r
LOVELL'S SCHOOL DIALOGUES,
.NEW
SCHOOL DIALOGUES;
OB,
DEAMATIC SELEOTIOITS,
FOB THE USB OF
SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, AND FAMILIES.
DESIGNED TO FUENISH EXERCISES
EITHER FOR
READING, RECITATION, OR EXHIBITION.
dc
By JOHN Ef LOVELL,
AUTHOR OP *
LOVBLL'S TJNTTBD states SPBAKEB, liOVBIX's SKETES OF BBADEE8, KTC.
A NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED.
NEW YORK:
COLLINS & BROTHER, PUBLISHERS,
370 RROADWAY.
SDUCATION DEPT.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
COLLINS & BROTHER,
In the Office of the Librari4n of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE,
Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
The critic's sight, 'tis only grace can please,
No action charms us, if it have not ease. — Llotb.
This book of Dialogues was promised to the public two or
three years ago. I had then prepared a considerable portion
ot its contents, and expected, shortly, to '-put it to press."
The long interval which has elapsed, has been checkered
with important and unexpected duties, which, together 'with a
desire to render the work as interesting and appropriate as
possible, must be my apology to those gentlemen who ha^e
honored me with letters of inquiry respecting it. My princi-
pal inducement for undertaking the labor and responsibility of
this compilation, is the almost constant application to me/o7'
'pieces for exhibitions^ from teachers, not only of this, but, in-
deed, of other States ; and the fact that the publishers have,
now, before the work ' is through the press." numerous or-
ders from different parts of the country. — assures me that such
a work is much needed, and. if well executed will be well
received. My experience satisfies me. that there is no better
medium of cultivating a beautiful and captivating style of
elocution^ 'r a more graceful, just, and impressive action, than
the ^.mp>yment of dialogues. Nor is there any species of
recitation that young folks so much delight in. The ardor
and enthusiasm it inspires in their youthful breasts, is abso-
lutely astonishi g. The work will be found to possess great
variety and copiousness. I have aimed at the double pur-
pose of supplying exercises for the regular lessons of the
school-room and interesting materials for occasional exhibi-
tions. The latter object has demanded selections of con-
siderable length. Many of the longer pieces, however, are
admissible of division, and the taste of the teacher will easily
determine the fit and appropriate limits. I have drawn from
the most popular writers, also not only such selections as are
IV PREFACE.
admirable for a bold, beautiful and captivating spirit, but oth
ers equally characterized by their racy wit. and comic humor.
" The true orator must understand how to excite the wdrtli^
as well as how to command the fears of his auditors."
To attempt to teachdami/^g by mere words, and especially
written words, all would admit to be the absurdity of absurdi-
ties. Just so is it with gesture and attitude. The embellish'
ments of this volume, it is therefore hoped, will be appre*
"iated. Next to living examples, no diouhi^ pictures are the
best. The illustrations, to which I here allude, have been
selected for both divisions of the book with great care. We
all have oui- peculiar tastes, and. according to a trite and un-
classical aphorism, " what's one man's meat is another man's
poison." T will venture to assert, however, that these embel-
lishments will be considered very beautiful, very instructive,
and admirably engraved.
The book, such as it is, is submitted to the candid judgment
of an intelligent and impartial public. My desire has been
to subserve the cause of education, and especially in that de-
partment, which, if wisely and sufficiently cherished, would
give unimagined lustre and power to the efforts of the Law-
yer, the Statesman, the Orator, and the Divine.
If the noble and aspiring boy, — he, who. reaching after a
perfect elocution and a perfect action, may, after a few fast-
fled summers, be destined '-to rule the whirlwind and direct
the storm," in moral or political affairs, — shall look back to the
selections here presented for his study, as the source of his
youthful inspiration. I shall be thankful. But to arrive at
this proud eminence of fame and usefulness, he must labor.
" Greece and Rome produced, each of them, but one accom-
plished orator." J. E. L.
New Haven, Feb. 1st, 1839.
N B. Any suggestions for the improvement of the v;ork
either in arrangement or matter, from those teachers whc
may use it will be gratefully received. J. E. L.
RULES OF DEBATE.
i'l the first general meeting of members for the establishnient of the
ei^s, the title of the society should be resolved upon, the laws of debate
agreed to, and a secretary elected, whose duty it will be to keep minutes
of the proceedings.
General meetings should be held half-yearly, or at some other stated
time, to confirm, amend, or extend the laws, and to elect or re-elect the
secretary.
At the ordinary meetings, after the election of the chairman from
amongst the members, the secretary should read the minutes of ihe
previous meeting. When they have been confirmed, the chairman
should call upon the gentleman who has undertaken to open the debate,
to address the meeting.
It is then usual for the seconder to speak ; and afterwards the other
members, at their pleasure. When all who wish to speak, have spoken,
the chairman calls on the opener for his reply ; after which the question
is put from the chair, and decided by show of hands. This done, the
question to be discussed at the next meeting is proposed, seconded and
agreed upon. The class then adjourns.
No member is allowed to speak twice, except the opener in reply, or
any one in explanation.
'I he opener has no right to introduce fresh arguments in his reply:
he can only refer to what has gone before.
The chairman cannot speak unless he quit the chair ; nor can he vote
unless the numbers be equal, in which case he gives Ore casting vote.
It will be found advisable to limit each speaker to a particular time,
say ten minutes : the opener may be allowed fifteen minutes.
If all who wish to speak, cannot do so on one occasion, the debate
may be adjourned until next meeting ; — the mover of the adjournment^
or the seconder, in the mover's absence, re-opening the discussion.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
An increased demand for this work has induced the author carefully
to revise and improve it. It has been considerably enlarged, and ren-
dered much superior to the former editions, by the introduction of many
new pieces of an instructive and highly interesting character ; one of
these is a debate, consisting of nine short and pertinent speeches, well
Atiapted either for school-room exercises, if used in pairs ; or for public
exhibition, taken all together. The author begs leave to suggest to his
brother teachers, that although this work is specially designed to fur-
nish materials for speaking, it will be found, on trial, to be decidedly
excellent as a reading book for advanced classes. There is a great va-
riety of style in the compositions here presented, and no better mate-
rials, perhaps, in any shape, can be procured, as lessons, for the natural
cultivation of inflection, tone, modulation, pitch, emotion, — in short, for
the cultivation of all that pertains to the " speaking voice." The ac-
complished and effective reader can hardly be made without the em-
ployment of dialogues.
NEW EDITION ENLAKGED.
The favor accorded to the New School Dialogues has encouraged
the author to increase its volume still farther ; and it is now pre-
sented to the public with twenty-four pages of new material.
New Haven, Oct. 31, 1871.
CONTENTS.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL.
P*jioction.
1. Gambler's Remorse — Beverly, Jarvis,
2. The Orphan — Henry, Evergreen,
8. Virtue — Generous and Unsuspecting — Sir Philip
Blandford, Henry, ....
4. From the Foundling of the Forest — De Val-
mont, Florian, L'Clair,
5. From AH Pacha — Zenocles, Talathon,
6. Lost Reputation — From Othello — lago, Cassio
1. From the Vespers of Palermo — Eribert, An
eelmo, ......
8. Orestes, Pyrrhus,
9. Lochiel — Lochiel, Seer, ....
10. King, Youth, Hamet
il. From Richard the Third — Dream of Clarence —
Brakenbury, Clarence,
12. From Gustavus Vasa — Gustavus, Anderson, Ar
noldus, Officers, Dalecarlians,
13. Thankful Confidence in Heaven — Tobias, Francis
Stranger,
14. From Douglas — Lord Randolph, Glenalvon
Nerval. ......
15. From Coriolanus — Coriolanus, Aufidius, .
16. From the Mutiny at the Nore — Parker, Mary,
Child, . . . . .
17. From Julius Caesar — Brutus, Cassius,
18. Search for Octavian — Octavian, Roque,
19 From Tamerlane — Omar, Tamerlane,
to. From Antony and Cleopatra — Antony, Ven
tidius,
21. From the Peasant Boy — Albert!, Julian, Mon
taldi, Stefano, Ludovico, Ambrose, Vincent,
Guards, &c.,
22. From Henry the Fourth — Hotspur, Earl of
Douglas, Raby, Earl of Worcester, Sir
Richard Vernon,
23. From Damon and Pythias — Philistius, Dionys-
ius, Damocles, Damon, Senators, Procles,
Soldiers,
24. From Alasco — Alasco, Conrad, Malinski.Rienski,
Page
Moore, 13
Morion, 15
Morton, 16
Dimond, 19
Payne, 21
Shakspeare, 23
Mrs. Hemans, 24
Philips, 26
Campbell, 28
31
Shakspeare, 34
Brooke, 36
Kotzehue, 38
Home, 41
Shakspeare, 44
Jerrold, 46
Shakspeare, 51
Colman, 54
Rowe, 57
Shakspeare, 61
Dv.nond, 64
Shakspeare, 69
Shiel, 71
Shee, '^'^
VUl
CONTENTS.
Selection. Page
25. From Julius Csesar — Brutus, Cassius, . . ShaJcspeare, 85
jd. From Cato — Gate, Fortius, Lucius, Juba, Marcia, Addison, 85
27. From Alfred the Great— Alfred, Devon, . . Thompson, 89
Scene Second, 92
28. From Brutus — Brutus, Centurion, Valerius, Titus,
Collatinus, Lictors, Guards, People, . . Payne, 94
Scene Second 97
29. From the Vespers of Palermo — Montalba, Pro-
cida, Raimond, First Sicilian, Second Sicil-
ian, Guido, Sicilians, . . . Mrs. Hemans, 100
80. From Pizarro — Alonzc, Sentinel, Rollo, . . Sheridan, 106
31. From Pizarro — Pizarro, Valverde, Las Casas,
Almagro, Davillo, Gomez, Orozembo, . Sheridan, 110
32 From the Benevolent Jew — Sir Stephen Ber-
tram, Frederick Bertram, Charles Ratcliffe,
Saunders, Sheva, Jabal, . . . . Cumberland, 115
Scene Second, 122
Scene Third, ....... 126
Scene Fourth, 130
33. From the Lady of the Lake — King James,
Roderic Dhu, Scott, 131
34. From Rienzi — Angelo, Rienzi, .... Mitford, 137
36. Maurice, the Woodcutter — Prince Leopold, Baron
Leibheim, Count Hartenstein, Maurice,
Hans, Dominie, Starkoph, Glandoff, Cap-
tain Manhoof, Riegel, Boltzen, Fritz, Marie,
Lotta, Officers, Peasants, .... Somerset, 140
Scene Second, 145
Scene Third, 149
Scene Fourth, 152
Scene Fifth, 153
86. From Ion — Adrastus, Medon, Ion, Ctesiphon,
Cassander, Cyrthes, Agenor, . . . Talfourd, 159
87. From William Tell— Gesler, Sarnem, Rodolph,
Gerard, Lutold, Sentinel, Tell, Verner, Erni,
Melctal, Furst, Michael, Theodore, Pierre,
Albert,Savoyards,Emma, Soldiers, People, Knowhs, 165
Scene Second, 167
Scene Third, 176
Scene Fourth, 178
Scene Fifth, 180
Scene Sixth, 184
Scene Seventh, 191
Scene Eighth, 195
Scene Ninth, 196
Scene Tenth, 199
88 A Debate — First Speaker, 2d Speaker, 3d
Speaker, 4th Speaker, 5th Speaker, 6th
Speaker, 7th Speaker, 8th Speaker, 9th
Speaker 200
CONTENTS.
1%
COMIC AND AMUSING.
Election — Baltimore, Peter, David
Bolection.
1. ^rom the
Nat,
2. From Speed the Plough — Farmer Ashfield, Dame
Ashfield
8 From the Mountaineers — Sadi, Octavian, Agnes,
4. From the Rivals — Sir Anthony Absolute, Mrs
Malaprop, Lydia, ....
5. From William Tell — Waldman, Michael, .
6. Clownish Ignorance — Humphry, Pounce, .
'I. P'rom Black-Eyed Susan — Admiral, "William
Witnesses, . . . ' .
8. The Will — Swipes, Currie, Frank Middleton
Squire Drawl,
From the Rivals — Acres, Captain Absolute
David, Servant, ....
Miseries of Wealth— Grub, Consol,
From the Bashful Man — Sir Thomas Friendly
Blushington, Frank, Gyp, Evans, Nicholas,
Lady Friendly, Dinah, ...
Scene Second
A Man in Love with his Wife — Bashful, Love
9.
10.
11.
12.
more,
From Paul Pry — Tankard, Billy, Oldbutt
Paul Pry, . . . ...
From the Poor Gentleman — Frederic, Sir Robert
Bramble, Humphrey Dobbins, .
From the Sword — Lord Onsburg, Augustus,
Henrietta, Frank Raynton, William Rayn
ton, Edw. Dudley, Charles Dudley, Crape,
Scene Second,
Marriage of a Daughter— Grub, Mrs. Grub,
n. From the Rivals — Sir Anthony Absolute, Cap
tain Absolute — Fag, Errand Boy,
Scene Second,
18. The Disappointed Suitors — Mr. Maynard, Colo-
nel Faulkland, Mr. Ellis, Servant,
19. Ignorance and Wilfulness — Student, Deacon,
20 From the Doctor in spite of Himself — Gregory
Sir Jasper, Squire Robert, Harry, James,
Dorcas, . . . .
Scene Second, ......
Scene Third,
21. From the Weathercock— Old Fickle, Tristram
Fickle, Briefwit, Sneer, Barber,
Scene Second,
22. From the Clandestine Marriage — Mr. Stirling
Sir John Melville, . . . Colman
23. From Education — Damper, Templeton, Mrs,
Templeton, Servant,
14
15
16.
Baillie 2 1 2
Anonymous, 218
Cclman, 215
Sheridan, 217
Knowles, 220
222
Anonymous, 224
Anonymous, 227
Sheridan, 230
O'Brien, 233
236
238
Murphy, 243
Poole, 246
Colman, 250
Berquin, 253
267
O'Brien, 262
Sheridan, 265
269
272
Anonymous, 275
Fielding, 280
284
287
Allingham, 291
295
and Garrick, 301
Morton, 304
CONTENTS.
Selection. Paga
24. From the School for Scandal — Sir Peter Teazle,
Lady Teazle, Sheridan, 807
25. Lady GraCe, Lady Townly, . Cibber and Vanburgh, 309
26. From the School for Rakes — Lord Eustace,
Frampton, ' . Centlivre, 314
27. From the Beaux Stratagem — Boniface, Aim well, Farquhar, 316
28. Fron Nolens Yolens — Sir Christopher, Quiz, . Hall, 318
29. Reward of Benevolence — Job Thornberry, John
Bur, Peregrine, Caiman 328
80. From As You Like It — Duke Frederick, Le
Beau, Charles, Oliver, Orlando, Adam,
Dennis, Touchstone, Rosalind, Celia, Lords,
Attendants, . . . . . . Shakspeare, 330
Scene Second, ....... 334
31. Love, Duty, and Parental Authority — Mabel,
Godwin, Arthur Montressor, . . . Anonymous, 338
Scene Second, 340
82. From a Cure for the Heart- Ache — Vortex,
Young Rapid, Old Rapid, Bronze, Land-
lord, Waiter, Servant, Miss Vortex, . . Morton, 345
Scene Second, 352
Scene Third, 356
83. From Fish out of Water—Sir George Court-
ley, Alderman Gayfare, Charles Gayfare,
Steward, Sam Savory, Footman, Ellen
Courtley, Lucy, . . . . . Lunn, 360
. Scene Second, 377
Scene Third, 385
84. From the Fashionable Lover — Mortimer, Au-
brey, Colin Macleod, Bridgemore, Nap-
thali, Servant, Cumberland, 388
Scene Second, 390
Scene Third, 393
Scene Fourth, 395
85. From the West-Indian — Lady Rusport, Charlotte
Rusport, Charles "Dudley, Major O'Flagh-
erty, Varland, Captain Dudley, . . Cumberlaiid, 398
36. From the Village Lawyer — Scout, Snarl, Mit-
timus, Sheepface, Shepherd, Charles, Clerk,
Constables, &c., Mrs. Scout, . . . Anonymous, 411
37. From Fortune's Frolic — Robin Roughhead,
Snacks, Villagers, Frank, Dolly, Margery, Allingham, 425
38. Cousin Peter — Cousin Peter, Manon, Louis, Mrs.
Leclere, . Souvestre, 433
39. The Lawyers— The Judge, His Son, The Sec-
retary and the Servant (as Lawyers),
Prompter, Racine, 449
JN£¥
SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL.
I.— GAMBLER'S REMORSE.— Moore.
BEVERLY JARVIS.
Beverly. [Alone.] Why, what a worJd is this ! The slave
that digs for gold receives his daily pittance, and sleeps
contented; while those for whom he labors convert their
good to mischief, making their abundance the means of
want. O shame, shame ! Had fortune given me but a
little, that little had been still my own. But plenty leads to
waste ; and shallow streams maintain their currents, while
swelling rivers beat down their banks, and leave their
channels empty. What had I to do with play 2 I wanted
nothing — my wishes and my means were equal. The poor
followed me with blessings ; love scattered roses on my
pillow ; and morning waked me to delight. Oh, bitter
thought ' that leads me to what I was by what I am. 1
would forget both. Who's there? [Jarvis enters.] Jar vis !
Why this intrusion? Your absence had been kinder ?
Jarvis. I came in duty. Sir. If it be troublesome —
Bev. It is — I would be private, hid even from myself.
Who sent you hither?
Jar. One who would persuade you home again. My
mistress is not well — her tears told me so.
Bev. Go with thy duty there, then. But does she weep?
I am to blame to let her weep. Prithee begone. I have
no business for thee.
2
14 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Jar. Yes, Sir, to lead you from this pla^^e. I am your
servant still. Your prosperous fortune blessed my old age :
if that has left you, I must not leave you.
Bev. Not leave me ! Recall past time then ; or through
this sea of storms and darkness, show me a star to guide me.
But what canst thou do?
Jar. The little that I can I will. You have been gener
ous to iTie. I would not offend you, Sir. but —
Bev. No. Think'st thou I would ruin thee too? I have
enough of shame already. My wife ! Wouldst thou be-
lieve it, Jarvis, I have not seen her this long night. J, who
have loved her so. that every hour of absence seemed a gap
in life ! But other bonds have held me. ! I have played
the boy, dropping my counters in the stream, and reaching
to redeem them, have lost myself! Why wjit thou follow
misery ? Or, if thou wilt, go to thy mistress. She has no
guilt to sting her, and therefore may be comforted.
Jar. I have no heart, Sir, to see this change.
Bev. Nor I to bear it. But how speaks the world of
me?
Janr. As of a good man dead — of one who. walking in a
dream, fell down a precipice. The world is sorry for you.
Bev. Ay, and pities me. Says it not so ? I'll tell thee
what it says. It calls me villain — a treacherous husband, a
cruel father, a false brother — one lost to nature and her
charities ; or, to say all in one short word, it calls me —
gamester. Go to thy mistress — I'll see her presently.
Jar. And why not now? Bude people press upon her:
loud, bawling creditors, wretches who know no pity. I met
one at the door — he would have seen my mistress. I wanted
means of present payment, so promised it to-morrow. But
others may be pressing, and she has grief enough already.
Your absence hangs too heavy on her.
Bev. Tell her I'll come then. I have a moment's busi-
ness. But what hast thou to do with my distress ? Thy
honesty has left thee poor, and age wants comfort. Keep
what thou hast for cordials; lest, between thee and the
grave, misery assail thee.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. Ifi
II.— THE OKVR AN. —Morton.
HENRY EVERGREEN.
[Note. — Henry is unacquainted with his parentage ; Evergreen
kijows, but dares not disclose it.]
Evergreen. Henry, well met.
Henry. Have you seen strangers?
Everg. No !
Hen. Two but now have left this place. They spoke of
a lost child. My busy fancy led me to think I was the
object of their search. I pressed forward, but they avoided
me.
Everg. No, no ; it could not be you ; for no one on earth
knows but myself, and —
Hen. Who— Sir Philip Blandford ?
Everg. I am sworn, you know, my dear boy; I am
solemnly sworn to silence.
Hen. True, my good old friend ; and if the knowledge of
who I am can only be obtained at the price of thy perjury,
let me forever remain ignorant — let the corroding thought
still haunt my pillow, cross me at every turn, and render me
insensible to the blessings of health and liberty ? Yet in
vain do I suppress the thought — who am I ? Why thus
abandoned ? perhaps the despised offspring of guilt. Ah i
is it so !
Everg. Henry, do I deserve this ?
Hen. Pardon me, good old man ! I'll act more reasona-
bly ; I'll deem thy silence mercy.
Everg. That's wisely said.
Hen. Yet it is hard to think that the most detested
reptile that nature forms, or man pursues, has when he gains
his den, a parent's pitying breast to shelter in ; but I —
Everg. Come, come, no more of this.
Hen. Well — I visited to-day that young man who was
so grievously bruised by the breaking of his team.
Everg. That was kindly done, Henry.
Hen. I found him suffering under extreme torture, yet a
ray of joy shot from his languid eye — for his medicine was
administered by a father's hand — it was a mother's precious
teaj that dropt upon his wound. Oh, how I envied him !
Everg. Still on the same subject — I tell thee if thou an
16 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
not acknowledged by thy race, why, then become the noble
founder of a new one. The most valuable carnations were
once seedlings — and the pride of my flower-bed is now a
Henry, which, when known, will be envied by every florist
in Britain. Come with me to the castle for the last time.
Hen. The last time !
Everg. Ay, boy ; for when Sir Philip arrives, thou must
avoid him.
Hen. Not see him ! Where exists the power that shall
prevent me?
Everg. Henry, if you value your own peace of mind, if
you value an old man's comfort, avoid the castle.
Hen. [Aside.'] I must dissemble with this honest crea-
ture — Weil, I am content.
Everg. That's right — that's right, Henry — be but thou
resigned and virtuous, and he who clothes the lily of the
field, will be a parent to thee.
HI— VIRTUE— GENEROUS AND UNSUSPECTING.—Jfor^ow.
SIR PHILIP BLANDFORD HENRY.
[Note. — Sir Philip is the uncle of Henry, but conceals the fact, and
spurns him from feelings of remorse.]
Sir Philip. By what title, Sir, do you thus intrude on
me?
Henry. By one of an imperious nature ; the title of a
creditor.
Sir P. I your debtor !
Hen. Yes ; for you owe me justice. You, perhaps, with-
hold from me the inestimable treasure of a parent's blessing.
Sir P. (Impatiently.) To the business that brought
you hither.
Hen. Thus then. I believe this is your signature [Fro-
duchig a bond.']
Sir P. Ah ! [recovering himself^ It is —
Hen. Affixed to a bond of £1.000, which, by assignment,
is mine. By virtue of this, I discharge the debt of your
worthy tenant, Ashfield; who, it seems, was guilty of the
crime of vindicating the injured and pi-otecting the unfor-
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 17
tunate. Now, Sir Philip, the retribution my hate demandH
is that what remains of this obligation may not be now
paid to me. but wait your entire convenience and leisure.
Sir P. No ; that must not be.
Hen. Oh, Sir, why then oppress an innocent man?
Why spurn from you a heart that pants to serve you ? Nc
answer. Farewell \_Going.']
Sir P. Hold - one word before we part. Tell me, how
came you possessed of this bond ?
Hen. A stranger, whose kind benevolence stept in and
saved—
Sir P. His name ?
Hen. Morrington.
Sir P. Fiend! tormentor! has he caught me? You
have seen this Morrington ?
Hen. Yes.
Si?- P. Did he speak of me ?
He7i. He did — and of your daughter. '• Conjure him."
said he, '• not to sacrifice the lovely Emma by a marriage
her heart revolts at. Tell him the life and fortune of a pa-
rent are not his own. He holds them but in trust for his
offspring. Bid him reflect, that while his daughter merits
the brightest reward a father can bestow, she is by that
father doomed to the harshest fate that tyranny can inflict.''
Sir P. Torture I [ With vehemence.'] Did he say who
caused this sacrifice ?
Hen. He told me you had been duped of your fortune
by sharpers.
Sir P. Ay, he knows that well ! Young man, mark
me. This Morrington, whose precepts wear the face of
virtue, and whose practice seems benevolence, was the chief
of the banditti that ruined me.
Hen. Is it possible 1
Sir P. That bond you hold in your hand was obtained
by robbery.
Hen. Confusion !
Sir P. Not by the thief who, encountering you as a
man, stakes life against life, but by that most, cowardly vil
lain, who, in the moment when reason sleeps and passion is
roused, draws snares around you, and hugs you to your
ruin ; then fattening on the spoil, insults the victim he has
made.
Hen. On your word, is Morrington that man ?
Sir P. On my word, he is
A ' 2*
18 KEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Hen. Thus, then, I annihilate the detested act, [^Tears
the bond'] and thus I tread upon a villain's friendship !
Sir P. Rash boy ! What have you done I
Hen. An act of justice to Sir Philip Blandford.
Sir P. For which you claim my thanks ?
Hen. Sir, I am thanked already here [/;^ his heart]
Confusion to such wealth. Compared with its possession,
poverty is splendor. Fear not for me — I shall not feel the
piercing cold ; for in that man whose heart beats warmly
for his fellow-creatures, the blood circulates with freedom.
My food shall be what few of the pampered sons of great-
ness can boast of, the luscious bread of independence, and
the opiate that brings me sleep will be the recollection of
the day passed in innocence.
Sir P. Noble boy ! Oh, Blandford !
Hen. Ah!
Sir P. What have I said ?
Hen. You called me Blandford !
Sir P. 'Twas error— 'twas madness.
Hen. Blandford! a thousand hopes and fears rush on
my heart. Disclose to me my birth — be it what it may, I
am your slave forever. Refuse me — you create a foe, firm
and implacable as —
Sir P. Ah ! am I threatened ? Do not extinguish the
spark of pity my breast is warmed with.
Hen. I will not. Oh ! forgive me !
Sir P. Yes, on one condition — leave me. Ah ! some
one approaches. Begone, I insi>t — I entreat.
Hen. That word has charmed me. I obey, Sir Philip—
you may hate but you shall respect me.
HrstirfTs. Como, lead mo to the block — bear him my he id;
riioy smile nt mo, who shortly sha I be A^AS.—R>ckirJ 111.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 19
IV.~FI10M THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST— Z>imo/id
DE VALMONT FLORIAN l'cLAIR.
Florian. You were speaking, sir, of Geraldine — Jovely
Geraldine ! Ah, sir, is she not admirable ?
De Valmont. The last fond wish left clinging to this heart,
is Geraldine's felicity. I shall endeavor to secure it, by unit-
ing her in marriage with a worthy object.
Flor. Sir, marriage, did you say ? gracious heavens !
marriage ?
De Val. What ! does the idea of Geraldine's marriage af
flict you ?
Flor. I am not such an ingrate — her happiness is the
prayer of my soul.
De Val. (After a pause) Florian, draw yourself a seat.
[Florian presents a chair to the count, and then seats him-
self.) You behold me, such as I have seemed, even from
your infancy — a suffering, broken hearted man. I once pos-
sessed a heart for enterprise, an arm for achievement. Grief,
not time, has palsied these endowments. Like the eaglet,
rushing from his nest against the sun, I entered upon life.
Flor. Ah, that malignant clouds should obscure so bright
a dawn !
De Val. My spirit panted for a career of arms : at the
age of twenty, I embraced the cause of my religion and my
king. Then, Florian, it was, I welcomed love ! a first, a last,
an eternal passion !
Flor. Oh, sir, desist — these recollections shake your mind
too strongly.
De Val. No, let me proceed, Florian ! I wooed and won
an angel — a lovely infant blessed our union. My felicity
seemed perfect ! Now, Florian. mark ! My country a sec-
ond time called me to her battles ; I left my kinsman. Lon-
gueville, to guard the dear ones of my soul — I was wounded
and made prisoner — a rumor of my death prevailed through
France. I trembled lest Eugenia should receive the tale,
and flew to prevent her terrors. — Oh ! oh ! the blood now
curdles round my heart — the wolves of war had rushed upon
my slumbering fold — my wife — my infant — I trampled on
their ashes !
Flor. Tremendous hour ! so dire a shock might paralyze
a Roman firmness
20 NT5W SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
r
De Val. Florian, there is a grief that never found its im-
age yet in words. I prayed for death ; I plunged into the
deepest solitudes. At the close of a sultry day. I entered a
forest at the foot of the Cevennes. On the sudden, a fainl
and feeble moan pierced my ear ; and, lo ! a desolate infant
left to perish in the wilderness ! It was famishing ! I raised
it to my breast ; its little arms twined feebly round my neck.
Florian, thou wert heaven's gracious instrument to reclaim a
truant to his duties ! Eighteen years have followed that
event.
Flor. Sir. those years shall not pass unforgotten. An or-
phan's blessing wafts their eulogy to heaven. [He casts him-
self at De Vol monf s feet.)
De Val. Rise, young man ! your virtues have repaid my
cares. Florian, let Greraldine become your wife — be you
hereafter the protector of my people.
Flor. Merciful powers ! I ! the child of accident and mys-
tery — a wretched foundling ! — I ! —
De Val. Young man, fortune forbade you to inherit a
name, but she has granted you a prouder boast ; you have
founded one. Your marriage shall receive my blessing.
Farewell. [Exit suddenly.)
Flor. Heard I aright ? Yes, he pronounced it, " Geral-
dine is thine." Earth's gross substantial touch is felt no
more — I mount in air, and rest on sunbeams ! Oh, if I
dream now, royal Mab ! abuse me ever with thy dear de-
ceits !
[Enter L^ Clair.)
E C. So, captain ! you are well encountered. I have sad
forebodings that our shining course of arms is threatened
with eclipse.
Flor. How now, my doughty squire — what may be our
present jeopardy ?
EC. Ah, captain, the sex — the dear enchanting sex:
captain, heroes are but men, men but flesh, and flesh but
weakness.
Flor. Knave ! I am to be married ; varlet, wish me joy.
EC. Certainly, captain, I'do wish you joy : for when a
man has once determined upon matrimony, he acts wisely
to collect the congratulations of his friends beforehand. May
T take the freedom to inquire the lady ?
Flor. L'Clair, the peerless, priceless Geraldine.
EC. Peerless, I grant the lady; but as to priceless, I
should think, for my own poor particular, that when I bar-
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 21
tered my liberty, I was paying full value for my goods, be-
sides a swinging overcharge for the fashion of the make.
Flrn-. Tush, man ! 'tis not by form or feature I compute
my prize. Geraldine's mind, not her beauty, is the magnet
of my love. (Exei(7it\
v.— FROM ALI VKQMA,— Payne.
I TALATHON.
Talathon. Now, stranger, what would you with me ?
Zenocles. Are we by ourselves ?
Tai. Whence this mystery 1 AVho art thou ?
Zeno. {^Discovering himself.) Zenocles.
Tal. Zenocles !
Zeno. Anguish has worn my features. Ten years of suf-
fering work awful changes. Do you still doubt ?
Tal. The savior of my life —
Zeno. Now comes to save your honor..
Tal. How chances this ? K Suliot chief, the ambjtssador
of Ismail !
Zeno. That character is a stratagem ; 'twas assumed but
to open these gates, and enable me to converse with Talathon.
Tal. And what do you expect from Talathon ?
Zeno. Mark me ! You are not the only Greek, who,
spell-bound by the genius of Ali 'Ihebelen, is become the
accomplice of his crimes. But a new glory awaits you — the
glory of effacing the stain which soils your name, by the
destruction of your country's tyrant.
Tal. Shall the chief of Ali's warriors betray him in ad-
versity ?
Zeno. Have you not already betrayed your country in ad-
versity, by joining Ali ? Is it only towards Greece, that
her sons think perjury no crime ? Oh, men ! men ! Off-
spring of the soil which has sent arts and refinement through
the earth ; which has filled history with its first great ex-
amples ; which has taught countries unborn, when it was
greatest, to be free and great — Oh ! men of Greece, can ye
alone crouch tamely to the barbarian, and invite the yoke,
while distant nations madden at the story of your wrongs,
and burn to vindicate your cause ! Sons of heroes start
22 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
from your lethargy ! Crush the insulter of the land of
glory ; show the expecting world that Grreece is not extinct,
and give some future Homer themes for a mightier Iliad.
Tal. Zenocles, your voice rouses me! I feel what I
have lost, and am ready to redeem it Speak on. — What is
your purpose ?
Zeno. Ismail, trembling for the life of his father, now ^
captive in your charge, has made me the bearer of a treaty,
which demands that Ibrahim be set free ; and upon this con-
dition grants that Ali, with his family, may depart on the
seas of Epirus. But. should Ali accept the terms —
Tal. What then?
Zeno. May he not collect fresh armies to harass Greece
anew, when his wasting strength shall have had time to re-
cover? And shall we stand by, and see him bear to a
strange clime the spoils of our country, and the life which
has derived its fame only from her miseries. No. I will await
him with a chosen band, upon the shore. Here, in the sight
of Epirus shall the spoiler's blood bathe the soil he has
made desolate ! Our long humbled land shall rise up once
more a nation, and heaven-topped Olympus tremble with
delight, as its echoes once more awaken to the shouts of
liberty !
Tal. Zenocles, command me. — But stay. — Should Ali re-
ject the treaty, and decide to tempt, to the last, the chance
of battle in the citadel —
Zeno. Then. Talathon, to you, and to you only can we
look. The warriors of Ali, whom you command, have more
than once signalized their devotion to you. You must enlist
them in our cause. Their dread of Ismail may make them
eager to earn their pardon of the foe, and their feeble attach-
ment to Ali will soon be lost in the hope of sharing the
spoils of his overthrow.
Tal. Yanina shall be avenged !
Z^eno. Exult, my countrymen, exult ! The hour is come,
when, like your own Ulysses, ye shall cast off the weeds of
fciavery, and once more be masters of your homes.
(^Exeunt.)
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 23
VL— LOST REPUTATION— FROM OTHELLO.— Shakspearv.
lAGO CASSIO.
lago. What ! be you hurt, lieutenant ?
Cass. Past all surgery.
Tago. Marry, heaven forbid !
Cass. Reputation ! reputation ! reputation ! Oh T have
lost my reputation ! I have lost the immortal part of
myself; and what remains is bestial. My reputation ! lago,
my reputation —
lago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had re-
ceived some bodily wound : there is more sense in that, than
in reputation. Reputation is an idle and false imposition :
oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. What,
man ! There are ways to recover the general again ; sue to
him. and he is yours.
Cass. ' I will rather sue to be despised — Drunk ! and
squabble ! swagger ! swear ! and discourse fustian with one's
own shadow! Oh thou invincible spirit of wine! if thou
hast no name to be known by. let us call thee Devil.
lago. What was he that you followed with your sword !
what had he done to you ?
Cass. I know not.
lago. Is it possible ?
Cass. I remember a mass of things, but nothing dis-
tinctly : a quarrel, but nothing wherefore : Oh, that men
should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their
brains I that we should with joy. pleasance, revel, and
applause, transform ourselves into beasts I
lago. Why, but you are now well enough ; how came
you thus recovered ?
Cass. It has pleased the devil Drunkenness, to give place
to the devil Wrath. One imperfection shows me another, to
make me frankly despise myself
lago. Come : you are too severe a moraler. As the time
place, and the condition of this country stands, I could
heartily wish this had not befallen ; but since it is as it is.
mend it for your own good.
Cass. I will ask him for my place again ; he shall tell
me I am a drunkard I Had I as many mouths as Hydra,
such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible
24 NRW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast ! — Even
inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
lago. Come: come: good wine is a good familiar crea-
ture, if it be well used : exclaim no more against it ; — and,
good lieutenant I think you think I love you ?
Cass. I have well approved it, sir : — I drunk !
lago. You, or any man living, may be drunk some time,
man ? I tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is
now the general ; confess yourself freely to her : importune
her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free,
so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in
her goodness, not to do more than she is requested. This
broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to
splinter ; and my fortune against any lay worth naming,
this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was
before.
Cass. You advise me well.
lago. I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kind-
ness.
Cass. I think it freely ; and betimes in the morning, T
will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me.
lago. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant.
Cass. Good night, honest lago.
VIL— FROM THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.— J/rs. Hemans.
ERIBERT ANSELMO.
Anselmo. "Will you not hear me ? — Oh ! that they who
need
Hourly forgiveness — they who do but live,
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars.
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of ^Dageant power.
Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet,
'Tis in your choice to imitate chat heaven
Whose noblest joy is pardon.
Eribert. 'Tis too late.
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads
With eloquent melody — bui they must die.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 26
Ansel. What, die ! — for words ? — for breath, which leaves
no trace
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends,
And is, being uttered, gone ? — Why, 'twere enough
For such a venial fault, to be deprived
One little day of man's free heritage,
Heaven's warm and sunny light! — Oh ! if you deem
That evil harbors in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stern justice wake.
E?'i. I am not one
Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been
Where power sits crowned and armed. And, mark me,
brother !
To a distrustful nature it might seem
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead,
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being
Suspicion holds no power. And yet take note —
— I have said — and they must die.
Ansel. Have you no fear ?
Eri. Of what ?— that heaven should fall ?
Ansel No! — but that earth
Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en 'midst festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance.
My heart hath died within me.
Eri. Am I then
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a boy,
A dreaming boy, hath trembled at a look ?
Ansel Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the soul,
Which may not speak in words, can find no way
But theirs, to liberty ! — Have not these men
Brave sons, or noble brothers ?
Eri. Yes ! whose name
It rests with me to make a word of fear,
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men.
Ansel But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, beware !
— Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one
Of that devoted band. Avho yet will need
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now
3
26 NEW SCHOOL PIALOGUES,
His mother )eft me, with a timid hope
Just dawning in her breast : — and I — I dared
To foster its faint spark. You smile ! — Oh ! then .
He will be saved !
Eri. Nay. I but smile to think
What a fond fool is hope ! — She may be taught
To dream that the great sun will change his course
To work her pleasure ; or the tomb give back
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange !
Yet with pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mocked the boy's sad mother— I have said,
You should not thus have mocked her ! — Now, farewell.
(Exit Eribert.)
Ansel. Oh, brother ! hard of heart ! — for deeds like these
There must be fearful chastening, if on high
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell
Yon desolate' mother that her fair young son
Is thus to perish ! — Haply the dread tale
May slay her too ; — for heaven is merciful.
—'Twill be a bitter task !
VIII.— ORESTES— PYRRHUS.~P/ii%«.
Orestes. Before I speak the message of the Greeks,
Permit me, sir, to glory in the title
Of their ambassador : since I behold
Troy's vanquisher, and great Achilles' son.
Nor does the son rise short of such a father :
If Hector fell by him, Troy fell by you.
But what your father never would have done,
You do. You cherish the remains of Troy ;
And, by an ill-timed pity, keep alive
The dying embers of a ten-years' war.
Have you so soon forgot the mighty Hector ?
The Greeks remember his high-brandished sword,
That filled their states with widows and with orphans ;
For which they call for vengeance on his son.
Who knows what he may one day prove ? Who knows
But he may brave us m our ports, and, filled
With Hector's fury, set our fleets on blaze ?
You may yourself live to repent your mercy.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 27
Comply, then, with the Grecians' just demand :
Satiate their vengeance, and pres^^rve yourself!
Pyrrlms. The Greeks are for my safety more concerned
Than I desire : I thought your kings were met
On more important counsel. When I heard
The name of their ambassador, I hoped
Some glorious enterprise was taking birth.
Is Agamemnon's son despatched for this ?
And do the Grecian chiefs, renowned in war.
A race of heroes, join in close debate
To plot an infant's death ? What right has Greece
To ask his life ? Must I, must I alone,
Of all her sceptered warriors, be denied
To treat my captive as I please? Know, prince,
When Troy lay smoking on the ground, and each
Proud victor shared the harvest of the war,
Andromache, and this her son, were mine,
Were mine by lot ; and who shall wrest them from me ?
Ulysses bore away old Priam's queen ;
Cassandra was your own great father's prize :
Did I concern myself in what they won ?
Did I send embassies to claim their captives?
Orest. But, sir, we fear for you and for ourselves.
Troy may again revive, and a new Hector
Rise in Astyanax. Then think betimes —
Fyr. Let dastard souls be timorously wise ;
But tell them, Pyrrhus knows not how to form
Far-fancied ills, and dangers out of sight. ,
Ore&t. Sir, call to mind the unrivalled strength of Troy ;
Her walls, her bulwarks, and her gates of brass.
Her kings, her heroes, and embattled armies !
Pyr. I call them all to mind ; and see them all
Confused in dust; all mixed in one wide ruin ;
All but a child, and he in bondage held.
What vengeance can we fear from such a Troy ?
If they have sworn to extinguish Hector's race.
Why was their vow for twelve long months deferred ?
Why was he not in Priam's bosom slain 'I
He should have fallen among the slaughtered heaps
Whelmed under Troy. His death had then been just,
When age and infancy alike in vain
Pleaded their weakness ; when the heat of conquest,
And horrors of the fight, roused all our rage,
And blindly hurried us through scenes of death,
28 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
My fury then was without bounds: but now
My wrath appeased, must T be cruel still,
And. deaf to all the tender calls of pity.
Like a cool murderer, bathe my hands in blood —
Ai infant's blood? — No, prince. — Go, bid the Greeks
Mark out some other victim ; my /evenge
Has had its fill. What has escaped from Troy,
Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus.
Orest. I need not tell you, sir, Astyanax
Was doomed to death in Troy ; nor mention how
The crafty mother saved her darling son :
The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence .
Nor is't the boy, but Hector, they pursue :
The father draws their vengeance on the son :
The father, who so oft in Grecian blood
Has drenched his sword : the father, whom the Greeks
May seek even here. — Prevent them, sir, in time.
Pyr. No ! let them come, since I was born to wage
Eternal wars. Let them now turn their arms
On him who conquered for them : let them come.
And in Epirus seek another Troy.
'Twas thus they recompensed my godlike sire ;
Thus was Achilles thanked. But, prince, remember,
Their black ingratitude then cost them dear.
lS..~LOGElEli.— Campbell.
LOCHIEL SEER.
[To explain the following beautiful piece, it may be necessary to
mention that Lochiel, a highland chieftain, while on his march to join
the standard of the Pretender, was met by one of the highland Seers or
prophets, who, having the gift of second sight or prophecy, warns him
to return and not incur the certain ruin which awaited the unfortunate
prince and his followers at the battle which took place on the field of
Culloden.J
Seer. ( With his eyes fixed as though beholding future
eve?its.)
Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day
When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes on to my sight,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL, 39
A.nd the clans of Cullodcn are scattered in fight;
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down !
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark ! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall awake,
Like a love lighted watchfire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning ; no rider is there ;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Scotland, to death and captivity led !
O weep, but thy tears ca'nnot number the dead ;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Loc/iiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer I
Or if gory Culloden so dreadful appear.
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
Seer. Ha ! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high !
Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars fiom the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might.
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn:
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return !
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my
clan —
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one !
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock !
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock !
30 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
But woe to his kindred and woe to his cause,
When Scotland her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clamanald the dauntless, and Moray the proud !
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array —
Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day I
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal.
But man cannot cover what God would reveal.
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold where he flies on his desolate path !
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight,
Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! —
'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors,
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn.
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn 1
Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near, —
The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier ;
His death bell is tolling ! Oh mercy, dispel
Yon sight that it freezes my spirit to tell !
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale —
Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale.
For never shall Albin a destiny meet.
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.
Though my perishing ranks should b strewed in their gore,
Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight cwr by chains.
While a kindling of life in his bosom remains.
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field and his feet to the foe !
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 31
X. KING YOUTH HAMET.
King. Art thou the chief of that unruly baud
Who broke the treaty and assailed the Moors?
Youth. No, chief no leader of a band am I.
The leader of a band insulted me.
And those he led basely assailed my life ;
With bad success indeed. If self defence
Be criminal, King ! I have offended.
Kiiig. With what a noble confidence he speaks?
See what a spirit through his blushes breaks !
Observe him, Hamet.
Haniet. I am fixed upon him.
King. Didst thou alone engage a band of Moors,
And make such havoc ? Sure, it cannot be.
Recall thy scattered thoughts. Nothing advance
Which proof may overthrow.
Youth. What I have said,
No proof can overthrow. Where is the man,
Who, speaking from himself, not from reports
And rumors idle, will stand forth and say,
I was not single when the Moors attacked me I
Ham. I will not be that man, though I confess
That I came hither to accuse thee, youth.
And to demand thy punishment. — I brought
The tale our soldiers told.
Youth. The tale was false.
Hafii. I thought it true, but thou hast shook my faith.
The seal of truth is on thy gallant form.
For none but cowards lie.
King. Thy story tell,
With every circumstance which may explain
The seeming wonder ; how a single man
In such a strife could stand?
Youth. 'Twill cease to be
A wonder when thou hearest the story told.
This morning on my road to Oviedo,
A while I halted near a Moorish post.
Of the commander I inquired my way,
And told my purpose ; that I came to see
The famous combat. With a scornful smile,
With taunting words and gestures he replied,
82 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUBa
Mocking my youth ; advised me to retuia
Back to my father's house, and in the ring
To dance with boys and girls. He added, too,
That I should see no combat: that no knight
Of Spain durst meet the champion of the Moors.
Incensed, I did indeed retort his scorn.
The quarrel grew apace, and I defied him
To a green hill, which rose amidst the plain,
An arrow's flight or farther from his post.
Alone we sped : alone we drew, we fought
The Moorish captain fell. Enraged, his men
Flew to revenge his death. Secure they came,
Each with his utmost speed. Those who came first,
Single, I met and slew. More wary grown,
The rest together joined, and all at once
Assailed me. Then I had no hopes of life.
But suddenly a troop of Spaniards came,
And charged my foes, who did not long sustain
The shock, but fled, and carried to their camp
That false report which thou, O king ! hast heard.
Kifig. Now by my scepter and my sword I swear
Thou art a noble youth. An angel's voice
Could not command a more implicit faith
Than thou from me hast gained. What thinkest thou,
Hamet ?
Is he not greatly wronged ?
Ham. By Allah ! yes.
The voice of truth and innocence is bold,
And never yet could guilt that tone assume.
I take my leave, impatient to return
And satisfy my friends that this brave youth
Was not the aggressor. {Exit Hamet.)
King. I expect no less from generous Hamet.
— Tell me, wondrous youth !
For much I long to know, what is thy name?
Who are thy parents ? Since the Moor prevailed,
The cottage and the cave have oft concealed
From hostile hate the noblest blood of Spain ;
Thy spirit speaks for thee. Thou art a shoot
Of some illustrious stock, some noble house,
Whose fortunes with their falling country ieW.
Youth. Alberto is my name. I draw my birth
From Catalania; in the mountains there
My father dwells, and for his own domains
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 33
Pays tribute to the Moor. He was a soldier;
Oft I have heard him of your battles speak,
Of Cavadonga's and Olalle's field.
But ever since I can remember aught,
His chief employment and delight have been
To train me to the use and love of arms:
In martial exercise we passed the day ;
Morning and evening, still the theme was war.
He bred me to endure the summer's heat
And brave the winter's cold ; to swim across
The headlong torrent when the shoals of ice
Drove down the stream ; to rule the fiercest steeds
That on our mountains run. No savage beast
The forest yields that I have not encountered.
Meanwhile my bosom beat for nobler game ;
I longed in arms to meet the foes of Spain.
Oft I implored my father to permit me,
Before the truce was made, to join the host.
He said it must not be, I was too young
For the rude service of these trying times.
King. Thou art a prodigy, and fillest my mind
With thoughts profound, and expectation high.
When in a nation, humbled by the will
Of Providence, beneath a haughty foe,
A person rises up, by nature reared,
Sublimp, above the level of mankind ;
Like that bright bow the hand of the Most High
Bends in the watery cloud, he is the sign
Of prosperous change and interposing Heaven,
Henry. O God of battles ! steel my soldiers' hearts,
Possess them not with fenr, take from them uow
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
Pluck their heart from i\\&m.— Henry V
B
81 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XL— FROM RICHARD THE TnmD.—Shakspeare.
DREAM OF CLARENCE
BRAKENBURY CLARENCE.
Brakeribury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ?
Clarence. ! I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a^Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days ;
So full of dismal terror was the time.
Br ah. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you tell
me.
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embarked, to cross to Burgundy ;
And in my company, my brother, Gloster ;
Who from my cabin, tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches ; whence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought, that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O ! then, methcJUght, what pain it was to drown !
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears !
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes !
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ;
A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and, in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 't were in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems.
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, »
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
Brak. Had you such leisure, m the time of d.eath,
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep %
SERIOUS ATsB SENTIMENTAL. 35
Clar. Methought I had, and often did I strive
To yield the ^host ; but still the eavious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air ;
But smothered it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awaked you not, with this sore agony ?
Clar. O no ; my dream was lengthened, after life !
0, then began the tempest to my soul !
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first, that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ;
Who cried aloud, " What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?"
And so he vanished. Then came wandering by
A shadow, like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood ; and he shrieked out aloud :
" Clarence is come — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence —
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury :
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments !"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
1, trembling, waked, and, for a season after.
Could not believe but that I was in hell ;
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you ;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. 0, Brakenbury, I have done those things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me !
God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee.
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds.
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone :
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children !
— I pray the«e, gentle keeper, stay by me ;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
Brak. I will, my lord : God give your grace good rest ;
lClare7ice reposes himself on a chair. \
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
36 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
—FROM GUSTAVUS YASA.— Brooke.
GUSTAVUS ANDERSON ARNOLDUS OFFICERS DALECAP--
LIANS.
Dalecarlians. Let us all see him !
GustavMs. Amazement, I perceive, -hath filled your hearts,
And joy for that your lost Gustavus 'scaped
Through wounds, imprisonments, and chains, and deaths,
Thus sudden, thus unlooked for. stands before ye.
As one escaped from cruel hands I come,
From hearts that ne'er knew pity, dark and vengeful;
Who quaff the tears of orphans, bathe in blood,
And know no music but the groans of Sweden.
Yet, not because my sister's early innocence —
My mother's age now grind beneath captivity ;
Nor that one bloody, one remorseless hour
Swept my great sire and kindred from my side ;
For them, Gustavus weeps not.
But, great parent, when I think on thee !
Thy numberless, thy nameless, shameful infamies.
My widowed country! Sweden ! when I think
Upon thy desolation, spite of rage —
And vengeance that would choke them — tears will flow.
Anderson. Oh, they are villains, every Dane of them.
Practised to stab and smile : to stab the babe,
That smiles upon them.
Arnoldus. What accursed hours
Roll o'er those wretches, who, to fiends like these
In their dear liberty have bartered more
Than worlds will rate for ?
Gust. liberty, heaven's choice prerogative !
True bond of law, thou social soul of property.
Thou breath of reason, life of life itself!
For thee the valiant bleed. sacred liberty!
Winged from the summer's snare, from flattering ruin,
Lilie the bold stork you seek^the wintry shore,
Leave courts, and pomps, and palaces to slaves,
Cleave to the cold and rest upon the storm.
Upborne by. thee, my soul disdained the terms
Of empire offered at the hand of tyrants.
With thee I sought this favorite soil ; with thee
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 87
These favorite sons I sought : thy sons, Liberty !
For even amid the wilds of life you lead them,
Lift their low-raftered cottage to the clouds,
Smile o'er their heaths and from their mountain tops
Beam glory to the nations
All. LiWty ! Liberty !
Gust. Are ye not marked, ye men of Dalecarlia,
Are ye not marked by all the circling world
As the great stake, the last effort for liberty?
Say, is it not your wealth, the thirst, the food,
The scope and bright ambition of your souls ?
Why else have you, and your renowned forefathers,
From the proud summit of their glittering thrones,
Cast down the mightiest of your lawful kings,
That dared the bold infringement ? What but libertj^,
Through the famed course of thirteen hundred years,
Aloof hath held invasion from your hills.
And sanctified their shade ? — And will ye, will ye
Shrink from the hopes of the expecting world ;
Bid your high honors stoop to foreign insult,
And in one hour give up to infamy
The harvest of a thousand years of glory ?
First Dale. No.
Second Dale. Never, never.
Third Dale. Perish all first.
Fourth Dale. Die all.
Gust. Yes, die by piecemeal !
Leave not a limb o'er which a Dane may triumph.
Now from my soul I joy, I joy, my friends,
To see ye feared ; to see, that even your foes
Do justice to your valor ! — There they be,
The powers of kingdoms, summed in yonder host,
Yet kept aloof, yet trembling to assail ye.
And oh, when I look round and see you here,
Of number short, but prevalent in virtue.
My heart swells high, and burns for the encounter.
True courage but from opposition grows.
And what are fifty, what a thousand slaves.
Matched to the sinew of a single arm
That strikes for liberty, that strikes to save
His fields from fire, his infants from the sword,
And his large honors from eternal infamy 1
What doubt we then ?
Shall we shall we stand here,
4
3S NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Till motives that might warm an ague's frost,
And nerve the coward's arm, shall poorly serve
To wake us to resistance ? — Let us on !
0, yes, I read your lovely fierce impatience ;
You shall not be withheld, we will rush on them —
This is indeed to triumph, where we hold
Three kingdoms in our toil ! is it not glorious,
Thus to appall the bold, meet force with fury,
And push yon torrent back, till every wave
Flee to its fountain ?
And. On, lead us on^ Gustavus ; .one word more
Is but delay of conquest.
Gust. Take your wish.
He who wants arms, may grapple with the foe,
And so be furnished. You, most noble Anderson,
Divide our powerS; and with the famed Olaus
Take the left route. — You, Eric, great in arms !
With the renowned Nederbi, hold the right,
And skirt the forest down ; then wheel at once,
Confessed to view, and close upon the vale :
Myself, and my most valiant cousin here.
The invincible Arvida, gallant Sivard,
Arnoldus, and these hundred hardy veterans,
Will pour directly forth, and lead the onset.
Joy, joy, I see confessed from every eye.
Your limbs tread vigorous, and your breasts beat high !
Thin though our ranks, though scanty be our bands,
Bold are our hearts, and nervous are our hands.
With us, truth, justice, fame, and freedom close.
Each singly equal to a host of foes.
XIII.— THANKFUL CONFIDENCE IN HEAVEN.— Zbteeiw.
TOBIAS FRANCIS STRANGER.
Enter Tobias from the hut.
Tobias. Oh ! how refceshing, after seven long weeks, to
feel these warm sunbeams once again ! Thanks ! thanks !
bounteous heaven, for the joy I taste. [Presses his cap be-
tween his hands., looks up and prays. Tlie Stranger observes
him attentively.^
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 39
Francis. \^lh the Stranger.'] This old man's share of
earthly happiness can be but little ; yet mark how grateful
he is for his portion of it.
Strayiger. Because, though old, he is but a child in the
leading-strings of hope.
Fra. Hope is the nurse of life.
Stra. And her cradle is the grave.
[^Tobias replaces his cap.]
Fra. I wish you joy. I am glad to see you are so much
recovered.
2hb. Thank you. Heaven, and the assistance of a kind
lady, have saved me for another year or two.
Fra. How old are you, pray ?
2^ob. Seventy-six. To be sure I can expect but little joy
before I die. Yet, there is another and a better world.
Fra. To the unfortunate, then, death is scarce an evil ?
Tob. Am I so unfortunate? Do I not enjoy this glori-
ous morning? Am I not in health again? Believe me,
sir, he who, leaving the bed of sickness, for the first time
breathes the fresh, pure air, is, at that moment, the happiest
of his Maker's creatures.
Fra. Yet 'tis a happiness that fails upon enjoyment.
Tob. True ; but less so in old age. Some fifty years
ago my father left me this cottage. T was a strong lad,
and took an honest wife. Heaven blessed my farm with
rich crops, and my marriage with five children. This lasted
nine or ten years. Two of my children died. I felt it
sorely. The land was afflicted with a famine. My wife
assisted me in supporting our family : but four years after,
she left our dwelling for a better place. And of my five
children only one son remained. This was blow upon blow.
It was long before I regained my fortitude. At length
resignation and religion had their effect. I again attached
myself to life. My son grew, and helped me in my work.
Now the state has called him away to bear a musket. This
is to me a loss indeed. I can work no more. I am old
and weak ; and true it is, but for Mrs. Haller, I must have
perished.
Fra. Still, then, life has its charms for you ?
Tob. Why not, while the world holds anything- that's
dear to me ? Have not I a son ? .
Fra. Who knows that you will ever see him more ? He
may be dead.
Tob. Alas! he may. But as long as I am not sure of
40 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
it, he lives to rne: and if he falls, 'tis in his country's cause
Nay, should I lose him, still I should not wish to die. Here
IS the hut in which I was born. Here is the tree that grew
with me; and, I am almost ashamed to confess it — I have
a dog I love.
Fni. A dog !
Tob. Yes ! — Smile if you please ; but hear me. My
benefactress once came to my hut herself, some time before
you fixed here. The poor animal, unused to see the form
of elegance and beauty enter the door of penury, growled
at her. " I wonder you keep that surly, ugly animal, Mr.
Tobias," said she ; " you, who have hardly food enough for
yourself" — "Ah, Madam," I replied, '-if I part with him,
are you sure that anything else will love me ?" She was
pleased with my answer.
Fra. [To Stranger.'] Excuse me, sir; but I wish you
had listened.
Stra. I have listened.
Fra. Then, sir, I wish you would follow this poor old
man's example.
Stra. [^Pauses.] Here ; take this book, and lay it on
my desk. [Fraitcis goes into the lodge with tlie hook.]
How much has this Mrs. Haller given you ?
Tob. Oh, sir, she has given me so much that I can look
towards winter without fear.
Stra. No more ?
Tob. What could I do with more ? — Ah ! true ; I
might —
Stra. I know it. — You might buy your son's release. —
There! \Presses a purse into his Jiand and exit.]
Tob. What is all this? \_Oj)ens tlie purse.^ and find^s it
full of gold.] Merciful Heaven! —
Enter Francis.
Now look, sir : is confidence in Heaven unrewarded ?
Fra. I wish you joy ! My master gave you this !
Tob. Yes, your noble master. Heaven reward him
Fra Just like him. He sent me with this book, that
no one might be witness to his bounty.
Tob. He would not even take my thanks. He was
gone before I could speak.
Fra. Just his way.
Tob. Now, I'll go as quick as these old legs will bear
Die. What a delightful errand ! I go to release my Rob-
ert ! How the lad will rejoice j There is a girl, too, in the
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 41
village, that will rejoice with him. Providence, how
good art thou ! Years of distress never can efface the recol-
lection of former happiness ; but one joyful moment drives
from the memory an age of misery.
XIV. -FROM DOUGLASS.— ^ome.
LORD RANDOLPH GLENALVON NORVAL.
Glenalvon. His port I love : he's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. ^Aside.']
Has Norval seen the troops ?
Norval. The setting sun.
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale.
And as the warriors moved, each polished helm,
Corslet, or spear, glanced back its gilded beams.
The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top,
Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed
A host angelic, clad in burning arms.
* Glen. Thou talkest it well ; no leader of our host,
In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war.
Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name,
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration
Vents itself freely, since no part is mine
Of praise pertaining to the great in arms.
Glen. You wrong yourself brave sir ; your martial deeds
Have ranked you with the great. But, mark me, Norval,
Lord Randolph's favor now exalts your youth
Above his veterans of famous service.
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you.
Grive them all honor; seem not to command.
Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power,
Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns.
Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ;
And though I have been told that there are men
Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn,
Yet in such language I am little skilled :
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel,
4*
42 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
A-lthough it sounded harshly. Why remind
Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power
With such contemptuous terms ?
Glch. I did not mean
To gall your pride, which now I see is grea).
Norv. My pride !
Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper.
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake,
I will not leave you to its rash direction.
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men,
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn ?
Norv. A shepherd's scorn !
Glen. Yes: if j'-ou presume
To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes,
As if you took the measure of their minds,
And said in secret, you're no match for me,
What will become of you ?
Norv. If this were told ! — [Aside.'^
Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self?
Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ?
Norv. Didst thou not hear ?
Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe
Had not been questioned thus ; but such as thee —
Norv. Whom dost thou think me ?
Gle?i. Norval.
Norv. So I am —
And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes?
Gle?t. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ;
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth ?
Glen. Thy truth ! thou'rt all a lie ; and false as hell
Is the vainglorious tale thou toldest to Randolph.
Norv. If I were chained, unarmed or bedrid old,
Perhaps I should revile ; but as I am,
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds.
Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valor,
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword,
I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well
Gle7i. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command
Ten thousand slaves like thee ?
Norv. Villain, no more !
Draw and defend thy life. I did design
To have defied thee in another cause ;
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 43
But heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee.
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs.
Lord Randolph. [Etiters.] Hold ! I command you both I
the man that stirs
Makes me his foe.
No?-v. Another voice than thine.
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph.
Glen. Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous condescending !
Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval !
JYorv. Now you may scoff in safety. {Sheathes his sward.)
Lord Ran. Speak not thus.
Taunting each other, but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel ; then I judge betwixt you.
No7-v. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much,
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment
I blush to ^peak ; I will not, can not speak
The opprobrious words that 1 from him have borne.
To the liege lord of my dear native land
I owe a subject's homage ; but even him .
And his high arbitration I'd reject.
Within my bosom reigns another lord ;
Honor, sole judge and umpire of itself
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
Revoke your favors, and let Norval go
Hence as he came, but not dishonored !
Lo?-d Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice ;
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields ;
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms
Repel the bold invader ; then decide
The private quarrel.
Glen. 1 agree to this.
Norv. And I. [Exit Randolph.]
Glen. Norval,
Let not our variance mar the social hour,
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate,
Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow;
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.
Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment;
When we contend again, our strife is mortal.
44 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XV.— FROM CORIOL ANU S.—SUakspeare.
CORIOLANUS AUFIDIUS.
Cmiolanus. I plainly, Tullus, by your looks perceive
You disapprove my conduct.
Aujidius. I mean not to assail thee with the clamor
Of loud reproaches and the war of words ;
But, pride apart, and all that can pervert
The light of steady reason, here to make
A candid, fair proposal.
Cor. Speak, I hear thee.
Atif. I need not tell thee, that I have performed
My utmost promise. Thou hast been protected ;
Hast had thy amplest, most ambitious wish ;
Th}^ wounded pride is healed, thy dear revenge
Completely sated ; and to crown thy fortune.
At the same time, thy peace with Rome restored.
Thou art no more a Yolscian, but a Roman ;
Return, return ; thy duty calls upon thee
Still to protect the city thou hast saved ;
It still may be in danger from our arms ;
Retire : T will take care thou mayest with safety.
Cor. With safety ? — Heavens ! — and thinkest thou Cori-
olanus
Will stoop to thee for safety ? — No : my safeguard
Is in myself, a bosom void of fear. —
0, 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness,
To seize the very time my hands are fettered
]^y the strong chain of former obligation,
The safe, sure moment, to insult me. — Gods!
Were I now free, as on that day I was
When at Corioli I tamed thy pride.
This had not been.
Auf. Thou speakest the truth : it had not.
O, for that time again ! Propitious gods.
If you will bless me, grant it ! Now for that,
For that dear purpose, I have now proposed
Thou shouldst return ; I pray thee. Marcius. do it ;
A.nd we shall meet again on nobler terms.
Cor. Till I have cleared my honor in your council,
And proved before them all, to thy confusion,
seriot:s and sentimental. 46
The falsehood of thy charge ; as soon in battle
I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy,
As quit the station they've assigned me here.
Auf. Thou canst not hope acquittal from the Volscians.
Cor. I do : Nay, more, expect their approbation.
Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace
As thou durst never ask ; a perfect union
Of their whole nation with imperial Rome,
In all her privileges, all her rights ;
By the just gods, I will. — What wouldst thou more ?
Auf. What would I more, proud Roman ? This I would —
Fire the cursed forest, where these Roman wolves
Haunt and infest their nobler neighbors round them ;
Extirpate from the bosom of this land
A false, perfidious people, who, beneath
The mask of freedom, are a combination
Against the liberty of human kind ; —
The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers.
Cor. The seed of gods. — 'Tis not for thee, vain boaster,—
'Tis not for such as thou, — so often spared
By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome,
But with respect, and awful veneration. —
Whate'er her blots, whate'er her giddy factions.
There is more virtue in one single year
Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals
Can boast through all their creeping, dark duration.
Auf. I thank thy rage :--This full displays the traitor.
Cor. Traitor ! — How now %
Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius.
Cor. Marcius !
Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius : Dost thou think
I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name,
Coriolanus, in Corioli ?
You lords, and heads of the state, perfidiously
He has betrayed your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome. —
1 say, your city, — to his wife and mothei ;
Breaking his oath and resolution like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel of the war : but at his nurse's tears
He whined and roared away your victory ;
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart
Looked wondering at each other.
Cor Hearest thou. Mars !
46 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
Oor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart
T« great for what contains it. — Boy ! —
Cut me to pieces, Volscians, men and lads,
Stain all your edges on me. — Boy I
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,
That like an eagle in a dovecot, I
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli ;
Alone I iid it : — Boy !— But let us part ;
Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed
My cooler thought forbids.
Auf, I court
The worst thy sword can do ; wnile thou from mc
Hast nothing to expect but sore destruction ;
Quit then this hostile camp : once more I tell thee.
Thou art not here one single hour in safety.
Cor. 0, that I had thee in the field,
With six Aufidiuses, or more — thy tribe,
To use my lawful sword ! —
XVI.— FROM THE MUTINY AT THE NORE.— /erro^d
PARKER MARY—CHILD.
Scene. — Room in a cottage.
Mary. He comes — at every succeeding interview I fancy
I perceive a deeper gloom upon his brow ; a more settled
sorrow at his heart. Let me not complain, a brighter day
may yet arrive. (Enter Parker.)
Parker. Mary ! my own loved Mary !
Mary. Oh, Kichard, this meeting repays me for all the
anxious hours passed in silence and in solitude. — Why, why
is this ? Why do you turn your eyes from mine ?
Par. I — I cannot look upon you.
Mary. Not !
Par. When I remember that you were nursed by fortune,
and every comfort strewed about your footsteps— were the
idol of your household — sought by wealth and rank — when
I remember this, and see you torn by my hands from every
hope of life, — thrown a poor outcast upon the unfeeling
world, humiliated, broken-hearted, beggared — can you won-
der if I blush to meet your eye ? can you marvel if, like a
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 47
felon, I shrink beneath your gaze, ashamed to meet the
victim I have made ?
Mary. Oh. Richard ! talk not so : do you think reproach
can spring from love like mine ? — think you I regret the
loss of wealth and those summer friends that clung while
fortune shone ? — oh, no ! I am rich, rich in your love, and in
our darling boy.
Par. Sly poor child — my William.
Mary. Oh ! away with such reproaches — you have manly
courage, Richard ; add to it a w^oman's strength.
Par. A woman's strength !
Mary. Ay, the power of sufferance : you in the wild
storm, or wilder battle, hang over the heaving billow or rush
upon the sword — this — this is lion-hearted daring ; but think
you a sailor's wife has not a deeper courage, to listen to the
roaring sea, to hear the minute gun, to read of battle and of
shipwreck, yet with terror for her daring partner, to hush the
whispering fear, and with a deep tranquillity of soul, confide
in Him who feeds the sparrow, and sustains the flower ! —
Mere courage is the attribute of beasts ; patience, the sweet
child of reason ! stamps and dignifies the soul of man !
Par. My dear Mary ! yes, thou wilt love me still.
Mary. Love you ! though all the world conspired against
you — though poverty and wounds had made you unjust to
me, forgetful of yourself — though shame had scourged you. —
(He turns Ids head.) — How now, Richard ! husband !
Par. 'Tis nothing.
Mary. Nay, your color goes — the veins swell within
your brow, and your lip works ; — what, what have I said 1
Par. Nothing, nothing, my poor wench.
Mary. Oh, it is not so ! I have awakened some horrid
thoughts that still shake and convulse you — tell me, in
mercy !
Par. Mary, I will — tell — you : you spoke of shame to a
heart rightly endowed with feeling for its fellows ! It is a
kind of shame to see in silence wrong and outrage done to
others.
Mary True; but—
Par. I — I am a sailor aboard a king's ship ; my mind
may be as noble, my heart as stout as are the minds and
hearts of those who strut upon the quarter deck, and are my
jnasters. — No matter, 'tis my fate that I obey them.
Mary. For heaven's sake, let not the violence of your
temper betray you to acts of mutiny — have you not seen —
48 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Par. Seen ! — I have served the king- seven years : in
that time I have seen enough to turn the softest hearts to
stone — to make me look with eyes of lead upon the blackest
violence — to make me laugh at virtue and feeling as words
of a long forgotten tongue. Seen ! — I have seen old men,
husbands and fathers, men with venerable gray hairs, tied
up, exposed, and treated like basest beasts — scourged, whilst
every stroke of the blood-bringing cat may have cut open a
scar received in honorable fight ! I have seen this ! And
what was the culprit's fault ? He may have trod too much
on this or that side the deck ; have answered in a tone too
high or too low. his beardless persecutor — no matter, the
crime is mutinous, and the mariner must bleed for it.
Mary Oh, Richard, and have you looked on scenes like
these ?
Far. Looked on them ! — looked ! Listen, then judge
whether the gloom upon my face is but the cast of a sickly-
fancy ! — It tears my soul to shock thy delicate spirit, yet
thou must know — that henceforth, in what I may do thy
mind may justify me — dost hear me, Mary 1
Mary. I'll strive to do so.
Par. 'Tis now some four years since I had a friend, a
sailor on board a king's ship ; his fate was something like to
mine, for chance had given him an unsuccessful rival in love,
to be his captain and his destroyer. I knew the victim —
knew him ! — But to the tale : the sailor was preferred, rare
promotion to one of cultivated mind, to wait upon the stew-
ard and do his lofty bidding. Time w^ore on — at length a
watch was stolen ; suspicion lighted on my friend — he was
charged — my heart swells and my head swims round — with
the robbery ! Before the assembled crew, despite his protes-
tations and his honest scorn, he was branded with the name
of — thief
Mary. Oh, heavens !
Par. Stript, and bound for brutal punishment — picture
the horror, the agony of my friend, bleeding beneath the
gloating eye of his late rival in a woman's love — picture his
torment apd despair, to feel while the stripes fell like molten
lead upon his back, that keener anguish, his rival's triumph — •
imagine what, what were his thoughts, what the yearnings
of his swelling bosom towards his young wife and precious
babe at home.
Mary. Oh, horrible !
Par. A short time after, he thought to escape ; he trusted
the secret of his flight to another, and was betrayed — what
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 49
followed then ? he was tried for desertion, condemned to
death !—
Mary. Gracious powers ! — and did they —
Par. Oh ! no, the judges were merciful —
Mary. Heaven bless them —
Par. Stay your benediction — they were merciful ! they
did not hang- the man — 'twould have been harsh they thought
— the more so, as he who had stole the watch, touched by
compunction, had confessed the theft, clearing the deserter
of the crime he had been scourged for. Still discipline de-
manded punishment. They did not hang the man — and
thereby bury in the grave the remembrance of his shame —
no — they mercifully sent him through the fleet.
Mary. The fleet !
Par. Listen, then wonder that men with hearts of throb-
bing flesh within them can look upon, much less inflict such
tortures — they sentenced him to five hundred lashes, so
many at the side of each vessel, whilst the thronging crew
sat upon the yards and rigging, to hear the wretch's cries
and look upon his opening wounds. What was the result ? —
why he whom they had tied up. a sufiering. persecuted man,
they loosed, a raging tiger ! From that moment revenge
look possession of his soul — he lived and breathed — consented
to look on the day's blessed light only that he might have
revenge. — 'Twas I!
Mary. You, husband ' you !
Par. Yes, Mary Parker, I — I am that wronged, that
striped, heart-broken degraded man.
C
50 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Mary. Oh ! Eichard ! — Heaven, heaven have mercy on
them.
Par. Amen ! mercy is heaven's attribute — revenge is
man's. Ay, look upon me, Mary ; do you not blush to call
me husband ?
Mary. Oh ! talk not so.
Par. You must, for I feel degraded — a thing of scorn
and restless desperation ; but the time is ripe, and ven-
geance —
Mary. Oh ! think not of it.
Far. Think not of it! I only live upon the hope of
coming retribution ; think not of it — would you still embrace
a striped, a brjnded felon?
Mary. That stain is wiped away.
Far. No — but it shall be, and in blood.
Mary. In mercy, Richard.
Far. Hear me swear. \Kneds^
\Flnter the child., who runs between father and viother.']
Child. Dear, dear father !
Far. Ha ! be this the subject of my oath. — [^Futs his
hand upon the child's head.'] — May this sweet child, the
fountain of my hopes, become my bitterest source of misery
— may all my joy in him be turned to mourning and dis-
quiet — may he be a reed to my old age — a laughter and a
jest to my gray hairs — may he mock my dying agonies and
spit upon my grave, if for a day. an hour, I seek not a most
deep and bloody vengeance. — [ Voice of Jack Adams, heard
without. — Aboard the house, ahoy !] — A stranger's voice,
we are disturbed — farewell, my love, I must aboard ; to-
morrow you shall hear news of me. I have promised my
shipmates to bring William with me ; he shall return when
I do.
Mary. Promise then to be more calm, and let patience.
Richard, patience counsel you. l^Exit.]
Par. Farewell — now my child shall see his father's
wronger at his feet. Arlmgton, I come to triumph. \^Exit
with child.']
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 51
XVII.— FROM JULIUS C^SAR.
BRUTUS CASSIUS.
Street Scene.
Cassius. Will you go see the order of the course ?
Brutus. Not I.
Cas. I pray you, do.
Bru. I am not gamesome ; I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony ;
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ;
I'll leave you.
Gas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late ;
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love as I was wont to have ;
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.
Bru. Cassius,
Be not deceived : If I have veiled my look,
J turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil perhaps to my behavior ;
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved ;
Among which number, Cassius, be you one ;
Nor construe any farther my neglect.
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war.
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion ;
By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ?
Bru. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itselt
But by reflection from some other thing.
Cas. 'T is just.
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirror as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your* eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
52 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
(Except immortal Caesar,) speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes.
Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me ?
Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear ;
And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which yet you know not of.
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus ;
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protecter ; if you know.
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard,
And after scandal them ; or, if you know.
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout ; then hold me dangerous.
Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear the people
Choose Caesar for their king.
Cas. Ay, do you fear it ?
Then must I think you would not have it so.
Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well.
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ?
What is it that you would impart to me 1
If it be aught toward the general good.
Set Honor in one eye, and Death in the other ;
And I will look on death indifferently :
For let the gods so speed me, as I love
The name of Honor more than I fear death.
Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favor.
Well, honor is the subject of my story. —
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life : but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you ;
We both have fed as well ; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once upon a raw and ^usty day.
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Caesar said to me, Darest thou, Cassius, now"
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 53
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point ? — Upon the word.
Accoutered as I was, I plunged in,
And bade him follow ; so indeed he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But, ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Caesar cried. Help me, Cassius, or I sink.
Then, as j$]neas. our great ancestor.
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear ; so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Caasar : and this man
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body,
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake ;
His coward lips did from their color fly.
And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its luster ; I did hear him groan :
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Komans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas ! it cried — Give me some drink, Tilinius —
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.
Btu. Another general shout !
I do believe, that these applauses are
For some new honors that are heaped on Caesar.
Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fate :
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus — and Ceesar - what should be in that Caesar ?
Why should that name be sounded, more than yours?
Write them together ; yours is as fair a name :
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ;
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with them,
oi NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed,
That he has grown so great ? Age, thou art shamed ;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
When could they say, till now, that talked of "Rome,
That her wide walls encompassed but one man?
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once that would have brooked
A whip-galled slave to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king.
Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous :
What you would work me to, I have some aim :
How I have thought of this, and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter : for this present,
I would not (so with love I might entreat you)
Be any further moved. What you have said,
I will consider ; what you have to say,
I will with patience hear ; and find a time
Both meet to hear, and answer such high things.
'Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this :
Brutus had rather be a villager.
Than to repute himself a son of Rome,
Under such hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.
XVIIL— SEARCH FOR OCTAVIAK— 6Wwian.
OCTAVIAN ROQUE.
Octavian. [Pulls a portrait frotn his boso7n.~\
Out, bauble ! — let me kiss thee ! Sweet Floranthe,
When the cold limner drew thy semblance here,
How charm'd I sat, to mark the modest flush
That virgin nature threw into thy face.
As the dull clod, unmoved, did stare upon thee,
To pencil out thy features' character !
Those times are past, Floranthe ! — Yet 'tis comfort
To bring remembrance full upon the eye ! —
'Tis soothing to a fond and care worn heart.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAU 65
To drop a tear on the loved lineaments
Of her it ne'er must hope to meet again !
Roque. [Enters] Now know not I how to accost him.
Poor gentleman ! times are sadly changed with him since
I saw him fresh, and well caparisoned, gazing on my young,
lady, in my old master's mansion, at Seville. I do not
altogether think my heart is tough enough for my trade ; —
it has too many soft places in it, and the misfortunes of
another are apt to take the advantage of them ; and disable
me from fighting through the rough work of the world with
firmness. — Signior ! do you not remember my countenance ?
Oct. No —Providence has slubber'd it in haste.
'Tis one of her unmeaning compositions
She manufactures when she makes a gross.
She'll form a million such — and all alike —
Then send them forth, ashamed of her own work,
And set no mark upon them. Get thee gone.
Roqiie. Get me gone ! — Ah, Signior ! the time has been
when you would question old Roque kindly after his health
as he lifted up the latch to give you admittance to poor
Donna Floranthe.
Oct. Thou hast shot lightning through mc ! Art thou—
stay !
That sound was thrilling music ! 0, Florajithe !
I thought not e'en the magic of thy name
Could make a heart, so long benumb'd with misery,
Leap as 'twould burst its prison. — Do not mock me ;
If thou dost juggle now, I'll tear thee —Hold !
Ay ; I remember ; and as t peruse thee,
Past times rush in upon me, with thy face ;
And many a thought of happiness, gone by,
Does flash across my brain. Let me not wander;
Give me thy hand, Roque. — I do know thy errand :
And 'tis of import, when thou journey'st thus
The trackless desert to seek sorrow out.
Thou com'st to tell me my Floranthe's dead : —
But we will meet again, sweet ! — I will back
With thee, old Honesty ; and lay me down,
Heart-broke, at last, beside her shrouded corse,
Kiss her cold cheek, then fly to her in heaven !
Roque. I would I were in the midst of a battle : — 1
know not how 'tis — I have faced many a man in the field,
but this is an engagement that makes my spirits sink down
56 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
to my very heels. I do verily believe my courage, in my
old age^ begins to dwindle.
Oct. Tell me, old Koque ! tell me, Floranthe's follower!
Shall we not, when the midnight bell has toll'd,
Beguile the drunken sacrist of his key,
Then steal in silence up the church's aisle,
To sprinkle cypress on her monument ?
Roque. And this — hold, I shall blubber outright, like a
female baby. I must muster my own resolution that I may
rally his. — Why, how now, Signior, shame on this weak-
ness ! — were all to bend like you when they meet disappoint-
ment, I know not who in this jostling world would walk
upright. Pluck up your manly spirits, Signior ! your
Floranthe lives ! ay, and is true to you — now, by Saint
Dominick, I bring tidings that will glad you.
Oct. I pray you, do not sport with me, old man —
Jeer not the wretched — I have worn away
Twelve weary months in anguish ; I have sat.
Darkling, by day in caverns — and at night
Have fix'd my eyes so long upon the moon.
That I do fear my senses are, in part,
Sway'd by her influence. I'm past jesting with.
Roque. I never, Signior, was much given to jesting —
and he who spojrts with the misfortunes of another, though
he may bring his head into repute for fancy, does his heart
little credit for feeling. I had rather be accounted a well-
disposed dullard than an excellent witted knave. Rest
quiet, Signior ! — Here is one waiting without, that I have
brought along with me, who will comfort you. Nay, I
pray you now be patient. If this be the work of bringing
lovers together. Heaven give him joy who makes a trade
on't ! for in fifty years that Time has c'.app'd his saddle on
my back, he never so sorely galled my old withers as
now. lExit.^
Oct. Habit does much — I do begin to think.
Since grief has been so close an inmate with me,
That I have sti'ain'd her nearer to my bosom
Than I had press'd her, had the chequer'd scene,
Which rouses man, who mixes with his kind,
Kept me from dotage on her. Our afl^ections
Must have a rest — and sorrow, when secluded,
Grrows strong in weakness. Pen the body up
In solitary durance, and in time,
The human soul will idly fix its fancy,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL.
E'en on some peg, stuck in the prison's wall.
And sigh to quit it. Sure I am not mad ! —
Floranthe's lost — and since my stubborn frame
Will stand the tug — I'll to the heated world —
Fit mingler in the throng, miscail'd Society.
XIX.— FROM TAMERLANE.— iJowe.
OMAR TAMERLANE.
Omar. [Boimng.'\ Honor and fame
Forever wait the Emperor ; may our prophet
Give him ten thousand thousand days of life.
And every day like this. The captive sultan,
Fierce in his bonds, and at his fate repining,
Attends your sacred will.
Tamerlane. Let him approach.
[Enter Bajazet and other Turkish prisoners in chains^ with
When I survey the ruins of this field, a guard.]
The wild destruction which thy fierce ambition
Has dealt among mankind : (so many widows
And helpless orphans has thy battle made,
That half our eastern world this day are mourners :)
Well may I, in behalf of heaven and earth,
Demand from thee atonement for this wrong.
Baj. Make thy demand of those that own thy power.
Know I am still beyond it ; and though fortune
Has stripped me of the train and pomp of greatness,
That outside of a king, yet still my soul,
Fixed high, and on itself alone dependent,
[s ever free and royal ; and even now,
As at the head of battle, does defy thee.
I know what power the chance of war has given,
And dare thee to the useon't. This vile speeching,
This after game of words, is what most irks me ;
Spare that, and for the rest 'tis equal all.
Be it as it may.
Tarn. Well was it for the world,
When, on their borders, neighboring princes met,
Frequent in friendly parle. by cool debates
58 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Preventing wasteful war : such should our meeting
Have been, hadst thou but held in just regard
The sanctity of leagues so often sworn to.
Canst thou believe thy prophet, or what's more,
That Power Supreme, which made thee and thy prophet,
Will with impunity let pass that breach
Of sacred faith given to the royal Greek ?
Baj. Thou pedant talker ! ha ! art thou a king
Possessed of sacred power, Heaven's darling attribute,
And dost thou prate of leagues, and oaths, and prophets 1
I hate the Greek, (perdition on his name !)
As I do thee, and would have met you both,
As death does human nature, for destruction.
TaTTi. Causeless to hate, is not of human kind :
The savage brute that haunts in woods remote,
And desert wilds, tears not the fearful traveler,
If hunger, or some injury, provoke not.
Baj. Can a king want a cause, when empire bids
Go on ? What is he born for, but ambition 1
It is his hunger, 'tis his call of nature.
The noble appetite which will be satisfied.
And, like the food of gods, makes him immortal.
Tarn. Henceforth I will not wonder we were foes.
Since souls that differ so, by nature hate.
And strong antipathy forbids their union.
Baj. The noble fire that warms me does indeed
Transcend thy coldness. I am pleased we differ,
Nor think alike.
Ta7n. No : for I think like man ;
Thou, like a monster, from whose baleful presence
Nature starts back ; and though she fixed her stamp
On thy rough mass, and marked thee for a man,
Now, conscious of her error, she disclaims thee.
As formed for her destruction.
'Tis true, I am a king, as thou hast been ;
Honor and glory too, have been my aim ; "
But though I dare face death, and all the dangers
Which furious war wears in its bloody front,
Yet would I choose to fix my name by peace,
By justice, and by mercy ; and to raise
My trophies on the blessings of mankind :
Nor would I buy the empire of the world
With ruin of the i)eople whom I sway.
Or forfeit of my honor.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 59
Bjj. Prophet, T thank thee.
Confusion ! couldst thou rob me of my glory,
To dress up this tame king, this preaching dervise!
Unfit for war. thou shouldst have lived secure
In lazy peace, and with debating senates
Shared a precarious scepter ; sat tamely still,
And let bold faction canton out thy power,
And wrangle for the spoils they robbed thee of;
Whilst I. (0 blast the power that stops my ardor.)
Would, like a tempest, rush amidst the nations,
Be greatly terrible, and deal, like Alha,
My angry thunder on the frighted world.
Tarn. The world ! 'twould be too little for thy pride ;
Thou wouldst scale heaven.
Baj. I would. Away ! my soul
Disdains thy conference.
Tarn. Thou vain, rash thing,
That, with gigantic insolence, has dared
To lift thy wretched self above the stars.
And mate with power Almighty, thou art fallen !
Baj. 'Tis false ! I am not fallen from aught I have been !
At least my soul resolves to keep her state,
And scorns to make acquaintance with ill fortune.
Tarn. Almost beneath my pity thou art fallen ;
Since, while the avenging hand of Heaven is on thee,
And presses to the dust thy swelling soul.
Fool-hardy, with the stronger thou contendest.
To what vast heights had thy tumultuous temper
Been hurried, if success had crowned thy wishes !
Say. what had I to expect if thou hadst conquered ?
Baj. Oh, glorious thought ! Ye powers, I will enjoy it,
Though but in fancy : imagination shall
Make room to entertain the vast idea.
Oh ! had I been master but of yesterday,
The world, the world had felt me ; and for thee,
I had used thee, as thou art to me. a dog.
The object of my scorn and mortal hatred.
I would have caged thee for the sport of slaves.
I would have taught thy neck to know my weight,
And mounted from that footstool to the saddle,
Till thou hadst begged to die ; and even that mercy
I had denied thee. Now thou knowest my mind,
And question me no farther.
Tarn. Well dost thou teach me
60 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
What justice should exact from thee. Mankind,
With one consent, cry out for vengeance on thee ;
Loudly they call to cut off this league-breaker,
This wild destroyer from the face of earth.
Baj. Do it, and rid thy shaking soul at once
Of its worst fear.
Tarn. Why slept the thunder
That should have armed the idol deity,
And given thee power, ere yester sun was set,
To shake the soul of Tamerlane ? Hadst thou an arm
To make thee feared, thou shouldst have proved it on me,
Amidst the sweat and blood of yonder field.
When, through the tumult of the war, I sought thee,
Fenced in with nations.
Baj Oh, blast the stars
That fated us to different scenes of slaughter !
Oh ! could my sword have met thee !
Tarn. Thou hadst then,
As now, been in my power, and held thy life
Dependent on my gift. Yes, Bajazet,
I bid thee live. So much my soul disdains
That thou shouldst think I can fear aught but Heaven.
Nay more ; couldst thou forget thy brutal fierceness,
And form thyself to manhood, I would bid thee
Live, and be still a king, that thou mayst learn
What man should be to man. —
This royal tent, with such of thy domestics
As can be found, shall wait upon thy service ;
Nor will I use my fortune to demand
Hard terms of peace ; but such as thou mayst offer
With honor, I with honor may receive.
Troilus. Patience herself, what eroddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser blanch at suffarance, than I do — I'loil. s and Cressida,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 61
XX.— FROM ANTONY AND CLEOFATUK.—Shakspeare.
ANTONY VENTIDIUS.
Anto7iy. They tell me 'tis my birthday ; and I'll keep it
With double pomp of sadness.
'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.
Why was I raised the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I traveled,
Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downwards
To be trod out by Caesar ?
Ventidius. I must disturb him. I can hold no longer.
[^Stands before him.'\
Ant. [Starting up.] Art thou Ventidius ?
Vent. Are you Antony ?
I'm liker what I was, than you to him
I left you last.
Ant. I'm angry.
Vent. So am I.
Ant. I would be private. Leave me.
Vent. Sir, I love you,
A.nd therefore will not leave you.
Ant. Will not leave me !
Where have you learnt this answer? * Who am I?
Vent. My emperor ; the man I love next HeaveiL
Ant. Emperor? Why that's the style of victory.
The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so : but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.
Vent. 1 warrant you.
Ant. Actium, Actium ! Oh —
Vent. It sits too near you.
A7it Here, here it lies ! a lump of lead by day ;
And, in my short distracted nightly slumbers,
The hag that rides my dreams —
Vent. Out with it; give it vent.
Ant. Urge not my shame — •
I lost a battle.
Vent. So has Julius done.
Ant. Thou favorest me, and speakest not half thou
thinkest ;
For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly :
but Antony —
6
02 NEW SCHOOL DIALOIJUES.
Vent. Nay, stop not.
Ani. Antony
(Well, thou wilt have it) like a coward fled,
Fled while his soldiers fought ! fled first, Ventidius.
Thou longest to curse me ; I give thee leave.
I know thou earnest prepared to rail.
Vent. No.
Ant. Why ?
Vent. You are too sensible already
Of what you're done ; too conscious of your failings ;
And like a scorpion, whipped by others first
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.
I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.
Ant. I know thou wouldst.
Vent. I will.
Ant. Sure thou dreamest, Ventidius !
Vent. No, 'tis you dream ; you sleep away your hours
In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.
Up, up, for honor's sake ; twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief By painful journeys
I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marches, to the Nile.
'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces,
Their scarred cheeks, and chopped hands ; there's virtue in
them ;
They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates
Than yon trim bands can buy.
Ant. Where left you them ?
Vent. I said, in Lower Syria.
AtU. Bring them hither ;
There may be life in these.
Vent. They will not come.
Ant. Why did they refuse to march ?
Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Ant. What was't they said ?
Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra-
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conqueror,
And make you more a slave ?
Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license
On all my other faults ; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra ; — she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.
Venr Behold you powers,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 63
To whom you have intrusted human kind !
See Europe. Asia Africa put in balance,
And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman !
Ant. You grow presumptuous.
Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.
Ant. Plain love ! plain arrogance ! plain insolence !
Thy men are cowards ; thou an envious traitor,
Who, Tinder seeming honesty hast vented
The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall.
Oh, that thou wert my equal, great in arms
As the first Caesar was that 1 might kill thee
Without a stain to honor !
Vent. You may kill me;
You have done more already ; called me a traitor.
Ant. Art thou riot one \
Vent. For showing you yourself,
Which no one else durst have done. But had I been
That name, which I disdain to speak again,
I need not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles
To fill Octavius' bands ? I could have been
A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,
And not have been so called.
Ant. Forgive me, soldier ;
I've been too passionate.
Vent. You thought me false ;
Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir,
Pray kill me ; yet you need not ; your unkindness
Has left your sword no work.
Ant. I did not think so ;
I said it in my rage : prithee forgive me.
Thou only lovest, the rest have flattered me.
Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart, for that kind word.
May I believe you love me ? Speak again.
Ant. Indeed I do. Do with me what thou wilt .
Lead me to victory, thou knowest the way.
Vent. And will you leave this —
Ant. Prithee do not curse her.
And I will leave her ; though heaven knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all but honor ;
But I will leave her.
Vent. That's my royal master :
And shall we fight?
64 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier :
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron,
And at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud, come, follow me !
Vent. Methinks you breathe
Another soul ; your looks are more sublime;
You speak a hero, and you move like Mars.
Ant. 0, thou hast fired me ! My soul is up in arms !
And mans each part about me. Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me ;
That eagerness with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way ! In vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield !
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.
Vent. Ye gods, ye gods !
For such another hour !
Ant. Come on, my soldier ;
Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes ; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May take fate to them ; mow them out a passage.
And entering where the utmost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.
XXL— FROM THE PEASANT BOY.— Dimondl
ALBERTI JULIAN MONTALDI STEP AND LUDOVICO AM-
BROSE VINCENT GUARDS, fcC.
\TLnter Guards^ conducting Julian — all tlw characters fol-
low., and a crowd of vassals — Alberti advances to the
judgineyit seat.]
Alberti. My people ! — the cause of your present assem-
blage too well is known to you. You come to witness the
dispensations of an awful but impartial justice ; — either to
rejoice in the acquittal of innocence wrongfully accused, or
to approve the conviction of guilt, arrested in its foul career.
Personal feelings forbid me to assume this seat myself; yet
SERIOUS ASD SENTIMENTAL. 65
fear not but that it will be filled by nobleness and honor ; —
to Montaldi only, I resign it.
Julian. He my judge! then I am lost indeed. \^Asidei\
Alb. Ascend the seat, my friend, and decide from it as
your own virtuous conscience shall direct : this only will I
say : should the scales of accusation and defense poise doubt-
fully, let mercy touch them with her downy hand, and turn
the balance on the gentler side.
Montaldi. {Ascending the seat.^ Your will and honor
are my only governors ! {Bows.'\ Julian ! stand forth '
you are charged with a most foul and horrible attempt upon
the life of my noble kinsman — the implements of murder have
been found in your possession, and many powerful circum-
stances combine to fix the guilt upon you. What have you
to urge in vindication ?
Jid. First, I swear by that Power, whom vice dreads and
virtue reverences, that no syllable but strictest truth shall
pass my lips : — on the evening of yesterday, I crossed the
mountain to the monastery of St. Bertrand ; my errand
thither finished, I returned directly to the valley. Rosalie
saw me enter the cottage — soon afterwards a strange outcry
recalled me to the door ; a mantle spread before the thresh-
old caught my eye ; I raised it, and discovered a mask
within it. The mantle was newly stained with blood ! con-
sternation seized upon my soul — the next mixiute I was
surrounded by guards, and accused of murder. They pro-
duced a weapon I had lost in defending myself against a
ferocious animal ; confounded by terror and surprise, I had
not power to explain the truth, and loaded with chains and
reproaches. I was dragged to the dungeons of the castle.
Here my knowledge of the dark transaction ends, and I
have only this to add — I may become the victim of circum-
stance, but I never have been the slave of crime !
Mon. {Smiling iro7iically.'\ Plausibly urged ; have you
no more to ofl^er ?
Jul. Truth needs but few words — I have spoken !
Mon. Yet bethink yourself — dare you abide by this wild
tale, and brave a sentence on no stronger plea 1
Jul. Alas ! I have none else to offer !
Mon. You say. on the evening of yesterday, you visited
the monastery of St. Bertrand. What was your business
there ?
Jul. With father Nicolo — to engage him to marry Rosa-
lie and myself on the following morning.
D 6*
66 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Mon. A marriage too ! Well ! — at what time did you
quit the monastery ?
Jul. The bell for vesper-service had just ceased to toll.
Mon. By what path did you return to the valley ?
Jul. Across the mountain.
Mon. Did you not pass through the wood of olives,
where the dark deed was attempted ?
Jul. \_Recollecti7ig.'] The wood of olives ?
Mon. Ha ! mark ! he hesitates — speak !
Jul. No ! my soul scorns to tell a falsehood. I did pass
through the wood of olives.
Mon. Ay ! and pursuit was close behind. Stefano, you
seized the prisoner ?
Stefano. I did. The bloody weapon bore his name ; the
mask and mantle were in his hands confusion in his coun-
tenance, and every limb shaking with alarm.
Mon. Enough ! heavens ! that villainy so monstrous
should inhabit with such tender youth ! I fain would doubt,
and in despite of reason, hesitate to give my sentence ; but
conviction glares from every point, and incredulity would
now be madness. Not to descant on the absurdity of your
defense, a tale too wild for romance itself to sanction, I find
from your admission a damning chain of circumstance that
confirms your criminality. The time at which you passed
the .wood, and the hour of the duke's attack, precisely cor-
respond. Your attachment to Rosalie presents the motive
of your offense ; burning with impatient love, knowing
vanity to sway the soul of woman, and trusting to win its
influence by the bribes of luxury, you sought to rush on
fortune by the readiest path, and snatch from the unwary
traveler that sudden wealth which honest labor could only
by slow degrees obtain. Defeated in the dark attempt, you
fled — pursuit was instant — your steps were traced — and at
the very door of your cottage, you were seized before the
evidences of your guilt could be secreted. Oh ! wretched
youth, I warn you to confess. Sincerity can be your only
claim to mercy.
Jul. My heart will burst — but I have spoken truth:
yes, — Heaven knows that I have spoken truth !
Mon. Then I must exercise my duty. Death is my
sentence.
Jul. Hold ! — pronounce it not as yet !
Mon. If you have any further evidence, produce it.
Jul. \ With despairing energy.'] I call on Ludovico '
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. '07
[^Ludovico steps forward with alax:,rity — Montaldi recoils
with visible trepidatio7i.']
Ludovico. I am here !
Mon. And what can he unfold ! only repeat that which
we already know. I will not hear him — the evidence is
perfect —
Alb. {^Rising with warmth.'] Hold ! Montaldi, Ludo-
vico must be heard ; to the ear of justice, the lightest sylla-
ble of proof is precious.
Mon. [Confused.'} I stand rebuked. Well, Ludovico,
depose your evidence.
Lud. Mine was the fortunate arm appointed by Heaven
to rescue the duke. I fought with the assassin, and drove
him beyond the trees into the open lawn. I there distinctly
marked his figure, and from the difference in the height
alone, I solemnly aver Julian cannot be the person.
Mon. This is no proof — the eye might easily be deceived.
I cannot withhold my sentence longer.
Lud. I have further matter to advance. Just before the
ruffian fled, he received a wound across his right hand ; the
moonlight directed my blow, and showed me that the cut
was deep and dangerous. Julian's fingers bear no such
mark.
Mon. [Evinciitg great emotion and involuntarily draio-
ing his glove closer over his hand.'\ A wound — mere fable —
Ijud. Nay, more — the same blow struck from ofTono of
the assassin's fingers, a jewel; it glittered as it fell; I
snatched it from the grass — I thrust it within my bosom, and
have ever since preserved it next my heart : I now produce
it — 'tis here — a ring — an amethyst set with brilliants !
Alh. [Rising hastily?^ What say you % an amethyst
set with brilliants ! even such I gave Montaldi. Let me
view it ! —
[As Ludovico advances to present the* ring to the duke.,
Montaldi rushes with frantic impetuosity between., and
attempts to seize it.]
Mon. Slave ! resign the ring !
Lud. I will yield my life sooner !
Mon. Wretch ! I will rend thy frame to atoms ! [77iey
struggle with violence, Montaldi snatches at the ring., Lu-
dovico catches his hand and tears off tlie glove — the wound
appears.']
Lud. Oh ! God ! murder is unmasked — the bloody mark
is here ! Montaldi is the assassin [' All rush forward in
68 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
astonishment — Julian drops upon his knee in mute thanks-
giving.']
Mon. Shame ! madness ! hell !
Alb. Eternal Providence ! Montaldi a murderer !
Mon. Ay ! accuse, and curse ! idiots ! dupes ! I heed
you not. I can but die ! Triumph not, Alberti — I trample
on thee still ! [Draws a poignard and attempts to destroy
himself — the weapon is wrested from his hand by t lie guards.']
Alb. Fiend ! thy power to sin is past.
Mon. [Delirious with passion.] Ha ! ha ! ha ! my brain
scorches, and my veins run with fire ! disgraced, dishonored !
oh! madness ! I cannot bear it— save me — oh ! [Falls in-
sensible into the arms of attendants.]
Alb. Wretched man' bear him to his chamber — his
punishment be hereafter. [Montaldi is carried off.]
Jul. Oh ! my joy is too full for words !
Ambrose. My noble boy !
Vincent. Rosalie shall reward him.
Alb. Yes. they are children of virtue ! their happiness
shall be my future care. Let this day, through each return-
ing year, become a festival on my domain. Heaven, with
peculiar favor, has marked it for its own, and taught us, by
the simple moral of this hour, that howsoever in darkness
guilt may veil its malefactions from the eye of man, an om-
niscient Judge will penetrate each hidden sin, and still, with
never-failing justice, confound the vicious and protect the
good !
Jul. The peasant boy, redeemed from fate,
Must here for mercy sue,
He dares not trust decrees of state,
Till ratified by you.
Alb. Then, gentles ! prithee grant our prayer,
* Nor cloud the dawning joy,
" Not guilty !" by your hands declare,
And save the peasant boy !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 69
XXII.— FROM HENRY THE FOMRTR.—Shakspeare. "
HOTSPUR EARL OF I^OUGLAS RABY EARL OF WORCES-
TER SIR RICHARD VERNON.
Hotspur. Well said, my noble Scot : If speaking truth,
In this fine age, were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the Douglas have,
As not a soldier of this season's stamp
Should go so general current through the world.
By Heaven, I cannot flatter ! I defy
The tongues of soothers : but a braver place
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
Nay, task me to the word ; approve me, lord.
Douglas. Thou art the king of honor.
No man so potent breathes upon tb.** ground,
But I will beard him.
Hot. Do so, and 'tis well : —
[Enter Raby.]
What letters hast thou there ?
Rab. These letters come from your father.
Hot. Letters from him ! why comes he not himself?
Rob. He cannot come, my lord ; he's grievous sick.
Worcester. I would, the state o^ time had first been whole
Ere he by sickness had been visited !
His health was never better worth than now.
Hot. Sick now ! droop now ! this sickness doth infect
The very life-blood of our enterprise ;
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp. —
He writes me here. — that inward sickness, —
And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn ; —
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That, with our small conjunction, we should on
To see how fortune is disposed to us ;
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now ;
Because the king is certainly possessed
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
War. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
70
NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence ;
This absence of your father's draws a curtain
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of
Hot. You strain too far.
I rather, of his absence make this use : —
It lends a luster, and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprise
Than if the earl were here : for men must think
If we, without his help can make a head
To push against the kingdom ; with his help
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down —
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
Doug. As heart can think : there is not such a word
Spoke of in Scotland, as this term of fear.
l^Enter Sir Richard Vernon and two gentlemen.^
Hot. My cousin Vernon ! welcome !
Ver. Pray Heaven, my news be worth a welcome, lord !
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards ; with him. Prince John.
Hot. No harm : What more ?
Ver. And further I have learned, — •
The king himself in person is set forth
Or hitherwards intended speedily.
With strong and mighty preparation.
Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son.
The nimble-footed madcap, Prince of Wales,
And his comrades that doffed the world aside.
And bid it pass 1
Ver. All furnished, all in arms,
All plumed like ostriches, that with the wind
Bated, like eagles having lately bathed !
Glittering in golden coats, like images ;
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer !
I saw young Harry, — with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Kise from the ground like feather'd Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
Hot. No more, no more, worse than the sun in March
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 71
TRey come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war,
AIJ hot and bleeding will we ofl!er them :
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire.
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours : Come, let me take my horse
Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt.
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales : ^
Harry to Harry shall — hot horse to horse —
Meet ne'er to part, till one drops down a corse.
that Glendower were come !
Ver. There is more news :
1 learned in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
Hot. What may the king's whole battle reach unto ?
Ver. To thirty thousand.
Hot. Forty let it be ;
My father and Glendower being both away,
The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily ;
Doomsday is near ; die all ; die merrily.
XXIII— FROM DAMON AND PYTHIAS.— 5AiW.
PHILISTIPS DIONYSIUS DAMOCLES DAMON SENATORS
PROCLES SOLDIERS.
First Senator. So soon warned back again !
Dionysius. So soon, good fathers.
My. last despatches here set forth, that scarce
I had amassed and formed our gallant legions,
When, as by magic, word of the precaution
Was spirited to their camp — and on the word,
These Carthaginians took their second thought,
And so fell back.
PhilistiMS. I do submit to you.
That out of this so happy consequence
Of Dionysius' movement on the citadel,
Not only is his pardon for the act
Freely drawn forth, but we are called upon
I 2 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Our thanks most manifestly to express
For such a noble service.
IHon. Good Philistius,
I am a soldier — yours and the state's servant,
And claim no notice for my duty done
Beyond the doing it — and the best thanks
I merit, or can have, lie in the issue
Which has most happily resulted.
Damocles. Nay,
It rests in us* to say so.
Phil. Dionysius,
The work which of this enterprise thou hast made,
Proves that our citadel, and its resources.
Have been misused, and never so controlled
And ordered for our good, as by thyself; —
Therefore retain it, govern and direct it.
Would the whole state were like the citadel !
In hot and angry times like these, we want
Even such a man.
Dam. I, from my heart, assent to
And second this proposal.
Dion. Most reverend fathers —
Da7n. We pray thee silence, noble Dionysius !
All here do know what your great modesty
Will urge you to submit — but I will raise
This envious veil wherein you shroud yourself.
It is the time to speak ; our country's danger
Calls loudly for some measure at our hands.
Prompt and decisive.
Damon. [ Without.] Thou most lowly mmion I
I'll have thee whipped for it, and by the head
Made less even than thou art. [Enter Damon.]
Phil. Who breaks so rude and clamorously in
To scare our grave deliberations?
Damon. A senator ! — First let me ask you why
Upon my way here to sit down with you,
I have encountered in the open streets,
Nay, at the very threshold of your doors,
Soldiers and satellites arrayed and marshalled
With their swords out? Why have I been obstructed
By an armed bandit in my peaceful Avalk here,
To take my rightful seat in the senate-house ?
Why has a ruffian soldier privilege
To hold his weapon to my throat % A tainted,
SERIOUS AND S3NTIMENTAL. 73
Disgraced, and abject traitor, Procles ? Who
Dared place the soldiers round the senate»house?
Phil I pray you, fathers, let not this rash man
Disturb the grave' and full consideration
Of the important matter touching which
We spoke ere he rushed in.
Dam. I did require
To know from you, without a hand or head,
Such as to us hath been our Dionysius,
What now were our most likely fate ?
Damon The fate
Of freemen in the full ; free exercise
Of all the noble rights that freemen love !
Free in our streets to walk ; free in our counsels
To speak and act.
Phil. I do entreat you, senators,
Protect me from this scolding demagogue,
And let us win your
Damon. Demagogue, Philistius !
Who was the demagogue, when at my challenge
He was denounced and silenced by the senate,
And your scant oratory spent itself
In fume and vapor ?
Dam. Silence, Damon, silence !
And let the council use its privilege.
Damon. Who bids me silence ? Damocles, the soft
And pliant willow, Damocles ! — But come.
What do you dare propose 1 Come, I'll be silent —
Go on.
Phil Resolve you then, is Dionysius
This head indeed to us ? Acting for us —
Yea, governing, that long have proved we cannot,
Although we feign it, govern for ourselves ?
Dam. Then who so fit, in such extremity
To be the single pillar, on whose strength
All power should rest ?
Pkil Ay, and what needs the state
Our crowded and contentious councils here 1
And therefore, senators, — countrymen, rather,
'That we may be wiser and better ruled
Than by ourselves we are ; that the state's danger
May be confronted boldly, and that he
May have but his just meed, I do submit
7 '
74 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
That forthwith we dissolve ourselves, and choose
A king in Dionysius.
Dammi. King ! a king ?
First Sen. I do approve it
Second Sen. Ay, and I
Dam. And all.
Damon. And all ! are all content ?
A nation's right betrayed,
And all content! slaves! parricides!
O, by the brightest hope a just man has,
I blush to look around and call you men I
What! with your own free willing hands yield up
The ancient fabric of your constitution,
To be a garrison, a common barrack,
A common guard -house, and for common cut-throats I
What ! will ye all combine to tie a stone
Each to each other's necks and drown like dogs
Within the tide of time, and never float
To after ages or at best, but float
A buoyant pestilence ? Can ye but dig
Your own dark graves, creep into them, and die !
Third Sen. I have not sanctioned it.
Fourth Sen. Nor I.
Fifth Sen. Nor I.
Damon. ! thanks for these few voices ! but alas !
How lonely do they sound !• Do you not all
Start up at once, and cry out liberty?
Are you so bound in fetters of the mind,
That there you sit as if you were yourselves
Incorporate with the marble ? Syracusans ! —
But, no ! I will not rail, nor chide, nor curse ye !
I will implore you, fellow-countrymen ;
With blinded eyes, and weak and broken speech,
I will implore you. — ! I am weak in words.
But I could bring such advocates before you ; —
Your fathers' sacred images ; old men
That have been grandsires ; women with their children,
Caught up in fear and hurry, in their arms —
And those old men should lift their shivering voices,
A.nd palsied hands — and those afli'ighted mothers
Should hold their innocent infants forth, and ask,
Could you make slaves of them ! •
Phil. I dissolve the senate
At its own vote and instance. \_Leaves his seat ]
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. *I5
Dam. And all hail !
Hail, Dionysiiis, king of Syracuse !
Dion. Is this the vote 1
Dmnon. There is no vote ! Philistius,
Hold you your seat ; keep in your places, senators.
Dion. I ask, is this the vote %
Phil. It is the vote.
My gracious liege and sovereign !
Damon. I say nay !
You have not voted, Naxillus, nor Petus —
Nor you, nor you, nor you.
Phil. In my capacity
As head and organ of the city council,
I do asseverate it is the vote !
{They all kneel to Dionysius^ except Damon.']
Dion. I thank you, friends and countrymen, I thank ye;
Damon. 0, all the gods ! my country, O, my country !
Dion. And that we may have leisure to put on
With fitting dignity our garb of powpr
We do now, first assuming our own right,
Command from this, that was the senate-house,
Those rash, tumultuous men, who still would tempt
The city's peace with wild vociferation.
And vain contentious rivalry. Begone !
Damon. I stand
A senator within the senate-house.
Dion. Traitor ! and dost thou dare me to my face ?
Damon. Traitor! to whom? to thee?— O, Syracuse,
Is this thy registered doom ? To have no meaning
For the proud names of liberty^ and virtue.
But as some regal braggart sets it down
In his vocabulary ? And the sense,
The broad, bright sense that nature hath assigned them
In her infallible volume, interdicted
Forever from thy knowledge ; or if seen,
And known, and put in use, denounced as treasonable,
And treated thus? — No, Dionysius, no!
I am no traitor ! But in mine allegiance
To my lost country, I proclaim thee one !
Dion. My guards there ! Ho !
Damon. What ! hast thou then invoked
Thy satellites already ? {Enter Procles and soldiers.']
Dion. Seize him I
{Damon rushes on Diony.nus and attempts to stab him.]
7rt NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Damon. First,
Receive a freeman's legacy ! — [He is intercepted hy Procles.
Dionysius,
Thy genius is triumphant, and old Syracuse
Bows her to the dust at last ! — 'Tis done ; 'tis over,
And we are slaves forever !
Dion. We reserve
This proud assassinating demagogue,
Who wets his dagger on philosophy.
For — an example to his cut-ihroat school ! —
The axe, and not the sword. Out of his blood
We'll mix a cement to our monarchy.
Here do we doom him to a public death !
Damon. Death's the best gift to one who never yet
Wished to survive his country. Here are men
Fit for the life a tyrant can bestow !
Let such as these live on.
Dion. Hold thou there •
Lest having stirred our vengeance into wrath,
It reach unto those dearer than thyself
Ha ! have I touched thee, Damon 'I Is there a way
To level thee unto the feebleness
Of universal nature ? What, no word ?
Come, use thy time, my brave philosopher !
Soon will thy tongue cleave, an unmoving lump
Of thickest silence and oblivion.
And that same wide and sweeping hand of thme,
Used to the orator's high attitude,
Lie at thy side in inutility.
Thou hast few moments left !
Damon. I know thee well —
Thou art wont to use thy tortures on the heart
Watching its agonizing throbs, and. making
A science of that fell anatomy !
These are thy bloody metaphysics — this
Thy barbarous philosophy.— I own
Thou hast struck thy venomed sting into my soul.
But while I am wounded, I despise thee still !
My wife ! my child ! — Dionysius,
Thou shouldst have spared me that ! — Procles, lead on.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 77
XXIV.— FROM ALASGO.—Shee.
ALA SCO CONRAD MALINSKI RIENSKL
Rienski. Conrad, you are warm, and misconceive Mai-
inski.
Engaged, as we are, in a nobJe cause,
Contention now were fatal to our hopes.
Coftrad. Then let our conduct, like our cause, be noble.
I do not seek contention, gentlemen !
Nor. will I turn me from an honest course,
To shun it.
Malinski. Conrad, I perceive your aim ;
'Tis to thwart me, that you would shield this Walsingham :
He is no friend of yours.
Con. No. If he were,
And you had marked him on your bloody scroll.
By heaven ! my sword had soon effaced the record.
Rien. Why, then, are you so forward to defend him ?
Con. Because I hate hypocrisy, and scorn
The artifice that covers base revenge.
Walsingham's a brave old soldier, and deserves
A better fate, than thus to be despatched
By malice, in a muster-roll of knaves.
' *Mal. Malice !
Con. Yes, malice. I do not wear a mask,
Nor play the patriot for my private ends.
Mai. Dare you insinuate —
Con. No, I assert.
Mai. What ?
Con. That you are a knave, Malinski.
Mai. A knave !
Con. Yes ; to be a knave is promotion for a fool,
And you should thank me for the title.
Mai Gods!
Shall I bear this insolence ! \^Dratvs — the rest interfere to
jnevent him.']
Con. Nay, let him rage —
I have a specific here for his complaint, [Draws.]
That never failed me.
Rie7i. Gentlemen, for shame !
And Conrad, you — the soul of all our councils.
78 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
What discontents you, that in anger thus,
You flash upon your friends ?
Con. Then, to be plain,
I do not like this process we are engaged in.
T am a soldier, and in my way of trade,
Have seldom been thought squeamish with my foes,
When dealing face to face, and hand to hand ; —
But in this cold blood game of policy,
To play with lives like counters, and to sit
Like undertakers, measuring men for shrouds —
'Tis not a soldier's office !
Rien. These are scruples
Fantastic honor starts in gallant minds ;
'Twere weakness to indulge them. — Count Alasco I
[^Enter Alasco. — They all rise.']
Welcome, brave chief! our sanction and our strength !
Your presence breathes new vigor in our hearts,
And winds up our intents at once to action.
Alasco. Brave friends and countrymen ! why late I come
Amongst you, and so long have stood aloof.
As one who seemed indifferent, or adverse
To the great cause that moves you, you have heard
Already from my friend. You will not doubt
My zeal, though tardy. 'Tis indeed most true,
I have not stirred you to this enterprise.
I would not idly move your wrongs, nor seek
To fire the train of fury in your hearts, • '
'Till injuries past sufferance, as past hope,
Should blaze the exploding vengeance on your foes,
And make it policy, as well as justice.
Revolt's a desperate game, that none should play,
Who feel they've aught to lose, which they prize more
Than liberty.
Rien. Noble Alasco ! we
Are resolved to die. or free our country.
Alas. ! brave alternative, and worthy heioes!
\Thcy all draw their swords, and exclaim^\
Alasco and our country ! — liberty or death I
Alas. Then, since your hearts are wound up to this pitch,
And, edged with wrongs, your unsuborned swords
Have leaped their scabbards thus, behold ! at once
I pledge me to your purpose.
Yes, from this moment do I here suspend
All private functions — supersede all claims —
SERIOUS AND SENT TIME NTAL. 79
All duties of my station and degree,
Which mig-ht disturb me in this glorious course,
And give myself up wholly to my country.
Mai. We will assert our freedom, and inflict
A signal vengeance
[^Sevcral voices heard. ^ Yes revenge and liberty !
Alas. Then let our liberty be our revenge. —
But now. my friends ! to business, for the time
Is critical. — His late defeat, I fear,
Has startled Hohendahl to vigilance,
And walked him to a danger he despised.
Let each man muster all his force, and march
In midnight silence to the appointed ground,
Behind the abbey church. To-morrow's dawn
Must see us in the field. If we surprise
The castle, ere such succors shall arrive
As may defy our strength, we strike a blow
That sets wise speculation on our side.
And wins at once the wavering multitude.
Mai. V^Y li^aven ! we'll burn the castle to the ground,
And in its ruins bury all its inmates
Alas. Sir ! let us fight like men. m the fair field.
Strike, where our liberties demand the blow, —
But spare, where only cowards would inflict it.
Mai. We may be too magnanimous, my lord,
And in our lenity, betray our country.
Alas. Nay, do not hold that maxim ! of all traitors,
The worst is he who stains his country's cause
With cruelty ; making it hideous in
The general eye, and fearful to its friends.
Con. By Mars ! that touches home. [Aside.'}
Then as our chief,
'Tis fit that you peruse this document.
\_Takes up a paper and presents it to Alasco.']
Alas. What is its purport, Conrad ?
Con. 0! promotions!
The stafl* of a new corps of skeletons —
A kind of scarecrow company ! — to serve
In shrouds and winding sheets.
Alas. [Reading.] What! a proscription? — Colonel
Walsingham !
Con. Yes, yes ! you'll find some friends upon the list.
Rien. Conrad ! your humor lacks discretion here.
Mai. There is not a man among us but may plead
80 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
A spirit smarting from some grievous wrong,
To justify his vengeance.
Alas. Sir, what wrong
Procured the honored name of Walsingham
A place on such a list.
Mai. He is an Englishman !
Alas. Yes. and his virtues well sustain a name
Long dear to freedom.
Mai. He is a heretic !
Foe to our faith, our freedom, and our country.
But — he has a handsome daughter.
Alas. Sir, beware!
That lady's name is n6t to be profaned
By vulgar mouths, nor mingled with the sounds.
That from a ruffian's tongue would stimulate
To murder.
Mai. Murder !
Con. Never flinch, man ! no!
Alas. [^Looking r&uiicl with indignation^^ And have
you all combined in this foul compact ?
All signed and sealed this instrument of blood?
Are we met here, in dark conspiracy
To club our mite of malice and revenge —
For each with cunning cowardice to graft
His private wrongs upon the public stock,
And make the state his champion 1
Rien. Noble Alasco!
If we, through over zeal, have erred in this,
You are our chief, and may annul our purpose.
Alas. [Tearing the paper. ^ Then thus I use my privi-
lege ! Sacred powers !
I thought I had joined me to a noble band.
Rien. And such, we dare assert, our deeds shall prove
us.
Alas. Away ! you will crouch like slaves, or kill like
cowards.
What! you have swords? by heaven you dare not use
them !
A sword is the brave man's weapon — you mistake
Your instruments ; knives — daggers best become you I
Heavens ! am I leagued with cut-throats and assassins?
With wretches, who at midnight lurk in caves.
To mark their prey, and meditate their murders ?
Well, then ! to your office — if you must stab,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 81
Begin with me ; here — here plant all your daggers I
Much rather would I as your victim die,
Than live as your accomplice.
Rien. Spare us, my lord !
Nor press this past endurance ; your reproof
Has sunk into our hearts, and shamed away
All passions but for freedom and our country.
Alas. Your country's freedom ! say your own discharge
From wholesome rule and honest industry !
You mean immunity for blood and spoil ; —
The privilege of wild riot and revenge ; —
The liberty of lawless depredation.
Con. [Adva?icing earnestly.'] ! brave friends !
Or let me close this breach, or perish in it !
For 'tis a gap that's wide enough for ruin.
Come ! let us clear our honor and our cause
At once, from this foul taint ; let each man here,
Who bears a patriot's heart, draw forth his sword,
And on that hallowed cross, the soldier holds
An emblem of his faith, defense and service.
Swear to suppress all promptings of revenge.
All private interests, ends and enmities ;
And as he hopes for honor, fame, or safety,
Seek alone his country's weal, and freedom.
[T/ie chiefs all draw tJieir sivords^ kneel down and kiss
tlie hilt.]
Rien. We swear — and as our hearts are in the oath,
So may our wishes prosper !
Alas. [Kneels also.] Record it, heaven !
And in a cause so just, vouchsafe thy guidance.
[They all rise.]
This solemn sanction, Conrad, reassures me.
Now, once again, I pledge me to your fortunes.
My friends, your hands !
Whate'er of comment harsh, in heat has passed,
To chafe, or wound one generous spirit here.
Your candor, sirs will in its cause excuse.
Rien. The fault is ours — we own it. and our swords
To-morrow shall redeem it on the foe.
Alas. Then to our work like men who are fit for liberty ?
Fierce in the field as tigers for our rights,
But when the sword is sheathed, the friends of peace,
And firm for law and justice.
E
82 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXV.— FROM JULIUS CMS AR.-^Shakspeare.
BRUTUS CASSIUS.
Tent Scene.
Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in
this:
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardinians :
Wherein my letter (praying on his side
Because I knew the man) was slighted of.
Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.
Cas. At such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offense should bear its comment.
B?'u. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ;
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm ?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.
Cas. Chastisement ! —
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember !
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab.
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty meed of our large honors
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me :
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself,
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
• Bru Go to : you are not, Cassius.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMEHTAL. 83
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself —
Have mind upon your health — tempt me no farther.
Bru. Away, slight man !
Cas. Is it possible?
Bru. Hear me. for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frightened when a mad man stares ?
Cas. gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this?
Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart
break !
Go, tell your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ?
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor? By the gods.
You shall digest the venom of your spleen.
Though it do split you : for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this ?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier :
Let it appear so.; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way — you wrong mc, Brutus;
I said an elder soldier, not a better ;
Did I say better ? ^
Bru. If you difl, I care not.
Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved
me.
Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted
him.
Cas. I durst not !
Bru. No.
Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ?
Bru. " For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
84 NEW SCHOOl. DIALOGUES.
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;
For I can raise no money by vile means.
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me : was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunder-bolts !
Dash him to pieces !
Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cas. I did not — he was but a fool
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart.
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not. Still you practice them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come !
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is a-weary of the world ;
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ;
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote.
To cast into my teeth. ! I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger
And here my naked breast — within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold !
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth.
I that denied thee gold, will give my heart :
Strike as thou didst at Csesar ; for I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
Bru. Sheathe your dagger ;
Be angry when you will it shall have scope ,
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
0, Cassius ! you are yoked with a lamb,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 85
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ;
Which, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ?
B7'u. AVhen I spoke that, I was ill tempered too.
Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
Cas O, Brutus !
Bru. What's the matter ?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humor which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful 1
Bru. Yes. Cassius, and from henceforth.
When you are over-earnest vv^ith your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
XXVI— FROM CATO.- Addison.
CATO FORTIUS LUCIUS JUBA MARCIA.
Scene. — A Chamber.
[Cato, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture ; in his hand^
Platds book on the Immortality of the Soul ; a drawn
sword on the table by him.]
Cato. It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well —
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or whence this secret dread, this inward horror,
Of falling into naught ! Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; .
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity ? thou pleasing, dreadful thought !
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ?
6
36 , NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me :
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that theVe is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works ) he must delight in virtue ;
And that which he delights in must be happy ;
But when, or where ? — This world was made for Caesar.
I'm weary of conjectures : — this must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sic>07'd.]
Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end ;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ?
Nature, oppressed and harassed out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her,
That my awakened soul may take her flight.
Renewed with all her strength, and fresh with life,
An ofl^ering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,
Indiflerent in his choice, to sleep or die.
[JEnter Fortius.]
But, ha ! who's this ? my son ! Why this intrusion ?
Were not my orders that I would be priv^-te ?
Why am I disobeyed ?
Fortius. Alas, my father !
What means this sword, this instrunjent of death "2
Let me convey it hence.
Cato. Bash youth, forbear.
For. Oh. let the prayers, the entreaties of your frienas,
Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you.
Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst thou give
me up
A slave, a captive into Caesar's hands ?
Retire and learn obedience to a father,
Or know, young man — —
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL.
87
For. Look not thus sternly on me ;
You know, I'd rather die than disobey you.
iCDO-CTj
Cato. 'Tis well ! again I'm master of myself.
Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates,
And bar each avenue ; thy gathering fleets
O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port,
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes.
Po)-. [Kneeling.] Oh, sir, forgive your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. 0. my father !
How am I sure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeased,
Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul !
Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
[E7nbracing him. ]
Weep not, my son, all will be well again ;
The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please,
Will succor Cato, and preserve his children.
For. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.
Cato. Fortius, thou mayst rely upon my conduct.
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
But go, my son. and see if aught be wanting
Among thy father's friends ; see them embarked,
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.
My soul is quite, weighed down with care, and- asks
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.
88 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives.
\^Exit Cato.]
[Enter Marcia.~\
Oh, Marcia ! Oh, my sister ! still there's hope
Our father will not cast away a life
So needful to us all, and to his country.
He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish
Thoughts full of peace. He has despatched me hence
With orders that bespeak a mind composed,
And studious for the safety of his friends.
Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. [Extt.]
Marcia. Oh, ye immortal powers that guard the just,
Watch round his couch, and soften his repose ;
Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul
With easy dreams ; remember all his virtues,
And show mankind that goodness is your care !
[Enter Lucius.'}
Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man !
Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father ;
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind, refreshing sleep is fallen upon him :
I saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams ; as I drew near his couch.
He smiled, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not hurt me.
Marcia. His mind still labors with some dreadful thought.
[Enter Fortius.}
Por. Oh, sight of woe !
Oh, Marcia, what we feared is come to pass !
Cato has fallen upon his sword
Luc. Oh, Fortius,
Hide all the honors of thy mournful tale.
And let us guess the rest.
Por. I've raised him up,
And placed him in his chair ; where, pale and faint,
He gasps f^r breath, and, as his life flows from him,
Demands to see his friends. His servants, weeping,
Obsequious to his order bear him hither !
Marcia. Oh, heaven ! assist me in this dreadful hour,
To pay the last sad duties to my father !
[Cato brought on^ in a chair.}
. Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, Caesar !
Lux:. Now is Home fallen indeed !
Cato. Here set me down
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 89
Fortius, come near me. — Are my friends embarked ?
Can anything be thought of for their service?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain
Oh, bend me forward ! — Oh, when shall I get loose
From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sorrow ?
And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas ! I fear
I've been too hasty. Oh, ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts.
If I have done amiss, impute it not —
The best may err, but you are good, and — Oh ! [Z)^.;.'!
Luc. There fled the greatest soul that ever warmed
A Roman breast. Oh, Cato ! Oh, my friend !
Thy will shall be religiously observed.
But let us bear this awful corpse to Caesar,
And lay it in his sight, that it may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath :
Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends, [^Exeunt.]
XXVII. -FROM ALFRED THE GREAT— Thompson.
ALFRED DEVON.
Alfred. How long, ever-gracious Heaven, how long
Shall war thus desolate this prostrate land ?
All, all is lost — and Alfred lives to tell it !
His cities laid in dust ! his subjects slaughtered,
Or into slaves debased ; the murderous foe
Proud and exulting in the general shame !
Are these things so ? and he without the means
Of great revenge ! cast down below the hope
Of succoring those he weeps for ! despair !
O grief of griefs !
Devon. Old as I am, my liege.
In rough war hardened, and with death familiar,
These eyes have long forgot to melt with softness :
But 0, my gracious master, they have seen —
All pitying Heaven ! — such sights of ruthless rage,
Of total desolation ! —
Alfred. 0, my people !
0, ruined England ! Devon, those were blest
90 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Who died before this time. Ha! and those robbers,
That violate .the sanctity of leagues,
The reverend seal of oaths ; that basely broke,
Like mighty ruffians on the hour of peace,
And stole a victory from men unarmed.
Those Danes enjoy their crimes ! Dread vengeance ! son
Of power and justice! come, arrayed in terrors,
Thy garments red with blood, thy keen sword drawn,
come, and on the heads of faithless men
Pour ample retribution I men whose triumph
Upbraids eternal justice ! But no more :
Submission is Heaven's due. I will not launch
Into the dark abyss where thought must drown.
Proceed, my lord ; on with the mournful tale
My griefs broke off
Devon. From yonder heath-crowned hill,
This island's eastern point, where in one stream
The Thone and Parrot roll their blending waves,
1 looked, and saw the progress of the foe,
As of some tempest, some devouring fire,
That ruins without mercy where it spreads
The riches of the year ; the golden grain
That liberal crowned our plains, lies trampled wide
By hostile feet, or rooted up ; and waste
Deforms the broad highway. From space to space,
Far as my straining eye could shoot its beam,
Trees, cottages, and castles, smoke to heaven
In one ascending cloud. But oh, for pity !
That way, my lord, where yonder verdant height
Declining slides into a fruitful vale.
Unsightly now, and bare, a few poor hinds,
Gray-haired and thinly clad, stood and beheld
The common ravage ; motionless and mute,
With hands to Heaven upraised, they stood and wept —
My tears attended theirs.
Alfred. If this sad sight
Could pain thee to such anguish, what must I, . *
Their king and parent, feel? It is a torment
Beyond their strength of patience to endure.
Why end I not at once this wretched being?
The means are in my hand. But shall a prince
Thus poorly shroud him in the grave, from pain
And sense of shame? The madman, nay, the coward,
Has often dared the same. A monarch holds
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 91
His life in trust for others. I will live then ;
Let Heaven dispose the rest.
Devon. Thrice noble Alfred,
And England's only hope, whose virtues raise
Our frail mortality, our human dust,
Up to angelic splendor and perfection ;
With you to bear the worst of ills, the spoil
Of wasteful war, the loss of life or freedom,
Is happiness, is glory.
Alfred. Ah, look round thee :
That mud-built cottage is thy sovereign's palace.
Yon hind, whose daily toil is all his wealth,
Lodges and feeds him. Are these times for flattery,
Or call it praise ? Such gaudy attributes
Would misbecome our best and proudest fortunes.
But what are mine ? what is this high praised Alfred ?
Among ten thousand wretches most undone.
That prince who sees his country laid in ruins,
His subjects perishing beneath the sword
Of foreign rage, who sees, and cannot save them,
Is but supreme in misery.
Devon. My liege,
Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself or his own virtue. Be of comfort ;
We can but die at last. Till that hour comes,
Let nobler anger keep our hopes alive.
A sudden thought, as if from Heaven inspired,
Darts on my soul. Yon castle is still ours,
Though close begirt and shaken by the Danes.
In this disguise, my chance of passing on,
Of entering there unknown, is promising,
And wears a lucky face. 'Tis our last stake,
And I will play it like a man, whose life.
Whose honor hangs upon a single cast.
Meanwhile, my lord —
Alfred. Ha ! Devon, thou hast roused
My slumbering virtue. I applaud thy thought.
The praise of this brave daring shall be thine;
The danger shall be common. We will both
Straight tempt the Danish camp, and gain this fort,
To animate our brothers of the war.
Those Englishmen who yet deserve that name.
And here. Eternal Justice! if my life
Can make atonement for them, King of kings !
9*2 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Accept thy willing victim. On my head
Be all their woes. To them be grace and mercy.
Come on, my noble friend. *
Devon. Ah, good my liege !
What fits a private valor, and might grace
The simple soldier's courage, would proclaim
His general's rashness. You are England's king ;
Your infant children, and your much loved queen;
Nay, more, the pubhc weal, ten thousand souls.
Whose hope you are, whose all depends on you,
Forbid this enterprise. 'Tis nobler virtue
To check this ardor, to reserve your sword
For some great day of known and high report ;
That to your country, to the judging world,
Shall satisfy all hazards you may run.
This trial suits but me.
Alfred. Well go, my friend ;
If thou shalt prosper, thou wilt call me hence
To head my people, from their fears recovered.
May that good angel who inspired thy thought,
Throw round thy steps a veil of cloudy air,
That thou mayst walk invisible and safe. [ExitDevon.^
He's gone — and now, without a friend to aid me,
I stand alone, abandoned to the gloom
Of my sad thoughts. Said I without a friend ?
Oh, blasphemous distrust ! have I not thee.
All powerful Friend and Guardian of the righteous;
Have I not thee to aid me? Let that thought
Support my drooping soul. [Exit^
Scene Second.
ALFRED DE VON.
Alfred. My friend returned !
O welcome, welcome ! but what happy tidings
Smile in thy cheerful countenance ?
Devon. My liege.
Your troops have been successful. — But to Heaven
Ascend the praise ! For sure the event exceeds
The hand of man.
Alfred. How was it, noble Devon ?
Devon. You know my castle is not hence far distant.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 93
Thither I sped, and, in a Danish habit,
The trenches passing, by a secret way-
Known to myself alone, emerged at once
Amid my joyful soldiers. There I found
A generous few, the veteran hardy gleanings
Of many a hapless fight. They with a fierce
Heroic fire inspirited each other ;
Resolved on death, disdaining to survive
Their dearest country. " If we fall," I cried,
" Let us not tamely fa'l like cowards !
No : let us live — or let us die, like men !
Come on, my friends : to Alfred we will cut
Our glorious way ; or, as we nobly perish,
Will offer to the genius of our country
Who'e hecatombs of Danes." As if one soul
Had moved them all. around their heads they flashed
Their flaming falchions. " Lead us to those Danes !
Our country ! — vengeance !" — was the general cry.
Straight on the careless drowsy camp we rushed,
And rapid, as the flame devours the stubble.
Bore down the heartless Danes. With this success
Our enterprise increased. Not now contented
To hew a passage through the flying herd.
We, unremitting, urged a total rout.
The valiant Hubba bites the bloody field,
With twice six hundred Danes around him strewed.
Alfred. My glorious friend ! this action has restored
Our smking country.
But where, my noble cousin, are th^ rest
Of our brave troops %
Devon. On the other side the stream,
That half encloses this retreat, T left them.
Roused from the fear with which it was congealed
As in a frost, the country pours amain.
The spirit of our ancestors is up,
The'spirit of the free ! and with a voice
That breathes success, they all demand their king.
Alfred. Quick let us join them and improve their ardor.
We cannot be too hasty to secure
The glances of occasion.
94 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXVIIL— FROM BRUTUS.— Payne.
BRUTUS CENTURION VALERIUS TITUS COLLATINUS LIC-
TORS GUARDS PEO PLE .
Scene 1. — A Street in Rome.
[Enter Brutus and Collatinus, as consuls, followed by lie-
tors, gulzrds, and peopled]
Brutus. You judge me rightly, friends. The purpled robe,
The curule chair, the lictor's keen-edged axe,
Rejoice not Brutus — 'tis his country's freedom :
When once that freedom shall be firmly rooted.
Then, with redoubled pleasure, will your consul
Exchange the splendid miseries of power,
For the calm comforts of a happy home.
[Enter Centurion.']
Centurion. Health to Brutus !
Shame and confusion to the foes of Rome !
Bru. Now, without preface, soldier, to your business.
Cent. As I kept watch at the Quirinal gate.
Ere break of day, an armed company
Burst on a sudden through the barrier guard,
Pushing their course for Ardea. Straight alarmed,
I wheeled my cohort round, and charged them home :
Sharp was the conflict for a while, and doubtful,
Till, on the seizure of Tarquinia's person,
A young patrician
Bru. Hah ! patrician 1
Cent. Such
His dress bespoke him, though to me unknown.
Bru. Proceed ! — what more ?
Cent. The lady being taken,
This youth, the life and leader of the band.
His sword high waving in the act to strike,
Dropt his uplifted weapon, and at once
Yielded himself my prisoner. Oh, Valerius,
What have I said, that thus the consul changes?
Bru. Why do you pause? Go on.
Ce7it. Their leader seized.
The rest surrendered. Him. a settled gloom
Possesses wholly ; nor, as I believe.
Hath a word passed his lips, to all my questions
Still obstinately shut.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 95
Bru. Set him before us. {Exit Centurion.]
Valerius. Oh, my brave friend, horror invades my heart.
Bru. Silence ! Be calm.
Val. I know thy soul,
A compound of all excellence, and pray
The mighty gods to put thee to no trial
Beyond a mortal bearing.
Bru. No, they will not —
Nay, be secure, they cannot. Pray thee, friend,
Look out, and if the worst that can befall me
Be verified, turn back.
Thou canst excuse this weakness,
Being thyself a father. [ Valerius returns.]
Since it must be so.
Do your great pleasure, gods ! Now, now it comes !
[Enter Titus, guarded.']
Titus. My father, — give me present death, ye powers!
Cent. What have I done! art thou the son of Brutus?
Tit. No — Brutus scorns to father such a son !
Oh, venerable judge, wilt thou not speak?
Turn not away ; hither direct thine eyes,
And look upon this sorrow-stricken form.
Then to thine own great heart remit my plea.
And doom as nature dictates.
Val Peace, you'll anger him —
Be silent and await ! Oh. suffering mercy.
Plead in a father's heart, and speak for nature !
Bru. Come hither, Collatinus. The deep wound
You suffered in the loss of your Lucretia,
Demanded more than fortitude to bear :
I saw your agony — I felt your woe —
Collatinus. You more than felt it ; you revenged it too.
Bru. But ah, my brother consul, your Lucretia
Fell nobly, as a Roman spirit should.
She fell a model of transcendent virtue.
Col. My mind misgives. What dost thou aim at, Brutus?
Bru. [Almost overpowered.] That youth, my Titus, was
my age's hope ;
I loved him more than language can express ;
I thought him born to diguify the world.
Col. My heart bleeds for you — he may yet be saved —
Bru. [Fi7"mly.] Consul, for Rome I live, not for myself.
I dare not trust my firmness in this crisis,
Warring against everything my soul holds dear '
96 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Therefore return without me to the Senate —
[ ought not now to take a seat among them —
Haply my presence might restrain their justice.
Look that these traitors meet their trial straight,
And then despatch a messenger to tell mc
How the wise fathers have disposed of go !
Tit. A word for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels.
Love is my plea ; a father is my judge ;
Nature my advocate ! I can no more :
If these will not appease a parent's heart,
Strike through them all, and lodge thy vengeance here!
Bru. Break off! I will not, cannot hear thee further.
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,
Brutus will suffer as he may.
Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes
To the Senate. On !
[Exit all but Brutus. After a pause of restless agony ^"l
Like a lost, guilty wretch, I look around
And start at every footstep, lest it bring
The fatal news of my poor son's conviction !
Oh, Rome, thou little knowest — no more. It comes.
[Enter Valerius.']
Val. My friend, the Senate have to thee transferred
The right of judgment on thy son's offense,
Bru. To me ?
Val. To thee alone.
Bru. What of the rest?
Val. Their sentence is already passed :
Even now, perhaps, the lictor's dreaded hand
Cuts off their forfeit lives.
Bru. Sayst thou the Senate have to me referred
The fate of Titus ?
Val. Such is their sovereign will.
They think you merit this distinguished honor,
A father's grief deserves to be revered :
Rome will approve whatever you decree.
Bru. And is his guilt established beyond doubt?
Val. Too clearly.
Bru. [ With a burst of tears. \ Oh, ye gods ! ye gods I
[Collecting himself .] Valerius!
Val. What wouldst thou, noble Roman ?
Bru. 'Tis said thou hast pulled down thine house, Valerius,
The stately pile that with such cost was reared.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 97
Vol, I have; but what doth Brutus thence infer?
Bru. It was a gopdly structure ; I remember
How fondly you surveyed its rising grandeur.
With what a — fatherly — delight you summoned
Each grace and ornament, that might enrich
The — child — of your creation — till it swelled
To an imperial size, and overpeered
The petty citizens, that humbly dwelt
Under its lofty walls, in huts and hovels.
Like emmets at the foot of towering Etna :
Then, noble Koman, then, with patriot zeal,
Dear as it was. and valued, you condemned
And leveled the proud pile ; and, in return,
Were by your grateful countrymen surnamed,
And shall to all posterity descend, —
Poplicola.
Vol. Yes, Brutus, I conceive
The awful aim and drift of thy discourse —
But I conjure thee, pause ! thou art a father.
Bru. I am a Roman consul. What, my friend,
Shall no one but Valerius love his country
Dearer than house, or property, or children %
Now, follow me ; — and in the face of heaven —
See, see, good Valerius, if Brutus
Feel not for Rome as warmly as Poplicola. \Exeuni.\
Scene 2. — Interior of a Temple.
\Brutu8 seated on tJie tribunal.']
Bru. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this day,
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire
Against mature societies, may urge
Their acts as bold and daring ; and though villains,
Yet they are manly villains — but to stab
The cradled innocent^ as these have done, —
To strike their country in the mother-pangs.
And direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat, — is a deed so black.
That my foiled tongiie refuses it a name. [A pause.]
There is one criminal still left for judgment.
Let him approach. [Enter Titus^ guarded.]
Pris-on-er — [The voice of Brutus falters.^ and is cJwked,
and he exclaims with violent emotion^]
Romans ! forgive this agony of grief —
F y
98 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
My heart is bursting — nature must have way —
[ will perform all that a Roman should —
I cannot feel less than a father ought :
[ He becomes more calm.]
Well, Titus, speak — how is it with thee now ?
Tell me, my son. art thou prepared to die ?
Til. Father ! I call the powers of heaven to witness,
Titus dares die, when you have so decreed.
The gods will have me.
Brii. They will, my Titus ;
Nor heaven, nor earth can have it otherwise.
The violated genius of thy country
Rears its sad head, and passes sentence on thee !
It seems as if thy fate were pre-ordained
To fix the reeling spirits of the people,
And settle the loose liberty of Rome.
'Tis fixed ; — oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thee !
So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power
Of mortal man to save thee from the axe
2\t. The axe ! Oh, heavens ! — then must I fall so basely
What, shall I perish like a common felon ?
Bru. How else do traitors suffer? Nay, Titus, more :
I must myself behold thee meet this shame of death, —
With all thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee, —
See thy head taken by the common axe.
All, — if the gods can hold me to my purpose, —
Without a groan, without one pitying tear.
Tit. Die like a felon ? — ha ! a common felon ! — ^
But I deserve it all : — yet here I fail :
This ignominy quite unmans me !
Oh, Brutus, Brutus ! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness.
No sign of mercy? not even leave to fall
As noble Romans fall, by my own sword ?
Father, why should you make my heart suspect
That-all your late compassion was dissembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?
Bru. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs, that strain the very strings of life ;
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Tit. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty !
I now submit with calmness to my fate.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL.
99
Come forth, ye executioners of justice —
Come, take my life, — and give it to my country !
Bru. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods
Arm thee with patience in this awful hour.
The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome,
Bound by h:s high authority, condemns
A crime thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go — meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting ;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee !
No more ! Farewell ! eternally farewell !
Tit. Oh, Brutus! oh, my father!
Farewell, forever.
Bru. Forever.
Lictors, attend ! — conduct your prisoner forth !
Val. \^Rapidly and anxiously. \ Whither?
[All the characters bending forward in great anxiety^
Bru. To death I \All start.'] When you do reach the
spot
My hand shall wave the signal for the act.
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done !
[Titus is conducted out by the lictors.]
Poor youth ! thy pilgrimage is at an end !
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now
Demands her victim ! A little moment
And I am childless. — One effort, and 'tis past —
[ Waves his hand.]
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free. [Brutus falls^
Son of Clarence. W^hv do you look on us and shake your head,
And call IIS orphans, wretches, cast-aways,
If that our noble father be alivo V — Richard J J J.
100 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXIX.— FROM THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.— J/rs. Hemans.
MONTALBA PROCIDA RAIMOND FIRST SICILIAN SECOND
SICILIAN GUIDO SICILIANS.
Scene. — A chapel, and a monument, on which is laid a s-word.
Montalba. And know you not my story "2
Frocida. In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were numbered with our country's ; but the tale
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
Mont. Oh ! what lovely dreams
Rose on my spirit, when, after long years
Of battle and captivity, I spurred
My good steed homewards. There were tears and smiles,
But all of joy! And there were bounding steps,
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck,
When his plumed helm is doffed. Hence, feeble thoughts!
I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine !
Raimond. And were they realized ?
Mont. Youth ! ask me not,
But listen ! I drew near my own fair home ;
There was no light along its walls, no sound
Of bugle pealing from the watchtower's height
At my approach, although my trampling steed
Made the earth ring ; yet the wide gates were thrown
All open. Then my heart misgave me first,
And on the threshold of my silent hall
I paused in fear. I called — my struggling voice
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names ;
They answered not. I roused my failing strength,
And wildly rushed within — and they were there.
Rai. And was all well?
Mont. Ay, well ! for death is well,
And they were all at rest ! I see them yet,
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had failed
To stay the assassin's arm !
Rai. Oh! righteous heaven !
Who had done this ?
SERIOUS AND SEN^IMB^^^Ai.. TOl'
Mont. Who!
Proc. Canst thou question, who ?
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds,
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime,
But those whose yoke is on us?
Rai. Man of woe !
What words have pity for despair like thine 1
Mont. Pity ! fond youth !
Proc. Pity ! — For woes like these,
There is no sympathy but vengeance.
Mont. None !
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round !
We are in the awful presence of the dead ;
Within yon tomb they sleep, whose gentle blood'
Weighs down the murderer's soul They sleep ! but I
Am wakeful o'er their dust ! I laid my sword.
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone,
As on an altar ; and the eternal stars,
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow,
No more to wield it save in one great cause —
The vengeance of the grave ! And now the hour
Of that atonement comes !
[He takes the sword from tlie tortib.]
Bui. My spirit burns !
And my full heart almost to bursting swells.
Oh ! for the day of battle !
Proc. Raimond ! they
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood, must die ;
But not in battle !
Rai. How, my father !
Proc. No !
Look on that sepulcher, and it will teach
Another lesson. Childless Montalba !
Mont. Call on that desolate father, in the hour
When his revenge is nigh.
Proc. Are we all met?
Sicilians. AH. all !
Proc. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day,
When, with our martyred Conradin the flower
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he, of whom
I speak, a weeping boy. whose innocent tears
Melted a thousand hearts who dared not aid,
9^
W2 KBW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Stood by the scaffold, with extended arms.
Calling upon his father, whose last look
Turned full on him its parting agony.
That father's blood gushed o'er him ! — and the boy
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye,
And a proud flush on his young cheek, looked up
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still
That bitter hour ?
Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword !
Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
Froc. Thou, too, come forth.
From thine own halls an exile ! — Dost thou make
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still.
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls,
Wave their proud blazonry ?
First Sicilian. Even so. I stood
Last night before my own ancestral towers
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat
On my bare head — what recked it ? There was joy
Within, and revelry : the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs
In the stranger's tongue made mirth. They little deemed
Who heard their melodies ! — but there are thoughts
Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dread vows
Known to the mountain echoes. — Procida !
Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh.
Froc. Our band shows gallantly — but there are men
Who should be with us now, had they not dared
In some wild moment of festivity
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish
For freedom ! — and some traitor — it might be
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound
ToEribert; so they must die — unless
Fate, who at times is wayward, should select
Some other victim first ! But have they not
Brothers or sons among us %
Guido. Look on me !
I have a brother, a young, high-souled boy.
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow-
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is
A glorious creature ! But his doom is sealed
With theirs of whom ye spoke ; and I have knelt, —
Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life — I knelt
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 108
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malig-nity
We knov\' so well and spurned me. But the staia
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off,
And thus it shall be canceled ! — Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Froc. I call upon thee now ! The land's high soul
Is roused and moving onward like a breeze,
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — ay, 'tis thus
Oppression fans the imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands.
When slavery's cup
O'erflows its bounds, the' creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, through each burning vein
Pours fever lending a delirious strength
To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst !
Now, before
The Majesty of yon pure Heaven : whose eye
Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends
The arm that strikes for freedom ; speak ! decree
The fate of our oppressors.
Mont. Let them fall
When dreaming least of peril ! — When the heart,
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines
Bed in the festal torch-light, meet we there,
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
Rai. Must innocence and guilt perish alike?
Mont. Who talks of innocence ?
When hath their hand been stayed for innocence ?
Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose its own.
Why should their children live ? The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path ; and this
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well !
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man? — what if the infant bleed?
Is there not pc^wer to hush the mother's pangs 1
What if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty ? — Should we pause,
J 04 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
As if death were not mercy to the pangs
Which make our lives the records of our foes ?
Let them all perish ! — And if one be found
Amidst our band, to stay the avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,
Then be his doom as theirs! \^Aparise.'\
Why gaze ye thus ?
Brethren, what means your silence?
Gui. Be it so 1
If one amongst us stay the avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs !
Pledge we our faith to this !
Rai. [Rushing foi'ivard indignantly.'] Our faith to
this !
No ! I but dreamt I heard it ! Can it be ?
My countrymen, my father ! Is it thus
That freedom should be won ? Awake ! awake
To loftier thoughts ! Lift up, exultingly,
On the crowned heights, and to the sweeping wmds,
Your glorious banner ! Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud.
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer ! What is he
Who carries on his practiced lip a smile
Beneath his vest a daoforer which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from.
And our blood curdle at. Ay, yours and mine, —
A murderer! — Heard ye?— Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days ? Oh, friends ! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men,
Sounds full of might and immortality !
And shall not ours be such ?
Mont. Fond dreamer, peace !
Fame ! what is fame ? Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave,
At the vain breath of praise ? I tell thee, youth,
Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst,
Which must be quenched, though death were in the draught :
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
Proc. Oh ! my son,
The time is past for such high dreams as thine.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 106
Thou knowest not whom we deal with. Knightly faith
And chivalrous honor, are but things whereon
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
Rai. Many a land
Hath bowed beneath the yoke ; and then arisen,
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance, as hath made
Its name a power on earth. — Ay, nations own
It is enough of glory to be called
The children of the mighty, who redeemed
Their native soil — but not by means like these.
Mont. I have no children. — Of Montalba's blood
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins
Of aught that breathes ! Why, what have I to do
With far futurity ? My spirit lives
But in the past, xiway ! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, then return,
Strong in thy desolation : but, till then.
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Rai. Montalba, know
I shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice
Might yet have power amongst you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet,
As knights, as warriors !
Mont. Peace ! havcy we not borne
The indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We are not knights and warriors.— Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Rai. Why, then, farewell.
I leave you to your counsels. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased.
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
[Exit Rainwiid.\
Proc. He's gone ! — why let it be !
I trust our Sicily hath many a son
Valiant as mine. Associates ! 'tis decreed
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name
The hour, the scene the signal.
106 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Mont. It should be
]n the full city, when some festival
Hath gatnered throngs, and lulled infatuate hearts
To brief security. Then may we mix
With the flushed revelers, making their gay feast
The harvest of the grave.
Proc. There are noblemen
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase
Reprieve with other blood.
Mont. Be it then the day
Preceding that appointed for their doom.
Gui. My brother, thou shalt live ! — Oppression boasts
No gift of prophecy ! It but remains
To name our signal, chiefs !
Mont. The vesper-bell.
Proc. Even so, the vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal
Is heard o'er land and wave. — The vesper-bell !
That sound shall wake the avenger ; for 'tis come,
The time when power is in a voice, a breath,
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night
Is waning, with her stars, which, one by one.
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! — your homes?
That name is yet to win.
XXX.— FROM VIZKKRO.— Sheridan.
ALONZO SENTINEL ROLLA.
Scene. — A dungeon — Alonzo in chains — the Sentinel walking near.
Alonzo. For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed
ocean close upon the light. For the last time, through my
cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the quivering luster of
ihe stars. For the last time, oh, sun ! (and soon the hour,)
I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the
pale mists of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then comes
my death, and in the morning of my day I fall, which — no,
Alonzo, date not the life w^hich thou hast run, by the mean
reckoning of the hours and days which thou hast breathed :
a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line ;
by deeds, not years. Then wouldst thou murmur not, but
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 107
bless Providence, which in so short a span, made thee the
instrument of wide and spreading blessings to the helpless
and oppressed ! Though sinking in decrepid age, he prema-
turely falls whose memory records no benefit conferred by
him on man. They only have lived long, who have lived
virtuously. — [Looking out.\ — Surely, even now thin streaks
of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the east. If
so. my life is but one hour more. I will not watch the
coming dawn; but in the darkness of my cell, my last
prayer to thee, Power Supreme ! shall be for my wife and
child ! Grant them to dwell in innocence and peace ; grant
health and purity of mind — all else is worthless.
[Enters his cell.']
Sentinel. Who's there ? answer quickly ! who's there %
Rolla. [ Within, j A friar comes to visit your prisoner
[Rolla enters^ disguised as a monk.]
Rol. Inform me, friend, is not Alonzo, the Spanish pris
oner, confined in this dungeon l
Sen. He is.
Rol. I must speak with him.
Sen. You must not. [Stopping him with his spear.]
Rol. He is my friend.
Sen. Not if he were thy brother.
Rol. What is to be his fate ?
Sen. He dies at sunrise.
Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time.
Sen. Just— to witness his death.
Rol. Soldier, I must speak to him.
Sen. Back. back. It is impossible.
Rol. I do entreat thee, but for one moment.
Sen. Thou entreatest in vain — my orders are most strict
Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence.
Sen. He brought a pass which we are all accustomed to
obey.
Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold — look on these
precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for
thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them —
they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
Sen. Away ! — wouldst thou corrupt me ? Me I an old
Castilian : I know my duty better.
Rol Soldier ! hast thou a wife ?
Sen. I have.
Rol. Hast thou children ?
Sen. Four — honest lively boys.
108 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Rol. Where didst thou leave them ?
Sen. In my native village ; even in the cot where my-
self was born.
Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife V
Sen. Do I love then. ! God knows my heart — I do.
Rol. Soldier ! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel
death in a strange land. What would be thy last request?
Sen. That some of my comradiS should carry my dying
blessing to my wife and children.
Rol. Oh ! but if that comrade was at thj' prison gate,
and should there be told — thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise,
yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou
bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his wretched
wife, what wouldst thou think of him who thus could drive
thy comrade from the door ?
Sen. How ?
Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come to re-
ceive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my
friend.
Sen. Go in. ^Shoulders his spear and ivalks away.l
Rol. Oh, holy Nature ! thou dost never plead in vain.
There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form, and life,
human or savage — native of the forest wild, or giddy air-
around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined
of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy
will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne,
the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plum-
age closest to her breast, soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er
her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more
gently. — Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer
gate ! Alonzo ! Alonzo ! my friend ! Ha ! in gentle sleep !
Alonzo — rise.
Al. How^ ! is my hour elapsed? Well, [Returning from
the cell^ I am ready.
Rol. Alonzo — know me.
Al. AVhat voice is that ?
Rol 'Tis Rolla's. [Takes off his disguise.']
Al. RoUa! my friend ! [Embraces hi77i.] Heavens! how
couldst thou pass the guard? Did this habit —
Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words : this
disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed
our field of battle : it has gained me entrance to thy dun-
geon; now take it, thou, and fly.
Al. And Rolla—
SEiaOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 109
Rol. Will remain here in thy place.
Al. And die for me ? No ! liather eternal tortures
rack me.
Rol. I shall not die. Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro
seeks, not Holla's ; and from my prison soon will thy arm
deliver me; or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted
plantain, standing alone amid the sandy' desert. Nothing
seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art — a husband
and a father — the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant
hangs upon thy life. Go ! go, Alonzo ! Go, to save, not
thyself, but Cora and thy child !
Al. Urge me not thus, my friend ; I had prepared to die
in peace.
Rol. To die in peace ! devoting her thou'st sworn to live
for, to madness, misery, and death? For be assured, the
state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick re-
turn.
Al Oh God !
Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me
well, I think thou hast not known that Eolla ever pledged
his word, and shrunk from its fulfillment. And by the heart
of truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy
friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee, no
power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence ; and
thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Kolla perish
by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and thy
child are lost forever.
Al. Oh. Rolla! thou distractest me !
Rol. Begone ! A moment's further pause, and all is lost.
The dawn approaches. Fear not for me : I will treat with
Pizarro, as for surrender and submission ; I shall gain time,
no doubt, while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret
^vay, mayest at night return, release thy friend, and bear
him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even
now I hear thy frantic vvife^ poor Cora call thee! Haste.
Alonzo ! Haste ! — Haste !
Al. Rolla. I fear thy friendship drives me from honor
and from right.
Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend?
Al. Oh ! my preserver ! {^Embracing him.]
Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. — Go!
I am rewarded. [ Throwing a friar'' s garment over Alonzo^
There, conceal thy face : and that they may not clank, hold
fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee!
iO
110 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Ai At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven !
I return to save, or perish with thee ! [ExU.']
Rol. [Looking after him~\ He has passed the outer
porch — he is safe ! he will soon embrace his wife and child !
Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me? This is the first
time throughout my life. I ever deceived man. Forgive me,
God of Truth ! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself
that we shall meet again ! Yes, there ! [Lifting his hands
to lieaven.^ Assuredly we shall meet again ; there, possess
in peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship — on
earth, imperfect and embittered. I will retire, lest the guard
return before Alonzo may have passed their lines.
[Retires into tJie cell.']
XXXI.— FROM VTLAmiO.— Sheridan.
PIZARRO VAL VERDE LAS CASAS ALMAGRO DAVILLO
GOMEZ OROZEMBO.
Pizarro. Alonzo ! the traitor ! How I once loved that
man ! His noble mother intrusted him, a boy, to my protec-
tion. At my table did he feast — in my tent did he repose.
I had marked his early genius, and the valorous spirit that
grew with it. Often had I talked to him of our first adven-
tures — what storms we struggled with — what perils we
surmounted ! When landed with a slender host upon an
unknown land — then, when I told how famine and fatigue,
discord and toil, day by day did thin our ranks ; amid close
pressing enemies, how still undaunted I endured and dared
— maintained my purpose and my power, in despite of
growling mutiny or bold revolt, till, with my faithful few
remaining, I became at last victorious ! When, I say, of
these things I spoke, the youth Alonzo, with tears of won-
der and delight, would throw him on my neck, and swear
his soul's ambition owned no other leader.
Valverde. What could subdue attachment so begun^
Piz. Las Casas. — He it was, with fascinating craft and
canting precepts of humanity, raised in Alonzo's mind a
new enthusiasm, which forced him, as the stripling termed
it, to forego his country's claims for those of human nature
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. Ill
Val. Yes, the traitor left thee, joined the Peruvians^ and
became thy enemy, and Spain's.
Piz. But first with weariless remonstrance he sued to
win me from my purpose, and untwine the sword from my
determined grasp. Much he spoke of right, of justice, and
humanity, calling the Peruvians our innocent and unoffend-
ing brethren.
Val. They ! — Obdurate heathen ! — They our brethren !
]?iz. But when he found that the soft folly of the plead-
ing tears he dropped upon my bosom, fell on marble, he fled
and joined the foe ; then, profiting by the lessons he had
gained in wronged Pizarro's school, the youth so disciplined
and led his new allies, that soon he forced me — ha ! I burn
with shame and fury while I own it ! — in base retreat and
foul discomfiture, to quit the shore.
Val. But the hour of revenge is come.
Piz. It is ; I have returned — my force is strengthened,
and the audacious boy shall soon know that Pizarro lives,
and has — a grateful recollection of the thanks he owes him.
{Trumpets without^
\_Enter Las Casas^ Alniagru^ Davillo.^ and soldiers.']
Las Casas. Pizarro, we attend thy summons.
Piz. Welcome, venerable father ; my friends, most wel-
come. Friends and fellow-soldiers, at length the hour has
arrived, which to Pizarro's hopes presents the full reward
of our undaunted enterprise and long-enduring toils. Con-
fident in security, this day the foe devotes to solemn sacri-
fice ; if with bold surprise we strike on their solemnity,
trust to your leader's word, we shall not fail.
Almagro. Too long inactive have we been mouldering
on the coast — our stores exhausted, and our soldiers mur-
muring. Battle ! battle ! — then death to the armed, and
chains for the defenseless.
Davillo. Death to the whole Peruvian race !
Las C. Merciful Heaven !
Aim. Yes, general, the attack, and instantly ! Then
shall Alonzo, basking at his ease, soon cease to scofT our
sufferings and scorn our force.
Las C. Alonzo ! Scorn asd presumption are not in his
nature.
Aim. 'Tis fit Las Casas should defend his pupil.
Piz. Speak not of the traitor, or hear his name but as
the bloody summons to assault and vengeance. It appears
've are agreed !
112 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Aim. We are.
Bav. AH!— Battle! battle!
Las C. Is then, the dreadful measure of your cruelty
not yet complete ? Battle ! — gracious Heaven I iVgainst
whom ? Against a king, in whose mild bosom your atro-
cious injuries even yet have not excited hate! but who, in-
sulted or victorious, still sues for peace. Against a people
who never wronged the living being their Creator formed ;
a people who, children of innocence ! received you as cher-
ished guests — with eager hospitality and confiding kindness,
Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts,
their treasures, and their homes ; you repaid them by fraud,
oppression, and dishonor. These eyes have witnessed all I
speak — as gods you were received ; as fiends you have
acted.
Piz. Las Casas !
Las C. Pizarro, hear me ! — hear me, chieftains !— And
thou, All-powerful, whose thunders can shiver into sand the
adamantine rock — whose lightnings can pierce to the core of
the rived and quaking earth — oh ! let thy power give effect
to thy servant's words, as thy spirit gives courage to his
will ! Do not, I implore you, renew the foul barbarities
which your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched,
unoffending race ! — But hush, my sighs — fall not drops, of
useless sorrow ! — heart-breaking anguish, choke not my ut-
terance. All I entreat is, send me once more to those you
call your enemies. ! let me be the messenger of peni-
tence from you : I shall return with blessings and with
peace from them.
Piz. Close this idle war of words : time flies, and our
opportunity will be lost. Chieftains, are ye for instant bat-
tle?
Aim. We are.
Las C. Oh, men of blood ! I was anointed, not to
curse, but to bless my countrymen : yet now my blessing
on their force were blasphemy. No ! I curse your purpose,
homicides ! I curse the bond of blood by which you are
united. May fell disunion, infamy, and rout, deteat your
projects and betray your hcJpes ! On you and your children
be the peril of the innocent blood which shall be shed this
day ! T leave you and forever ! No longer shall these aged
eyes be seared by the horrors they have Witnessed. In caves,
in forests, will I hide myself; with tigers and with savage
beasts will I commune ; and when at length we meet before
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 113
tlie blessed tribunal of that Deity, whose mild doctrines and
whose mercies ye have this day renounced, then shall
you feel the agony and grief of soul which tear the bosom
of your accuser now. [Exit.]
Piz. [^Turning to Alniagro.] Now to prepare our mus-
ter and our march. At mid-day is the hour of the sacrifice.
Consulting with our guides, the route of your divisions shall
be given to each commander. If we surprise, we conquer ;
and if we conquer, the gates of Quito will be open to us.
[Enter Gomez.]
Aim. How ! Gomez, what bringest thou ?
Gomez. On yonder hill, among the palm-trees, we have
surprised an old cacique : escape by flight he could not, and
we seized him and his attendant unresisting : yet his lips
breathe nothing but bitterness and scorn.
Piz. Drag him before us. [Gomez leaves the tent.^ and
returns conducting in Orozcnibo., in chains.^ and guarded.]
What art thou, stranger ?
Orozembo. First tell me which among you is the captain
of this band of robbers ?
Piz. Ha !
Aim. Madman ! Tear out his tongue, or else —
Oro. Thou'lt hear some truth.
Dav. [Shoiving his poniard.] Shall I not plunge this
into his heart?
Oi'o. [After surveying Davillo contemptuously — tlien
turning to Pizarro.] Does your army boast many such
heroes as this ?
Piz. Audacious ! This insolence has sealed thy doom.
Die thou shalt, gray-headed ruffian. But first confess what
thou knowest.
Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured me of —
that I shall die.
Piz. Less audacity, perhaps, might have preserved thy
Ufa.
Oro. My life is as a withered tree — it is not worth pre-
serving.
Piz. Hear me. old man. Even now we march against
the Peruvian army. We know there is a secret path that
leads to your strong hold among the rocks : guide us to
that, and name your reward. If wealth be thy wish —
Oro. Ha! ha ! ha ! ha !
Piz. Dost thou despise my offer ?
Oro. Thee and thy offer ' — Wealth ! I have the wealth
G 10*
114 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
of two doar gallant sons — I have stored in heaven the riches
which repay good actions here — and still my chief treasure
I do bear about me.
Fiz. What is that ? Inform me.
Oro. I will ; for it never can be thine — the treasure of
a pure, unsullied conscience.
Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian dares speak as
thou dost.
Oro. Would I couid believe there is no other Spaniard
who dares act as thou dost.
Gom. Obdurate Pagan \ How numerous is your army 1
Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest.
Aim. Which is the weakest part of your camp ?
Oro. It has no weak part — on every side 'tis fortified by
justice.
Piz. Where have you concealed your wives and your
children ?
Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their fathers.
Piz. Knowcst thou Alonzo ?
Oro. Know him ! Alonzo! Know him! Our nation's
benefactor ! The guardian angel of Peru !
Piz. By what has he merited that title ?
Oro. By not resembling thee.
Aim. Who is this Holla, joined with Alonzo in com-
mand 1
Oro. I will answer that ; for I love to hear and to repeat
the hero's name. RolJa, the kinsman of the king, is the
idol of our army ; in war, a tiger, chased by the hunter's
spear; in peace, more gentle than the un weaned lamb.
Cora was once betrothed to him ; but finding she preferred
Alonzo, he resigned his claim, and, I fear, his peace, to
friendship and to Cora's happiness ; yet still he loves her
with a pure and holy fire.
Piz. Romantic savage! I shall meet this Holla soon.
[^Retires., to confer tvith Valverde.]
Oro. Thou hadst better not ! The terrors of his noble
eye would strike thee dead.
Dav. Silence, or tremble !
Oro. Beardless robber ! I never yet have trembled be-
fore God — why should I tremble before man ? Why before
thee, thou less than man ?
Dav. Another word audacious heathen, and I strike 1
Oro Strike, Christian ! Then boast among thy fellows
— I too have murdered a Peruvian !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 115
Dav, Hell and vengeance seize thee ! [^Stabs him.^
Piz. [Rushing forward.] Hold !
Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his insults ?
Piz. And therefore should he die untortured?
Oro. True ! Observe, young man, [To Davillo,] thy
unthinking rashness has saved me from the rack ; and thou
thyself hast lost the opportunity of a useful lesson ; thou
mightest thyself have seen with what cruelty vengeance
would have innicted torments ; and with what patience
virtue would have borne them.
[Orozembo is home off., dying.']
Piz. Away ! — Davillo ! if thus rash a second time —
Dav. Forgive the hasty indignation which —
Piz. No more — our guard and guides approach. [Sol-
diers cross from right to left.] Follow me, friends — each
shall have his post assigned, and ere Peruvia's god shall
sink beneath the main, the Spanish banner, bathed in blood,
shall float above the walls of vanquished Quito. [Exit.]
XXXII. —FROM THE BENEVOLENT SE"^ .—Cumherlaiid.
SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM FREDERICK BERTRAM CHARLES
RATCLIFFE SAUNDERS SHEVA, THE JEW JABAL.
Scene 1. — An apartment in the house of Sir Stephen Bertram.
[Enter Frederick Bertram and Charles Ratcliffe.]
Charles. Well met. Frederick.
Frederick. I wish I could say so.
Char. Why, what's the matter now ?
Fred. I have no good news to tell you.
Char. I don't expect it ; you are not made to be the
bearer of good news ; knavery engrosses all fortune's favor,
and fools run up and down with the tidings of it.
Fred. You are still a philosopher.
Char. I cannot tell that till I am tried by prosperity ;
it is that which sets our failings in full view; adversity con-
ceals them. But come, discuss : tell me in what one part
of my composition the ingenious cruelty of fortune can
place another blow.
Fred. By my soul, Charles, I am ashamed to tell you
116 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
because the blow is now given by a hand I wish to rever-
ence. You know the temper of Sir Stephen Bertram ; he
is my father, therefore I will not enlarge upon a subject that
would be painful to us both. It is with infinite regret I
have seen you (nobly descended, and still more nobly en-
dowed) earning a scanty maintenance at your desk in his
counting-house : it is a slavery you are now released from.
Char. I understand you ; Sir Stephen has no further
commands for me. 1 will go to him and deliver up my
keys. [ Going. ]
Fred. Have patience for a moment. Do you guess his
reasons for this hasty measure ?
Char. What care I for his reasons, when I know they
cannot touch my honor !
Fred. Oh, Charles, my heart is penetrated with your
situation ! What will become of those beloved objects ?
Char. Why, what becomes of all the objects misery
lays low ? They shrink from sight and are forgotten. You
know I will not hear you on this subject : 'twas not with
my consent you ever knew there were such objects in ex-
istence.
Fred. I own it ; but in this extremity methinks you
might relax a little from that rigid honor.
Char. Never ; but, as the body of a man is braced in
winter, so is my resolution by adversity. On this point only
can we differ. Why will my friend persist in urging it ?
Fred. I have done. You have j^our way.
Char. Then, with your leave, I'll go to your father.
Fred. Hold ! Here comes one that supersedes all other
visitors — old Sheva, the rich Jew, the merest muckworm in
the city of London. How the old Hebrew casts about for
prodigals to snap at ! I'll throw him out a bait for sport.
Char. No ; let him pass ; what sport can his infirmities
afford ?
{Fnter Sheva.']
Sheva. The goot day to you, my yoiing master ! How
is it with your health, I pray ? Is your fader, Sir Stephen
Bertram^ and u\y very goot patron, to be spoken with ?
Fred. Yes, yes. he is at home, and to be spoken with,
under some precaution, Sheva ; if you bring him money,
you would be welcome.
Sheva. Ah ! that is very goot. Moneys is welcome every-
where.
Fred. Pass on, pass on ! no more apologies. Good man
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 1^7
of money, save your breath to count your guineas. lExit
SJicva.'] That fellow would not let his shadow fall upon the
earth if he could help it.
Char. You are too hard upon him. The thing is cour-
teous.
Fred. Hang him ! he'll bow for half a crown. His
carcass and his covering would not coin into a ducat, yet he
is a moving mine of wealth.
Char. You see these characters with indignation : I
contemplate them with pity. I have a fellow feeling for
poor Sheva : he is as much in poverty as I am, only it is
poverty of another species : he wants what he has ; I have
nothing, and want everything. Misers are not unuseful
members of the community ; they act like dams to rivers,
hold up the stream that else would run to waste ; and make
deep water where there would be shallows.
Fred. I recollect you were his rescuer ; I did not know
you were his advocate.
Char. 'Tis true, T snatched him out of jeopardy. My
countrymen, with all their natural humanity, have no objec-
tion to the hustling of a Jew. The poor old creature was
most roughly handled.
Fred. What was the cause ?
Char. I never asked the cause. There vi^as an hundred
upon one ; that was cause enough for me to make myself a
second to the party overmatched. I got a few hard knocks,
but I brought off my man.
Fred. The synagogue should canonize you for the deed.
[Sheva returns.^
Sheva. Aha ! there is no business to be done ; there is
no talking to your fader. He is not just now in the sweet-
est of all possible tempers. Anything, Mr. Bertram, wanted
in my way ?
Fred. Yes, Sheva, there is enough wanted in your way ;
but I doubt it is not in your will to do it.
Sheva. I do always do my utmost for my principals: I
never spare my pains when business is going : be it ever
such a trifle. I am thankful. Every little helps a poor man
like mo.
Fred. You speak of your spirit, I suppose, when you
call yourself a poor man. All the world knows you roll in
riches.
Sheva. The world knows no great deal of me. I do
not deny but my moneys may roll a little ; but for myself,"
l\8
NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
I do not roll at all. I live sparingly and labor hard ; there-
fore I am called a miser — I cannot help it. An uncharita
ble dog — T must endure it; a bloodsucker, an extortioner,
a Shylock. Hard names, Mr. Frederick ; but what can a
poor Jew say in return, if a Christian chooses to abuse
him ?
Fred. Say nothing, but spend your money like a Chris-
tian.
Sheva. AVe have no abiding place on earth, no country,
no home : everybody rails at us, everybody flouts us, every-
body points us out for their maygame and their mockery.
If your play-writers want a butt, or a buffoon, or a knave,
to make sport of out comes a Jew, to be baited and buffeted
through five long acts, for the amusement of all goot Chris-
tians. Cruel sport ! merciless amusement ! Hard dealings
for a poor stray sheep of the scattered flock of Abraham !
How can you expect us to show kindness, when we receive
none ?
Char. {^Advancing.'] That is true, friend Sheva, I can
witness. I am sorry to say there is too much justice in
your complaint.
Sheva. Bless this goot light ! I did not see you — 'tis
my very goot friend, Mr. Katcliffe, as I live. Give me your
pardon. I should be sorry to say in your hearing, that
there is no charity for the poor Jews. Truly, sir, I am
under very great obligations to you for your generous pro-
tection t'other night, when I was mobbed and maltreated;
and, for aught I can tell, should have been massacred, had
not you stood forward in my defense. Truly, sir, I bear
it very thankfully in my remembrance ; truly I do ; yes,
truly.
Fred. Leave me with him, Charles; I'll hold him in
discourse whilst you go to my father. [^Exit Chm-les.]
Sheva. Oh I it was a goot deed, very goot deed, to save
a poor Jew from a pitiless mob ; and I am very grateful to
you, worthy Mr. , Ah I the gentleman is gone away ;
that is another thing.
Fred. It is so, but your gratitude need not go away at
the same time ; you are not bound to make good the
proverb — " Out of sight, out of mind."
Sheva. No, no. no ! I am very much obliged to him,
not only for my life, but for the moneys and the valuables
I had about me ; I had been hustled out of them all, but
for him.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 119
Fred. Well, then, having so much gratitude for his
favors, you have now an opportunity of making some return
to him.
Sheva. Yes, yes, and I do make him a return of my
thanks and goot wishes very heartily. What can a poor
Jew say more ? I do wish him all goot things, and give
him all goot words.
Fred. Good words, indeed ! What are they to a man
who is cast naked on the wide world, with a widowed
mother and a defenseless sister, who look up to him for
their support ?
Slieva. Goot lack, goot lack ! I thought he was in oc-
cupations in your fader's counting-house.
Fred. He was ; and from his scanty pittance piously
supported these poor destitutes : that source is now stopped,
and as you, when in the midst of rioters, was in want of a
protector, so is he, in the midst of his misfortunes, in want
of some kind friend to rescue him.
Sheva. Oh dear, oh dear ! this world is full of sadness
and of sorrow ; miseries upon miseries ! unfortunates by
hundreds and by thousands, and poor Sheva has but two
weak eyes to find tears for them all.
Fred. Come, come, Sheva, pity will not feed the hungry,
nor clothe the naked, llatcliffe is the friend of my heart :
I am helpless in myself; my father, though just, is austere
in the extreme ; I dare not resort to him for money, nor can
I turn my thoughts to any other quarter for the loan of a
small sum in this extremity, except to you.
Sheva. To me ! goot lack ! to me ! What will become
of me ? What will Sir Stephen say ? He is full of moneys ;
but then, again, he is a close man ; very austere, as you say,
and very just, but not very generous.
Fred. Well, well, let me have your answer.
Sheva. Yes, yes, but my answer will not please you
without the moneys : I shall be a Jewish dog, a baboon, an
imp of Beelzebub, if I don't find the moneys, and when my
moneys is all gone, what shall I be then 'i An ass, a fool,
a jack-a-dandy ! — Oh dear ! oh dear ! Well, there must be
conditions, look you.
Fred. To be sure ; security twice secured ; premium
and interest, and bond and judgment into the bargain.
Only enable me to preserve my friend ; give me that trans-
port, and I care not what I pay for it.
Sheva. Mercy on your heart ! what haste and hurry you
120 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
are in ! How much did you want ? One hundred pounds,
did you say 2
Fred. More than one, more than one.
Sheva. Ah ! poor Sheva ! ~ More than one hundred
pounds; what! so much as two hundred ? 'tis a great deal
of moneys.
Fred. Come, friend Sheva, at one word — three hundred
pounds.
Sheva. Mercies defend me, what a sum !
Fred. Accommodate me with three hundred pounds ;
make your own terms ; consult your conscience in the bar-
gain, and I will say you are a good fellow. Oh ! Sheva !
did you but know the luxury of relieving honor, innocence,
and beauty, from distress !
Sheva. Oh! 'tis great luxury. I dare say, else you would
not buy it at so high a price. Well, well, welH I have
thought a little, and if you will come to my poor cabin in
Duke's Place^ you shall have the moneys.
Fred. Well said, my gallant Sheva ! Shall I bring a
bond with me to fill up?
Sheva. No, no, no ; we have all those in my shop.
Fred. I don't doubt it : all the apparatus of an usurer.
t Aside.'] Farewell, Sheva ! be ready with your instruments,
care not what they are : only let me have the money, and
you may proceed to dissection as soon after as you please.
lExit.]
Sheva. Heigho ! I cannot choose but weep. Sheva, thou
art a fool. Three hundred pounds, by the day, how much
is that in the year? — Oh dear, oh dear ! I shall be ruined,
starved, wasted to a torch-light. Bowels, you shall pinch
for this : I'll not eat flesh this fortnight : I'll suck the air
for nourishment: I'll feed upon the steam of an alderman's
kitchen, as I put my nose down his area. Well, well I but
soft, a word, friend Sheva ! Art thou not rich, monstrous
rich, abominably rich '1 and yet thou livest on a crust. Be
it so ! thou dost stint thine appetites to pamper thine affec-
tions ; thou dost make thyself to live in poverty, that the
poor may live in plenty. Well, well ! so long as thou art a
miser only to thine own cost, thou mayst hug thyself in
this poor habit, and set the world's contempt at naught.
[E?tter Charles RatcHffe, not noticing the Jew.]
Char. Unfeehng, heartless man, I've done with you. I'll
dig, beg, perish, rather than submit to such unnatural terms!
[ may remain : my mother and my sister must be banished
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 121
to a distance. Why, this Jew, this usurer, this enemy to
our faith, whose heart is in his bags, would not have used
me thus— I'll question him. Sheva !
Sheva. What is your pleasure ?
Char. I do not know the word.
Sheva. What is your will, then? Speak it.
Char. Sheva ! — You have been a son — you had a mother
— dost remember her ?
SJieva, Goot lack, goot lack ! do I remember her ! —
Char. Didst love her, cherish her, support her \
Sheva. Ah me ! ah me ! it is as much as my poor heart
will bear to think of her. I would have died —
Char. Thou hast affections, feelings, charities —
Slieva. I am a man, sir ; call me how you please.
Char. I'll call you Christian, then, and this proud mer-
chant, Jew.
Slieva. I shall not thank you for that compliment.
Char. And hadst thou not a sister, too 1
Sheva. No ; no sister, no broder, no son, no daughter ,
I am a solitary being, a waif on the world's wide common.
Char. And thou hast hoarded wealth, till thou art sick
with gold, even to plethora Thy bags run over with the
spoils of usury, thy veins are glutted with the blood of
prodigals and gamesters.
Sheva. I have enough : something, perhaps, to spare.
Char. And I have nothing, nothing to spare but miseries,
with which my measure overflows. By heaven, it racks my
soul to think that those beloved sufferers should want, and
this thing so abound ! [Aside.] Now, Sheva, now, if you
and I were out of sight of man, benighted in some desert,
wild as my thoughts, naked as my fortune, should you not
tremble ?
Sheva. What should I tremble for? You could not
harm a poor, defenseless, aged man ?
Char. Indeed, indeed, I could not harm you, Sheva,
whilst I retained my senses.
Sheva. Sorrow disturbs them : yes, yes, it is sorrow.
Ah me, ah me ! poor Sheva in his time has been driven mad
with sorrow. 'Tis a hard world.
Char. Sir, I have done you wrong. You pity me, I'm
pnre you do : those tones could never proceed but from a
fieling heart.
Sheva. Try me, touch me, I am not made of marble.
Char. No, on my life you are not.
11
122 NEW SCHOOL DIALOOaES.
Sheva. Nor yet of g-old extorted from the prodigal ; I
am no shark to prey upon mankind. What I have got, 1
have got by little and little, working hard and pinching my
own bowels. I could say something: it is in my thought:
but no I will not say it here. This is the house of trade ;
that is not to my purpose. Come home with me, so please
you ; 'tis but a little walk, and you shall see what I have
shown to no man — Sheva's real heart : I do not carry it in
my hand. Come, I pray you, come along. [^EQceunt.'\
Scene 2. — Sheva's house.
[global discovered. Enter Sheva and Charles Ratcliffe.'\
SJieva. So, so, so ! What's here to do with you ? Why
are you not at your work ? Jabal, a cup of cold water ; I
am very thirsty.
Jabal. Are you not rather hungry too, sir?
Sheika. Hold your tongue, puppy ! Get about your busi-
ness : and, here, take my hat, clean it carefully; but mind
you, do not brush it ; that will wear off the nap.
Jabal. The nap, indeed ! There is no shelter for a flea.
\_Exit.'\
Sheva. Aha ! I'm tired. I beg your pardon, Mr. Rat-
cliffe. I am an old man Sit you down, I pray you ; sit
you down, and we will talk a little. [Jabal brings a glass
of ivater.~\ So, so that is right. Water is goot. Fie upon
you, Jabal ! why do you not offer the glass to my guest, be-
fore me ?
Jabal. Lord love him ! I'd give him wine, if I had it.
Sheva. No, no, it is goot water ; it is better than wine :
wine is heating, water is cooling: wine costs moneys, water
comes for nothing. Your goot health, sir ! Oh ! 'tis deli-
cious, it is satisfying : I was very empty before : my stomach
was craving ; now I am quite content. Go your ways, Ja-
bal ; go your ways. [Exit Jabal.~\ Sir, I have nothing to
ask you to, but that water which you would not drink;
'twas very goot water, notwithstanding. Ah ! Mr. Ilatcliffe,
I must be very saving now. I must pinch close.
CJuir. For what? Are you not rich enough to allow
>'0urse]f the common comforts of life.
Sheva. Oh yes, oh yes ! I am rich, to be sure. Mercy
on me, what a world of moneys should I now have, if I had
no pity in my heart ! But it melts, and melts, or else — oh!
dear me, what a heap it would have been !
seriolfs and sentimental. 121
Char. Pardon me, sir, if I say there are some seeming
contradictions in your ciiaracter, which I cannot reconcile.
You give away your money, it should seem, with the gener-
osity of a prince, and I hear you lament over it in the lan-
guage of a miser.
S/ieva. That is true : that is very true ; I love my mon-
eys, I do love them dearly : but I love my fellow-creatures
a little better.
Char. Seeing you are so charitable to others, why can't
you spare a little to yourself
Sheva. Because I am angry with myself for being such
a baby, a child, a chicken. Your people do not love me;
what business have I to love your people? I am a Jew ;
my fathers, up to Abraham, all were Jews. Merciless man-
kind, how have you persecuted them ! My family is all
gone ; it is extinct. My very name will vanish out of mem-
ory when 1 am dead. I pray you, pardon me, I am very
old, and apt to weep ; I pray you, pardon me.
Char. I am more disposed to subscribe to your tears,
than to find fault with them.
Sheva. Well, well, well, 'tis natural for me to weep when
I reflect upon their sufferings and my own. Sir, j^ou shall
know — but I won't tell you my sad story: you are young
and tender-hearted ; it is all written down — you shall find it
with my papers at my death
Char. Sir, at your death ?
Sheva. Yes. Sure I must die some time or other.
Though you have saved my life once, you cannot save it
always. I did tell you, Mr. Ratcliffe, I would show you
my heart. Sir, it is a heart to do you all possible goot
whilst I live, and to pay you the debt of gratitude, when I
die. I believe it is the only one I owe to the pure benevo-
lence of my fellow-creatures.
Char. I am sorry you have found mankind &o ungrateful.
Sheva. Not so. not so ; T might perhaps have found
them grateful, if I had let them know their benefactor. I
did relieve their wants, but I did not court their thanks :
they did eat my bread, and hooted at me for a miser.
[Enter Jabal^
Jabal. A gentleman, who says his name is Bertram,
waits to speak with you. I fancy he comes to borrow
money, for he looks wondrous melancholy.
Sheva. Hold your tongue, knave ; what is it to you what
Le comes for?
124 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Jahal. I'm sure he does not come for a dinner, for he has
not brouffht it with him.
Sheva. 1 pray you, Mr. Ratcliffe, pass out that way 1
would not have you both meet. [Exit Ratcliffe.] Admit
Mr. Bertram. [Exit Jah(d.\
[Re-enter Jabal^ introducing Frederick^ tlicn crosses behind
and exit.]
Sheva. You are welcome, Mr. Bertram : our business
may quickly be despatched. You want three hundred
pounds ; I have made shift to scrape that sum together, and
it is ready for you.
Fred. Alas ! Sheva, since last I saw you, I am so totally
undone, that it would now be robbery to take your money.
My father h is expelled me from his house.
Sheva. Why? for what cause ?
Fred. I have married —
Sheva. Weil, that is natural enough.
Fred. Married without his knowledge.
' Sheva. So did he without yours. What besides?
Fred. Married a wife without a farthing.
Sheva. Ah ! that is very silly, I must say.
Fred. You could not say so, did you know the lady.
Sheva. That may be ; but I do not know the lady ; you
have not named her to me.
Fred. The sister of Charles Ratcliffe.
Sheva. Ah ! to Miss Ratcliffe ? Is it so 1 And she is
goot and lovely ; but she has no moneys ; and that has
made your fader very angry with you ?
Fred. Furious, irreconcilable.
Sheva. Why, truly, moneys is a very goot thing ; and
your fader is not the only man in England who does think
so. I confess I am very much of his mind in respect to
moneys.
Fred. I know you are ; therefore, keep your money, and
good morning to you.
Sheva. Hold, hold ! be not so hasty. If I do love my
moneys, it may be because I have it in my power to tender
them to you.
Fred. But I have said I never can repay you, whilst
you are in this world.
Sheva. Perhaps I shall be content to be repayed when
I am out of it. 1 believe I have a pretty many post obits
cf that sort upon the file.
Fred. I do not rightly understand you.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 125
Sheca. Then pray have a little patience till I am' better
understood. Sir Stephen had a match for you in view ?
Frel. He had.
Sheva. What was the lady's fortune ?
Fred. Ten thousand pounds.
S/ieva That is a goot round sum ; but you did not love
her, and you do love your wife.
Fred. As dearly as you love your money.
Sheva. A little better, we will hope, for I do lend my
moneys to my friend. For instance, take these bills ; three
hundred pounds. — What ails you? They are goot bills,
they are bank — oh ! that I had a sack full of them ! They
will hire you very pretty lodging, and you will be very happy
with your pretty wife. I pray you, take them. Why will
you be so hard with a poor Jew, as to refuse him a goot
bargam, when you know he loves to lay his moneys out to
profit and advantage?
Fred. Are you in earnest? You astonish me.
Sheva. I am a little astonished too, for I did never see
a man so backward to take moneys : you are not like your
fader. I am afraid you are a little proud.
Fred. You shall not say so. I accept your generous
tender.
Sheva. I wish it was ten thousand pounds, then your
goot fader would be well content.
Fred. Yes; of two equal fortunes, I believe he would
be good enough to let me take my choice.
Sheva. Oh ! that is very kind : he would give you the
preference when he had none himself
Fred. Just so ; but what acknowledgment shall I give
you for these bills ?
Sheva. None, none ; I do acknowledge them myself with
very great pleasure in serving you, and no small pains in
parting from them. I pray you, make yourself and pretty
wife comfortable with the moneys, and I will comfort myself.
as well as I can, without them. Ah ! poor Sheva ! when
thou art a beggar-man, who will take pity of thee ?— Well,
well, no matter ! Now I must take a little walk about my
business. I pray you. pardon my unpoliteness.
Fred. No apology : I am gone. Farewell, Sheva. Thou
H miser ! thou art a prince ! [Exit.]
Sheva. Jabal ! open the door. \_Exit.]
11*
126 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Scene 8. — Sir Stephen Bertram's House.
[^Enter Sir Stejyhen Bertram and Saunders.']
Sir S. Well, Saunders, what news have you been able
to collect of my undutiful son ?
Saun. I have not seen Mr. Bertram, but I am told he
has settled himself in very handsome lodgings, and is gone
to remove his lady to them.
Sir S. His lady, do you call her 1 Can you find no fit-
ter term ? Where should he get the means to settle ? He
was not furnished with them by me: who else will do it?
If he attempts to raise money upon expectancies^ be it at
their peril who are fools enough to lend him ; no prudent
man will be his bubble. If I were sure that was his prac-
tice, I should hold it matter of conscience to advertise
against his debts.
Saun. Perhaps there may be some persons in the world,
who think you will not always hold out against an only
son.
Sir S. Then let those persons smart for their opinion.
They little know the feeling of an injured father; they can-
not calculate my hopes, my disappointments, my regret.
He might have had a lady with an ample fortune. A wife
without a shilling is —but what avails complaint ? Could
you learn nothing further — who supplies him, who holds
him up?
Saun. I hear that he had money of your broker, Sheva.
Sir S. That must be false intelligence. He will as soon
make gold by transmutation, as wring it from the gripe of
that old usurer. No, no, Sheva is too wary, too much a Jew,
to help him with a shilling.
Saun. Yet I was so informed by his servant, Jabal.
He says, Mr. Bertram came to old Sheva's house by appoint-
ment ; that he overheard their whole conversation, in which
your son very honorably stated the utter ruin your displeasure
had brought upon him, and would have refused the money,
liut that old Sheva forced it upon him.
Sir S. It mocks all belief: it only proves that Sheva,
the most inveterate miser in existence, has a fellow Jew for
his servant, one of the completest liars in creation.
Satm. i am apt to give him credit for the fact, notwith-
standing.
Sir S. Then give me leave to say, you have more faith
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 127
than most men living. "Were I to give so much credit. Mr.
Saunders, T should soon stop.
Siiun. 1 am not quite so fixed in my persuasion of old
Sheva's character, as you are. In his dealings, all the world
knows he is punctually honest ; no man's character stands
higher in the All y : and his servant tells me, though he
starves himself, he is secretly very charitable to others.
Sir S. Yes, this you may believe, if you are disposed to
take ^ne Jew's word for another Jew's character. I am ob-
stinate against both ; and if he has supplied the money, as I
am sure it must be on usurious principles, as soon as ever I
have the old misor in my reach, I will wring either the truth
from his lips, or the life out of his carcass.
\_Enter SJieva.'\
Sheva. How does my worthy master 1 I am your very
humble servant, goot Sir Stephen Bertram. I have a little
private business to impart to you, with your goot leave, aad
if your leisure serves.
Sir S. Leave us, if you please. [^Exit Saunders.']
SJieva. Aha ! I am very much fatigued. There is a great
throng and press in the offices at the Bank, and I am aged
and feeble.
Sir S. Hold, sir. Before I welcome you within these
doors, or suffer you to sit down in my presence, I demand to
know, explicitly, and without prevarication, if you have fur-
nished my son with money secretly, and without my leave?
Sheva. If I do lend, ought I not to lend in secret? If
I do not ask your leave, Sir Stephen, may I not dispose ot
my own moneys according to my own liking? But if it is
a crime, I do wish to ask you who is my accuser? That, 1
believe, is justice everywhere ; and in your happy country I
do think it is the law likewise.
Sir S. Very well, sir ; you shall have both law and jus-
tice. The information comes from your own servant. Jabal.
Can you controvert it?
Slwva. I do presume to say, my servant ought not to re-
port his master's secrets ; but I will not say he has not spoken
the truth.
Sir S. Then you confess the fact.
Sheva. I humbly think there is no call for that : you have
the information from my footboy. I do not deny it.
Sir S. And the sum —
S/^eva. I do not talk of the sum. Si"" Stephen, that is not
my practice ; neither, under favor, is my footboy my cashier.
128 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
If he be a knave, and listen at my key-hole, the more shame
his ; I am not in the fault.
Sir S. Not in the fault ! Wretch, miser, usurer ! You
never yet let loose a single guinea from your gripe, but with
a view of doubling it at the return. I know what you are.
Sheva. Indeed ! it is more than T will say of myself I
pray you, goot Sir Stephen, take a little time to know my
heart, before you rob me of my reputation. I am a Jew, a
poor defenseless Jew ; that is enough to make me miser,
usurer. Alas ! I cannot help it.
Sir S. No matter : you are caught in your own trap. I
tell you now, my son is ruined, disinherited, undone. One
consolation is, that you have lost your money.
Sheva. If that be a consolation, you are very welcome to
it. If my moneys are lost, my motives are not.
Sir S. I'll never pay one farthing of his debts. He has
emended me for life ; refused a lady with ten thousand pounds,
and married a poor miss without a doit.
Sheva. Yes, I do understand your son is married.
Sir S. Do you so? By the same token I understand
you to be a villain.
Sheva. Aha! that is a very bad word; villain! I did
never think to hear that word from one who says he knows
me. I pray you, now, permit me to speak to you a word or
two in my own defense. I have done great deal of business
for you, Sir Stephen ; have put a pretty deal of moneys in
your pocket by my pains and labors ; I did never wrong you
of one sixpence in my life; I was content with my lawful
commission ; how can I be a villain ?
Sir S. Do you not uphold the son against the father ?
Sheva. I do uphold the son, but not against the fader ;
it is not natural to suppose the oppressor and the fader one
and the same person. I did see your son struck down to
the ground with sorrow — cut to the heart ; I did not stop to
ask whose hand had laid*him low; I gave him mine, and
raised him up.
Sir S. You ! you talk of charity I
SJieva. I do not talk of it : I feel it.
Sir S. What claim have you to generosity, humanity, or
any manly virtue ? Which of your money-making tribe ever
had a sense of pity ? Show me the terms on which you have
lent this money, if you dare ! Exhibit the dark deed, by
which you have meshed your victim in the snares of usury;
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 129
but be assured, I'll drag you to the light, and publish your
base dealings to the world. ^Catches him by tlie sleeve.]
S/ieva. Take your hand from my coat ; my coat and I
are very old, and pretty well worn out together. There,
there ! be patient. Moderate your passions, and you shall
see my terms : they are in little compass; fair dealings may
be comprised in kw words.
Sir S. If they are fair, produce them.
Sheva. Let me see, let me see ! Ah ! poor Sheva ! I do
so tremble, I can hardly hold my papers. So, so ! Now I
am right. Aha ! here it is.
Sir S. Let me see it.
Sheva. Take it. \^Gives a paper.'] Do you not see it
now ? Have you cast your eye over it? Is it not right 1 I
am no more than broker, look you. If there is a mistake,
point it out, and I will correct it.
Sir S. \_Ilfads.] Ten thousand pounds .^ invested in the
three par cents money .^ of Eliza, late Ratclije., noiv Bertram.
Sheva. Even so. A pretty tolerable fortune for a poor
disinherited son, not worth one penny.
Sir S. I am thunderstruck !
Slieva. Are you so ? I was struck too, but not by thun-
der. And what has Sheva done to be called a villain ? 1
am a Jew, what then ? Is that a reason none of my tribe
should have a sense of pity? You have no great deal of
pity yourself, but I do know many noble British merchants
that abound in pity, therefore I do not abuse your tribe.
SirS. I am confounded and ashamed ; I see my fault,
and most sincerely ask your pardon.
Slieva. Goot lack, goot lack ! that is too much. I pray
you, goot Sir Stephen, say no more ; you will bring the blush
upon my cheek, if you demean yourself so far to a poor Jew,
who is your very humble servant to command.
Sir S. Did my son know Miss Ratcliffe had this fortune ?
Slieva. When ladies are so handsome, and so goot, no
generous man will ask about their fortune.
Sir S. 'Tis plain I was not that generous man.
Sheva. No, no ; you did ask about nothing else.
Sir S. But how in the name of wonder did she come
by it?
Sheva. If you did give me moneys to buy stock, would
you not be much offended were I to ask you how you came
by it?
H
130 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Sir S. Her brother was my clerk. I did not think he
had a shilling in the world.
Sheva. And 5'et you turned him upon the world, where
he has found a great many shillings. The world, you see.
was the better master of the two. Well, Sir Stephen, I will
humbly take my leave. You wished your son to marry a
lady with ten thousand pounds ; he has exactly fulfilled your
wishes : I do presume you will not think it necessary to turn
him out of doors, and disinherit him for that.
Sir S. Go on ! I merit your reproof I shall hencefor-
ward be ashamed to look you or my son in the face.
Sheva. To look me in the face, is to see nothing of my
heart ; to look upon your son, and not to love him, I should
have thought had been impossible. Sir Stephen, I am your
very humble servant.
Sir S. Farewell, friend Sheva ! Can you forgive me ?
Sheva. I can forgive my enemy ; much more, my friend.
[Exeunt.']
Scene 4. — Sheva's liouse.
[Enter Sir S. Bertram^ Frederick Bertram, and Sheva.]
Fred. This, father, this is the man. My benefactor — all
mankind's. The widow's friend, the orphan's father, the
poor man's protector, the universal philanthropist.
Sheva. Hush, hush ! you make me hide my face.
[Covers his face with his ] bands.]
Fred. Ah, sir ! 'tis now too late to cover your good deeds.
You have long masked your charities beneath this humble
seeming, and shrunk back from actions princes might have
gloried in. You must now face the world, and transfer the
blush from your own cheeks to theirs, whom prejudice had
taught to scorn you. For your single sake we must reform
our hearts, and inspire them with candor toward your whole
nation.
Sheva. Enough, enough ! more than enough ! I p ay
you spare me : I am not used to hear the voice of praise,
and it oppresses me: I should not know myself if you wevQ
to describe me : I have a register within, in which these
merits are not noted. Simply, I am an honest man, no
more ; fair in my dealings, as my goot patron here, I hope,
can witness.
Sir S. Ah ! now the mystery's solved. The ten thou-
sand pounds were yours ; give them to Ratcliffe ; I am
ashamed of my own conduct; am satisfied with my son's;
above all, I have seen his sweet Eliza, and she will derive
nothing from fortune, where nature has given so much.
SERIOUS AND SENTTMFATAL. 131
Shcva. That is a noble speech; but moneys does not les-
sen merit, at least not always, as I hope, for Mr. RatclifFe's
sake, for he is heir oi all that I possess.
aSzV S. I trust that Mr. RatclifFe will remember to whom
he owes this happiness, and emulate his benefactor's virtues.
Fied. The treasure that integrity has collected, cannot
be better lodged than in the hands of honor.
Sir S. It is a mine of wealth.
Sheva. Excuse me, goot Sir Stephen : it is not a mine,
for it was never out of sight of those who searched for it.
The poor man did not dig to find it ; and where I now be-
stow it, it will be found by him again. I do not bury it in
a synagogue, or any other pile ; I do not waste it upon van-
ity, or public works ; I leave it to a charitable heir, and build
my hospital in the human heart. [Exeunt.']
XXXIII. -FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.— -STco^.
KING JAMES RODERIC DHU.
Scene — A rock, with a watch-fire burning near it. A Scotch High-
lander, Roderic Dhu, wrapped in his tartan, is discovered sleeping
by it.
[Enter King James in a ivarrior''s garb.]
Roderic. [ Grasping his sword and springing on his fret. ]
Thy name and purpose, Saxon ? — Stand !
James. A stranger.
Hod. What dost thou require ?
James, llest and a guide, and food and fire.
My life's beset, my path is lost.
The gale has chilled my limbs with frost.
Rod. Art thou a friend to Roderic ?
James. No.
Rod. Thou durst not call thyself his foe ?
James. 1 dare to him and all the band
He brings to aid his murderous hand.
Rod. Bold words ! But, though the beast of game
The privilege of chase may claim ;
Though space and law the stag we lend,
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend.
Who ever cared where, how, or when
The proxVling fox was trapped or slain %
132 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie,
Who say thou comest a secret spy.
James. They do^ by Heaven ! Come Roderic Dhu,
And of his clan the boldest two,
And, let me but till morning rest,
I'll write the falsehood on their crest.
Rod. If by the blaze I mark aright.
Thou bearest the belt and spur of knight.
James. Then by these tokens mayst thou know-
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.
Rod. Enough, enough ; sit down and share
A soldier's couch^ a soldier's fare.
Sjrhey sit down and eat together .^ and in a few minutes
t}te soldier continues the conversation!]
Rod. Stranger, I am to Rhoderic Dhu,
A clansman born, a kinsman true ;
Each word against his honor spoke,
Demands of me avenging stroke.
It rests with me to wind my horn,
Thou art with numbers overborne ;
It rests with me, here, brand to brand,
Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand ;
^But not for clan, nor kindred's cause,
^Will I depart from honor's laws.
To assail a wearied man were shame,
And Stranger is a holy name.
Guidance and rest, and food and fire,
In vain he never must require.
Myself will guide thee on the way.
Through watch and ward till break of day,
As far as Coilantogle ford ;
From thence thy warrant is thy sword.
James. I take thy courtesy, by Heaven,
As freely as 'tis nobly given.
Rod. Why seek these wilds, traversed by few.
Without a pass from lloderic Dhu ?
James. Brave man, my pass, in danger tried.
Hangs in my belt, and by my side.
Yet sooth to tell, though naught 1 dread,
I dreamed not now to claim its aid.
When here but three days since I came,
Bewildered in pursuit of game,
All seemed as peaceful and as still,
As the mist slumbering on yon hill.
SERIOUS AXU SENTIMENTAL. IS'A
Thy dangerous chief was then afar,
Nor soon expected back from war ;
Thus said, at least, my mountain guide,
Though deep, perchance, the villain lied.
Rod. Yet, why a second venture try ?
James. A warrior, thou, and ask me why?
Perhaps I sought to drive away
The lazy hours of peaceful day ;
Slight cause will then suffice to guide
A knight's free footsteps far and wide ;
A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed,
The merry glance of mountain maid ;
Or, if a path be dangerous known,
The danger's self is lure alone.
Rod. Thy secret keep ; I urge thee not.
Yet, ere again you sought this spot.
Say, heard you not of lowland war,
Against Clan Alpine raised by Mar ?
James. No, by my word ; of bands prepared
To guard King James's sports I heard ;
Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear
This muster of the Mountaineer,
Their pennons will abroad be flung.
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung.
Rod. Free be they flung ! for we are loath
Their silken folds should feed the moth.
Free be they flung ! as free shall wave
Clan Alpine's pine in banner brave.
But, stranger, peaceful since you came,
Bewildered in the mountain game,
Whence the bold boast, by which we know
Yich Alpine's vowed and mortal foe ?
James. Warrior, but yester morn, I knew
Naught of thy chieftain, Roderic Dhu,
Save as an outlawed, desperate man,
The chief of a rebellious clan,
Who in the regent's court and sight.
With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight.
Yet this alone should from his part
Sever each true and loyal heart.
Rod. [Fwioning^ and both rising hastily. '\
And heardst thou why he drew his blade ?
Heardst thou, that shameful word, and blow
Brought Iloderic's vengeance on his foe ?
12
134 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUEB.
What recked the chieftain, if he stood
On highland heath or Holy Rood ?
He rights such wrong where it is given,
Though it were in the court of heaven.
James,. Still it was outrage ; yet, 'tis true,
Not then claimed sovereignty his due ;
The young king, mewed in Stirling tower,
Was stranger to respect and power.
But then thy chieftain's robber life.
Winning mean prey by causeless strife,
Wrenching from ruined lowland swain
His flocks and harvest reared in vain —
Me thinks a soul, like thine, should scorn
The spoils from such foul conflict borne.
Kod. Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye,
O'er waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes, and groves between ;
These fertile plains, that softened vale.
Were once the birthright of the Gael.
The Saxons came with iron hand.
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now? see rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
'Ask we this savage hill we tread,
For fattened steer, or household bread ;
Ask we for flocks these shingles drj^
And well the mountain might reply :
'• To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore !
I give you shelter in my breast.
Your own good blades must do the rest."
Pent in this fortress of the north,
Thinkst thou we will not sally forth
To spoil the spoiler as we may.
And from the robber rend the prey?
Ay, by my soul ! while on yon plain
The Saxon rears one shock A grain ;
While of ten thousand herds, there strays
But one along yon river's maze —
The Gael, of plain and river heir.
Shall, with strong hand redeem his share.
Where live the mountain chiefs, who hold
That plundering lowland field and fold,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 1 ;J5
Is aught but re ribiition due? —
Seek other cause 'gainst Roderic Dhu.
James. And if I sought,
Thinkst thou no other could be brought?
What deem ye, of my path waylaid,
My life given o'er to ambuscade ?
Rod. As a reward to. rashness due ;
Hadst thou sent warning fair and true.
Free hadst thou been to come and go ;
But secret path marks secret foe.
James. Well, let it pass ; nor will I now
Fresh cause of enmity avow,
To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.
Enough, I am by promise tied
To match me wilh this man of pride.
Twice have I sought Clan Alpine's glen
In peace; but, when I come again,
I come with banner, brand, and bow.
As leader seeks his mor!al foe.
For love-lorn swain in lady's bower,
Ne'er panted for the appointed hour,
As I, until before me stand
This rebel chieftain and his band.
Rod. Have then thy wish. \He whistles^ and soldiers
rush in on all sides.'\ How sayest thou now ?
These are Clan Alpine's warriors true ;
And, Saxon, I am Roderic Dhu.
[King James siarU hack a little, then draws his sword
and places his hack against the rock.^
136 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
James. Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly
From its firm base, as soon as I.
[Roderic waves his ha?id^ and the soldia * retire.'\
Rod. Fear not, nay that I need not say.
But doubt not aught from mine array.
Thou art my guest, I pledged my word
As far as Coilantogle ford.
So move we on ; I only meant
To sho\^^ the reed on which you leant.
Deeming this path you might pursue
Without a pass from Roderic l)hu.
Bold Saxon ! to his promise just,
Vich Alpine shall discharge his trust.
This murderous chief, this ruthless man.
This head of a rebellious clan,
Will lead thee safe through watch and ward,
Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard ;
Then man to man, and steel to steel,
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
James. I ne'er delayed
When foeman bade me draw my blade ;
Nay, more, brave chief, I vowed thy death ;
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith.
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved ;
Can naught but blood our feud atone %
Are there no means ?
Rod. No, stranger, none !
James. Nay, first to James at Stirling go.
When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the king shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favor free,
I plight mine honor, oath, and word.
That to thy native holds restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land.
Rod. Thy rash presumption now shall rue
The homage named to Roderic Dhu.
He yields not, he, to man nor fate —
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate !
My clansmen's wrongs demand revenge.
Not yet prepared ! by Heaven I I change
My thought, and hold thy valor light
As that of some vain carpet knight,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 187
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair [Fointing to a braid on
James's breast.'\
James. I thank thee, Roderic, for the word;
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword.
I had it from a frantic maid,
By thee dishonored and betrayed ;
And I have sworn the braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell ! and ruth, begone !
I heed not that my strength is worn —
Thy word's restor'd ; and if thou wilt,
We try this quarrel, hilt to hilt.
XXXIV.— FROM RmiSZL—Mitford.
ANGELO RIENZL
Angela. Tribune, — I said Tribune ; — but
Thou wavest away the word with such a scorn
As I poured poison in thine ear. Already
Dost weary of the title ?
Rienzi. Wherefore should 1 1
Ang. Thou art ambitious.
Rie. Granted.
A7ig. And wouldst be
A king.
Rie. There thou mistakest. A king ! fair son !
Power dwelleth not in sound, and fame hath garlands
Brighter than diadems. I might have been
Anointed, sceptered, crowned, have cast a blaze
Of glory round the old imperial wreath,
The laurel of the Caesars ; but I chose
To master kings, not to be one ; to direct
The royal puppets as my sovereign will,
And Rome — my Rome — decrees. Tribune ! the Gracchi
Were called so. Tribune ! I will make that name
A word of fear to kings.
Ang. Rienzi ! Tribune !
12*
138 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Hast thou forgotten, on this very spot,
How thou didst shake the slumbering- soul of Rome
With the brave sound of freedom, till she rose.
And from her giant limbs the shackles dropped.
Burst by one mighty throe ? Hadst thou died then,
History had crowned thee with a glorious title —
Deliverer of thy country.
Hie. Well !
Ang. Alas !
When now thou fallest, as fall thou must, 'twill be
The common tale of low ambition. Tyrants
O'erthrown to form a wilder tyranny ;
Princes cast down, that thy obscurer house
May rise on nobler ruins.
Rw. Hast thou ended?
I fain would have mistaken thee — hast done 1
Ang. No — for, despite thy smothered wrath, the voice
Of warning truth shall reach thee. Thou^ to-day,
Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on thee
The thunders of the church, the mortal feud
Of either emperor. Here, at home, the barons
Hate, and the people shun thee. Seest thou not,
Even in this noon of pride, thy waning power
Fade, flicker, and wax dim 1 Thou art as one
Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height,
Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts
Of thinner air ; too giddy to look down
Where all his safety lies : too proud to dare
The long descent to the low depth from whence
The desperate climber rose.
Rie. Ay, there's the sting —
That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar
The reverend worm, nobility ! W^ouldst shame me
W^ith my poor parentage ? Sir. I'm the son
Of him who kept a sordid hostelry
In the Jew's quarter ; my good mother cleansed
Linen for honest hire. Canst thou say worse?
Ang, Can worse be said ?
Rie. Add, that my boasted school-craft
Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain
That the nice nurture of the mind was oft
Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless
And supperless, the scoff of our poor street,
For tattered vestments and lean hungry looks,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. lo9
To pay the pedagogue. Add what thou wilt
Of injury. Say that, grown into man,
I've known the pittance of the hospital,
And, more degrading still, the patronage
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees
The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls.
Scorned and derided ! 'midst their ribald crew,
A. licensed jester, save the cap and bells ;
I have borne this — and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death, of a dear brother.
I seemed 1 was a base, ignoble slave.
What am I ? Peace. I say ! what am I now ?
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome ;
In all but name, her sovereign ; last of all,
Thy father.
Ang. In an evil hour —
Rie. Darest thou
Say that ? An evil hour for thee, my Claudia !
Thou shouldst have been an emperor's bride, my fairest.
In evil hour thy woman's heart was caught,
•'By the form molded as an antique god ;"
The gallant bearing, the feigned tale of love —
All false, all outward, simulated all.
Ap.g. But that I loved her, but that I do love hel
With a deep tenderness, softer and fonder
Than thy ambition-hardened heart e'er dreamed of,
My sword should answer thee.
Rie. Go to, lord Angelo ;
Thou lovest her not. Men taunt not, nor defy
The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere
Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around
The bosom's idol. I have loved — she loves thee ;
And therefore, thy proud father — even the shrew,
Thy railing mother — in her eyes are sacred.
Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair son —
Keep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee.
Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride,
That her plebeian father mews not up,
Safe in the citadel, her noble husband.
Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her,
Beware [ Going.]
140
NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Ang. Come back, Rienzi ! Thus I throw
A brave defiance in thy teeth. [^Throws down his glovc.^
Rie. Once more.
Beware !
Ang. Take up the glove !
Rie. This time for her — [TaJces up the glove.']
For her dear sake — come, to thy bride ! home ! home !
Ang. Dost fear me, Tribune of the people ?
Rie. Fear !
Do I fear thee ! Tempt me no more. This once.
Home to thy bride ! [Exit.^
Ang. Now, Ursini, I come —
Fit partner of thy vengeance ! [Exit.]
XXXV.— MAURICE, THE WOODCUTTER.— /SforwmW.
PRINCE LEOPOLD BARON LEIBHEIM COUNT HARTENSTEIN
MAURICE HANS, HIS FRIEND DOMINIE STARRKOPH GLAN-
DOFF, FRIEND OF THE COUNT CAPTAIN MANHOOF RIEGELj
PRISON-KEEPER BOLTZEN, HIS TURNKEY FRITZ, SON OF
MAURICE MARIE, WIFE OF MAURICE LOTTA, THEIR DAUGH-
TER OFFICERS PEASANTS.
Scono 1, — A pleasant Village. — A post from which a bell is suspended.
[Enter groups of peasantry, in holiday suits, preceded by
music. Enter Dominie Starr JcopJi, with a large paper.]
Dominie Ah — good morrow lo ye, my merry men, all !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 141
[Enter Hans.']
Huns. The same to you, Dominie.
Dom. Now for it — open wide your ears, and listen unto
me.
Hans. Why, what have you got there, Dominie ?
Doni. A petition to our most gracious sovereign, Pnnce
Leopold ; written and composed by no less a personage than
Dominie Sebastian Starrkoph, schoolmaster, bachelor of
arts, and doctor of law.
Omnes. A petition !
Dom. Ay. a petition against the cruelty of our gover-
nor, Count Hartenstein.
Hans. Hush ! take care what you say. Dominie.
Dom. Marry, for what, friend Hans ? It is not my
place to fear, but, rather, to make others fear : my school-
boys, for instance. You know me, master Hans ; recollect
— I've often given you a sound flogging before now.
Hans. I know that well enough, and I'm very much
obliged to you for it : but Count Hartenstein, our governor,
is no school-boy of yours; recollect that, master Dominie.
Dom. Meddle thou not with me, friend Hans: my deeds
will bear the light, and I am at all times ready to answer
for them. But come — now for the petition ; which, Tf you
approve of, I trust you will have no objection to sign ; that
is, as many of ye as can write.
Hans. None in the world. I'll make my mark.
Omnes. And so will I — and I —
Dom. Bravo I And now bring me a chair, or a table, or
anything elevated, in order that I, being an eminent man,
may have an exalted situation. [The peasants bring a large
barrel, on tuhich the Dominie mounts to read his petition.
Reading. ! - May it please your most illustrious royal high-
ness — the humble petition of the inhabitants of Greenwald,
showeth : firstly, that your petitioners are rapidly sinking
from the level of rational beings, to a condition far beneath
the brute creation."
Omnes. Bravo. Dominie !
Dom. " Secondly, the cause of such degradation is solely
the cruel tyranny of their governor. Count Hartenstein ;
who, abusing the authority reposed in him. tramples on
your highness' loyal subjects, and treats them no better than
so many oxen, calves, sheep or asses !''
Omnes. Very true — very true. Dominie !
Dom " Thirdly, the state of matters has arrived at such
142 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
a pitch, that poor rogues are hanged in dozens, in order that
the rich ones may go free, and live in ease and security."
Omnes. Most true.
Dom. '• Fourthly, your highness' loyal and affectionate
subjects have more taxes to pay, than bread to eat."
Omnes. So we have ; 'tis very true.
Dom. " Fifthly, if the said Count Hartenstein be not in-
stantly removed from power, your highness' loyal subjects
must infallibly all die of consumption, and, like a leaky ves-
sel on the stormy ocean, sink to the bottom." [At these
wards, the head of the barrel gives way, and the Dominie
falls in. The peasafitry help hitn out again. In the midst
of the confusion, enter suddenly Count Hartenstein, with
guards and attejidants, several of whom carry whips.\
Count. What vulgar revelry is this? Go, idle knaves,
and get ye hence, to work !
Dom. To work ! ay, forsooth, that we may have more
money for thee, when thou art pleased to send thy tax-gath-
erers to demand it.
Count. Why, thou audacious rebel ! this language to
me ! Dost thou not tremble, when I lift my arm ?
Dom. No. Strike a poor defenseless old man, if thou
hast courage enough to do so— 'twill but be adding another
to the many glorious actions thou already hast to boast of
Count Reptile ! thou art beneath my notice.
Dom. A reptile, am T ? Treat me as such ; tread upon
me, if you dare ; and, old as I am, I'll turn and bite thee.
Count. Gag the vile slave ! [Sees the petition upon the
ground.'] What do I see ? a paper too ! some vile conspir-
acy, no doubt. [Takes it up.] These plotting knaves are
ever brooding mischief [Reads.] Audacious rebels ! what
is this %
Dom. What so seldom reaches your ears, and never es-
capes your lips — the truth.
Count. Insolent slave ! but I'll punish thee! Guards,
seize on the hoary villain, and bind him to yonder post.
One hundred lashes be his chastisement. Strip him, and
spare him not.
Omties. Shame ! shame !
Count. Peace, murmuring curs ! or ye shall share his
fate. \To his guards^ Obey my orders.
Hans. [Stepjnng foriuard.] An't please your excel-
lency ; seeing as how the Dominie is an old man, and I'm
young and strong: and as it would grieve my heart to see
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 143
one who has acted like a father to me, suffer such a dread-
ful punishment, I humbly beg leave to bear the one hun-
dred lashes upon my own brawny shoulders, in place of the
poor old Dominie. [^Strips off his coat.]
Count. Fool, for thy pains — no I the old rebel shall him-
self receive the punishment awarded. Strip him and bind
him fast. I The guards are about to obey, ivhen the Domi-
nie saves them, the trouble^ by very deliberately pulling off
his coat himself.'] He mocks me and my power. \To the
Dominie.] If I mistake not, thou art a schoolmaster?
Dom. I am ; and would give the world to have thee for
a scholar.
Count. Why so ?
Dom. That I might try, if by a little wholesome correc
tion, I could make thee good for something.
Count. Insulting wretch ! dost thou not condescend to
beg for mercy ?
Dom. "What! of a man whose heart is made of marble?
Thou knowest as much of mercy as of justice.
Count. Such vile audacity is past endurance ; and yet to
make thy punishment the more degrading, I'll have thee
flogged by thy own school-boys. [ To an officer.] Go, fetch
the urchins hither. Bind him fast, I say. \_The Dominie
is bound to the bell post. Officer comes from the cottage with
the school-boys, little Fritz at tlieir Jiead.]
Fritz. Mercy on us ! only look ! — the Dominie stripped
and bound to the bell post ! What can this mean ?
Count. [To the child.] He has been a naughty boy
and must be flogged. He has often whipped you all — has
he not?
Fritz. Oh, yes, my lord, very often — but never unless
we deserved it.
Count. You may now be revenged on him, for all the
pain he has made you suffer. [To Ids flagellators.] Give
them your whips. [They obey.] There! [To the boys.]
I give you permission to do with the old Dominie just what
you please.
Fritz. But what has he done, my lord ?
Count. Insulted me — called me a tyrant.
Fritz. And is it then a crime to speak the truth ?
Count. Confusion ! Boy, I pardon thee that word, be-
cause I know that rebel was thy tutor. So, now to execu-
tion. Spare him not.
Fritz. AVell, if we must, we must. [He and the other
144 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
boysfourish tlieir whips.^ You give us permission, my
lord, to do with the Dominie just what we please 1
Count. [ExuUingly.'] I do — I do
Fritz. Enough. \_To t/ie villagers.'] You are all wit-
nesses. Then it is our pleasure to release the worthy in-
structor of our youth, from the power of a tyrant. [TAe
hoys release the Dominie, kissing and embracing him — then
run to the County and begin pMlling him toward tJie bell
post.]
Count. Confusion seize the brats! What would you
with me ?
Fritz. Put you in the Dominie's place, and flog you as
long as we could stand over you.
Dom. Bravo ! my little darlings ; you shall have half a
holiday for that answer.
Onines. Ha ! ha ! ha !
Count. [To his guards.] Disperse these slaves, and
cut them down like dogs !
[TJie guards are attacking the peasantry, ivhen suddenly .^
enter Baron Lcibheim.]
Baron. Hold ! in the prince's name, no violence. What
mean these hostile preparations ?
Count. They are to punish rebels.
Dom. Rebels to thee, but loyal subjects to their lawful
prince. [To the Baron.] We met here, my lord, to give
vent to our hearts in innocent mirth and honest rejoicings,
for that our dearly beloved prince returns to us this day,
after so long an absence. This, it seems, and the very
great crime of telling him the truth, provoked our worthy
governor to such a degree, that he proceeded to the brutal
•outrage you so happily prevented. [Handing the petition
to the Baron.] This paper will explain to your lordship the
honest grounds we have to murmur.
Baron. \Retur7iing the p)etition to the Dominie.] Sucn
scenes as these are painful to behold ; nor do I see how
they so soon can end, for, be it known to you, the prince has
been detained ; and when he may arrive is not so certain.
Gro, therefore, home in peace and quietness and rest as-
sured that justice shall be done you.
Omnes. Hurrah ! hurrah ! [Exeunt Starrkoph, Fritz,
Hans and peasantry.]
Count. Your interference here, my lord, was quite un-
called for.
Ba,ron. 'Tis for the prince I act; and if you doubt mv
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 146
word, here, sir, are my credentials. [Gives a -paper with
seal^ Sfcl
Count. [Hastily reading it — asidcl Curse on the in-
truder ! [Returns paper.'] Such documents, my lord, de-
mand implicit reverence. You are most welcome ; and my
castle, should you long tarry here. I do entreat you will in
all things use as 'twere your own.
Baron. Your grace's hospitality is too well known to
excite wonder, and gladly I accept your friendly invitation.
Count. Right proud am I of such a noble guest ; and
take my leave to make due preparation. [Exit^ hypocrit-
ically smiling, with guards^
Baron. Thus far, all's right. The prince will, in dis-
guise, see if his people's loud complaints are just. I fear
they are ; for such a specimen of government as I but now
beheld, is the sure way to ruin prince and people. But see,
my royal master comes this way,
\Knter Prince Leopold^ mtiffied in a long cloak \
Prince. How now, my trusty Leibheim, have you re-
ported what I ordered you ?
Baron. I have, your highness ; and thereby proved
the sudden death of joy, which, like a gay and jocund
bridegroom, smiled in every countenance, in hopes of your
return.
Prince. And are the rumors of the discontent our people
feel, founded in truth, or not ?
Baron. I fear, in truth. From what I saw, at least,
they've cause to murmur. Your highness knows the
count ; he is a man, haughty and resolute. Moreover, your
highness' absence for so many years has given him power
to commit more grievous acts than he, mayhap, can answer
for.
Prince. If so I'll see justice done my people ! — for he's
unworthy of the name of prince, who lives but for himself
A sovereign should deem himself a man, by Heaven sent
To punish guilt, and right the innocent. [Exeunt. 1
Scene 2. — Interior of a Prison,
[Enter Count Hartenstein and Glandoff^ conducted by Rie-
gel, the prison-keeper ., and Boltzen^ his turnkey^
Riegd. [Bowing.] This way, most excellent sir, this
way.
I 13
146 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Count. That stubborn poacher, Maurice, the woodcutter,
is, if I mistake not. to oe released to-day?
Rie. Your excellency has a most astonishing memory;
Maurice, the woodcutter's time, does indeed expire exactly
at twelve o'clock, this very day.
Count. Six months for such a crime was far too lenient ;
we must begin to act with more severity, or this vile rabble
will tread on us at last. \Knocldng without.']
Rie. [To Boltzen.'] Boltzen, see who's there !
[Enter Baron Leibheim and Prince Leoj^old^ the latter still
in disguise.']
Count. [Aside.] That meddler here again. Welcome,
my lord ; you come, no doubt, to see our prison discipline ?
Baron. Such, sir, is our object. Permit me to present
to you, my worthy friend, a traveler of distinction,
Coicnt. An introduction which I highly prize. Now,
master Riegel, bring your prisoner forth : I would admon-
ish him ere he depart.
Rie. Conduct Maurice, the woodcutter, hither.
[Boltzen brings him in.]
Count. Maurice, the time of your imprisonment expires
this day ; and if you love your freedom and your family,
you'll not transgress the laws a second time. Before you
are discharged, however. I insist that you express due sor-
row for your crime: and beg pardon of that gentleman,
[poi7iting to Glandoff.^ whom you have dishonored by a
blow ! If you refuse, you remain here a prisoner.
Mau. Never ! though I should perish in my dungeon,
will I pretend sorrow, when I cannot possibly feel any;
nor ask pardon of one who is anything but a gentleman ;
and, therefore, cannot be disgraced by the fist of an honest
man
Count. Insolent slave !
Baron. [To Maiorice.] Methinks more modesty of
speech, my friend, would aid your cause far better than such
language.
Mau. Sir, you are a stranger here, and know not what
it is to smart beneath the bondage of a tyrant.
Count. Audacious rebel ! These stubborn peasantry—
Mau. Yes, they are stubborn as their native oaks;
break them, you may, by force, and cut them down ; but
bend they will not, at a tyrant's nod.
Baron. Why not comply with such a just demand ?
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 117
'Tis for some crime, of course, that you are here? Ac-
knowledge it — say you are sorry — and depart in peace.
Mau. Sorry, my lord! for what? for having killed a
hare, that crossed my path, while, as high heaven above us
knows full well, my wife and helpless babes at home were
starving ! and that, too, at the very time when his excellency,
the governor, and that worthy gentleman yonder, [poi/tting
to Glandoff.'] with half a hundred more, were out upon a
hunting party, riding through cornfields, trampling down
meadows, scaring the peaceful flocks, and slaughtering
whatever wild animals came in their way, with a merciless
hand ; and for what? — to satisfy the cravings of nature? —
to stop the cries of their hungry children i No. For mere
pastime — for sport. Me, they drag from my poor family to
prison, while they rove at large, committing the very crime
for which I suffer, if it be one, with impunity. This may
be law, perhaps, but is it j-ustice ? is it humanity ? And
would you have me confess sorrow for doing my duty? for
procuring food for my famishing children, wherever I could
find it? Never! Do with me what you will, I'll not ac-
cept of liberty, dearly as I prize it, on your conditions.
Count. Obstinate boor! {^Knocking without. Riegel
nods to Boltzen to see who knocks ; he does so.']
Bolt. The wife and children of the prisoner, request to
see him.
Mau. [I?i an ecstacy of joy.] My dear Marie ! my
brave boy, Fritz ! and her mother's image, my dear little
Lotta, too! Where are they? let me fly into their arms I
\^Crossing^ is stopped by Riegel.]
Hie. Stop ! stop ! you forget where you are, prisoner.
Mau. [^Suddenly depressed.] I did indeed forget my-
self, for joy.
Count. -We want no squalling brats and women here.
[The prince here, silently directs the baron to interfere.]
Baron. Nay, this is cruelty ; and I entreat, as a great
favor, that this poor man's family be instantly admitted.
Count. Sir, I am governor, and know my duty.
Baron. And I, sir, have the honor to be called your
prince's friend : in his name I request, and if that's not suf-
ficient, I command you, to let the prisoner see his wife and
children.
Count. You command me, sir '.
Baron. I do. You see I have full powers from the
prince. [Pointing to his credentials.]
148 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Count. [With dijjicuUy suppressing his rage.'] Admit
the woman and her brats. [Riegel lets ih^m in. \
[Enter Marie^ little Fritz, and Lotta.]
Mau. [Embracing t/iem.] Ah, my dear Marie ! my
Fritz ! my Lotta too !
Marie. My Maurice !
Fritz )
J- > Dear father ! [Mutual embrace.']
Count. Your husband is at liberty, good woman.
Marie. Heaven bless your excellency!
Mau. Amen ! for no man living needs it more.
Count. Upon condition that he ask pardon, and express
sorrow for his crime.
Mau. Never !
Marie. "What — not to save your Marie, and your poor
children from misery and despair?
Mau. And would you have me tell a willful lie in the
sweet face of heaven 1
Marie. Dear Maurice, for our sakes kneel down and beg
his excellency's pardon.
Lotta. Do, father, for your little Lotta's sake.
Mau. [Softening.] Well, well — I — will — ask pardon;
yes, for your sakes, I will
Fritz. Show yourself a man, father, and don't do any
such thing !
Mau. [Embracing the boy in transpoi't.] No, I won't,
my boy! [To Riegel.] Lead me back to my dungeon
again ; for if I tell a lie to please any man I shall not carry
out of the prison the treasure I brought into it — a pure, un-
sullied conscience !
Cou7it. [Stamping violently.] Into the deepest dungeon
with the slave ! there, on one scanty meal a day of bread
and water, we'll soon subdue his haughty spirit.
Mau. Never I — for with my dying breath I'll curse all
tyrants !
Count. Away with him I
Marie ^ tv/t » •
Lotta. ^ Mercy! mercy!
Fritz. [Aside.] I've a good mind to cry — but I won't;
no — nor Leg neither.
[The prince here again instructs the baron to interfere^
Baron. I am again compelled to interfere. [To Mau-
rice.] In the prince's name, I give you instant liberty
Go, then, and bless the family you love so dearly.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 149
Count. [Asicle-I My rage will suffocate me ! yet will I
have revenge !
Mau. [To baron.'] Whoever you are, my lord, may a
poor man's blessing attend you. \_K?ieels,and kisses baron^s
hand; rising.'] Come, my loves! [To Count and Glan-
doff".] And as for you, gentlemen sportsmen, when you
next sit down to a venison dinner, I hope you'll just reflect
for a moment on the situation of the poor husband and
father, who has not a morsel of food for his starving wife
and children ; that will teach you a little more humanity !
Come, Marie ! come, children, come !
Count. [Aside to Glandoff.] Follow me to the palace,
— there to concert measures of revenge ! [Exeunt all but
the baron and j^rince.]
Baron. What think you now, my prince ?
Frince. I've heard and seen what I had ne'er believed
but for the evidence of my own senses. And my heart
bleeds to see the poor thus trampled on. Eut, patience yet,
to see how far he will proceed, and then to crush the tyrant !
[Exe'U7it.]
Scene 3. — The Village, Bell, (fee, as in Scene 1.
[Enter Dominie StarrJioph.]
Dom. I verily believe that fate has conspired with tyr-
anny and oppression, to trample on the rights of honest
men. Just as I was on the point of overtaking the worthy
baron, to present to him my petition. I learned that he had
been most barbarously murdered : and then to think that
Maurice, the woodcutter, should have been guilty of so
shocking a deed ; a man whom we all consider so honest.
For my part, I can never believe, it, though the proofs are
strong against him.
[Enter Glandojf., with a letter.]
Glan. Heaven save the worthy Dominie !
Dom. Amen ! and all of us, from the power of the evil
one.
Glan. I am the bearer of a letter for you ; 'tis from his
excellency.
Dom. From the governor, you mean : we won't talk of
his excellence.
Gkui. E'en as you will ; 'tis but a title.
Dom. Very true, and in this case, a word without mean-
ing.
13»
150 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Glan. Here's the letter. \Gives it\ His excellent;/
the Count will be here anon, to receive your answer in
person.
Dom. Well. I am sure I ought to think myself highly
honored, especially after the flogging he was about to inflict
upon me this morning. Which way does the wind blow
now, I wonder ?
Glan. Read, Dominie, and you will learn his excellency's
pleasure.
Dom. \Puts on his spectacles.^ and while he is silently
reading the letter, enter the Count: the Dominie seems
highly incensed at the contents of tJie letter.'] Hem ! hem !
So I am to keep this affair a secret, am I ?
Count. [^Coming forward.] Such is my wish, my
worthy Dominie.
Dom. Hem ! worthy Dominie ! Since when has it been
the fashion to order worthy Dominies to be flogged, I should
like to know?
Count. Let that be buried in oblivion ; we will be
friends, provided you accept my offer, and keep the whole
affair a secret.
Dom. Yes, yes, my lord, you'll find old Dominie is a
rare fellow at keeping a secret.
Count. This purse shall be an earnest of your future
fortune.
Dom. Your excellency quite overpowers me : yet such
modesty, such Christian charity, shall not be kept a secret
from the world ; but be blazoned forth, that others may imi-
tate so glorious an example. [iiZe runs toward the bell.]
Cou7it. \Trying to prevent him,] What would you do,
my worthy Dominie %
Dom. What would I do ? Why, make the people ac-
quainted with the only generous action their governor has
performed in the whole course of his life. Nothing more !
Old Dominie Starrkoph's the man for keeping a secret. [i7e
pulls the hell witli violence. \
Count. [^Stamping ivith violence.] Mad-headed idiot !
[^Enter Hans, and numerous peasantry'^
Hans. What now, what now ? Is the village on fire 1
another petition to be signed ? or —
Dom. A greater wonder, far ! Open wide yonr ears, ye
men of Greenwald ! Your governor, Count Hartenstein,
has given away a purse of gold, and most liberal promises
of future favor, to a poor man ; there's a wonder for you !
SERIOUS AND SEyTIMKNTAI.. 151
Count. Insolent wretch ! give me back the letter, or —
Dom. Not until I have gone through with it. my lord.
Now attend my call, one and aJl. [Heads] ^' From his
excellency the governor, to the worthy Dominie Starrkoph,
greeting." [Spokc/i.] Mark that, neighbors ! To the
worthy Dominie. [Reads.] '• In consideration of the man-
ifold advantages which have occurred to the state from your
excellent mode of educating youth, it is our intention to
grant you, from the public treasure, a pension of one thou-
sand dollars per annum, together with the sinecure situation
of gentleman ballad-singer to the prince ; on consideration
that you do not present to our gracious sovereign, the peti-
tion we perused this morning. This our generous offer, you
will, of course, keep an inviolable secret. Signed, Count
Hartenstein." [Spoken.] There, neighbors there's a pre-
cious epistle for you.
Count. [Highly incensed.] Audacious demagogue I
[To Glandoff. asi/e.] Go, fetch a guard ! [Exit Glandoff.]
Dom. You see, my lord, I have kept your generous offer
an inviolable secret. Odds fools caps, and birch-brooms ! to
think of bribing me. a man of my dignity and rank in life !
and one who is so well known for temperance and frugal-
ity. Old Dominie Starrkoph, indeed ! take a bribe out of
the pockets of his suffering countrymen, to betray their
cause! accept the sinecure situation of gentleman ballad-singer
to the prince ; zounds ! the prince wants no ballad-singers,
he has other fish to fry ; and none but a rogue would ever
think of pocketing a salary, without rendering his country
some service for it. in return. [Throws the purse at the
counV s feet^ ivith indignation.] Take back your money, my
lord, to bribe slaves ! not those who know their duty to their
country. Sinecures indeed I I only wish our gracious prince
were here, just now— [t J te pri7ice enters and viingles with
tiie throng.] — he'd see justice done us. Birch-brooms ! I'd
tell him such a tale as should open his eyes to the truth.
Odds fools-caps ! I'd —
[Enter Glandoff^ with gu^rd^ commanded by Captain
Manhoof.]
Count. Down with these rebels, soldiers ! I command
you. [Soldiers }t£sitate.]
Man. My lord !
Count. Fiends and perdition ! you dare hesitate !
Ma7i. We do, my lord ; convinced that such scenes of
152 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
blood are as repugnant to the feeling-s of our noble-minded
prince, as they are to humanity.
Count. At your peril, sir !
Man. Be it so. We have been too long the instruments
of cruelty and oppression. Our duty is to uphold the laws,
not to become the abject tools of tyranny ; we, therefore, do
refuse to murder our fellow-countrymen in cold blood, and
are prepared to' take the consequences.
Count. Villains ! traitors !
Man. Neither, my lord ! yet we are well aware, our
conduct is against the strict lawsof military discipline ; and,
therefore, surrender ourselves your prisoners, until our gra-
cious prince decides our fate. Soldiers ! ground your arms.
[ Tke soldwrs obey. Captain Manhoof delivers his sword to
the governor. ]
Coimt. You shall repent this perfidy. [Hands Captain
Manhoof ^s sword to Glandoff.\
Omnes. Hurrah ! hurrah !
Dom,. [To the governor.'] You'll be sure to keep this
affair a secret, my lord !
Scene 4. — A Street.
[Enter Dominie^ Ha7is, and several peasants. "]
Hans. A sad business, this, neighbors, isn't it ? And
just when we expected his highness, the prince, home, too.
I'm afraid the murder of his friend, the baron, will cause'
him to believe we are indeed no better than the count repre-
sents us — a set of unruly, outrageous rebels.
Bo7n. Tut, man ! no such thing — my petition will rec-
tify that error, and refute every unfounded calumny ; and,
depend upon it, I'll leave no stone unturned to bring this
horrid murder home to the real perpetrators of it : for, that
honest Maurice, the woodcutter, could be guilty of such a
crime. I never will believe.
Hans. Nor I neither. Dominie !
Omnes. Nor any of us !
Michael. But wasn't his hatchet found near the body,
and the baron's casket of jewels in Maurice's cottage?
Dom. That, at first, is rather against him, I'll allow :
but no matter, I say he is innocent ! Dickens! he shall be
innocent, and I will prove it ; have we not all known him
for years, as an honest, worthy fellow 1
Omnes. We have. Dominie.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL, 153
Dom. And shall we forsake him now that he's in trouble
und distress ? No, never! I have studied the law, and will
draw up such a defense for poor Maurice, as shall fully es-
tablish his innocence. You all recollect the birch-broom,
you know, when you used to go to school to me — you have
f(flt the power of my arm, and shall now feel the force of
my eloquence in behalf of an honest, worthy member of soci-
ety. So. come along, I'll prove him innocent. Odds fools
caps and birch-brooms ! he shall be innocent. [Exeunt
07?i?ies.]
[Enter Count, folloived by Glandoff.^
Count. To place the country under martial law was our
last resource ; and that stern rebel, Maurice, the woodcutter,
shall be the first whose life shall gratify my just revenge !
My twisty GlandofT, say, how was the body of my hated
rival disposed of?
Glan. His friend, the traveler, had it removed for hon-
orable burial.
Count. And when you returned into the forest, did you
not find the jeweled miniature, which I lost in the struggle?
Glan. No, my lord. The robbers who infest the forest,
no doubt seized on the spoil.
Count. Most probably. And that young urchin, the
woodcutter's son, who was, I fear, a witness to the deed, you
silenced him forever, did you not 1
Glan. I did, my lord.
Count. Success ! then all is well, and I defy detection.
Now to the court, to try the criminal. [Eooeunt.^
Scene 6. — Interior of a Court of Justice. Large folding-doors in center.
The Count discovered sitting as Presiding Judge, surrounded by his
guards, officers of justice, &c. GlandolFacts as Secretary. Michael,
with his staff of office, is keeping back the spectators, among whom
are Hans, 9
XXX VI— FROM lOia. -Talfourd
ADRASTUS, KING OF ARGOS MEDON, HIGH PRIEST OF THE
TEMPLE OF ArOLLO ION, A FOtNDLING, PROTECTED B^
MEDON CTESIPHON, CASSANDER, NOBLE ARGIVE YOUTHS
CYRTHES, CAPTAIN OF THE ROYAL GUARD AGENOR, SAGE
OF ARGOS.
Scene 1. — The royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch, asleep,
[Enter Ion with a knife.']
Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along-
With trembling steps? Am I not armed by Heaven
To execute its mandate on a king
Whom it hath doomed ? And shall I falter now,
While every moment that he breathes may crush
Some life else happy ? Can I be deceived,
By some foul passion, crouching in my soul,
Which takes a radiant form to lure me on?
Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices ;
For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm,
And see me strike ! \_He goes to the couch.']
He's smiling in his slumber,
As if some happy thoughts of innocent days
Played at his heart strings : must I scare it thence
With death's sharp agony? He lies condemned
By the high judgment of supernal Powers,
And he shall know their sentence. A\'ake, Adrastus !
Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die !
Adruslas. Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards! Sol-
diers ! Kecreants !
Where tarry ye? Why smite ye not to earth
This bol([ intruder? Ha! no weapon here!
What wouldst thou with me. ruffian i \^Rising.] ^^
Ion. I am none, K^
But a sad instrument in Jove's-great hand,
To take thy life long forfeited. ^J^repare !
Thy hour is come ! ^^
Adra^. Villains ! does no one hear?
Ion. Yex not the closing minutes of thy uting
With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards,
Palsied with revelry, are scattered senseless,
While the most valiant of our Argive youths.
160 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Hold every passage by which human aid
Could reach thee. Present death is the award
Of Powers who watch above me, while I stand
To execute their sentence
Adras. Thou ! I know thee —
The youth I spared this morning-, in whose ear
I poured the secrets of my bosom. Kill me,
If thou dar'st do it ; but bethink thee first,
How the grim memory of thy thankless deed
Will haunt thee to the grave !
Ion. It is most true,
Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall
Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin.
And not the great redress of Argos. Now — •
Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left,
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh
To rot untombed, glide by, and frown on me,
Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms
With looks of furies. Yet a moment wait,
Ye dreadful prompters ! If there is a friend,
Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token.
Speak thy last bidding.
Adras. I have none on earth.
If thou hast courage, erid me !
Ion. Not one friend !
Most piteous doom !
Adras. Art melted?
Ion. If I am,
Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms.
And eyes unseen that sleep not. gird us round,
And we shall fall together. Be it so !
Adras. No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee
I recognize the minister of Jove,
^Uid, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. \_Kn£els.']
tflon. Avert thy face !
Adras. No ; let me meet thy gaze ;
For breathing pity lights^y features up
Into more awful likeness^^"a form
Which once shone on me ; and which now my sense
Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave,
Inviting me to the sad realm where shades
Of innocents, whom passionate regard
Linked with the guilty, are content to pace
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 161
With them the margin of the inky flood,
Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves
Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head,
As if to bless thee ; and I bless thee too,
Death's gracious angel ! Do not turn away.
Iim. Gods ! to what office have ye doomed me! Now!
[ Jo7^ raises his arm to stab Adrastus. ivho is kneeling^ and
gazes steadfastly upon him. TJie voice of Medon is /leard
without, calling, '• Ion ! Ion !" Ion drops his arm.']
Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost !
\As Ion has again raised his arjn to strike, Medon rushes in
behind him.]
Medon. Ion, forbear.
Behold thy son, Adrastus! \^Ion stands for a moment
stupified ivith horror, drops the knife, and falls senseless.]
Adras. What strange words
A.re these, which call my senses from the death
They were composed to welcome ? Son ! 'tis false —
I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him !
Medon. That wave received, instead of (he fair nursling,
One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight
In wicked haste to slay ; — I'll give thee proofs.
Adras. Great Jove, I thank thee ! raise him gently —
proofs !
Are there not here the lineaments of her
Who made me happy once — the voice, now still.
That bade the lonfi^-sealed fount of love gush out, '
K 14*
162 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
While with a prince's constancy he came
To lay his noble life down ; and the sure,
The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow
Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me,
Armed for the traitor's deed ? — it is my child !
[Ion, reviving^ sinks on one knee^ before Adrastus.]
Ion. Father! [Woise without 1
Medon. The clang of arms !
Ion. [^Starting up.] They come ! they come!
They who are leagued with me against thy life.
Here let us fall.
Adras. I will confront them yet.
Within I have a weapon which has drank
A traitors blood ere now ; there will I wait them :
No power less strong than death shall part us now.
\E,xeunt Adrastus and Ton., as into an inner chamber^
Medon. Have mercy on him. gods, for the dear sake
Of your most single-hearted worshiper.
\Ii.nter Ctesijihon. Cassander^ and other s.]
Ctesiphon. What treachery is this ? — the tyrant fled,
And Ion fled too ! Comrades, stay this dotard,
While I search in yonder chamber.
Medon. Spare him. friends, —
Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ;
Spare him, as Ion's father!
Cte. Father i yes —
That is indeed a name to bid me spare : —
Let me but find him. gods ! [^Rushes into the inner chamber. ]
Medon. [ To Cassander and the others.] Had ye but seen
What I have seen, ye would have mercy on him.
[ Cyrthes enters with soldiers.]
Ha ! soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ;
That way — \^As Cyrthes is about to enter the inner cfiamber.
Ctesiphon rushes from it with a bloody dagger and stops
them.]
Cte. It is accomplished ; the foul blot
Is wiped away. Shade of my murdered father,
Look on thy son. and smile !
Cyrthes. Whose blood is that ?
It cannot be the king's !
Cte. It cannot be I
Think'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will,
He was to crush, and thou to crawl forever?
Look there, and tremble !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 16S
Cyr. Wretch ! thy life shall pay
The forfeit of this deed. [ Cyrthes and soldiers seize Ctesi-
phon:']
[Enter Adrastus, mortally wounded^ supported by Ion.'\
Adras. Here let me rest.
In this old chamber did my life begin,
And here I'll end it. Cyrthes ! thou hast timed
Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither,
To gaze upon my parting.
Cyr. To avenge thee ;
Here is the traitor !
Adras. Set him free at once ;
Why do ye not obey me? Ctesiphon,
I gave thee cause for this ; believe me now,
That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ;
And as we now stand equal, I will sue
For a small boon — let me not see thee more.
Cte. Farewell! \_Exit.']
Adras. [ To Cyrthes and soldiers.'] Why do ye tarry here 1
Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch?
If the commandment of a dying king
Is feeble, as a man who has embraced
His child for the first time since infancy,
And presently must part with him forever,
I do adjure ye. leave us ! [Exeunt all but Ion and Adrastus.l
Ion. Oh, my father !
How is it with thee now ?
Adras. Well ; very well ;
Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force
Against me ; and I gaze upon my son,
With the sweet certainty that naught can part us
Till all is quiet here. How like a dream.
Seems the succession of my regal pomps,
Since I embraced thy helplessness ! To me
The interval hath been a weary one :
How hath it passed with thee \
Ion. But that my heart
Hath sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred,
I had enjoyed a round of happy years
As cherished youth e'er knew.
Adras. I bless the gods
That they have strewn along thy humble path,
Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem
Even as I had lived so ; and I feel
164 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
That I shall live in thee, unless that curse —
Oh, if it should survive me !
Ion. Think not of it ;
The gods have shed such sweetness in this mornentj
That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter,
I shall not deem them angry. Let me call
For help to staunch thy wound ; thou art strong yet,
And yet may live to bless me.
Adras. Do not stir ;
My strength is ebbing fast ; yet. as it leaves me,
The spirit of my stainless days of love
Awakens: and their images of joy,
Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion,
When thou wert strange to me, and then half shown
Looked sadly through the mist of guilty years,
Now glimmer on me in the lovely light.
Which at thy age ihey wore. Thou art all thy mother's,
Her elements of gentlest virtue cast
In mold heroical.
Ion. Thy speech grows fainter ;
Can I do nothing for thee ?
Adras. Yes : — my son,
Thou art the best, the bravest, of a race
Of rightful monarchs ; thou must mount the throne
Thy ancestors have filled, and by great deeds
Eflace the memory of thy fated sire,
An-d win the blessings of the gods for men
Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this.
And I shall die forgiven.
Ion. I will.
Adras. Rejoice,
Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing weak.
And my eyes dazzle : let me rest my hands,
Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head.
So ! so ! thy hair is glossy to the touch,
As when I last enwreathed its tiny curl
About my finger ; I did imagine then.
Thy reign excelling mine; it is fulfilled,
And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! [^Dies^
Ion. He's dead ! and I am fatherless again.
King, did he hail me? Shall I make that word
A spell to bid old happiness awake
Throughout the lovely land that father'd me
In my forsaken childhood \
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 165
[He sees the hnife on the ground^ and picks it up.1
The voice of joy !
Is this thy funeral wailing? Oh, my father!
Mournful and brief will be the heritage
Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death,
To grasp it; and I will embrace it now.
[Enter Agenor and others.']
Agenor. Does the king live?
Ion. Alas ! in me. The son
Of him whose princely spirit is at rest,
Claims his ancestral honors.
Age. That high thought
Anticipates the prayer of Argos, roused
To sudden joy. The sages wait without
To greet thee : wilt confer with them to-night,
Or wait the morning ?
Ion. Now — the city's state
Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Exeunt^
XXXVIL— FROM WILLIAM TELL.— /TnoW^s.
GESLER SARNEM RODOLPH GERARD LUTOLD SENTINEL
TELL VERNER ERNI MELCTAL FURST MICHAEL
THEODORE PIERRE ALBERT SAVOYARDS EMMA SOL-
DIERS PEOPLE.
Scene 1.— The Field of Grutli.
[Enter Tell, with a long bow.]
Tell. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again !
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free.
O, sacred forms, how proud you look !
How high you lift your heads into the sky !
How huge you are ! how mighty and how free !
Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again ! I call to you
With all my voice ! I rush to you,
As though I could embrace you !
Erni. [Without:] William ! William !
Tdl. [Looks out.] Here, Erni, here !
166 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
[Enter Erni.}
Erni. Thou'rt sure to keep the time,
That comes before the hour.
Tell. The hour, my friend,
Will soon be here. 0, when will liberty-
Be here 1 My Erni, that's my thought.
Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow :
O'er the abyss, his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air.
Instinctively I bent my bow ; he heeded not
The death that threatened him, I could not shoot —
'Twas liberty. I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away.
Verner. [Without.] Tell! Tell!
[Enter Verner.]
Tell. [Crosses to him.] Here, Verner !
Fur St. [Without.] Tell!
[Enter Furst.]
TeU. Here, friends ! — Well met. Do we go on 1
Ver. We do.
TeU. Then you can count upon the friends you named 1
Ver. On every man of them.
Furst. And I on mine.
Erni. Not one I sounded, but doth rate his blood
As water, in the cause ! Then fix the day
Before we part.
Ver. No, Erni ; rather wait
For some new outrage to amaze and rouse
The common mind, which does not brood so much
On wrongs gone by, as it doth quiver with
The sense of present ones.
Tell. [To Verner.] I wish with Erni,
But I think with thee. Yet, when I ask myself.
On whom the wrong shall light, for which we wait —
Whose vineyard they'll uproot — whose flocks they'll ravage —
Whose threshold they'll profane — whose hearth pollute —
Whose roof they'll fire — When this I ask myself.
And think upon the blood of pious sons.
The tears of venerable fathers, and
The shrieks of mothers, fluttering round their spoiled
And nestless young ~ I almost take the part
Of generous indignation, that doth blush
At such expense to wait on sober prudence.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 10?
Fur St. Yet it is best.
Tell. On that, we're all agreed !
Who fears the issue when the day shall come ?
Ver. Not I !
Furst Nor I !
Erni. Nor I !
Tell. I'm not the man
To mar this harmony. You commit to me
The warning of the rest. Remember, then,
My dagger sent to any one of you —
As time may press— is word enough. Dear Erni,
Remember me to Melctal. [Crosses.] Furst, provide
AVhat store you can of arms. Do you the same.
[2'o Erni and Verner.]
The next aggression of the tyrant is
The downfall of his power ! Reniember me
To Melctal, Erni — to my father. Tell him
He has a son was never born to him !
Farewell ! When next we meet upon this theme,
All Switzerland shall witness what we do. [Exeunt.'\
Scene 2. — Tell's Cottage, with mountain and lake scenery.
[Enter Emma.]
Emma. 0, the fresh morning ! Heaven's kind mes-
senger,
That never empty-handed comes to those
Who know to use its gifts. Praise be to Him
Who loads it still, and bids it constant run
The errand of his bounty. Praise be to him !
[Enter Albert.]
Albert. My mother !
Emma. Albert ! Bless thee !
How early were you up ?
Alb. Before the sun.
Emma. Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed
When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.
Alb. What you would have me like, I'll be like,
As far as will, to labor joined, can make me.
Emma. Well said, my boy ! Knelt you, when you got up
To-day?
Alb. I did ; and do so every day.
Emma. I know you do !
168 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel 1
Aid. To Him who made me, mother
E'nima. And in whose name ?
Alb. In the name of Him^ who died
For me and all men, that all men and I
Should live.
Bmma. That's right ! Remember that, my son : "
Forget all things but that — remember that ;
'Tis more than friends or fortune : clothing, food ;
All things of earth ; yea, life itself — It is
To live when these are gone, where they are naught,
With God ! — My son, remember that !
Alb. I will !
Emma. I'm glad you husband what you're taught
That is the lesson of content, my son ;
He who finds which, has all — who misses, nothing.
Alb. Content is a good thing.
Emma. A thing, the good
Alone can profit by.
Alh. My father's good.
Emma. What sayest thou, boy ?
Alh. I say, my father's good.
Emma. Yes, he is good ! what then ?
Alb. I do not think
He is content — I'm sure he's not content ;
Nor would I be content, were I a man.
And Gesler seated on the rock of Altorf!
A man may lack content, and yet be good.
Emma I did not say all good men found content
I would be busy ; leave me.
Alh. You're not angry ?
Emma. No, no, my boy.
Alb. You'll kiss me ?
Emma. Will I not !
The time will come, you will not ask your mother
To kiss you !
Alb. Never !
Emma. Not when you're a man ?
Alb. I'll never be a man to see that time :
I'd rather die, now, when I am a child,
Than live to be a man. and not love you !
E^nma Live — live to be a man, and love your mother!
\Tliey embrace. — Albert runs qff\ into the cottage.']
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 169
Why should my heart sink ? 'tis for this we rear them i
Cherish their tiny limbs ; pine, if a thorn
But mar their tender skin ; gather them to us
Closer than miser hugs his bags of gold ; —
To send them forth into a wintry world,
To brave its flaws and tempests !— Nestling as
He is. he is the making of a bird
Will own no cowering wing.
\_Re-enter Albert^ from cottage^ loith a bow and arrows^ and
a rude target^ which he sets up during tJie first lines, lay-
ing the bow and quiver on the ground.']
What have you there ?
Alb. My bow and arrow, mother.
Emma. When will you use them like your father, boy?
Alb. Some time, I hope.
Emma You brag ! There's not an archer
In all Helvetia can compare with him.
Alb. But I'm his son ; and when I am a man,
I may be like him Mother, do I brag.
To think 1 sometime may be like my father ?
If so, then is it he that teaches me !
For, ever as I wonder at his skill,
He calls me boy, and says I must do more,
Ere I become a man.
Emma. May you be such
A man as he — if Heaven wills, better, — I'll
Not quarrel with its work ; yet 'twill content me.
If you are only such a man.
Alb. I'll show you
How I can shoot. \_Shoots at the target.] Look, mother 1
there's within
An inch !
Emma. fie ! it wants a hand. [ Goes into the cottage ]
Alb. A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it! [Shoots again.]
[Enter Tell^ watching Albert some time in silence.]
Tell. That's scarce a miss, that comes so near the mark !
Well aimed, young archer ! With what ease he bends
^The bow ! To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm,
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat.
And from their chains a prostrate people lift
15
170 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day. What Albert !
Alb. Ah !
My father ! [Running to Tell, who OTibraces him.']
Emma. [Running from cottage.'] William ! welcome !
welcome ! William 1
I did not look for you till noon, and thought
How long 'twould be ere noon would come. You're come —
Now this is happiness ! Joy's double joy,
That comes before the time !
Tell. You raise the bow
Too fast. [To Albert, who has returned to his practice.]
Bring't slowly to the eye. [Albert shoots.]
You've missed.
How often have you hit the mark to-day 1
Alb. Not once yet.
Ihll. You're not steady. I perceived
You wavered now. Stand firm ! — let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. [Albert shoots.] That's better !
Emma. William! William!— 0!
To be the parents of a boy like that ! —
Why speak you not — and wherefore do you sigh ? [Albert
shoots.}
Tell You've missed again I
Dost see the mark ? Rivet your eye to it !
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there.
Emma. Why, William, don't
You answer me 1 [Albert shoots.]
Tell. Again ! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'T would not do
To miss the wolf ! You said the other day.
Were you a man, you'd not let Gesler live.
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot ! —
Take care ! That's Gesler ! — Now for liberty !
Right to the tyrant's heart! — [Albert shoots^ and hits tlm
mark.]
Well done, my boy !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. l7l
Come here ! — Now, Emma, I will answer you :
Do I not love you *? Do I not love our child 1
Is not that cottage dear to me, where I
Was born ? How many acres would T give
That little vineyard for, which I have watched
And tended since I was a child ? Those crags
And peaks — what spired city would I take
To live in, in exchange for them? Yet what
Are these to me ? What is this boy to me ?
What art thou, Emma, to me — when a breath
Of Gesler's can take all ?
Emma. 0, William! think
How little is that all to him — too little
For Gesler, sure, to take. Bethink thee, William,
We have no treasure.
Tell. Have we not I Have we
No treasure ? How ! No treasure ? What !
Have we not liberty? — that precious ore.
That pearl, that gem, the tyrant covets most, —
Yea, makes a pawn of his own soul — to strip
The wearer of it ! Emma, we have that.
And that's enough for Gesler !
Emma. Then, indeed,
My William, we have much to fear!
Tell. We have ;
And best it is we know how much. Then, Emma,
Make up thy mind, wife ; make it up ! Remember
What wives and mothers on these very hills,
Once breathed the air you breathe.
Emma. 0, William !
Tell. Emma, let the boy alone ;
Don't clasp him so — 'twill soften him. Go. sir,
See if the valley sends us visitors
To-day ; some friend, perchance, may need thy guidance.
Away ! [ Exit Allert.\ He's better from thee, Emma; the time
[s come, a mother on her breast should fold
Her arms, as they had done with such endearments,
And bid her children go from her, to hunt
For danger, which will presently hunt them —
The less to heed it.
Em^TTia. Williain, you are right:
The task you set me I will try to do.
I would not live myself to be a slave —
No ! woman as I am, I would not, William !
J 72 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Tell. Did I not choose thee
From out the fairest of the maids of Uri,
Less that in beauty thou didst them surpass,
Than that thy soul that beauty overmatched ?
When I wedded thee.
The land was free. ! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that it was so. It was free —
From end to end, from cliff to lake^ 'twas free !
Free as the torrents are, that leap our rocks.
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun !
How happy was I in it then ! I loved
Its very storms ! Yes, Emma, I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring — I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head.
And cried in thraldom at the furious wind,
Blow on ! this is the land of liberty !
Emma. I almost see thee on that fearful pass ;
And yet, so seeing thee, I have a feeling
Forbids me wonder that thou didst so.
Tell. 'Tis
A feeling must not breathe where Gesler breathes.
List, Emma, list !
A league is made to pull the tyrant down,
E'en from his seat upon the rock of Altorf.
Four hearts have staked their blood upon the cast.
And mine is one of them.
Emm^a. I did not start ; —
Tell me more, William.
Tell. I will tell thee all—
Alb. {Without.'] 0, father!
Old Melctal [ Without.] Tell !— Tell I—William !
Emma. Don't you know
That voice ?
[E?iter Old Melctal, blind, led by Albert^
Old M. Where art thou, William?
Tell. Whois't?
Emma. Do you not know him?
Tell. No ! — it cannot be
The voice of Melctal !
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. l73
Alb. Father, it is Melctal !
Emma. What ails you, Tell?
Alb. 0, father, speak to him.
Emma. What passion shakes you thus ?
Tell. His eyes — where are they ? —
Melctal has eyes.
OklM. Tell! Tell!
Tell. 'Tis Melctal's voice.
Where are his eyes ? Have they put out his eyes
Father, speak; pronounce the name
Of Gesler !
Old M. Gesler!
Tell. Gesler has torn out
The old man's eyes ! — Erni !
Where's Erni ? Where's thy son ? Is he alive,
And are his father's eyes torn out ?
Old M He lives, my William,
But knows it not.
Tell. When he shall know it ! Heavens !
When he shall know it ! — I am not thy son,
Yet—
Emma. [^Alarmed at his increasing vehemence.'] Wil-
liam ! William !
Alb. Father!
Tell. Could I find
Something to tear — to rend, were worth it ! — something-
Most ravenous and bloody ! — something like
Gesler ! — a wolf! — no, no 1 a wolf's a lamb
To Gesler ! I would let
The wolf go free for Gesler! — Water ! water!
Old M. What ails thee, William ?
I pray thee, William, let me hear thy voice !
That's not thy voice !
Tell. I cannot speak to thee !
Emma. [Returning with a vessel of water. '\ Here, Will
liam.
Tell. Emma !
Emma. Drink !
Tell. I cannot drink !
Emma. Your eyes are fixed.
Tell. Melctal ! — he has no eyes ! [Bursts into tears.']
The poor old man I [Falls on Melctal s neck.']
Old M. I feel thee, Tell ! I care not
15*
iVi NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
That I have lost my eyes. I feel thy tears —
They're more to me than eyes !
Tell. Here, here, sit down, father. \Tell and Emma
help him to a seat.']
I'm in such glee
For work — so eager to be doing — have
Such stomach for revenge, I scarce can wait !
My bow and quiver. [^Emma and Albert hand the??!.] Ges-
ler was by ?
Old M. Was by.
Tell. More arrows for my quiver.
And looking on ?
Old M. And looking on.
Tell. [^Putting arrows into his quiver^ 'Twill do.
He would dine after that, and say a grace.
Good heavens !
My staff He'd have his wine, too. How
The man could look at it, and drink it off,
And not grow sick at the color on't ! Enough ;
Put by the rest. [ To Emma., who has brought him- a bundle
of arrows.] I'll grow more calm. [2%e expression of
Emma^s countena7ice^ as sJie assists to equip him.^ catches
his eye.]
I thank you for that look !
Now seemest thou like some kind o'erseeing angel.
Thou wouldst not stay me 1
Emma. No.
Tell. Nor thy boy, if I required his service ?
Emma. No, William.
Tell. Make him ready, Emma.
Old M. No,
Not Albert, William.
Emma. Yes, even Albert, father.
Thy cap and wallet, boy — thy mountain staff —
Where hast thou laid it ? Find it — haste ! Don't keep
Thy father waiting. He is ready, William.
{^Leading Albert up to Tell.]
Tell. Well done — well done! I thank you, love — I
thank you !
Now mark me, Albert : dost thou fear the snow,
The ice-field, or the hail flaw ? Carest thou for
The mountain mist, that settles on the peak
When thou'rt upon it ? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. l75
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faintest thou at the thunder clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,
And it doth burst around thee ? Thou must travel
All night.
Alb. I'm ready. Say all night again.
Tell The mountains are to cross, 'for thou must reach
Mount Faigel by the dawn.
Alb. Not sooner shall
The dawn be there, than I.
Tell. Heaven speeding thee !
Alb. Heaven speeding me !
Tell. Show me thy staff Art sure
0' the point ? I think 'tis loose. No — stay — 'twill do !
Caution is speed, when danger's to be passed.
Examine well the crevice — do not trust
The snow ! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure o' the track ?
Alb. Quite sure.
Tell. The buskin of
That leg's untied. Stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliff?
Alb. I do.
Tdl. Thy belt is slack— draw't tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel : take this dagger,
And give it him. You know its caverns well ;
In one of them you'll find him. Bid thy mother
Farewell. Come, boy ; we go a mile together.
Father, thy hand. [Shakes hands with old Melctal.]
Old M. How firm thy grasp is. William.
Tell. There is resolution in it, father,
Will keep.
Old M. I cannot see thine eye, but I know
How it looks.
Tell. I'll tell thee how it looks. List, father,
List. Father, thou shalt be revenged !
Lead him in, Emma ; lead him in ; the sun
Grow^ hot — the old man's weak and faint. Mind, father,
Mind, thou shall be revenged !
Thou shalt be sure, revenged ! Come, Albert. [Emnia and
Melctal enter the cottage. — Exeunt Tdl and Albert
176 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Scene 3. — A Mountain, with mist.
[^Enter Gesler, zoith a hunting pole.]
Gesler. Alone, alone ! and every step the mist
Thickens around me ! On these mountain tracks
To lose one's way, they say, is sometimes death.
What hoa ! holloa ! — No tongue replies to me !
What thunder hath the horror of this silence !
Cursed slaves !
To let me wander from them. [ Thunder.'] Hoa ! — holloa ! —
My voice sounds weaker to mine ear ; I've not
The strength to call I had. and through my limbs
Cold tremor runs, and sickening faintness seizes
On my heart ! O, heaven, have mercy ! Do not see
The color of the hands I lift to thee !
Look only on the strait wherein I stand,
And pity it ! Let me not sink ' Uphold —
Support me ! Mercy! mercy! [He falls, fi'om faintness.]
[Enter Albert.]
Alb. I'll breathe upon this level, if the wind
Will let me. Ha ! a rock to shelter me.
Thanks to't A man, and fainting ! Courage, friend,
Courage ! A stranger, that has lost his way —
Take heart — take heart ; you're safe. How feel you now ?
[ Gives him drink from afia*k.]
Ges. Better.
Alb. You have lost your way upon the hill ?
Ges. I have.
Alb. And whither would you go?
Ges To Altorf
Alb. I'll guide you thither.
Ges. You're a child.
Alb. I know
The way : the track I've come is harder far
To find.
Ges The track you've come 1 What mean you ? Sure
You have not been still farther in the mountains ']
Alb. I've traveled from Mount Faigel.
Ges. No one with thee ?
Alb. No one but God.
Cks. Do you not fear these storms %
Alb. God's in the storm.
Ges. And there are torrents, too,
That must be crossed.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. l77
Alb. God's by the torrent, loo.
Ges. You're but a child.
Alb. God will be with a child.
Ges. You're sure you know the way.
Alb. 'Tis but to keep
The side of yonder stream.
Ges. But guide me safe,
I'll give thee gold.
Alb. I'll guide thee safe, without.
Ges. Here's earnest for thee. [Offers gold.} Here — I'll
double that,
Yea, treble it, but let me see the gate
Of Altorf. Why do vou refuse sfold ?
Take't.
Alb. No.
Ges. You shall.
Alb. I will not.
Ges. Why?
Alb. Because
I do not covet it ; and, though I did,
It would be wrong to take it as the price
Of doing one a kindness.
Ges. Ha ! — who taught
Thee that ?
Alb. My father.
Ges. Does he live in Altorf?
Alb. No, in the mountains.
Ges. How ! — a mountaineer ?
He should become a tenant of the city ;
He'd gain by't.
Alb. Not so much as he might lose uy t.
Ges. What might he lose by't ?
Alb. Liberty.
Ges. Indeed !
He also taught thee that ?
Alb. He did.
Ges. His name ?
Alb. This is the way to Altorf, sir.
Ges. I'd know
Thy father's name.
Alb. The day is wasting — we
Have far to go.
Ges. Thy father's name, I say ?
Alb. I will not tell it thee.
L
178 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Ges. Not tell it me !
Why?
Alb. You may be an enemy of his.
Ges. May be a friend.
Alb. May be ; but should you be
An enemy — although I would not tell you
My father's name, I'd guide you safe to Altor£
Will you follow me ?
Ges. Ne'er mind thy father's name :
What would it profit me to know't ? Thy hand ;
We are not enemies.
Alb. I never had
An enemy.
Ges. Lead on.
Alb. Advance your staff,
As you descend, and fix it well. Come on.
Ges. What, must we take that steep?
Alb. 'Tis nothing. Come,
I'll go before — ne'er fear. Come on — come on I [Exeunt.]
Scene 4. — The gate of Altorf.
[E7iter Gesler and Albert^
Alb. You're at the gate of Altorf [Returning?^
Ges. Tarry, boy !
Alb. I would be gone ; I am waited for.
Ges. Come back !
Who waits for thee ? Come, tell me ; I am rich
And powerful, and can reward.
Alb. 'Tis close
On evening ; I have far to go ! I'm late.
Ges. Stay ! I can punish, too.
Boy, do you know me ?
Alb. No.
Ges. Why fear you, then,
To trust me with your father's name ? — Speak !
Alb. Why
Do you desire to know it ?
Ges. You have served me,
And I would thank him, if I chanced to pass
His dwelling.
Alb. 'Twould not please him that a service
So trifling should be made so much of.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. l79
Ges. Trifling !
You've saved my life.
Alb. Then do not question me,
But let me go.
Ges. When I have learned from thee
Thy father's name. What, hon ! \^Knocks at the gate.']
Sentinel. [ Within^ Who's there %
Ges. Gesler ! [ TJie gate is opened.']
Alb. Ha, Gesler !
Ges. [7b the soldiers.] Seize him ! — Wilt thou tell me
Thy father's name ?
Alb. No !
Ges. I can bid them cast thee
Into a dungeon ! Wilt thou tell it now ?
Alb. No!
Ges. I can bid them strangle thee ! Wilt tell it ?
Alb. Never !
Ges. Away with him ! Send Sarnem to me.
[Soldiers lead off Albert.']
Behmd that boy, I see the shadow of
A hand must wear my fetters, or 'twill try
To strip me of my power. How I loathed the free
And fearless air with which he trod the hill !
But he's in my power ! — Some way
To find the parent nest of this fine eaglet,
And harrow it. I'd like to clip the broad
And full-grown wing, that taught his tender pinion
So bold a flight.
\Enter Sarnem^
Ges. Ha, Sarnem ! Have the slaves
Attended me, returned ?
Sarnem. They have.
_Ges. You'll see
That every one of them be laid in fetters ?
Sar. I will.
Ges. Didst see the boy ?
Sar. That passed me?
Ges. Yes.
Sar. A mountaineer.
Ges. You'd say so. saw you him
Upon the hills; he walks them like their lord!
I tell thee, Sarnem, looking on that boy,
I felt that I was not master of those hills.
He has a father — neither promises
ISO NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Nor threats could draw from him his name — a father
Who talks to him of liberty ! I fear
That man.
Sar. He may be found.
Ges. He must ; and soon
As found disposed of I can see the man ;
He is as palpable to my sight, as if
He stood, like you, before me. I can see him
Scaling that rock ; yea, I can feel him, Sarnem,
As I were in his grasp, and he about
To hurl me o'er yon parapet. I live
In danger, till I find that man. Send parties
Into the mountains, to explore them far
And wide ; and if they chance to light upon
A father who expects his child, command them
To drag him straight before us. Sarnem, Sarnem,
They are not subdued. Some way to prove
Their spirit ! — Take this cap, and have it set
Upon a pole in the market-place, and see
That one and all do bow to it ; whoe'er
Resists, or pays the homage sullenly,
Our bonds await him. Sarnem, see it done.
[Exit Sar9iem.'\
We need not fear the spirit that would rebel,
But dares not : — that which dares, we will not fear.
[Exit, accompanied hy soldiers.^
Scene 5. — The Market-Place.
[Burghers and Feasants^ with Pierre^ Theodm-e^ and Sa-
voyards ^ discovered.]
CHORUS.
Pierre. Come, come, another strain.
Theodore. A cheerful one.
Savoyards. What shall it be ?
Theo. No matter, so 'tis gay.
Begin.
Sav. You'll join the burden?
Theo. Never fear.
Go on.
\ Savoyard sings, during which, Tell and Verner enter ; the
fwmer leans upon his bow^ and listens gloomily.']
SEUIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 181
The Savoyard from clime to clime
Tunes his strain and sings his rhyme ;
And still, whatever clime he sees,
His eye is bright, his heart's at ease.
For gentle, simple — all reward
The labors of the Savoyard
The rich forget their pride— the great
Forget the splendor of their state,
Whene'er the Savoyard they meet,
And list his song, and say 'tis sweet ;
For titled, wealthy — none regard
The fortune of the Savoyard.
But never looks his eye so bright,
And never feels his heart so light.
As when in beauty's smile he sees
His strain is sweet, his rhyme doth please.
O that's the praise doth best reward
The labors of the Savoyard.
But, though the rich retained their pride,
And though the great their praise denied, —
Though beauty pleased his song to slight,
His heart would smile, his eye be bright ;
His strain itself would still reward
The labors of the Savoyard.
[^The people shout ^ laugh ^ »5*c.]
Ver. Now, Tell,
Observe the people. [The people have gathered to one side,
and look in the opposite direction^ with appreJiension
and trouble^
Tell. Ha ! they please me now — I like them now — their
looks
Are just in season. There has surely been
Some shifting of the wind, upon such brightness,
To bring so sudden lowering.
Ver. We shall see.
Fie. 'Tis Sarnem !
Theo. {Looking out.] What is that he brings with him,!
Pie. A pole ; and on the top of it a cap
That looks like Gresler's — I could pick it from
A hundred.
16
182 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Theo. So could I. My heart hath oft
Leaped at the sight of it. What comes he now
To do?
[Enter Sarnem, tvith soldiers, bearing Gesler^s cap upon a
pole which he fixes into the ground ; the people looking
on, in sihnce and amazement. Tlie guards station
themselves on the right of tJie pole.'\
Sar. Ye men of Altorf !
Behold the emblem of your master's power
And dignity. This is the cap of Gesler,
Your governor: let all bow down to it,
Who owe him love and loyalty. To such
As shall refuse this lawful homage, or
Accord it sullenly, he shows no grace,
But dooms them to the penalty of bondage.
Till they're instructed. 'Tis no less their gain
Than duty, to obey their master's mandate.
Conduct the people hither, one by one,
To bow to Gesler's cap.
Tell. Have I my hearing ? [Peasants pass, taking off
their hats and bowing to Gesler'' s cap, as they pass.]
Ver. Away ! Away !
Tell. Or sight ?— They do it, Yerner !
They do it ! — Look ! — Ne'er call me man again !
I'll herd with baser animals !
Look ! — look ! Have I the outline of that caitiff,
Who to the servile earth doth bend the crown,
His Grod did rear for him to heaven ?
Ver. Away,
Before they mark us.
Tell. No ! no ! — Since I've tasted,
I'll e'en feed on.
A spirit's in me likes it. I will not budge,
Whatever be the cost !
Sar. [Striking a perso7i.'\ Bow lower, slave!
Tell. Do you feel
That blow — my flesh doth tingle with't.
I would it had been I ! •
Ver. You tremble, William. Come, you must not stay.
Tell. Why not?— What harm is there? I tell thee, Yerner,
I know no difference 'twixt enduring wrong,
And living in the fear on't.
[Enter Michael through the crowd.^
Sar. Bow, slave
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL 183
Michael. For what? \^Laughs^
Sar. Obey, and question then.
Mic. I'll question now, perhaps not then obey.
Tell. A man ! — a man !
Sar. 'Tis Gesler's will that all
Bow to that cap.
Mic. Were it thy lady's cap,
I'd couitesy to it.
Sar. Do you mock us, friend ?
Mic. Not 1. I'll bow to Gresler. if you please ;
But not his cap, nor cap of any he
In Christendom !
Tell. Well done !
The lion thinks as much of cowering.
Sar. Once for all, bow to that cap.
Do you hear me, slave ?
Mic. Slave!'
Tell. A man ! — I'll swear, a man ! Don't hold me, Verner.
Sar. Villain, bow
To Gesler's cap !
Mic. No— not to Gesler's self !
Sar. Seize him !
Tell. [Rushing forward.'] Off, off, you base and hireling
pack !
Lay not your brutal touch upon the thing
God made in his own image.
Sar. What! shrink you, cowards? Must I do
Your duty for you ?
Tell. Let 'them but stir — I've scattered
A flock of .wolves, that did outnumber them, —
For sport I did it. Sport ! — I scattered them
With but a staff, not half so thick as this.
[ Wrests Sarne7v)s weapon from him. Sarnem and sol-
diersjiy.]
Ye men of Altorf,
What fear ye? See what things you fear — the shows
And surfaces of men I Why stand you wondering there ?
Why gaze you thus with blanched cheeks upon mo ?
Lack you the manhood even to look on.
And see bold deeds achieved by others' hands ?
Or is't that cap still holds you. slaves, to fear ?
Be free, then ! There ! Thus do 1 trample on
The insolence of Gesler I [Throws down the pole.]
Sar. [Suddenly entering, with soldiers.] Seize him !
164 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
[^All the people, eoxepi Verner arid Michael^ ^y.\
Tell. Ha!
Surrounded !
Mic. Stand !— I'll back thee !
Ver. Madman ! — Hence ! [Forces Michael off.']
Sar. Upon him, slaves ! — Upon him all at once! [Telly
after a struggle.^ is secured.^ and tJiey proceed to chain
him.']
Tell. Slave !
Sar. Rail on ! thy tongue has yet its freedom.
Tell. Slave I
Sar. On to the castle with him — forward 1
Tell. Slave! [ExeurU.]
Scene 6. — A Chamber in the Castle.
\ Enter Gesler, with Rodolph^ Lutold, Gerard^ officers., Sar-
nem, and soldiers, with Tell, in chains.]
Sar. Down, slave !
Behold the governor. Down ! down ! and beg
For mercy !
Ges. [Seated.] Does he hear?
Sar. Submission, slave ! Thy knee ! — thy knee !
Or with thy life thou playest.
Rodolph. Let's force him to
The ground.
Ges. Can I believe my eyes ? He smiles.
Gerard. Why don't you smite him for that look ?
Ges. He grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them.
To lay the smiter dead.
Why don't they take him from my sight ? — they stand
Like things entranced by some magician's spell I
\Kises.] They must not see
Me thus. Come, draw thy breath with ease — thou'rt Gesler —
Their lord ; and he's a slave thou lookest upon ! {Aside^
Why speakest thou not?
Tell. For wonder.
Ges. Wonder !
Tell. Yes,
That thou should st seem a man.
Ges. What should I seem ?
Tell. A. monster !
Ges. Ha ! Beware — think on thy chains.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 185
Tdl. Though they were double, and did weigh me down
Prostrate to the earth, methinks I could rise up
Erect with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth,
Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains !
How came they on me ?
Ges. Darest thou question me ?
Tell. Darest thou not answer 1
Ges. Do I hear ?
Tell. Thou dost.
Ges. Beware my vengeance !
Tell. Can it more than kill ?
Ges. Enough — it can do that.
Tell. No ; not enough :
It cannot take away the grace of life —
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives —
Its port erect with consciousness of truth —
Its rich attire of honorable deeds —
Its fair report that's rife on good men's tongues;
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun.
Or with polluted finger tarnish it.
Ges. But it can make thee writhe.
Tell. It may.
Ges. And groan.
Tell. It may ; and I may cry
Go on, though it should make me groan again.
Ges. Whence com est thou ?
Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn
What news from them ?
Ges. Canst tell me any?
Tell. Ay ;
They watch no more the avalanche.
Ges. Why so?
Tdl. Because they look for thee ! The hurricane
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track —
Ges. What do they then?
Tell. Thank heaven it is not thou !
Thou hast perverted nature in them.
There's pot a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, but
The thought of thee doth wither to a curse.
Ges. That's right ! I'd have them like tHeir hills,
16*
186 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt
Them e'er so much.
Tell. But they do sometimes smile
Ges. Ay ! — when is that ? [ Crosses.\
Tell. When they do talk of vengeance.
Ges. Vengeance ! Dare
They talk of that ?
Tell. Ay, and expect it, too.
Ges. From whence?
Tell. From heaven !
Ges. From heaven %
Tell. And the true hands
Are lifted up to it on every hill,
For justice on thee.
Ges. Where's thy abode ? *
Tell. I told thee — in the mountains.
Ges Art married ?
Tell. Yes.
Ges. And hast a family ?
Tell. A son.
Ges. ^Ason! [Crosses.]
Sarnem !
Sar. My lord, the boy ! [ Gesler signs to Sarnem to keep
silence, and., whispering .^ sends hirii off.l
Tell The boy !— what boy ?
Is't mine 1 — And have they netted my young fledgeling %
Now heaven support me, if they have ! — He'll own me,
And share a father's ruin ! But a look
Would put him on his guard — yet how to give it!
Now, heart, thy nerve : forget thou'rt flesh — be rock.
They come — they come !
That step — that step — that little step, so light
Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall
Upon my heart ! I. feel my child ! — 'tis he !
We can but perish.
[Enter Sarnem, with Albert, ivhose eyes are riveted on TetPs
bow, which Sarnem carries^
Alb. [Aside.'] 'Tis my father's bow,
For there's my father.
Sar. See !
AW. What?
Sar. Look there !
Alb. I do ; what would you have
Me see ?
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 187
Sar. Thy father
Alb. My father !
2HI. My boy — my boy ! — my own brave boy ! He's safe !
Sar. [Aside, to Gesler.] They're like each other.
Ges. Yet I see no sign
Of recognition, to betray the hnk
Unites a father and his child.
Sar. My lord,
I'm sure it is his father. Look at them.
It may be
A preconcerted thing 'gainst such a chance.
That they survey each other coldly thus.
Ges. [Rises.] We shall try.
Lead forth the caitiff
Sar. To a dungeon ?
Ges. No;
Into the court.
Sar. The court, my lord ?
Ges. And send
To tell the headsman to make ready. Quick I
The slave shall die ! You marked the boy ?
Sar. I did.
He started— 'tis his father.
Ges. We shall see.
Away with him !
Tell. Stop !— stay !
Ges. What would you ?
Tell Time —
A little time to call my thoughts together.
Ges. Thou shalt not have a minute.
Tell Some one, then,
To speak with.
Ges. Hence with him.
Tell. A moment — stop !
Let me speak to the boy.
Ges. Is he thy son ?
Tell And if
He were, art thou so lost to nature, as
To send me forth to die before his face ?
Ges. Well, speak with him. Now, Sarnem, mark them
well. [Albert goes tj Tell.\
Tell. Thou dost not know me. boy ; and we.l for thee
Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son
About thy age. Thou,
188 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
I see, wast born, like him, upon the hills :
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, he
May chance to cross thee ; if he should, I pray thee
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee — if he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him : Mayst thou live, my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her,
As I do !
Sar. Mark ! — He weeps *
Tell. Were he my son,
He would not shed a tear : he would remember
The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan
A thousand fathoms depth of nether air ;
Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk.
And meet the lightning eye to eye ! Where last
We spoke together — when I told him death
Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life,
Embraced for virtue's sake, — he shed a tear !
Now, were he by, I'd talk to him, and his cheek
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye —
I'd talk to him —
Sar. He falters.
2HI. 'Tis too much !
And yet it must be done ! I'd talk to him^ —
Ges. Of what?
Tell. [Turns to Gesler.] The mother, tyrant, thou dost
make
A widow of ! I'd talk to him of her. [Turns to Albert.']
I'd bid him tell her, next to liberty.
Her name was the last word my lips pronounced ;
And I would charge him never to forget
To love and cherish her, as he would have
His father's dying blessing rest upon him !
Sar. You see, as he doth prompt, the other acts. -
Tell. [Aside.] So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me.
My boy ! my boy ! — Oh, for the hills — the hills;
To see him bound along their tops again.
With liberty !
Sar. Was there not all the father in that look?
Ges. Yet, 'tis against nature.
Sar. Not if he believes
To own the son, would be to make him share
The father's death.
SERIOUS A.ND SENTIMENTAL. 189
Ges I did not think of that.— 'Tis well
The boy is not thy son : I've destined him
To die along with thee.
Tell. To die ! For what ?
Ges. For having braved my power, as thou hast
Lead them forth.
Tell. He's but a child.
Ges. Away with them ?
Tell. Perhaps an only child.
Ges. No matter.
Tell. He may have a mother.
Ges. So the viper hath ;
And yet who spares it for the mother's sake ?
Tell. I talk to stone ! I talk to it as though
'Twere flesh, and know 'tis none. I'll talk to it
No more. Come, my boy,
I taught thee how to live — I'll show thee how to die.
Ges. He is thy child ?
Tell. [Embraces Albert.] He is my child !
Ges. I've wrung a tear from him. Thy name ?
Tell. My name ?—
It matters not to keep it from thee, now ;
My name is Tell.
Ges. Tell !— William Tell?
Tell. The same.
Ges. What ! he so famed 'bove all his countrymen.
For guiding o'er the stormy lake, the boat ?
And such a master of his bow, 'tis said
His arrows never miss ! — Indeed — I'll take
Exquisite vengeance ! — Mark ! I'll spare thy life,
Thy boy's too. — Both of you are free — on one
Condition.
Tell. Name it.
Ges. I would see you make
A trial of your skill, with that same bow
You shoot so well with.
Tell. Name the trial you
Would have me make. [Tell looks on Albert.']
Ges. You look upon your boy,
As though instinctively you guessed it.
Ges. Look upon my boy ! What mean you ? — Look upon
My boy, as though I guessed it ! Gruessed the trial
You'd have me make ! Guessed it
Instinctively ! You do not mean — no — no —
190 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
You would not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child ! Impossible i
I do not guess your meaning.
Ges. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.
Tell. Is my boy to hold it 1
Ges. No.
Tell. No ! — I'll send the arrow through the core
Ges. It is to rest upon his head.
Tell. Great. Heaven,
Thou hearest him !
Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give^
Such trial of the skill thou'rt master of,
Or death to both of you, not otherwise
To be escaped.
Tell. Oh, monster !
Ges. Wilt thou do it 7
Aid. He will ! he will !
Tell. Ferocious monster ! Make
A father murder his own child !
Ges. Take off
His chains, if he consent.
. Tell. With his own hand !
Ges. Does he consent ?
Alb. He does. [ Gesler signs to his officers^ who proceed
to take off TelVs chains — Tell all tJie while uncon-
scious of what they do.'\
Tell. With his own hand !
Murder his child with his own hand !
The hand I've led him, when an infant, by !
'Tis beyond horror — 'tis most horrible.
Amazement ! {His chains fall off.'] What's that you have
done to me ?
Villains ! [To t lie guards.] Put on my chains again. My
hands
Are free from blood ; and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child's ! — Here ! — here ! — I'll not
Murder my boy for Gesler.
Alb. Father— father !
You will not hit me, father !
Tell. Hit thee !— Send
The arrow through thy brain — or, missing that.
Shoot out an ere — or, if thine eye escapes.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 191
Mangle the cheek I've seen thy mother's lips
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee ! — Hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart !
Ges. Dost thou consent ]
Tell. Give me my bow and quiver.
Ges. For what ? '
Tell To shoot my boy !
Alb. No, father ! no,
To save me ! — You'll be sure to hit the apple.
Will you not save me, father ?
Tell. Lead me forth. —
I'll make the trial !
Alb. Thank you !
Tell. Thank me !— Do
You know for what? — I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms,
And lay him down a corse before her ! [Crosses.']
Ges. Then
He dies this moment ; and you certainly
Do murder him. whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.
Tell. Well— I'll do it.
I'll make the trial.
Alb. [Runs up to Tell., and embraces him.'] Father!
Tell. Speak not to me :
Let me not hear thy voice — thou must be dumb ;
And so should all things be — earth should be dumb'.
And heaven — unless its thunders muttered at
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it ! — Give me
My bow and quiver !
Ges. When all's ready.
Tell. Well! Lead on ! [Exeunt.]
Scene 7. — Without the Castle.
[ Enter slowly., people in evident distress — Rodolph., Officers,
Sarnem., Gesler., Tell., Albert — a Soldier, bearing TelVs
hovj and quiver., another with a basket of apples — Soldiers^
Sfc]
Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure
thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance
Tell. Is
The line a true one ?
192 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Ges. True or not, what is't
To thee ?
Tell What is't to me ? A little thing,
A very little thing — a yard or two
Is nothing here or there — were it a wolf
I shot at ! Never mind.
Ges. Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.
Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler ! — Villain, stop !
You measure to the sun.
Ges. And what of that ?
What matter, whether to or from the sun ?
Tell. I'd have it at my back. — The sun should shine
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun. —
I will not shoot against the sun !
Ges. Give him his way ! — Thou hast cause to bless my
mercy.
Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see
The apple I'm to shoot at.
Ges. Show me
The basket ! — There ! — [ Gives a very small apple.']
Tell. You've picked the smallest one.
Ges. I know I have.
Tell. ! do you ? — But you see
The color on't is dark — I'd have it light,
To see it better.
Ges. Take it as it is :
Thy skill will be the greater, if thou hittest it.
Tell. True — true — I didn't think of that — I wonder
I did not think of that. — Give me some chance
To save my boy! — [^Throws away the apple., with all his
force.']
I will not murder him,
If I can help it. — for the honor of
The form thou wearest. if all the heart is gone —
Ges. Well ! choose thyself [HaTtds a basket of apples.
Tell takes one.]
Tell Have I a friend among
The lookers on ?
Ver. Here, Tell !
Tell. I thank thee, Verner !
He is a friend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 193
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take '
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be
The issue of this hour, the common cause
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow's sun
Set on the tyrant's banner. — Verner ! Yerner !
The boy ! — the boy ! — Think'st thou he has the courage
To stand it?
Ver. Yes.
Tell. Does he tremble ?
Ver. No.
Tell. Art sure ?
Ve?'. I am.
Tell. How looks he 7
Ver. Clear and smilingly.
If you doubt it, look yourself.
Tell. No — no — my friend ;
To hear it is enough.
Ver. He bears himself
So much above his years —
Tell. I know ! — I know.
Ver. With constancy so modest —
Tell. I was sure
He would —
Ver. And looks with such relying love
And reverence upon you.
Tell. Man ! man ! man !
No more ! Already I'm too much the father,
To act the man ! — Yerner, no more, my friend !
I would be flint — flint — flint. Don't make me feel
I'm not — you do not mind me ! — Take the boy
And set him, Yerner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees — and place the apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me —
'i hus. — Yerner, charge him to keep steady — tell him
I'll hit the apple! — Yerner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.
Ver. Come. Albert ! [Leading him behind.^
Alb. May I not speak with him, before I go ?
Ver. No.
Alb. I would only kiss his hand.
Ver. You must not.
Alb. I must! — I cannot go from him without!
Ver. It is his will you should.
M IV
194 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Alb. His will, is it?
r am content, then — come.
Tell. My boy ! [^Holding out his arms to hi'm>.'\
Alb. My father ! [litm?iing into Tell's ar?)is.]
Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I ? — Gro now.
My son — and keep in mind that I can shoot.
Go. boy — be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple. [Kisses him.'] Go! — God bless thee — go.
My bow ! [Sarnein gives the bow.]
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou ? — Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant — -No,
I'm sure of thee — I know thy honesty ;
Thou'rt stanch - stanch. Let me see my quiver. [Retires up.]
Ge^. Give him a single arrow.
Tell. Do you shoot ?
Lutold. I do.
Tell. Is't so you pick an arrow, friend ?
The point, you see. is bent, the feather jagged.
That's all the use 'tis fit for. [B7-eaks it.\
Gcs. Let him have
Another. [Tell exaniines another^
Tell. Why, 'tis better than the first.
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I'm to take. 'Tis heavy in the shaft :
I'll not shoot with it ! [Throws it away.] Let me see my
quiver.
Bring it ! 'tis not one arrow in a dozen
I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that !
Ges. It matters not —
Show him the quiver. [Tell kneels and picks out an arrow^
concealing one under his dress^
Tell. See if the boy is ready.
Yer. He is.
Tell. I'm ready, too! — Keep silence, for
Heaven's sake, and do not stir — and let me have
Your prayers — your prayers — and be my witnesses.
That if his life's in peril from my hand,
'Tis only for the chance of saving it.
Now, friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless and silent
Ges. Go on I
Tell. I will. [Tell shoots, and. a shout of exultation
bursts from the crowd. Tells head drops on his bosom ;
fie with difficulty supports himself upon his bow.]
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 195
Ver. [Bushing in, with Albert.'] The boy is safe ; no
hair of him is touched !
Alb. Father. I'm safe — your Albert's safe. Dear father
Speak to me ! speak to me !
Ver. He cannot, boy !
Alb. You grant him life*?
Ges. I do.
Alb. And we are free 1
Ges. You are. [Crossing angrily behind.']
Alb. Thank heaven ! thank heaven !
Ver. Open his vest.
And give him air. [Albert opens hisfather'*s vest^ and an
arrow drops. Tell starts, fixes his eyes on Albert, and
clasps him to his breast.]
Tell. My boy ! my boy !
Ges. For what
Hid you that arrow in jour breast? Speak, slave!
Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy !
Ges. My guards ! secure him !
Tell Tyrant, every hill shall blaze
With vengeance.
Ges. Slaves, obey me !
Tell. Liberty
Shall at thy downfall shout from every peak !
Ges. Away with him ! [Guards seize him.']
Tell. My country shall be free ! [Exeunt.]
Scene 8. — Gesler's Castle — a Lake in view.
[Enter Gesler, Rodolph, and officers.]
Ges. How say you ? — Urni in commotion ?
Rod. Yes ;
Our scouts report on sure intelligence.
Ges. [ Calling. ] S am e m !
[Enter Sarnem.]
Sar. My lord.
Ges. The bark — is't ready? Hurry it!
A.nd lead him from his dungeon. [Exit Sarnem.] He shall
change
His prison for a stronger ; then, perhaps,
I'll rest. Yet, if I close my eyes sleep only draws
Her curtain round my thoughts, to shut them in
With restlessness, from which they turn to watching,
As to refreshment.
196 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES,
[Re-enter Sarnem.']
Sar. Now, my lord —
Ges. [Catching hold of him.]
Sar. My lord, what moves you ?
Ges. We are so
Beset with traitors, Sarnem, we forget
The voices of our friends. The bark is ready ?
Sar. It is, my lord.
Ges. Our prisoner, too? That's well !
What kind of night ?
Sar. The wind is rising.
G^s. The night will be a rough one.
Sar. 'Twill be a storm.
My lord, 'twere well you ventured not yourself;
Those lakes are dangerous at night ; the course
Is long.
Ges. No, Sarnem, I must see the slave
Disposed myself My castle on the lake's
Impregnable. The storm I fear.
Is that we carry with us. Tell's the cloud
From which I dread a thunderbolt ! [Exeunt.]
Scene 9. — A mountain, with a view of the Lake Lucerne.
[Enter Emma., leading Old Melctal.]
Old M. I keep thee back?
Emma. No.
Old M I'm sure I do.
Emma. x\nd if you do, it matters not — we've gained
The cliff Should Erni come, how lies the track
From this, he'll take ?
Old M. The lake's in view?
Emma. It is.
Old M. Then set me fronting it. Now. as I point,
Seest thou the shoulder of a wooded hill.
That overlooks the rest? [Fainting.]
Emma. I see it well.
Old M. Another hill's in front of it?
Emma. There is.
Old M. His track lies o'er the verge of that same hill.
And so exact from this, what moves upon't
Is plainly seen betwixt the sky and you.
Discern you aught upon't?
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 197
Einma. I think I do.
Yes — yes, I do.
Old M. What dost thou see upon that hill, my child?
Emma. Figures of men in motion : but as dim
As shadows yet.
Old M. 'Tis Erni ! that I
Had eyes to see the shadow of my child !
blessed are they that see ! — They twice embrace
The precious things they love. — If it be they.
They'll soon be here.
Emma. Too late. I fear ; too late
To save my husband and my child. Why fled
The churl soon as he told us they were in
The tyrant's power? [CroMe.9.]
Old M. Blame not his haste, my child,
'Twas sure for good.
Er)ima. I see a bark upon
The lake. I think I see the gleam
Of lances in the bark — I'm sure I do !
Old M. Likely, my child : the tyrant and his guards,
Perhaps are there. He has a hold, you know,
Upon the lake — a castle, stronger far
Than that at Altorf
Emma. Father — father !
Old M. What !
What moves you so, my child ?
Emma. The form of him [Looks out.]
Who steers the bark, is like —
Old M. Like whose ?
Emma. My husband's !
Yes — yes ! 'Tis William ! — So he holds the helm ;
I'd know him at the helm from any man
That ever steered a bark upon the lake.
1 fear —I fear ! —
Old M. *What is't you fear, my daughter !
[s't the lake ?
Emma. No. no ! The lake is rough ;
Ohafed with the storm of yesternight — 'tis rough ,
But 'tis not that I fear. What business have
The lances in that bark? What's that he does?
He steers her right upon a rock ! — 'Tis in
Despair : and there he'll die before my eyes ! —
Ha ! what ! — What's that ? He springs upon the rock !
He flies ! —he's free ! — but they pursue him !
17*
198 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Old M. See how our friends come on.
If it were they, they should be nearer now.
Bmma. They are ! — They are !
Old M. Let's haste to meet them, then,
The track — the track ! — Let us trust to them
For aid. Don't look behind. Come on — come on ! \^E(ceunt.'\
[^Enter Tell fro tu an eminence.^
Tell. Whene'er I choose, I have the speed of them,
Nor dare they shoot : so oft as they prepare,
If I but bend my bow, the terror of
The deadly aim alone transfixes them.
That down, they drop their weapons by their sides,
And stand and gaze, with lapsed power, as though
In every heart an arrow from my bow
Stood quivering. I knew that beetling cliff
Would cost them breath to climb. They top it now.
Ha ! \_Bends his how.'] Have I brought you to a stand
again ?
I'll keep you there, to give your master time
To breathe. Poor slaves ! no game are you for me ;
But could I draw the tyrant on, that shrinks
Behind you. — There he is ! [Bends his bow.]
\_Enter Archers and Spearmen, followed by Gesler.]
Ges. Wherefore do you fly !
Tell. Wherefore do you pursue me ? Said you not
You'd give me liberty, if through the storm
I safely steered your prow ? The waves did then
Lash over you ; your pilot left the helm ;
I took it, and they reared their heads no more,
Unless to bow them, and give way to me,
And let your pinnace on. You did repeat
Your promise. You twice
Promised me liberty. I only take
What you did promise.
Ges. Traitor, 'twas your place *
To wait my time.
Tell. It would have been, had I
Believed that time would come. If I'm a prize
Worthy to take, why hang you thus behind
Your minions ? Why not lead the chase yourself?
Lack you the manhood e'en to breast the sport
You love ?
Ges. Transfix the slave with all your darts,
At once.
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 109
Tell. Ha ! [ Takes aim again — they drop their iveapons^
ivhiclt they hod half raised. ~\
Follow me ! Keen huntsmen they,
The game itself must urge. Keep up the chase ! [He
rushes out.]
Ges. You keep too close together. Spread yourselves,
That some of you may hit him unawares.
His quiver full of ducats, to the man
That brings him down. On, cowards - on, I say ! \_Eoceunt.'\
Scene 10. — The outside of Gesler's Castle.
^Enter Gesler^s guards, retreating in great haste and
confusion — Tell closely following^ vnth bended bow.]
Tell. Fly ! fly ! ye base, ignoble cowards, fly !
\Enter Erni, Furst^ Melctal, Emma, Verner., and peopled]
Welcome, my worthy friends. The chase is o'er,
The prize is won. — An arrow from this bow
Hath felt the last throb of the tyrant's heart.
My country's free ! Yes Switzers. once again
Ye breathe the air of glorious liberty !
People. Huzza — huzza I
Alb. [Rushing on the stage.] 'Tis liberty, my father;
Oh ! 'tis liberty ! [Exeunt.]
Prince Henry. My heart bleeds inwardly, that my father is so sick ; and ke^p
ing such vile company as thou art, hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of
ionoyf.— Henry IT., Part //.
200 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXXVIIL— A DEBATE.— iJow^on.
Question. — "Which is of the greatest benefit to his country— the
Warrior — the Statesman — or the Poet ?
FIRST SPEAKER SECOND SPEAKER THIRD SPEAKER — ^FOURTH
SPEAKER FIFTH SPEAKER SIXTH SPEAKER SEVENTH
SPEAKER EIGHTH SPEAKER ^NINTH SPEAKER.
First Speaker. — Sir, The question which I have under-
taken to open, isj I think, one of considerable importance
and interest. We are to be called upon to say — Which is
of the greatest benefit to his country — the Warrior, — the
Statesman, — or the Poet? The Warrior is the man who
directs the physical strength of his nation — the man who
fights its battles, repulses its invaders, holds discontent in
check, and defends its rights at the hazard of his life : the
Statesman is the man who directs the mental force of his
nation ; who by his keen intellect devises laws, avoids evils,
secures social order, and controls the wild elements of pop-
ular feeling : and the Poet is the man who guides the moral
power of his nation ; who teaches it truth, arouses it to
goodness, and impresses it with beauty. Yes. it is im-
portant to judge between these three: to know which is the
noblest kind of power ; to discern the highest sort of great-
ness. For our conduct depends in no small measure upon
our opinions and according to the idea that we form of great-
ness, shall we alone endeavor to be great. Moreover, the
question is a difficult one. Much thought is necessary to
elucidate it, and much insight to determine it with truth.
It is like judging between the different members of the
body. For the Warrior is the arm, — the Statesman the
head, — and the Poet the heart, of the community: and just
as it is difficult to choose between the members of the body
physical, so is it difficult to choose between the members of
the body politic. I shall wait. sir. to hear the sentiments
of others before I decide, and for the present shall content
myself with this simple introduction of the question, trusting
that it will receive that full discussion which it merits.
Second Speaker. — Sir, I quite agree with the opener, that
he has presented us with a difficult subject for debate. And,
I think, with all submission, that our friend has increased
the difficulty by the selection of these particular characters
SKRIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. V.OJ
For I cannot believe that they are the best representatives
that he could have found, of the different kinds of force be-
tween which he calls on us to choose. Granting that the
soldier fairly represents the physical strength of his nation. —
might we not say with justice, that the philosopher is a com-
pleter type of its mind than the statesman, and the divine a
fairer emblem of its moral power than the poet ? To make
the question more debatable, however, without materially
altering the opener's words, — would it not be better to ask —
Which is of the greatest benefit to his country — the War-
rior — the wise Statesman - or the Christian Poet?
Opener. — Sir, I have no objection at all, to the question
being understood as the gentleman wishes: though 1 think
the distinction he has drawn is hardly necessary. In a cer-
tain sense the Statesman is the philosopher and the Poet is
the divine. The Statesman represents philosophy, inasmuch
as he sways by mental strength; and the Poet represents
the divine, inasmuch as he is an apostle of eternal truth,
and a preacher to the soul. I avoided the terms •' philoso-
pher" and "'divine" in my question, because I knew that
the words are very often misused, and because I feared that
instead of a calm and temperate debate, we should be led
into a wide field of disputed science and theological contro-
versy. I think, sir, that after this explanation the discussion
may be safely allowed to flow in the channel which I origi
nally opened for it.
Second Spejxker, (in continuation.) — I am quite satisfied,
sir, with the remarks of my friend, and shall proceed to con-
sider the question as he proposed it. We are to judge, then,
between the warrior, the statesman, and the poet : and the
result of my brief reflections leads me to speak in favor of
the first. I do not mean to deny the great value of the
statesman, nor do I forget the important mission of the poet;
but it certainly seems to me that the warrior does more for
his nation than either of the others. To him we owe the
national safety, and that sense of Security which develops all
our best wisdom and energy. The fame of his valor, and
the prestige that attaches to his name, preserve his country
from attack ; or il it is attacked, tend to secure for it victory
and honor. By a beautiful arrangement of Providence, the
warrior is thus made the harbinger of peace. Of the su-
preme value of peace. I need scarcely speak. Under its
beneficent smile commerce thrives, science advances, the
arts flourish, civilization spreads improvement, and social
202 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
happiness is secured to man. The warrior is a practical
lesson of heroism, too, to his nation. By fixing men's ad-
miration on his courage, he leads them to imitate it. One
hero makes many. There never was a dauntless warrior
yet who did not raise a dauntless army. And this daunt-
lessness is not the mere passionate excitement of a moment,
but becomes a principle, influencing the whole conduct. It
is not confined to the field of battle It teaches a man to
endure calamity — to despise slander — to resist oppression —
and to defend insulted right. Sir, I honor the hero-warrior
much. He seems to me not only a personification of brave-
ry, but a creator of it ; he plucks the sweet flower peace from
the sharp nettle war ; and he is a constant incarnation of the
great and useful truth that exertion overcomes difficulty, and
courage insures conquest. With these remarks 1 resume
my seat.
TJdrd Spealxer. — Sir, If the palm of merit is to be accord-
ed to that one of the three men before us, who accomplishes
the greatest palpable and immediate good to the community,
of which he is a member. I should unhesitatingly place it on
the brow of the statesman. He is the pilot who, seeing
clearly and estimating carefully the dangers that surround
the vessel, steers it safely through them all : and if we can
understand the value of such a helmsman in a ship at sea,
we can readily conceive the important service that the pilot
of the state performs for the community he guides. His
value is felt and seen, too : the quiet the contentment, the
harmony existing in the country, are proofs of his ability
and power, which speak to all at once, and at once gain the
reward of our admiration.
But I think we should not judge thus superficially. We
must look deeper than this, if we wish to reach the truth.
It is not the most evident merit that is always the most real
and worthy. Quiet influences often do more than noisy
ones. The deepest rivers always flow the most silently.
And looking beneath the surface of the question now in
hand, I seem to think that the poet does more true and val-
uable service to the community than either the soldier or
the statesman. I do not speak of the mere rhymer, of
course : I mean the real and great poet — the earnest apostle
of truth and 1 eauty ; — the man who. speaking to the divine
part of humanity, lifts it above its mean and groveling pas-
sions, and allies it permanently to what is pure and noble.
The poet's office is one of the highest that I know It is to
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 203
purify the heart, — to elevate the moral sense, — to calm the
perturbed spirit when agitated by its earthly trials, — to re-
fresh the tired soul with draughts from the spring of eternal
beauty. The poet is a voice ever speaking to our immortal
part, ever telling us that earth is not our final home. Were
there no such voice to speak to us, our souls would become
stupefied and lost in the perplexing cares and sordid ambi-
tions of the world : but as it is, the poet continually reminds
us of our great and lofty destiny, and so leads us more nobly
to fulfil it. We have a three fold life , a physical life, a men-
tal life, and a moral life ; — of these, the last only is immortal.
The warrior leads our physical part the statesman our men-
tal part, and the poet our immortal part. For this reason 1
hold that the poet's is the highest mission of the three.
Fourth Speaker. — Sir, With much that was admirable and
eloquent in the speech of the gentleman who has just re-
sumed his seat, I think there was also much that was vis-
ionary and unproved. The poet should do all that our
friend has described but does he ? I submit that this is
yet unshown. Will the gentleman maintain that all great
poets have purified the world elevated the moral sense, and
kept chaste the human heart .^ Are there no licentious po-
ets? no skeptical poets ? no misanthropic poets? What was
Ovid? What was Shelley ? What was Byron ^ Will our
friend pretend to say that Ovid is an aposlle of morality —
that Shelley is a teacher of holiness — that Byron is a pro-
mulgator of philanthropy ? Sir, if the poet's office is to
teach what these men teach, 1 must say that I do not be-
lieve that it is very beneficial to mankind. It seems to me
that at best the good which the poet does is visionary. We
do not see, we cannot trace, his influence; and how. then,
can we say with certainty, that it is vast and good ? I
think we act much more wisely in bestowing our esteem
upon men whose work i.s perceptible — such as the warrior
and the philosopher or statesman We see what the soldier
does, we see what the statesman does — between them, there-
fore^ our judgment must lie. I give my vote, without hesi-
tation, to the warrior. He may not perhaps mean the most
good, but he does the most. He is the means of extending
commerce and civilization — he is a hero and the creator of
heroes — he introduces order, discipline, and regularity into
the state — he is the fearless protector of his country's rights,
and the patriotic architect of its renown. History seems to
say to us that a country always flourishes most under mili-
204 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
tary rule. Home proves this, Sparta proves this. England
proves this. Rome was happiest when her legions were the
most victorious ; Greece was greatest when Miltiades and
Leonidas led its arms to victory ; and England was greatest
when Cromwell's strong arm ruled its destinies. The states-
man's office is a great one, doubtless ; but the warrior's
seems to me even greater. I, for my part, would cheerfully
give up our Chathams for our Nelsons. For the warrior,
then, I give my ready vote.
Fiftk Speaker. — Sir, I do not wonder that so many of
the speakers have adopted the cause of the warrior, for there
is something very attractive in the character. Nay, at the
first sight there is something even beautiful in it — very beau-
tiful. To direct a mass of men to the accomplishment of one
settled purpose, to unite their several energies in a given di-
rection, to fix one aim in a hundred thousand bosoms, to lead
that mass on to battle, and to win the victory in defiance of
difficulty, danger, and death, seems a great and noble achieve-
ment ; and in this simple aspect, it is so, undoubtedly. The
fame. too. — the glory, the universal acclaim and distinction
that await " the hero of a hundred fights," — the trappings — the
banners — the excitement - the thrilling battle-music — the
•'• pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war;" — all these
conspire to attract us toward the military character, and to
invest it with a high degree of dignity and excellence.
But when, sir, I come to look through these vestments of
the warrior, and see the man himself to my sight there is
not a more melancholy spectacle. I speak not now of the
gallant soldier who fights to defend his home, his liberties,
and all he holds most dear ; no ! honor be to him wherever
he may be ! I speak of the soldier by trade — the soldier of
enterprise and conquest — the soldier who fights for hire or
plunder. I called him a melancholy sight ; and so indeed
he is. For what is he ? Let us be plain-;-a murderer : a
wilful and deliberate murderer ; before whose cool atrocity
the secret slaughter of the frenzied assassin rises into virtue.
He goes into the field of battle ; he deliberately plans the
destruction of the fellow-creatures opposed to him ; brings
the most powerful and terrible material agents of the earth to
aid his horrid purpose ; and is not satisfied till one or other
— perhaps both — of the contending hosts are exterminated.
i cannot conceive of murder more foul than this ; and I ap-
peal to all who hear me whether this is not the characteris-
tic of the warrior in general? Survey your list of heroes !
SERIOUS AND RRVTTMENTAL. 205
Hannibal, Cassar, William the Conqueror, Cromwell, Bona-
parte ; are not the very names synonymous with cruelty,
rapine, and murder*? Oh. Heaven forbid that after this we
should ever look upon the warrior as a benefactor to his na-
tion ! To m' he seems its curse, its plague, its dishonor. I
speak plainly, sir, and emphatically; for I see that the bril-
liancy of the military character has misled many here, as it
has misled millions in the world, and I wish, so far as my
humble power will let me, to strip it of its false glitter, and
expose it in its bare and ghastly deformity. Between the
poet and the statesman I can scarcely judge ; and I shall
wait before I decide. My feelings incline me toward the
poet, but I have not yet heard arguments sufficiently con-
vincing to sway me altogether in his favor. I rose chiefly
to dispel, if possible, the false glory that attaches to the war-
rior, and if i have in the least succeeded 1 shall be perfectly
content.
Sixth Speaker. — I think, sir, that we owe much to the
gentleman who has just sat down, for the very proper light
in which he has placed the character of one of the three in-
dividuals between whom we are to judge. We are now left
to choose, I fancy, between only two. The choice seems to
me to be tolerably easy. The statesman certainly appears
to deserve the higher honor. It has been well said that he
rules the mind of his country. Besides this, he rules all the
external circumstances connected with the condition of the
people ; he regulates their commerce^ their manufactures,
their physical and intellectual improvement. He rules by
a noble style of force, too — the force of intellect. By a stroke
of the pen, he does more than the warrior can do in fifty bat-
tles. His breath is stronger than the roar of cannon. We
cannot see the statesman to greater advantage than by com-
paring him with the warrior. The warrior leads bodily
strength ; actual, tangible force : the statesman directs (by
invisible power) the minds of men ; leads their reason, holds
the reins of their obedience, and represses discontent by the
simple force of written law. His parchment conquers more
completely than the other's sword. His will binds faster
than I he other's chains. There is something almost sublime
about a great statesman. He has the keen clear eye to see
a nation's wants, the wise judgment to devise the remedy,
the strong bold hand to apply it. Firmness, vigilance, jus-
tice, moderation, mercy, dignity ; these are the qualities of
the statesman, and they are. to sav the least of them, quali-
18
206 i\EW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
ties noble and godlike, qualities which cannot fail to com-
mand our admiration. They have secured mine, and for th«"
statesman I shall vote.
Seventh Speaker. — Sir, A gentleman who spoke with par-
ticular boldness and confidence upon this very difficult sub-
ject, said, with an air of triumph which did not sit well
upon him -for it was simply the triumph' of thoughtless-
ness, not to say of folly this gentleman said, that although
the poet ought to refine the heart and purify the soul of
man, he mostly or frequently fails to do so, and therefore
has but a visionary and unproved claim upon our esteem.
Are there not — said our triumphant thoughtless friend — are
there not licentious poets? skeptical poets? misanthropic
poets? Why, doubtless there are: and might I not ask in
return, Are there no brutal warriors are there no stupid
statesmen ? Sir, the gentleman has taken false poets as his
sample of true ones, and so has fallen into deep error in his
judgment. We are to decide, I apprehend, between the
great warrior, the wise statesman, and the true poet: not fix
upon bad specimens of either.
Judging in this manner, sir, I presume to add my feeble
testimony to the superior s.rvice rendered to society by the
poet, as compared with the two other great men. He seems
to me infinitely higher than they are. The soul is the do-
main he rules; and as high as the soul is above the body
and the brain, so high is the poet above the warrior and
the statesman. The warrior writes his law in blood, the
statesman pens his law on moldering parchment, the poet
traces his upon the universal heart of man : and while the
heart of man exists, the poet's laws can never die^ for they
are laws of beauty and of harmony. The law of the warrior
dies with him. Disperse the force he wields, he passes away
and is forgotten The law of the statesman perishes with
the parchment on which he writes it ; laws are superseded
by laws, as waves are superseded by waves But the law
of the poet is imperishable ; it is a law for all time, and will
last till time shall be no longer. The works of Alexander
are no more — who can trace them ? The works of Solon
are no more — who acts upon his laws? But Homer, like a
ivriter of yesterday, stands fresh and young before us and
shall so remain when the very names of Alexander and of
Solon shall have faded from the memory of man.
Eighth Speaker — I am grateful sir to the last speaker for
pointing out to us that we are to judge of the characters be-
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 207
fore us by their most perfect specimens ; and this embolden?
me to venture yet a word in favor of that character so much
aspersed by some — the warrior. The speakers who have so
blackened the military character must surely have forgotten
the Cceur de Lions the Cromwells, the Blakes the Nelsons,
the Wellingtons. But even if they choose to forget history,
was it so difficult to imagine a soldier-hero that they could
not even give us an idea of one — that they were obliged to
give us false ideas of the character? '• Murderers," -'barba-
rians" "plunderers !'' — are warriors always this Have we
heard of no virtuous, merciful, incorruptible heroes? Is
Hannibal a reality, or a dream ? Have any here read of
Wallace, or is the name only a vision of my own? Are
Cincinnatus, Leonidas Washington, men who once lived on
earth, or are they only *
« false creations
Proceeding from my heat-oppressed brain ?"
The soldier, sir, has not been fairly dealt with. Let his de-
tractors imagine an invader landing on our peaceful shores
with chains and slavery in his million-hands : let them im-
agine the wild terror and mad fear that would arise in the
hearts of our people ; let them imagine our commerce stop-
ped, our supplies cut off. our lives threatened, one universal
throb of dread in all men's souls. Let them imagine at the
darkest moment a hero rising from the mass, instilling
courage into the heart, infusing patriotism into the spirit,
exciting strength into the arms of the people. Let them
imagine him forming them into enthusiastic armies, imbu-
ing them with stern and high resolve leading them with
dauntless 'courage into the field of battle, and directing their
strength and valor against the enslaving foe till he is over-
come, forced to fly in defeat, and curbed forever ; and if, after
imagining all this, they do not think higher of the soldier-
hero than they have done to-night. I will give up my de-
fense of him. The great warrior sir. is worthy of all ad-
miration.
Ninth Speal.er. — Sir. The gentleman who has ju=t address-
ed us has very eloquently described the value of the h(;ro, and
the service he renders to his country; but he has not com-
pared him with the other characters before us, and, there
fore, has failed to lead us to a conclusion on the matter.
Now 1 have listened very attentively to the speeche? al-
208 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
ready made, and I must say that T feel irresistibly led ic-
wards the conclusion, that our vote should be decidedly in
favor of the poet ; for the poet seems to me to be, in the
best points of their character, at once the statesman and the
warrior. What constitutes a state? Not the bodies, not
the minds, but the free souls of its citizens. To give laws
to the soul is the poet's mission, and nobly he performs his
task. Where is the parchment that shows us such a law as
ohakspeare gives us when he enjoins mercy 1 —
' The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth like the gentle dew from Heaven,
Upon the place beneath ; — it is twice bless'd, —
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ;
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown."
Show me the parchment that contains a law like that, and
I will almost fall down and worship the statesman that de-
vised it. Well does an eloquent writer of the present day say,
" Whence does the state its inspiration draw
Of mercy ? 'Tis the poet frames the law."
And well does another great writer say. that " poets are
the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
Yes ! And so the poet is the warrior too. What hero
ever led his men to battle to such strains as those of Henry
V. to his soldiers, from the pen of Poet Shakspeare ; or as
those of Bruce to his army, from the pen of Poet Burns ? —
" Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled !
Scots, wham Bruce has afttimes Jed,
Welcome to your gory bed !
Or to glorious victory !
" Now's the day. and now's the hour, —
See the front of battle lour ; —
See approach proud Edward's power —
Edward! chains and slavery!
" Wha wad be a traitor knave ?
Wha wad fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Traitor I coward ! turn and flee I
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 209
" Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, —
Freeman stand or freeman fa', —
Caledonians I on wi' me !
" By oppression's woes and pains !
By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall — they shall — be free I
" Lay the proud usurpers low,
Tyrants fall in every foe,
Liberty's in every blow !
Forward ! let us do or die !"
Who does not feel that the heart which felt that was the
true warrior heart after all ? Who does not feel, as the wild
strain flashes through his soul, that he too could fight for
liberty and right whilst a pulse of life remained in him ?
In another point of view too — a far higher one — the poet
is the warrior. He is forever at war with the great foe of
man — evil. No matter in what shape the monster comes —
falsehood — tyranny — persecution — superstition — hypocrisy
— selfishness ; — he dauntlessly attacks it in all. His life
is one battle against wrong. To bring about the reign of
good on earth, is his unceasing efl^ort ; and with an ardor
compared with which the enthusiasm of the soldier sinks
into insignificance, he fights under his sacred banner, en-
during sorrow and defying death. Yes ! the poet is the
warrior.
I wonder it has not occurred to any other speaker that the
warrior and the statesman themselves admit the superiority
of the poet. Why does the statesman toil ? That the poet
may celebrate his deeds, and hand his name down to poster-
ity. Why does the warrior front the cannon's mouth ? That
the bard may sing his victories. Is not this an acknowl-
edgment, plain and palpable, that the warrior and the states-
man both consider the poet superior to themselves ? I con-
fidently, sir, give my vote for the immortal poet.
First Speaker^ (in reply.) — Sir, I have no hesitation in
saying that the very full and able debate to which we have
listened, has tended to convince me beyond doubt that of
the three characters whom I submitted to your judgment,
the poet is by far the noblest, the highest, and the worthiest.
N 18*
210 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
He is above the warrior, inasmuch as the immortal must al-
ways transcend the perishable ; and he is above the states-
man, inasmuch as morality must ever be superior to intel-
lectual wisdom. The good which the warrior does, tends
toward evil^ and most generally products evil ; the good that
the statesman does, is mutable and temporary ; but the good
that the poet does is everlasting. Love of glory animates
the warrior ; so that his good deeds originate, at most, in
selfishness. The statesman follows virtue for expediency's
sake, and this shows him to be selfish too. But the poet
worships truth for its own sake alone, and never till he
abandons self can he be a poet at all.
I fear, however, it may be thought that all this is specu-
lative. Let us. therefore, for a moment view the question
with the eye of fact. I will select from English history the
greatest warrior, the greatest philosopher, and the greatest
poet that I find there. I will take Cromwell as hero Bacon
as statesman, and Shakspeare as poet. The same influences
tended to produce all three — nearly the same time beheld
them — they are, thereibre fit objects to be mutually com-
pared.
What, then, did Cromwell do for his country? Raised it,
doubtless, to its highest pinnacle of political greatness; con-
quered its enemies, struck terror into the hearts of its mal-
contents, acquired for it the dominion of the seas ; first, in-
deed, gave England that high supremacy in the world,
which, from that time to this, she has held.
But let us look a little further. What do we see follow-
ing his despotic rule? That which always results from
military despotism — licentiousness, irreligion moral slavery.
Charles the Second would never have demorahzed the na-
tion, had not Cromwell first trodden it down. So it is al-
ways with the conqueror. I could show you. were it neces-
sary, many parallel instances. History abounds in them.
Wherever the iron heel of the warrior treads, there spring
up foul and pestilential weeds which poison the whole at-
mosphere around, and flower into misery and crime. So
much, then, for our hero.
And now what of our statesman ? I grant that the
clearest and most sagacious mind in all philosophy, is the
mind of Bacon ; and that his philosophy (rightly studied
and understood) is of a high, pure, and useful character.
But what has he done? To say nothing of the miserable
example he sets by his own conduct (which shows how little
SERIOUS AND SENTIMENTAL. 211
his philosophy is calculated to influence and improve the
life, do we not find that the efl^ect of his works has been to
plunge Europe in skepticism, if not infidelity? in doubt, if
not darkness? To it are clearly owing the disbelief of
Hume, the atheistic philosophism of the last century, and the
mean, ignoble, calculating utilitarianism of the present day.
It fills the mind without touching the heart, and makes a
man wise without leading- him to be good.
But who can estimate the vast benefit that Shakspeare
did and is doing to his country? Who can sufficiently
point out the effect of his chivalrous patriotism, his pure
benevolence, his high philosophy, his sound morality, his
universal sympathies, his glorious aspirations to nobler and
to better worlds than this? The warrior, as we have seen,-
links man to man by the wofd of command the word of
authority. The statesman, as we have seen, links man to
man by the principle of mutual dependence and of self-
interest. But the poet links man to man by the holy tie of
sympathy and brotherhood — a tie which no authority, no
force can break. Place, then, these three men side by side —
Cromwell, Bacon, Shakspeare — and let your choice point
out to you the answer you should give to the question now
before us. You will not hesitate, for you cannot doubt.
While you will perceive that the warrior and the statesman
are but the creatures of the day that produces them and
perish with that day, you will also find that the poet en-
graves his glory so deeply on the heart of man, that, till the
heart of man perishes forever in the grave of time, that
glory shall be fresh and ineffaceable.
Proteus. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine, adieu.
Think on thy Proteus, when thou, haply see'st
Some rare not(--worthy object in thy travel.
Two Oentlemen of Verona,
COMIC AND AMUSING
I.— FROM THE ELECTION.— Baillie.
BALTIMORE PETER DAVID NAT.
Baltimore. Ho, Peter ! [Enter Feter.'] What were
you laughing at there, Peter ?
Peter. [ With a broad grin.] Only, sir, at your rival.
Squire Freeman, — he ! he 1 he ! who was riding up the
black lane, a little while ago, on his new crop-eared hunter,
as fast as he could canter, with all the skiris of his coat flap-
ping about him. for all the world like a clucking hen upon
a sow's back — he 1 he ! he !
Bait. [His face brightening.'] Thou art pleasant, Pe-
ter ; and what then ?
Fet. When just turning the corner, your honor, as it
might be so, my mother's brown calf — bless its snout ! I
shall love it for it, as lonof as I live — set its face throusfh the
hedge and said - Mow I"
Bait. [Eagerly.] And he fell: did he?
Fet. yes, your honor ! to be sure, yes, into a good
soft bed of ail the rotten garbage of the village.
Bait. And you saw this : did you ?
Fet. yes, your honor ! certainly, as plain as the nose
on my face.
Bait. Hal ha! ha! ha! ha! and you really saw it?
David. [Aside.] I wonder my master can demean him-
self so as to listen to that knave's tales : I'm sure he was
proud enough once.
Bait. [Still laughing.] You really saw it ?
Fet. Ay, your honor I and many more than me saw it.
Didn't they, Nat?
Nat. Oh, yes, your honor, 1 saw it ; what a plumper it
was I he 1 he I he !
COMIC AND AMUSING. 213
Bait. And there were a number of people to look at
Lim too?
Fet. Oh ! your honor ! all the rag-tag of the parish were
grinning at him. Wan't they, Nat ?
Nat. Yes certainly, all on 'em — he ! he 1 he !
Bait. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha I this is excellent ! ha! ha !
ha ! He would shake himself but ruefully before them !
\_Still laughing violently.']
Fet. Ay. sir : he shook the wet straws and the withered
turnip-tops from his back. It would have done your heart
good to have seen him.
Dav. Nay, you know well enough, you do, that there is
nothing but a bank of dry sand in that corner. [Indig-
nantly to Feter.']
Bait. [^ImjKitiently to David.] Poo! silly fellow ! it is
the dirtiest nook in the village. — And he rose and shook
himself: ha ! ha ! ha ! I did not know that thou wert such
a humorous fellow, Peter: here is money for thee to drink
the brown calf's health, ha! ha! ha!
Fet. Ay, your honor I for certain he shall have a noggen.
Dav. [Aside, scratehing his Jiead.] To think now
master should demean himself so !
IL— FROM SPEED THE PLOUGH.— ^rtonymow*.
FARMER ASHFIELD DAME ASHFIELD.
Scene. — In the fore^ound a Farm House — a view of a Castle, at a
distance. Farmer Ashfield discovered, with his jug and pipe.
[Enter Darne Ashfield^ in a riding-dress.^ and a basket un-
der her arm.]
Ashfield. Well, Dame, welcome whoam. What news
does thee bring from market ?
Dame. What news, husband? What I always told
you : that Farmer Grundy's wheat brought five shillings a
quarter more than ours did.
Ash. All the better vor he.
Dame. Ah ! the sun seems to shine on purpose for him.
Ash. Come, come, Missus, as thee has not the grace to
214 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
thank God for prosperous times, dant thee grumble when
they be unkindly a bit.
Dame. And I assure you, that Dame Grundy's butter
,vas quite the crack of the market.
lish. Be quiet, woolye ? Always dmg, dinging, Dame
Grundy into my ears. What will Mrs. Grundy say? What
will Mrs. Grundy think? Canst thee be quiet, let ur alone
and behave thyself pratty ?
Dame. Certainly I can — I'll tell thee, Tummas, what she
said at church, last Sunday.
Ash. Canst thee tell what parson zaid ? Noa. — Then
I'll tell thee. — A'zaid that envy were as foul a weed as
grows, and cankers all wholesome plants that be near it —
that's what a'zaid.
Dame. And do you think I envy Mrs. Grundy, indeed?
Ash. What dant thee letten her alone, then? — T do ver-
ily think, when thee goest to t'other world, the vurst question
thee'lt ax, il be, if Mrs. Grundy's there. Zoa, be quiet, and
behave pratty, do'ye. — Has thee brought whoam the Salis-
bury news?
Dame. No, Tummas ; but I have brought a rare wadget
of news with me. First and foremost, I saw such a mort
of coaches, servants, and wagons all belonging to Sir Abel
Handy, and all coming to the castle — and a handsome
young man. dressed all in lace, pulled off his hat to me,
and said — '• Mrs. Ashfield do me the honor of presenting
that letter to your husband." — So, there he stood without his
hat — oh,Tumma.s, had you seen how Mrs. Grundy looked.
A.sh. Dom Mrs. Grundy — be quiet, and let I read,
woolye? [Reads.'] •' My dear Farmer" — \_TaJdng off his
hat.] Thank ye, zur — zame to you, wi' all my heart and
soul. — '• My dear Farmer" —
Dame. Farmer — why. you are blind, Tummas; it is —
" My dear Father" — 'tis from our own dear Susan.
Ash. Odds I dickens and d lisies I zoo it be^ zure enow !
"My dear Father, you will be surprised" — zoo I be. he, he!
What pretty writing, beant it? all as straight as thof it were
plowed — ' Surprised to hear, that in a few hours I shall
embrace you — Nelly, who was formerly our servant, has for-
tunately married Sir Abel Handy, Bart." —
Dame Handy Bart — Pugh ! Bart, stands for baro-
night, mun
Ash. Likely, likely. — Drabbit it, only to think of the
zwaps and changes of this world.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 2 15
Dame. Our Nelly married to a great baronet! I won-
der, TummaSj what Mrs. Grundy will say?
Ash. Now, woolye be quiet, and let I read ? — •• And she
has proposed bringing me to see you ; an ofTer, I hope, as
acceptable to my dear feyther" —
Dame. '• And mother."
Ash. Bless her, how prettily she do write feyther, dant
she?
Dame. And mother.
Ash. Ees, but fey ther 'first, though — "Acceptable to my
dear feyther and mother, as to their affectionate daughter,
Susan Ashfield." Now beant that a pratty letter?
Dame. And. Tummas. is not she a pretty girl ?
Ash. Ees, and as good as she be pratty. Drabbit it, I
do feel zoo happy, and zoo warm, — for all the world like the
zun in harvest.
Dame. And what will Mrs. Grundy say ? \_Eoceunt.'\
III— FROM THE MOUNTAINEERS.— (7o/ma»u
SADI OCTAVIAN AGNES.
Sadi. Here is one, who, by the costliness of his robes,
must be the lord of this mansion. — 'What would you?
Octavian I would pass —
Deep in yon cave, to hide me from the sun:
His rising beams have tipt the trees with gold —
He gladdens men — but I do bask in sorrow.
Give way ! —
Sadi. Mark you — I do respect sorrow too much to do it
willful injury. I am a Moor, 'tis true — that is, I am not
quite a Christian — but I never yet saw man bending under
misfortune, that I did not think it pleasure to lighten his
load. Strive to pass here, however, and I must add blows
to your burden — and that might haply break your back ; —
for to say truth, I have now a treasure in this cave, that,
while I can hinder it, sorrow shall never come nigh.
Oct. Death ! must I burrow here with brutes, and find
My haunts broke in upon ! my cares disturb'd !
Reptile ! I'll dash thy body o'er the rocks,
A.nd leave thee to the vultures.
216 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Sadi. Friend, you'll find me too tough to be served up
to 'em. If they must dine upon one of us, we shall sec
which will atford them a picking. {They struggle^ Agnes
rushes between them.^
Agnes. 0, Sadi ! — for my sake, — Gentlemen ! — hold !
Oct Woman !
Sadi. Ay ; and touch her at your peril.
Oct. Not for the worth of worlds. Thou lov'st her ? —
He who would cut the knot that does entwine.
And link two loving hearts in unison.
May have man's form : — but at his birth, be sure on't,
Some fiend did thrust sweet Nature's hand aside.
Ere she had pour'd her balm within his breast,
To warm the gross and earthly mold with pity.
Sadi. This fellow now is like a green melon ; — with a
rough outside, and much sweetness under it. — It seems as
thou wert sent, ragged Ambassador, here, from a strange
nation, to treat with the four-footed citizens of this mountain:
and as we are unknown in these parts, we will e'en throw
ourselves on thy protection.
Oct. Some paces hence there is a goatherd's cot,
Begirt with brake and brush — and weather-proof.
Agnes. Let us thither, Sadi.
Sadi. Content.
Oct. I'll lead you to't : for I am high in office
In Cupid's cabinet : — I bear the torch
Before the little god ; and 'tis my care
To shield from peril true love's votaries.
Sadi. I knew he was a great man, — but I never heard
mention before of such a place of dignity. Along, good fei-
low, and we'll follow thee
Oct. They shall not part you ; — for I know what 'tis
When worldly knaves step in, with silver beards.
To poison bliss, and pluck young souls asunder.
! wander, boundless love, across the wild !
Give thy free passion scope, and range the wilderness !
Crib not thyself in cities. — for 'tis there
The thrifty, gray philosopher inhabits,
To check thy glowing impulse in his child.
Gain is the old man's god ; he offers up
His issue to't ; and mercenary wedlock
Murders his offspring's peace. — They murder'd mine —
They tore it from my bosom by the roots.
And with it, pluck'd out hope ! Well, well, no matter —
COMIf! AND AMUSIKG. 21^
Despair burns high within me, and its fire
Serves me for heart, to keep my clay in motion.
Follow my footsteps.
Agnes. Alas ! his wits are turn'd. Do not venture with
him, Sadi ; he will do us some mischief
Sadi. Truly the tenement of his brain seems somew^hat
out of repair ; yet if he brings us to a place of safety, Kg-
nes — I know not whether we should take this crazy gen-
tleman as a guide, or trust to reason ; — which, indeed, is but
a poor director of the road, when a man has lost his way.
Wilt thou lead us safe now ?
Oct. Be sure on't.
Sadi, Tuck thyself under my arm, Agnes. Now out,
cimeter ! — Bring us to this same goatherd's and thou shalt
have the best acknowledgments gratitude can give thee :
but if thou venturest to harm my Agnes, I'll quickly stir
the fire in thy bosom thou talk'st of; and this cimeter shall
serve for the poker.
Oct. Should the gaunt wolf cross lovers in their path,
I'd rend his rugged jaws, that he should bay
The moon no more with howling. Thread the thicket —
Follow Love's messenger.
IV.— FROM THE RIVALS.— ^SAmian.
SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE MRS. MALAPROP LYDIA.
Scene. — Mrs. Malaprop's House.
[Ente7' Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute.']
Mrs. Malaprop. Lydia ! Lydia !
[^Enter Lydia.']
Mrs. M. This Sir Anthony, this is the deliberate sim-
pleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself
on a fellow not worth a shilling.
Lydia Madam I thought you once —
Mrs. M. You thought, miss ! I don't know any busi-
ness you have to think at all ; thought does not become a
young woman. You must promise to forget this fellow — to
illiterate him, I sav, from your memory
ID
218 NKW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Lyd. Ah ! madam ! our memories are independent oi
our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on earth
so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm
sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he
had never existed : and I thought it my duty so to do ; and
let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become
a young vt^oman.
Lyd. What crime, madam, have T committed, to be
treated thus?
Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to externate yourself from
the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it
But, tell me, will you promise me to do as you're bid?
Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?
l\yd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no
preference for any one else, the choice you have made would
be my aversion.
Mrs. M. What business have you, miss, with preference
and aversion ? They don't become a young woman ; and
you ought to know, that, as both always wear off 'tis safest,
in ma:rimony, to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I
hated your poor, dear uncle, before marriage, as if he'd been
a blackamoor, and yet miss, you are sensible what a wife
T made ; and. when it pleased heaven to release me from
him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed ! But, suppose we
were going to give you another choice, w^ill you promise us
to give up this Beverley ?
Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that
promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. M. 'i ake yourself to your room. You are fit com-
pany for nothing but your own ill humors.
Lyd. Willingly, ma'am ; I cannot change for the worse.
{Exit.']
Mrs. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you !
Sir Anthony. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am ; all
that is the natural consequence of teaching girls how to
read. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop. I observed your
niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library ; she
had a book in each hand — from that moment, I guessed
how full of duty I should see her mistress.
Mrs. M. Those are vile places, indeed !
Sir A. Madam, a circulating library in a town, is as an
evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge ! — It blossoms through
the year ! And, depend upon it, Mrs Malaprop, that they
COMIC AND AMUSING. 219
who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the
fruit at last
Mrs. M. Fie, fie. Sir Anthony ; you surely speak lacon-
ically.
Sir A. Why. Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what
would you have a woman know?
Mrs. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony — I would by no
means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning;
T don't think so much learning becomes a young woman;
for instance I would never let her meddle with Greek, or He-
brew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, Paradoxes or such
inflammatory branches of learning, nor will it be necessary
for her to handle any of your mathematical astronomical,
diabolical instruments: but Sir Anthony, I would send her
at nine years oM to a boarding school, in order to learn a
little ingenuity and artifice. Then sir, she should have a
supercilious knowledge in accounts ; and as she grew up I
would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know
something of the contagious countries ; above all, she should
be taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would
have a woman know : and I don't think there is a supersti-
tious article in it.
Sir A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the
point no further with you, though I must confess, that you
are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third
word you say, is on my side of the question. But to the
more important point in the debate — you say you have no
objection to my proposal ?
Mrs. M. None, I assure you. I am under no positive
engagement with Mr. Acres : and as Lydia is so obstinate
against him perhaps your son may have better success.
Sir A. Well. Madam, I will write for the boy directly.
He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some
time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with
his regiment.
Mrs. M. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony ,
I hope no objection on his side.
Sir A. Objection ! — Let him object if he dare ! — No no,
Mrs. Malaprop Jack knows that the least demur puts me
in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple
— in his younger days 'twas -Jack do this,'" — if he de-
murred, I knocked him down : and, if he grumbled at that,
I always sent him out of the room.
Ml s. M. Ay, and the properest way. Nothing is so
220 ^ NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
conciliating to young people as severity Well, Sir Anthony,
T. shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to
receive your son's invocations, and I hope you will represent
her to the captain as an object not altog:ether illegible.
Sir A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently I
must leave you; and. let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, lo en-
force this matter roundly to the girl — take my advice, keep
a tight hand — if she rejects this proposal, clap her under
lock and key: and, if you were just to let the servants for-
get to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't con-
ceive how she'd come about. [Exeunt.]
v.— FROM WILLIAM TELL.—Knowles.
WALDMAN MICHAEL
Waldman. Don't tell me, Michael ! thou dost lead a life
As bootless as a jester's — worse than his,
For he has high retaining. Every one
Calls thee his fool — the gallant and the boy,
The gentle-born and base ! Thy graceless name
Is ever tagged to feasts, and shows and games,
And saucy brawls which men as young as thou.
Discourse of with grave looks What comes of this?
Will't make thee rich? Will't give thee place in life?
Will't buy thee honor friendship, or esteem ?
Will't get thee reverence 'gainst gray hairs?
Michael. Good father ! —
Wal. The current of thy life doth counter run
To that of other men's. Thy spirits, which
Were reason in thee, when thou wast a child,
As tameless still now thou'rt become a man,
Are folly! Thriftless life, that may be called
More rational when in the nurse's lap.
Than when in manhood^s chair! Survey those towers,
And act the revel o'er of yesternight;
Think of the tyrants whom they lodge, and then
Link hands with fools and braggarts o'er their wine;
Fancy the sounds their dungeons hear, and tell
Of such and such a jest of thine, that made
Thy wanton comrades roar.
Mich Dear father !
rOMIC AND AMUSING. 221
Wal. Pshaw !
Thou canst not try to speak with gravity,
But one perceives thou wagg'st an idle tongue ;
Thou canst not try to look demure, but. spite
Of all thou dost thou showest a laugher's cheek ;
Thou canst not e'en essay to walk sedate,
But in thy very gait one sees the jest,
That's ready to break out, in spite of all
Thy seeming.
Mich. I'm a melancholy man
That can't do that which with good-will I would !
I pray thee, father, tell me what will change me.
Wal. Hire thyself to a sexton, and dig graves:
Never keep company, but at funerals :
Beg leave to take thy bed into the church,
And sleep there ; fast, until thy abstinence
Upbraid the anchorite with gluttony ;
And when thou takest refection, feast on naught
But water and stale bread ; ne'er speak, except
At prayers and grace ; and as to music, be
Content with ringing of the passing bell,
When souls do o-o to their account.
Mich. But if
The bells, that ring as readily for joy
As grief, should chance to ring a merry peal,
And they should drop the corse —
Wal. Then take the rope,
And hang thyself. [C^'osses.^ I know no other way
To change thee.
Mich. Nay. I'll do some great feat, yet.
Wal. You'll do some great feat! Take me Gesler's
castle !
Mich. Humph ! that would be a feat, indeed ! I'll do it !
Wal. You'll do it ! You'll get married, and have children
And be a sober citizen, before
You pare your bread o' the crust. You'll do it ! You'll
Do nothing ! Live until you are a hundred
When death shall catch you, 'twill be laughing. Do it !
Look grave, talk wise, live sober thou wilt do
A harder thing, but that thou It never do. [Exit Waldman.]
Mich. [Solus.'] Hard sentence that! Dame Nature!
gentle mother !
If thou hast made me of too rich a mold
To bring the common seed of life to fruit,
19*
222 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Is it a iault ? Kind Nature ! I should lie,
To say it was. Who would not have an eye
To see the sun, where others see a cloud 1
A skin so tempered, as to feel the rain,
Gave other men the ague, him refreshed ;
A frame so vernal, as, in spite of snow
To think it's genial summer all year round ;
And bask himself in bleak December's scowl,
While others sit and shiver o'er a hearth 1
I do not know the fool would not be such
A man ! Shall I upbraid my heart, because
It hath been so intent to keep me in
An ample revenue of precious mirth,
It hath forgot to hoard the duller coin
The world do trade on ? No, not I, no more
Than I would empt my coffers of their gold.
Were they so furnished, to make room for brass,
Or disenthrone the diamond of my ring —
Supposed the gemmed toy my finger wore —
To seat a sparkless pebble in its place ! [Exit.']
VL— CLOWNISH IGNORANCE.
HUMPHRY FAINLOVE POUNCE. ^
Humphry. How prettily this park is stock'd with sc»
diers, and deer, and ducks, and ladies. — Ha ! Where arj
the old fellows gone ? Where can they be, trow ( — I'll ask
these people. — A — a— a -you pretty young gentleman [to
Fainlove\ did you see Vather ?
Fain. Your father, sir ?
Humph. Ey, my Vather. a weezle-fyaced, cross old gentle-
man, with spindle-shanks ?
Fain. No, sir.
Humph. A crab stick in his hand.
iFounce. We have met nobody with these marks. But,
sure. I have seen you before. — Are not you Mr. Humphry
Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Harry Gubbiu ?
Humph. Ey, ey. an that were all. I'se his son, but how
long I shall be his heir, I can't tell : for a talk's o' disinher-
iting oii ma every day.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 223
Founce. Dear sir, I am glad to see you. T have had a
desire to be acauainted with you ever since I saw you clench
your fist at your father, when his back was turned toward
you. I love a young man of spirit.
Humijh, Why, sir, would it not vex a man to the very
heart and blood on him, to have a crabbed old fellow snub-
bing a body every minute before company ?
Founce. Why, Mr. Humphry, he uses you like a boy.
Humph. Like a boy, quotha I He uses me like a dog
A lays me on now and then, e'en as if a were a breaking a
hound to the game, — You can't think what a tantrum a
was in this morning, because I boggled a little at marrying
my own born cousin.
Founce. A man can't be too scrupulous, Mr. Humphry;
a man can't be too scrupulous.
Humph Why, sir, I could as soon love my own flesh
and blood. We should squabble like brother and sister,
not like man and wife. Do you think we should not.
Mr. ? Pray, gentlemen, may I crave your names ?
Founce. Sir, I am the very person that has been em-
ployed to draw up the articles of marriage between you and
your cousin.
Humph. Ho, ho ! say you so ? Then, mayhap you can
tell one some things one wants to know.- -A — a — pray, sir,
what estate am I heir to?
Founce. To fifteen hundred pounds a year, entailed es-
tate
Humph. 'Sniggers! I'se glad on't with all my heart.
And — a — a — can you satisfy ma in another question.- -Pray,
how old be I ?
Founce. Three-and-twenty last March.
Humph. Plague on it ! As sure as you are there, they
have kept ma back. I have been told by goody Clack, or
goody Tipple, I don't know which, that I was born the very
year the stone pig-stye was built ; and everybody knows
the pig-stye in the back close is three and twenty years old.
ril be ducked in a horse-pond, if here has not been tricks
play'd ma. But, pray, sir mayn't I crave your name?
Founce. My name, sir, is Pounce; at your service
Humph. Pounce with a P ? —
Founce. Yes, sir, and Samuel with an S.
Humph. Why, then Mr Samuel Pounce. \chucJding,
and wriggling, and rubbing his hands earnestly^ do you
know any clever gentlewoman of your acquaintance that
224 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
you think I could like ? For I'll be hang-'d like a dog. an I
han't taken a right down aversion to my cousin ever since
Vather proposed her to ma. And since eveiybody knows
I came up to be married, I shou'd not care to go down
again with a flea in my ear, and look balk'd, d'ye see.
Pounce. \ After a pause.] Why. sir. 1 have a thought
just come into my head. And if you will walk along with
this gentleman and me, where we are going, I'll communi-
cate it.
Humph. With all my heart, good Mr. Samuel Pounce.
VII.— FROM BLACK-EYED SUSAN.— ^wowymowx
ADMIRAL WILLIAM WITNESSES
Admiral. Prisoner, as your ship is ordered tor instant
service, and it has been thought expedient that your ship-
mates should be witnesses of whatever punishment the court
may award you, if found guilty of the crime wherewith you
are charged, it will be sufficient to receive the depositions of
the witnesses, without calling for the attendance of Captain
Crosstree. whom it is yet impossible to remove from shore.
One of the witnesses. I am sorry to say. is your wife ,
however, out of mercy to your peculiar situation, we have
not summoned her to attend.
Williain. Bless you, your honor, bless you. My wife,
Susan, standing here before me, speaking words that would
send me to the fore-yard — it had been too much for an old
sailor. I thank your honors ! If I must work for the dead
reckoning, I wouldn't have it in sight of my wife.
Adm.. Prisoner, you are charged with an attempt to slay
Robert Crosstree captain in his majesty's navy, and your
superior officer. Answer, — are you guilty or not guilty?
Will. I want your honor to steer well between the
questions. If it be asked whether I wished to kill the cap-
tain ? I could, if I'd a mind to brag show that I loved
him — loved him next to my own Susan ; all's one for that,
I am not guilty of an attempt to kill the captain, but if it
be guilt to strike in defense of a sailor's own sheet-anchor,
his wife, why. I say, guilty, your honor; I say it, and think
I've no cause to hang out the red at my fore.
COMIC AND AMUSINO. 225
Adm. You plead guilty. Let me, as one of yuur judges,
advise you to reconsider the plea At least, take the chanceri
which a hearing of your case may allow.
Will I leave that chance to your own hearts your
honors : if they have not a good word for poor Will, why. it
is below the honesty of a sailor, to go upon the half tack of
a lawyer.
Adm,. You w-ill not retract the plea ?
Will. I'm fixed ; anchored to it, fore and aft, with chain-
cable.
Adm. Gentlemen nothing more remains for us than to
consider the justice of our verdict. Although the case of
the unfortunate man admits of many palliatives still, for
the upholding of a necessary disciphne, any commiseration
would afiford a dangerous precedent, and. I fear, cannot be
indulged. Gentlemen, are you all determined on your ver-
dict? Guilty, or not guilty ?
All Guilty.
Adm. It remains, then, for me to pass the sentence of
the law. Does no one of your shipmates attend, to speak to
your character? Have you no one?
Will. No one, your honor -I didn't think to ask them ;
but let the word be passed, and may I never go aloft, if,
from the boatswain to the black cook, there's one that can
spin a yarn to condemn me.
Adm.x Pass the word forward, for witnesses.
\Bnter Witnesses. '\
Adm. What are you ?
Witness. Boatswain, your honor.
Adm. What know you of the prisoner ?
Wit. Know your honor? the trimmest sailor as ever
handled rope ; the first on his watch, the last to leave the
deck ; one as never belonged to the after guard — he has the
cleanest top and the whitest hammock ; from reefing a main-
top-sail, to stowing a netting, give me taTit Bill afore any
able seaman in his majesty's fleet.
Adm. But what know you of his moral character?
Wit. His moral character, your honor ? Why, he plays
upon the fiddle like an angel.
Adm. Are there any other witnesses?
\Afiother Witness comes forward.']
Adm What do you know of the prisoner ?
Wit. Nothing but good, your honor.
Ad?n He was never known to disobey a command ?
226 NEW SCHOOL DIAL0<3UES.
Wit. Never but once, your honor, and that was when
he gave me half his grog, when I was upon the black list.
Adm. What else do you know ?
Wit. Why, this I know, your honor, if William goes
aloft, there's sartin promotion for him
Adm. Have you nothing else to show ? Did he never
do any great, benevolent action ?
Wit. Yes, he twice saved the captahi's life, and once
ducked a Jew slopseller,
Adm. Are there any more witnesses ?
Will. Your honors, I feel as if I were in irons, or seized
to the grating, to stand here and listen, like the landlord's
daughter, of the Nelson, to nothing but yarns about sarvice
and character. My actions, your honors, are kept in the
log-book aloft. If, when that's overhauled. I'm not found a
trim seaman, why, it's only throwing salt to fishes, to patter
here.
Adm. Gentlemen, are your opinions still unchanged? —
Prisoner, what have you to say in arrest of judgment i Now
is your time to speak.
Will. In a moment, your honors. — Hang it, my top-
lights are rather misty. — Your honors. I had been three
years at sea^ and never looked upon, or heard from my wife
— as sweet a little craft as was ever lanched — I had come
ashore, and I was as lively as apetterel in a storm — I found
Susan, that's my wife, your honors, all her gilt taken by the
land-sharks ; but yet all taut, with a face as red and as rosy
as the king's head on the side of a fire-bucket. Well, your
honors, when we were as merry as a ship's crew on a pay-
day, there comes an order to go aboard. I left Susan, and
went with the rest of the liberty-men, to ax leave of the first
lieutenant. I hadn't been gone the turning of an hour-glass,
when I heard Susan giving signals of distress ; I out with
my cutlass, made all Fail, and came up to my craft. I found
her battling with* a pirate — I never looked at his figure-head ;
never stopped — would any of your honors? — long live you
and your wives say I — would any of your honors have rowed
alongside, as if you'd been going aboard a royal yacht ?
Vo, you wouldn't for the gilt swabs on your shoulders can't
alter the heart that swells beneath — you would have done
'the same as I did — and what did I? — Why, I cut him
down, like a piece of old junk — had he been the first lord
of the Admiralty, I had done it.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 227
VIIL— THE WILl,.— Anonymous.
SWIPES, A BREWER CURRIE, A SADDLER FRANK MILLING'IOY
AND 'squire DRAWL.
Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who
would have thought the old lady was so near her end ?
Currie. Ah ! we must all die, brother Swipes ; and«
those who live longest, outlive the most.
Swipes. True, true ; but since we must die and leave
our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such
good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she
departed ?
Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. 'Squire Drawl told me she
read every word of the will aloud, and never signed her
name better.
Swipes. Had you any hint from the 'Squire, what dispo-
sition she made of her property ?
Cur. Not a whisper ; the 'Squire is as close as an un-
der-ground tomb ; but one of the witnesses hinted to me,
that she had cut off her graceless nephew, Frank, without a
shilling.
Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she ? You know I
come in then, in right of my wife 'i
Cur. And I in my own right ; and this is no doubt the
reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the
will. 'Squire Drawl knows how things should be done,
though he is as air-tight as one of your beer-barrels. But
here comes the young reprobate. He must be present as a
matter of course, you know. [Enter Frank Millington.']
Your servant, young gentleman. So your benefactress has
left you at last ?
Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good
friends, Mr. Millington.
Frank. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss better,
had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She
was my only friend, and I knew not her value.
Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You
will now have a chance to earn your own bread.
Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better
people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer'.s
boy if you were not too old.
228 NEW SCHOOL DlALOGWES.
Cur. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein
Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt
has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and
only hope you W\\\ bear your fortune as modestly as I shall
mine submissively. I shall retire. [ Going, he meets ^Squire
Drawl.']
^Squire. Stop, stop, young man. We must have your
presence. Good morning, gentlemen, you are early on tha
ground.
Cur. I hope the 'Squire is well to-day.
^Squire Pretty comfortable, for an invalid.
Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs
again.
^Squire. No, I believe not. But since the heirs-at-law
are all convened, I shall now proceed to open the last will
and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.
SwijJes. [Whi/e the ^Squire is breaking the seal] It is
a trying thing, to leave all one's possessions, 'Squire, in this
manner.
Cter. It really makes me feel melancholy, when I look
round and see everything but the venerable owner of these
goods. Well did the preacher say, •' All is vanity."
^Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. [He puts on
his spcctacks, and begins to read slowly^ Imprimis ; whereas
my nephew, Francis Millington. by his disobedience and
ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my
bounty, and incapable of managing my last estate, I do
hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks,
bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my
dear cousins Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer, and
Christopher Currie, of Fly-court, saddler! [The \Squire
takes ojf his spectacles., to wipe the7n.^
Swipes. Generous creature ! kind soul ! I always loved
her.
Cur. She was good she was kind ; — and brother Swipes,
when we divide, I think I'll take the mansion-house.
Swipes. Not so fast, if you please Mr. Currie. My wife
has long had her eye on that and must have it.
Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr.
Swipes. And besides, I ought to have the first choice.
Did I not lend her a new chaise, every time she wished to
ride? And who knows what influence —
Swipes. Am I not named first in her will ? And did I
COMIC AND AMUSING, 220
not furnish her with my best small beer, for more than six
months ? and who knows —
Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. \Going.'\
^Squire [^Putting on his spectacles very deliberate/y.~\
Pray, gentlemen keep your seats I have not done yet. Let
me see ; where was I ? Ay, '• All my property, both per-
sonal and real, to my dear cousins. Samuel Swipes, of Malt-
street, brewer" —
Sioi2:)es. Yes !
^Squire. '' And Christopher Currie, of Fly-court, sad>
dier'—
Cur. Yes !
\Squire. " To have and to hold, in trusty for the sole and
exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he
shall have attained the age of twenty-one years, by which
time, I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits,
that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune I
hereby bequeath to him."
Swipes. What's all this ? You don't mean that we are
all humbugged ? In trust ! How does that appear ? Where
is it ?
^Squire. There — in two words of as good old English as
I ever penned.
Cur. Pretty well too, Mr. 'Squire, if we must be sent
for, to be made a laughing stock of. She shall pay for every
ride she has had out of my chaise. I promise you.
Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times ! if
two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here, to
be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we will
manage his property for him, Mr. Currie ; we will make
him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with
Cur. That we will.
^Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument is
dated three years ago ; and the young gentleman must be
already of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not
so. Francis ?
Frank. It is, your worship.
^Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the break-
ing of the seal, according to law, you are released from any
further trouble about the business..
20
'230 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
IX.— FROM THE BIY ALS.— Sheridan.
ACRES CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE DAVID SEIIVANT.
Scene. — Acres' Lodgings.
[Acres, a perfect coward, has been induced to send a chal-
lenge to Beverly, the assumed name, unknown to Acres, of
hisfrieful, Captain Absolute. Acres and David discovered.]
David. Then, by the mass, sir, I would do no such
thing ! ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Trigger in the kingdom should
make me fight, when I wasn't so minded. Oons ! what
will the old lady say, when she hears o't?
Acres. But my honor, David, my honor ! I must be
very careful of my honor.
Dav. Ay, by the mass, and I would be very careful of
it, and I think in return, my honor could not do less than to
be very careful of me.
Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will ever risk-
the loss of his honor !
Dav. I say, then, it would be but civil in honor never to
risk the loss of a gentleman. Look ye, master, this honor
seems to me to be a marvelous false friend ; ay, truly, a very
courtier-like servant. Put the case : I was the gentleman,
(which, thank heaven, no one can say of me;) well — my
honor makes me quarrel with another gentleman of my ac-
quaintance. So, we fight. (Pleasant enough that.) Boh !
I kill him — (the more's my luck.) Now. pray, who gets the
profit of it ? Why, my honor. But put the case, that he
kills me ! By the mass! I go to the worms, and my honor
whips over to my enemy.
Acres. No, David ; in that case, odds crowns and laurels I
your honor follows you to the grave !
Dav. Nqw, that's just the place where I could make a
shift to do without it.
Acres. Poh. poh! David, you are a coward! It doesn't
become my valor to listen to you. What, shall I disgrace
my ancestors? Think of that, David — think what it would
be to disgrace my ancestors I
Dav. Under favor, the surest way of not disgracing them,
is to keep as long as you can out of their company. Look
ye, now, master ; to go to them in such haste — with an
COMIC AND AMUSING. 23 J
ounce of lead in your brains — I should think it might as
well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of
folks ; but they are the last people 1 should choose to have.
a visiting acquaintance with.
Ac?'es. But, David, now, you don't think there is such
very — very — great danger, hey ? Odds life ! people often
fight without any mischief done !
Dav. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one against you 1
Oons ! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant,
with his villainous double-barreled swords and cut and-thrust
pistols ! Lord bless us ! it makes me tremble to think on't
— those be such desperate, bloody minded weapons ! Well,
I never could abide them ! from a child I never could fancy
them I I suppose there aint been so merciless a beast in the
world as your loaded pistol !
Acres. Nonsense! I won't be afraid ! Odds fire and fury !
you shan't make me afraid. Here is the challenge, and I
have sent for my dear friend, Jack Absolute, to carry it for
me.
Dav. Ay, in the name of mischief let him be the mes-
senger. For my part I wouldn't lend a hand to it, for the
best horse in your stable. By the mass ; it don't look like
another letter ! It is, as I may say, a designing and mali-
cious looking letter ! and I warrant smells of gunpowder,
like a soldier's pouch ! Oons I I wouldn't swear it mayn't
go off!
Acres. Out, you poltroon ! — you haven't the valor of a
grasshopper
Dav. Well, I say no more : 'twill be sad news, to be
sure, at Clod Hall, but I ha' done. How Phyllis will howl
when she hears of it I Ay. poor dog she little thinks what
shooting her master's going after I And I warrant old Crop,
who has carried your honor, field and road, these ten years,
will curse the hour he was born ! [ Whi}7t]?ering.'\
Acres. It won't do, David — T am determined to fight, so
get along, you coward, while I'm in the mind.
[Enter Servant. |
Servant. Captain Absolute, sir.
Acres. ! show him up. yExit Servant.']
Dav. Well, heaven send we be all alive this time to-
morrow.
Acres. What's that? Don't provoke me, David !
Dav. Good-bye, master. [Sobbing.]
232 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Acres. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking
raven. [Exit David.']
[Enter Captain Absolute.']
Capt. A. What's the matter, Bob ?
Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! If I hadn't the
valor of St. George, and the dragon to boot —
Cajit. A. But what did you want with me, Bob?
Acres. Oh! there. [Gives him the challenge.]
CajJt. A. " To Ensign Beverley." So — what's going on
now? [Aside.] Well, what's this ?
Acres. A challenge !
Capt. A. Indeed ! Why, you won't fight him, will you,
Bob?
Acres. Egad, but I will, Jack. Sir Lucius has wrought
me to it. He has left me full of rage and I'll fight this
evening, that so much good passion mayn't be wasted.
Capt. A. But what have I to do with this ?
Acres. Why, as I think you know something of this fel-
low, I want you to find him out for me, and give him this
mortal defiance.
CajJt. A. Well, give it me^ and trust me he gets it.
Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack ; but
it is giving you a great deal of trouble.
Capt. A. Not in the least — I beg you won't mention it.
No trouble in the world, I assure yoii.
Acres. You are very kind. What it is to have a friend !
You couldn't be my second, could you. Jack?
Capt. A. Why, no. Bob. not in this affair -it would not
be quite so proper.
Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend. Sir Lucius. I
shall have your good wishes, however, Jack ?
Capt. A. Whenever he meets you. believe me.
[Eiiter servant.]
Serv. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for the
captain.
Capt. A. I'll come instantly. [Exit servant.] Well,
my little hero, success attend you. [ Going.]
Acres. Stay, stay, Jack. If Beverley should ask you
what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I'm a
tremendous fellow — will you, Jack?
Capt. A. To be sure, I shall. I'll say you are a deter-
mined dog — hey. Bob?
Acres. Ay, do, do : and if that frightens him, egad, per-
COMIC AND AMUSING. 233
haps he mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a man a
week ; will you, Jack ?
Capt. A. I will, I will; I'll say you are called, in the
country, '• Fighting Bob."
Acres. Right, right— 'tis all to prevent mischief: fori
don't want to take his life, if I clear my honor.
Capt. A. No ! that's very kind of you.
Acres. Why, you don't wish me to kill him, do you,
Jack ?
Caj^t. A. No upon my soul, I do not. But a tremendous
fellow, hey? \^Going.'\
Acres. True, true. But stay, stay. Jack : you may add,
that you never saw me in such a rage before — a most de-
vouring rage.
Capt. A. I will, I will.
Acres, llemember, Jack — a determined dog !
Capt. A. Ay, ay, '•' Fighting Bob." \^Eoceunt^
X.— MISERIES OF WEALTH.— O'^nm.
GRUB CONSOL.
Grub. [Alone.'] What a miserable man I am ! with a
wife that is positive, a daughter that is marriageable, and a
hundred thousand pounds in the stocks. I have not had one
wink of sleep these four nights for them : any one of them is
enough to make a man mad ; but all three to be attended to
at once, is too much. Ah, Jonathan Grub. Jonathan Grub !
riches were always thy wish : and, now thou hast them,
they are thy torment. Will this confounded broker of mine
never come? 'tis time he were here. Stocks fell three per
cent, to-day ; and if the news be true, will tumble dreadfully
to-morrow. [A knocking at t/ie door.] There's Mr. Consol,
I'm sure. .Who's there? Does nobody hear? Open the
door, somebody. Open the door for Mr. Consol — I believe
there never was anybody so ill-served as I am — nobody to —
[Consol enters.] 0, Mr. Consol, have they let you in?
Well, what says the ambassador's porter? What intelli-
gence have you picked up ? What says the ambassador's
porter I
20*
234 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Consol. Why, he says — Have you heard nothing since t
Grub. No, not a syllable. What does he say ?
Co7i. Why, he said his excellency was at home all last
night.
Gruh Indeed ! at home all last night — ay, reading the
dispatches^ — a war as sure as can be — oh ! the stocks will
fall confoundedly to-morrow — I shall lose all I have in the
world. Why did I not take Whisper's advice, and sell out
yesterday? I should have made one and a half per cent,
and been snug: but now —
Con. Why, but you are so hasty, Mr. Grub, you are so
hasty ; you won't hear me out, you are so hasty, as I tell
my wife.
Grub. 0, hang your wife — hear you out ! What more
have you to say? Tell me quickly.
Con. Why, the porter said his excellency was at home
all the evening.
Grub. Well, man, did not you say so before ? Why do
you repeat it? You grow the arrantest old fool I ever saw.
But what of his being at home? . Tell me that?
Co7t. Why, I will, if you will but hear me out: — was
at home all night — all night, says I ? Yes, sir, says he —
Grub. Oh, if you are got to your says I's and says-he's.
Cori: Nay, pray. Mr. G-rub. hear me out.
Grub. Well. well, well, I hear you, man ; but, in the
meantime, all I have in the world, the labor of fift}^ years, is
going going, at a blow. Oh ! this cursed Spanish war — I am
sure we shall have a Spanish war — I always saw it would
come to this — I was sure, at the .time of the peace, that we
should have a Spanish war one time or other — but. pr'ythee,
man, cut thy story short.
Con. Well, well, to cut the story short, when I asked
him if he could find out, or guess what made the ambassa-
dor stay at home all night, he told me that the ambassador
had a woman playing upon a fiddle to him all the evening.
Grub. A woman playing upon the fiddle ! What, to an
ambassador of one of the first powers of Europe? It must
be a joke. Why. man, they make you believe any nonsense
they invent.
Con. Well, well ; however that may be, I have got rare
news from another quarter for you.
Grub. Have ye? well, what is it? None of your says-
I's and says he's now, I beg of you.
Con. Why, he says there's great news. India stock is
COMIC AND AMUSING. 235
up six per cent already, and expected to be as much more
by 'change time to-morrow.
Grub My dear Consol, I thank you — that revives me.
Then hurry into the city and buy as fast as you can. — That
revives me— that's great news indeed. The newspapers
have put me into a dreadful fright of late.
Con. Yes, sir ; to be sure, they always keep up a sad
rumpus in the papers. ^
Grub. Rumpus ! Why, man, I never know what to
think, they puzzle me so. Why, now, of a morning at
breakfast, in the first column, a Friend to the Stockholders
shall tell me, and write very well and sensibly, that we have
got the Indies in our pockets — then that puts me into spir-
its, and I'll eat you a muffin extraordinary. When I turn
to the next column, there we are all undone again ; another
very clever fellow says we are all bankrupts, and the cream
turns on my stomach.
However this is substantial. So, my dear Consol, you
are a very sensible man ; and if you could but learn to leave
out your says-I's and says-he's, as good a broker as ever man
put faith in.
Fluellen. If I owe you anything, I will pay you in cudgels : you shall bo a vinod
monger, and ouy nothing of me but cudgels.— i/e7iry V.
236 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XL— FROM THE BASHFUL MAN.
SIR THOMAS FRIENDLY BLUSHINGTON FRANK GYP — EVANS
NICHOLAS LADY FRIENDLY DINAH.
Scene 1. — Library in Friendly Hall. At the back, a handsome rose
wood table, on which is a head of Hercules and an elegant ink-stand ; ovei
that, on a sort of shelf, a superb edition of Xenophon, in sixteen volumes
[Enter Sir rhomas and Lady Friendly.']
Lady Friendly. But why not receive Mr. Blushington
in the great drawing-room. Sir Thomas?
Sir Thomas. There's my management, my lady ! Being
a scholar. Mr. Blushington will feel at once the delicacy of
the compliment I pay him, by first introducing him to the
library: besides, the apparent number of books he will see
here. wiJl give him a high opinion of my erudition ; there's
management again I Wouldn't any one think to look at it,
that was really a fine edition of Xenophon, in folio? Instead
of which, it's merely a deal board, covered with some gilded
leather, for the maids to put their pails and brn.shes behind.
All my contrivance ! But mum I here he comes. Oh! this
plaguy gout! — But I must get up and receive him.
[Enter Blushi7igton. pushed on by Gyp, preceded by Evans^
and followed by Nick and servants.']
Evans. Mr. Blushington, Sir Thomas.
Blushington. Don't leave me, Gyp ; the awful moment
has arrived.
Sir T. Mr. Blushington, I rejoice to meet you.
Gyp. Fifth position, sir. \Bhishington, in endeavoring to
piit himself into an attitude^ stumbles and pitches on Sir
Thomas's gouty foot ^
Sir T. Oh ! confound the fellow, he's murdered me.
yAsideP]
Blush. You infernal scoundrel, Gyp! you've made me
tread Sir Thomas's toe off My dear Sir Thomas, I beg ten
thousand pardons ; but — but —
Sir T. No apologies, I beg: these little accidents will
happen. It's over now : yes. as we scholars say, it's gone
in toto.
Gyp. All's right, sir ! — Now for the speech. [Apart to
Blushington.]
Blush. [Apart to Gyp.] My tongue sticks to my
throat; I couldn't utter a syllable to save my life.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 23*7
Sir T. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Friendly.
Lady Friendly, Mr Blushing^ton — '
Blush. Happy — proud — dinner — sorry — acquaintance —
Sir T. Ay, ay ; well thought of. Go, varlets. and hurry
the dinner. No gig-gling, hussies ! — Away ! {Exeunt Nick
and servants'] Evans take Mr. Blushington's man into
the pantry, and make hfm welcome.
Blush. Oh dear ! no ; no occasion for that. Sir Thomas.
Lord bless me ! don't leave me. Gyp. What shall I do by
myself, if they take my only prop away. [Aside to Gyp.']
Gyp. Courage, sir ! you get on famously. I must go. you
see — can't help it. [Aside to BlusJdngton] Poor fellow!
Evans. This way. if you please, sir. [Exeunt Gyp
and Evans.]
Blush What will become of me ! without guide or rud-
der I'm lost !
Sir T. Take a chair, Mr. Blushington ; you seem warm !
Blush. [Aside.] I'm frying !
Sir T. You perceive Mr. Blushington, we're like you —
dabble in literature a little : smack of the classics a bit !
Blush. The classics : I can lanch out here ; I'm on safe
ground. [Aside.] Yes Sir Thomas -certainly — by all
means.
Sir T. Delightful study. I fagged hard hard, at col-
lege, Mr. Blushington ; and was, I can assure you, very
near being elected senior wrangler.
Blush. I don't doubt it. I chafe like a bull. [Aside.]
Lady F. We are all great readers, Mr. Blushington ; my
daughter Dinah in particular ; before she was twelve years
old, she had gone twice through ' The Complete House-
wife" and '• The Whole Duty of Man." You'll suit one an-
other to a T, in that respect.
Blush. Hum ! Oh yes certainly, my lady, by all means ;
though I can't say I've been through - The Whole Duty of
Man." and '• The Complete Housewife." They're rather
ignorant: I must astonish them a little bit with the extent
of my learning. I begin to get more courage than I thought
for. Yes I'll surprise them no v. [Aside \ Bless me. that's
a very remarkable eaition of Xenophon there — sixteen vol-
imes folio ; allow me to examine it. [Getting up.]
Sir T. [Rising.] Stop stop, my dear Mr. Blushington,
r—
Blush. Oh ! Sir Thomas, I couldn't think of giving you
the trouble. [Goes, as he .n/pjxjses to lay hold of one of fJte
238 NKW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
volumes^ when the hoar I falls down on the slab, breaks th^.
Hercules' head^ and vjjsets the ink-stand^ Hey ' v/hat !
books — boards ! what have I done ? what shall I do ? I
beg- ten thousand pardons, Sir Thomas ; upon my word, I
didn't mean to do it. If I'd known it had only been sham
— bless me ! here's all the ink down too. Oh dear ! oh
dear I what an accident.
Lady F. I thought what would come of your fine man-
agement, Sir Thomas. Where's a cloth ? the table will be
spoiled !
Blush. Here's a cloth, my lady. \_Takes his white cam-
bric handkerchief , a7id begins iviping up the ink.\ Bless
me ! I'm inking my handkerchief [^Folds up the handker
chief the inky part inside^ and puts it in his pocket.'] Ex-
cuse my awkwardness, my lady : I — -I — oh dear ! that I
could but run away. If Gyp vvas but here!
\Enter Evfins.]
Evans. Dinner's on table, Sir Thomas.
Blush. Here's a relief then. I'm in a furnace.
Sir T. I won't hear another word on the subject ; there's
no harm done ; only the cover taken off the books, Hercules'
head broke, and Mr. Blushington's handkerchief stained.
You've received no material contusion yourself, I hope, my
dear young friend ?
Blush. Oh dear, no ! I'm in no material confusion at all :
quite cool, I assure you. I wish I could jump out of the
window. Mount Vesuvius is an ice-house, to this. \Aside.'\
Sir T. Come along, then, and I'll introduce you at once
to Dinah and dinner.
Blush. More trials ! what shall I have to go through
next ? Heaven preserve me ! Lady Friendly, allow me to
offer my arm. {Offers his arm to Evans ^ by mistake.^ and
lugs him off. tmknoivingly. j
Sir T. I'll take your other wing, as I'm rather lame.
Stop, stop. Eh ! indeed ! you young fellows are so brisk.
I can't run races now. Why, hang me if he hasn't carried
off the butler ! [Exeunt. \
Scene 2. — The great Dining-room in Friendly Hall ; table laid out for
dinner.
[Enter Dinah and Frank.]
Frank. Now, then, Di. for the important moment. An't
v'-QU all in a twitter?
COMIC AND AMUSING. 239
Dinah. La, Frank, how you do go on ! Has Evans
summoned the family to dinner yet?
Frank. He is gone now. Poor Ned ! I can well con-
ceive the agony he is in, at this moment: blushing like a
full-blown rose, every step he takes. Hey ! here they come.
\_Enter Sir Thomas., Lady Friendly^ and Blushington ; fol-
loived by Evans., Gyp, Nick, and Servants.]
Ha ! my dear Blushington ! Welcome ! welcome ! I re-
joice to meet a fellow cantab, a brother soph, once again.
Allow me to introduce you to my sister. Brother Soph, sis-
ter Di. ; sister Di., brother Soph.
Blush. Thank ye, my dear fellow, thank ye — hope you're
well, with all my heart and soul. [Advances timidly, and^
without looking towards Dinah, shakes her Jiecirtily by the
hand^ supposing her to be young Friendly?^
Sir T. Eh ! that's Dinah. This is Frank.
Blush. Happy to see you, miss — hope you're quite well,
miss. [Bowing to Frank, tvJto has taken DinaJis place, sup-
posing him to be Dinah. \
Frank. Nay, nay ; here's Dinah.
Blush. Oh ! yes, certainly — by all means. Another
mistake. [Aside.] Extremely proud, Mr. Friendly— great
honor — happy — see — Miss Dinah —
Dinah. Very gratified. Mr. Blushington, to have the
honor of meeting any friend of my brother.
Sir T. But come, take your places; the dinner's getting
cold. Mr. Blushington. you will sit by my daughter.
Blush. Yes. certainly ; by all means — that is — oh! with
great pleasure. What will become of me? oh! that wooden
Xenophon. I feel my cheeks burning like a firebrand; and
misfortunes never come alone. [^Aside.] Dear me ! if I
haven't taken the young lady's chair: beg pardon. [After
some blunders o?i the part of Blushington^ with the chairs^
they sit down to dinner — he first seating himself in DinaJi's
lap by mistake ; the baronet and his lady sit at the back^
fronting the audience — Frank on one side., arul Dinah and
Blushington on the outside, nearest the audience, so that
they can see the motions of all parties^
Sir T. Now, then. Mr. Blushington, allow me to send
you some soup, and you, Dinah : 'tis turtle, and fit for young
lovers.
Blush. .You're very good — a little drop — I'm getting
somewhat cool now, if it does but last. [Aside.] Bread,
Miss Dinah ; allow me to help you. Eh ! bless me ; if I
*240 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUPJS.
haven't knocked over the salt. Oh, dear! oh dear! Ex-
cuse my awkwardness miss. I'm at it again. [Aside.]
Dinah. Don't mention it I beg; 'tis not of the slightest
consequence. We are not in the least superstitious here.
Sir T. Throw a little over your left shoulder, Mr. Blush-
mgton. [Bluskingfon, in throwing some of the salt over his
left shoulder, almost blinds Nicholas^ ivho is standing behind
him with his mouth open, and receives it in his face ; en-
deavoring to amend the error, he then salutes Sir Thomas
in a similar manner, and, in his confusion.^ tilts his plate
of hot soup into his lap.']
Blush. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear I
Sir T. Hey 1 zounds, what's the matter now ?
Nick. 'Squire ha' tilted the hot soup over his breeches,
Sir Thomas.
Sir T. Dear! dear! what an accident! Some clean
cloths, rascal.
Lady F. It's always unlucky to upset the salt. I
thought something fatal would happen through it.
Dinah. I hope no material injury is like to occur from
this, Mr. Blushington?
Frank. You haven't completely scalded yourself? Noth-
ing fatal is there, Ned? AVhy don't you bring some nap-
kins. Nicholas ?
Blush. I mustn't appear to mind it though I am more
than three parts parboiled. [Aside.] Not at all — not at all
— 'tis a mere trifle.
JVick. I'll wipe you down. sir. Nothing shall be spoiled:
your silks will be as good as ever, with a little washing. It
hasn't taken the skin off has it, sir? There, now you're as
well as if nothing had happened.
Blush. [Aside.] As well as if nothing had happened,
after such a fomentation as this? Why, my legs and thighs
seem stewing in a boiling cauldron. Oh. dear! oh, dear ! if
anybody would but chuck me into the New River now.
Sir 'F. Here, Nicholas, take away the soup. You don'l
vvish for any more, do you, Mr. Blushington ?
Blush. Not a drop I can assure you.
Sir T. No; I think we've had enough. Shall I trouble!
you to cut up that capon ?
Blush. Carve a capon ! Lord bless me, I couldn't carve
a cabbage; but T must not let them see my ignorance. I
must try and hack it, somehow. [Aside.] Oh, yes; cer
tainly, by all means. Eh! there, if I haven't knocked ovel
COMIC AND AMUSING. 241
the butter-boat. Nothing- but misfortunes. Oh ! that I
could hide myself forever from the light of day!
Lady F. Allow me, Mr. Biushington. You young- bach-
elors are not so used to carving as us old married folks : Di-
nah is as awkward at carving as anjr one. Matrimony is
the only thing to make good carvers.
Blush. Certainly ; by all means ! Your ladyship is ex-
tremely good. I'd give a thousand pounds if dinner was but
once well over. [Aside.]
Frank. Mr. Blushington, Dinah will take a glass of wine
with you.
Blush. Oh ! yes, certainly ; by all means ! Lord bless
me ! Shall I take the liberty, miss ?
Dinah. I beg your pardon, Mr. Blushington, but that is
the vinegar cruet you have in your hand ; there is the bu-
cellas
Blush. Ask ten thousand pardons, I'm sure ; but my
sight — [ Takes hold of a jug of beer. J
Dinah. No ; that is the beer.
Blush. True : yes, certainly ; by all means ! that is the
beer : this is the wine. Very laughable ! Can't think how
I can make so many mistakes ! Am extremely happy lo
nob and hob — that is. hob and nob.
*S^?> T. Let me recommend a piece of this pudding, Mr.
Blushington : you'll find it uncommonly good ; I can assure
you I do.
Blush. Oh ! yes ; certainly, by all means. [Sir Thomas
kelps Blushington to some pudding ; he cuts a piece and is
about to put it into his mouth. ]
Dinah. Shall I trouble you for a part of that widgeon,
Mr. Blushington ?
Blush. Oh ! yes : certainly, by all means. [Pops the
piece of pudding into his mouth.'] Eh! oh! ah! I- -my
mouth ! my mouth ! — fire 1 water ! — I'm burnt ! I'm — oh '
ah! eh!
Sir T God bless me ! — Ah ! there's nothing so bad as
hot pudding. Some water there. Nicholas !
Lady F. No ; oil is the best for drawing out fire. Sir
Thomas. The poor young man is full of accidents !
Dinah. If I might advise, Mr. Blushington, I would
recommend wine.
All. Ay, ay ; a glass of sherry.
Frank. Nicholas, bring a glass of sherry, rascal !
Nich. [Aside.] Sherry ! I'll give him a little brandy.
P 21
242 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
He needs something, so clashed as he is : besides, he gave
me some strong ale this morning, and one good turn deserves
another Here it be, sir. [ Gives BlusJdngton a glass of
brandy.']
Blush. Certainly, by all means — thank ye. [Drinl'S.^
Oh! murder, murder! I'm sacrificed — I'm skinned — I'm —
oh dear ! oh dear ! — the brandy, the brandy I
Gyp. I must get him away; he's incurable.
Sir T. What do you mean, scoundrel by giving the gen-
tleman brandy ! You incendiary, do you think we are play-
ing at Snap dragon f Silence your giggling there, or I'll
discharge the whole of you ! Compose yourself. Mr. Blush-
ington Be cool ! Sit down a bit.
Blush. I'm in a perspiration - a conflagration ! Where's
my hand kerchief ? [ Takes his inhy handkerchief and blacks
his face.']
Sir T. Oh ! oh ! but I can't stand that.
Gyp. I must get him away. Leave the place, sir.
[ Taking away his chair to give him room.]
Blush. Eh I leave the place, Gryp ! certainly, by all
means. I — \Blushington rushes off. drawing l.he table-cloth.^
which lie has fastened to his button-hole.^ after him., overthrow-
ing t/ie whole of the dinner things.] [Exeunt.]
.Vir.holas. Ho-w sensibly ho talks ! why, 'tis five thousand per cent, profit. I'll be
blod directly. — Secrets worth Knowing.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 243
XIL— A MAN IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE \— Murphy.
SIR BASHFUL LOVEMORE.
Sir Bashful. Walk in, Mr. Lovemore, walk in ! — I am
heartily glad to, see you ! — This is kind.
Lovemore. I am ready, you see, to attend the call of
friendship.
Sir Bash. Mr. Lovemore. you are a friend, indeed.
Love. You do me honor, Sir Bashful. — Pray, how does
my lady ?
Sir Bash. Perfectly well. T never saw her look better
— We have had another skirmish since I saw you.
Love. Another ?
Sir Bash. Ay, another ! and I did not bate her an ace.
— But I told you I had something for your private ear. —
Pray, now, have you remarked anything odd or singular in
me?
Love. Not the least. — I never knew a man with less odd-
ity in my life.
Sir Bash. What, nothing at all ? Have you remarked
nothing about iny wife?
Love. You don't live happily with her, but that is not
singular.
Sir Bash. Poo ! — I tell you, Mr. Lovemore,! am at the
bottom a very odd fellow
Love. Not at all.
Sir Bash. Yes, yes. yes, I am — I am indeed as odd a
fish as lives — and you must have seen it before now.
Love. Not I. truly ! You are not jealous, I hope?
Sir Bash. You have not hit the right nail o' the head —
no — no — not jealous. Do her justice, I am secure there. —
My lady has high notions of honor. It is not that.
Love. What then ?
Sir Bash. Can't you guess ?
Love. Not I, upon my honor ! — Explain.
Sir Bash. You could never have imagined it — I blush
at the very thought of it.
Love. Come, come, be a man. Sir Bashful — out with it
at once, let me be of your council.
Sir Bash. Mr. Lovemore T doubt you. and yet esteem
you. — Some men there are who. when a confidence is once
reposed in them, take occasion from thence to hold a hank
244 NEW SCHOOL Di ALonrrs.
over their friend, and tyrannize over him all the rest of his
days.
Love. 0, fie ! — This is ung-enerous ! True friendship is
of another quality — it feels from sympathy, and is guarded
by honor.
Sir Bash. Mr. Lovemore I have no further doubt of
you — and so — stay, stay a moment, let me just step to the
door. Servants have a way of listening — no. no — all's safe
— there was nobody. Mr. Lovemore. I will make you the
depositary — the faithful depositary of a secret, which to you
will appear a mystery. My inclinations^ Mr. Lovemore —
nay, but you'll laugh at me.
Love. No — upon my honor ; — No. no.
Sir Bash. Well, well, well. — My inclinations, T say, are
changed — no, not changed — but — they are not what they
have appeared to be — I am in love — 'sdeath, I am quite
ashamed of myself
Love. Ashamed ! Love is a noble passion. But don't
tell me any more about it. — My Lady Constant will find it
out, and lay the blame to me — I must not appear to encour-
age you— no. no — you must not involve me in a quarrel
with her.
Sir Bash. Pshaw ! — you don't take me right — quite
wide of the mark — hear me out
Love. I won't — indeed I won't I
Sir Bash Nay, but you shall, you shall.
Love. Positively no ! — Let me keep clear. She shall
certainly know it.
Sir Bash. I tell you, Mr. Lovemore — the object of my
passion— this charming woman, on whom I dote to distrac-
tion —
Love. I don't desire to know it.
Sir Bash You must, you must: this adorable creature —
Love. Keep it to yourself Sir Bashful.
Sir Bash. Who looks so lovely in my eyes —is — my
own wife.
Love. Your own wife ?
Sir Bash. Yes my own wife.
Love. This is the most unexpected discovery —
Sir Bash. Look ye there now — he laughs at me al-
ready ! —
Love. And can this be possible ? — Are you really in love
with my Lady Constant ? Your own wife !
COMIC AND AMUSIN'G. 245
Sir Bash. Spare my confusion, Mr. Lovemore : spare
my confusion. — Ay, it's all over with me.
Love. I should never have guossed this Sir Bashful.
Sir Bash. I have made myself very ridiculous, Mr. Love-
more ; I know I have.
Love. Ridiculous ! — far from it — why do you think it
ridiculous to love a valuable woman 1 Poo. poo ! cheer up,
man ; and now to keep you in countenance, I'll deposit a
secret with you — I love my wife.
Sir Bash. What ?
I/)ve. I am in love wnth ray wife.
Sir Basil. Ha, ha! — nO; no ! — you don't love her'.^Do
you, Mr. Lovemore?
Love. Upon my honor !
Sir Bash. What, love your wife ?
Love. Most ardently !
Sir Bash. Give me your hand — give me your hand ! I
am glad to know this !
. Love. I love her most sincerely. — But then T never let
her know it — no — no — I would not have the world know it.
Sir Bash. Well, well — give me your hand — give me
your hand — my dear brother sufferer — I rejoice I am not
singular in loving my own wife !
XTII— FROM PAUL PRY.~Poo/e.
TANKARD BILLY OL DBUTTON PAUL PRY.
\ Enter Tankard and Billy.']
Tankard. Now, Billy, as this is the first week of your
service, you must stir about you. look well to the customers,
and see they want nothing.
Billy. I warrant me, sir ; though the folks say I look
harmless, I'm sharp ; I carry my wits about me in a case as
my grandmother carries her scissors : but, sir, when I like,
I can draw and cut. 1 can assure you.
Tan. Well, this is to be proved'; now you know what
you have to do. to-day.
Bil. First, there's to attend to Captain Hawkesley, in the
blue room ; he that locks himself up pU day, and only comes
out with the stars. Then there's !.o look to the fire- works,
246 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
when the company arrives. Then there's to get .eady the
room that you call the Elephant, for the new company, Mr.
Oldbutton. and -and the last of all —
Tan. To get rid of that impudent Paul Pry.
Bil. I'll do it, sir.
Tan. Will you? it's more than I can ; I have only taken
this inn six months and he's been here every day. First, he
asked me where I got the money to take the house ; then, if
I was married ; whether my wife bore an excellent charac-
ter; whether my children had had the measles: and, as I
wouldn't answer any of these questions, he hoped he didn't
intrude, but begged to know how many lumps of sugar I
put into a crown bowl of punch.
Bil. Oh ! sir, that's nothing to what he asked me last
night ; he asked me whether you gave me good wages.
Tan. Well, and I hope you gave him an answer.
Bil. Yes, I did, sir.
Tan. What did you say ?
Bil. Why, I told him my wages were like his good man-
ners, very little of 'em ; but I hoped they would both soon
mend.
Tan. Well, Billy, only rid me of this intolerable Paul,
and your wages shall mend. Here has this Mr. Pry, al-
though he has an establishment of his own in the town,
been living and sleeping here these six days ! But I'm de-
termined to get rid of him ; and do you instantly go, Billy,
and affront him ; do anything with him ^o as you make
him turn his back upon the house. Eh here's a coach
driven up ; it is surely Mr. Oldbutton ; run, Billy, run.
[Exit Billy.'] Roaring times, these. \Billy enters^ shoiv-
ing in Mr. Oldbutton.'] Welcome, sir, most welcome to the
Golden Chariot.
Mr. Oldbutton. Landlord, I have some letters to answer ;
which is my apartment ?
Tan. Why, sir— confound that Paul Pry, he has the
gentleman's room, and I can't get him out of it — why, sir,
I did not expect you some hours yet; if you'll, have the
kindness to step into this apartment for a few minutes, your
own room shall be properly arranged. I really beg ten
thousand —
Mr. Old. No compliments, Mr. Landlord, and when you
speak to me in future, keep yourself upright ; I hate trades-
men with backs of whalebone.
Tan. Why, civility, Mr. Oldbutton —
COMIO AND AMUSING. 247
Mr. Old. Is this the room? [^llmkard bows. Exit
Oldbutton.l
Tan. Now such a customer would deeply offend a man,
if he had not the ultimate satisfaction of making out his
bill.
[Enter Billy.]
Oh, you've just come in time ; ask no questions; there's
Mr. Pry's room : if you get him out of the house, I'll raise
vour wages : if you do not, you shall go yourself; now you
know the terms. [Exit.]
Bil. Then it is either you or myself, Mr. Pry ; so here
goes.
[As Billy is running toivanls the room, he sees Pry, ivith his
head out of tJie door., listening. Entei- Paul Pry]
Paul Pry. Hope I don't intrude ; I say, Billy, who is
that old gentleman, who just came in ?
Bil. Old gentleman? — why, there's nobody come in.
Paul. Don't fib, Billy ; [ saw him.
Bil. You saw him ! — why, how could you see him, when
there's no window in the room ?
Paul. I always guard against such an accident, and
carry a gimlet with me. [Producing one.] Nothing like
making a little hole in the wainscot.
Bil. Why, surely, you haven't —
Paul. It has been a fixed principle of my life, Billy,
never to take a lodging or a house with a brick wall to it.
I say, tell me who is he ?
Bil. [Aside.] Well. I'll tell him something. Why, if
you must know, I think he's an army lieutenant, on half
pay.
Paul. An army lieutenant ! half pay ! ah ! that will
never afford ribbons and white feathers.
Bil. Now, Mr. Pry, my master desires me to say, he
can't accommodate you any longer: your apartment is
M'anted. and really, Mr. Pry, you can't think how much
you'll oblige me by going.
Paul. To be sure Billy. I wouldn't wish to intrude for
the world — your master's doing a great deal of business in
this house — what did he give for the good will of it?
Tan. [Without.] Billy!
Bil There, now, I'm called — and I've to make ready
the room for the Freemasons that meet to nignt — they that
wouldn't admit you into their society.
Paul. YeSj I know ; they thought 1 should intrude.
248 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUEti.
Ta7t. [Without.'] Billy!
Bil Now you must go— good-by, Mr. Pry — I'm called.
Paul. Oh, good-by good morning. [Exit.\
Bil. He's gone ! I'm coming, sir [Exit.]
[Ree?iter Paul Pry.]
Paul. An army lieutenant ! Whocanitbe? I shouldn't
wonder if it's Mrs. Thomas's husband ; who, she says, was
killed in India! If it should be, it will break off her flirt-
ing with Mr. Cinnamon, the grocer; there's pretty doings in
that quarter, for I caught the rheumatism watching them in
a frosty night last winter ! An army lieutenant ! ' Mrs.
Thomas has a daughter ; I'lrjust peep through the key-
hole, and see if there's a family likeness between them.
[Goes to the door and j»eeps.] Bless me! why, there cer-
tainly is something about the nose — oh ! he's writing.
[The door is suddenly ojyened by Oldbutton.^ %vho discovers
Paul.]
Paul. I hope I don't intrude — I was trying to find my
apartment.
Mr. Old. Was it necessary to look through the key-hole
for it, sir ?
Paul. I'mrathershort-sighted, sir; sadafliiction ! my poor
mother was short sighted, sir ; in fact, it's a family failing ;
all the Prys are obliged to look close.
Mr. Old. Whilst I sympathize with your distresses, sir,
I trust to be exempt from the impertinence which you may
attach to them.
Paid. Would not intrude for the world, sir. What may
be your opinion, sir, of the present state of the kingdom ?
How do you like peace ? It must press hard upon you gen-
tlemen of the army ; a lieutenant's half pay now is but little
to make both ends meet.
Mr. Old. Sir !
Paul Especially when a man's benevolent to his pooi
relations. Now, sir. perhaps you allow something out of
your five-and-six pence a day, to your mother or maiden sis-
ter. Between you and me, I must tell you what I have
learnt here.
Mr. Old. Between you and me sir, I must tell you what
t have learnt in India.
Paul. What, have you been in India? Wouldn't in-
trude an observation for the world ; but I thought you had
a yellowish look ; something of an orange-peeling counte-
nance. You've been in India? Although I'm a single
COMIC AND AMUSING. 249
man, I wouldn't ask an improper question ; but is it true
thar the blacks employ no tailors nor milliners ? If noi,
what do they do to keep off the flies ?
Mr. Old. That is what I was about to inform you; they
carry canes. Now, sir, five minutes' conversation with you
has fully convinced me that there are flies in England as well
as in India: and that a man may be as impertinently in-
quisitive at Dover, as at Bengal. All I have to add is — I
carry a cane.
Paul. In such a case, I'm the last to intrude. I've only
one question to ask — Is your name Thomas 1 whether
you have a wife? how old she is? and where you were
married ?
Mr. Old. Well. sir. a man may sometimes play with a
puppy, as well as kick him ; and if it will afford you any
satisfaction learn my name is Thomas.
Paul. Oh ! poor Mr Cinnamon ! This is going to In-
dia! Mr. T , I'm afraid you'll find that somebody here has
intruded in your place — for between you and me — S^Oldhut-
ton surveys him contemptuously, and ivJiilst Paul is talking^
Oldhutton stalks off. Paul^ on looking round.] Well, it
isn't that I interfere much in people's concerns ; if I did, how
unhappy I could make that man. This Freemason's sign
puzzles me ; they wouldn't make me a member ; but I have
slept six nights in the next room to them; and. thanks to
my gimlet, I know the business. There was Mr. Smith,
who was only in the Gazette last week, taking his brandy
and water ; he can't afford that, I know. Then there was
Mr. Hodgkins, who makes his poor wife and children live
upon baked potatoes six days out of the week, (for I know
the shop where they are cooked.) calling, like a lord, for a
Welch rarebit; I only wish his creditors could see him : but
I don't trouble my head with these matters ; if I did — eh !
Why there is one of the young Jones's going again to Mr.
Notick, the pawnbroker's ; that's the third time this week ;
well, I've just time enough to run to Notick's, and see what
he's brought, before I go to inquire at the post office, who in
the town has letters [Exit.]
260 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XIV.— FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN.— Co/»ta7t.
FREDERICK SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE HUMPHREY DOBBINS.
Frederick. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning ! your park
is nothing but beauty.
Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty ? I told
you to stay in doors till I got up.
Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.
Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it ?
Fred. The sun.
Sir R. The sun ! he's mad ! you mean the moon,- 1 be-
lieve.
Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a
fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia.
The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singmg, the
park was so gay, that I took a leap out of your old balcony,
made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased
them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast,
while you were snoring in bed, uncle.
Sir R. Oh, oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon
a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony and worry
my deer
Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.
Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle,
unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.
Fred. I hate legacies.
Sir R. That's mighty singular. They are pretty solid
tokens at least.
Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle ; they are posthu-
mous dispatches, affection sends to gratitude, to inform us
we have lost a gracious friend.
Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues !
Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this
morning. I will obey you better in future ; for they tell me
you are a very worthy, good sort of a gentleman.
Sir R. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell
you that.
Fred. Old rusty, there.
Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you didn't?
Hum. Yes, but I did though.
Fred. Yes, he did ; and on that score I shall be anxious
to show you obedience, for 'tis as meritorious to attempt
sharing a good man's heart as it is paltry to have designs
COMIC AND AMUSING. 251
upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its atten-
tions full breast high, uncle ; a mean mind levels its dirty
assiduities at the pocket.
Sir R. {S/iaking him by the hand.'] Jump out of every
window I have in the house ; hunt my deer into high fevers,
my fine fellow ! Ay. that's right. This is spunk and plain
speaking. Give me a man who is always flinging his dis-
sent to my doctrines smack in my teeth.
Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.
Hum. And so do I.
Fred. You ! you forward puppy ! If you were not so
old. I'd knock you down.
Sir R. I'll knock you down, if you do. I won't have
my servants thumped into dumb flattery.
Hum. Come, you're ruffled. Let us go to the business
of the morning.
Sir R. I hate the business of the morning. Don't you
see we are engaged in discussion. I tell you, I hate the
business of the morning.
Hum. No. vou don't.
Sir R. Don't I ? Why not ?
Hum. Because it's charity.
Sir R. Pshaw! Well, we must not neglect the business, if
there be any distress in the parish ; read the list, Humphrey.
Hum. [ Taking out a paper ^ and, reading.] " Jonathan
Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt."
Sir R. Why, it wa^i only last week that Gripes the attor-
ney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.
Hum. Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble ; so
seized the tottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan
into jail for the remainder.
Sir R. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow's dis-
tress.
Fred. And I must kick his attorney.
Hum. [Reading.] '• The curate's horse is dead."
Sir R. Pshaw ! There's no distress in that.
Hum. Yes. there is ; to a man that must go twenty
miles every Sunday to preach for thirty pounds a year.
Sir R. Why won't the vicar give him another nag?
Hum. Because it's cheaper to get another curate already
mounted.
Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased
last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.
What else have we upon the list 1
252 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Hum. Something out of the commoD. There's one
Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower,
come to lodge at farmer Harrowby.'s in the village ; he is, it
seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more hon-
est than proud.
Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance.
Huin. He'd see you hanged first ! No, he'd sooner die
than ask you or any man for a shilling ! There's his daugh-
ter, and his wife's aunt, and an old corporal that served in
the wars with him ; he keeps them all upon his half pay.
Sir R. Starves them all, I'm afraid, Humphrey.
Fred. \^Going.'\ Good morning, uncle.
Sir R. You rogue, where are you running now?
Fred. To talk with lieutenant Worthington.
Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him ?
Fred I can't tell till f encounter him : and then, uncle,
when T have an old gentleman by the hand, who has been
disabled in his country's service, and is struggling to sup-
port his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful
servant in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with
words to express my sentiments.
Sir R. Stop, you rogue ; I must be before you in this
business.
Fred. That depends on who can run fastest ; so, start
fair, and uncle, here goes. [Runs out.^^
Sir R. Stop, stop ; why, Frederick — a jackanapes to take
my department out of my hands. I'll disinherit the dog for
his assurance.
Hu7n. No, you won't.
Sir R. Won't 1 1 Hang me if I — but we'll argue that
point as we go ; so come along, Humphrey.
Calel. I thought I'd como to something at \sai.—He would he a Soldier
COMIC AND AMUSING. 233
XV.— FROM THE S\Y ORB.— Bergmn.
LORD ONS3URG AUGUSTUS, HIS SON HENRIETTA, HIS DAUGH-
TER FRANK RAYNTON, WILLIAM RAYNTON, EDWARD DUD-
LEY, CHARLES DUDLEY, FRIENDS OF AUGUSTUS CRAPE, A
SERVANT TO LORD ONSBURG.
Scene 1. — The apartment of Augustus,
Augustus. Aha! this is my birthday ! They did well to
tell rae, otherwise I should never have thought of it. Well,
it will bring me some new present from papa. But, let's
see, what will he give me? Crape had something under his
coat when he went into papa's roomr He would not let me
go in with him. Ah ! if I were not obliged to appear a lit-
tle more sedate than usual, I should have forced him to shovir
me what he was carrying. But hist ! I shall soon know it.
Here comes my papa.
[Enter Lord Onsburg. holding in Ids hand a sword and belt.']
Lord Onsburg. Ah ! are you there, Augustus ! I have
already wished you joy of your birthday ; but that is not
enough, is it?
Aug. Oh! papa —but what have you in your hand,
there ^
Lord O. Something that I fear will not become you
well. A sword — look ye.
Aug. What! is it for me? Oh I give it to me, dear
papa; I will be so good and so diligent for the future —
- Lord O. Ah ! if I thought that ! But do you know
that a sword requires a man ? That he must be no longer
a child who wears one, but should conduct himself with
circumspection and decency ; and, in short, that it is not
the sword that adorns the man, but the man who adorns the
sword.
Aug. Oh I never fear me. I shall adorn mine, I war-
rant; and I'll have nothing to say to those mean persons —
Lord O. Whom do you call those mean persons?
Aug. I mean those who cannot wear a sword — those
who are not of the nobility, as you and I are.
Lord O. For my part, I know no mean persons but
those who have a wrong way of thinking, and a worse way
of conducting themselves ; who are disobedient to their pa-
rents — rude and unmannerly to others: so that T see many
2^
254 "^Trw school dialogues.
mean persons among the nobility, and many noble among
those whom you call mean.
Aug. Yes, I think in the same manner.
Lord O. What were you saying, then, just now, of wear-
ing a sword ? Do you think that the real advantages of no
bility consist in such fopperies ] They serve to distinguish
ranks, because it is necessary that ranks should be distin-
guished in the world. But the most elevated rank does only
add more disgrace to the man unworthy to fill it
Aug. So I believe, papa. But it will be no disgrace to
me to have a sword, and to wear it.
Lord O. No. I mean that you will render yourself wor-
thy of this distinction no otherwise than by your good be-
havior. Here is your sword, but remember —
Aug. Oh! yes, papa. You shall see ! [He endeavors to
put the sword by his side., hut cannot. Lord Onsburg helps
him to buckle it on.']
, Lord O. Eh ! why, it does not sit so ill.
Aug. Does it now ? Oh ! I knew that.
Lord O. It becomes you surprisingly. But above all
things, remember what I told you. Good-by ! [ Goings
he returns.'] I had forgot ; I have just sent for a little par-
ty of your friends, to spend the day with you. Observe to be-
have yourself suitably.
A ug. Yes, papa. [He struts up and down the room., and
now and then looks back to sec if his sword is behind him.]
This is fine ! This is being something like a gentleman !
Let any of your citizens come in my way now. No more
familiarity, if they do not wear a sword : and if they take it
amiss — aha ! out with my rapier. But hold! let us first see
if it has a good blade. [Draiving his sword and using furious
gestures.] What! does that tradesman mean to affront me ?
One —two ! Ah ! you defend yourself, do you ? Die, scoun-
drel !
[Enter Henrietta^
Henrietta. [Who screams on hearing the last words.]
Bless me ! Augustus, are you mad?
Aug. Is it you, sister ?
Hen. Yes, you see it is. But what do you do with that
instrument % [Pointing to the sivord.]
Aug. Do with it? what a gentleman should do.
Hen. And who is he you are going to send out of the
world ?
Aus. The first who shall dare to take the wall of me.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 255
Hen. I see there are many lives' in danger. And if 1
should happen to be the person — *
Aug. You ! I would not advise you I wear a sword
now. you see. Papa made me a present of it.
Hen. I suppose to go and kill people, right or wrong.
Aug. Am not I the honorable ? If they do not give me the
respect due, smack, a box on the ear. And. if your little
commoner will be impertinent — sword in hand — [Going to
draw it.] i
Hen. Oh ! leave it in quiet brother. And, lest I should
run the risk of affronting you unknowingly, I wish to^be in-
formed what the respect is that you demand.
Aug. You shall soon see. My father has just sent for
some of my young acquaintance. If those little puppies do
not behave themselves respectfully, you shall see how I will
manage.
Hen. Very well ; but I ask you what we must do, to be-
have ourselves respectfully toward you ?
Aug. In the first place, I insist upon a low bow — very
low.
He7t. [ With an affected gravity tnaJcing him a low cour-
tesy.'] Your lordship's most humble servant. Was that
well?
Aug. No joking, Henrietta, if you please ; or else —
Hen. Nay, I am quite serious, I assure you. We must
take care to know and perform our duty to respectable per-
sons. It would not be amiss to inform your little friends,
too.
Aug. Oh ! I will have some sport with those fellows ;
give one a pull, another a pinch, and play all sorts of tricks
on them.
Hen. Those, I take it, are some of the duties of a gentle-
man who wears a sword ; but if those fellows should not
like the sport, and return it on the gentleman's ears —
Aug. What ! low, vulgar blood ? No ; they have neither
hearts nor swords.
Hen. Really, papa could not have given you a more use-
ful present. He saw plainly what a hero was concealed in
the person of his son, and that he wanted but a sword, to
show him in his proper light.
Aug. Hark ye, sister, it is my birthday: we must di-
vert ourselves. However, you will not say anything of it to
papa.
Hen. Why not 1 he would not have given you a sword.
256 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
if he did not expect some exploit of this sort, from a gentle-
man newly equipped. * Would he have advised you other-
wise ?
Aifg. Certainly ! you know that he is always preaching
to me.
Hen. What has he been preaching to you ?
Azig. Preaching ! why, he said that I should adorn my
sword, and not my sword me.
Hen. In that case, you understand him properly, I must
say ; to adorn one's sword, is to know how to make use of
it ; and you are willing to show already that you have that
knowledge.
Aug. Yery well, sister ; you think to joke ; but I would
have you to know, madam —
Hen. Oh ! I know extremely well, all that you can tell
me ; but do you know too, that there is one principal orna-
ment wanting to your sword ?
Aug. What is that ? [ Unbuckles the belt^ and looks all
over the sword.'] I do not see that there is the least thing
wanting.
Hen. Really, you are a very clever swordsman. But a
sword-knot now ! Ah ! how a blue and silver knot would
dangle from that hilt !
Aug. You are right, Henrietta. Hark ye! you have a
whole band-box full of ribbons, in your room ; so —
Hen. I was thinking of it ; provided that you do not give
me a specimen of your fencing, or lay your blade about me
in return.
Aug. Nonsense ! here is my hand, that is enough ; you
have nothing to fear. But quick, a handsome knot ! when
my little party comes, they shall see me in all my grandeur.
Hen. Give it to me, then.
A7ig. [ Giving her the sword.] There, make haste I you
will leave it in my room, on the table, that I may find it
when I want it.
Hen. Depend on me.
[Enter Crape.]
Crape. The two Master Dudleys, and the Master Rayn-
tons, are below.
Aug. Well! cannot they come up? Must I go to re-
ceive them at the bottom of the stairs ?
Crape. My lady ordered me to tell you to come and meet
them
Aug. No, no — it is better to wait for them here.
OOMIO AND AMUSING. 257
Tha. Nay, but since mamma desires that you will go
down —
Aug. Indeed, they are worth all that ceremony ! Well,
I shall go directly. Come, what are you doing ? Will this
make my sword-knot ? Go, run. and let me find it on my
table, properly done. Do you hear? [Exeunt Augustus
and Crape'l
Hen. The little insolent ! in what a tone he speaks to
me ! Luckily, I have the sword. A proper instrument, in-
deed, in the hands of so quarrelsome a boy ! Yes, yes, stay
till 1 return it to you. My papa does not know you so well
as I do. But he must be told — ah ! here he is.
{Enter Lord Onsburg.']
Hen. You are come in good time, papa. I was going to
you.
Lord O. What have you, then, of so much consequence,
to tell me ? But what do you do with your brother's sword 1
Hen. I have promised him to put a handsome knot to it ;
but it was only to get this dangerous weapon out of his hands.
Do not give it to him again, whatever you do.
Lord O. Why should I take back a present I have given
him?
He7i. At least, be so good as to keep it until he becomes
more peaceable. I just now found him all alone, laying
about him like Don Quixote, and threatening to make his
first trial of fencing upon his companions that come to see
him.
Lord O. The little quarreler ! If he will use it for his
first exploits, they shall not turn out to his honor, I promise
you. Give me the sword.
Hen. [ Giving him the sivord.] There, sir, I hear him
on the stairs.
Lord O. Run, make his knot, and bring it to me when
it is ready. [They go out.'}
Scene 2.
[Enter Augustus, Edward and Charles LvAley, Frank
and William Raynton. — Augustus enters first, with his
hat on ; tJie others folloiv him, uneovered.}
Edward. [Aside to FrG,7ik.\ This is a very polite recep-
tion.
Frank. [Aside to Edward.'] I suppose it is the fashion
Q 2i*
258 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
now to receive companj'^ with one's hat on, and to walk
before them into one's own house.
Aug. What are you mumbling there?
Ed. Nothing, Mr. Onsburg ; nothing.
Aug. Is it something that I should not hear ?
Frank. Perhaps it may be.
Aug. Now I insist upon knowing it.
Frank. When you have a right to demand it.
Ed. Softly, Raynton — it does not become us in a strange
house —
Frank. It is still less becoming to be impolite in one's
own house.
Aug. {Haughtily?^ Impolite! I impolite! Is it be-
cause I walked before you?
Frank. That is the very reason. Whenever we have
the honor to receive your visits, or those of any other person,
we never take the precedence.
Aug. You only do your duty. But from you to me —
Frank. What, then, from you to me ? —
Aug Are ^ ou noble ?
Frank. \To the two 'Dudleys and his brother.'] Let us
leave him to himself, with his nobility, if you will take my
advice.
Ed. Fie! Mr. Onsburg! if you think it beneath your
dignity to keep company with us, why invite us here? We
did not ask that honor.
Aug. It was not I who invited you ; it was my papa.
Frank. Then we will go to my lord and thank him for
his civility. At the same time we shall let him know that
his son thinks it a dishonor to receive us. Come, brother.
Aug. [Stojyping him.'] You cannot take a joke. Master
Raynton Why, I am very happy to see you. It was to
do me a pleasure that papa invited you for this is my birth-
day. I beg you will stay with me.
Frank. This is another affair. But be more polite
for the future. Though I have not a title as you have,
yet I will not suffer any one to offend me without resent-
ing it.
Ed. Be quiet, Baynton ; we should be good friends.
Charles. This is your birthday, then, Mr. Onsburg?
Ed. I wish you many happy returns of it
Frank. So do I, sir; and all manner of prosperity,
[aside.] and particularly that you may grow a little more
polite.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 269
IVtllmm. I suppose you have had several handsome
presents.
Aug. Oh ! of course.
Chalks. A great many cakes and sweetmeats, no
doubt?
Aug. Ha ! ha ! cakes ! that would be pretty, indeed. I
have them every day.
Wil. Ah ! then I'll wager, it is in money. Two or
three crowns ? eh !
Aug. [Disdainfully.] Something better, and which I
alone, of all here — yes, I alone, have a right to wear.
\^Frank and Edward talk aside.]
Wil. If I had what has been given to you, I could wear
it as well as another, perhaps.
Aug. [Looking at him with an air of contempt. Poor
creature ! [ To tJie two elder brothers.] What, are you both
whispering there again ! I think you should assist to amuse
me.
Ed. Only furnish us with the means.
Frank. He who receives friends should study their amuse
m.nt.
Aug. What do you mean by that, Mr. Raynton ?
[Enter Henrietta, bringing a j^late^ ivith cakes]
Hen. Your servant, gentlemen — I am glad to see you well.
Frank. Much at your service, miss. [Bowing to her.]
Ed. We are happy to see you, miss, among our party.
Hen. Sir, you are very obliging. [To Augustus.]
Brother, mamma has sent you this, to entertain your friends,
until the chocolate is ready. Crape will bring it up pres
ently, and I shall have the pleasure of helping you.
Frank. Miss, you will do us a great deal of honor.
Aug. We do not want you here ! But now I think of
it, my sword-knot !
Hen. You will find the sword and the knot in your
room. Good-bye, gentlemen, until I see you again.
Frank. Shall we soon have the favor of your company,
miss?
Hen. I am going to ask mamma's leave. [Exit.]
Aug. [Sitting down] Come, take chairs and sit down,
[They look at each other, and sit down without speaking.
Augustus helps iJie two younger, and then himself ., so plen-
tifully that nothing remains for the two elder.] Stop a mo-
ment 1 They will bring in more, and then I'll give you
260 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Frank. Oh ! no, we do not desire it.
Aug. Oh ! with all my heart.
Fd. If this be the politeness of a young nobleman —
Aug. Is it with such as you, that one must stand upon
ceremony % I told you before, that they will bring us up
something else. You may take it when it comes, or not
take it ; you understand that?
Frank. Yes, that is plain enough : and we see plainly,
too, in what company we are.
Fd. Are you going to begin your quarrels again? Mr.
Onsburg, Raynton. fie ! [Augustus rises ; all the rest also^
Aug. [Going up to Frank.'] In what company are
you, then, my little cit?
Frank. [Firmly^ With a young nobleman who is very
rude and very impudent — who values himself more than he
ought — and who does not know how well-bred people should
behave one to the other.
Fd. We are all of the same opinion.
Aug. I rude and impudent ? Tell me so, who am a gen-
tleman !
Frank. Yes, I say it again — very rude and very impu-
dent — though you were a duke, though you were a prince.
Aug. [Striking him.'] I'll teach you to whom you are
talking. [Frank goes to lay hold on him. Augustus slips
hack, goes out. and shuts the door. \
Ed. Bless me, Raynton, what have you done ? He will
go to his father, a d tell him a thousand stories. What will
he think of us ?
Fra/nk. .His father is a man of honor. I will go to him.
if Augustus does not. He certainly has not invited us here
to be ill-treated by his son.
Charles. He will send us home, and make a complaint
against us.
Wil. No — my brother behaved himself properly. My
papa will approve what he has done, when we tell him the
whole. He does not understand having his children il.-
used.
Frank. Come with me. Let us all go and find Lord
Onsburg.
[Augustus enters^ with his sivord undrawn. Tlie two
younger hoys run, one in a corner, and the other behind
an arm-chair. . Frank and Edivard stand Jinn.]
Aug. [Going 7cp to Frank.] Now I'll teach you, you
little insolent. [Draws, and instead of a hlade, finds a long
COMIC AND AMUSING. 261
turkey's feather. He stops short in confusion. The little
oties burst into a loud laugh, and come up.]
Frank. Come on ! let us see the temper of your sword !
Ed. Do not add to his confusion. He only deserves
contempt.
Wil Aha ! This was it, then, that you alone had a
right to wear.
Charles. He will not do any terrible .harm to anybody
with that terrible weapon.
Frank. I could punish you now for your rudeness, but I
should blush to take such a revenge.
Ed. He is no longer worthy of our company. Let us
all leave him to himself
Wil. Good-bye to you, Mr. Knight of the turkey's
feather.
Charles. We shall not come here again until you be dis-
armed, for you are too terrible now. \Jis they are going.,
Frank stops them.']
Frank. Let us stay and give an account of our behavior
to his father, otherwise appearances will be against us.
Ed. You are right. What would he think of us, were
we to leave his house thus, without seeing him?
[^Enter Lord Onsburg. They all put on an air of respect
at the entrance of Lord Onsburg. Augustus goes aside^
and cries for spite.]
Lord O. [To Augustus, looking at him loith indigna-
tion.] Well, sir, you have honored your sword nobly —
shame ! sir, shame ! [Augustus sobs but cannot sjieak.]
Frank. My lord, you will pardon this disturbance that
appears among us. It was not caused by us. From the
first moment of our coming, Mr. Onsburg received us so
ill —
Lord O Do not be uneasy, my dear little friend. I
know all. I was in the next room, and heard, from the be-
ginning, my son's unbecoming discourse. He is the more
blamable, as he had just been making me the fairest prom-
ises. I have suspected his impertinence for a long time, but
I wished to see myself how far he was capable of carrying
it; and, for fear of mischief I put a blade to his sword, that,
as you see, will not spill much blood. [The children burst
out a laughing. |
Frank. Excuse the freedom my lord, that I took m tell-
ing him the truth a little bluntly.
Lord O. I rather owe you my thanks for it. You are
202 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
an excellent young gentleman, and deserve, much better
than he does, to wear this badge of honor. As a token of
my esteem and acknowledgment, accept this sword ; but I
will first put a blade to it that may be worthy of you.
Frank. Your lordship is too good ; but allow us to with-
draw. Our company may not be agreeable to Mr. Onsburg,
to-day.
Lord O. No, no, my dear boys, you shall stay. My son's
presence shall not disturb your pleasure. You may divert
j'ourselves together, and my daughter shall take care to
provide you with whatever may amuse you. Come v^ith
me into another apartment. As for you. sir, \^To Augui^tMS \
do not offer to stir from this place. You may celebrate
your birthday here all alone. You shall never wear a sword
again until you deserve one. [Ea:£unt.\
XVI— MARRIAGE OF A DAUGHTER.— O'^nen.
GRUB MRS. GRUB.
Grub. My dear, there's rare news from the Alley, India
stock is mounting every minute.
Mrs. Grub. I am glad to hear it. my dear.
Grub. Yes I thought you would be glad to hear of it.
1 have just sent Consol to the Alley to see how matters go
— I should have gone myself, but I wanted to open an affair
of some importance to you —
Mrs. G. Ay. ay, you have always some affair of great
importance.
Grub. Nay this is one — I h§,ve been thinking, my dear,
that it is high time we had fixed our daughter ; 'tis high
time that Emily were married.
Mrs. G. You think so, do you? I have thought so
ninny a time these three years : and so has Emily too I
fancy. I wanted to talk to you about the same subject.
Grub. You did ? Well I declare that's pat enough ; he.
he, he ! — I vow and protest I'm pleased at this — why our
inclinations do seldom jump together.
Mrs. G. Jump quotha! No I should wonder if they
did, and how comes it to pass now ? What ! 1 suppose
COMIC AND AMUSING. 203
you have been employing some of your brokers, as usual ;
or perhaps advertising, as you used to do ; but I expect to
hear no more of these tricks, now that we are come to this
end of the town.
G^'ub. No, no, my dear, this is no such matter. The ger-
tleraan I intend —
Mrs. G. You intend !
Grub. Yes, 1 intend.
Mrs. G. You intend ! What! do you presume to dispose
of my child without my consent? Mind your money mat-
ters, Mr. Grub : look at your buHs, and your bears, and your
lame ducks^ and take care they don't make you waddle out
of the Alley, as the saying is : — but leave to me the man-
agement of my child. — What! Things are come to a fine
pass indeed ! I suppose you intend to marry the poor inno-
cent to one of your city cronies, your factors, your supercar-
goes, packers or dry salters ; but I'll have none of them. Mr.
Grub, no, I'll have none of them It shall never be said,
that, after coming to this end of the town, the great Miss
Grub was forced to trudge into the city again for a husband.
Grvb. Why, you are mad, Mrs. Grub.
Mrs. G. No, you shall find I am not mad, Mr. Grub ; —
that I know how to dispose of my child. Mr. Grub. — What !
did my poor dear brother leave his fortune to me and my
child, and shall she now be disposed of without consulting
me?
Gi-ub. Why, you are mad. certainly ! If you will but
hear me, you shall be consulted. — Have I not always con-
sulted you I — To please you, was I not inclined to marry
my daughter to a lord ? and has she not been hawked about,
till all the peerage of the three kingdoms turn up their noses
at you and your daughter ? Did I not treat with my Lord
Spindle, my Lord Thoughtless, and my Lord Manikin ? and
did we not agree, for the first time in our lives that it would
be better to find out a commoner for her as the people of
quality now a-days marry for only a winter or so ?
Mrs. G. Very well, we did so ; and who. pray, is the
proper person to find out a match for her ? Who, but her
mother, Mr. Grub? — who goes into company with no other
view. Mr Grub: — who flatters herself she is no contempti-
ble judge of mankind Mr. Grub : — yes. Mr Grub, as good a
judge as any woman on earth, Mr. Grub.
Grub. That I believe, Mrs. Grub.
Mrs. G. Who then but me should have the disposal of
264 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
her ? and very well I have disposed of her. I have got her
a husband in my eye.
Grub. You got her a husband ?
Mrs. G. Yes. I have got her a husband.
Grub. No. no, no, Mrs. Grub, that will never do. — What !
have I been toiling upwards of fifty years, — up early, down
late, shopkeeper and housekeeper, made a great forttme, which
I could never find in my heart to enjoy — and now, when all
the comfort I have in the world, the settlement of my child,
is in agitation, shall I not speak ? shall I not have leave to
approve of her husband?
Mrs. G. Heyday ! You are getting into your tantrums,
I see.
Grub. What ! did I not leave the city, every friend in
the world with whom I used to pass an evening ? Did I
not, to please you, take this house here ? Nay, did I not
make a fool of myself, by gomg to learn to come in and go
out of a room, with the grown gentlemen in Cow-lane ? Did
I not put on a sword, too. at your desire ? and had I not like
to have broken my neck down stairs, by its getting between
my legs, at that diabolical Lady what-d'ye-call-her's rout ?
and did not all the footmen and chairmen laugh at me?
Mrs. G. And well thev might, truly. An obstinate old
fool—
Grub. Ay, ay, that may be ; but I'll have my own way
— I'll give my daughter to the man I like — I'll have no
Sir This nor Lcrrd Tother — I'll have no fellow with his
waist down to his knees, and a shirt like a monkey's jacket
— with a coat no bigger than its button, his shoe-buckles
upon his toes, and cue thicker than his leg.
Mrs. G. Why, Mr. Grub, you are certainly mad, raving,
distracted. — No, the man I propose —
Grub. And the man I propose —
Mrs. G. Is a young gentleman of fortune, discretion,
parts, sobriety, and connections.
Gh-ub. And the man I propose is a gentleman of abilities,
fine fortune, prudence, temperance, and every virtue.
Mrs. G. And his name is —
Grub. And his name is Bevil.
Mrs G. Bevil!
Grub. Yes. Bevil, I say. and a very pretty name, too.
Mrs. G What I Mr. Bevil of Lincolnshire I
Grub. Yes. Mr. Bevil of Lincolnshire.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 265
Mrs. G. Oh, my dear Mr. Grub, you delight me! Mr.
Bevil is the very man I meant.
Grub. Is it possible? Why, where have you met him"?
Mrs. G. 0, at several places ; but particularly at Mrs.
Matchem's assemblies.
G?'ud. Indeed! was ever anything- so fortunate ? Didn't
I tell you that our inclinations jumped ; but I wonder that
he never told me that he was acquainted with you.
Mrs. G. Nay, I cannot help thinking it odd that he
should never tell me he had met with you ! but I see he is
a prudent man : he was determined to be liked by both of
us. But where did you meet with him ?
Grub. Why, he bought some stock of me, and so we be-
came acquainted ; but I am so overjoyed, — I scarce know
what to say. My dear Mrs. Grub, let us send for the child
and open the business at once to her. — I am so overjoyed —
who would have thought it ? Let us send for Emily — poor
dear soul, she little thinks how happy we are going to make
her.
XVIL— FROM THE RIV ALS.— Sheridan.
SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE FAG ERRAND
BOY.
Scene 1. — Captain Absolute's Lodgings.
[Enter Fag and Sir Anthony.]
Fag. Sir Anthony Absolute, sir. [Exit.]
Capt. A. Sir Anthony, I am delighted to see you here,
and looking so well ! your sudden arrival at Bath made me
apprehensive for your health.
Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack What,
you are recruiting here, hey ?
Capt. A. Yes, sir. I am on duty.
Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did
not expect it, for I was going to write to you on a little mat-
ter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow
old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.
Caj^t. A. Pardon me, sir, 1 never saw you look more
strong and hearty, and I pray fervently that you may con-
tinue so.
23
266
NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my
heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that 1 am
so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long
time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your
commission and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a
small pittance for a lad of your spirit.
Capt. A. Sir, you are very good.
Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my
boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, there-
fore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.
Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I
presume you would not wish me to quit the army ?
Sir A. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capt. A. My wife, sir ?
Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you — settle that be-
tween you,
Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say ?
Sir A. Ay, a wife : why, did not I mention that before?
Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir.
Sir A. Odd so ; I mustn't forget her, though. Yes,
Jack, the independence 1 was talking of, is by a marriage ;
the fortune is saddled with a wife ; but I suppose that makes
no difference ?
Cajjt. A. Sir, sir ! you amaze me !
Sir A. Why, what — what's the matter with the fool ?
Just now you were all gratitude and duty.
Capt. A. I was, sir ; you talked to me of independence
and a fortune, but not a word of a wife.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 207
Sir A. Why. what difference does that make ? Odds
life, sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the
live stock on it, as it stands.
Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady ?
Si)' A. What's that to you, sir ? Come, give me your
promise to love and to marry her directly.
Cajjt. A. Sure, sir, that is not very reasonable, to sum-
mon my affections for a lady I know nothing of
Sir A. I am sure, sir. 'tis more unreasonable in you to
object to a lady you know nothing of
Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for
all. that in this point I cannot obey you.
Sir A. Hark ye, Jack : I have heard you for some time
with patience — I have been cool, — qu te cool ; but take
care ; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not
thwarted ; no one more easily led, when I have my own
way: but don't put me in a frenzy.
Cajjt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey
you.
Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again
while I live.
Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.
Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word ! not one
word ! So give me your promise by a nod.and I'll tell you
what, Jack — I mean dog— if you don't —
Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some
mass of ugliness !
Sir A. Aye ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I
choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall
be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll like the
bull's in Cox's museum ; she shall have a skin like a mum-
my, and the beard of a Jew. She shall be a'l this, sirrah !
yet I'll make you ogle her all day. and sit up all night to
write sonnets on her beauty.
Capt. A. This is reason and moderation indeed !
. Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning,
jackanapes !
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I was never in a worse humor for
!!.irth in my life.
Sir A. 'Tis false sir; I know you are laughing in your
sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am gone sirrah !
Cajjt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.
Sir A. None of your passion, ^ir ! none of your violence,
if you pleait' ! it won't do with me, I promise you.
268 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I was never cooler in my life.
Sir A. 'Tis a confounded lie ! I know you are in a
passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical
young dog ; but it won't do.
Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word —
Sir A. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool, like me \
What good can passion do ? Passion is of no service, you
impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate ! There, you sneer
again ! don't provoke me ! but you rely upon the mildness
of my temper, you do, you dog; you play upon the meek-
ness of my disposition ! yet take care ; the patience of a
saint may be overcome at last ! But mark ! I give you six
hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree,
without any condition, to do everything on earth that I
choose, why — confound you ! I may in time forgive you, —
if not, then ! don't enter the same hemisphere with me ;
don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light
with me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own !
I'll strip you of your commission ; I'll lodge a five-and-
three pence in the hands of trustees and you shall live on
the interest. Til disown you, I'll disinherit you, and hang
me I if I call you Jack again ! [Exit. ]
Ca2Jt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father ! I kiss your
hands.
[Enter Fag.]
Fag. Assuredly sir, your father is wroth to a degree ;
he comes down stairs eight or ten steps at a time, mutter-
ing, growling, and thumping the banisters all the way ; I,
and the cook's dog, stand bowing at the door — rap ! he gives
me a stroke on the head with his cane ! bids me to carry
that to my master ; then kicking the poor turnspit into the
area, canes us all for a puppy triumvirate ! Upon my credit,
sir. were I in your place, and found my father such very
bad company, I should certainly drop his acquaintance.
Cajjt. A. Cease your impertinence, sir — did you come in
for nothing more ? Stand out of the way. [Pushes him aside^
and exit.]
Fag. So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he is afraid
to reply to his father, then vents his spleen on poor Fag.
When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on
another, who happens to come in the way, shows the worst
temper, the basest —
[Enter errand hoy.]
Boy. Mr. Fag ! Mr. Fag ! your master calls you.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 2C9
Fag. Well, you little dirty puppy, you needn't bawl so
— the meanest disposition, the —
Boy. Quick, quick ! Mr. Fag.
Fag. Quick, quick! you impudent jackanapes ! am I to
be commanded by you too, you little impertinent, insolent,
kitchen-bred imp ? \^Kicks him off.]
Scene 2. — The North Parade.
\_Enter Captain Absolute.^
Capt. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed ! Whimsical
enough, faith ! My father wants to force me to marry the
very girl T am plotting to run away with ! He must not
know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too
summary a method of proceeding in these matters ; how-
ever, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is
something sudden, indeed ; but, I can assure him, it is very
sincere. So, so, here he comes ; he looks plaguy gruff
[Stejjs aside]
[F?iter Sir Anthony]
Sir A. No — I'll die sooner than forgive him ! Die, did I
say! I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last
meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper —
an obstinate, passionate, self willed boy! Who can he take
after? This is his return for all my goodness! for putting
him at twelve years old into a marching regiment, and al-
lowing him fifty- pounds a year, beside his pay, ever since!
But I have done with him, — he's anybody's son for me — I
never will see him more — never — never — never — never.
Capt. A. Now for a penitential face ! [ Comes forward.]
Sir A. Fellow, get out of my way !
Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.
Sir A. I see an impudenC scoundrel before me.
Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to ac-
knowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir A. What's that ?
Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and con-
sidering on your past goodness, and kindness, and conde-
scension to me.
Sir A. Well sir !
Capt. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing
what you were pleased to mention, concerning duty, and
obedience, and authority.
Sir A. Why. now you talk sense ! -absolute sense ! I
23*
270 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
never heard anythina: more sensible in my life. Confound
you ! you shall be called Jack again.
Capt. A. I am happy, sir, in the appellation.
»S'w' A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack. I will now in-
form you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion
and violence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at
first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture — prepare.
What think you of Miss Lydia Languish ?
Capt. A. Languish ! What ! the Languishes of Wor-
cestershire ?
Sir A. Worcestershire ! No. Did you never meet Mrs
Malaprop, and her niece. Miss Languish who came into our
county just before you were last ordered to your regiment?
Capt. A. Malaprop! Languish! Let me see — I think I
do recollect something — Languish — Languish — she squints,
don't she ? A little red-haired girl ?
Sir A. Squints ! A red-haired girl ! Pshaw! no!
Capt. A. Then I must have forgot ; it can't be the same
person.
Sir A. Jack ! Jack ! What think you of blooming,
love-breathing seventeen ?
Capt. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can
please you in the matter, I shall be happy.
Sir A. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so inno-
cently wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! Not a glance but
speaks.' and kindles some thought of love ! Then. Jack,
her cheeks ' her cheeks ! Jack ! so deeply blushing at the
insinuations of her tell tale eyes ! Then, Jack, her lips !
O, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion !
Cap)t. A. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or the
aunt?
Sir A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, 1 despise
you. The aunt, indeed ! Oddie life ! when I ran away with
your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly
to gain an empire.
Capt. A. Not to please your father, sir ?
Sir A. To please my father — sirrah ! not to please —
oh, my father — odd so ! - yes, yes, if my father, indeed, had
desired — that's quite another matter — though he wasn't the
indulgent father that T am. Jack.
Caj^t. A. I dare say not, sir.
Sir A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mis
tress so beautiful ?
Capt. A. Sir, I repeat it if T please you in this afl^air, 1
shall be happy. Not that I think a woman the worse for
COMIC AND AMUSING. 271
being handsome ; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you be-
fore hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a
few more graces of that kind — now without being very nice.
I own that I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the
usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back ; and,
though one eye may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice
has always run in fiavor of two I should not wish to affect
any singularity in that article.
Sir A. What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Why, sirrah, you
are an anchorite ! A vile, insensible stock ! You a soldier !
you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regi-
mentals on ! Odds life. I have a great mind to marry the
girl myself!
Capt. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir ; if you
should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I sup-
pose you w^ould have me marry the aunt ; or if you should
change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the same to
me, I'll marry the niece.
Sir A. Upon m}' word. Jack, thou art either a very great
hypocrite, or — but, come, I know your indifference on such a
sub'ect must be all fudge — I'm sure it must — come, now.
come, Jack, confess you've been playing the hypocrite. I'll
never forgive you, if you have not.
CapL A. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which
I bear to you should be so mistaken.
Sir A. Hang your respect and duty ! But come along
with me. I will write a note to Mrs. Malaprop and you
shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Prome-
thean torch to you — come along, 111 never forgive you, if
you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience
— if you don't, egad, I'll marry the girl myself [Exeunt]
llcttom. Tell them that I, Pyramis, am not Pyratiiis, but Bottom, the weaver.—
JiUdsummer JV<£fAf's Dream.
2*72 NEW SCHOOL DIALOG [JES.
XVIIL— THE DISAPPOINTED SUITORS.
MR, MAYNARD COLONEL FAULKLAND MR. ELLIS SERVANT.
Scene. — A splendid Library.
Mr. Maynard. {^Speaking to Servant.'] Not at home to
any one, excepting Colonel Faulkland and Mr. Ellis. This
failure of Bland's great house, however deplorable in itself,
at least bids fair to put at end to my troubles as a guardian.
Ever since Mary Conway has been under my care, she has
been besieged by as many suitors as Penelope. We shall
see whether the poor destitute girl will prove as attractive
as the rich heiress. Faulkland is an ardent lover, Ellis a
modest one ; F.aulkland is enormously rich, Ellis compara-
tively poor ; but whether either —
[Enter Colonel Faulkland.']
My dear Colonel, good morning ! — I took the liberty of
sending for you
Colonel Faulkland. Most proud and happy to obey your
summons. I believe that I am before my time ; but where
the heart is, you know, Mr. Maynard — how is the fair Mary
Conway ? I hope she caught no cold in the Park yesterday ?
Mr. May. None that I have heard.
Col. Faulk. And that she has recovered the fatigue of
Tuesday's ball ?
Mr. May. She does not complain.
Col. Faulk. But there is a delicacy, a fragility in her
loveliness, that mingles fear of her health, with admiration
of her beauty.
Mr. May. She is a pretty girl, and a good girl ; a very
good girl, considering that, in her quality of an heiress, she
has been spoilt by the adulation of every one that has ap-
proached her ever since she was born.
Col. Faulk. Oh, my dear sir, you know not how often I
have wished that Miss Conway were not an heiress, that I
might have an opportunity of proving to her and to you the
sincerity and disinterestedness of my passion.
Mr. May. I am glad to hear you say so.
Col. Faulk. I may hope, then, for your approbation and
your influence with your fair ward 1 You know my fortune
and family ?
Mr. May. Both are unexceptionable.
COMIC AND AMUSING. '2l3
Col. Faulk. The estate which T inherited from my father,
is large and unencumbered ; that which will devolve to me
from the maternal side, is still more considerable. I am the
last of my race, Mr. Maynard ; and my mother and aunts
are, as you may imagine, very desirous to see me settled.
They are most anxious to be introduced to Miss Conway ;
my aunt, Lady Lucy, more particularly so. Mary Conway,
even were she portionless, is the very creature whom they
would desire as a relative ; the very being to enchant them
Mr. May. I am extremely glad to hear you say so.
lEnter Mr. Ellis. ^
Mr. Ellis ! pray be seated. I sent for you both, gentle-
men, as the declared lovers of my ward. Miss Conway, in
order to make to you a#i important communication.
Mr. Ellis. 1 am afraid that I can guess its import.
Col. Faulk. Speak, Mr. Maynard — pray, speak !
Mr. May. Have you heard of the failure of the great
firm of Bland and Co. ?
Col. Faulk. Yes. But what has that to do with Mary
Conway ? — To the point, my good sir : to the point.
Mr. May. Well, then, to come at once to the point, — did
you never hear that, though not an ostensible partner, Mr.
Conway's large property was lodged in the firm ?
Mr. Ellis. I had heard such a report.
Col. Faulk. Mr. Conway's property in Bland's house !
the house of a notorious speculator ! What incredible impru*
dence ! — all ?
Mr. May. The whole.
Col. Faulk. What miraculous folly ! — Then Miss Conway
is a beggar.
Mr. May. Whilst I live, Mary Conway can never want
a home. But she is now a portionless orphan ; and she de-
sired that you, gentlemen, might be apprised of the change
of her fortunes, with all convenient speed, and assured that
no advantage would be taken of proposals made under cir-
cumstances so different.
Mr. Ellis. Oh, how needless an assurance !
Col. Faulk. Miss Conway displays a judicious consid-
eration.
Mr. May. I am. however, happy to find. Colonel Faulk-
land, that your affection is so entirely centered on the lovely
young woman, apart from her riches, that you will feel noth-
ing but pleasure in an opportunity of proving the disin
terestedness of your love.
R
274 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Col Faulk Why, it must be confessed, Mr. MaynarJ —
Mr. May. Your paternal estate is so splendid as to ren-
der you quite independent of fortune in a wife.
Col Faulk. Why yes. But. really, my estate ; what
with the times and one drawback and another. Nobody
knows what I pay in annuities to my father's old servants.
In fact, Mr. Maynard. I am not a rich man ; not by any
means a rich man.
Mr. May Then your great expectations from your moth-
er, Lady Sarah, and your aunt, Lady Lucy.
Col. Faulk. Yes. But, my dear sir, you have no notion
of the aversion which Lady Lucy entertains for unequal
matches — matches where all the money is on one side. They
never turn out well, she says ; and Lady Lucy is a sensible
woman^ — a very sensible woman. As far as my observation
goes, I must say that I think her right
Mr. May In short, then, Colonel Faulkland, you no
longer wish to marry my ward ?
Col. Faulk. Why really, my good sir, it is with great re-
gret that I relinquish my pretensions ; and if I thought that
the lady's affections were engaged — but I am not vain
enough to imagine, that, with a rival of so much merit —
Mr. Ellis [Aside.'] Contemptible coxcomb !
Col. Faulk. Pray, assure Miss Conway of my earnest
wishes for her happiness, and of the sincere interest I shall
always feel in her welfare. I have the honor to wish you a
good morning. [ Goi7ig.\
Mr. May. A moment, sir, if you please. What say you,
Mr. Ellis? Have these tidings wrought an equal change in
your feelings ?
Mr. Ellis. They have indeed wrought a change, sir, and
a most pleasant change; since they have given hope such as
1 never dared to feel before. God forgive me for being so
glad of what has grieved her ! Tell Mary Conway, that for
her dear sake, I wish that I were richer but that never shall
I wish she was rich for mine. Tell her that if a fortune ad-
equate to the comforts, elegancies, though not to the splen-
dors of life, a pleasant country-house, a welcoming family,
and an adoring husband, can make her happy, I lay them
at her feet. Tell her —
Mr May. My dear fellow, you had far better tell her
yourself I have no doubt but she will accept your disin-
terested offers, and I shall heartily advise her to do so ; but
you must make up your mind to a little disappointment.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 27o
Mr. Ellis. How ! what ! How can I be disappointed,
so that Miss Conway wall be mine?
Mr. May. Disappointment is not quite the word. But
you will have to encounter a little derangement of your gen-
erous schemes. When you take my pretty ward, you must
e'en take the burden of her riches along with her.
Col. Faulk. She is not ruined then ?
Mr. May. No, sir ; Mr. Conway did at one time place a
considerable sum in the firm of Messrs. Bland ; but finding
the senior partner to be, as you observed, Colonel, a notori-
ous speculator, he prudently withdrew it.
Col. Faulk. And this was a mere stratagem ?
Mr. May. Why, really, sir, I was willing to prove the
sincerity of your professions, before confiding to you such a
treasure as Mary Conway, and I think that the result has
fully justified the experiment. But for your comfort, I don't
think she would have had you, even if you had happened to
behave better. My young friend here had made himself a
lodgment in her heart, of which his present conduct proves
him to be fully worthy. I have the honor to wish you a
very good morning. Come, Ellis, Mary's in the music room.
[Eooeunt.^
XIX.— IGNORANCE AND WILLFULNESS.— ^nonymow*.
STUDENT DEACON.
Student. [Alone.'] What can be better calculated to fill
the mind with pleasure than the study of philosophy and
astronomy ! While these sciences entertain and enlarge
the understanding, they lead us to contemplate that supreme
source of beauty and harmony, the Deity himself
Deacon. [Behind the scene.] Haw buck, here ! Whoa,
whoa! whoa! \Ente?'s.] How do you, my young friend?
I don't know but I have 'sturbed you ; you seem to be
talking to yourself
Stu. Not in the least, sir ; I was contemplating the
beauties of creation, and admiring the order in which the
planets move. But as I am ever fond of parental instruc-
tion, I shall with no less pleasure listen to your observa
tions.
276 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Dea. Well, I am willing to tell you anything I know ;
and there an't many more experienced, though I say it
myself. But I wish to know, what under heaven there is
in cration so dreadful, that you're making such a bustle
about ?
Stu. Sir, I think there is an infinite variety of objects
to entertain the rational mind ; we may contemplate the
objects every day, and still find ourselves lost in the aston-
ishing works of creation.
Dea. Why, hem ! I 'spose there is something 'marka-
ble enough in cration ; but for my part, I don't see anything
dreadful in it. I find more profit in contriving how to fat
my pork and beef in one year than I should in thinking
'bout cration from July to 'tarnity. [Siejjs to t/ie doo?:}
John, don't let the bull hook the old mare.
Stu. These employments are indeed necessary, and truly
commendable ; yet I find, as I have opportunity to improve,
many superior pleasures, which demand and force my admi-
ration.
Dea. 0, you're one of those collegers, 'bant you? I
have wanted to 'spute along with some of you gump-heads,
this long time. But, pray, let a body hear what these 'mark-
able things are !
S^tc I think, that the order of the solar system ; the reg-
ularity in which the planets move round the sun, the center
of our system ; the motion of the earth, which causes that
pleasing variety of seasons, afford an ample subject for our
contemplation.
Dea. The motion of the earth ! 'Pon my word, your
college wit has got something new. Do you mean that this
great, masterly world moves, or what do you mean ?
Stu. I had reference, sir, to the annual and diurnal mo-
tion of the earth.
Dea. What under the sun do you mean by your animal
and dicurnai motion ? That's something new.
Stu. I mean the motion of the world on its own axis,
from west to east, once in twenty- four hours.
Dea. What do you say ! This masterly world turn over
every day and nobody know nothing about it ! If this
world turns over, what's the reason my mill-pond never got
oversot. and all the water spilt out long ago? Do you think
my farm ever turned over ?
Stu. Your farm being connected with the rest of the
jrlobe, undoubtedly turns with it.
COMTC AND AMUSING. 277
Dca. What ! all this globe turn over, and my farm turn
over, too, and nobody ever find it out? Though I 'spose my
farm lies 'bout the middle here, so 'twouldn't affect that quite
so much : but, what if anybody should get close to the edge,
and it should get to whirling, and whirling, and, like as not,
'twould throw them off
Stic. 1 do not know what you mean by the edge ; this
world is as round as an orange.
Dea. Why, you talk more and more like a fool. What !
this world round ! Why, don't you see 'tan't round ? 'tis
flat as a pancake.
Stu. The greatest philosophers give it as their opinion —
Dea. What do you think I care for what your boloso-
phers say when I know bona fida 'tan't so ; and any half-
witted fool knows better.
Stu. Unless you can bring me any proof to confute theirs,
I cannot see why you should disbelieve them.
Dea. Why, I know 'tan't so, and that's reason enough.
What ! this world round, and folks live on't, and turn over,
too ? That's a likely story. But if you want to hear my
arguments, you shall have them in full. How do you think
folks can stand with their heads downwards? Why, if this
world should only turn up edgeways all our houses, and
walls, and fences would get to sliding ; and as soon as they
got to the edge, they would fall down, down, down, and
finally they would never stop : that would be charming
good 'conomy.
Stu. As the atmosphere turns with us, the motion would
not affect us in the least; our feet would point to the center
as they now do.
Dea. Yes, 'twould: if anybody should get close to the
edge, and it should get to whirling round, 'twould give them
a confounded hoist, and just as likely as not 'twould throw
them ofT; and that an't all, 'twould make their heads swim,
so that they could not stand. What do you think of that?
Why, this world is flat, and laid on its foundation, else it
could not stand a moment.
Stu. What supports that foundation, deacon Homespun ?
that must have something to stand on, too.
Dea. Hem ! hem ! hem ! How do you think I should
know ? But I know 'tis so, and that's reason enough.
But what do you ax such foolish questions for ? Anybody
knows that this great masterly world cant stand without it
had something" to stand on.
278 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Stu. If the world has a foundation, how does the sun
g-et through ?
Dea. Hern ! hem ! hem ! that's another silly question :
but there's no difficulty at all in that. Why. there's a little
hole just big enough for the sun to get through without
weakening the foundation.
Stu. But here is another difficulty, deacon ; the sun is
much bigger than this earth, and consequently must destroy
your foundation.
Dea. What do you say* — the sun bigger than this great
world? You great dunce, you, 'tan't a bit bigger than a
cart-wheel.
Stu. If it be so small, how can it enlighten the whole
world, especially if it be so far from us 1
Dea. Hem ! I don't raly see into that myself But.
then, I don't s'pose 'tis such a despret ways from us ; I
should not think it was more than about two or three hun-
dred milds, or such a business ; but I don't quite see how
it goes through the foundation.
Stu. Oh, I see into it. I guess it does not go through ;
it only just goes down behind the trees out of sight, and
then comes directly back into the same place ; and, as it is
so small a thing, we cannot see it in the night.
Dea. That's about as cunning as the rest of your talk'
Why, you great dunce, you ! you could see the sun as plain
as the nose on your face, if it were ever so dark !
Stu. Then you must give up your opinion.
Dea. Give it up ! not I ! Think I'll give up anything I
know ! I've been — less me see — how old's my Nab 1 I've
lived in this town sixty-four years, and for nine years I was
the first corporal in the company, and for twelve years I've
been the oldest deacon in this place, and never heard of the
world's turning over ! 'Tis impossible for it to go so fast as
to turn over every day !
Stu. But look here, deacon Homespun, as the sun is so
far from us, how many thousand times faster must it move
than the earth to go round us in twenty-four hours 1
Dea. Hem ! hem ! Why do you ax such a foolish ques-
tion ? I don't raly understand that ; but the Bible says so,
and nobody has any business to conspute the Bible, you
young blasphemer !
Stu. The Bible was not given to teach us philosophy,
but religion ; therefore it says nothing about it.
Dea.. But what makes you think the earth is round?
COMIC AND AMUSING. 270
Sill Several reasons : the circular shadow of the earth
when it eclipses the moon ; and because several persons
have sailed round it.
Dea. The earth never 'clipses the moon ! Do you think
the earth ever gets turned up between us and the moon !
No; 'tis the sun that 'clipses the moon. As to sailino
round, they only sail close to the edge, and take special care
that they don't sail off; but if this world turns round in
twenty-four hours, they might tie up their vessel to a tree,
and it would go round of itself every day.
Stu. But how happens it that the moon is always
eclipsed when the sun is going through your foundation ?
JDea. Hem ! hem! Well. T an't going to giv6 up any-
thing I know : and I shan't believe this world turns round,
till I find I can stand on my head ; and I know the world
can't stand without it has something to stand on.
Stu. How do you suppose the sun, moon and stars are
supported without their proper foundation ?
JDea. How do you think I know ! But if the world
turns round, what's the reason our minister never said noth-
ing about it ?
Stu. He'll tell you so whenever you ask him, or he is
not fit for a minister.
Dea. You're an impudent son of a blockhead. Do you
mean to consult me to my face? and a deacon, too !
Stu. If you are offended, I've no more to say.
Dea. Well, I'll make you know better than to conspute
me ! you young blockhead I [ExeufU.'}
Cocklctop. This is Neptune's trident, and this piece of fumitiu-e from Horcula
neum, the model of the Escurial.— JJfodern Antiques.
280 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XX.— FROM THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.— i?V>W?Wy.
GREGORY SIR JASPER SQUIRE ROBERT HARRY JAMES
DORCAS.
Scene 1. — A Wood.
[Enter Dorcas and Gregory.l
Gregory. I tell you no ! I won't comply, and it is my
business to talk and to command.
Dorcas. And I tell you, you shall conform to my will,
and that I was not married to you to suffer your ill humors.
Greg. 0, the intolerable fatigue of matrimony ! Aris-
totle never said a better thing in his life, than when he told
us, " that a wife is worse than a plague."
Dor. Hear the learned gentleman, with his Aristotles.
Greg. And a learned man I am, too. Find me out a
maker of fagots, that's able, like myself, to reason upon
things, or that can boast such an education as mine.
Dor. An education !
Greg. Ay, woman, a regular education ; first at the char-
ity-school, where I learnt to read ; then I waited on a gen-
tleman at Oxford, where I learnt — very near as much as my
master : from whence T attended a traveling physician six
years, under the facetious denomination of a Merry Andrew,
where I learnt physic.
Dor. 0, that thou hadst followed him still ! Ah ! ill-
fated hour, wherein I answered the parson - 1 will.
Greg. And ill-fated be the parson that asked me the
question !
Dor. You have reason to complain of him, indeed, who
ought to be on your knees every moment, returning thanks
to Heaven, for that great blessing it sent you, when it sent
you myself I hope you have not the assurance to think
you deserve such a wife as I.
Greg. No, really, I don't think I do. Come, come, mad-
am, it was a luc'.y day for you, when you found me out.
Dor. Lucky, indeed! a fellow who eats everything I
have.
Greg. That happens to be a mistake, for I drink some
part on't.
Dor. That has not even left me a bed to lie on.
Greg. You'll rise the earlier.
COMIC AND AMITPING. 281
Dor. And who, from morning till night, is constantly in
an ale-house.
Gh'eg. It's genteel ; the squire docs the same.
Dor. Pray, sir, what are you willing I shall do with my
family? -
Greg. Whatever you please.
Dor. My four little children, that are continually crying
for bread !
Greg. Give 'era a rod ! best cure in the world, for crying
children.
Dor. And do you imagme, sot —
Greg. Hark ye, my dear ; you know my temper is not
over-and-above passive, and that my arm is extremely active.
Dor. I laugh at your threats, poor, beggarly, insolent
fellow.
Greg. Soft object of my wishing eyes, I shall play with
your pretty rars.
Dor. Touch me if you dare, you insolent, impudent,
dirty, lazy —
Greg. Oh, ho, ho ! you will have it then, I find. {Beats
her.']
Dor, 0, murder ! murder!
[Enter Squire Robert.']
Robert. What's the matter here? Fie upon you, neigh-
bor, to beat your wife in this scandalous manner.
Dor. Well sir, and I have a mind to be beat, and what
then ?
Rob. dear, madam ! I give my consent, with all my
heart and soul.
Dor. What's that, you saucebox ? Is it any business of
yours?
Rob. No, certainly, madam.
Dor. Here's an impertinent fellow for you ; won't sufler
a husband to beat his own wife !
Rob. Neighbor, I ask your pardon heartily ; here, take
and thrash your wife ; beat her as you ought to do.
Greg. No, sir, I won't beat her.
Rob. ! sir, that's another thing.
Greg. I'll beat her when I please, and will not beat hei
when I do not please. She is my wife, and not yours.
Rob. Certainly.
Dor. Give me the stick, dear husband.
Rob. Well, if I ever attempt to part husband and wife
again, may I be beaten myself \_ETif.']
24*
282 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Greg. Come, my dear, let us be friends.
Dor. What, after beating me so 1
Greg. 'Tvvas but in jest.
Dor. I desire you will crack your jests on your own
bones next time, not on mine.
Greg. Psha I you know, you and. I are one, and I beat
one half of myself, when I beat you.
Dor. Yes, but for the future, I desire you will beat the
other half of yourself
Greg. Come, my pretty dear, I ask pardon ; I'm sorr}
for't.
Dor. For once, I pardon you, — but you shall pay for it.
Greg. Psha! psha! child, these are only little affairs
necessary in friendship ; four or five good blows with a cud-
gel, between your very fond couples only tend to heighten
the affections. I'll now to the wood, and I promise thee to
make a hundred fagots before I come home again. \^Exit.^
Dor. If I am not revenged for those blows of yours I —
Oh, that I could but thin\ of some method to be revenged
on him ! — Oh. that I could but find out some invention to
get him well drubbed !
[E?tter Harry and James.']
Harry. Were ever two fools sent on such a message as
we are, in quest of a dumb doctor ?
James. Blame your own paltry memory, that made you
forget his name. For my part, I'll travel through the world,
rather than return without him ; that were as much as a
limb or two were worth.
liar. Was ever such a sad misfortune ! to lose the letter !
I should not even know his name, if I were to hear it.
Dor. Can I find no invention to be revenged. [Aside.]
• — Heyday ! who are these ?
Jam. Hark ye, mistress ; do you know where — where —
where doctor what-d'ye-call him, lives !
Dor. Doctor who ?
Jam. Doctor — doctor — what's his name ?
Dor. Hey ! what, has the fellow a mind to banter me ?
Har. Is there no physician hereabouts, famous for curing
dumbness,
Dor. I fancy you have no need of such a physician, Mr.
Impertinence.
Har. Don't mistake us, good woman ; we don't mean to
banter you ; we are sent by our master, whose daughter has
lest her speech, for a certain physician, who lives hereabouti^ ;
COMIC AND AMUSING. 28-?
we have lost our direction, and 'tis as much as our lives are
worth, to return without him.
Dor. There is one Doctor Lazy lives just by, but he has
left off practicing. You would not get him a mile, to save
the lives of a thousand patients.
Jam. Direct us but to him ; we'll bring him with us one
way or other, I warrant you.
Har. Ay, ay, we'll have him with us, though we carry
him on our backs.
Dor. Ha ! revenge inspires me with one of the most ad-
mirable thoughts to punish the cruel churl. [Aside.] He's
reckoned one of the best physicians in the world, especially
for dumbness.
Har. Pray tell me where he lives ?
Dor. You'll never be able to get him out of his own
house ; but, if you watch hereabouts, you'll certainly meet
with him, for he very often amuses himself here with cut-
ting wood.
Jlar. A physician cut wood !
Jam I suppose he apouses himself in searching after
herbs, you mean.
Dor. No, he's one of the most extraordinary men in the
world : he goes dressed like a common clown ; for there is
nothing he so much dreads, as to be known for a physi*cian.
Jam. All your great men have strange oddities about
'em.
Dor. Why, he will suffer himself to be beat, before he
will own himself to be a physician : and I'll give you my
word, you'll never make him own himself one, unless you
both of you take a good cudgel and thrash him with it; 'tis
what we are all forced to do, when we have any need of him.
Jam. What a ridiculous whim is here !
Dor. Very true ; and in so great a man.
Jam. And is he so very skillful a man ?
Dor. Skillful ! why. he does miracles. About half a
year ago, a woman was given over by all her physicians,
nay, it is said, she had been dead some time ; when this
great man came to her, as soon as he saw her, he poured a
little drop of something down her throat, — he had no sooner
done it, than she walked about the room as if there had been
nothing the matter with her.
Both. Oh, prodigious !
Dor. 'Tis not above three weeks ago. that a child of
twelve years old, fell from the top of a house to the bottom.
284 NEW SCHOOL DTALOGURS.
and broke its skull, its arms, and legs. Our physician was
no sooner drubbed into making him a visit, than having
rubbed the child all over with a certain ointment, it got
upon its legs, and ran away to play.
Both. Oh, most wonderful !
Har. Hey ! James, we'll drub him out of a pot of this
omtment.
Jam. But can he cure dumbness ?
Dor. Dumbness ! why, the curate of our parish's wife
was born dumb, and the doctor, they say, with a sort of
wash, washed her tongue till he set it a-going, so that in less
than a month's time she out-talked her husband.
Har. This must be the very man we were sent after.
Dor. Yes, no doubt ; and see, yonder he is.
Ja7n. What, that he, yonder ]
Dor. The very same. — He has spied us, and is taking up
his bill.
Jarn. Come, Harry, don't let us lose one moment. Mis-
tress, your servant ; we give you ten thousand thanks for
this favor.
Dor. Be sure and make good use of your sticks.
Jam. He shan't want for that. [Exeunt.']
Scene 2. — Another part of the Wood.
[JEnter James., Harry ^ and Gregory.]
Greg. Feugh ! 'tis most confounded hot weather. Hey !
who have we here ?
Jam. Sir, your most obedient, humble servant.
Greg. Sir, your servant. \^Boiving.]
Jam. We are mighty happy in finding you here.
Greg. Ay, like enough.
Jam. 'Tis in your power, sir, to do us a very great favor.
We come, sir, to implore your assistance in a certain affair.
G^-eg. If it be in my power to give you any assistance,
masters, I am very ready to do it.
Jam. Sir, you are extremely obliging ; but, dear sir, let
me beg you'd be covered — the sun will hurt your complexion.
Har Oh, do, good sir, do be covered.
Greg These should be footmen, by their dress ; but
courtiers, by their ceremony. [^Aside.]
Jam. You must not think it strange, sir, that we come
thus to seek after you ; men of your capacity will be sought
after by the whole world.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 285
Greg. Truly, gentlemen, though I say it, that should not
say it, I have a pretty good hand at a fagot.
Javi. dear, sir !
Greg You may, perhaps, buy fagots cheaper elsewhere ;
but, if you find such in all this country, you shall have mine
for nothing. To make but one word, then, with you, you
shall have mine for ten shillings a hundred.
Jam. Don't talk in that manner, I desire you
Greg. I could not sell 'em a penny cheaper, if 'twas to
my father.
Jam. Dear sir, we know you very well — don't jest with
us in this manner.
Greg. Faith, master, I am so much in earnest, that I
can't bate one farthing.
Jam. pray, sir. leave this idle discourse. Can a per-
son like you amuse himself in this manner? Can a learned
and famous physician, like you. try to disguise himself to
the world, and bury such fine talents in the woods?
Greg. The fellow's a ninny.
Jam. Let me entreat you, sir, not to dissemble with us.
Har. It is in vain, sir, we know what you are.
Greg. Know what you are ! what do you know of me ?
Jam. Why we know you, sir, to be a very great physician.
Greg. Physician in your teeth ! I a physician !
Jain. The fit is on him. Sir, let me beseech you to con-
ceal yourself no longer, and oblige us to — you know what.
Greg. Know what ! No, sir ; I don't know what. But
I know this, that I'm no physician.
Jam. We must proceed to the usual remedy, I find.
And so you are no physician ?
Greg. No.
Ja7n. You are no physician ?
Greg. No, I tell you.
Jam. Well, if we must, w^e must. [Beats him.]
Greg. Oh ! oh ! Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! what are you
doing ? I am — I'm whatever you'd please to have me !
Jam. Why will you oblige us, sir, to this violence ?
Har. Why will you force us to this troublesome remedy ?
Ja9n. 1 assure you. sir. it gives me a great deal of pain.
Greg. I assure you, sir, and so it does me. But, pray,
gentlemen, what is the reason that you have a mind to make
a physician of me ?
Jam. What! do you deny your being a physician again ?
Greg. To be sure, I do. I am no physician.
286
KEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Har. You are no physician ?
Greg. May 1 be hanged if I am. \Tliey heat him.]
Oh ! oh ! Pear gentlemen ! Oh ! for mercy's sake ! T am
a physician, and an apothecary too, if you'll have me. I
had rather be anything tRan be knocked o' the head.
Jam. Dear sir. I am rejoiced to see you come to your
senses ; I ask pardon ten thousand times for what you have
forced us to.
Greg. Perhaps I am deceived myself and am a physi-
cian without knowing it. But, dear gentlemen, are you
certain I'm a physician ?
Jam. Yes, the greatest physician in the world.
Greg. Indeed !
Ha7. A physician that has cured all sorts of distempers.
Greg. The dickens I have !
Jam. That has made a woman walk about the room
after she was dead six hours.
Har. That set a child upon its legs immediately after it
had broke 'em.
Jarii. That made the curate's wife who was dumb, talk
faster than her husband.
Har. Look ye. sir ; you shall have content ; my master
will give you whatever you will demand.
Greg. Shall I have whatever T will demand ?
Jani. You may depend upon it.
Greg. I am a physician, then, without doubt. I had forgot
COMIC AND AMUSING. 287
it, but I begin to recollect myself Well — and what is the
distemper I am to cure ?
Jam. My young mistress, sir, lias lost her tongue.
Greg. Well, what if she has; do you think I've found
it? But. come gentlemen if I must go with you, I must
have a physician's habit ; for a physician can no more pre-
scribe without a full wig, than without a fee. \Kxeunt,\
Scene 3. — Sir Jasper's House.
[Enter Sir Jasper and, James. \
Sir Jasper. Where is he ? where is he ?
Jam. Only recruiting himself after his journey. You
need not be impatient, sir, for were my young lady dead,
he'd bring her to life again. He makes no more of bring-
ing a patient to life than other physicians do of killing him.
Sir J. 'Tis strange so great a man should have those
unaccountable odd humors you mentioned.
Jam. 'Tis but a good blow or two, and he comes imme-
diately to himself Here he is.
\^Enier Gregory."]
Sir this is the doctor.
Sir J. Dear sir, you are the welcomest man in the world.
Gi'eg. Hippocrates says, we should both be covered.
Sir J. Ha! does Hippocrates say so? In what chapter,
pray?
Grog. In his chapter of hats.
Sir J. Since Hippocrates says so, I shall obey him.
Greg. Doctor, after having exceedingly traveled in the
highway of letters —
Sir J. Doctor! pray whom do you speak to?
Greg. To you, doctor.
Sir J. Ha ! ha ! I am a knight, thank the king's grace
for it ; but no doctor —
Greg. What! you're no doctor?
Sir J. No, upon my word.
Greg. You're no doctor?
Sir J. Doctor ; no.
Greg. There — 'tis done. [Beats him.]
Sir J. Done ! in the name of mischief, what's done ?
Greg. Why, now you are made a doctor of physic.
[Aside.] I am sure it's all the degrees I ever took
Sir J. What bedlamite of a fellow have you brought
here ?
288 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Jam. I told you, sir, the doctor had strange whims with
him
Sir J. Whims, quotha ' Truly ! I shall bind his physi-
cianship over to his good behavior, if he have any more of
these whims.
Greg. Sir, I ask pardon for the Hberty I have taken.
Sir J. Oh ! it's very well ; it's very well, for once.
Greg. I am sorrow for these blows —
Sir J. Nothing at all, nothing at all, sir.
G^'eg. Which I was obliged to have the honor of laying
so thick on you.
Sir J. Let's talk no more of 'em, sir — my daughter, doc-
tor, is fallen into a very strange distemper.
Greg. Sir, I am overjoyed to hear it ; and I wish, with
all my heart, you, and your whole family, had the same oc-
casion for me as your daughter, to show the great desire I
have to serve you.
Sir J. Sir, I am obliged to you.
Greg. 1 assure you, sir, I speak from the very bottom
of my soul.
Sir J. I do believe you, sir, from the very bottom of
mine.
Greg. What is your daughter's name ?
Sir J. My daughter's name is Charlotte.
Greg. Are you sure she was christened Charlotte ?
Sir J. No, sir ; she was christened Charlotta.
Greg. Hum ! I had rather she should have been chris-
tened Charlotte Charlotte is a very good name for a pa-
tient ; and, let me tell you, the name is often of as much
service to the patient as the physician is. Pray, what's the
matter with your daughter? what's her distemper?
Sir J. Why, her distemper, doctor, is, that she has be-
come dumb, and no one can assign the cause — and this dis-
temper, sir, has kept back her marriage
Greg Kept back her marriage ! why so ?
Sir J. Because her lover refuses to have her till she's
cured.
Greg. lud ! was ever such a fool, that would not have
his wife dumb ! Would to heaven my wife was dumb ; I'd
be far from desiring to cure her. Does this distemper op-
press her very much ?
Sir J. Yes, sir.
Greg. So much the better. Has she any great pains?
Sir J. Very great.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 289
Greg. That's just as I would have it. We great physi-
cians know a distemper immediately. I know some of the
college would call your daughter's distemper the Boree, or
the Coupee, or the Sinkee. or twenty other distempers; but
I give you my word sir, your daughter is nothing more
than dumb; so I'd have you be very easy, for there is noth-
ing else the matter with her. If she were not dumb, she
would be as well as I am.
Sir J. But I should be glad to know, doctor, from
whence her dumbness proceeds?
Greg. Nothing so easily accounted for. Her dumbness
proceeds from her having lost her speech.
Sir J. But whence, if you please, proceeds her having
lost her speech ?
Greg. All our best authors will tell you. it is the im-
pediment of the action of the tongue.
Sir J. But, if you please, dear sir. your sentiment upon
that impediment.
Greg. Aristotle has. upon that subject, said very fine
things ; very fine things.
Sir J. I believe it, doctor.
Greg. Ah ! he was a great man ; he was indeed a very
great man, who. upon that subject, was a man that — but, to
return to our reasoning: I hold that this impediment of the
action of the tongue is caused by certain humors, which our
great physicians call - humors — humors — ah! you under-
stand Latin —
Sir J. Not in the least.
Greg. What ! not understand Latin ?
Sir J. No, indeed, doctor.
Greg. Cabricius arci Thurum Cathalimus, Singulariter
non. Haec musa, hie, haec, hoc, Genilivo hujus, hunc, banc,
Musae, Bonus, bona bonum. Estne oratio Latinus? Etiam.
Quia Substantivo et Abjectivum concordat in Greneri, Nume-
rum, et Casus, sic aiunt, prasdicant clamitant, et similibus.
Sir J. Ah ! why did I neglect ray studies \
Jam. What a prodigious man is this !
Greg. Besides sir, certain spirits, passing from the left
side, which is the seat of the liver, to the right, which is the
seat of the heart we find the lungs, which we call in Latin,
Whiskerus, having communication with the brain which we
name in Greek. Jackbootos, by means of a hollow vein,
which we call 'n Hebrew, Periwiggus meet in the road
with the said spirits, which fill the ventricles of the Omota-
S -25
290 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
plasmus, and because the said humors have — you compre-
hend me well sir?- and because the said humors have a
certain malignity — listen seriously, I beg you —
Sir J. I do.
Greg. Have a certain malignity, that is caused — be at-
tentive, if you please -
Sir /. I am.
Greg. That is caused, I say, by the acrimony of the hu-
mors engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm ; thence
it arrives, that these vapors. Propriaque maribus tribuunter,
mascula dicas, Ut sunt divorum. This, sir, is the cause of
your daughter's being dumb.
Jam. 0, that I had but his tongue !
Sir J. It is impossible to reason better, no doubt. But,
dear sir, there is one thing — I always thought till now, that
the heart was on the left side, and the liver on the right.
Greg. Ay, sir. so they were formerly, but w^e have
changed all that. The college at present, sir, proceeds upon
an entire new method.
Sir J. I ask your pardon, sir.
Greg. Oh sir, there's no harm ; you're not obliged to
know so much as we do.
Sir J. Very true ; but, doctor, what would you have
done with my daughter ?
Greg. AVhat would I have done with her? Why, my
advice is, that you immediately put her into a bed warmed
with a brass warming-pan : cause her to drink one quart of
spring water, mixed with one pint of brandy, six Seville
oranges, and three ounces of the best double refined sugar.
Sir J. Why, this is punch, doctor.
Greg. Punch, sir ! Ay. sir ; and what's better than
punch, to make people talk i Never tell me of your juleps,
your gruels — your — your — this, and that and t'other, which
are only arts to keep a patient in hand a long time. I love
to do a business all at once.
Sir J. Doctor, I ask pardon ; you shall be obeyed.
[Gz'w.s money. \
Greg. But hold ! Sir Jasper, let me tell you, it were
not amiss if you yourself took a little lenitive physic : I
shall prepare something for you.
Sir J. Ha ! ha ! ha ! No, no doctor ; I have escaped
both doctors and distempers hitherto, and 1 am resolved the
distemper shall pay me the first visit.
Greg. Say you so, sir ? Why, then, if I can get no
COMIC AND AMUSING. 29 1
more patients here, I must even seek 'em elsewhere and so
humbly beggo te Dominie Domitii veniam goundi foras.
[Exit.]
Sir J. Well, this is a physician of vast capacity, but of
exceeding odd humors. He, no doubt, understands himself,
however, and I have great faith in his prescription. I honor
the learned doctor. \Exeunt.\
XXL— FROM THE WEATHERCOCK.— .^^/m^^am.
OLD FICKLE TraSTRAM FICKLE BRIEFWIT SNEER BARBER.
Scene 1. — A Chamber in Fickle's House.
\Enter Old FicJde and Tristram Fidde7\
Old Fickle. What reputation, what honor, what profit,
can accrue to you. from such conduct as yours ? One mo-
ment you tell me you are going to become the greatest mu-
sician in the world, and straight you fill my house with
fiddlers.
Tristram. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir.
Old F. Then, from a fiddler, you are metamorphosed
into a philosopher ; and for the noise of drums, trumpets and
hautboys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintelligible
than was ever heard at the Tower of Babel.
Tri. You are right, sir. I have found out that philoso-
phy is folly : so I have cut the philosophers of all sects, from
Plato and Aristotle, down to the puzzlers of modern date.
Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper, the other
day, for barreling you up in a large tub, when you resolved
to live like Diogenes ?
Tri. You should not have paid him anything, sir, for the
tub would not hold. You sec the contents are run out.
Old F. No jesting, sir ; this is no laughing matter. Your
tollies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken
the whole round of arts and sciences in a month, and have
been of fiftj^ difierent minds in half an hour.
Tri. And, by that shown the versatility of my genius
Old F. Don't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a lit-
tle steadiness. You ha\ t; never yet been constant to any-
thing but extravagance.
'292 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Tri. Yes, sir, one thing more.
Old F. What is that sir?
Tn Affection for you. Plowever my head may have
wandered, my heart has always been constantly attached
to the kindest of parents ; and from this moment, I am re-
solved to lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of conduct
which will be most pleasing to the best of fathers and of
friends.
Old F. Well said, my boy ! well said ! You make me
happy indeed. [^Patting him on the shoulder.'] Now then,
my dear Tristram, let me know what you really mean to do.
Tri. To study the law —
Old F. The law !
Tri. 1 am most resoliitely bent on following that pro-
fession
Old F. No!
Tri. Absolutely and irrevocably fixed.
Old F Better and better ; I am overjoyed. Why, 'tis
the very thing I wished. Now I am happy. [Tristram
makes gestures as if sjoeaking.'] See how his mind is en-
gaged !
Tri. Gentlemen of the jury —
Old F. Why, Tristram—
7Vi. This is a cause —
Old F. Oh, my dear boy ! I forgive you all your tricks.
I see something about you now that I can depend upon.
[Trisiram continues making gest2ires.'\
Tri. I am for the plaintiff in this cauSe —
Old F. Bravo ! bravo ! excellent boy ! I'll go and order
your books directly.
Tri. 'Tis done sir.
Old F. What ! already ?
Tri. I ordered twelve square feet of books, when I first
thought of embracing the arduous profession of the law.
Old F. What do you mean to read by the foot ?
Tri. By the foot, sir ; that is the only way to become a
solid lawyer
Old F Twelv square feet of learning ! — Well —
Tri. I have likewise sent for a barber —
Old F A barber ! — What ! is he to teach you to shave
close 2
Tri. He is to shave one half of my head. sir.
Old F. You will excuse me if I cannot perfectly under-
stand what that has to do with the study of law.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 203
Tri. Dill you never hear of Demosthenes, sir, the Athe-
nian orator ? Ho had half his head shaved and locked him-
self up in a (-oal cellar.
Old F. Ah ! he was perfectly right to lock himself up,
after having undergone such an operation as that. He cer-
tainly would have made rather an odd figure abroad.
Tri. I think I see him now, awaking the dormant patri-
otism of his countrymen — lightning in his eye, and thunder
in his voice — he pours forth a torrent of eloquence, resistless
in its force — the throne of Philip trembles while he speaks
— he denounces, and indignation fills the bosoms of his hear-
ers — he exposes the impending danger, and every one sees
impending ruin — he threatens the tyrant, they grasp their
swords — he calls for vengeance, their thirsty weapons glitter
in the air, and thousands reverberate the cry. One soul an-
imates a nation, and that soul is the soul of an orator.
Old F Oh ! what a figure he'll make in the King's
Bench! But come, I will tell you now what my plan is,
and then you will see how happy this determination of yours
will further it. — You have [T/istra}?i makes extravagant
gestures as if speaking'\ often heard me speak of my friend
Briefwit, the barrister —
Tri. Who is against me in this cause —
Old F. He is a most learned lawyer —
Tri. But, as I have justice on my side —
Old F. The fellow doesn't hear a word I say ! — Why,
Tristram !
Tri. I beg your pardon, sir; I was prosecuting my
studies.
Old F. Now attend—
Tri. As my learned friend observes, — go on, sir, I am
all attention.
Old F. Well — my friend, the counselor —
Tri. Say my learned friend, if you please, sir. We gen-
tlemen of the law always —
Old F. Well, Avell, my learned friend —
Tri. A black patch ! —
Old F Will you listen, and be silent?
Tri. I am as mute as a judge.
Old F. My friend, I say, has a ward, who is very hand-
some, and who has a very handsome fortune. She would
make you a charming wife.
Tri. This is an action —
Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid tc introduce
294 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
vou to my friend, the barrister, because I thought your
lightness and his gravity —
Tri. Might be plaintiff and defendant.
Old F. But now you are grown serious and steady, and
have resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring
you together: you will obtain his good opinion, and all the
rest follovt^s, of course.
Tri. A verdict in my favor.
Old F. You marry, and sit down happy for life.
Tri. In the king's bench.
Old F. Bravo, ha, ha. ha ! But now run to your study
— run to your study, my dear Tristram, and I'll go and call
upon the counselor.
Tri. I remove by habeas corpus.
Old F. Pray have the goodness to make haste, then.
[Hurrying him of.']
7ri. Gentlemen of the jury, this is a cause -[O/^ Fickle
pushes him off]
Old F The inimitable boy ! I am now the happiest
father living. What genius he has? He'll be lord chan-
cellor one day or other, I dare be sworn — I am sure he has
talents ! Oh, how I long to see him at the bar.
[Enter Servant.]
Servant. Mr. Briefwit, sir. [Exit.]
Old F. Ah, my good friend, Mr. Briefwit !
Briefwit. The aforesaid. [^Shaking hands.]
Old F You are welcome to Whimshall.
- Bri. Whimshall — the locus in quo — good.
Old F This is all right; this gives me an opportunity
of talking to you a little.
Bri. Consult — take an opinion — good.
Old F Come, I'll introduce you to my son. What say
you, sir?
Bri. Good.
Old F Good — ay, I hope so. I have to tell you, that
my son is one of the most serious, studious young men
living,
Bri. Id certum est quod certum reddi potest: vulgarly,
in the proverb, " the proof of the pudding is in the eating."
Old F. Always at his books.
B?'i. Good.
Old F And what now, what, of all things, do you think
employs his mind ? [Briefwit looks at him without speak-
ing.] Come, guess now ; what do you think he reads ?
COMIC AND AMUSING. 295
Bri. lAfter a pause.] Books.
Old F. You are not far from the mark there, old Cau-
tion ; he does read books — he studies the law.
Bri Dat operam legibus Anglke — good
Old F. Ay, I thought you would say so. The law is a
fine profession, is it not ? I am sure I have a specimen be-
fore me of what the law will do for a man.
Bri. Hum ! it will do for a man— good.
Old F. I knew you would be doubly anxious about this
match, between your ward and him, when you heard of his
having embraced that profession.
Bri. Hum !
Old F. Conversalion fatigues you.
Bri. Non liquet — it appeareth not.
Old F. And when you do speak, there's no understand-
ing you. [Aside. Brief ivit reads Ids papers.] A very en-
tertaining companion, truly. Pray, sir, read. out.
Bri. [Looks suspiciously at him, omd pockets Ids papers^
Good.
Old F. So good that you seem determined to keep it all
to yourself. Come, we'll go and see my boy, if you please ;
it's a pity to disturb him though. Oh! he's so studious
5''0u'll be delighted with him — so steady — so like your-
self, he will talk to you in your own way. [Going, he
stojjs.] I beg pardon, the law takes precedence of every
profession.
Bri. Good. [Walks off with great gravity.]
Old F. Very good, indeed. You certainly are one of
the most pleasant, agreeable, facetious, conversable, witty,
and entertaining disciples of Lycurgus that ever wore a wig
with two tails. [Exit.]
Scene 2. — Tristram Fickle's apartment. Musical instruments, books,
glooes, (fee, all about the room, iu disorder. A table, wig block, a law-
yer's gown and wig, a regimental coat, hat, and sword.
[Sneer discovered.]
Sneer. What's here ? Another change ! — Law books ! —
Well, master of mine, how long will you continue in this
mind 1 A gown and wig too ! Why, here's a lawyer's
whole stock in trade and we may open shop immediately.
Here he is, as grave as a judge, already, I declare.
[ Enter Tristram. ]
Tri. The law ! By the law, how many men reach the
highest preferment !
296 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Sne That they do: the gallows, for instance.
Tri Yes; I will study the law.
Sne Ah, sir, you must go through a great many trials
then.
Tri. I am convinced that I possess great powers of ora
tory ; I'll prove it to you, Sneer. Now, you fancy yourself
a judge.
Sne. No, I don't, indeed, sir.
Tri. I mean that you are to personate a judge: to act
the part of a judge.
Sne. I am afraid I shall do it very badly.
Tri. I will try you.
Sne. No; if I am to be the judge, I must try you.
[^Goes to the back of the stage^ and brings fo^nvard an arm-
chair.']
Tri. Silence in the court. Now you are a judge — I am
a barrister, going to plead before you. These {pointing to
the audience] are the gentlemen of the jury. That wig
block; opposite, is my opponent. [Puts on his gown and
wig.]
Sne. Stop, sir, one moment, if you please. If I am to
be a judge, I must have a wig, too ; for what's a judge with-
out a wig ? [Fetching a white handkerchief from the table ]
He's a soldier without arms, a baker without an oven, or an
apothecary without a cane ! Now if you can fancy me a
judge, you can fancy this my wig. [Throwing tJie hand-
kerchief over his head J and sitting down in a chair.'] Now,
let the cause proceed.
Tri. My lord, my lord, the cause to which I have the
honor of claiming your lordship's attention, is a cause which
most materially interests all orders of society, inasmuch as
it is the cause of violent heats, perpetual broils, and smok-
ings and roastings without number. The cau.se of all these,
my lord, is coals, as I will take upon myself by many wit-
nesses of unquestionable veracity, to prove to your lordship's
entire satisfaction. Coals, my lord, are brought all the way
from Newcastle for the purpose of increasing the domestic
comforts of the inhabitants of this great city, and parts ad-
jacent. But, my lord, I believe no man will be found bold
enough to stand up in your lordship's presence, and declare
that it is conducive to the comforts of an inhabitant of this
great city, or any of the parts adjacent, as aforesaid, that
the cinders ashes, refuse, or dust, to which these coals are
burnt should be thrown into their eyes, to deprive them of
COMIC AND AMUSING. 207
one of the choicest faculties of their nature. No, my lord ,
better far that these coals were left in the pits from whence
they are du^ — better that the hands which dig them should
drop off— better that the ships which bring them should
founder — better that the wagons on which they are drawn
should be burnt — better that the fires which consume them
should be quenched, than an inhabitant of this great city
should have his eyes put out by ashes, and, ah ! ignoble
thought ! his mouth made into a dust hole.
Sne. Very fine, indeed, sir. Making a dust hole of a
man's mouth, is as fine an idea as ever came into a man's
head.
Tri. Then you allow that I am qualified for the law ?
Sne. Qualified ! 1 should have thought you had been at
it all your life. Why, sir. that speech convinces me that
you are able to confound all the judges and jurors that ever
sat in Westminster Hall. You see, sir, your opponent here,
[^pointing to tJie wig block.'] has not a word to say for him-
self.
Tri. Oh ! blessed moment when the dustman almost
blinded me: 'tis to that circumstance I owe the discovery
of my talents for the bar.
Sne. Ay, sir ! At the bar you must look to have dust
thrown in your eyes sometimes.
Tri. Yes, I am determined no power on earth shall
make me change my mind.
Sne. So you have often said before. .
298 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Tri. Never so firmly as I do now. I am now mosl
absolutely resolved. How do I look in this dress, Sneer?
Sne. But queerish, I think, sir.
Tri. That's awkward, particularly as I am to be a lover.
Fetch the looking-glass. [Sneer brings the glass.'\ I wish
it was the custom to plead in the old Ptoman toga. These
trappings are rather ridiculous. [Looks in the glass.'] Oh,
hang it, I may gain a suit in Westminster Hall, but I shall
never gain a suit with the fair.
Sne. No ; you must give that suit over, if you are to be
suited so. [Takes the looking-glass to the table.]
Tri. Give it over ! rather let Westminster Hall be in
flames, or inundated again. What do you think of the stage,
Sneer ?
Sne. Admirable ! Your person and features must strike.
T'ri. In Romeo.
S'fie. Excellent !
Tri. Take the gown and wig. [Throivs them off.]
Sne. [Puts them on fantastically.] Brief, let me be.
Tri. Now, my good fellow, do stand up for Juliet.
Sne. I'm well dressed for the part !
Tri. Here, take this stool, and get upon it. [Sneer gets
upon the stool.] " See how she leans her cheek upon her
hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I
might taste that cheek. Ah ! she speaks — yet she says
nothing."
Sne. Not a syllable. Come, I wish you would make
haste and get in at the window, for I can't hold out any
longer.
Tri. Come down, then, and I'll try a soliloquy. [Sneer
descends from the stool ^ and 'puts doivn the gown and tvig.]
'• I do remember an apothecary" —
Sne. Oh, hang him, so do I ; he blistered and bled me
till he made me as thin as a broomstick. I have reason to
remember him.
2'ri. An apothecary — physic. How do you like physic,
Sneer?
Sne. Not at all, sir. The sight of a phial, pill-box, or
gallipot, is enough to throw me into a fever at any time.
7Vi. And yet, if you had at this moment a most horrible
colic, and I were a physician, and were to come to you, thus,
and after feeling your pulse and shaking my head, were to
tell you that you had not half an hour to live, what would
you say then 1
COMIC AND AMUSING. 299
Sne. Why, if I had the colic, I should make no scruple
of calling out for a dram.
Tri. Imagine j^ourself this moment at death's door. 1
am a physician — T am sent for in haste— I arrive— I judge
of your symptoms — I bleed you. Pull off your coat, and
let me bleed you. [^Takcs Sncer^s hand.\
Sne. No, sir ; we may as well fancy it, if you please.
Tri. Well, I bleed you — you mend from that moment —
in a few days you recover — you look on me with gratitude —
you are a nobleman, or a minister of state — you patronize
me — the whole town follows me — I have so much business
I can't get through it — I have scarcely time to eat my meals,
or take my needful rest Egad ! that would be very un-
comfortable, though.
Hue. Oh, very, sir. Only think — just as you are sitting
down to a fine dmner. with a keen appetite, Alderman Goble-
well is taken with a fit of the gout in the stomach, and must
be cured before you eat a morsel.
Tri. Oh, I could never bear it ; " throw physic to the
dogs, I'll none of it I" One might just as well go for a sol-
dier.
Sne. Ay, and live on gunpowder.
Tri. A soldier ! a general ! Alexander thei Great, Han-
nibal,. Pompey, Julius Caesar, Wolfe, Abercrombie, Welling-
ton ! These are great names — they cut a figure in the page
of history. I'll emulate their great example; — glory, re-
nown, honor, everlasting fame ; a warlike fury fills my
breast, and the rage of ten thousand lions swells my bold
heart. \Pulh off his coat and S7iatches a sword. \ Ha ! ha !
[Flourishing his sword. ^
Sne. Mercy on me ! would I were out of his way.
\Aside.'\
Tri. Give me my volunteer coat and hat.
Sne. Here. sir. [^Fearfully, and assisting to put them on.'\
Tri. Now, sir, you are an enemy in the field of battle.
Sne. Who, I, sir 1 No, sir, not I ; you know I'm on your
Bide.
Tri. Rascal ! do you contradict me ? Say you are an
enemy, or I'll cleave you from the crown of your head to
the sole of your foot. [Attacks hi?7i.]
Sne. murder ! murder ! murder ! \_Enter Barber^ ivith
shaving tackle.']
Tri. Ha ! what, another of the enemy ! [^Attacks tlie
Barber.]
iiOO NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Barhe7'. No, sir ; no enemy, sir— I'm only a poor barber,
sir, come to shave your honor's head.
Tri. A barber — vile caitiff! my sword thirsts for noblei
blood than thine. yCiiUthe wig block to pieces.'] Any more
of ye, come on. [E?iter Old Fickle and Briefwit.\ Ha !
more of the enemy ! I'm surrounded ; but I'd cut my way
through them, if there were a million : come on, dastards.
\^AUacks Old Fickle and Briefwit. The Barber runs off.']
Old F. What ! is he mad ^
Bri. Non compos mentis.
Sne. As mad as a bedlamite, sir. [Zhiring this time^
Tristra9)i keeps attacking Brief ivit^ Old Fickle^ and Sneei-.]
Tri. I am defeated, routed, overthrown, and forced to
quit the field ; and now I will do as many a great general
has done before me — retreat. \^Exit.\
Old F. Oh, Tristram ! Tristram !
Bri. Studious — non constat.
Old F. Ah !
Bri. Qiiiet — a false return.
Old F. Oh dear !
Bri. Steady — error in judgment.
Old F Oh, what, you can open your mouth now!
IFxit.]
Bri. Nonsuited — good — move the action out of court
Sne. This poor fellow [the ivig block] is the greatest suf-
ferer ; he has had a terrible thwack on the head, in this af-
fray, though, to my certain knowledge, he never opened his
mouth either on one side or the other. [Exit.]
Bri. [^Making 7nemorandums^ Assault and battery,
sword in hand — Vi et armis, bodily fear — [Looks at his
watch] — four o'clock, P. M. Good ! [Exit.]
Touchstnve. To-morrow i8 the ji^yful day, Aubrey; to-morrow will we i)o mar
ried.— ./2s You lAkc It.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 301
XXIL— FROM THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.— (7o/ma» and
Garrick.
MR. STERLING SIR JOHN MELVILLE.
\_Enter Sterling and Melville.']
Sterling. And now, sir. I am entirely at your service.
What are your commands with me, Sir John ?
Sir John. After having carried the negotiation between
our families to &o great a length ; after having assented so
readily to all your proposals, as well as received so many in-
stances of your cheerful compliance with the demands made
on our part. I am extremely concerned, Mr. Sterling, to be
the involuntary cause oi diUj uneasiness.
Ster. Uneasiness ! what uneasiness ? AVhere business
is transacted as it ought to be. and the parties understand
one another, there can be no uneasiness. You agree, on such
and such conditions, to receive my daughter for a wife ; on
the same conditions, I agree to receive you as a son-in law ;
and as to all the rest, it follows of course, you know, as reg-
ularly as the payment of a bill, after acceptance.
Sir J. Pardon me, sir, more uneasiness has arisen than
you are aware of I am myself, at this instant, in a state of
inexpressible embarrassment ; Miss Sterling I know, is ex-
tremely disconcerted, too ; and unless you will oblige me
with the assistance of your friendship, I foresee the speedy
progress of discontent and animosity through the whole
family.
Ster. Why ! what is all this? I don't understand a sin-
gle syllable.
Sir J. In one word, then, it will be absolutely impossible
.or me to fulfil my engagements in regard to Miss Sterling
Ster. How, Sir John ! Do you mean to put an affront
upon my family? What, refuse to —
Sir J. Be assured, sir, that I neither mean to affront nor
forsake your family. My only fear is, that you should de-
sert me ; for the whole happiness of my life depends on my
being connected with your family, by the nearest and ten-
derest ties in the world.
Ster. Why, did you not tell m^e but a moment ago, that
it was absolutely impossible for you to marry my daughter '2
Sir J. True. But you have another daughter, sir.
Sler. Well !
26
302 KEW SCHOOL DIALOGUF.R.
Sir J. Who has ol)tained the most absolute dominion
over my heart. I have already declared my passion to her :
nay, Miss Sterling herself is also apprised of it ; and if you
will but give a sanction to my present addresses, the uii
common merit of Miss Sterling will no doubt recommend
her to a person of equal, if not superior rank to myself; and oui
families may still be allied by my union with Miss Fanny.
Ster. Mighty fine, truly ! Why, what the plague do you
make of us, Sir John? Do you come to market for my
daughters, like servants to a statute-fair 1 Do you think
that I will suffer you or any man in the world, to come into
my house, like the grand seignior, and throw the handker-
chief first to one and to t'other, just as he pleases? Do you
think I drive a kind of African slave-trade with thein, and —
Sir J. A moment's patience, sir. Nothing but the ex-
cess of my passion for Miss Fanny, should have induced me
to take any step that had the least appearance of disrespect
to any part of your family : and even now, I am desirous to
atone for my transgression, by making the most adequate
compensation that lies in my power.
Ster. Compensation I what compensation can you possi-
bly make in such a case as this. Sir John ?
Sir J. Come, come, Mr. Sterling, I know you to be a man
of sense, a man of business, a man of the world. I'll deal
frankly with you ; and you shall see that T don't desire a
change of measures for my own gratification, without en-
deavoring to make it advantageous to you.
Ster. What advantage can your inconstancy be to me,
Sir John ?
Sir J. I'll tell you, sir. You know that by the articles
at present subsisting between us, on the day of my marriage
with Miss Sterling, you agree to pay down the gross sum of
eighty thousand pounds.
Ster Well !
Sir J. Now, if you will but consent to my waiving that
marriage —
Ster. 1 agree to your waiving that marriage ! Impossi-
ble, Sir John ! Impossible !
Sir J. I hope not, sir, as, on my part, I will agree to
waive my right to thirty thousand pounds of the fortune I
was to receive with her.
Ster. How! how! Thirty thousand, d'ye say?
Sir J. Yes, sir ; and accept of Miss Fanny with fifty
thousand, instead of fourscore.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 808
Ster. Fifty thousand — [rausing.']
Sir J. Instead of fourscore
Ster. Why, why, there may be something- in that. Let
me see. Fanny with fifty thousand, instead of Betsey with
fourscore. Let me see. Why. to do you justice, Sir John,
there is something fair and open in your proposal ; and since
I find you do not mean to put an affront upon the family —
Sir J. Nothing- was ever farther from my thoughts, Mr.
Sterling. And after all, the whole affair is nothing extraor-
dinary ; such things happen every day; and as the world
has only heard generally of a treaty between the families,
when this marriage takes place, nobody will be the wiser, if
we have but discretion enough to keep our own counsel.
Ster. True, true ; and since you only transfer from one
girl to the other, it is no more than transferring so much
stock, you know.
Sir J. Exactly ! The very thing I
Ster. Odso ! I had quite forgot. We are reckoning with-
out our host here. There is another difficulty.
Sir J You alarm me. What can that be ?
Ster. I can't stir a step in this business, without consult-
ing my sister, Heidelburg. The family has very great ex-
pectations from her, and we must not give her any offense.
Sir J. But if you come into this measure, surely she will
be so kind as to consent. ^
Ster. I don't know that ; Betsey's her darling., and I
can't tell how far she may resent any slight that seems to
be offered to her favorite niece. However, I'll do the best I
can for you. You shall go and break the matter to her first ,
and by the time I may suppose that your rhetoric has pre-
vailed on her to listen to reason, I will step in to reinforce
your arguments.
Sir J. I'll fly to her immediately. You promise me your
assistance ?
Ster. I do.
Sir J. Ten thousand thanks for it ' And, oh ! success
attend me. [Going.']
Ster. Hark ye, Sir John ! [Sir John returns.^ Not a
word of the thirty thousand pounds, to my sister.
Sir J 0, I am dumb, I am dumb, sir, depend on't.
YGoing.]
Ster. You'll remember it is thirty thousand ?
Sir J To be sure I do.
Ster. But, Sir John ! one thing more. \Sir John re
V.'
304 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
turns.] My lord must know nothing of this stroke of
friendship between us.
Sir J. Not for the world ! Let me alone ! let me alone
for that ! {^Offering to go.\
Ster. [Holding him.] And when everything is agreed,
we must give each other a bond to be held fast to the bargain.
Sir J. To be sure. A bond, by all means ; a bond, oi
whatever you please. \^Exit kast/Uy.']
Ster. I should have thought of more conditions. He's in
a humor to give me everything. Why, what mere children
are your fellows of quality ; they cry for a plaything one
minute, and throw it by the next ! As changeable as the
weather, and as uncertain as the stocks. Special fellows to
drive a iDargain ! and yet they are to take care of the inte-
rest of the nation, truly ! Here does this whirligig man of
fashion offer to give up thirty thousand pounds in hard mo-
ney, with as much indifference as if it were a China orange,
or a sugar-plum. By this mortgage, I shall have a hold on
his terra firma: and if he wants more money, as he certainly
will, let him have children by my daughter or no, I shall
have his whole estate in a net for the benefit of my family.
Well, thus it is, that the children of citizens who have ac-
quired fortunes, prove persons of fashion ; and thus it is, that
persons of fashion, who have ruined their fortunes, reduce
the next generation to cits. \^Exit.'\
XXIir.— FROM EDUCATIOK— ifor^on.
DAMPER TEMPLETON MRS. TEMPLETON SERVANT.
[^Enter Mr. Damper and Servant.]
Damper. Is Mr. Templeton within ?
Servant. I'll thank you for your name, sir.
Damp Mr. Damper.
Serv. He is not, sir.
Damp. F'ogh, pogh ! I'm his intimate friend.
Serv. no, sir, there you'll pardon me. I keep a most
accurate list of my master's friends. [Showing a list.]
Bujnp. Indeed ! a convenient sort of reference ; for, to
know friends, as times go, is no very easy mattej*. Hark
COMIC AND AMUSING. 306
you, fellow, tell your master that Mr. Damper, from Lom-
bard-street, a stranger to his present fashionable nomencla-
ture, but one who formerly was in his books, insists on see-
ing him instantly.
Serv. Sir, I shall give in your name : but making speech-
es is not in my department.
Damp. Indeed ! then I presume you are what is called
a figure footman, and hired by measure — \Servant boivs] —
six feet of more accomplished assurance I never looked up to.
Serv. You are pleased ^to flatter.
Damp. But if the distance across your shoulders was not
included in the estimate, here is a measure [shoiaing his
cane] which will in one moment ascertain it, unless you ex-
actly obey my orders. \Exit Servant.'] Bad memories, in-
deed, when friends cannot be remembered without a book.
When in London, and in active life, he was above these mod-
ern fopperies. But a young, gay wife, sadly alters your
middle-aged gentleman.
[Enter Mr. Templetoti and Servant.]
Damp. Templeton ! I'm heartily glad to see you.
Templeton. What ! My old partner. Damper ! welcome,
thrice welcome, my worthiest friend.
Damp. [To Servant.] Do you hear that, puppy? his
worthiest friend ! book me this instant, or I'll cane you.
[Exit Servant.] You look tolerably hearty and cheerful —
but—
Tern. But ! oh, old Damper still, I see. When will you
leave your vile buts. and doubts and perhapses 1
Damp. When my friend's conduct no longer requires
them. But, you are married again, I hear.
I'em. Yes, I have tried it once more — but —
Damp. But what, pray ?
Tern. I have got a wife who has had a perverted modern
education ; for in our stylish manufactories of female attain-
ments, the muses and graces so struggle for precedency, that
the unassuming domestic virtues are jostled into a corner
and from this telescope of fashion issues an abundant supply
of female poets, attitudinarians. philosophizing daughters,
waltzing wives, and infidel mothers.
Damp. The effects on Mrs. Templeton —
Te7)i. Are an active taste for expense, with a decided
aversion to all household duties ; and thus, while we abound
in economical theories, we are ruined by unthrifty practices.
So that in Mrs. Templeton's room you may see the ' Lady's
306
NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Best Companion" entombed in the dust it aims to sweep
away, and a satirical spider has drawn his web over the
'• Complete Housewife."' But here she comes ; you shall see
for yourself.
Mrs. Templeton. [WiihoiU.] Pray don't tease me now ;
tell them all to be sure and come to-morrow. [Eitters] My
dear Mr. Templeton, you will be delighted with the guest
your son Vincent has introduced. Such commanding tal-
ents, such superior taste. He has found fault with every-
thing he has seen, and has pronounced the house and grounds
so detestable, that I can't endure the sight of them.
7hn. I ought to be much obliged to him.
Mrs. T. We've laid such delightful plans. The house
is to come down, the farm to be parked, and the meadows
to be put under water. Now, my love, you'll have no trou-
ble, but —
Tern. The trouble of paying for it.
Mrs. T. 0, but he says people of fashion never think of
that. So I shall give orders to begin.
Tern. When, my dear?
Mrs. T. 0, to morrow. But who is that old man ?
Tern. My late partner. And I am happy to afford you
the gratification of making welcome my friend Damper.
Mrs. T. I have never seen his name on our list ; but my
tall man is shockingly inaccurate. Do you know, last win-
ter, sir, he told me I was quite intimate with Lady Para-
mount; but on making her a visit the old Goth denied ever
having heard of me. But I must away. I've a thousand
things to arrange for to-morrow. I hope I may look forward,
sir. to a long visit. [ExU]
Damp. Bid your house of the new-comer immediately.
Here is another instance of the blessed effects of modern
education, which has armed every witling with the weap-
ons of personal satire. For now, cities are visited, tours
are made, not to paint the world's beauties, but to caricature
its pitiable deformities ; not to cull the sweets of nature, but
to collect the poison of defamation ; not to bestow instruc-
tion, but to purvey the insatiable appetite of slander, and
teach the rising generation to prey on garbage. [Exeunt.]
COMIC AND AMUSING. 30*1
XXIV.— FROM THE SCHOOL FOR SCA-^ J) AL.—Sheridan.
SIP*. PETER TEAZLE LADY TEAZLE. ''
Sir Peter Teazle. When an old bachelor marries a young
wife, what is he to expect ? 'Tis not above six months since
my Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men, and I have
been the most miserable dog ever since. We tifted a little
going to church, and fairly quarreled before the bells were
done ringing. In less than a month, I was nearly choked
with gall, and had lost every satisfaction in life before my
friends had done wishing me joy. 1 am laughed at by her,
and made the jest of all my acquaintance. And yet, the worst
of it is, I am afraid I love her. or I should never bear all
this ; but I am determined never to be weak enough to let
her know it. But here she comes apparently in mighty
good humor ; I wish I could tease her into loving me a
little
\^Enter Lady Teazle.']
Lady Teazle. What's the matter, Sir Peter ? You seem
to be out of humor.
Sir P. Ah ! Lady Teazle, it is in your power to put me
in good humor at any time.
L. Teaz. Is it ? Vn\ glad of it, for I want you to be in
a monstrous good humor now. Come, do be good humored
and let me have a hundred pounds.
Sir P. What the plague ! Can't I be in good humor
without, paying for it i But look always thus, and you
shall have two hundred pounds. Be satisfied with that sum
now, and you shall not much longer have it in your power
to reproach me for not making you a proper settlement. I
intend shortly to surprise you.
L. Teaz. Do you ? You can't think. Sir Peter, how
good humor becomes you. Now you look just as you did
beibre I married you.
Sir P. Do I, indeed ?
L. Teaz. Don't you remember when you used to walk
with me under the elms and tell me stories of what a gal-
lant you were in your youth and asked me if I could like
an old fellow who could deny me nothing ?
Sir P. Ay, and you were so attentive and obliging to
me then.
L. Teaz. To be sure I was, and used to take your part
308 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
against all my acquaintance ; and when my cousin Mary
used to laugh at me for thinking of marrying a man old
enough to be my father, and call you an ugly, stiff, formal
old bachelor, I contradicted her, and said I did not think
you so ugly by any means and that I dared say you would
make a good sort of a husband.
Si?' P. That was very kind of you. Well, and you were
not mistaken; you have found it so, have not you? But
shall we always live thus happy?
L. Teaz. With all my heart. I don't care how soon we
leave off quarreling, provided you will own you are tired
first.
Sir F. With all my heart.
L. Teaz. Then we shall be as happy as the day is long,
and never, never, never quarrel more.
Sir P. Never, never, never : and let our future contest
be. who shall be most obliging.
L. Teaz. Ay!
Sir P. But, my dear Lady Teazle, my love, indeed you
must keep a strict watch over your temper, for you know,
my dear, that in all our disputes and quarrels, you always
begin first.
L. Teaz. No, no, my dear Sir Peter, 'tis always you that
begin.
Sir P. No, no, no such thing.
L. Teaz. Have a care ; this is not the way to live happy,
if you fly out thus.
Sir P. No. no, 'tis you.
L. Teaz. No, 'tis you.
Sir P. Madam, I say 'tis you.
L. Teaz. Law ! I never saw such a man in my life ; just
what my cousin Mary told me.
Sir P. Your cousin Mary is a forward, saucy, imperti-
nent minx.
Li. Teaz. You are a very great bear to abuse my rela-
tions.
Sir P. But I am well enough served for marrying you,
a pert, forward, rural coquette, who had refused half the
honest squires in the country.
L Teaz. I am sure I was a great fool for marrying you,
a stiff old bachelor, who was unmarried at fifty, because no-
body would have you.
Sir P. You were very glad to have me ; you never had
such an offer before.
COMIC A\D AMUSIXG. i^09
L. Teaz. yes I had : there was Sir Tivey Terrier,
whose estate was full as good as yours and he has broken
his neck since we were married.
S>ir P. Very well very well, madam, you're an ungrate-
ful woman: and may plagues light on me if I ever try to
be friends with you again ; you shall have a separate main-
tenance.
L. Teaz. By all means a separate maintenance.
Sir P. Very well, madam ; oh, very well. Ah, madam,
you shall rue this — I'll have a divorce.
L Teaz. A divorce !
Sir P. Ay, madam ; I'll make an example of myself
for the benefit of all old bachelors.
L. Teaz. Well well, Sir Peter ; be it so. I see you are
going to be in a passion, so I'll leave you ; and when you
come properly to your temper, we shall be the happiest cou-
ple in Yhe world, and never, never, never quarrel more.
[Exeunt. '\
XXV. — Cihher and Vanhurg.
LADY GRACE LADY TOWNLY.
Lady Townly. Oh, my dear Lady Grace ! how could
you leave me so unmercifully alone all this while !
Lady Grace. I thought my lord had been with you.
Lady T. Why yes — and therefore I wanted your relief;
for he has been in such a fluster here —
Lady G. Bless me ! for what ^
Lady T. Only our usual breakfast; we have each of
us had our dish of matrimonial comfort this morning — we
have been charming company.
Lady G. I am mighty glad of it: sure it must be a vast
happiness when man and wife can give themselves the same
turn of conversation !
Lady T. Oh the prettiest thing in the world !
Lady G. Now I should be afraid, that where two peo-
ple are every day together so, they must often be in want
of something to talk upon
Lady T. Oh. my dear you are the most mistaken in
I>10 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
the world ! Married people have things to talk of, child,
that never entered into the imagination of others. Why,
here's my lord and I. now, we have not been married above
two short years, you know, and we have already eight or
ten things constantly in bank, that whenever we want com-
pany, we can take up any one of them for two hours to-
gether, and the subject never the flatter ; nay, if we have
occasion for it, it will be as fresh next day too, as if it was
the first hour it entertained us.
Lady G. Certainly that must be vastly pretty.
Lady T. Oh, there's no life like it ! Why, t'other day
for example, when you dined abroad, my lord and I, after a
pretty cheerful tele a tele meal, sat us down by the fireside,
in an easy, indolent, pick-tooth Rind of way, for about a
quarter of an hour, as if we had not thought of any others
being in the room. At last, stretching himself and ^yawn-
ing — My dear, says he — aw — you came home very late last
night. 'Twas but just turned of two, says I. I was in bed
— aw — by eleven, says he. 80 you are every night, says I.
Well, says he. I am amazed you can sit up so late. How
can you be amazed, says I, at a thing that happens so often %
Upon which we entered into a conversation : and though
this is a point that has entertained us above fifty times al-
ready, we always find so many pretty new things to say
upon it, that I believe it will last as long as we live.
Lady G. But pray, in such sort of family dialogues,
(though extremely well for passing the time.) doesn't there
now and then enter some little witty sort of bitterness?
Lady T. Oh, yes ! which does not do amiss at all. A
smart repartee, with a zest of recrimination at the head of
il, makes the prettiest sherbet. Ay, ay. if we did not mix
a little of the acid with it, a matrimonial society would be
so luscious, that nothing but a sentimental old prude would
be able to bear it.
Jjady G. Well, certainly you have the most elegant
(aste —
Lady T. Though, to tell you the truth, my dear. I rather
think we sque(>zed a little too much lemon into it this bout ;
for it grew so sour at last that, I think, I almost told him
he was a fool : and he again talked something oddly of—
turning me out of doors.
Lady G. Oh ' have a care of that.
Ijady T. Nay. if he should, I may thank my own wise
father foi it
COMIC AND AMUSING. 311
Lady G. How so ?
Lady T. Why, when my good lord first opened his hon-
')rable trenches before me, my unaccountable papa, in whose
hands I then was, gave me up at discretion.
Lady G. How do you mean ?
Lady T. He said the wives of this age were come to
that pass, that he would not desire even his own daughter
should be trusted with pin money ; so that my whole train
of separate inclinations are left entirely at the mercy of a
husband's odd humors.
Lady G. Why, that, indeed, is enough to make a woman
of spirit look about her.
Lady T. Nay, but to be serious, my dear, what would
you really have a woman do in my case 1
Lady G. W^hy, if I had a sober husband, as you have,
I would make myself the happiest woman in the world, by
being as sober as he.
Lady T. Oh. you wicked thing ! how can you tease one
at this rate, when you know he is so very sober, that (ex-
cept giving me money) there is not one thing in the world
he can do to please me ? And I. at the same time, partly
by nature, and partly perhaps by keeping the best company,
do with my soul love almost everything he hates. I doat
upon assemblies ; my heart bounds at a ball ; and at an op-
era, I expire. Then. I love play to distraction; cards en-
chant me, and dice put "me out of my little wits — dear, dear
hazard ! — Oh. what a flow of spirits it gives one ! — Do you
never play at hazard, child ?
Lady G. Oh, never! I don't think it sits well upon
women; there's something so masculine, so much the air
of a rake in it. You see how it makes the men swear ;
and when a woman is thrown into the same passion —
why—
Lady T. That's very true ; one is a little put to it, some-
times, not to make use of the same words to express it.
I^ady G. Well — and. upon ill luck, pray what words are
you really forced to make use of?
Lady T. Why. upon a very hard case, indeed, when a
sad, wrong word, is rising just to one's tongue's end, I give
a great gulp and swallow it.
I^idy G. AVell — and is it not enough to make you for-
swear play as long as you live ?
Lady T. Oh. yes ; I have often forsworn it.
Lady G. Seriously?
812 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Lady T. Solemnly, a thousand times ; but then one is
constantly forsworn.
Lady G. And how can you answer that ?
Lady T. My dear, what we say. when we are loser, we
look upon to be no more binding than a lover's oath, or a
great man's promise. But I beg pardon, child ; T should
not lead you so far into the world; you are a prude, and
design to live soberly.
Lady G. Why, I confess my nature and my education
do in a good degree incline me that way.
Lady T. Well, how a woman of spirit (for you don't
want that, child.) can dream of living soberly, is to me in-
conceivable; for you will marry, I suppose?
Lady G. I can't tell, but I may.
Lady T. And won't you live in town %
Lady G. Half the year. I should like it very well.
Lady T. My stars ! and you would really live in Lon-
don half the year, to be sober in it ?
Lady G. Why not?
Lady T. Why, can't you as well go and be sober in
the country ?
Lady G. So I would — t'other half year.
I^ady T. And, pray, what comfortable scheme of life
would you form now for your summer and winter sober en-
tertainments?
Lady G. A scheme that I think might very well con-
tent us.
Lady T. Oh, of all things, let's hear it.
Lady G. Why, in summer, I could pass my leisure
hours in riding, in reading, walking by a canal, or sitting
at the end of it under a great tree; in dressing, dining,
chatting with an agreeable friend ; perhaps hearing a little
music, taking a dish of tea. or a game of cards, soberly;
managing my family, looking into its accounts, playing
with my children, if I had any; or in a thousand other in-
nocent amusements — soberl : and possibly, by these means.
I might induce my husband to be as sober as myself
Lady T. Well my dear thou art an astonishing crea-
ture ! for sure such primitive antediluvian notions of life
have not been in any head these thousand years. — Under a
great tree ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — But I beg we may have the sober
town-scheme, too, for I am charmed with the country one
Lady G. You shall and I'll try to stick to my sobriety
there, too.
COMIC AND AMUSING. -^13
Lady T. Well, though I am sure it will give me the va-
pors, I must hear it.
Lady G. Why, then, for fear of your fainting, madam,
I will first so far come into the fashion, that I would never
be dressed out of it — but still it should be soberly; for I
can't think it any disgrace to a woman of my private for-
tune, not to wear her lace as fine as the wedding suit of a
first duchess : though there is one extravagance I would
venture to come up to.
Lady T. Ay, now for it —
Lady G. I would every day be as clean as a bride.
Lady T. Why, the men say that's a great step to be
made one. Well, now you are dressed pray let's see to what
purpose !
Lady G. I would visit — that is, my real friends ; but as
little for form as possible. I would go to court; sometimes
to an assembly ; nay, play at quadrille — soberly. I would
see all the good plays ; and, because 'tis the fashion, now
and then go to an opera ; but I would not expire there — for
fisar 1 should never go again ; and lastly, I can't say, but for
curiosity, if I liked my company, I might be drawn in once
to a masquerade ; and this, I think, is as far as any woman
can go — soberly.
Lady T. Well, if it had not been for that last piece of
sobriety, I was just going to call for some cologne water.
Lady G. Why. don't you think, with the farther aid of
breakfasting, dining, taking the air, supping sleeping, (not
to say a word of devotion ) the four-and-twenty hours might
roll over in a tolerable manner?
Lady T. Tolerable ! Deplorable I Why, child, au you
propose, is but to endure life: now. I want to enjoy it.
DUk. Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds.— The Jipprtntict
•27
iil4 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXVI.— FROM THE SCHOOL FOR Ii.AKES.—Cenmvre.
LORD EUSTACE FRAMPTON.
Lord Eustace. Well, my dear Frampton, have you se-
cured your letters ?
Frampton. Yes, my lord, for their rightful owners.
Lord Bust. As to the matter of property, Frampton, we
will not dispute much about that. Necessity, you know,
may sometimes render a trespass excusable.
Pram. I am not casuist sufficient to answer you upon
that subject ; but this I know, that you have already tres-
passed against the Jaws of hospitality and honor, in youi
conduct towards Sir William Evans and his daughter. And
as your friend and counselor both, I would advise you to
think seriously of repairing the injuries you have committed,
and not increase your offense by a farther violation.
Lord Eust. It is actually a pity you were not bred to
the bar. Ned ; but I have only a moment to stay, and am
all impatience to know if there be a letter from Langwood,
and what he says.
Fram. I shall never be able to afford you the least infor-
mation upon that subject my lord.
Lord Eust. Surely, I do not understand you ! You said
you had secured the letters. Have you not read them?
Fram. You have a right, and none but you, to ask me
such a question. My weak compliance with your first pro-
posal, relative to these letters warrants your thinking so
meanly of me. But know my lord that though my per-
sonal affection for you joined to my unhappy circumstances,
may have betrayed me into actions unworthy of myself, I
never can forget that there is a barrier fixed before the ex-
treme of baseness, which honor will not let me pass.
Lord Eust. You will give me leave to tell you. Mr.
l^rampton, that where I lead, I think you need not halt.
Fram. You will pardon me, my lord ; the consciousness
of another man's errors, can never be a justification of our
own : and poor indeed must that wretch be. who can be
satisfied with the negativemerit, of not being the worst man
he knows.
Lord Eust. If this discourse were uttered in a conventi-
cle, it might have its effect by setting the congregation to
sleep
COMIC AND AMUSING. 31i>
J^>ar}v. It is rather meant to rouse, than hill your lord-
ship
Jj)r(I Eust. No matter what it is meant for ; give me
the letters, Mr. Frampton.
Fravi Yet excuse me ; I could as soon think of arming*
a madman's hand against my own life, as suffer you to be
guilty of a crime that will forever wound your honor.
Lord Eust. I shall not come to you to heal my wound :
your medicines are too rough and coarse for me.
Pram. The soft poison of flattery might perhaps please
you better.
Lord Eust. Your conscience may probably have as much
need of palliatives as mine Mr. Frampton ; as I am pretty
well convinced, that your course of life has not been more
regular than my own.
Fravi. With true contrition, my lord, I confess part of
your sarcasm to be just. Pleasure was the object of my
pursuit : and pleasure I obtained, at the expense both of
health and fortune ; but yet my lord, I broke not in upon
the peace of others ; the laws of hospitality I never violated.
Lord Eif.st. You may. perhaps, have cause to repent
your present conduct. Mr. Frampton, as much as I do our
past attachment.
Fram. Rather than hold your friendship upon such
terms, I resign it forever. Farewell, my lord. [Goes away ^
but immediately returns^ Ill-treated as I have been, I find
it impossible to leave you surrounded by difficulties.
Lord Eust, That sentiment should have operated sooner,
Mr. Frampton. Recollection is seldom of use to our friends,
though it may sometimes be serviceable to ourselves.
Frami. Take advantage of your own expression my lord,
and recollect yourself Born and educated as I have been, a
gentleman, how have you injured both yourself and me. by
admitting and uniting in the same confidence, your rascally
servant !
Lord Eust. The exigency of my situation is a sufficient
excuse to myself and ought to have been so to the man who
called himself my friend.
Fram. Have a care my lord, of uttering the least doubt
upon that subject; for could I think you once mean enough
to suspect the sincerity of m) attachment to you, it must
vanish at that instant.
Lord Eifst. The proofs of your regard have been rather
painful of late Mr Frampton.
316 NEW SCHOOL dialogues.
Fram. When I see my friend upon the verge of a preci-
pice, is that a time for compliment ? Shall I not rudely rush
forward, and drag him from it? Just in that state you are
at present, and I will strive to save you. Virtue may lan-
guish in a noble heart, and suffer her rival, vice, to usurp
her power; but baseness must not enter, or she flies forever
The man who has forfeited his own esteem, thinks all the
world has the same consciousness, and therefore is, what he
deserves to be, a wretch.
Lord Etist. Oh, Frampton ! you have lodged a dagger
in my heart.
Fram. No, my dear Eustace, I have saved you from one,
from your own reproaches, by preventing your being guilty
of a meanness which you could never have forgiven yourself
Lord Bust. Can you forgive me. and be still my friend?
Frain. As firmly as I have ever been, my lord. But let
us, at present, hasten to get rid of the mean business we are
engaged in, and forward the letters we have no right to detain.
XXVII.— FROM THE BEAUX STRATAGEM.— i^arywAar.
BONIFACE AIMWELL.
Boniface. This way. this way. sir.
Ai'tmvell. You're my landlord, I suppose.
Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface ; pretty well known
upon the road, as the saying is.
Aiin. 0, Mr. Boniface, your servant.
Bon. 0, sir. what will your honor please to drink, as the
saying is ?
Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed
for ale : I think 1 11 taste that 1
Bon. Sir. I have now in my cellar, ten ton of the best
ale in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear
as amber and strong as brandy ; and will be just fourteen
years old the fifth day of March next old style.
yhm. You're very exact I find, in the age of your ale.
Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my chil-
dren. I'll show you such ale! — Here tapster, broach num
ber 1706. as the saying is — Sir you shall taste my anno
COMIC AXD AMUSING. 3 17
dommi. I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy above
eight-and-fifty years, and, I believe, have not consumed
eight-and-fifly ounces of meat.
Aim. At a meal, you mean, if any one may guess by
your bulk.
Bo?i. Not in my life, sir ; I have fed purely upon my
ale : I have ate my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep
upon ale. [^Enter tapster.^ with a tankard.] Now, sir, you
shall see: — your worship's health. [Driitks.^ Ha! deli-
cious, delicious I Fancy it Burgundy ; only fancy it — and
'tis worth ten shillings a quart.
Aim. \^Drinks.'\ 'Tis confounded strong.
Bon. Strong ! It must be so, or how should we be
strong that drink it ? *
Aiin. And have you lived so long upon this ale. landlord 1
Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it
killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is
Aim. How came that to pass ?
Bon. I don't know how, sir. She was for qualifying it
every now and then, with a dram, as the saying is; and an
honest gentleman that came this way, from Ireland, made
her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh ; but the poor
woman was never well after ; but, however, I was obliged
to the gentleman you know.
Aim. Why. was it the usquebaugh that killed her ?
Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so ; she good lady, did
what could be done : she cured her of three tympanies ; but
the fourth carried her off. But she's happy, and I'm con-
tented, as the saying is.
Aim. Who is that Lady Bountiful, you mentioned 1
Bon. Odds my life, sir, we'll drink her health. [^DrinJcs.]
My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last
husband. Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand
pounds a year; and 1 believe she lays out one half on't in
charitable uses for the good of her neighbors.
Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her
generation ?
Bon. Yes. sir. she had a daughter by Sir Charles— the
finest woman in all our country, and the, greatest fortune.
She has a son. too. by her first husband. Squire Sullen, who
married a fine lady from London t'other day ; if you please,
sir, we'll drink his health. [^Drinks.']
Aim,. What sort of a man is he ?
Bon: Why. sir. the man's well enough ; says little thinks
27*
318 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
less, and does — nothing at all, faith ; but he's a man of great
estate, and values nobody.
Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ?
Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure ; he plays at whist and
smokes his pipe eight and-forty hours together, somotimes
Ami. Fine sportsman^ truly I— and married, you say i'
Bon. Ay ; and to a curious woman, sir — But he's my
landlord ! and so a man, you know, would not Sir, my
humble service to you [Di-inks.] Though I value not a
farthing what he can do to me : I pay him his rent at quar-
ter-day : I have a running trade- I have but one daughter,
and can give her no matter for that.
Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface : pray, what other
company have you in town ? *
Bon. A power of fine ladies ; and then we have the
French officers.
Aim. 0, that's right ; you have a good many of those
gentlemen. Pray, how do you like their company ?
Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had
many more of them. They're full of money, and pay dou
ble for everything they have. They know, sir, that we paid
good round taxes for taking of 'em ; and so they are willing
to reimburse us a little : one of 'em lodges in my house.
[Bell rings.] I beg your worship's pardon — I'll wait on
you again in half a minute. lExeunt.]
XXVIII— FROM NOLENS VOLENS.— ZTa//.
SIR CHRISTOPHER QUIZ.
[Note. — Sir Christopher is an elderly gentleman, who has a son at col-
lege, against whom he is much enraged for having fallen prematurely in
love. Quiz, under the assumed name of " Blackletter," personates a pro-
fessor of languages, having come for the purpose of pacifying Sir Chris-
topher, and thus to obtain money for the son.]
Sir Christopher. And so, friend Blackletter, you are just
come from college ?
Quiz. Yes, sir.
Sir Ch. Ah, Mr. Blackletter, I once loved the name of
a college, until my son proved so worthless.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 310
Quiz. In the name of all the literati, what do you mean I
You fond of books, and not bless your stars in giving you
sucn a son !
^ir Cf'i. Ah, sir, he was once a youth of promise. — But
do you know him ?
Quiz. What ! Frederick Classic ? — Ay, that I do — heav-
en be praised I
Sir Ch. I tell you, Mr. Blackletter, he is wonderfully
changed.
Quiz. And a lucky change for him. What, I suppose
he was once a wild young fellow?
Sir Ch. No, sir, you don't understand me. or I don't you.
1 tell you. he neglects his studies and is foolishly in love, for
which I shall certainly cut him off with a shilling.
Quiz. You surprise me, sir. I must beg leave to unde-
ceive you — you are either out of your senses, or some wicked
enemy of his has. undoubtedly, done him this injury. Why.
sir, he is in love, I grant you, but it is only with his book.
He hardly allows himself time to eat ; and as for sleep, he
scarcely takes two hours in the twenty four This is a
thumper ; for the dog has not looked into a book these six
months, to my certain knowledge. \Asidc.'\
Sir Ch. I have received a letter from farmer Downright
this very day, who tells me he has received a letter from him,
containing proposals for his daughter
Quiz. This is very strange. I left him at college as
close to his books as — oh oh — I believe I can solve this
mystery, and much to your satisfaction.
Sir Ch. I should be happy indeed if you could.
Quiz. Oh, as plain as that two and three are five. 'Tis
thus : an envious fellow, a rival of your son s — a fellow who
has not as much sense in his whole corporation, as your son
has in his little finger— yes I heard this very fellow order-
ing a messenger to farmer Downright, with a letter ; and
this is, no doubt, the very one. Why, sir, your son will cer-
tainly surpass the Admirable Crichton. Sir Isaac Newton
will be a perfect automaton compared with him ; and the
sages of antiquity, if resuscitated, would hung their heads in
despair.
Sir Ch. Is it possible that my son is now at college,
making these great improvements i
Quiz. Ay, that he is sir.
Sir Ch. [Rubbing his hands.] Oh. the dear fellow, the
dear fellow I
320 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Quiz. Sir, you may turn to any part of Homer, and re-
peat one line — he will take it up, and by dint of memory,
continue repeating- to the end of the book.
Sir Ch. Weil, well, well. I find I was doing him great
injustice; however, I'll make him ample amends - oh, the
dear fellow, the dear fellow, the dear fellow — \^With great
joy\ — he will be immortalized ; and so shall I, for if I had
not cherished the boy's genius in embryo, he would never
have soared above mediocrity
Qiiiz. True, sir.
Sir Ch. I cannot but think what superlative pleasure I
shall have when my son has got his education. No other
man's in England shall be comparative with it — of that I am
positive. Why, sir, the moderns are such dull, plodding,
senseless barbarians, that a man of learning is as hard to be
found, as the unicorn.
Quiz. 'Tis much to be regretted, sir ; but such is the
lamentable fact.
Sir Ch. Even the shepherds, in days of yore, spoke their
mother tongue in Latin ; and now, hie, hsec, hoc, is as little
understood as the language of the moon
Quiz. Your son, sir, will be a phenomenon, depend
upon it.
Sir Ch. So much the better so much the better. I ex-
pected soon to have been in the vocative, for, you know, you
iound me in the accusative case, and that's very near it — ha!
ha! ha!
Quiz. You have reason to be merry, sir, I promise you.
Sir Ch. I have indeed. Weil, I shall leave off interjec-
tions, and promote an amicable conjunction with the dear
fellow. Oh! we shall never think of addressing each other
in plain English — no, no, we will converse in the pure clas-
sical language of the ancients. You remember the Eclogues
of Virgil, Mr. Blackletter ?
Qu.iz. Oh, yes, sir, perfectly ; have 'em at my fingers' ends.
Not a bit of a one did I ever hear of in my life. lAside.}
S2r Ch. IIow sweetly the first of them begins !
Quiz. Very sweetly, indeed, sir. [Aside.'] I heartily
wish he would change the subject.
Sir Ch. '• Tytere, tu patuJae vecubans;" faith, 'tis more
musical than fifty hand-organs.
Quiz. [Aside.] I had rather hear a jew's-harp.
Sir Ch, Talking of music, though — the Greek is tJae
language for that.
COMIC AND AMUSlN(i. 321
Quiz. Truly is it.
Sir Ch. Even the conjugations of the verbs far excel the
finest sonata of Pleyel or Handel-^ for instance, " tupto, tupso,
tetupha" — can anything be more musical ?
Quiz. Nothing — •• stoop low, stoop so, stoop too far."
Sir Ch. Ha ! ha ! ha ! '• stoop too far '" that's a good one.
Quiz. [Aside.] Faith, I have stooped too far. All's
over now, by Jupiter.
Sir Ch. Ha! ha I ha I a plaguy good pun, Mr. Black-
letter,
Quiz. Tolerable. [Aside.] I am well out of that scrape,
however.
Si?- Ch. Pray, sir which of the classics is your favorite?
Quiz. Why, sir, Mr. Frederick Classic. 1 think -he is so
great a scholar.
Sir Ch. Po, po, you don't understand me. I mean,
which of the Latin classics do you admire most ?
Quiz. Hang it ! what shall I say now. [Aside\ The
Latin classics? Oh, really, sir, 1 admire them all so much,
it is difficult to say.
Sir Ch. Virgil is my favorite How very expressive is
his description of the unconquerable passion of Queen Dido,
where he says, '• haret lateri lethalis arundo." Is not that
very expressive ?
Quiz. Very expressive, indeed, sir. [Aside.] I wish
we were forty miles asunder. I shall never be able to hold
out much longer, at this rate.
Sir Ch. And Ovid is not without his charms.
Quiz. He is not, indeed, sir.
Sir Ch. And what a dear, enchanting fellow, Horace is !
Quiz. Wonderfully so !
Sir Ch. Pray, what do you think of Zenophon ?
Quiz. Who the plague is he, I wonder. [Aside.] Xen-
ophon ! oh, I think he unquestionably wrote good Latin, sir.
Sir Ch. Good Latin, man ! — he wrote Grreek — good
Greek, you meant.
Quiz. True, sir, I did. Latin, indeed ! [Tn great con-
fusion.] I meant Greek -did I say Latin? I really
meant Greek. [AsL/e.] In fact, I don't know what I
mean myself.
Sir Ch. Oh ! Mr. Blackletter, I have been trying a long
time to remember the name of one of Achilles's horses but I
can't for my life think of it — you doubtless can tell me.
U
322 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Quiz. yes, his name was — but which of them do yon
mean ! — What was he called ?
Sir Ch What was he called ? Why, that's the very
thing I wanted to know. The one T allude to was born of
the Harpy Celseno. I can't for the blood of me, tell it.
Quiz. [Aside.'] Faith! if I can either. [To him] Born
of the Harpy — oh! his name was — [striking Ids forehead^
Gracious ! I forget it now. His name was, — was, — was, —
Pshaw, 'tis as familiar to me as my x\, B, C.
Sir Ch. Oh ! T remember —'twas Xanthus, Xanthus —
I remember now — 'twas Xanthus — plague o' the name —
that's it.
Quiz. Egad! so 'tis. " Thankus, Thankus"--that's it
— strange I could not remember it. [Aside.] 'Twould
have been stranger, if I had.
Sir Ch. You seem at times a little absent, Mr. T>Iack-
letter.
Quiz. Absent! I wish T was absent altogether. [Aside.]
S^r Ch. We shall not disagree about learning, sir. I
discover you are a man, not only of profound learning, but
correct taste.
Quiz. [Aside] I am glad you have found that out, for
I never should. I came here to quiz the old fellow, and he'll
quiz me, I fear. [To him.] 0, by-the-by, I have been so
confused — I mean, so confounded ; pshaw ! so much en-
grossed with the contemplation of the Latin classics, I had
almost forgot to give you a letter from your son
Sir Ch. Bless me. sir ! why did you delay that pleasure
so long ?
Quiz. I beg pardon, sir, here 'tis. [ Gives a letter.]
Sir Ch. [Puts on his spectacles and reads.] " To Miss
Clara."
Quiz. No, no, no— that's not it — here 'tis. [Takes the
letter^ and gives him another.]
Sir Ch. What, are you the bearer of love epistles, too,
Mr Blackletter?
Quiz. [Aside^ What a horrid blunder. [Tohim^ Oh,
no, sir, that letter is from a female cousin at a boarding-
school, to Miss Clara Upright, — no. Downright. That's the
name.
Sir Ch. Truly, she writes a good masculine fist. Well,
let me see what my boy has to say. [Reads]
"Dear Father, — There is a famous Greek manuscript just
COMIC AND AMUSING. 323
come to light. I must have it. The price is about a thou-
sand dollars. Send me the money by the bearer."
Short and sweet. There's a letter for you, in the true La-
cedsernonian style — laconic. Well the boy shall have it.
were it ten times as much. I should like to see this Greek
manuscript. Pray, sir, did you ever see it?
Quiz. I can't say I ever did, sir. [Aside.] This is the
only truth I have been able to edge in, yet.
Sir Ch. I'll just send to my bankers for the money. In
the mean time, we will adjourn to my library. I have been
much puzzled with an obscure passage in Livy — we must
lay our heads together for a solution. But I am sorry you
are addicted to such absence of mind, at times.
Quiz. 'Tis a misfortune, sir; but I am addicted to a
greater than that at times.
Sir Ch. Ah ! what's that 1
Quiz. I am sometimes addicted to an absence of body.
Sir Ch. As how?
Quiz. Why thus, sir. [^Takes up his hat arul sticky mid
walks off.]
Sir Ch. Ha, ha, ha, — that's an absence of body, sure
enough — an absence of body with a vengeance ! A very
merry fellow this. He will be back for the money, I sup-
pose, presently. He is, at all events, a very modest man, not
fond of expressing his opinion — but that's a mark of merit.
XXIX.— REWARD OF BENEVOLENCE.— (7o/man.
JOB THORNBERRY JOHN BUR PEREGRINE.
Bur. Don't take on so — don't you now! Pray listen
to reason.
. Job. I won't.
Bur. Pray do.
Job. I won't. Reason bid me love my child and help
my friend ; what's the consequence ? My friend has run
one way, and broke up my trade : my daughter has run an-
other, and broke my no. she shall never have it to say.
she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief she sha'n't
know she made me.
324 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Bur. Well, but master —
Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop when
the fat churchwardens starved you at the workhouse. — hang
their want of feeling for it ! — and you were thumped about,
a poor unoffending, ragged boy, as you were — I wonder you
haven't run away from me, too.
Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever said to
me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and twenty ypors, and
never missed a morning.
Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods: — you
won't have the trouble any longer.
But. Trouble ! look ye, old Job Thornberry —
Job. Well ! what, are you going to be saucy lo me, now
I'm ruined?
Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another. You
have been as noted all around our town, for being a kind
man as a blunt one.
.Job. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look
at my ledger — they'll find it right. I began upon a little ; I
made that little great by industry; I never cringed at a cus-
tomer, to get him into my books, that I might hamper him
with an overcharged bill for long credit ; I earned my fair
profits ; I paid my fair way ; I break by the treachery of a
friend, and my first dividend will be seventeen shillings m
the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap
his hand on his heart, and say as much when he asks his
creditor to sign his certificate.
Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger all the time.
Job. I know you did.
Bur. From the time you took me out of the workhouse
Job. Pshaw ! rot the workhouse '
Bur. You never mentioned it to me yourself till to-day
Job. I said it in a hurry.
Bur. And I've remembered it at leisure. I don't want
to brag, but I hope I've been found faithful. It's rather hard
to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing,
feeding, and making him your man of trust for two-and
twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you
now you're in trouble.
Job. [Aff'ectcfl J John — [Stretching out his haml.'\ — I
beg your pardon
Bur. {Taking his hand.'] Don't say a word more
about it.
.Tob. I—
COMIC AND AMUSING. 325
Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more ! Come, be
a man ' get on your things, and face the bailiffs that are
rummaging- the goods.
Job. I can't, John, I can't. My heart's heavier than all
the brass and iron in my shop.
Bur. Nay, consider what confusion ! — pluck up a cour-
age ; do now !
Job. Well, I'll try.
Bur. Ay, that's right: here's your clothes. They'll play
the mischief with all the pots and pans if you aren't by:
why. I warrant you'll do ! bless you, what should ail you?
Job. Ail me ' first have a daughter yourself, John Bur,
then let her run away from you and youll know what
ails me.
Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat This is the
waistcoat young mistress worked, with her own hands, for
your birthday, five years ago. Come get into it as quick as
yjDU can.
Job. [Throiaing it on the floor violently. '\ I'd as lieve
get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Pshaw !
rot it ! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go and get me another.
Bur. Are you sure you won't put it on ?
Job. No, I won't. No. I tell you. [^Exlt Bur.] How
proud I was of that waistcoat, five years ago ! I little
thought what would happen now, when I sat in it. at the
top of my table with all my neighbors to celebrate the day:
there was Collop on one side of me. and his wife on the
other; and my daughter Mary sat at the further end, smil-
ing so sweetly, like an artful good for-nothing. I shouldn't
like to throw away a waistcoat neither. I may as well put
it on. Yes, it would be poor spite not to put it on, [put-
ting his arms into it.'] She's breaking my heart; but I'll
wear it. I'll wear it ; [Jjuttoning it as he speaks.^ and crying
involuntarily ;\ it's my child's — she's undutiful, ungrateful,
barbarous — but she's my child, and she'll never work me
another.
[Reenter Bur.']
Bur. Here's another waistcoat ; but it has laid by so
long I think it's damp.
Job I was thinking so myself, Bur, and so —
Bur. Eh — what you've got on the old one ! Well, now,
I declare, I'm glad of that. Here's your coat. [Putting it
on him.] Slobs ! this waistcoat feels a little damp about the
top of the bosom.
326 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Job. [Confused-I Never mind, Bur, never jnind — a lit-
tle water has dropped on it; but it won't give me a cold 1
believe.
[A noise of voices in altercation without. ]
Bur. Heigh ! they are playing up old Harry below '
I'll run and see what's the matter. Make haste aftei me,
do, now ! [Exit* Bur.]
Job. I don't care for bankruptcy now. I can face my
creditors like an honest man : and I can crawl to my grave
afterwards, as poor as a church mouse. What does it sig-
nify? Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself
worth a groat : the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody
to hoard his money for now ! I was only saving for my
daughter ; and she has run away from her doating, foolish
father, and struck down my heart — flat — flat.
[Enter Peregrine.^
Job. Well, who are you 1
Pere. A friend.
Job. Then I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruined
by a friend, and never wish to have another friend again, as
long as I live. No, nor any ungrateful, undutiful — poh ! I
don't recollect your face.
Pere. Climate, and years have been at work on it. While
Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, time is doubly
busy in fanning their features with his wings. But, do you
remember no traces of me ?
Job. No, I tell you. If you have anything to say, say it.
I have something to settle below with my daughter — I mean
with the people in the shop ; they are impatient ; and the
morning has half run away, before she knew I should be
up — I mean before I had time to get on my coat and waist-
coat, she gave me — I mean — I mean, if you have any busi-
ness, tell it at once.
Pere. I will tell it at once. You seem agitated. The
harpies, whom I passed in your shop, informed me of your
sudden misfortune ; but, do not despair yet.
Job. Ay, I'm going to be a bankrupt — but that don't
signify. Go on : it isn't that: they'll find all fair — but go on.
Pere. I will. 'Tis just thirty years ago since I left
England.
Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the hard-
ware business.
Pere. About that time a lad of fifteen years entered your
shop ; he had the appearance of a gentleman's son, and told
COMIC AND AMUSING. 327
you he had heard by accident, as he was wandering through
the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbors speak of Job
Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress.
Jo6. I believe he told a lie there.
Pere. Not in that instance, though he did in another.
Job. I remember him, he was a bluff boy.
Pere. He had lost his parents, he said ; and, destitute ol
friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next
port, to offer himself to any vessel that would ^ take him on
board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a live-
lihood.
Job. Yes, yes, he did. I remember.
Pere. You may remember, too, when the boy had fin-
ished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand.
They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him,
and could not be laid out to better advantage than in reliev-
ing a helpless orphan ; and, giving him a letter of recom-
mendation to a sea-captain at Falmouth, you wished hiia
good spirits and prosperity. He left you with a promise,
that, if fortune ever smiled upon him, you should one day
hear news of Peregrine.
Job. Ah ! poor fellow ! poor Peregrine ! he was a pretty
boy ; I should like to hear news of him, I own.
Pere. I am that Peregrine.
Job. Eh ! what —you are ? No : let me look at you
again. Are you the pretty boy that — bless us, how you are
altered !
Pere. I have endured many hardships since I saw you —
many turns of fortune ; but I deceived you, (it was the cun-
ning of a truant lad ) when I told you I had lost my parents.
From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had
fixed my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from
my father.
Job. [With great emotiori.'] Run away from your fa-
ther ! If I had known that, I'd have horsewhipped you
within an inch of your life !
Pere. Had you known it, you had done right perhaps.
Job. Ilight! Ah ! you don't know what it is for a child
to run away from a father ! Rot me. if I wouldn't have sent
you back to him tied neck and heels, in the basket of the
stage coach.
Pere. I have had my compunctions : have expressed
them by letter to my father ; but I fear my penitence had
no effect.
S28 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Job. Served you right.
Fere. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear, with-
out forgiving me.
Job. \St(wting.\ What? died without forgiving hiis
child ! Come, that's too much, I couldn't have done that
neither. But go on : I hope you've been prosperous. Uut
you shouldn't — you shouldn't have quitted your father.
Fere. I acknowledge it ; yet, I have seen prosperity,
though I traversed many countries on my outset, in pain and
poverty. Chance, at length, raised me a friend in India, by
whose interest, and my own industry, I amassed consider-
able wealth in the factory at Calcutta.
Job. And have just landed it. 1 suppose, in England.
Pere. I landed one hundred pounds last night, in my
purse, as I swam from the Indiaman, which was splitting
on a rock, half a league from the neighboring shore. As for
the rest of my property — bills, bonds, cash, jewels — the
whole amount of my toil and application, are, by this time,
T doubt not, gone to the bottom ; and Peregrine is returned,
after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost as poor as
he left you.
. Job. I won't touch a penny of your hundred pounds — not
a penny.
Fere. I do not desire you. I only desire you to take
your own.
Job. My own ?
Fere. Yes ; I plunged with this box, last night, into the
waves. You see it has your name on it.
Job. " Job Thornberry," sure enough and what's in it ?
Fere. The harvest of a kind man's charity — the produce
of your bounty to one whom you thought an orphan. I have
traded these twenty years on ten guineas, (which from the
first I had set apart as yours) till they have become ten
thousand : take it ; I could not, I find, come more oppor-
tunely. Your honest heart gratified itself in administering
to my need, and I experience that burst of pleasure a grate-
ful man enjoys, in relieving Diy reliever. [ Giving him the
box.]
Job. \_Squeezes Feregrine! s hand., reUirns the box., and
seems almost unable to utter.] Take it again.
Fere. Why do you reject it?
Job. I'll tell you as soon as I'm able. T'other day, I
lent a friend — pshaw ! rot it ! I'm an old fool ! [ Wiping
his eyes. \ I lent a friend^ t'other day. the whole profits of
COMIC AND AMUSING. 329
my trade, to save him from sinking. He walked off with
them, and made me a bankrupt. Don't you think he is a
rascal 1
Fere. Decidedly so.
Job. And what should I be, if I took all you have saved
in the world, and left you to shift for yourself?
Fere. But the case is different. This money is in fact
your own. I am inured to hardships ; better able to bear
them, and am younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have
prospects of —
Job. I won't take it. I'm as thankful to you, as if I left
you to starve : but I won't take it.
Fere. Remember, too, you have claims upon you, which
I have not. My guide, as I came hither, said you had mar-
ried in my absence : 'tis true, he told me, you were now a
widower; but, it seems, you have a daughter to provide for.
Job. I have no daughter to provide for, now !
Fere. Then, he misinformed me.
Job. No, he didn't. I had one last night ; but she's
gone.
Fere. Gone !
Job. Yes ; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did.
Run away from a good father, as you did. This is a morn-
ing to remember ; — my daughter has run out, and the bai-
liffs have run in I shan't soon forget the day of the month.
Fere. This morning, did you say ?
Jf^, Ay, before daybreak — a hard-hearted, base —
Fere. And could she leave « ou during the derangement
of your affairs ?
Job. She didn't know what was going to happen, poor
soul ! I wish she had. now. I don't think my Mary would
have left her old father in the midst of his misfortunes.
Fere. [Aside.] Mary I it must be she ! What is the
amount of the demands upon you ?
Job. Six thousand. But I don't mind that; the goods
can nearly cover it — let 'em take 'em — a fig for the gridirons
and warming-pans ! I could begin agaifi ; but now my
Mary's gone, I.haven't the heart ; but I shall hit upon some-
thing.
Fere. Let me make a proposal to you, my old friend.
Permit me to settle with the. officers, and to clear all de-
mands upon you. Make it a debt, if you please. I will
have a hold, if it must be so, on your future profits in trade
but do this, and I promise to restore your daughter to vou
28-^
380 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Job. What! bring back my child ! Do you know where
she is? Is she safe ? Is she far off?
Pere. Will you receive the money 1
Job. Yes, yes, on those terms — on those conditions. But
where is Mary ?
Pere. Patience. I must not tell you yet ; but in four-
and-twenty hours, I pledge myself to bring her back to you.
Job. What ! here ? to her father's house ? and safe ? Oh,
'sbud ! when I see her safe, what a thundering passion I'll
be in with her ! But you are not deceiving me ? You
know the first time you came into my shop, what a bouncer
you^told me, when you were a boy.
Pere. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now.
Come, come down to your shop, that we may rid it of its
present visitants.
Job. I believe you dropped from the clouds, all on a sud-
den, to comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier.
Pere. I rejoice, my honest friend, that 1 arrived at so
critical a juncture ; ;ind, if the hand of providence be in it,
'tis because heaven ordains that benevolent actions, like
yours, sooner or later, must ever meet their" recompense.
[Exeunt.']
XXX.— FROM AS YOU LIKE lH.—Shakspeare.
DUKE FREDERICK, A USURPER. LE BEAU, A COURTIER CHARLES,
THE duke's WRESTLER OLIVER AND ORLANDO, BROTHERS
ADAM AND DENNIS, SERVANTS TO OLIVER TOUCHSTONE, A
CLOWN ROSALIND, DAUGHTER TO THE BANISHED DUKE —
'1
'1
CELIA, DAUGHTER TO FREDERICK LORDS ATTENDANTS.
Scene 1. — An Orchard near Oliver's House.
[Enter Orlando and Adam.]
Orlando. As I remember. Adam, it was upon this fashion
bequeathed me : By will, but a poor thousand crowns ; and,
as thou sayest. charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed
me well; and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques,
he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit:
for my part he keeps me rustically at home : or, to speak
COMIC AND AMUSING. 3Sl
more properly, stays me here at home, unkept. For, call
you that keeping, for a gentleman of my birth, that differs
not from the stalling of an ox ? His horses are bred better,
for, besides that they are fair with their feeding they are
taught their manage; and to that end. riders dearly hired:
but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth ; for
the which, his animals are as much bound to him as I. Be-
sides, this nothing, that he so plentifully gives me, the some-
thing that nature gave me his countenance seems to take
from me: he lets me feed with his hinds bars me the place
of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility
with my education. This it is, Adam, that grieves me ; and
the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins
to mutiny against this servitude : I will no longer endure it,
though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
[Enter Oliver.']
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Orla. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will
shake me up
Oliver. Now, sir, what make you here 1
Orla. Nothing : I am not taught to make anything.
Oli. What mar you then, sir?
Orla. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which
God made, a poor, unworthy brother of yours, with idle-
ness.
Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught a
while.
Orla. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them ?
What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to
penury ?
Oli. Know you where you are, sir ?
Orla. 0, sir, very well ; here in your orchard.
Oli. Know you before whom, sir?
Orla. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I
know you are my eldest brother ; and, in the gentle condi-
tion of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of
nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born ;
but the same tradition takes away not my blood, were there
twenty brothers betwixt us : I have as much of my father
in me as you ; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is
nearer to his reverence.
Oli. What, boy !
Orla. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in
this.
832
NRW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
on. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ?
Orla. I am no villain : I am the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Bois : he was my father : and he is thrice a
villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not
my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till
this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so ; thou
hast railed on thyself
Adam. Sweet masters, be patient ; for your father's re-
membrance, be at accord !
OJi. Let me go, T say.
Orla. I wiH not. till I please: you shall hear me. My
father charged you in his will, to give me good education :
you have trained me like a peasant : obscuring and hiding
from me all gentleman-like qualities : the spirit of my father
grows strong in me. and I will no longer endure it: there-
fore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or
give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament;
with that. I will go buy my fortunes.
Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg. when that is spent?
Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you :
you shall have some part of your will. I pray you. leave
me.
Orla. I will no further offend you than becomes me for
my good.
Oli. Get you with him, you old dog.
Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I have lost
my teeth in your service — God be with my old master ! tie
COMIC AND AMUSING. 333
(vould not have spoken such a word. [^Exeunt Orlando and
Adam.']
Oil. Is it even so ? Begin you to grow upon me. I will
physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns, nei-
ther. — Holla, Dennis !
[E/iter .Dennis.]
Dennis. Calls your worship ?
Oil. Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak
with me ?
Den. So please you, he is here at the door and impor-
tunes access to you.
Oli. Call him in. [Exii Dennis.] 'Twill be a good way;
[Ente?' Charles.]
Charles. Good morrow to your lordship.
Oli. Good monsieur Charles ! what's the new news at
the new court
Cha. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news ;
that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the
new duke; and three or four loving lords have put them-
selves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and reve-
nues enrich the new duke ; therefore, he gives them good
leave to wander.
OH. Can you tell, if Rosalind, the duke's daughter, be
banished with her father ?
Cha. 0, no : for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves
her — being ever from their cradles bred together — that she
would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind
her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle
than his own daughter ; and never two ladies loved as
they do.
Oli, What, you wrestle to morrow before the new duke?
Cha. Marry, do I, sir ; and I came to acquaint you with
the matter. I am given, sir. secretly to understand, that
your younger brother. Orlando, hath a disposition to come
in disguised against me, to try a fall. To-morrow, sir. I
MTestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some
broken limb, shall acquit him well Your brother is but
young and tender; and. for your love I would be loath to
foil him, as I must, for my own honor, if he come in:
therefore, out of my love to you, T came hither to acquaint
you withal; that either you might stay him from his in-
tendment, or brook such disgrace well, as he shall run into:
in that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether against
my will.
334 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
on. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which ihju
shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of
my brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means,
labored to dissuade him from it ; but he is resolute I'll tell
thee. Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow in France ;
full of ambition ; an envious emulator of every man's good
parts ; a secret and villainous contriver against me. his nat-
ural brother ; therefore use thy discretion ; I had as lief thou
didst break his neck as his finger And thou wert best look
to't ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not
mightily grace himself on thee, he will practice against thee
by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never
leave thee till he hath taken ihy life by some indirect means,
or other: for. I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak '\L
there is not one so young and so villainous, this day living.
1 speak but brotherly of him ; but should I anatomize him
to thee as he is, I must blush and weep and thou must look
pale and wonder.
Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he
come to-morrow, I'll give him his payment. If ever he go
alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God
keep your worship. \_Exit.\
Oli. Farewel', good Charles. — Now will I stir this game-
ster. I hope I shall see an end of him : for my soul, yet P
know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet. he's gen-
tle ; never schooled, and yet learned ; full of noble device ;
of all sorts, enchantingly beloved ; and, indeed, so much in
the heart of the world, and especially of my own people,
who best know him. that I am altogether misprized : but
it shall not be so long ; this wrestler shall clear all: nothing
remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll
go about. l^Exit.']
Scene 2. — A Lawn before the Duke's Palace.
[Enter Rosalind and Celia.]
Celia. Here comes monsieur Le Beau.
[Enter Le Beau and Touchstone?^
Cd. Bonjour. monsieur Le Beau : what's the news?
Le Beau. Fair princess you have lost much good sport,
Cel. Sport ! of what color ?
Le Beau. What color, madam ? How shall I answe.-
you?
Rosalind. As wit and fortune will.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 335
Touchstone.. Or as the destinies decree.
Cel. Well said ; that was laid on with a trowel.
Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies : I would have told you
of good wrestling-, which you have lost the sight of.
Ros. Yet, tell us the manner of the wrestling.
Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please
your ladyships, you may see the end ; for the best is yet
to do ; and here, where you are, they are coming to per-
form it.
Cel. Well -the beginning, that is dead and buried.
Le Beau. There comes an old man and his three
sons —
Cel. I could match this beginning, with an old tale.
Le Beau. Three proper young men of excellent growth
and presence —
Ros. With bills on their necks, — Be it known unto all
men by these presents —
ie Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles,
the duke's wrestler; which Charles, in a moment, threw him,
and broke three of his ribs, and there is little hope of life in
him : so he served the second, and so the third : yonder they
lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole
over them, that all the beholders take his part with weeping.
Ros. A. las !
Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies
have lost ?
Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of
Touch. Thus men grow wiser every day ! It is the
first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for
ladies.
Cel. Or I, I promise thee.
Ros. But is there any else longs to see this broken
music in his sides ? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-
breaking ? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin ?
Le Beau. You must, if you stay here ; for here is the
place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to per-
form it.
Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay
and see it.
[Flourish. — Enter Duke Frederick, Lords., Orlando^
Charles^ and attendants^
Dukt Frederick. Come on ; since the youth will not be
entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
Ros. Is yonder the man ?
3.36 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Le Beau. Even he, madam.
Cel. Alas, he is too young : yet he looks successfully.
Duke F. How now, daughter, and cousin ! are you crept
hither to see the wrestling?
Ros. Ay, my liege : so please you give us leave.
Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,
there is such odds* in the men. In pity of the challenger's
youth, I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be en-
treated. Speak to him, ladies ; see if you can move him.
Cel Call him hither, good monsieur Le Beau.
Duke F. Do so; I'll not be by. [Duke goes apart.]
Ix Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call
for you.
Orla. I attend them, with all respect and duty.
llos. Young man. you have challenged Charles the
wrestler ?
Orla. No, fair princess ; he is the general challenger : I
come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my
youth.
Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your
years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength.
If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with
your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel
you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you. for your own
sake, to embrace your own safety, and give over this at-
tempt.
Ros. Do, young sir, your reputation shall not, therefore,
be misprized. We will make it our suit to the duke that
the wrestling might not go forward.
Orla. I beseech you. punish me not with your hard
thoughts ; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair
and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and
gentle wishes, go with me to my trial ; wherein if I be foiled,
there is but one shamed that was never gracious ; if killed,
but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends
no wrong, for I have none to lament me : the world no in-
jury, for in it I have nothing ; only in the world I fill up a
place, which may be better supplied, when I have made it
empty.
Ros. The little strength that I have, I would it were
with you.
Cel And mine, to eke out hers.
Ros. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in you !
Cel. Your heart's desires be with you !
COMIC AND AMUSING. 337
Cha. Come, where is this young gallant, that is so desi-
rous to lie with his mother earth ?
Orla. Keady, sir ; but his will hath in it a more modest
working.
Duke F. You shall try but one fall.
Cha. No, I warrant your grace ; you shall not entreat
him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from
a first.
Orla. You mean to mock me after ; you should not have
mocked me before : but come your ways. *
Ros. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man !
Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow
by the leg. [ Charles and Orlando wrestle^
Ros. 0, excellent young man !
Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who
should down. {^Charles is throivn. — Shout. '\
Duke F. No more, no more.
Orlu. Yes, I beseech your grace. I am not yet well
breathed.
Duke F How dost thou, Charles ?
Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord.
Duke F. Bear him away. {^Charles is borne out."] What
is thy name, young man ?
Orla. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of Sir Row-
land de Bois.
Duke F Thou art a brave, a gallant youth ; farewell I
[Exit.]
Cel. Sir, you have well deserved ;
If you do keep your promises in love,
But justly, as you have exceeded promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros. Gentleman, [^giving him a chain from her neck.]
Wear this for me — one out of suits with fortune.
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies. Farewell. [Exeunt Rosalind
and Celia.
Orla. What passion hangs these weights upon my
tongue?
0, poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown ;
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. [Exit.]
X 29
338 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
XXXL— LOVE, DUTY, AND PARENTAL AUTHORITY.—
Anonymous.
MABEL GOODWIN ARTHUR MONTRESOR.
^cene 1. — An old-fashioned garden, with terraces, fountains, ye^^-
hedges, - to dread every delay!
[Enter Mabel from the House]
Mabel ! Sweetest — how breathless thou art ! Thou canst
hardly stand ! Rest thee on this seat a moment, my Mabel
COMIC AND AMUSING. 341
And yet delay — hath aught befallen to affright thee? Sit
iiere dearest ! What hath startled thee ?
Mab. I know not. And yet—
Arth. How thou trem blest still ! And what —
Mab. As I passed the gallery. — Only feel how my heart
flutter?, Arthur !
Arth. Blessings on that dear heart ' Calm thee, sweet-
est. — What of the gallery ?
Mab. As I passed, methought I heard voices.
Arth. Indeed ! And I too have missed the detected
spy who hath been all day dogging my steps. Can he —
but no ! All is quiet in the house. Look, Mabel ! Ail
dark and silent. No light save the moonbeams dancing on
the window panes with a cold pale brightness. No sound
save the song of the nightingale — dost thou not hear it 1 It
seems to come from the tall shrubby sweet-brier, which
sends its fragrant breath in at yonder casement.
Mab. That is my father's chamber — my dear, dear fa-
ther ! Oh, when he shall awake and find his Mabel gone,
little will the breath of the sweet-brier, or the song of the
nightingale, comfort him then I My dear, dear father! He
kissed me after prayers to-night, and laid his hand on my
head and blessed me. He will never bless his poor child
again.
ArtJt. Come, sweetest ! The horses wait ; the hours
wear on ; morning will soon be here.
Mab Oh, what a morning to my poor, poor father ! His
Mabel, his only child, his beloved^ his trusted ! Oh, Arthur,
my father ! my father ! ^
Arth. Maiden, if thou lovest thy father better than me,
remain with him. It is not yet too late. I love thee, Ma-
bel, as well as man may love on this side of idolatry ; too
well to steal thee away against thy will ! too well to take
thy hand without thy heart. The choice is still open to
thee. Return to thy father's house, or wend with me.
Weep not thus, dear one ; but decide, and quickly.
Mab. Nay, I will go with thee. Arthur. Forgive these
tears I I'll go with thee to the end of the world.
Arth. Now then. What noise is that ?
Mab. Surely, surely the turning of a key.
Arth. Ay, the garden door is fastened ; the horses are
led off. We are discovered.
Mab. Is there no other way of escape ?
Arth. None. The garden is walled round. Look at
29*
342 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
these walls, Mabel ; a squirrel could scarcely climb them.
Through the house is the only chance ; and that —
Mab. Try the door again ; I do beseech thee try. Je'ush
against it — I never knew it fastened other than by this iron
bolt. Push manfully.
Arth. It is all in vain ; thou thyself heard'st the key
turn ; and see how it resists my utmost strength. The door
IS surely fast.
Mab. See ; the household is alarmed ! Look at the
lights ! Venture not so near, dear Arthur ! Conceal thee
in the arbor till all is quiet. I will go meet them.
Arth. Alone!
Mab. Why, what have I to fear ? Hide thee behind
the yew-hedge till the first search be past, and then —
ArtJi. Desert thee ! Hide me ! And I a Montresor !
But be calmer, sweetest ! Thy father is too good a man to
meditate aught unlawful. 'Twill be but some short re-
straint, with thee for my warder. Calm thee, dearest !
\^E7iter Colonel Goodwin and a Servant, from th,e House.']
Good. Shoot ! Shoot instantly, Jonathan. Slay the
robber ! Why dost thou not fire 1 Be'st thou in league
with him ? What dost thou fumble at?
Jon. So please your worship, the wind hath extinguished
the touch-paper.
Good. The wind hath extinguished thy wits, I trow,
that thou couldst bring naught but that old arquebuss.
Return for a steel weapon. [Exit Jonathan?] Meantime
my sword — T see but one man, and surely a soldier of the
Cause and the Covenant, albeit aged, may well cope with a
night-thief Come on, young man. Be'st thou coward as
well as robber? Defend thyself.
Mab. Oh, father ! father ! Wouldst thou do murder
before thy daughter's eyes ?
Good. Cling not thus around me, maiden ! What ma-
kest thou with that thief, that craven thief?
Arth. Nay, tremble not, Mabel ; for thy sake I will en-
dure even this contumely. — Put up your sword, sir ; it is
needless. I yield myself your prisoner. At this instant,
suspicions, even as degrading as those uttered by Colonel
Groodwin, may, perhaps, be warranted by my equivocal posi-
tion ; but when I make myself known to him. I trust that
he will retract an expression as unworthy of his character as
of mine.
Good. I do know thee. Thou art the foul malignant
COMIC AND AMUSING. 343
A^rthur Montresor; the abettor of the plotting traitor Or-
mond : the outlawed son of the lawless cavalier who once
owned this demesne.
Artli. And knowing me for Arthur Montresor. couldst
thou take me for a garden robber ? Couldst thou grudge
to the sometime heir of these old halls a parting glance of
their venerable beauty \
Good. Young man, wilt thou tell me. darest thou tell
me that itvvas to^gaze on this old mansion that thou didst
steal hither, like a thief in the night? Arthur Montresor,
canst thou look at thy father's house and utter that false-
hood 1 Ye were a heathenish and blinded generation, main
props of tyranny and prelacy, a worldlj'-and a darkling race,
who knew not the truth ; — but yet from your earliest ances-
tor to the last possessor of these walls, ye had amongst the
false gods whom ye worshipped, one idol, called Honor.
Arthur Montresor, I joy that thou hast yet enough of grace
vouchsafed to thee to shrink from affirming that lie.
Arth. But a robber ! a garden-thief!
Good. Ay, a robber ! I said, and I repeat, a robber, a
thief, a despoiler. Hath the garden no fruit save its apricots
and dewberries ? No flower save the jessamine and the
rose % Hath the house no treasure but its vessels of gold
and silver 1 the cabinet no jewel but its carbuncles and its
rubies? . If ever thou art a father, and hast one hopeful and
dutiful maiden, the joy of thine heart, and the apple of thine
eye, then thou wilt hold all robbery light, so that it leaves
thee her, all robbers guiltless save him who would steal thy
child. Weep not thus Mabel. And thou, young man,
away. I joy that the old and useless gun defeated my an-
gry purpose — that I slew not my enemy on his father's
ground. Away with thee, young man ! Go study the par-
able that Nathan spake to David. I believe that there is
warrant enough for thy detention ; but I will not make thee
prisoner in the house of thy fathers. Thank me not ; but go.
Mah. Father, hear me !
Good. Within ! To-morrow !
Mah. Nay, here and now. Thou hast pardoned him ;
but thou hast not pardoned me.
Good. I have forgiven thee — I do forgive thee.
Mob. Thou knowest not half my sins ! I am the prime
offender, the great and un repenting culprit. I loved him, I
do love him ; we are betrothed, and I will hold faithful to
my vow ! Never shall another man wed Mabel Goodwin!
344 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Oh, father, I knew not till this very hour how dear thy poor
child was to thy heart — Canst thou break hers?
Good. Mabel this is a vain and simple fancy.
Mab. Father, it is love. — Arthur, plead for us !
Arth. Alas ! I dare not. Thou art a rich heiress ; I am
a poor exile.
Mab Out on such distinctions ! one word from my fa-
ther ; one stroke of Cromwell's pen. and thou art an exile no
longer. Plead for us, Arthur !
, Arth. Mabel, I dare not. Thy father is my benefactor ;
he has given me life and liberty. Wouldst thou have me
repay these gifts by bereaving him of his child?
Mab. We will not leave him. We will dwell together
Arthur, wilt thou not speak ?
Good. His honorable silence hath pleaded better for him
than words Arthur Montresor, dost thou love this maid ?
Arth. Do I love her !
Good. I believe in good truth that thou dost. Take her
then from the hand of her father. — There is room enough in
yonder mansion for the heir and the heiress, the old posses-
sor and the new. Take her, and Heaven bless ye. my chil-
dren !
Mab. Now, bless thee, mine own dear father ! and bless
all the accidents of this happy night.— Our projected elope-
ment—and the little door that would not let us elo.pe — and
the wind that blew out Jonathan's spark of fire, — and the
old useless gun that, for want of that spark, would not shoot
my Arthur. Blessings on them all !
Rotmetj. Here, take the cnishkin down to the public house beyont, an> Ha. ha! true ; but mind what you are about.
Y. R'lp. I'll be discovered in a situation that will sur-
prise — a striking situation and in some bold, elegant attitude
{Looks up and sees the nabob.]
Y 30*
354 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
O. Rap. Why don't you finish the job ? why don't you ?
\_Sees the nabob — tJtey look round tJie other wa/y^ and. see Miss
Vortex — they both apjjear ashamed and dejected — Young
Rapid draws his legs from under him.']
Vortex. Gentlemen, I and my daughter, Miss Vortex,
have done ourselves the honor of waiting upon you, to —
Miss Vortex. But T beg we may not interrupt you'-
amusement: 'tis uncommon whimsical!
Y. Rap. [Recovering himself ^\ Yes. iTia'am, very whim-
sical — I must keep moving. \Laughs.'\ Ha ha ! you see,
dad, I've won. I've won — ha, ha !
O. Rap. [ With amazement.'] Oh ! he has won, has he ?
Y. Rap. Yes, you know I've won ; he, he! Why don't
you laugh ? [Aside to Old Rapid.]
O. Rap. [ With difficulty.] Ha ! he !
Y. Rap. You see, madam, the fact is, I had torn my
coat ; so says I to my father, I'll bet my bays against your
opera box, that I mend it ; and so — ha, ha ! [To Old Rapid.]
Laugh again.
0. Rap. I can't ; indeed, I can't.
Y. Rap. And so I — I won — upon my soul, I was doing
it very well.
0. .Rap. No, you were not ; you were doing it a shame
to be seen.
Y. Rap. [Apart.] Hush ! Ah, father, you don't like to
lose.
Vor. Well, gentlemen, now this very extraordinary frolic
is over —
Y. Rap. Yes, sir, it is quite over. [Aside.] Thank
heaven !
Vor. Suppose we adjourn to Bangalore Hall ?
Y. Rap. Sir, I'll go with you directly, with all the
pleasure in life. [Runni/tg.]
Miss Vor. I believe my curricle is the first carriage.
0. Rap. Dear me ! ' [Looking at Miss Vortex.]
Vor. My daughter seems to please you, sir.
0. Rap. What a shape !
Miss Vor. Oh, sir, you're uncommon polite.
0. Rap. What elegance ! what fashion ! Upon the whole,
its the best made little spencer I've seen in some time.
[Mr. and Miss Vortex amazed.]
Y. Rap. 0, the dickens! The fact is, ma'am, my father
is the most particular man on earth about dress — the beau
of his time — beau Rapid. You know, father, they always
COMIC AND AMUSING. 355
called you beau Rapid. I dare say he has had more suits
of clothes in his house, than any man in England.
Miss Vor. An uncommon expensive whim.
Y. Rap. I don't thmk his fortune has suffered by it.
Miss Vor. [To Old B,apid.~\ Shall I have the honor of
driving you ?
O. Rap. Oh. madam, T can't think of giving you so
much trouble as to drive me.
Miss Vor. My dear sir, 1 shall be uncommon happy.
O. Rap. Oh, madam! [Simpers and titters to his soUf
tJien takes Miss Vortexes hand^ and trots off.\
Vor. We'll follow.
Y. Rap. If you please ; — not that I particularly like to
follow.
Vor. I suppose, sir, now summer approaches, London
begins to fill for the winter.
Y. Rap. Yes, sir.
Vm: Anything new in high life ? What is the present
rage with ladies of fashion ?
Y Rap. Why, sir. as to the ladies — [Aside] — what shall
I say ? Oh, the ladies, sir ; why, heaven bless them, sir,
they — they keep moving; but, to confess the truth, sir, my
fashionable education has been very much neglected.
Vor. That's a pity.
Y Rap. Very great pity, sir.
Vor. Suppose I become your preceptor ?
Y. Rap. If you would be so kind, I would treasure any
little short rule.
Vor. Why, there is a short rule necessary for every man
of fashion to attend to.
Y. Rap. What is it ?
Vor. Never to reflect.
Y. Rap. Never reflect ! what, push on. keep moving !
My dear sir, that's my way : suits me exactly.
Vor. Then you must be known.
Y. Rap. To be sure ; I'll give away thousands in chari-
ties.
Vor. Charities ! you would be forgot in a week. No be
known, you must be mischievous ; malice has a much bet-
ter memory than gratitude. And, then, you must be gal-
lant: are there no pretty girls whose acquaintance you would
like the honor of?
[Enter Servant.]
Servant. The carriage is ready.
410 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
L Rus A good estate, truly ! where should he get a
good estate, pray ?
Capt. Dud. Why, suppose now, a worthy old genileman,
on his death bed, should have taken it into his head to leave
him one?
L Rus Hah ! what's that you say ?
OFlag. Oho ! you begin to smell a plot, do you ?
Capt. Dud. Suppose there should be a paper in the world
that runs thus : " I do hereby give and bequeath all my es-
tates, real and personal, to Charles Dudley, son of my late
injured and neglected daughter, Louisa," ^c. &c.
L. Rus. Why, I am thunderstruck! By what contriv-
ance, by what villainy, did you get possession of" that paper?
Ca'pt. Dud. There was no villainy, madam, in getting
possession of it. The crime lay in concealing it, not in bring-
ing it to light.
L. Rus. O, that cursed lawyer, Varland !
OFlag. You may say that, faith ; he is a cursed lawyer,
and a cursed piece of work I had, to get the paper from him ;
your ladyship, now. was to have paid him five thousand
pounds for it, but I forced him to give it me of his own ac-
cord, for nothing at all, at all.
L. Rus. Is it you that has done this ? Am I foiled by
your blundering contrivances, after all ?
OFlag. 'Twas a blunder, faith j but as natural a one as
if it had been done on purpose.
Charles. Come, let us not oppress the fallen. Do right,
even now, and you shall have no cause to complain.
L. Rus. Am I become an object of your pity, then ? In-
sufferable ! confusion light amongst you ! marry, and be
wretched ! let me never see you more. [Fxit.']
Char. She is outrageous. I suffer for her, and blush to
see her thus exposed.
OFlag. Blessing of St. Patrick upon us all ! 'Tis a
night of wonderful ups and downs. But, come ; even those
that are happy may grow hungry, and, indeed, I wish we
were all fairly set down to supper, and there was an end
,>n't. \Exeunl.]
COMIC AND AMUSING. 411
XXXM— FB.OM THE VILLAGE LAWYER.— Anonymous.
SCOUT, A VILLAGE LAWYER SNARL, A MISERLY MERCHANT
MITTIMUS, JUSTICE OF THE PEACE SHEE PEACE, SNARL'S
SHEPHERD CHARLES, SNARL's SON CLERK, CONSTABLES
&C. MRS. SCOUT.
Scene 1. — A Room in Scout'8 House.
[ Without. — Mr. and Mrs. Scout^]
Mrs. Scout. I tell you it shall be —
Scout. Nay ! nay ! but, my dear, now !
Mrs. S. It does not signify talking — I must and will
have it so.
Scout. But think, my dear, how ridiculous —
Mrs. S. I don't care — I'm resolved — I'll no longer be the
laughing-stock of the whole country; do you imagine I'll —
[E?iter Mr. Scout — Mrs. Scout following.']
Scout. Nay ! but my dear, sweet love, that indefatigable
tongue of yours would out-talk any lawyer in the kingdom ;
I can talk, sometimes, pretty well, myself; but 1 stand no
chance with you. Why, you would out-din the whole bar
itself, that though a lawyer —
Mrs. S. [Sneeri7ig.'] A lawyer ! No one, to see you in
this trim, would imagine you had ever carried on anybody's
suit but your own. Had you a grain of spirit left, you
might —
Scout. Spirit ! nay, nay, wife, don't complain of my want
of sp rit. Have I not convinced you I had too much spirit
on a certain occasion ?
Mrs. S. Very fine, indeed. And so you make a merit
of your blunders.
Scout. Blunders, indeed ! I think I made a blunder in
coming here Noi a single job have I got since I have been
down : not a broken head, nor a quarrel for one to get a pen-
ny by : and hang me, if I don't think the very cattle keep
out of the pound on purpose to spite me ! Now, if one could
put on the appearance of business, the reality will follow of
course, and perhaps something may turn out —
Mrs. S. Yes, and in the meantime, your poor wife may
starve, and your daughter lose the opportunity of settling her-
self handsomely, with one of the young men that pay their
412 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
addresses to her. -which the shabbiness of your appearance
frightens away.
^cout. Why, to be sure, I am shabby enough, of all con
science, and cannot, with any propriety, make my appear
ance in public. Let me see — I have it ; I'll go and purchase
a suit of clothes directly.
Mrs. S. Purchase a suit of clothes, without a shilling in
your pocket?
Scout. 0, my dear, that's nothing at all : most fashion-
able suits are purchased that way. Let me see — what color
shall I choose ? Shall it be a brown — a gray — a bat's wing
— or —
Mrs. S. Oh! never mind the color, so you can only find
somebody silly enough to let you have the cloth.
Scout. 0, I'll warrant you. Let me see, now — there's
neighbor Snarl, that lives over the way ; he keeps a large
assortment of colors : I'll hum him out of a suit.
Mrs. S. Mr. Snarl ! — Take care what ;you do there, hus-
band ; his son, Charles, is in love with our Harriet, and
would have married her before now, but for fear of his fa-
ther's anger. I would not for the world disappoint the girl's
hopes.
Scout. Well ! well ! step in and bring my gown and
band — it will, at least, make me have a better appearance,
[exit Mrs. Scout.] by hiding these rags. Come, wife, make
haste. Come, what a long time you are
[Re-enter Mrs. Scout, with the gotvn and bag']
Mrs. S. Why, I brought it as soon as I could.
Scout. Come, help me on with it ; — take care what you
are about. See what a large hole here is. You sit all day
with your hands before you ; and I think you might have
mended it.
Mrs. S. I'll mend it when you come back.
Scout. There — there — now I shall do very well ! And
let me tell you, wife, I am not the only lawyer who wears a
gown to cover a shabby suit. [Exeunt.']
Scene 2. — Snarl's shop — a counter, several pieces of cloth, flannel,
baize, &c., four yards iron-gray broadcloth, tailor's pattern-book, shears,
yard-measure, table, chair, side of counter, shop-stool.
[Enter Snarl, Charles folloiaing.]
Snarl. Charles have you been looking out for anothei
shepherd, as I told you ?
COMIC AND AMUSING. 413
Charles. No, sir : T think you have got a very good one.
Snarl. No such thing — I tell you that that Sheepface is
a rogue ; here he has lived with nie only a fortnight, and
here are missing fourteen of my best wethers.
Char. Consider, sir, what havoc such a disorder makes
in a little time.
Snarl. Yes yes. I have considered, and I knov/ pretty
well by this time. I have long suspected him, and last night
I caught him in the very act, killing one of my fattest weth-
ers : and I am determined to have him up before Justice
Mittimus this day ; — but reach me my book, and let me
look over the account of my stock ; perhaps there may be
more missing.
Char. There it is, sir. [Gives a?i accoum bou/c]
Snarl [Sits doivn.'] And if neighbor Gripe calls, tell
him I want to see him about this rascal Sheepface. Let me
see — twelve times ten is —
[ Charles is going, and meets Sheepface^
Char. Sheepface, my father has discovered all ; do the
best you can ; beware of saying too much. [Exit.\
Sheepface. I understand — don't fear me. Save you, good
master Snarl
Snarl. What ! you rascal ! are you here ? How dare
you appear before me after the trick yon have played me ?
Sheep. Only to tell you I've been with neighbor Gripe,
the constable, who has been speaking to me about sheep-
stealing. Justice Mittimus, your honor, and a power of things ;
so I said to myself as how I would not make it a secret any
longer with your worship.
Snarl. Why, fellow, this affected simplicity won't serve
your purpose. Did not I catch you last night killing one
of my fattest wethers 'I
Sheep. Only to keep it from dying, by my feckins !
Snarl. To keep it from dying !
Sheep. Of the rot, an' please your sweet worship. It's
a way I learnt of our doctor in the parish . he cures most
of his patients the same way.
Snarl. The doctor, ha! The doctors have a license to
kill from the college; but you have none, I believe. Why,
there was not such a breed in all the country for Spanish
wool !
Sheep. Please your worship, satisfy yourself with the
blows you gave me, and make matters up, if it be your
worship's good will and pleasure.
35*
414 ITEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Snarl. But 'tis not my good will and pleasure : my good
will and pleasure is to see you hanged, you rascal.
She£p. Oh! no; don't hang me! Consider, that would
be the death of me ! Besides, your worship, I was only
married yesterday : — leave me alone for a week or two. and
who knows but, by that time, I may save your worship the
trouble.
SnoA-l. No, no, the gallows will be the best way at first,
and every bit as sure.
Sheep. Heaven give you the luck of it then, good master
Snarl. Since it must be so. I must go seek a lawyer, I find,
or might will prevail over right. [Exit SJieepface.^
Snarl. Six times twelve is seventy-two, — that is right ;
then nine times seven is —
[E^Uer Scout.']
Scout Egad. I have nicked it nicely ! This was very
lucky to catch him alone. That seems to be a pretty piece
of cloth, and will just suit me. [Aside.] Good morning to
you, Mr. Snarl.
Snarl Oh ! what ! neighbor Gripe ! walk in.
Scout. No, it's I, your neighbor Scout.
Snarl I am my neighbor Scout's most obedient ; but I
have no business with him at present that I know of
Scout. [Aside.] I'll make you tell a different story pres-
ently, or I am much mistaken. I called to settle a little ac-
count.
Snarl I have no account to settle with anybody.
Scout. There's a small balance of fifty pounds —
Snarl I know nothing at all about it; I don't owe any
man a farthing in the world.
Scout. I wish I could say as much for myself [Aside.]
Why, sir, looking over my father's accounts, I see he stands
indebted to you fifty pounds ; and I, as an honest man, am
come to pay it.
Sneer I [Turrmtg round^ rises, and shakes him hy the
hand.] How do you do, neighbor Scout? How do you
do ? I'm glad to see you !
Scout. Very well. I thank you, sir. Hew do you do?
Snarl. I think you live in our village here ?
Scout. Yes, sir, I do.
Snarl. Pray, be seated.
Scout. By no means ; I fear I disturb you.
Snarl Oh ! no, not at all ; pray, sit down. I insist
upon it
COMIC AND AMUSING 415
Scout. x\h ! sir, if everybody was of my principle, I
should be a deal richer than I am : I cannot bear to be in
anybody's debt.
'Snad. Why, egad ! the generality of people bear it very
Vveil.
Scout. Very true, sir; very true: when would you
IiKe to receive this money ? for I'm impatient to pay every-
body.
Snarl, Why, when you please. No time like the time
present.
Scout. Very true ; I have it told out at home ; but as I
only hold iiiy father's effects in trust for my daughter Har-
riet, for form's sake, you know, it will be proper to have some
of the other guardians present at the time of payment.
Snarl. Very true ; it is so, indeed ! Well, as soon as
you please.
Scout. What do you think of three o'clock this after-
noon ?
Snarl. A very good time.
Scout. And, egad ! it happens very lucky — I've got
a very fine goose, sent me by a client from Norfolk, and
you shall come and dine with me ; — are you fond of
goose 1
Snarl. Very. It's my favorite dish.
Scout. That's very lucky. Don't forget to come. I think
you do a deal of business here — more than all the rest of
the trade around the country.
Snarl. Pretty well ; I can't complain.
Scout. And Mrs. Scout will dress the goose by a valua-
ble receipt left her by her great uncle. Alderman Dumpling.
Do you like sage and onion ?
Snarl. Very much, indeed.
Scout. You shall have it so. Why, you have such an
engaging way with you, that people take more pleasure
in paying you money than in receiving it from other peo-
ple.
Snarl. Ah. sir, you flatter me !
Scout. Not at all. Egad ! now I recollect. I promised
Mrs. Scout you should have my custom ; and I don't care it
I take a coat to begin with.
Snarl. Pray, sir. look over my patterns : here's a variety
of colors.
Scout. This seems to be a pretty piece of cloth. {Feel-
ing tfie cloth that lies on the counter. '\
416 NKW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Snarl Very fine, and good ! It is iron gray.
Scout. Don't you remember our going to school?
Snarl What ! along with Old Iron Fist ?
Scout. The same You was reckoned the prettiest boy
in the whole school.
Snarl Yes ; my mother said I always was a pretty
boy.
Scout. This cloth feels very smooth and fine.
Snarl Right Spanish wool, I assure you. Let me send
your quantity to your house.
Scout. Stop ! stop ! Pay as you go, pay as you go ;
that is always my maxim.
Snarl And, egad, a very good maxim 'tis ! I wish all
my customers made use of the same.
Scout. Don't you remember the tricks you used to play
the curate ?
Snarl Yes, very well.
Scout. Ay, you \vas always full of mischief Wnat ir
this cloth a yard 1
Snarl Why, to anybody else it shc'ild oeniueteen shill-
lings and sixpence ; but —
Scout. Now you are going to favor me.
Snarl No, I am not ; only as you are a particular friend,
I won't charge you but nineteen ; and, luckily, here is just
your quantity cut ofT
Scout. That is lucky : I'll take it home with me.
Snarl By no means. — My boy —
Scout. Why would you take the poor boy from his
work ? I don't mind carrying it myself
Snarl But let me measure it ; perhaps there may be
some mistake.
Scout. No mistake ; d'ye think I doubt your word ?
Snarl But the price ?
Scout. Never mind that: I leave it enthely to you.
Well, good morning; don't forget the goose ; you'll be sure
to be there time enough to dine, before you receive your
money. Good morning— don't forget. \_Exit.\
Snarl Egad ! but he has carried off my cloth — but
he'll pay. yes, he 11 pay : for he must be a very honest
man, or he never would have told me of the fifty pounds,,
and invite me to dine off the goose into the bargain. I am
sorry I cheated him in the cloth. But no matter; it is the
way I got all my money. \^Exit.^
COMIC AND AMUSING. 417
Scene 3.— A Wood-Cottage.
[Enter Scout and Sheepface.]
Scout. Egad, I think I have made a good morning's
work ! This cloth will enable me to make a genteel ap-
pearance : — but who have we here? Sure, T know that
face.
Sheep. Sarvant, sir. I am come to ask your worship to
stand my friend against a — his worship, my master.
Scout. What, the rich farmer here that lives in the
neighborhood ?
Sheep. Yes. yes — he lives in the neighborhood, sure
enough; — and if you will stand my friend, you shall be paid
to your heart's content.
Sc'out. Ay I now you speak to the purpose : — come, you
must tell me how it was. <
Sheep. Why, you must know, my master gives me but
small wages — very small wages indeed ! So I thought I
might as well do a little business on my own account, and
so make myself amends without any damage to him, with
an honest neighbor of mine — a little bit of a butcher by
trade.
Scout. Well, but what business can you have to do with
him?
Sheep. Why, saving your worship's presence, I hinders
the sheep from dying of the rot.
Scout. Ah ! — how do you contrive that?
Sheep. I cuts their throats before it comes to them.
Scout. What ! I suppose, then, your master thinks you
kill his sheep for the sake of selling their carcasses ?
Sheep. Yes ; and I cannot beat it out of his head for the
soul of me.
Scout. Well, then, you must tell me all the particulars
about it. Relate every circumstance, and don't hide a single
Item.
Sheep. Why, then, sir, you must know, that last night,
as I was going down, — must I tell the truth ?
Scout. Yes, yes: you must tell the truth here, or we
shall not be able to lie to the purpose anywhere else.
Sheep. Well, then, last night, after I was married, hav-
ing a little leisure time upon my hands, I goes down to our
pen ; and, as I was musing on, I don't know what, out I
takes my knife, and happening by mere accident, saving
your worship's presence, to put it under the throat of one of
2C
118 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
the fattest wethers — I don't know how it came about, but 1
had not been long there, before the wether died, and all of a
sudden, as a body may say.
Scout. What ! and somebody was looking on all the
while ?
Sheep, Yes, master, from behind the hedge, and would
have it, it died all along with me ; and so, you see, he laid
a shower of blows on me ; but I hope your worship will
stand my friend, and not let me lose the fruits of my honest
labors — all at once.
Scout. Why, there are two ways of settling this business ;
and one is, I think, to be done without putting you to any
expense.
Sheep. Let's try that first, by all means.
Scout. You have scraped up something in your master's
service.
Sheep. I have been up late and early for it, sir.
Scout. 1 suppose you have taken care to have your sav-
ings all in hard cash %
Sheep. Yes, sir.
Scout. Well, then, when you go home, take it and hide
it in the safest place you can find.
Sheep. Yes, sir, that I'll do.
Scout. I'll take care your master shall pay all costs and
charges.
Sheep. Ay, so he ought ; he can afford it.
Scout. It shall be nothing out of your pocket.
Sheep. That's just as I would have it.
Scout. He'll have all the trouble and expense of bringing
you to trial, and, after that, the pleasure of seeing you hanged.
SJieep. Let's take the other way.
Scout. Well, let me see : I suppose he'll take out a war-
rant against you, and have you taken before Justice Mit-
timus.
Sheep. So I understand.
Scout. I think the justice's credulity is easily imposed
on; so, when you are ordered before him, I'll attend; and
to all the questions that you are asked, answer nothing, but
imitate the voice of the lambs, when they bleat after the
ewes. You can speak that dialect.
Sfieep. It's my mother tongue.
Scout. But if I bring you olear off, I expect to be very
well paid for this.
Sheep. So you shall ; I'll pay you to your heart's content
COMIC AND AMUSING. 419
Scout. Be sure you answer nothing but baa !
Sheep. Baa !
Scout. Ay ! that will do very well : be sure you stick to
that.
Sheep. Yes, your worship, never fear I. What trouble
a body has to keep one's own in this world. [^Exeiv7it .^
[Enter Snarl.']
Snarl. Ay, ay ; that's my neighbor Scout's house : he is
just come home, to give orders about the dinner, I warrant. —
Egad. I think I shall make a good day's work : what with
the fifty pounds his father owed mine, which, by-the-by, I
know nothing at all about, and the money for the cloth,
and the goose that is to be dressed by a famous receipt of
Alderman Dumpling's — egad, I believe they are dressing it
now. — I'll in, and see what is going forward. \^Exit.]
Scene 4. — A room in Scout's House. An old couch, an easy -chair, cen-
ter-table, with basins, viols, ^illed and uncontrolled
boys who only see their duty in what pleases them, and
who rebel against all who advise or reprove them. If I
am right, I will give him a lesson. I have a plan already,
[Looking out of the window.] Here he is, this minute !
[He slips hehind the door.] Here I can see and hear him
without his seeing me.
Scene 2. — Lours — Manon. — Louis enters with his tunic torn,
and without buttons, his belt wrong side out, his hat without
a crown, and his black silk cravat in his hand, in which he is car-
rying something.
Louis. No one saw me ! After all, it is not my fault.
I was throwing stones at the nut-trees, and they all fell
COMIC AND AMUSING. 435
on the sashes of my aunt's conservatory ! Everything is
smashed to pieces ! What a pity ! What does she want
glass in a garden for, I wonder ? [^Takes nuts from his
cravat, and eats them!]
Manon. [ Coming m.] Ah ! Mr. Louis, I have caught
you at it ! Eating again between meals ! And you are
cracking nuts, again, too !
L. Do you want me to eat the shells ?
M, But you are cracking them with your teeth,
naughty boy!
L, I should like to know if teeth are not given us to
be used ?
M, No, sir. At your age they are given to be cared
for and preserved! But what is this? [Looks m the
cravat.] Oh, my goodness ! You have knocked down
almonds and pears! You have been making havoc in
your aunt's orchard !
L. Quite the contrary — it has made havoc of me!
Look here. [Shows his Jiat.]
31. Good heavens ! What a plight ! Holes and rents
everywhere ! Your hat has no bottom !
L. [Eating all the time.] Nor my pantaloons either,
as to that!
M. Unlucky boy ! you will never be any better ! Eat-
ing green fruit! No cravat! Disobeying your aunt!
Without taking off the peel! Ruining your health!
Belt wrong-side out ! No sense, no suspenders ! Remem-
ber what I say, Mr. Louis, you will come to some bad end !
L. Manon, you are as eloquent as Cicero, but your
language is not very agreeable. You would please me
better if you would keep your Catiline-ics* for geese and
turkeys.
31 Catilineics ! Take care, sir ! I will not take nny
insolence from you. I have never made any Catili? eics,
I tell you.
X. You seem to know what they are, at any rate.
3f. Of course I do. It is some bad pie they give 3 ou
to eat at school. But I have served my time — I am a
cordon-bleu, sir!
L. Do tell ! That means, grand cordon of the legion
of — scullions !
M. [ Very angry.] I declare, Mr. Louis, I will com-
plain of you to your aunt.
* Cicero's orations ai^-ainst Cataline.
436 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
L. My dear, that is wholly beneath my notice.
M. She shall know how you obey her ! For instance,
she has forbidden you to go fishing, and I have just seen
a fishing net in the cellar.
L. Hush! Will you hold your tongue? Francis
lent it to me, and we are going fishing after breakfast.
M. Your aunt has told you she did not want you —
L. It is none of your business, Manon.
M. I will tell her!
L. You will tell her?
M. As soon as she comes in.
L. Very well, then. Look out for yourself!
M. Look out, indeed ! And pray what will you do to
me, sir?
L. I will stamp down your beds of garlic and parsley.
I will bring caterpillars and beetles into your kitchen.
I w^ill make an omelet of the eggs of your canary.
M. \^Extending her hands.] Oh, sir, these are the
seven plagues of Egypt!
L. I will tie an old saucepan to the tail of your cat.
M. [Frightened.] To the tail of Calypso ! [ Wring-
ing her hands.] Oh, don't, I entreat you, Mr. Louis!
Pray don't! Calypso would refuse to be comforted.
L. Don't tell my aunt, then.
M. Well, I won't tell her ! But it will not be my
fault if some one else tells her. Like the day you went
hunting contrary to her orders. What a fright you gave
her !
L. That was very pleasant ! — very !
M. It was not at all pleasant to her, I tell you, Mr.
Lauis ! Your aunt is very nervous, and whenever you
worry her she has attacks —
L. [With emotion.] Attacks! What sort of attacks ?
M. She does not want you to see them, and she goes
into her own room. But I know all about it, and as
soon as I see that you have worried her, I make herb-tea
for her ; and nobody knows how much you have made
me spend for herbs the last month. I have to keep the
kettle on the fire all the time.
L. [ With feeling.] My aunt knows that I love her—
that I do not want to make her unhappy. I know you
are telling me lies, Manon !
M. [ Wounded.] Lies, sir! I assure you that I make
COMIC AND AMUSmG. 437
no lies, any more than I do Catilineics. When I say a
thing, it is a thing — it is truth itself. As a proof, let me
tell you that the other day, after you answered her so
rudely, I found her crying.
L. [Throios dotvn tlie pear lie is eating, and is much
moved.'] Are you sure, Manon ? Did you say my aunt
was crying ?
M. Yes ! I saw tears as large as little peas.
L. Did you say that I was the cause of her tears ?
M. To be sure you were. You disobeyed her. That
reminded her of your poor mother, w4io is dead. Then
she began to read over her letters, and that always makes
her sad.
L. [QuicJdT/, banishing his emotion.'] It was the let-
ters, then, that made her cry ! It was not I ! Nobody
ever knows what you mean, Manon! You mix every-
thing up — you make a jumble of everything! Your
conversation is a veritable hash !
M. [Piqued.] Very possible, sir. As I was born
during the Eevolution, my parents were not able to give
me an education. I can neither play the violin nor speak
French as well as you can, but that does not prevent my
seeing —
L. No ; only you don't know what you do see.
M. [Angry.] I beg your pardon, sir. I see that you
are making your aunt very unhappy.
L. [Loud, to drown her voice.] That is not true.
J/. [Raising her voice.] That you will make her
sick —
L. [Still louder.] Will you hold your tongue, Manon ?
M. [With a loud voice.] No, I will not hold my
tongue ! I will force you to hear the truth.
L. [Singing, to drown her voice.] La, la, la, tol, lol, lol.
M. [Very loud] You are a glutton, a rebel, an idle,
lazy, good-for-nothing ! That's what you are !
L. [Sings while she is talking.]
" There was an old woman that lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she knew not what to do."
Scene 3.— Mrs. Leclerc— Louis— Manon.
Mrs. Leclerc. [ Coming in.] Well-a-day ! Well-a-day I
What is all this noise ?
438 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
L. \_Aside^ Oh, here comes my aunt! [Changes his
helt, and turns around to hide the rents in his tunic]
Mrs. L. I am glad I have found you, Louis. I have
just come from your room. I found your boots on the
bureau, a dictionary in the bed, and bread and sweetmeats
on your violin.
L. \_Tur7iing his hach to his aunt.] I beg your par-
don, aunt ; but I was in a hurry this morning.
M. What hurried you ?
L. [Embarrassed.] Oh ! nothing special.
Mrs. L. And that prevented your doing anything?
But why do you turn your back to me ? Why do you
not look at me ?
M. [Ironically.] One would think the light hurt his
eyes!
3frs. L. [ Goes to Louis, and turns him towards her.]
Let's see what is the matter ! Ah ! I understand ! The
same good order in the costume as in the chamber !
L. If a boy must always be careful when he plays, he
will have no fun.
Mrs. L. Fun ! And you think that for the sake of
fun, you may forget everything else ! That you are ex-
cused from all care, all obedience, all propriety! Pleasure
first, duty afterwards !
L. Goodness, aunt! There is no great harm done.
The tailor can soon make all right.
Mrs. L. And can the tailor give you the careful hab-
its that you lack, that self-control, and those orderly
ways, without which your whole life will be wasted in
vain efforts ?
L. [Aside^ She has begun to preach now !
Mrs. L. You say this can be mended. Alas ! this is
the way to strengthen in yourself the small faults which
will become great ones by and by. A child who does
not know how to take care of his books and to preserve
his clothes, when he becomes a man will be just as care-
less of his fortune and his honor.
M. [Coming close to L.] Don't forget that.
L. [Impatient.] Let me alone, Manon.
Mrs. L. You cannot wear those clothes any longer.
Go and change them.
M. I have hung out his new coat to air. I will fetch
it in a moment.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 439
Mrs, L. [Takes a look from the tabled Here is a book
I want you to take to Mrs. Wales.
L. To-day! aunt?
Mrs. L. [ Wrapping it in a paper.^ As soon as we
have done breakfast.
M. Aha! So you will not go fishing with Francis!
Mrs. L. Say to Mrs. Wales that I have just received
the book, and I send it to her immediately.
L. But — ^Aunt, can't you wait till to-morrow?
Mrs. L. For what ?
L. This afternoon — I have planned — a little walk —
Mrs. L. You can put it off to another day.
L. [Aside.] Another day it will not be high tide, and
I shall have no luck fishing.
M. [Maliciously.] Mr. Louis will surely be delighted
to give up a pleasure for good Mrs. Wales.
L. [Sharply.] I am not talking to you.
M. She is an excellent woman! She has done me
many favors !
L. [Briskly.] Then it is for you and not me to re-
turn them.
[Manon goes out laughing.]
Mrs. L. You forget, Louis, that she has done me
many a kindness for which I can never thank her enough.
L. [Angrily.] Very possibly ! I do not concern my-
self with your affairs!
Mrs. L. [ With severity.] You do wrong, then ; for I
concern myself with yours, when I can be useful to you.
You compel me to say that I often take upon myself for
you, duties far more trying than to carry a book to a
friend.
L. Then my aunt reproaches me for the trouble I
give her ?
Mrs. L. Come, Louis, let us stop this. Your bad
humor takes away all your good sense and judgment.
As soon as breakfast is over, you will take this book to
Mrs. Wales. I wish it. I command it. [Gives him the
look.]
L. [Aside.] For my part, I don't wish it. Dees she
think I am going to give up in this way a fishing party ?
Let Mrs. Wales have her old book to-morrow !
M. [Coming in with the coat.] Oh, good heavens!
What ruin and desolation !
440 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Mrs, L. Why, Manon, what's the matter ? What has
happened ?
M. What is the matter ! In the first place, here is
the coat of Mr. Louis —
L. [Sharply.] Give it to me. [He snatches it, and
puts it on m place of the torn ttinic.']
M. [ With excitement.'] But as I passed by the con-
servatory, I saw all the glasses broken to pieces !
L. [Aside.] Tell-tale!
Mrs. L. What are you saying, there, Louis ? This is
doubtless one of your amusements, sir !
L. Not at all ! I didn't do it on purpose ! I was try-
ing to knock down the nuts —
M. [Showing his cravat lying on a chair.] And pears,
and almonds ! For he destroys everything in the garden !
We might as well be given up to the Bedouins ! And if
that were all ! You know that flower, the beauty of the
green-house ?
Mrs. L. What! My cactus?
M. Yes ! It is all broken to shreds !
Mrs. L. No ! Is it possible ?
M. You ought to die of shame, sir! Such a beauti-
ful plant, which your aunt prized as the apple of her eye,
because Mrs. Wales gave it to her.
L. [Impatient^ Mrs. Wales be hanged ! Mrs. Wales!
Mrs. L. [Severely.] Stop, Louis. What do you mean
by such talk, sir ?
L. [More impatiently.] What do I mean ! I mean
that I won't bear any longer this insolence of Manon.
Mrs. L. But I have to bear all your impertinence!
L. [More and more impatient.] There is no need of
all this fuss for a broken cactus. The florist close by has
hundreds of them. I will replace the one I have broken.
Mrs. L. Can you replace the memory which it recalled
to me?
L. Oh, then it is a matter of sentiment I
Mrs. L. [Irritated.] Yes, sir! And since you do
not understand it, and pay no regard to my orders, I
shall protect myself from further depredations by for-
bidding you to go into the garden.
L. [Shrugging his shoiilders.] What do I care?
Mrs. L. You shall stay in your room.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 441
L. So mucli the better! Mrs. Wales won't get her
book, then !
Mrs. L. I beg your pardon! I am not willing that
others should suffer for your faults. Besides, the punish-
ment would be a triumph for you, if it excused you from
a disagreeable duty. You shall go to Mrs. Wales' before
your punishment begins.
L. [Risi7ig in a rage.] I will not go. I will not.
Mrs. L. What do you mean , sir ?
L. [ Very loud.] No. If you treat me as a prisoner.
I will stay in prison. Whoever will may carry the book!
I will not. [Thro2vs the book on the table.]
Mrs. L. [Very much troubled.] Louis! Louis!
L. [KicJciny his foot, and very angry.] It is useless I
I w^on't go ! I won't go !
M. Be quiet ! Here comes Mr. Peter ! [She goes out.]
Scene 4. — Mrs. Leclekc — Cousin Peter — Louis, reading a
newspaper. The table set for breakfast.
P. [Aside.] I was not far from right about this lit-
tle boy. He needs a lesson. Let's see if it will do him
any good! [Aloud.] Oh, ho! It seems breakfast is
ready !
Mrs. L. [ With a trembling voice ^ Yes ; in fact — we
were waiting for you.
P. [Sharply.] You did wrong, cousin. I never
wait for anybody. [Sees Louis.] Oh ! here is the little
boy ! He looks in good health ! How do ?
Mrs. L. Louis, your cousin speaks to you.
L. [ Without rising and continuing to read.] I hear
well enough.
P. That shows that he isn't deaf. Come, let us eat
and be happy !
[He and Mrs. L. take their seats at the table.]
P. [Looking at Louis.] Isn't the young gentleman
coming to breakfast ?
L. [In a surly tone.] I am not hungry.
P. [Helping himself^ He appears to be breakfasting
on the newspaper.
Mrs. L. [ Very much displeased^ He has yet to learn
that a dining-room is not a reading-room.
L. [Throiving doivn the journal^ I thought the Ga-
zette was put here to be read.
4:42 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
3frs. L. [Angrilt/.'] But we are here, too, and I
should think our society was to be preferred to the news-
paper.
L. I thought I had a right to take my choice !
Mrs. L. You are wanting in respect to your cousin,
Louis !
P. To me ? Not at all ! Not at all ! Not a copper
do I care ! Whether he reads, or sleeps, or sings, or cries,
I care as little as I do about the old moons. Liberty —
lihertas ! [Bxtending his plate.~\ A little more omelet,
cousin.
L. [Aside, rising.] Admirable !
Mrs. L. [Embarrassed.] But, think —
P. I do think — that we have but one life to live, and
we may as w^ell make the most of it. Pass me the ham,
if you please. So you see I am not in favor of restrain-
ing any one.
L. Good ! good ! There is one man that is sensible.
[He comes to the table.]
Mrs. L. .You are not sefious! You are joking!
P. No. I am not joking. Every one should live ac-
cording to his own pleasure, and do what he likes. That
is my political doctrine! Ha, ha, ha! And I bet it is
yours, you rogue! Ha, ha, ha! [To Louis.]
L. Exactly, my cousin. I don't see why we should
trouble ourselves for others ! Or why we should always
be tormented with duties !
Mrs. L. [Eagerly.] Louis, since you do not wish
any breakfast, go do the errand I gave you.
L. Aunt —
P. Let him wait a little. "We want to get acquainted
with each other. He is a little scamp ! [Strikes him on
the shoulder.] Ha, ha, ha! So much the better! At
his age I was full of the evil one.
Mrs. L. [Astonished.] You! On the contrary.
Cousin Peter, I remember very well how considerate you
were ! And so obedient — so full of respect —
P. Nonsense ! Distance embellishes everything ; but
I haven't forgotten all the naughty tricks I played on my
good mother.
L. And she wasn't angry at you ?
P. Sometimes — but bah! I did not mind that ! Her
COMIC AND AMUSING. 443
scolding was all in vain ! I never cared vrhat she said !
Cousin, have you any brandy ?
Mrs. L. Louis, go get the brandy.
P. [Holding hiin bach] Not at all — stay, my boy !
The servant is there ! Let her get it — Manon !
M, Here I am, sir!
P, Give me the brandy.
31. [Fetches it] Here it is, sir. [Puts a hottle on the
table.] I am sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but some one
is waiting to speak with you. He is in a hurry.
P. Make no stranger of me, cousin. Go, I beg you.
Mrs. L. I will go, then. Come, Louis, I want you.
[She goes out ivith Manon.]
P. [Holding back Louis from going out with his aunt.]
Are you going to leave me alone ?
X. My aunt told me to follow her.
P. [Making him sit down.] Bah! Leave your aunt to
herself, and let us talk a little. Here ! have some brandy!
[Offers him a glass.]
L. [Looking around^ If they should see me —
P. Nonsense ! Drink, you booby ! It' will make your
beard grow ! Besides, you are old enough to be your own
master.
L. That's what I think ! And that's what I mean
to be. But I am afraid to take the brandy !
P. Doesn't every one live for himself?
L. Certainly — that's plain enough.
P. God has given us tastes ! Well, let us follow them,
then.
L. Ah, cousin, you are a real philosopher.
P. I am a practical philosopher, my boy. I never
concern myself with what pleases or displeases other peo-
ple. I like what amuses me, and I do what I like. What
do you say to my system.^
* Z. I think it is admirable ! — first rate !
P. [Slapping him on the head.] I am very glad that
we understand each other, my boy, seeing I mean to live
here !
L. Is that so ?
P. Yes. This cottage suits me — and I shall make
only a few changes. In the first place, that large room,
next to my chamber —
444 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
L. That is my carpentei-'s shop !
P. With benches and boards in it ?
L. Yes. And a turning-lathe.
P. I shall move them ail out this evening.
L. [Astonished.] What do you mean? What will
you do that for ?
F. To make a smoking-room of it. *
L. But then, think, Cousin Peter —
F. Oh, you must make the best of it, my little fellow !
Then that little grove at the foot of the garden is just
the place for a bowling-alley. If it were not for the ropes
and ladders hanging from all the trees.
X. That is my gymnasium !
P. You will have to burn them all up, my dear !
L. Who ever heard of such a thing? And I shall
have nothing left !
P. [Taking out a cigar.] I am very sorry for it, dar-
ling! But — what business have they to be in my way ?
[ WitJi emphasis.] " If one does not want to have panes
of glass broken, why have windows ? " Give me a match,
will you?
L. [Angrily.] The servant is there, as you said just
now ! Ask her.
P. [Striking his glass.] That's right! You have a
good memory. It will be useful when you study lan-
guages. [Striking louder.] What's the matter ? Can't
she hear ? [Strikes louder yet.] Manon ! Manon ! She
must be deaf! [Strikes tiuo glasses at the same time.]
Manon! Manon!
Scene 6. — ^Mes. Leclerc — Cousin Peter — Louis — ^Manon.-
Manon rushes in, out of breath.
M. Here I am, sir! What will you please to have?
P. I have been calling you for an hour, you con-
founded snail !
M. [Angry.] What do you call me, sir ? Snail !
P. Bring me a match ! Quick ! Thunder and all
the tempests !
M. [Drawing hack, terrified.] Oh! there are some,
sir ! There they are — on the side-board !
COMIC AND AMUSING.
445
P. [Rising, and taking a 7natch.'\ Why didn't you
say so at once ? Old crab !
M. [Clasping her hands.] Ah me! A crab!
Mrs. L. [Coming in.] "What is all this noise?
P. Zounds! Because you have a servant who can't
understand anything — who accomplishes nothing — a ver-
itable oyster !
M. [ Very angry, and coming up to Peter ^ An oys-
ter, now ! Sir, you needn't think that because you are a
sailor, you can call me by the names of all the fishes in
the sea !
Mrs. L. You may leave the room, Manon.
M. [Furious.] No, ma'am ! I will not allow —
P. [Opens the door, and mahes a violent gesture.]
There ! Out with you !
M. [In terror.] I am going, sir ! [Aside.] Oh, he
is the devil himself ! [Seeing Peter making a movement
towards her.] I am going, sir! I am going! [Goes out.]
Mrs. L. I Avish you to understand, cousin, that our
good Manon is not accustomed to such rude treatment.
P. [Smoking.] That's the reason she is such a poor
servant.
L. [ With feeling.] Nobody ever found that out before !
Mrs. L. We have always been satisfied with her ser-
vice.
P. That shows that you are too easily satisfied !
Mrs. L. Not at all! But we cannot forget her fidel-
ity, her honesty —
L. The services she rendered in her younger days !
P. What is that to me ? What do I care for the good
qualities she has had, if she hasn't got them now ? ^ The
best ship of the fleet is demolished as soon as she is too
old for service. We employ domestics to serve us, not to
show them gratitude.
Mrs. L. You wouldn't wish, though, that I should
put into the street a faithful servant who has almost
brought me up ?
P. [Smoking^ Send her to the hospital! Or any-
where but here ! [He sees a gun over the mantel.]. Ah ! I
see a musket! [He takes it.]
Mrs. L. Take care ! Take care, Cousin Peter ! It is
loaded !
P. Ah ! is it ? Is its aim accurate ? But how should
446 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
you know ? — a woman ! 1 was formerly a great hunts-
man, let me tell you, and a good marksman. Let's see if
my siglit is still good. [ Goes to the window.']
Mrs. L. For mercy's sake, cousin, don't fire ! I sliall
faint away ! I shall go into spasms !
P, Cork your ears, then !
L. But it seems to me that it would be easier not to
fire —
P. Why shouldn't I, if it amuses me ? [ With em-
phasis.'] '' I don't see why we should trouble ourselves
about other people." If there were only a cat or a bird in
the garden now, you w^ould see bow I bring down the
game ! [Looking out.] Ah, I see what I want !
L. {Running to prevent him.] I entreat you! —
[Peter fires, Mrs. L. screams and leans on an arm-chair.]
L. [Running to her.] See how you have frightened
my aunt ! I could not believe that any one could have
so little regard —
P. [Looking in the garden.] He has fallen ! He is
shot ! Bravo !
Mrs. L. Shot ! Who is shot ?
M. [Rushing in wildly.] Good heavens ! It is abom-
inable! He is shot!
Mrs. L. Who is shot, Manon, who is shot ?
M. [Showing the parrot.] He I the parrot ! Jacko!
Jacko! dead! shot!
L. My aunt's parrot ! It is cruel !
Mrs. L. Is it possible ? This is beyond all endurance I
P. [Calmly.'] I wanted to see if I had lost my skill.
M, Then you did it on purpose ! Oh ! sir !
L. In return for my aunt's hospitality !
M. [Exasperated.] He has no heart ! He is a savage !
A barbarian !
P. What's that you say?
M. I say you are a Herod, since like him you murder
innocents !
P. Oh, well ! oh, well! I'll have him stuffed !
M. Stuffed! Do you consider that the same thing,
sir? Would you like to be stuffed yourself? Will that
give life again to Jacko ? — a bird that could talk better
than me; that could eat everything; that was, so to
speak, one of the family ; and that my lady took care of
herself !
COMIC AND AMUSING. 447
Mrs. L. All ! He was left to me by my dead sister!
L. [^Bitterly.'] And you knew it, for I told you of it
yesterday. It is a shame !
P. [ With emphasis.'] So you make a parrot to be " a
matter of sentiment " ! Ha, ha, ha !
31. Why not, if it recalled the dead ?
P. Because it was as great a gabbler as she was.
Mrs. L. This is too much ! 1 cannot bear it !
L. [ With a threatening gesture.'] You forget, sir, you
are speaking of my mother !
Mrs. L. Until now I have borne with your strange
language, your rudeness, everything, till this last brutal
speech. But you shall not insult, in my presence, one
who is not here to defend herself, and for whom I shall
never cease to mourn — my beloved sister — the mother of
Louis! [^She takes Louis in her arms, with emotion.]
L. {^Greatly moved, embracing her.] And for my part,
I will not permit my aunt to take any more of your inso-
lence. Stop, sir !
P. Heyday! What does this mean ?
L. I mean that you have behaved here as if you had
been on board a pirate ship ; that for a whole hour we
have all had to suffer from your words or your actions ;
and that in heart, mind and character, you are unfit to
live near my good aunt.
Mrs. L. You have said enough, Louis. Go out, now,
and leave me to settle this affair with Cousin Peter.
P. [Changing his tone.] No, I beg your pardon, my
cousin. I will make you the apology I owe you, a little
later. Allow me first to reply to Louis.
L. Proceed, sir. Say what you have to say.
P. [Seriously.] In the first place, then, be so good
as to tell me how you can be shocked by my rudeness ;
you, who went on reading the paper without saluting me
as I came in ; you, who applauded the maxim that every
one ought to act his pleasure, without caring for others ?
L. [Disconcerted.] I meant —
P. You consider me selfish and insolent. But what
have I done this morning, that you do not do every day,
and all day long? Don't you see that every one of my
acts was justified by one of the maxims by which you
excused yours ? I have only done all this to show you
to yourself!
448 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
L. [TrouMed.] I did not intend — I —
P. [Severely.] Hear me through ! My treatment of
Manon has exasperated you! How have you behaved
toward the friend of your aunt, Mrs. Wales? You ac-
cuse me of showing disrespect to the memory of your
deceased mother. Do you show any more respect to Mrs.
Leclerc, your living aunt? My conduct this morning
has made you indignant ; what must you think then of
your own? Mine has been unbecoming towards my
equals ; yon are insolent to your suj^eriors. Which of us,
think you, has given the most unfavorable idea of his
"mind, his heart, his character " ?
L. [Perplexed.] It seems to me — cousin — I would —
say to you — or rather — [Cliaiiginci suddenly.] JSTo, I have
nothing to say ! I am wrong ! 1 am wrong !
P. [Taking Ms hand.] Good, my boy! Good, my
dear Louis ! My end is accomplished, now 3^ou say that.
We will forget the past, and do better in the future. In
all this affair, the real victims are the good Manon, whose
pardon I beg for all my impertinence, and my dear cousin,
to whom I do not know how to make a suitable apology.
Mrs. L. [Offeri7ig Jiim her hand.] Oh! there is no
need of any. Now 1 understand it all. You wanted to
show Louis to what the neglect of duty would lead him,
and that the boy who thinks of nothing but his own
pleasure, is certain to become a self-willed man, whom
everybody will despise and hate.
L. [Seizi7ig the hand of Peter.] This lesson shall not
be lost upon me, dear cousin, and I thank you for it
with all my heart.
P. Eather thank Lycurgus, my dear boy ; for the dis-
covery of this method belongs to him. To disgust the
young Spartans with drunkenness, he exhibited to them
slaves in a state of intoxication.
M. Ah well! That shows that Mr. Lycurgus was a
citizen of good sense; and that he was familiar with my
grandmothei-'s proverb, — " He who makes faces, does not
like looking-glasses"
COMIC AND AMUSING. 449
XXXIX —THE LAWYmiS.—BaciTie.
Scene 1. — The Judge— His Son — The Secretary and the
Servant {as lawyers)— Fuomvtbb..
Secretary. Where are you running to, your Honor?
You will hurt yourself. Y ou are limping badly.
Judge. I am going to pronounce sentence.
Son. What, my father ! Stay and have your wound
dressed. John! John! [^Calliyig.'] Eun for a surgeon,
quick !
J. I can't stop. Let him come to the court-room.
Son. Father, father ! do give up this —
J. Oh, I see how it is ! You mean to make me do as
you like. You show me no respect or consideration, and
do not allow me to pronounce a single sentence.
Son. Gently, gently, sir. We must make some ar-
rangement that will satisfy you. If life is a torment to
you, unless you can pronounce sentence — if you cannot
exist without cases to try — you need not go out of your
own house for them. Employ your talent, and give sen-
tence here at home.
J. My son, speak not contemptuously in my presence
of the majesty of law. No ! I will never consent to be
a judge in masquerade.
Son. On the contrary, you shall be an acknowledged
judge, from whose verdict there shall be no appeal. You
shall try civil cases and criminal cases. You shall hold
two court sessions everyday. Everything shall be to you
an occasion for a trial and a sentence. If a servant fails
to bring a clean glass, fine him. If he breaks a glass,
sentence him to be whipped.
J. Ah ! that is very well arranged. Now you speak
to the point.
Son. .Against one of your neighbors —
Servant. [Rushes in, crying.'] Stop thief! stop thief!
Catch him! All is lost! Citron, your dog, has eaten a
capon. Nothing is safe in his presence. He pounces on
everything he sees, and scampers off to devour it.
Son. Good ! Here is a case for my father ! To the
rescue ! help ! Chase him ! Eun, everybody run !
450 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
J. Gently, gently ! Not so much noise ! The crimi-
nal shall be brought to justice without scandal.
Son. Now, father, pronounce a severe sentence against
this family thief Make a fearful example of him.
/. But I wish to do it with honor to myself, and to
come off with colors flying. We need a lawyer for each
side, and we have none.
Son. Oh, well! we must make some. Here is your
servant, and your secretary. They will make excellent
advocates ; they are very ignorant.
Sec. I beg your pardon, sir ; you are not just. I can
be put to sleep as easily as any other man.
Ser. As for me, I know nothing; so you have nothing
to expect on my side.
Son. It is your first case, and you must get some .one
to write your argument for you.
Ser. but I can't read.
Son. Oh, you shall have a prompter.
J. Come on, then ! Let us begin ! Now, gentlemen,
no intrigue! Shut your eyes against all bribery, and
your ears against all malice and perversion. You [to the
servant] shall be for the prosecution, and you [to the sec-
retary] for the defense.
Scene 2. — The Judge — His Son — The Secketaky and Ser-
vant {ingoicns) — The Prompter.
J. Who are all these people ?
Son. These are the lawyers.
J. [To the prompter.] And you?
Pr. I have come to aid their failing memories.
/. Oh, I understand! And you? [To his son.]
Son. Oh, I am the court !
J. Begin then !
Pr. "Gentlemen"—
Ser. Speak lower, I tell you. If you prompt so loud,
I shall not be heard. Gentlemen —
J. Put on your hats.
Ser. Oh ! Gen—
J. Put on your hats, I tell you.
Ser. I know my place too well, sir, for that.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 451
J, Well, then, leave it off!
Ser. [Putting on Ms hat.] Gentlemen — [2b thepromp-
ter — Speak slow now! The beginning is the part I
know best.] Gentlemen, when I look closely at the in-
constancy of the world, and its endless vicissitudes; when
I see among so many different men, not one fixed star,
and so many Avandering orbs ; when I see the Csesars ;
when I see their fortune ; when I see the sun, and when I
see the moon ; when I see the kingdom of the Babibo-
nians, transferred from the Serpians* to the Nacedonians ;
when I see the Eonans pass from a state of depotism to
a democrity, and then to a monarchity ; when I see Ja-
pan —
Sec. When did you see all that ?
Ser, Oh, why did you interrupt me ? I will not go
on.
J. Inconsiderate advocate ! Why didn't you let him
finish his period ? I would sweat blood and water to see
if he could come naturally and gracefully from Japan to
the murdered capon ; and you must needs interrupt him
with your gabble ! Go on, advocate.
Ser. I have lost the place.
Son. Finish, John. Your introduction was splendid.
But what are your arms doing, hanging down at your
sides? And you stand on your two feet as stiff and
straight as a statue ! Come, exert yourself a little ! Get
a little life into you ! Courage !
Ser. [Swinging his arms.] When 1 see When
I see —
So7i. Say what you see.
Ser. Plague ! No one runs down two hares at a time I
Fr. We read —
Ser. We read —
Pr. In the—
Ser. In the —
Pr. Metamorphosis —
Ser. What?
Pr. That the metem —
Ser. That the me^^.m —
Pr. Psychosis —
Ser. Psychosis —
* Persians.
452 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Pr. Ah, the beast !
Ser. And the beast —
Pr. Say that over !
Ser, Say that over —
Pr. The dog!
Ser. The dog—
Pr. What a booby!
Ser. What a booby —
Pr. Plague take the lawyer !
Ser. A plague on you, I say, with your long, thin,
pale face ! Out with you !
J. Come to the fact I Not one word yet of the fla-
grant deed!
Ser. Is it necessary to have all this beating about the
bnsh ? They give me words to pronounce a fathom
long — great words that would reach from here to Lyons.
For my part, I don't know how to make such a fuss just
to say that the dog stole a capon this morning — that
there is nothing in the house that he wouldn't take — that
he has eaten a good Maine capon — that as soon as I catch
him, I will finish the trial. I will kill him!
Son. A fine conclusion ! Bravo ! Well worthy the
exordium !
Ser. You always understand. None so blind as those
who will not see !
J. Call the witnesses.
Son. That is well said, your Honor, if the thing were
possible. But witnesses are very expensive ; and no one
was willing to come and testify.
Ser. We have some, notwithstanding; and they are
above reproach.
J. Call them in ; call them in.
Ser. They are here — they are in my pocket. Look !
Here is the head of the capon, and here are the feet.
Look at them, and see for yourselves.
Sec. I take exception to them.
J. Good ! Why do you refuse them ?
Sec. Because they are from Maine.
J. Yes, they come from Maine by the dozen.
Sec. Gentlemen — .
J. Are you going to be long, lawyer?
Sec. I make no promises.
J. He is very guarded.
COMIC AND AMUSING. 453
Sec. [Ending in a falsetto hey.'\ Gentlemen, every-
thing that could startle a guilty man — everything that
could terrify a mortal man — seems to have crowded to-
gether against me, by chance — I mean, by chicanery and
by eloquence. For, on one side the good name of the
deceased makes me tremble ; and on the other, the bril-
liant eloquence of my opponent dazzles me.
J, Lawyer, soften your tone, if you please.
Sec. [In an ordinary tone.] Oh, yes! I have a variety
of them. \In a lofty mamie7\~\ But the aforesaid elo-
quence, and the aforesaid good name, must be received
with some distrust. Nevertheless, gentlemen, I strengthen
myself, resting in the anchorage of your goodness. Be-
sides, in the presence of the renowned Judge, [boivs to
him] innocence is bold. Yes, in the presence of this
Cato of our age — this sun of justice which has never been
bedimmed — Victrix causa Bits placuity sed victa Catoni.
J. Faith, he's a good pleader !
Sec. I speak, then, without fear, and I come to my
defense. Aristotle, 2^'^'imo peri Politicon, well says —
J. Advocate, the question is one of a capon, and not
of Aristotle and his policy.
Sec. Yes, your Honor! But the authority of the
Peripatetic would prove that good and evil —
J. I maintain that Aristotle has no authority here.
To the point !
Sec. Pausanias, in his Corinthiads —
J. To the point !
Sec. Ilebukes —
/. To the point, I tell you I
Sec. The distinguished James —
/. To the point! To the point!
Sec. Harmenopel, in Prompt —
J. Oh, I will sentence you !
Sec. Oh, you are in such a hurr^ ! [Hurriedly.] To
the point, then. These are the facts : A dog comes into
a kitchen. He finds there a capon, which is very tempt-
ing. The accused, my client, is famishing with hunger.
The other party, against whom I plead, is fat and appe-
tizing. He for whom I plead slyly seizes him against
whom I plead, and devours him. He is condemned at
once — he is seized. An advocate for and against is sum-
454 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
moned. The day is fixed for trial. I am to speak. I do
speak. I have spoken.
J. Ta, ta, ta, ta ! A fine way, indeed, of unfolding an
argument! He states very concisely that which has
taken place, and then when he reaches the fact, he races
hurriedly on at a grand gallop.
Sec. But the first part was well done.
/. No; it was far-fetched and out of place. Did one
ever listen to such pleading ? But what does the Court
Son, May it please your Honor, it is very satisfactory
to the Court.
Sec. [Earnestly.'] What happens, gentlemen? A
crowd collects— they hunt down my client. A house is
forcibly entered. And whose house? The house oi' our
honorable Judge himself! The cellar to which we have
fled for refuge is broken open. We are accused of theft,
of brigandage! 'We are dragged out, and delivered to
our accusers — to Mr. John himself! I appeal to you,
gentlemen ! Who does not know that the law, si quis
cams, Digeste, de vi, paragraphs, gentlemen — caponihus,
is plainly opposed to such an abuse? And even allow-
ing that my client did eat a large part or even the whole
of the aforesaid capon, let this honorable body take into
consideration our standing and our good conduct previ-
ous to this trial. When did my client ever receive or de-
serve a reproof ? Who has faithfully guarded your house
by night and by day ? When did he ever fail to bark at
a thief? We can furnish as witnesses three procurers,
whose gowns have been torn to ribbons by the aforesaid
Citron. You shall see the pieces. [^Takes them from Jiis
pocket, and displays them.] Do you wish to see more, be-
fore doing us justice ?
Ser. Mr. Adam —
Sec. Stop interrupting.
Ser. The Secretary —
Sec. Hold your tongue !
Ser. Is getting hoarse.
Sec. Stop that, I say! Ugh! ugh!
J. Rest a little, and then finish.
Sec. [Heavily.] Since, then, it is granted me to take
breath, and denied me to enlarge, I shall, without omit-
ting anything, and without any prevarication, succinctly
COMIC AND AMUSING. 455
enunciate, explain, and set before you, the universality of
my cause, and of the facts therein contained.
/. He would rather say the whole over twenty times
than to leave out a word. Man or devil, or whatever
you are, finish, I say, or may the sky fall on you !
Sec. I am concluding.
J. Ah ! Attention !
Sec. Before the birth of the world —
J. [Yawning.^ Skip to the deluge.
Sec, Before the birth of the world, and its creation,
the world, the universe, everything, all nature, was buried
far beneath the material. The elements, fire, air, earth,
and water, submerged, heaped up, formed only a vast pile,
a confusion, a mass without form, a disorder, a chaos, an
enormous assemblage. Unus erat toto naturd vultus in
orbe, quern Greed dixere chaoSy rudis indigestaque molis.
[ The Judge gets to sleep and falls.]
Son. Oh, father ! He has fallen !
Ser. How the poor man sleeps !
[ They run to him, and awake him.]
Son. Wake up, father ! Father, wake up !
Sec. Ah, sir! are you killed*?
Son. Father ! father ! [Shakes him.]
J. Well, well, well! What is all this? Ah, I see!
What a man he is ! I certainly never had such a good
nap.
Son. You must give the verdict, father.
/. To the galleys!
Son. A dog to the galleys !
J. Faith ! I can't keep my mind on it ! I am bewil-
dered, and gone astray, witli the world and chaos. [To
the Sec] Ila! Finish, will you ?
Sec. [Bringing forward puppies.] Come forward,
bereaved family — come, poor pups, soon to be made or-
phans come, that your puppyish artlessness and help-
lessness may plead in your behalf. Ah, gentlemen, you
behold our wretchedness ! We are orphans. Restore our
father to us! The father who begat us! The father
who —
J. Take them out! take them out! Out, I say!
Out with the nuisances !
Sec. Our father, gentlemen —
/. Out with them, I say ! What a hubbub !
456 NEW SCHOOL DIALOGUES.
Sec. I pray you, sir, beliold our tears !
J. I do ! I do ! and I am moved with pity. The
heart must be hard, indeed, that is not touched by such
a scene ! But I am in a strait. What can I say ? I am
borne down by the facts. The crime is admitted ; he
confesses it himself. But if I give judgment against
him, my embarrassment will be extreme. Six helpless
orphans doomed to the hospital ! We have no further
business to-day !
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THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY