The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor

Char. No doubt – thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, that you seldom find time for doing. And so you have, since my departure, turned your thinking faculties to the law.

Pon. Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard to live honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law: and so articled my self to Mr. O’Dedimus, the attorney in our town: but there is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head every moment since we met.

Char. Pr’ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.

Pon. Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you, that you are a little – (going off to a distance) a little odd hereabouts, sir; (pointing to his head) a little damned mad, if I may be allowed the expression!

Char. Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, as you suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.

Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the motive – the old story, sir, ha! love!

Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose, that I – that I can be guilty of such a folly – I should be glad to know how you dare venture to think that I —

Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.

Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?

Pon. The old symptoms, sir – in the first place, frequent fits of my complaint.

Char. Your complaint?

Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs, fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your senses, if I may be allowed the expression.

Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression – ’tis impertinent, ’tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and, heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!

Pon. Nor I, sir; though I’ve been married these three years, I never once sighed for my dear wife in all that time – heigho!

Char. I mustn’t be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.

Pon. Then, sir, you mis-took me. I fancy it was in one of your most decided unobserving fits that you took me for a blockhead.

Char. Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, and it may be of service to you.

Pon. Sir, I haven’t studied the law for nothing. I’m no fool, if I may be allowed the expression.

Char. I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful to me.

Pon. And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want of that faculty, from your not having found out that before.

Char. I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the state of my heart.

Pon. Sir, that’s very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with a secret he had himself discovered ten months ago.

Char. Keep it with honour and prudence.

Pon. Sir, I have kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, except a few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers, and all your neighbours.

Char. Why, zounds! you don’t mean to say that any body, except yourself, suspects me to be in love.

Pon. Suspects! no, sir; suspicion is out of the question; it is taken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand jury in the county.

Char. The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show my face – this will never do – my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the power of love – how ridiculous will it now render me – while the mystery and sacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gave to the refinement of my feelings – O! I’ll off to sea again – I won’t stay here – order a post-chaise – no – yes – a chaise and four, d’ye hear?

Pon. Yes, sir; but I’m thinking —

Char. What?

Pon. That it is possible you may alter your mind.

Char. No such thing, sir; I’ll set off this moment; order the chaise, I say.

Pon. Think of it again, sir.

Char. Will you obey my orders, or not?

Pon. I think I will. (aside) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him up into a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just on the point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say “ill news travels apace,” they shall never say that I rode postillion on the occasion. [Exit into inn.

Char. Here’s a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! known all over the country! I’m off! and yet to have travelled so far, and not to have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil in love, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do – but then I may see her – yes, I’ll see her once – just once – for three minutes, or three minutes and a half at most – no longer positively – Ponder, Ponder! (enter Ponder) Ponder, I say —

Pon. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, for I’m thinking —

Char. Damn your thinking, sir!

Pon. I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.

Char. I have not altered my mind: but since I am here, I should be wanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on with the trunk, sir.

Pon. Yes, sir: but if that’s all you want to do, sir, you may spare yourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here he comes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him —

Char. The devil!

Pon. Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may be allowed the expression. [Exit.

Enter sir Rowland and lord Austencourt

Char. My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you —

Sir R. How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?

Char. Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome – I hope you find it so.

Sir R. This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.

Char. Sir, I have it ready at my tongue’s end – My lord, I ask your pardon – I’m glad to see you too.

Lord A. I wish, sir, I could return the compliment; but this extraordinary conduct —

Char. No apologies, my lord, for your civil speech – you might easily have returned the compliment in the same words, and, believe me, with as much sincerity as it was offered.

Sir R. This is no time for dissention, sir —

Lord A. My cousin forgets, sir Rowland, that although united by ties of consanguinity, birth and fortune have placed me in a station which commands some respect.

Char. No, my lord, for I also am in a station where I too command respect, where I respect and am respected. I therefore well know what is due to my superiors; and this duty I never forget, till those above me forget what they owe to themselves.

Lord A. I am not aware, good cousin, that I have ever yet forfeited my title to the respect I claim.

Char. You have, my lord: for high rank forfeits every claim to distinction when it exacts submissive humility from those beneath it, while at the same time it refuses a graceful condescension in exchange.

Sir R. Charles, Charles, these sentiments but ill become the dependent state in which Fortune has placed you.

Char. Dependent state! Dependent upon whom! What, on him! my titled, tawdry cousin there? What are his pretensions, that he shall presume to brand me as a poor dependent! – What are his claims to independence? How does he spend the income Fortune has allotted to him? Does he rejoice to revive in the mansion of his ancestors the spirit of old English hospitality? Do the eyes of aged tenants twinkle with joy when they hope his coming? do the poor bless his arrival? I say no. He is the lord of land – and is also, what he seems still more proud of, a lord of parliament; but I will front him in both capacities, and frankly tell him, that in the first he is a burthen to his own estate, and not a benefactor; and in the second, a peer but not a prop.

Sir R. Charles, how dare you thus persevere! You cannot deny, rash and foolish boy, that you are in a dependant state. Your very profession proves it.

Char. O, father, spare that insult! The profession I glory to belong to, is above dependence – yes! while we live and fight, we feel, and gratefully acknowledge, that our pay depends on our king and country, and therefore you may style us dependant; but in the hour of battle we wish for nothing more than to show that the glory and safety of the nation depends on us; and by our death or blood to repay all previous obligation.

Sir R. Dismiss this subject.

Char. With all my heart – My cousin was the subject, and he’s a fatiguing one.

Sir R. Though you do not love your cousin, you ought to pay that deference to his rank which you refuse to his person.

Char. Sir, I do; like a fine mansion in the hands of a bad inhabitant. I admire the building, but despise the tenant.

Lord A. This insolence is intolerable, and will not be forgotten. You may find, hot sir, that Where my friendship is despised, my resentment may be feared. I well know the latent motives for this insult. It is the language of a losing gamester, and is treated with deserved contempt by a successful rival. [Exit.

Char. Ha! a successful rival! Is this possible?

Sir. R. It is. The treaty of marriage between lord Austencourt and Helen is this morning concluded.

Char. And does she consent?

Sir R. There can be little doubt of that.

Char. But little doubt! False Helen! Come, come, I know my Helen better.

Sir R. I repeat my words, sir. It is not the curse of every parent to have a disobedient child.

Char. By Heaven, sir, that reflection cuts me to the heart. You have ever found in me the obedience, nay more, the affection of a son, till circumstance on circumstance convinced me, I no longer possessed the affection of a father.

Sir R. Charles, we are too warm. I feel that I have in some degree merited your severe reproof – give me your hand, and to convince you that you undervalue my feelings towards you, I will now confess that I have been employed during your absence, in planning an arrangement which will place you above the malice of fortune – you know our neighbour, Mrs. Richland —

Char. What, the gay widow with a fat jointure? What of her?

Sir R. She will make not only a rich, but a good wife. I know she likes you – I’m sure of it.

Char. Likes me!

Sir R. I am convinced she does.

Char. But – what the devil – she doesn’t mean to marry me surely!

Sir R. That will, I am convinced, depend upon yourself.

Char. Will it? then by the Lord, though I sincerely esteem her, I shall make my bow, and decline the honour at once. No, sir; the heart is my aim, and all the gold I care for in the hand that gives it, is the modest ring that encompasses the finger, and marks that hand as mine forever.

Sir R. Thus I see another of my prospects blighted! Undutiful, degenerate boy! your folly and obstinacy will punish themselves. Answer me not; think of the proposal I have made you; obey your father’s will, or forever I renounce you! [Exit.

Char. Whoo! here’s a whirligig! I’ve drifted on to a pleasant lee shore here! Helen betrothed to another! Impossible. – Oh Helen! Helen! Zounds! I’m going to make a soliloquy! this will never do! no, I’ll see Helen; upbraid her falsehood; drop one tear to her memory; regain my frigate; seek the enemy; fight like a true sailor; die like a Briton; and leave my character and memory to my friends – and my blessing and forgiveness to Helen. [Exit.

End of act II

ACT III

SCENE I. – O’Dedimus’s office. Ponder discovered

Ponder. So! having executed my commission, let me think a little (sits down,) for certain I and my master are two precious rogues (pauses.) I wonder whether or not we shall be discovered, as assistants in this sham marriage (pauses.) If we are, we shall be either transported or hanged, I wonder which: – My lord’s bribe, however, was convenient; and in all cases of conscience versus convenience, ’tis the general rule of practice to nonsuit the plaintiff. Ha! who’s here? The poor girl herself. (Enter Fanny.) I pity her; but I’ve been bribed; so I must be honest.

Fanny. Oh, sir! I’m in sad distress – my father has discovered my intercourse with lord Austencourt, and says, he is sure my lord means to deny our marriage; but I have told him, as you and your master were present, I am sure you will both be ready to prove it, should my lord act so basely.

Pon. I must mind my hits here, or shall get myself into a confounded scrape – ready to do what, did you say, ma’am, to prove your marriage?

Fan. Yes, as you both were present.

Pon. Present! me! Lord bless me, what is it you mean? Marriage! prove! me! present!

Fan. Why do you hesitate? come, come, you do but jest with me – you cannot have forgotten it —

Pon. Hey? why no! but I can’t say I remember it —

Fan. Sure, sure, you cannot have the barbarity to deny that you were a witness to the ceremony!

Pon. I may be mistaken – I’ve a remarkably short memory; but to the best of my recollection I certainly —

Fan. Ay, you recollect it —

Pon. I certainly never was present —

Fan. Cruel! you were – indeed, indeed you were.

Pon. But at one wedding in my life.

Fan. And that was mine —

Pon. No, that was mine.

Fan. Merciful Heaven! I see my fate – it is disgrace and misery!

Pon. Bless you, if I could remember it; but I can’t – however I’ll speak to my master about it, and if he recollects it I dare say I shall.

Fan. I have then no hope, and the fate of the hapless Fanny is decided.

Pon. Ha! yonder I see comes my master and his lordship. I wonder what they are thinking of – they’re coming this way. I think we had better retire.

Fan. O hide me! hide me! In any corner let me hide my head, from scorn, from misery, and, most of all, from him —

Pon. You can’t escape that way, so you must come this. They wont think of coming here. (puts her into another room) Poor girl! I’ve a great mind to confess the whole affair. What shall I get by that? Nothing! nothing! Oh! that’s contrary to law! [Exit.

Enter lord Austencourt and O’Dedimus

Lord A. Are you certain no one can overhear us?

O’Ded. There’s nobody can hear us except my ould housekeeper, and she’s as deaf as St. Dunstan’s clock-strikers.

Lord A. There is no time to be lost. You must immediately repair to Fanny – tell her my affection is unabated – tell her I shall ever love her, and make her such pecuniary offers, as shall convince her of my esteem and affection; but we must meet no more. (Fanny utters a cry behind.)

O’Ded. What’s that?

Lord A. We are betrayed!

O’Ded. Och! ’tis only my ould housekeeper.

Lord A. Your housekeeper! I thought you told me she was deaf.

O’Ded. Yes; but she isn’t dumb. Devil a word can she hear for sartin; but she’s apt to say a great many, and so we may proceed.

Lord A. You will easily accomplish this business with Fanny.

O’Ded. I’m afraid not. To tell you the truth, my lord, I don’t like the job.

Lord A. Indeed! and why, sir?

O’Ded. Somehow, when I see a poor girl with her pretty little eyes brim full of tears, which I think have no business to be there, I’m more apt to be busy in wiping them away, than in saying cruel things that will make them flow faster; you had better tell her all this yourself, my lord.

Lord A. That, sir, is impossible. If you decline it, I shall find some one less delicate.

O’Ded. There’s reason in that, and if you send another to her, he may not be quite so delicate, as you say: so I’ll even undertake it myself.

Lord A. The poor girl disposed of, if the old fool, her father, will be thus clamorous, we must not be nice as to the means of silencing him – money, I suppose, is his object.

O’Ded. May be not – If a rich man by accident disables a poor man from working, money may make him easy; but when his feelings are deliberately tortured, devil fly away with the mercenary miser, if he will take shining dirt as a compensation for cruelty.

Lord A. I can dispense with moral reflections – It may serve your purpose elsewhere, but to me, who know your practice, your preaching is ridiculous – What is it you propose? If the fellow wont be satisfied by money he must be removed.

O’Ded. Faith, ’tis a new way, sure enough, to make reparation to the feelings of a father, after having seduced daughter under the plea of a false marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a forged licence!

Fanny (behind.) Oh, heaven! let me pass – I must and will see him (enters.) Oh, my lord! my lord! my husband! (she falls at his feet, he raises her) Surely my ears deceived me – you cannot, cannot mean it! a false marriage! a pretended priest! What is to become of me! In mercy kill me! Let me not live to see my broken-hearted father expire with grief and shame, or live to curse me! Spare me but this, my lord, and I will love, forgive, will pray for you —

Lord A. This is a plot against me – You placed her there on purpose to surprise me in the moment of unguarded weakness.

O’Ded. By St. Patrick, how she came there is a most mysterious mystery to Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.

Lord A. Fanny, I entreat you, leave me.

Fanny. Oh, do not send me from you! Can you, my lord, abandon thus to shame and wretchedness the poor deluded victim of your treachery!

Lord A. Ha! leave me, I charge you!

Fanny. No, no, my dearest lord! I cannot leave you! Whither shall I fly, if these arms deny me refuge! Am I not yours? What if these wicked men refuse me justice! There is another witness who will rise in dreadful evidence against you! ’Tis Heaven itself! ’tis there your vows were heard! ’tis there where Truth resides, your vows are registered! then oh! reflect before you plunge too deep in guilt for repentance and retreat! reflect that we are married!

Lord A. I cannot speak at present; leave me, and we will meet again.

Fanny. Do not command me from you; I see your heart is softened by my tears; cherish the stranger Pity in your breast; ’tis noble, excellent! Such pity in itself is virtue! Oh, cherish it, my lord! nor let the selfish feelings of the world step in to smother it! Now! now, while it glows unstifled in your heart! now, ere it dies, to be revived no more, at once proclaim the triumph of your virtue, and receive into your arms a fond and an acknowledged wife!

Lord A. Ha! impossible! Urge me no more! I cannot, will not hear you – My heart has ever been your own, my hand must be another’s; still we may love each other; still we may sometimes meet.

Fanny. (after a struggle) I understand you! No, sir! Since it must be, we will meet no more! I know that there are laws; but to these laws I disdain to fly! Mine is an injury that cannot be redressed; for the only mortal witnesses to our union you have suborned: the laws, therefore, cannot do me justice, and I will never, inhuman as you are, I will never seek them for revenge. [Exit.

O’Ded. (aside) I’m thinking, that if I was a lord, I should act in a clean contrary way; by the powers now, that man has got what I call a tough constitution; his heart’s made of stone like a brick wall – Oh! that a man should have the power of a man, and not know how to behave like a man!

Lord A. What’s to be done? speak, advise me!

O’Ded. That’s it: have you made up your mind already, that you ask me to advise you?

Lord A. I know not how to act.

O’Ded. When a man’s in doubt whether he should act as an honest man or a rogue, there are two or three small reasons for choosing the right side.

Lord A. What is’t you mean, sir?

O’Ded. I mean this thing – that as I suppose you’re in doubt whether to persecute the poor souls, or to marry the sweet girl in right earnest.

Lord A. Marry her! I have no such thoughts – idiot!

O’Ded. Idiot! That’s no proof of your lordship’s wisdom to come and ask advice of one. – Idiot, by St. Patrick! an idiot’s a fool, and that’s a Christian name was never sprinkled upon Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law!

Lord A. I can feel for the unfortunate girl as well as you; but the idea of marrying her is too ridiculous.

O’Ded. The unfortunate girl never knew misfortune till she knew you, my lord; and I heartily wish your lordship may never look more ridiculous than you would do in performing an act of justice and mercy.

Lord A. You presume strangely, sir, on my confidence and condescension!

O’Ded. What! are you coming over me now with the pride of your condescension. That for your condescension! When a great man, my lord, does me the honour to confide in me, he’ll find me trusty and respectful; but when he condescends to make me an agent and a partner in his iniquity, by your leave from that moment there’s an end of distinction between us.

Lord A. There’s no enduring this! Scoundrel!

O’Ded. Scoundrel! ditto, my lord, ditto! If I’m a scoundrel, it was you that made me one, and by St. Patrick, there’s a brace of us.

Lord A. (aside) The fellow has me in his power at present – you see me irritated, and you ought to bear with me – let us think of this no more. The father and daughter must both be provided for out of that money which sir Rowland still holds in trust for me.

O’Ded. And if you depend upon that money to silence the old man, you might as well think to stop a mouse-hole with toasted cheese.

Lord A. Pray explain, sir.

O’Ded. Devil a penny of it is there left. Sir Rowland ventured it in a speculation, and all is lost – Oh! blister my tongue, I’ve let out the secret, sure enough!

Lord A. Indeed! and what right had sir Rowland to risk my property? Be assured I will exact every guinea of it.

O’Ded. That’s just what I told him. Sir, says I, his lordship is one of the flinty-hearted ones, and devil a thirteener will he forgive you – but, my lord, it will utterly ruin sir Rowland to replace it.

Lord A. Sir Rowland should have thought of that before he embarked my property in a hazardous enterprise. Inform him, sir, from me that I expect an instant account of it.

O’Ded. I shall do that thing, sir: but please to reflect a little – the money so laid out was honestly intended for your advantage.

Lord A. Another word sir, and I shall think it necessary to employ another attorney.

O’Ded. Sir, that’s a quietus – I’ve done – only remember that if you proceed to extremities, I warrant you’ll repent it.

Lord A. You warrant —

O’Ded. Ay, sir, and a warrant of attorney is reckoned decent good security.

Lord A. Since my uncle has so far forgotten his duty as a guardian, I have now an opportunity, which I shall not neglect, to bring him to a proper recollection – you have nothing to do but to obey my orders; and these are that the fourteen thousand pounds, of which he has defrauded my estate, shall be immediately repaid. Look to it, sir, and to the other affair you are entrusted with, and see that the law neglects no measures to recover what is due to me. [Exit.