICE ONE SHILLING AND SIX-PENCE.
THE MINIATURE PICTURE; A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS: PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE.
LONDON:
Printed for G. RILEY, Bookseller, at the
City Circulating Library,
St. Paul's-Church-Yard. M.DCC.LXXXI.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Mr. CAMPLY.
Mr. BELVIL.
Lord MACGRINNON.
JOHN, the Gardener.
ELIZA CAMPLY.
Miss LOVELESS.
Mrs. ARABELLA LOVELESS.
SUSAN, the Cookmaid.
Two Servants.
The
SCENES
are in Mr.
Camply
's and Miss
Loveless
's Houses in
Oxford.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THIS Comedy of Three Acts was originally written as a Farce in Two Acts, and never intended for the Public Theatres, nor the Public Eye.
The Author of it publishes it at the Request of several of her Friends, who saw it
mis
-represented on the Stage, at
Drury-lane;
as she chuses to submit Faults which are really her own, to the Judgment of the World, rather than be accused of those which she never committed.
PROLOGUE TO THE MINIATURE PICTURE,
WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN,
Esq
Spoken by Mr. KING.
CHILL'D by rude gales while yet reluctant May
With-holds the beauties of the vernal day;
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love;
The season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted pow'r:
Then blame not, Critics, if, thus late, we bring
A Winter's Drama—but reproach—the Spring.
What prudent Cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Hous'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark
Atchieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-Road, and dash thro' Grosvenorgate,
Anxious—and fearful too—his steed to show,
The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row:
Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly,
Wooes the stray glance of ladies passing by,
While his off-heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains,
Where white-rob'd misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted beaux—"how' do, how' do?"
With gen'rous questions that no answer wait,
"How vastly full! A'n't you come vastly late?
"Is'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town?
"A'n't you quite tir'd? Pray can we set you down?"
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
But if this plea's denied, in our excuse
Another still remains, you can't refuse;
It is a Lady writes—and hark—a Noble Muse!
But see a critic starting from his bench—
"A noble author"? Yes, Sir, but the Play's not
French
;
Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall;
For we, you know, must follow Fashion's call:
And true it is, things lately were
en traine
To woo the Gallic Muse at Drury-lane;
Not to import a troop of Foreign elves,
But treat you with French Actors—in ourselves:
A Friend we had, who vow'd he'd make us speak
Pure flippant French
—by contract—in a week,
Told us 'twas time to study what was good,
Polish, and leave off being understood;
That crouded audiences we thus might bring
To Monsieur Parsons and Chevalier King:
Or should the Vulgars grumble now and then,
The Prompter might translate—for Country Gentlemen.
Straight all subscrib'd—Kings, Gods, Mutes, Singer, Actor—
A Flanders Figure-dancer our Contractor.
But here I grieve to own, tho't be to you,
He acted—e'en as most Contractors do,
Sold what he never dealt in, and th' amount
Being first discharg'd, submitted his account:
And what th' event? their industry was such,
Dodd
spoke good Flemish,
Bannister
bad Dutch;
Then the rogue told us, with insulting ease,
So it was Foreign it was sure to please:
Beaux, Witsapplaud, as Fashion should commend,
And Misses laugh—to seem to understand—
So from each clime our soil may something gain;
Manhood from Rome, and sprightliness from Spain;
Some
Russian Roscius
next delight the age,
And a
Dutch Heinel
skate along the stage.
Exotic fopperies, hail! whose flatt'ring smile
Supplants the Sterner Virtues of our Isle!
Thus while with Chinese firs, and Indian pines,
Our nurs'ries swarm, the British Oak declines:
Yet vain our Muse's fear—no Foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our cause:
While you too judge, whose smiles are honours higher,
Than verse should gain, but where those eyes inspire.
But if the men presume your pow'r to awe,
Retort their churlish Senatorial law:
This is your House—and move—the gentlemen withdraw:
Then they may vote, with envy never ceasing,
Your Influence has encreas'd and is encreasing.
But there, I trust, the resolution's finish'd;
Sure none will say—
It ought to be diminish'd.
EPILOGUE
Written by Mr. JEKYLL.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.
THE men, like tyrants of the Turkish kind,
Have long our sex's energy confin'd;
In full-dress black, and bows, and solemn stalk,
Have long monopoliz'd the Prologue's walk;
But still the flippant Epilogue was our's.
It ask'd, for gay support, the female powr's;
It ask'd a flirting air, coquet and free,
And so to murder it, they fix'd 'on me.'
Much they mistake my talents—I was born
To tell, in sobs and sighs, some tale forlorn;
To wet my handkerchief with Juliet's woes,
Or tune to Shore's despair my 'tragic nose.'
Yes, Gentlemen, in education's spite,
You still shall find that we can read and write;
Like you can swell a debt or a debate.
Can quit the card-table to steer the State,
And bid our Belle-Assemblee's Rhet'ric flow,
To drown your dull declaimers at Soho!
Methinks, e'en now, I hear my sex's tongues,
The sweet, smart melody of female lungs!
The storm of Question, the Division calm,
With "hear her! hear her; Mrs. Speaker, Ma'am!
"Oh Order! Order! Kates and Susans rise,
And Marg'ret moves, and Tabitha replies.
Look to the Camp—Coxheath and Warley Common,
Supplied, at least, for ev'ry tent a woman;
The cartridge paper wrapt the billet-doux,
The rear and picquet form'd the rendezvous;
The drum's stern rattle shook the nuptial bed,d
The knapsack pillow'd 'Lady Sturgeon's' hea;
Love was the watch-word, till the morning fife
Rous'd the tame Major and his warlike wife.
Look to the Stage—to-night's example draws
A female dramatist to grace the cause—
So fade the triumphs of presumptuous man!
And would you, Ladies, but complete my plan,
Here should ye sign some patriot petition,
To mend our constitutional condition.
The men invade our rights; the mimic elves
'Lisp and nick-name God's creatures,' like ourselves;
Rouge more than we do, simper, flounce, and fret,
And they 'coquet, good Gods, how they coquet!
They too are coy, and monstrous to relate,
Their's is the coyness in a 'tête a tête.'
Yes, Ladies, yes, "I could a tale unfold,'
'Wou'd harrow up your'—cushions, were it told;
Part 'your combined curls, and freeze' pomatum
At griefs and grievances, as I could state 'em.
But 'such eternal blazon must not' speak;
Besides, the house adjourns some day next week.
This fair 'Committee' shall detail the rest.
Then let the monsters, if they dare, 'Protest.'
THE MINIATURE PICTURE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Mr.
Camply
's Study.
Mr.
Camply
writing, Servant knocks at the Door.
COME in.
Enter Servant.
Sir, here is a young gentleman come to wait upon you; says his Name is Revel, I think.
Revel
(lays down his pen, and rises)
Revel, ha! Sir Harry Revel perhaps; desire him to walk in.
(exit servant)
I have not seen him since he was ten years old: his father was the worthiest of men; and I must return some of the attention he bestowed on me to his son.
[
Enter
Eliza Camply
dressed in a baronet's gown and cap; bows affectedly several times, then salutes her brother à la Françoise; puts her cap up to her mouth to hide her laughing, and pretends to cough.
]
Sir Harry Revel, I believe; I did not know that you were come to the university, or I should certainly have waited upon you first; but you will easily dispense with ceremony, for as you have been partly educated abroad, the formalities of an English college must appear rather strange to you.
Yes faith, strange enough, and all the old fogrums with their faces as starch'd and as prim as their bands—why we all move by clock-work; au pied de la lettre, indeed, my good sir; for the clock directs all our motions.
I fancy my good cousin is a great puppy.
(Aside)
The melancholy event of your good father's death must make every place appear dull to you, Sir Harry; but I hope a change of scene, and the attentions of your family—
Family attentions and family affairs are equally my aversion, cousin—and really the queer fancy of my father's ordering me to Oxford in his will, after I had been for three years at an academy in France, is such an out-of-the-way thing, that I am half comforted for his death by it already.
Indeed, Sir Harry!
Besides, cousin, ten thousand a year, a title, and a pretty wife, are comforts that—
Are you married, Sir Harry?
O no, not yet, but I shall be in a short time. A-propos, as I must soon leave this country for a little time, while I go to see the old mansion, I must beg you will give me two or three franks for my intended—
Does she inhabit this country then, Sir? What a giddy mortal!
(Aside)
[Eliza
going up to one side of the table, lays down the franks, sits down; her brother goes and fits in the chair he first rose from on the other.
]
Yes, Sir; only Miss Loveless; you know—here—
Loveless! Miss Loveless!
[Embarrassed, takes up and lays down a pen.
Yes, cousin—What makes you stare so? Because the lady has had sense enough to refuse all the squires of Oxfordshire, is that any reason why she should not accept of me?
A vain wretch!
(aside, and affects a laugh.)
Oh, no—no—no, I give you joy, Sir Harry; I think you are well fitted to each other But are you sure, Sir, it is the same Miss Loveless I mean?
I cannot possibly guess what Miss Loveless may run in your head, but I mean the great heiress, Miss Loveless, who lives here in Oxford.
Indeed!
Indeed; and what of that?
[Takes snuff affectedly.
[Affects to laugh.
O nothing at all; nothing at all.
[Flings herself back in her chair laughing.
Ha, ha, ha! my dear brother, ha, ha! I shall die, ha, ha! I shall die at your poor disconcerted visage; ha, ha!
[Rises and goes up to her.
My sister, as I hope to live! why, my dear Bess, what whim now? When we parted at breakfast your eyes were red, and your spirits were gone; I thought at dinner to have seen you the same sighing melancholy creature, and here you are all life and spirits, and in breeches too. What does all this mean? explain, explain, my little Oxonian.
[
They come forward,
Eliza
leaning on his shoulder.
Not all life and spirits neither, my dear brother; you know I have not seen Belvil this week—we have quarrelled.
I suspected as much, but I would not ask. Pray what could you quarrel about? You told me you had given him your picture, and that he intended to make a demand in form to me.
All this was true; but for all this I have not seen him this week—heigh ho! and I really fear I shall never see him as my lover again.
How! then you really love him, my poor Bess?
My dear brother, indeed I do; it is that, and your being in love too, that has made me put on this dress.
Me! you dream; I in love? I? ridiculous! what could make you take that into your head?
[Shaking her head.
O my good Sir, all your coldness and indifference cannot impose upon me; that animal, that Belvil, has taught my heart to read into the hearts of others.
Well, and what knowledge do you get from mine!
Why I have read that you are deeply, aye, deeply in love with that weathercock, Flirtilla Loveless.
Poh, poh; nonsense.
Very good sense, for it is true.
Supposing it is true, what is that to your quarrel with Belvil?
Why, this dress shall reconcile me to him, that is, if he deserves it, and make Miss Loveless fling herself at your head, or at your feet, or—
Into the river sooner. I really do not understand you.
You know she has flirted with, and refus'd half the country; the only two persons who have not sacrificed their time or inclinations to her coquetry are you and Belvil. Now I think she likes you.
O that is quite impossible—for I never speak to her.
So much the better; nothing piques a coquet like your obstinate silence. Brother, pray let me ask you one question; if you do not feel afraid of her, why should you not speak to her?
Why, why—poh, what a question. I'll tell you, Betsy; I like her too well to permit her to exercise her power over me; she is so handsome, and so capricious, that she would pretend to like me for one day, send me to the devil the next, and laugh at me for loving her all the rest of her life.
I have not visited her these six years, because I saw you avoided her; but her repeated refusals convince me she likes some one, and that you are that one, her blushes, whenever you are named, sufficiently explain.
That may be pride hurt—
Aye, aye, pride to be sure.
Well, but Belvil and you—I am all impatience.
He said—it was yesterday se'en night he said—Miss Loveless was prodigiously handsome and very agreeable. Why no, quoth your foolish sister; no, quoth that creature—No; she is very witty. I observed that she was a great flirt, and that if I married him he should never speak to her. He said, that was very silly. I grew angry, he laugh'd me into a passion, and my passion sent him out of the house.
This was all foolish enough, and then you were sorry—hey.
(Eliza
sighs.)
Did he take your picture with him?
O yes, he had it hung about his neck; but that is not the worst part of the story: I find he has been ever since with Miss Loveless; six days with that odious flirtilla. Now, as I could deceive you, I am certain of improving upon them; as Sir Harry Revel then will I go there, make violent love to her, rout Belvil, humble her vanity, and when I have deprived her of her whole train of admirers, and her airs, I will offer you as a—
Heyday, sister, not so fast; when it is time I can offer myself; but I do not approve of your going unless the aunt is in the plot.
I have wrote to her, she disapproves much of her niece's conduct, and is very glad to enter into any scheme that is likely to alter it. Come, do not look so grave—wish me success, and Belvil true.
(Going, returns.)
Pray contrive to make Belvil believe I am gone to London, if he should call.
I will.
(
Exit
Eliza.)
I wish her success indeed; if she can get the better of that intolerable spirit of coquetry and love of admiration that so entirely possesses Miss Loveless, I shall fling myself at her feet, and think myself too happy to secure her peace of mind and honour for ever.
[
Is going, but is met by
Eliza.
Brother, here is Mrs. Arabella Loveless, but lord Mackgrinnon is with her, therefore pray contrive to call him out of the way.
I will.
[
Servant announces Mrs.
Arabella
and lord
Macgrinnon.
Give me leave to present my cousin, Sir Harry Revel, to you: and, my lord, I must beg the favour of you, as you have been some time at Oxford, to introduce him to your societies.
[
Mr.
Camply
and Mrs.
Arabella
talk apart.
I shall be very happy to make him acquainted with some of the most learned and discreet gentlemen of the different colleges, particularly with my worthy friends at Baliol: he'll meet with good cheer, as well as with cheerful and witty people, and aw for nothing, for I am at home wherever I go.
That I dare say.
(Camply
pulls her by the elbow)
I hate his northern dialect.
(Aside to her brother)
O, my lord, every one must be glad when you do them the honour of making their houses your home.
(Bowing)
(Aside)
A pert sheeld, I fancy.
(Bows)
Pray, Mr. Camply, have you not built a new hot-house lately? to tell you the truth my visit was partly to your new plants, but chiefly to our new neighbour here; as his worthy father was a particular friend of mine, I wish'd to ask him some questions that—
If lord Macgrinnon will take a walk round the shrubbery with me, by the time we return I imagine your business with Sir Harry will be over.
I'll attend you with great pleasure.
[
Exit
Mr. Camply
and
lord Macgrinnon.
How do you think my new character fits upon me? Dear madam, if under this disguise I can be of any service to you, and find out Mr. Belvil's way of thinking in regard to your niece, I shall be too happy.
As to Mr. Belvil's way of thinking, I dare be sworn my niece has no share in it.
Indeed!
Yes, indeed! but my dear Miss Camply, what am I to think of my niece? she has given Mr. Belvil just the same encouragement that every other suitor has met with. Lord Macgrinnon too is upon her list—and yet they seem all to be far from her heart.
Is there no one do you think that is near it?
O no; if there was any particular person whom she meant to please, she would not permit herself such universal coquetry.
My dear Madam,
(Looking round)
there's no man can hear me; all women are born coquets, and nothing but a great passion for one object can cure that natural propensity we all have to coquetry.
Surely, good sense might cure it.
Good sense; good sense only strengthens the foible, as it increases our power over mankind—but to our point; is there no one among your niece's train of admirers whom you should wish her to prefer?
None; Mr. Belvil is not her lover—lord Macgrinnon is a proud Scotchman, who praises her beauty, and talks of the delights of love from morning till night; but I suspect his views are interested, from the questions he has ask'd other people concerning her estate, her money, her plate, her houses—in short, whatever his intentions are, the secresy he involves them in, bespeaks them to be of no good kind.
Perhaps, when Sir Harry Revel appears as a serious rival, we shall find out his plan—but, madam, do you think Miss Loveless hates my brother?
Would to heaven your brother did not dislike her!—he would be a friend and protector to any woman that could please him.
Then set your heart at rest about him: I know he loves her, though he disapproves of her conduct; and if you will take the excuse of a fiddle to-morrow night, to call in your neighbours, by way of my brother's coming to your house, as if it was a natural thing, I will take care to bring matters to such a crisis, that your niece shall be obliged to confess a preference to my brother; if she feels it, which I suspect.
You seem to be a connoisseur in the language of looks; I that live with her never suspected as much.
She never names him, I dare say.
More than that, I think, she generally turns off the conversation when he is named: you see, Miss Camply, this is a bad sign—
An excellent one rather: lord, my dear madam, you seem never to have taken the trouble of peeping into your own mind; you are so perfectly unacquainted with that of our sex in general—and—
[Laughing.
I do not know which delights me most, her philosophy, or vivacity; my ignorance proceeds not from my not searching into my own heart, but that no one has taken the trouble of asking if I had one or not; for you know, Miss Camply, I am an old maid.
[Laughing.
[Taking her hand.
And so would I be one too, if at your time of life that title would sit upon me with so much good-humour and dignity—I think I hear my brother's voice at a distance; remember that you are only to announce me as Sir Harry; and persuade your niece that I, Miss Camply, am gone to London, and that you will have a dance to-morrow night.
I shall certainly not forget any part of a scheme which is likely to join our families into one happy group.
[Kisses her hand.
Your are an excellent being—
Enter lord
Macgrinnon
and Mr.
Camply.
What, making fine speeches, cousin—
Not making love surely to such an antiquated gentlewoman?
[
Aside to lord
Macgrinnon.
Why not, my lord?
I would no more squander my breath than I would my money, unless I were to get cent. per cent. interest for it.
I dare say not; true Scottish oeconomy—I hope not to reap a cent. per cent. interest there, my lord, but receive through other hands interest surpassing the principal.
Other hands! he does not mean the niece sure? he, he! what the niece, hey?
Now, Mr. Camply, may not I see these plants I mentioned?
Certainly. Gentlemen, will you walk?
We will follow you presently, cousin.
[
Exit Mr.
Camply
and Mrs.
Arabella.
How do you like the university, Sir Harry?
I don't know; I suppose it is like all other universities—we young fellows leave in them all the little learning we are ever possessed of; and carry no sort of knowledge out of them, which can be of any service to us during the rest of our lives—how should we—we drink port—drive stage coaches—and laugh at the old Dons—Pshaw—Pray, my lord, how do
you like
Miss Loveless, is she not very handsome?
Handsome eneugh; and trowth a believe what am teld o'her, that she's gote aw the different pairts o' geud breeding at the best scheuls; but one of her greatest accomplishments is her fortune.
Pshaw, dirt; mere dirt, my lord! I have heard much of her high spirit and contempt for our sex— for women in general—Egad I like her for it—What do you think, my lord, is likely to soften her into love, beside ten thousand a year and a tolerable figure?
If he does mean to attack her, I will mislead him.
(Aside.)
She has had so many fine speeches made to her, that I believe nothing but neglect would move her.—I will make him behave quite rude to her, and then she will hate him.
(Aside.)
Pretend not to see her, tak na notice of her beauty; rail against the whole sex, and I'll warrant she's your awn.
[Seems to muse upon it.
Umph—Indeed!
And I will feed her vanity; which in good truth, as they say, is her only weakness; I woul cram it till it shall overflow all her gude sense—take this with you, Sir Harry, I believe she has a great deal of pride, but na vanity at all; na, na vanity at all, I think—
That's a Scotch lie now, he has some design in that.
(Aside.)
No vanity, my lord, why the world attribute vanity to her, as the only shade to her perfections—Now swear to your lie, Sawney.
(Aside.)
Upon my credit, I never saw any thing like it; pride she has, and a great deal; and my advice can only come from my desire of being of some sarvice to you.
[Bowing, but laughs.
Much obliged to you, my lord; have I not some reason to suspect your advice, for I am told you are one of her lovers?
Mere jest or calumny, Sir Harry, na, na; na Macgrinnon ever married a woman that had na title—Indeed Miss Loveless's fortune might make a mon forget she was not noble, if he might have it aw without any lawyers interfering; but not me, Sir Harry. Na, I will na be the first o' my family to set the example of marrying only a simple gentlewoman.
So you think it would be very foolish for any one to marry without getting the fortune intirely into one's own hands?
Most surely; and in truth, Sir Harry, women are come to such a pretty high-flying pass now-a-days, that ruin and beggary are the only things that can keep a wife within the bounds of decency. Why, ye hear of nathing but divorces; na, I should be sorry were I to give my name to any woman, that if she chose to play the devil I must return one six-pence of her money for separate maintenance, or that she should exact an allowance from me—Na, na, Sir Harry, keep the power and the pence together in your awn hands.
And you would have my wife love me as the Indians worship the devil, through fear?
Hey? trowth I a' think fear is the strongest had we ha o' mankind or womankind.
I must inform you, my lord, that I am perfectly acquainted with woman; I judge of the whole sex by one whose mind I thoroughly possess.
Possess, in trowth; and suppose you do, you possess a riddle, that's aw, a riddle; na, na, Sir Harry, womens' minds are weak, guided by the impulse of the moment—here and there a flash of wit, but na judgment—
I could spit in his Scotch face.
(Aside.)
Hey? what may ye be muttering, pray, Sir?
I say the whole sex are much obliged to your lordship. I am quite of a different opinion, my lord; and as I was telling you, if I was a woman myself, I could not be better acquainted with the sex than I am; and I imagine it is the unjust usurpation of all their natural rights and liberties which men are possessed of that makes our sex—I say, that makes women, my lord, women, run into such errors.
Why, if you was a woman yourself you could not plead better for them than you do.
I love them all; I respect, I honour them.
I love them too; but as to respect and honour—
[Shakes his head.
In short, my Lord, if I succeed with Miss Loveless, all the business I shall give her family will be to settle her whole fortune upon herself.
A downright feul.
(Aside)
Entirely in her own power; that she may feel totally independent of me, and free as air; that I may be certain nothing but her own heart and inclination gives me her time and attentions.
Aw, that's mare than I intend—such liberty as that may tempt her—Na, na, Sir Harry, you are quite wrong.
Wrong or not, such are my ideas; and I shall follow them as fast as possible.
[Runs out.
And I shall follow you as fast as possible. I hope at least he will take my advice in trying to pique her pride, and make her so angry, that I may gain time to get her consent, and to make mine upon my own terms—for if once I have her fortune, she may go and hang herself for what I care.
End of the FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SCENE,
the Drawing-room in Miss
Loveless
's House.
Mrs.
Arabella
and Miss
Loveless
sitting on each side of a table, upon which Mr.
Belvil
is sitting with a book, which he shuts, and turning to Miss
Loveless
says
—
SO you do not admire this charming poem of Henry and Emma—
No, indeed; that Emma you admire so much is a most unnatural creature—so mean-spirited—so servile—so humble—in short, no woman ever thought as Prior makes her think.
Yes, I know one that did.
(Aside)
Hey? What do you mutter between your teeth?
I say, I believe, I know one woman whose manner of thinking might have serv'd as a model for Emma's mind.
The sentimental grave Miss Camply, perhaps?
I wish you were as grave, my dear niece.
Thank heaven, my dear aunt, your wish will never come to pass—a formal—prim—demure—Lord, aunt, I dare say, poor soul, she will die an old maid.
If she does, then it will be from choice, and not from necessity.
[
To Mr.
Belvil.
A-propos; Mr. Belvil, it is reported you are the charming swain she preferred to any other.
O faith, madam, Miss Camply and I were brought up together; and—therefore—it is no wonder that—that—
[Walks from the table, and says aside,
What a foolish dog I am!
He certainly is over head and ears in love with me—What a delightful thing it will be to torment that prude, Camply, and perhaps pique her insensible brother!
Enter a Servant, with a note to the Aunt.
From Mr. Camply, madam.
[After having read the note.
My dear, I will return presently; I will just go and answer this.
[Exit.
What can that be!
[Rises, and aside.
A note from Camply—perhaps his sister has complained of me: I am a silly puppy; for here am I making love to a woman I do not care about, and perhaps shall entangle myself in such a manner that I shall not know how to retreat—without feeling the least pleasure in the pursuit too. What a cursed fool—
[Approaches, and taps him on the shoulder with her fan]
What, deep in thought, Mr. Belvil; come, I'll guess the subject of that reverie.
My reveries can have but one subject, and you must be too well acquainted with your own merit not to know it.
Pshaw; you are a flatterer—Do you know, Mr. Belvil, that I am tempted now-and-then to believe that you are upon the point of turning politician?
Pray, why, madam?
Because you fall into such unaccountable reveries; then I am sure you must be studying about some matters of importance—perhaps you are a patriot, and are forming a new system of government—Lard, there will be no bearing you if you turn reformer.
Ha, ha! no indeed, Miss Loveless—when I am perfectly satisfied with a reformation of my own private conduct, I may then perhaps advise the community at large—but now—ridiculous—ha, ha!
[
As he laughs, Miss
Camply
's picture hangs out of his bosom.
Ha! what's that?
What?
A picture, as I hope to live! Why, Mr. Belvil, this is a very odd fancy of yours never to have shewn me that—nay, I insist upon seeing it.
How unlucky!
(aside)
O certainly;
(unties and gives it her)
it is only a picture that I had given me one day in joke—nothing serious—a joke—he—a joke—he—that's all. What an imprudent puppy I am!
(aside)
A joke, is that all? O then, I'll try him
(aside)
So it is only a joke—
A joke that engrosses all my serious thoughts though.
(aside)
Oh, if you study your speeches, I would not give one farthing for them.
Remember that I only lend you that picture, and that you must return it as soon as possible—Pray compare that face with your own, and imagine, if possible you can, that it can even be look'd at with patience, except indeed to serve as a foil.
I'll try him.
(aside)
Well now I protest it is prettier than I thought. I will keep it, with your leave, to examine the beauty at leisure; as you are so indifferent about it, I will put in my pocket till I have an opportunity of comparing it with the original. He looks confused.
(aside)
How imprudent I have been!
(Forces a laugh)
O certainly—keep it—fling it away—do just what you please with it—he, he!—
Re-enter the Aunt.
My dear niece, Mr. Camply's note was to inform me of the arrival of Sir Harry Revel at Oxford: as Mr. Camply and his sister are gone to London upon business, they have desired me to shew their cousin some attention, in order to dissipate his melancholy, having just lost his father, by whose death he gets ten thousand a year. Pray, Mr. Belvil, did you ever see him?
Not since he was ten years old: he was then very like Miss Camply—very handsome—
He dines here.
He dines here—handsome—ten thousand a year, and a baronet—all these things are worth thinking about—I long to see him.
Confounded spirit of coquetry! how unlike my Eliza!
(Aside)
With your leave, ladies, I shall go and put a little powder in my hair, and return presently.
[
Exit
Belvil,
bowing.
Well, my dear, has Mr. Belvil made any proposals yet?
Lard, aunt, the instant a man speaks to one you imagine he must propose—
I can tell you, niece, that your encouraging so many suitors, without my hearing of any thing serious, alarms me very much for the sake of your reputation; there is my lord Macgrinnon who tells the whole world he is in love with you.
And he tells me so too.
For shame, niece; I should have blush'd myself into a fever before I could have said such a thing. And pray do not you know that Mr. Belvil has even been attached to Miss Camply, and yet you have suffered him to dangle after you for a whole week—I wish I knew his intentions.
Indeed, ma'am, if you chuse to call me to an account for every foolish fellow that deserts country misses for me, you will have enough to do—Will you condemn me in the high court of your judgment, because my charms monopolize the attentions of mankind?—Really, aunt—really, you are too unreasonable—I can't help it if I am admired—
I only speak to you as a friend—you are your own mistress—but I do not see that you like any one yourself.
Like, O yes, ma'am—I like him best that says the finest things to me; and in short, my dear aunt, I never will marry till I can find a man who will let the whole world admire me
(The aunt walks about, Miss Loveless follows her)
and that it will without his leave, I fancy.—Stay, I must see what sort of looks I am in, for I must try what sort of heart this baronet has—
(aside)
Your servant, Milud
(with a side look as lord Macgrinnon enters, bowing.)
Pawawawh—She looks as high and as slooty, as if a Macgrinnon did not do her a grat del of honour in courting her—Do you ken, now, miss Loveless—do you ken, that na Macgrinnon but me ever was the slave of beauty alone, before now—
(Still arranging her hair in a pocket-glass)
Umph—ha—
[Enter Belvil; bows.
Have ye been kulling some birds this morning, Mr. Belvil?
No, my lord, I have been killing time in the pleasantest manner in the world, at the feet of miss Loveless.
Augh, in gud troth—and so wud I, but I never can find ye alone.
Alone! what can he possibly have to say alone?
(aside.)
What you have been often told in public—that you look like an angel.
Augh, and so you do—and I wud have told you hoo like an angel you were a long time ago, had you behaved more like a woman—
I really do not understand you.
If you will indulge me with a tête-à-tête, I will unriddle my meaning—
A tète-à-tète!—Well, I'll meet you in the garden to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.
(Goes up to her)
May I be permitted
(kisses her hand, and at that instant Sir
Harry Revel
is introduced.)
Ha! you perfidious—Madam, I am your most obedient—
(bows all round, without looking at Miss
Loveless,
then takes out a glass and looks through it to
Mrs. Arabella)
Heavens and earth, ma'am, I did not expect to find a salon so truly à la francoise in this horrid country—and some fine pictures too—That is a Rubens, I fancy—and that a Rembrandt—Pray is that a Carravagio?—Yes, 'tis I see.
(Aside)
He does not even look at me—'tis a pretty fellow, tho'.
(Aside)
He is still like Eliza, but not so well tho'.
Pray, Sir Harry, how do you like Oxfordshire?
'Pon my soul, madam, I know nothing about the shire—am but just come into it, and faith have seen nothing in it yet that would make me wish ever to see it again.
Whaut! Sir Harry, I must needs say we are all much obliged to you for your poleet compliment.
(Aside to
Belvil)
What a Highland savage he is!
(Aside)
What a puppy you are!
O, my lord, we always except the company present—always—always—he! he! always—
He laughs to shew his teeth, I suppose.
O, do you know that your picture is come home?
Where is it? it cannot do justice to the original, I am sure.
Na—na—give me liveing pictures, good flesh and blood.
What a brute!
[
To
Belvil.
(Turns away)
What a coxcomb!
Will you look at it, Mr. Belvil? Gentlemen, will you give me your opinion of it?
Indeed I shan't go to look at my own picture: will you stay with me, Sir Harry?
O, yes; I detest those modern daubs.
(Exit all the company but
Eliza
and miss
Loveless.)
Modern daubs, indeed! So you do not like modern beauties, Sir Harry?
Beauties—yes, faith, madam, I like beauties; but your English artist here gives you ladies a yellow purple complexion, and then to set it off dresses you in a bright rose colour or blue drapery.
An insensible creature! he turns his back upon me to give me a dissertation upon painting
(aside.)
I suppose you prefer a fine picture to a fine woman, sir; your passionate lovers of
virtù
are very fond of inanimate beauties.
Now is her vanity ready to burst; she is ripe for my purpose
(goes hastily to the end of the stage, and looks at her thro' his glass)
I did not know there was so angelic a being as yourself in England. I have examined all the beauties, both dead and living, of France and Italy, and I think you excel every thing I have yet seen, except a famous Madona of Guido's at Florence, which you put me in mind of.
[
Miss
Loveless
does as she is bid.
]
Be so good to turn your head a little this way; no, no, I mistake, recline it on the other side, lean it upon the right shoulder: no, no, I mean the left—aye, there—now half shut your eyes; divine upon my soul!—Now look up to heaven—heavenly, by this light!—No, no, look down if you please; aye, so—just so—you beautiful charming angel, thus low let me kneel and adore you.
(Hides her face with her fan.
I protest you kill me with confusion.
Here will I be fixed immoveable for ever till you tell me you will be mine; command my fortune and my life; settle my whole estate as you please, so as you give me your heart. When shall I be bless'd with your hand? speak, speak, my lovely creature; I am upon the rack till you consent.
Really you do not give one time to breathe, much less to speak?
Your answer—I die for your answer.
You shall have my answer to-night. I vow you hurry one out of one's wits.
Thank you, dearest, best of women.
(Rises)
I think I have performed my part to a miracle.
(Aside)
The most impetuous man I ever met with. But Sir Harry, how could my charms have any effect upon you, who have been brought up with your cousin, who is the most superlatively accomplished woman in the world, if one may credit Mr. Belvil's accounts of her?
I suppose you have seen her, and know there is nothing so very extraordinary about her? Now for a description of myself.
(aside)
Yes, I have seen her; but she blushes so much at every thing, and at nothing—and her countenance alters from one moment to another into such a variety of expressions, that I really never could decide any thing about her—I suppose Mr. Belvil's passion for her was only a nursery prejudice.
Now do I dread to have my questions answered.
(aside)
His addresses to you are no secret in Camply's house, I assure you; and I thought my foolish cousin seem'd to look very grave upon the subject—but I trust you have refused Mr. Belvil's offers—
His offers—Lard, Sir Harry, you are just like my aunt, who fancies every dangler one has is to offer; he has done every thing a respectful lover could do, but offer: but I suppose he will.
Aye, aye, to be sure!
(aside)
Heaven forbid!
Yes, he can't think seriously about Miss Camply.
Why not, pray?
Why, he has trusted her picture to me, and that looks as if he did not care about her.
It does, indeed! Pray let me see that picture—pray compare that face with this portrait, and see if there is the least chance of Eliza's making any conquest when you are near?
For heaven's sake, Sir Harry, hide it—hide it—here is Mr. Belvil—
(Miss
Loveless
confus'd)
Gentlemen—Mr. Belvil, where is my aunt?—I must find her—
[Exit.
[
Stands in an affected posture looking at the picture, Mr.
Belvil
approaching,
Eliza
shews it to him.
]
Do not you think this very handsome?
Death and destruction! where did you get that?
Why, it was given me this moment by a fair lady, and I intend to make use of it as a passport to the good graces of the lady who sat for it.
I can hardly contain myself. What shall I say to him?
(aside)
Now do I die to know if it is myself or Miss Camply that he is so much disturbed about.
(aside)
What is the matter, Mr. Belvil? you look out of countenance—You look—faith I've hit it. You look like the secretary of the war-office when he receives the news of a defeat instead of a victory—or like Sir Tantivy on a frosty morning.
[Belvil
goes up to him.
You may think yourself very witty, Sir Harry, but your mirth at—
(his voice trembles)
at this time, is the very height of cruelty.
I could kiss him for that now.
(aside)
Are you deaf, man? I say Miss Loveless gave me this; and really I think it like Eliza—but in her grave looks though.
Then you are very well acquainted with Miss Loveless already.
I could beat him with pleasure!
(aside.)
O yes, sir, so well that, if I do not change my mind, we shall in all probability be married as soon as the lawyers can finish their business.
I give you joy, sir; I think you are admirably well fitted to one another; for, entre nous, Sir Harry, the lady's vanity is equal to yours; excuse me.
(
Bows.
Take care, Mr. Belvil, take care: I shall make you repent of those words ere long—but you seem piqued; is it Miss Loveless or my cousin's charms that disturb you so much?
Why do you ask, sir? is it any thing to you what are my sentiments of either?
O yes, sir, I am in love with both; and shall be heartily tired of my wife, that is to be, in a very short time; and then intend to have an affaire de coeur with my cousin; she has a fine sentimental mind, and a lovely person, and that is the true thing for a mistress.
Come, come, Sir Harry, if you can be serious for a few minutes, I shall intreat your patience, and your assistance, perhaps, in an affair which makes me truly wretched.
I begin to pity him!
(aside)
Serious!—ha, ha, ha, serious! upon my credit, Belvil, thy serious phiz would make any man serious but myself; but I never was serious in my life, nor ever intend to be so; and as you seem to be in the dolorous penseroso stile, I will leave you to improve upon your own reflections
(going, kisses the picture)
Joli comme le jour ce petit minois là.
(Following)
I insist upon your not going, Sir Harry; that picture once was mine.
The more fool you for parting with it.
Part with it; part with it; I would as soon part with my life.
Poh, poh, Mr. Belvil, it is quite ridiculous in you to appear so anxious about a picture, which, I repeat, you have parted with so easily.
No; by that heaven that hears us, I would as soon part with the original, if I was possessed of her—but it was folly and imprudence that made me lend it to Miss Loveless; and her giving it to you was greater folly still. I do intreat you, Sir Harry, I beseech you; shall I kneel to you for it; what is there I will not do, if you will make me easy by restoring it?
Why, did the girl give it you?
Yes, she did.
She did—faith the girl is as great a simpleton as you are.
Very well, Sir Harry; the confession I have made gives you a right to upbraid me; but tho' my heart is neatly broken by the consequences of my foolish conduct, my spirit, my spirit is not—
Poor sighing swain!
Hell and furies! Sir Harry, do you laugh at me?
What would the man have? you may marry my cousin if you like it.
I never shall be so happy; I should be distracted with joy did I imagine she would forgive me. Dear, dear, good Sir Harry, be instrumental to my happiness.
(Offers to embrace him.)
Stand off—I am afraid you will bite me, for you are mad, mad by this light.
(walks away from him)
If he had kissed me, I should have been a woman at once.
(aside)
What then you really are ready to hang yourself about Eliza, hey!
I never lov'd any woman but your cousin: Oh! if you knew her!
I know her, d'ye see, just as well as I know myself—faith—ha, ha!—faith, I can't help laughing—so—she—ha, ha! let me see, she gives you her picture, you give it away, and—ha, ha!—upon my credit as pretty a couple of ninnies as ever I read of.
[Goes up to her in a fury.
I will have it, d'ye hear? I will, do you hear, Sir Harry, or it shall cost you your life to keep it.
Not so loud, sir, you crack the drum of my ear; these country gentlemen are so robust. You will—then by Jove you shall not have it; for should she be cruel and not surrender, I shall shew this picture to the whole world, and swear she has, and that will do as well.
Then you are a villain.
With all my spirit; a rascal, a coxcomb, a puppy; and you, the worthy Mr. Belvil. But seriously now, Bilvil; you will be a lucky man to have such a gallant as myself to escort your wife about—for I shall appear in every public place with her; close to her ear—always at her elbow—always—
This usage is not to be borne.
Well—
[takes snuff and stares at him.
(Aside)
What is there in that boy that quite unmans me?
(goes up to him)
I expect, Sir Harry, that you will give me satisfaction?
Oh, sir, I expect satisfaction likewise; but this is not a proper place to shew our courage in. Tomorrow, if you please, Mr. Belvil, if you will meet me at the end of the chesnut-tree walk at seven o' clock, we will decide this matter with any arms you please; till then I keep the picture; to-morrow the conqueror shall wear it.
Bravely spoken, Sir Harry! with swords we will decide this point, and if you fall, I shall proclaim to the world, that in your serious moments you are a contrast to your usual character, which I must inform you, Sir Harry, is one of the most profligate and debauched I ever met with. If you survive me, all I ask of you is to justify me to your cousin; it is to do justice to her honour that I expose my life.
I'll answer for your justification.
(Aside)
I die to undeceive him. Well, sir, one of us will live to lay our laurels and our person at her feet.
I have a serious affair to settle, therefore I must leave you.
(going, returns)
Remember the hour.
Yes, yes.
[
Exit
Belvil.
Now I have sufficiently punished him, I shall give him satisfaction, but in a much pleasanter way than he expects. Here is then at last returned to me the copy of a very foolish original; and were the fate of it to be well described in a modern play, I fancy it would teach many giddy girls like myself not to part with the one till the other was secured as fast as a lawyer and parson could bind it.
End of the SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE,
Miss
Loveless
's Garden.
Miss
Loveless
crossing the stage meets Mr.
Camply,
and starts.
HA! he here!
(Aside)
I came—I came—to—Pray, Miss Loveless, where is your aunt?
So this visit is not to me, I find.
(aside)
My aunt is in the house, I believe. Lord, I thought you were in London; for as we give a ball to-night, the gravity of such a very sober creature as you are will quite discompose our dancing.
Your aunt has done my sister and me the honour of inviting us, and I hastened out of town on purpose to attend her commands.
Her commands! I suppose you mean to dance with her too. I protest, Mr. Camply, it will be quite edifying to see her, like a true maid of honour in queen Bess's days, with her hands thus—and footing it demurely, so—her eyes rivetted upon her feet all the time, lest the left foot should take place improperly of the right.
Ha, ha, ha! charming, I protest. Now draw my picture.
Pshaw!—How in the name of wonder should I describe your dancing, when the very sound of your voice is quite a new thing to me.
Were I as vain as my cousin, Sir Harry, I should say that look'd like a reproach to me for not speaking to you before.
Lard now, do not apply general observations to particular people—For heaven's sake let us think of ourselves as little as we always have done.
Yes, yes; I know you ever had much less regard for yourself than for any one else in the world.
Myself—myself again; why, did you ever think about myself.
O no, not at all—never, never—Ha, ha, ha! I am quite diverted—
At our raillery, I suppose.
(aside)
That is the most provoking laugh I ever heard; I'll cure him of that affectation, I'm determined—Pray, excuse me, Mr. Camply, when I tell you that nature never intended you for raillery; it sits upon you just as a veil and beads would sit upon me.
Indeed! if raillery is as proper for me as a convent is for you, I should do nothing but laugh at my own jokes for the rest of my life. Besides, I think you would make a very pretty nun.
You are quite mistaken, Mr. Camply; for I could give you a proof that I have too much of the woman about me to make a saint of.
A proof!
Yes; what do you think brings me into the garden at this time of the morning?
Indeed, I do not know.
Why, curiosity.
Curiosity! as I have none of that ingredient in my composition, I do not desire to know what is the object of yours.
Provoking indifference!
(aside.)
What do you think then of an appointment?
I should be sorry to interrupt the smallest of your amusements; and if I see right, the object of them is too entertaining for my gravity to relish, and so will take my leave.
(Going)
O pray stay.
[
Enter lord
Macgrinnon.
My lord, your servant.
[Exit.
Well, my lord, what can you possibly have to say to me?
That you are my divinity—the idol of my worship—see the very sun shines brighter than usual to light up your beauties, and the birds make a concert to hail your charms; while the very roses fade with envy at seeing themselves out-done.
Stop, stop, my lord; there is so much poetry in all that, that it deserves to be remembered at least. From whence did you borrow or steal it?
From the brilliancy of those eyes, which might inspire the dullest clod of earth—those eyes that promise—
Promise! take care, my lord; my eyes and my tongue do always go together, and words ought to express what the heart feels.
And so they ought, most charming angel! and by St. Andrew's holy cross I swear, that mine are true when I profess you are the star that lights up my future hopes of happiness.
(Aside)
A northern star then, for it is a very cold one.—Pray, my lord, what am I to derive from all this.
That my person and fortune are yours; that if you will but consent, this night we will set off for Scotland; where we will live only to love all the rest of our lives.
The usual way of proposing in his country, my lord, is accompanied by settlements, and the consent of ones parents.
Augh, my dear Miss Loveless, settlements and consents are not necessary between people that love; nay, marriage was invented only to bind the feuls and vulgar of both sexes; but you—your mind, like the soaring eagle, despises all little game, and should have no tie but your heart.
What does the fool mean?
(Aside)
Your aunt does not want you; come with me into Scotland, and then we will conform to the odious custom of joining hands, when our hearts are one: believe the most ardent, the most passionate, the most faithful of lovers; here will I be rivetted like a statue to the earth, till you consent to go with me.
O ho! I think I begin now to see.
(Aside)
Why this is a down-right run-a-way scheme, my lord; so I am to go and live with you first, and be your wife afterwards.
If you do not like my society, you may return when you have gean part of the way with me; but you mun ken that I would have my own chaplain and the whole clan of Macgrinnons be the persons to join our hands.
Well, my lord, I am quite delighted with the novelty of this idea; it is singular and out of the common stile. Will you be in that arbour at eight o'clock this evening, where I will meet you, and if you have a post-chaise and four ready, I will accompany your lordship some part of the way at least.
O most certainly I will be there to a moment. Thank you, most lovely, most enchanting of women. I leave you now that no one may suspect us of agreeing so well. Adieu.
[Exit.
Yes, yes, we agree perfectly I believe in deceiving each other; and could his high cheek bones imagine that I should give myself into his power? a wretch!—Ha, sweet revenge!
(Walks up and down looking for some one)
John, get the great engine put to the edge of the water, and place the pipe so as to come in at the top of that arbour, that when I order you, you may convey in a great quantity of water into it.
Into the
harber,
my lady?
Yes, gardener.
La, un please ye, my lady, madam, it will spoil the hone-suckles at the top, and parfitly drown and ruinate the bottom.
Aye; no matter, John: it is only to refresh some hot-headed creature that is to be there about eight o'clock.
Laws, madam, you ben't in earnest sure! Why is it a man you be going to serve so?
Not an Englishman, John.
Zookers, a Frenchman, may-hap.
What think you of a Scotchman, John, hey?
Sniggers, my lady! maister Crump says as how they be worse enemies to us than the French; and that they have brought upon us all this 'Merican business, so I don't care if I drown a few of 'em.
Yes, but John, you must take care not to convey in the water, but as if it rained very hard, d'ye hear, and here is something for you to make merry with afterwards.
The very thoughts of it makes me merry; oddsniggs! I'll make it rain like smoke about his ears.
Now go and tell Susan, the cook maid, to come here.
Yes. My humble thanks to you for all favours, my lady.
Enter
SUSAN.
Susan, you must go this evening at a quarter after eight o'clock to that arbour, and let a gentleman talk to you and lead you to his post-chaise; I'll take care he shall not do you any hurt, nor take you away.
I am very agreeable to any thing you bids me, my lady; but should like to know a little about your meaning.
My meaning is, Susan, that he should take you for me, and just as you are going, I'll stop you.
Lack-a-day, madam, he'll never take such a creature as me for you: beside, I don't find in my heart to use any one in such a way, except it were that proud Scotch lord that comes here. No offence, I hope.
Why it is he, Susan, I mean to serve so: but for your life don't you tell any one of this; if you do, it will cost you your place; so remember.
[
Exit Miss
Loveless.
Lack-a-day, she's very comical, and she is so pretty, and so good humoured, that I does not care what I does for her.
Enter
JOHN.
So, John, pray now what makes you look so merry.
Pray what makes you look so merry, Mrs. Susan?
I won't tell you, John.
And I won't tell you, Mrs. Susan; so now we're quits—Tit for tat, as the old woman said—hey!—you know—
Out upon you, and your sayings.
(Holds her wrists)
Come, come, Mrs. Susan, you shan't stir till you tell me what it is makes you look so brisk.
Hands off, man; it is no business of thine; I shall pass for a lady before the day's over, I can tell you.
Pass for a lady! I believe in my heart you'd pass for any thing but my wife
(Shakes her arms.)
You hurt me, you great oaf you; I'll be your wife whenever you leave off your jealous pated whims, man, and not before.
Why, look ye, Susan, you always looks smirking enough when folks talks to you, but when I talks to ye, ye look as grum, as grum as a black frost, d'ye see.
Why do'st always scold so then, John? talk pleasant greable things, and then I'll be as affabalous as my lady is.
So, then; you means to keep me in dispense these ten years.
Aye; and ten to that, unless you alter; so good morning to you, Mr. Black Frost.
[Exit.
Now what in the name of Old Nick did she mean when she said she was to pass for a lady? oddsnigs but I'll watch her all day.
[Exit.
SCENE
changes to
Camply
's house.
Eliza
and her brother.
Here, brother, I have got my picture safe at last; and never will I part with it, but to my husband, whoever he is.
Tell me, how did Belvil behave?
So well, that I wished myself in petticoats again twenty times; but, indeed, you are all sad, sad, sad creatures!
Am I a sad creature?
Yes; why, yes. Pray, why have you never given miss Loveless a hope of your heart? I cannot help thinking her levity would have ceased with your seeming indifference.
No such thing, no such thing; trust me my dear; I have told you my reasons for the silence I have kept, and this morning have received a convincing proof that I am right; Oh! Miss Loveless is a coquet.
A coquet! you are so, I am so, it is in human nature that we should be so, when our thoughts are not entirely fixed upon one object. I have no patience with you, brother; you are so unreasonable.
Oh, if you mean to give me a lecture upon coquettry, let us sit down and discuss this matter quietly.
[They sit.
Enter a Servant with a packet.
From Mr. Belvil, sir.
Directed to me—Does the servant wait?
No, sir; he said it required no answer, and left it.
Leave it.
[Exit servant.
Give it, give it me directly!
(Opens it)
Ah! me—my brother—his will—and a letter.
[Drops the will, reads the letter and drops that too, takes out her pocket handkerchief, leans her head upon it, and then rises and goes to the end of the stage.]
[Picks up the letter and will, and comes forward reading.]
My dear Mr. Camply, fearing lest the levity of Sir Harry's disposition might tempt him to misrepresent the causes of our duel, I write to um—um—um—um—I leave her my whole fortune—um—What a generous man! Well, sister—
He needed not have given me this proof of his affections; but I will reward him.
Suppose we sit down, and finish our dissertation upon coquettry?
Much obliged to you; but I must go and compose myself to digest a much better subject: for in a little time I must meet Belvil to kill him, as he thinks—and my heart—feel how it beats, brother—if I don't make haste it will certainly jump out, and be in the walk long before my legs can carry me there.
I dare say, my dear, it is there already. Come, I'll go with you into your own room.
[Exeunt.
SCENE
changes to the Chesnut Tree Walk.
So, I may—perhaps—I may never—never see Eliza's face again. In an hour—I may be no more.
SCENE
changes to the Walk.
Enter
Eliza.
Oh, heavens! I thought she was in London—What can bring her here, and just at this critical instant! I dare not speak to her; and if I durst, this present moment would be an improper one.
A very fine evening, Mr. Belvil.
Yes, madam.
Not too hot though.
No, madam.
I suppose you are not walking by way of amusement only, but going somewhere?
No, madam.
O, taking a walk only?
No, madam.
Yes, madam; No madam; yes, madam, no, madam: Lard, I came here by way of having a little conversation, and if you answer by monosyllables only, we shall have a pretty dialogue.
Miss Camply, your presence, though always to me—the—the—most charming thing in the world—is—is—is—just now very unseasonable—I wish you would go into your own house.
Why, do you imagine I have come quite to the end of this walk in order to enjoy the shade of these trees, and shall go home merely because you do not like my company? No indeed, sir, you may take yourself away if you please
[He walks up one side, she on the other.
How shall I get her away?
(Aside)
Do you chuse to talk to me or go, for you must do either?
I can do neither; but beg you will leave this fatal place.
This fatal place—I fancy you have been reading blank verse of late—perhaps living in society with the tragic muse. Nay, do not strut about so like a distress'd hero, but answer one question I will ask you—
You can make me do any thing.
Pray, who are you looking for? I protest I believe you have made an appointment, and are afraid I should disturb it—for I know you have been living with Miss Loveless, and I assure you I do not care about it; but as you are no longer my lover, it is but fair you should restore me the picture I gave you when you was.
I hope to give it you soon—
Soon! Now, now, Mr. Belvil, or never.
Now, I cannot.
Then do you see this?
Now, by all that's villainous he has given it to you?
Who, my cousin? yes, Mr. Belvil, he has; and I shall keep it to give to some one who will be more careful of it than you have been.
Not to him, Miss Camply, not to him; for if he fails in his promise of meeting me here, I will pursue him to the end of the world, and tear his false heart from that breast, which—I beg your pardon, Miss Camply—but he is a villain.
Lord, now I think him a very pretty man.
I may never see you again, Miss Camply, but beware of him—his designs are of the worst nature; he meant that you should be in love with him.
You meant, Miss Loveless, should be so with you.
Hear me seriously, Eliza; I repeat it, this may be the last time I shall speak to you. I detest Miss Loveless; I never lov'd but you—if Sir Harry was not a villain, he would not have given you that picture: I was to have disputed it with him at this hour, but I imagine he is a coward, and will not come. Now, Eliza, if ever I was dear to you—
(Kneels)
thus let me intreat you to tell me, that you do not hate me, and that you forgive me; at least I dare not—nay, with the resolution I have taken—I cannot ask for more.
I really cannot answer for myself—Sir Harry must answer for me.
What! is it you, Eliza? that soft Eliza, that could ever drop a tear upon woes not her own, that thus mocks my distress? Surely I dream!
Why, I'll fight you if you like it, instead of Sir Harry.
[Takes her hand.
Eliza, for pity's sake be serious. Tell me that you forgive me?
I must ask Sir Harry's leave.
[Flings her hand from him.
I'll owe nothing to him but my death; would to heaven Eliza you would kill me—but this gaiety of yours is worse than ten thousand deaths. What can you mean? tell me, my dear Eliza? O heavens!
(He takes hold of her hand)
I feel, when I hold this soft, this lovely hand, as if ten millions of little cupids were playing about my heart, and bidding it hope—at least for pardon.
[Leans upon his shoulder.
I can hardly speak—my stupid Belvil—and do not you see, and do not you feel that Sir Harry?
Again, Sir Harry; come
(Puts his arm round her waist)
come, speak?
Why, that you hold him to your breast at this instant.
Ha! is it possible? Is it possible? Heavens and earth! my heart overflows with joy—with gratitude—with love—I want words to express my feelings. What can I say to you? and were you the gay coxcomb I have hated so much? and was it for me you disguised yourself?
Stop, stop; not entirely for you: I wanted my picture, not knowing what imprudencies you might be drawn into about it; and I wanted to shew you that—in short I am afraid you think me a strange bold creature; but however I do not repent, for here is, among many others, proofs of what I wish'd, one which I may destroy now.
[Takes out the will, and tears it.
And now, Eliza, when will you completely forgive me, and call yourself mine?
Not this twelvemonth.
Defend me from such a resolution! I must get your brother to make you change it.
Well, let us finish his adventures first, and then talk upon the subject.
His adventures! why, has he changed his sex too?
No, no, no! but if you will walk to the house with me, I will tell you all my plans.
[Exeunt both.
SCENE
changes to Miss
Loveless
's house.
Arabella
and Miss
Loveless.
You really look very pretty, my dear niece.
Yes, madam, and I am to have a pretty partner for to night.
Who is that, pray?
Sir Harry Revel—and he wants to lead me a dance for life.
Pray, can you be in earnest for a moment, my dear niece, and answer me the truth from the bottom of your heart?
Well, I will be very sober, and answer upon my honour truly to every question you shall ask.
Do you like Sir Harry?
Yes, I do like him.
But do you love him?
No. A very pretty catechism this.
(Aside)
Then positively you shall not marry him. Is there any one you like then? since love is out of the question, that you like better than him?
No, I believe not.
I believe you do not speak the truth; what think you of Mr. Camply?—Why do you blush?
I never thought about him at all, for he never speaks to me, nor thinks of me.
Very handsome and very sensible, tho'.
And very stupid.
Come, come, child, you like him.
Why, then, aunt, since I am resolved to marry Sir Harry, I will own to you that I might have preferred Mr. Camply to all the world, but now he is quite out of the question.
Servant introduces Miss
Camply.
Miss Loveless, I have brought you Sir Harry Revel's excuses, and this note.
(Reads)
Dear madam, I would advise you to insist upon dancing with my cousin, as you are not likely to get a partner this evening of a contrary sex to your own, if you depend upon your humble Servant,
H. REVEL.
Did you know the contents of this note, Miss Camply?
Yes, Miss Loveless.
Why then I must confess the same uncivil folly runs thro' the whole family; it is downright nonsense.
Well, that is very odd; for my cousin is reckoned very sensible, almost as clever as myself.
The girl's a downright fool
(Aside)
—Well, Miss Camply, Mr. Belvil will be here presently; I shall dance with him.
Enter
Belvil.
Pardon me, madam, I am engaged to dance with Miss Camply.
And I am engaged to Sir Harry.
I fancy, good people, you mean to be witty in some way or other; but as I do not understand how, I must own I think the place you have chosen to exhibit in, makes it rather uncivil; these jokes in my house are almost rude.
Miss Loveless, your head thus; look down, no; up, yes—aye, that will do—Do you recollect such a scene?
Intolerable! that puppy has given her an account of my behaviour.
My cousin is very justly vain of your encouragement, Miss Loveless, and I thank you in his name for your great condescension.
Miss Camply, this is not to be borne; do you mean to affront me?
No; if I could not affront you when a man, I am sure my female character cannot offend.
O heavens! and were you Sir Harry Revel only to laugh at me? grant me patience!
(She cries.)
No, Miss Loveless; not to laugh at you, but to regain my own lover, whom you had nearly stolen from me.
Not that neither; do not be offended, Miss Loveless, if I acknowledge that I had not the least serious intentions about you.
What, is there a combination—a plot to laugh at me—I can tell you, Miss Camply, if my behaviour appeared extraordinary, I think yours to the full as reprehensible, to put me on a masculine habit and personate a man for the sake of an odious man.
I never encouraged but that one odious man; but you, Miss Loveless, have encouraged many.
Can you stand tamely by, and see me reproached in this manner?
Your conduct, my dear, deserves such reproaches.
Why, madam, I shall be the ridicule of the country; but I will not stay to bear it—I wish you joy both of you of your intended match; and I hope you will be as heartily tired of each other soon, as I am of you at present—but you shall not have the pleasure of seeing me mortified—I shall go and live at Paris for the remainder of my life; I have an uncle that will let me live as privately as I please. Pray, madam, make my excuses to the company—say I have got the head-ach; say any thing, and to morrow I'll go and leave you and all my follies behind me.
(Going, enter Mr.
Camply)
Miss Loveless, it is all my fault—My sister has treated you in this manner only to try you, and if my whole life can atone for the moment of pain she has occasioned, dispose of it. I tremble for her answer.
(Aside)
I am so amazed, I shall faint—
(Mr.
Camply
draws a chair and seats her in it.)
(Puts a smelling bottle to her nose)
Dear Miss Loveless, my brother has been dying for you these three years; pray forgive him; he dares not kneel, but I will, for him.
What am I to say to you, you odd creature?
Come, child, don't stand petrified like a statue; I have said enough; now speak for yourself.
Miss Loveless, dare I flatter myself you will hear my petition?
No, Mr. Camply, I am determined to go, and will not make you so bad a present as that of my hand—besides, I like no one, and, not you certainly, of all men in the world; for had you liked me these three years, you could not have kept it so secret.
Then my sister has deceived me only to make me still more wretched than I was—she—she—presumed, you—did not hate me—
(Talks aside to the aunt, and then comes forward)
I am a presuming young woman, indeed; but I have good eyes and a feeling heart; and I am sure you cannot be happy without each other—so, there—come—your hand—and yours—
No, I don't like him.
No, she hates me; I see that—
Oh, you do not like him! then, Mrs. Arabella, what do you say upon this subject?
I say, since my niece has pride enough to oppose her own happiness, that she has owned to me that she likes Mr. Camply.
Why then, aunt, I do think you are much worse than Mr. Belvil, Miss Camply, or her brother; and therefore, to be revenged, I'll e'en stay and try to be happier than you all seem to be—and now, Mr. Camply, if upon farther acquaintance we do not change our minds, we may follow the example of Mr. Belvil and your sister.
I thank you, miss, for my sister is soon to be married.
O not this twelvemonth—and as no one shall say I lead them into a scrape, we will all four be married together, and you, as my elder brother, must begin the dance.
I shall endeavour to hasten the period, for a twelvemonth seems an age.
Enough of this! now we are all agreed, I will shew you a scene that may amuse you, if you will follow me into the garden.
SCENE
changes to the garden, lord
Macgrinnon
peeping out of the arbour.
The de'el surely tempted me to feex upon this neeght—for I am wat to the skan—
(Enter
Susan
at one corner)
Sir, sir, sir, sir—
Augh, are you there?
(She takes hold of his hand, and as they are going, enter
John,
who pulls her.)
I'll lady you, with a vengeance, Mrs. Susan; what, man, can't you be satisfied without my mistress?
Hoot, hush, mon, your mistress chuses to go.
But I don't chuse it, I tell you, you sarpent, you viper.
I never saw so rude a brute: is this the way you treat your mistress, fellow?
Fellow yourself; why, 'tis because she is my mistress that she shan't go with thee; why, if thee beest a lord, thee beest only a man—and as an Englishman, I'm the best of the two, and so you shall find me, if you dare lay hold of her again.
He's certainly bewitch'd—speak to him, sweet love—
Why, John—
(In a low voice)
Why, zounds, I could tear your ugly eyes out, so I could
(Sets down his lanthorn, and beats him with a stick)
there—there—now, will you take my mistress—
Help! help! murder!
[
The group of company appear at the end of the stage with servants and torches, Mr.
Camply
runs up to
John
and holds his arm.
]
What is the matter, my lord? what is the matter?
Why, Miss Loveless and I were going to take a walk together, and that fellow is mad, I believe, for he will not let her do as she likes.
Miss Loveless! why, my lord, is this Miss Loveless? you dream.
(Holds the lanthorn up to
Susan
's face.
Faith—an uglier dream by half—what in the name of wonder can all this be?
This is a fine evening, my lord; but you look disturb'd, what is the matter?
Matter, why all the plagues of Egypt I believe: yes, yes, I am disturb'd, and wet to the skin too; so pray what do you talk of a fine evening for, there has been a violent storm of rain.
(All the company laugh)
Na, na—
I am much obliged to you, my lord, for your very kind intentions, and love of my fortune; I was so insensible of the nature of your affection, that it is to me you are indebted for that shower of rain from yonder engine, and for a beating into the bargain from honest John, who thought it was his mistress you were going off with.
What, and so you did not like him then—Ah! Susan, Susan, I've a month's mind never to be jealous again.
Why, you great jolter-head you, did'st think I was going to run away; don't ye know that nothing but gentlefolks run away with one another?
Well, well, say no more; if ever I am jealous again I wish a frost may nip all the trees in the garden; odsnigs, if Mr. Camply had not come, I believe in my heart I should have broke every bone in your skin, my lord.
Thank ye, I feel as if you had done it. Never did any man of the family of Macgrinnon suffer such indignities as I have suffered from this company; to be deluded by a woman is a trifle; a man of sense will expect it: but I canna help reflecting on the impertinencies, the jeers, and the sluicing that have been thrown at me, without thinking that the happiness of my noble ancestors is disturbed by the unworthy treatment that has been offered to their lineal descendant.
[All the company laugh.
Certainly nothing but his vanity could induce him to think that I was weak enough to comply with his request; and now, Miss Camply, I will confess that I am much indebted to you for curing me of my ridiculous plan of conduct, and I wish you may succeed in every thing you undertake as you have in this.
Why, mine was rather a bold scheme, I must confess? but if the rest of the company
(bowing round)
will forget what a very lively coxcomb I have been, I shall not repent of the pains I have taken to please every one.
Ladies, I trust you will adopt my plan,
And only wear the dress to gain the man.
FINIS.
BOOKS printed for G. RILEY.
I. The Third Edition, price Two Shillings,
OF the MODERN ANECDOTE of the Ancient Family of the
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a Tale. Dedicated to the Honourable
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by the Author of the MINIATURE PICTURE.
II. Inscribed by Permission to General Keppel, handsomely printed in Quarto, price 2s. 6d.
THE ART of WAR; a Poem, in Six Books; Translated from the
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with a Critique on the Poem, by the
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Italian.