A PLAY, IN THREE ACTS.-BY GEORGE COLMAN. Sir E.-"I HAD FORGOT THE KEY, AND-HA! BY HELL!"-Act i, scene 3. have no bowels for us lowly: they little think, while they are gorging on the fat haunch of a goodly buck, what fatigues we poor honest souls undergo in stealing it! Why, sister Barbara! Bar. (Rising and coming forward.) I am here, brother Samson. Sam. Here!- Marry, out upon you for an idle baggage!-Why, you crawl like a snail. Bar. I pr'ythee, now, do not chide me, Samson! Sam. 'Tis my humour. I am father's head man in his poaching: the rubs I take from him, who is above me, I hand down to you, who are below me. 'Tis the way of office, whicre every miserable devil domineers it over the next more miserable devil that's under him. You may scold sister Margery, an you will; she's your younger by a twelvemonth. Bar. Truly, brother, I would not make any one unhappy for the world: I am content to do what I can to please, and to mind the house. Sam. Truly, a weighty matter! Thou art e'en ready to hang thyself for want of something to while away time. What hast thou much more to do than to trim the faggots, nurse thy mother, boil the pot, patch our jackets, kill the poultry, cure the hogs, fecd the pigs, and comb the children? Bar. Many might think that no small charge, Samson. Sam. A mere nothing; while father and I (bate us but the mother and children) have the credit of purloining every single thing that you have the care of. We are up early, and down late, in the exercise of our industry. Bar. I wish father and you would give up the calling. us. Sam. No: there is one kcen argument to prevent Bar. What's that, brother? Sam. Hunger Wouldst have us be rogues, and let our family starve? Give up poaching and deer-stealing! Oons! dost think we have no conscience. Yonder sits poor mother, poor soul! old, helpless, and crazy. Bar. Alas! brother, 'tis heart-aching to look upon her. This very time three years she got her maim: it was a piteous tempest. Sam. Ay, 'twas rough weather. Bar. I never pass the old oak that was shivered that night in the storm, but I am ready to weep: it remembers me of the time when all our poor family went to ruin. Sam. Pish! no matter: the cottage was blown down, the barn fired, father undone. Well, landlords are flinty-hearted-no help; what then? We live, don't we? Bar. Troth, brother, very sadly. Father has grown desperate-all is fallen to decay; we live by pilfering on the forest, and our poor mother distracted, and unable to look to the house. The rafter which fell in the storm struck so heavy upon her brain, I fear me 'twill never again be settled. The little ones, too, scarce clothed hungry almost starving! Indeed, we are a very wretched family. [A knock at the cottage-door. Sam. Hark! methought I heard a tread. [He opens the door Enter RAWBOLD. Raw. Bar the door; so-softly! Sam. What success, father? Sam. (To Barbara.) Why, how you stand !-The chair, you gander! [They bring forward a chair-Rawbold sits. Raw. Here, take my gun-'tis unscrewed. The keepers are abroad; I had scarce time to get it in my pocket. (He pulls the gun from a pocket under his coat, in three pieces, which Samson screws together while they are talk ng.) Fie! 'tis sharp work! Barbara, you jade! come hither. Sam. Barbara, you jade! come hither. Raw. Who bid thec chide her, lout? Kiss tby old father, wench-kiss me, I say!-So. Why dost tremble? I am rough as a tempest: evil fortune has blown my lowering nature into turbulence; but thou art a blossom that dost bend thy head so sweetly under my gusts of passion, 'tis pity they should ever harm thee. Bar. Indeed, father, I am glad to see you safe returned. Raw. I believe thee. Take the keys; go to the locker in the loft, and bring me a glass to recruit Exit Burbara. me. Sam. Well, father, and so Raw. Peace!-I ha' shot a buck. Sam. Oh, rare! Of all the sure aims on the borders of the New Forest here, give me old Gilbert Rawbold; though I, who am his son, say it, that should not say it. Where have you stowed him, father? Raw. Under the furze, behind the hovel. Come night again, we will draw him in, boy. I have been watched. Sam. Watched!-Oh, the pestilence!-Our trade will be spoiled if the groom-keepers be after us; the law will persecute us, father. Raw. Dost know Mortimer? Sam. What, Sir Edward Mortimer? Ay, sure; he is head-keeper of the forest. 'Tis he who has shut himself up in melancholy; sees no rich, and does so much good to the poor. Raw. He has done nought but evil. A gun cannot be carried on the border here, but he has scent on't at a league's distance. He is a thorn to me: his scouts this night were after me, all on the watch. I'll be revenged-I'll-So, the brandy. Re-enter BARBARA, with the liquor. Raw. (After drinking.) 'Tis right, i'faith; Sam. That 'tis, l'll be sworn; for I smuggled it myself. We do not live so near the coast for nothing. Raw. Sir Edward Mortimer look to't! Bar. Sir Edward Mortimer! Oh, dear father, what of him? Raw. Ay, now thou art all agog! Thou wouldst hear somewhat of that smooth-torgued fellow, his secretary-his clerk, Wilford, whom thou so often meet'st in the forest. I have news on't. Look how you walk thither, again! What, thou wouldst betray me to him, I warrant-conspire against your father! Sam. Ay, conspire against your father, and your tender loving brother, you vipes, you! Bar. Beshrew me, father, I meant no barm; and, indeed, indeed, Wilford is as handsome a-I mean, as good a youth as ever breathed. If I thought he meant ill by you, I should hate him. Raw. When didst see him last?-Speak! Bar. You terrify me so, father, I am scarce able to speak. Yesternoon, by the copse: 'twas but to Raw. Good: my limbs ache for't. How you read with him the book of sonnets he gave me. stand!-the chair, you gander! Sam. That's the way your sly, grave regues work [A knocking at the door A Voice. (Without.) Hilliho! ho! Sam. There, an they be not after us already! I'll We have talked, too, till 'tis broad daylight. Wilford. (Without.) Open, good Master Rawbold; I would speak to you suddenly. Bar. Oh, heaven! 'tis the voice of Wilford himself! Raw. Wilford !-I'm glad on't! Now he shallI'm glad on't! Open the door-quickly, I say! He shall smart for it! Sam. Are you mad, father? "Tis we shall smart for it. Let in the keeper's head man! The buck you have just shot, you know, is hard at hand. Raw. Open, I say! Sam. Oh, lord! I defy any secretary's nose not to smell stolen venison now, the moment 'tis thrust near our hovel! [Opens the door. Enter WILFORD. Wil. Save you, good people. You are Gilbert Rawbold, as I take it. Raw. I am. Your message here, young man, bodes me no good; but I am Gilbert Rawbold, and here's my daughter: dost thou know her? Wil. Ah, Barbara! good wench, how fares it with you? Raw. Look on her well, then consult your own conscience: 'tis difficult, haply, for a secretary to find one. You are a villain! Wil. You lie! Hold! I crave pardon. You are her father; she is innocent, and you are unhappy. I respect virtue and misfortune too much to shock the one, or insult the other. Raw. 'Sdeath! why meet my daughter in the forest? Wil. Because I love her. Wil. That's a strange way of showing one's love, methinks. I have a simple notion, Gilbert, that the thought of having taken a base advantage of a poor girl's affection might go nigh to break a man's sleep, and give him unquiet dreams; now, I love my night's rest, and shall do nothing to disturb it. Raw. Wouldst not poison her mind? Wil. 'Tis not my method, friend, of dosing a patient. Look ye, Gilbert; her mind is a fair flower, stuck in the rude soil here of surrounding ignorance, and smiling in the chill of poverty. would fain cheer it with the little sunshine I possess of comfort and information. My parents were poor, like hers: should occasion serve, I might haply, were all parties agreed, make her my wife. To make her aught else would affect her, you, and myself; and I have no talent at making three people uneasy at the same time. Raw. Your hand: on your account, we are friends. Bar. Oh, dear father! Raw. Be silent. Now to your errand: 'tis from Mortimer. Wil. I come from Sir Edward. Raw. I know his malice: he would oppress me with his power- he would starve me and my family. Search my house. Sam. No, father, no! (Aside.) You forget the buck under the furze. Raw. Let him do his worst, but let him bewarea tyrant! a villain! (Samson gets round to co ner.) Wil. Hark ye: he is my master; I owe him my gratitude-every thing; and had you been any but the father of my Barbara, and spoken so much against him, my indignation had worked into my knuckles, and crammed the words down your rusty throat! will end: father will knock down the secretary & Sam. (Aside.) I do begin to perceive how thi flat as a buck! Wil. Hush, Rawbold! keep your counsel. Should you make it public, he must notice it. Raw. Did he not notice it? Wil. No matter; but he has sent me thus early, Gilbert, with this relief to your distresses, which he has heard of. Here are twenty marks for you and your family. Raw. From Sir Edward Mortimer? Wil. 'Tis his way; but he would not have it mentioned. He is one of those judges who, in ders; but his private charity bids him assist the their office, will never warp the law to save offenneedy, before their necessities drive them to crimes, which his public duty must punish. Raw. Did Mortimer do this? did he?-Heaven bless him! Oh, young man, if you knew half the misery- -my wife-my children! Shame on't! I have stood many a tug, but the drops now fall, in spite of me! I am not ungrateful, but I cannot stand it! We will talk of Barbara when I have more man about me. Wil. Bar. Sam. QUINTETTO. The sun has tipp'd the hills with red, The lout now flourishes his flail; The punchy parson waddles from his bed, Adieu!—And should you think upon That there lives little Barbara. And Samson, too, good sir, in smoke and smother; Barbara's very tender, loving brother. Boy. [To Samson.] Brother, look; the sun aloof Peeps through the crannies of the rof. Children. Give us food, good brother, pray! Sam. Stop the'r bawling! Hungry stomachs th ́re's no balking: I wish I could stop their mouths with talking. Wil. Adieu! adieu!-1 must be going; Bar. Oh, think on little Barbara! S Adieu! my little Barbara! Wil. & Oh, think on little Barbara! Bar. You'll think on little Barbara! [Exeunt Wilfora, Samson, and two Children, and the scene closes on Dame Raubold and two other Children, SCENE II.-An old-fashioned Hall in Sir Edward Win. Softly, varlets, softly? See you crack none of the stone flaggons. Nay, 'tis plain your own breakfasts be toward, by your scuttling thus. A goodly morning! Why, you giddy-pated knave. (To Peter.) is it so you carry a dish of pottery?No heed of our good master, Sir Edward Mortimer's ware? Fie, Peter Pickbone, fie! Pet. I am in haste, master steward, to break my fast. Win. To break thy fast!-To break thy neck, it scem. (Laughing.) Ha! ha! good, ifaith! Go thy ways, knave! (Exit Peter.) Tis thus the rogues ever have me: I would fain be angry with thein, but straight a merry jest passeth across me, and my choler is over. To break thy neck, should scem! (Laughing.) Ha! ha! 'twas well conceited, by St. Thomas! My table-book for the business of the day. Ah! my memory holds not as it did-it needs the spur. (Looking over his book.) Nine-andforty years have I been housc-steward and butler. It is a long lease. Let me sco- my tablets. [Looking over them, and singing. "When birds do carol on the bush. These fatigues of office somewhat wear a man. I have had a long lease on't: I ha' seen out Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, and King James. 'Tis c'en almost time that I should retire, to begin to enjoy myself. (Looking off) Eh! by St. Thomas! hither trips the fair mistress Blanch. Of all the waitinggentlewomen I ever looked ou, during the two last reigns, none stirred my faney like this little rose-bud, Enter BLANCH. Blanch. A good day, good Adam Winterton. Win. What, wag! what, tulip!-I never see thee, but I am a score of years the younger. Blanch. Nay, then, let us not meet often, or you will soon be in your second childhood. Win. What, you come from your mistress, the Lady Helen, in the forest here; and would speak with Sir Edward Mortimer, I warrant? Blanch. I would. Is his melancholy worship stirring yet? Win. Fie, you mad-cap!-He is my master, and your lady's friend. Blanch, Yes, truly, it seems her only one, poor lady; he protects her now she is left an orphan. Win. A blessing on his heart! I would it were merrier. Well, should they happen to marry, (and I have my fancies on't) I'll dance a galliard with thee in the hall, on the round oak table. 'Sbud! when I was a youth, I would ha' capered with St. Vitus, and beat him. Blanch. You are as likely to dance now, as they to marry. What has hindered them, if the parties be agreed? Yet I have, now, been with my mistress these two years, since Sir Edward first came hither, and placed her in the cottage hard by his lodge. Win. Tush! family reasons. Thou knowest nothing-thou art scarce catched. Two years back, when we came from Kent, and Sir Edward first entered on his office here of head-keeper, thou wert a colt, running wild about New Forest. I hired you myself, to attend on Madam Helen. Blanch. Nay, I shall never forget it. But you were as frolicsome then as I, methinks. Dost remember the box on the ear I gave thee, Adam? Win. Peace, peace, you pie!-An you prate thus, I'll stop your mouth-I will, by St. Thomas! Blanch. An I be inclined to the contrary, I do not think you are able to stop it. Win. Out, you baggage! thou hast more tricks than a kitten. Well, go thy ways; Sir Edward is at his study, and there thou wilt find him.-Ah, Mistress Blanch! had you but seen me sixty years ago, in the early part of Queen Elizabeth's reign! Blanch. How old art thou now, Adam? Win. Fourscore, come Martlemas; and, by our lady! I can run with a lapwing. Blanch. Caust thou?-Well said!-Thou art a merry old map, and shalt have a kiss of me, on one condition. Win. Shall 1? Odsbud! mine. name it, and 'tis [Runs of Blanch. Then catch me. Win. Pestilence on't!-There was a time when my legs had served: I was a clean-limbed stripling, when I first stood behind Sir Marmaduke's armchair in the old oak eating-room, [Retires up. Enter WILFORD. Wil. Every new act of Sir Edward's charity sets me a thinking: and the more I think, the more I am puzzled. Tis strange that a man should be so ill at ease, who is continually doing good! At times, the wild glare of his eye is frightful. I would stake my life there's a secret; and I could almost give my life to unravel it. I must to him for ny morning's employment. Win. Ah, boy! Wilford! secretary! whither away, lad? Wil. Mr. Winterton! (side.) Ay, marry, this good old men has the clue, could 1 but soax him to give it to me. (Aloud.) A good morning to you, sir. Wil. 'Tis thought here Sir Edward means to marry her lady, Madam Helen. Win. Yea, and the like to thee, boy! Come, thou shalt have a cup of Canary from my corner cupboard yonder. Wil. Not a drop! Win. Troth, I bear thee a good will for thy honest, old, dead father's sake. Wil. I do thankfully perceive it, sir. Your placing me in Sir Edward's family some nine months ago, when my poor father died, and left me friendless, will never out of my memory. Win. Tut, boy! no merit of mine in assisting the friendless; 'tis our duty. I could never abide to see honest industry chop-fallen; I love to have folks merry about me, to my heart. Wil. I would you could instil some mirth into our good master, Sir Edward. You are an old doinestic, the only one he brought with him, two years back, from Kent; and might venture to give his spirits a jog. He seems devoured with spleen and melancholy. Win. You are a prying boy-go to! I have told thee, a score of times, I would not have thee curious about our worthy master's humour. Wil. I should cease to pry, sir, would you but once (as I think you have more than once seemed inclined) gratify my much-raised curiosity. Win. What, greenhorn! dost think to trap the old man? Go thy ways, boy! I have a head: old Adam Winterton can sift a subtle speech to the bottom. Wil. Ah, good sir, you need not tell me that. Young as I am, I can admire that experience in another which I want myself. Win. Nay, I know not: she has long been enamoured of him, poor lady! when he was the gay, the gallant Sir Edward, in Kent. Ab, well! two years make a wondrous change! Wil. Yes, 'tis a good tough love now-a-days that will hold out a couple of twelvemonths. Win. Away! I mean not so, you giddy pate! He is all honour; yet I wonder sometimes he can bear to look upon her. Wil. Eh! why so? Did he not bring her, under his protection, to the forest, since, 'tis said, she lost her relations. Win. Hush, boy!-On your life, do not name her uncle I would say, her relations! Wil. Her uncle! Wherefore? Where's the harm in having an uncle, dead or alive? Win. Peace, peace! In that uncle lies the secret. Win. Come nearer: see you prate not, now, on your life! Our good master, Sir Edward, was arraigned on his account, in open court. Wil. Arraigned! How mean you? Win. Alas! boy, tried-tried for-Nearer yet murder! Win. (Aside.) There is something marvellously engaging in this young man. Sixty years ago, in Queen Elizabeth's time, I was just such another. (Aloud.) Well, beware how you offend Sir Ed--his ward. Wil. I would not willingly for the world. He has been the kindest master to me; but, whilst my fortunes ripen in the warmth of his goodness, the frozen gloom of his countenance chills me. Win. Well, well, take heed how you prate on't. Out on these babbling boys! There is no keeping a secret with younkers in a family. Wil. (Very eagerly.) What, then, there is a secret? Win. Why, how now, hot head? Mercy on me! and this tinder-box boy do not make me shake with apprehension! Is it thus you take my frequent counsel? Wil. Dear sir, 'tis your counsel which most I covet: give me but that, admit me to your confidence, steer me with your advice (which I ever held excellent), and, with such a pilot, I may sail prosperously through a current, which, otherwise, might wreck me. Win. Well, well, I'll think on't, boy. Wil. (Aside.) The old answer; yet he softens apace. Could I but clench him now! (Aloud.) Faith, sir, 'tis a raw morning, and I care not if I taste the Canary your kindness offered. Win. Aha! lad, say'st thou so? Here's the key of the corner cupboard yonder; see you do not crack the bottle, you heedless goose, you! [Exit Wilford, and returns with bottle and glasses.] Ha! fill it up. Od! it sparkles curiously. Here's to--I prithee, tell ma now, Wilford, didst ever in thy life see a waiting-gentlewoman with a more inviting eye than the little Mrs. Blanch? Wil (Drinking.) Here's Mrs. Blanch. Well, when (Drinks.) Wi'. Mu-mur-murder! Win. Why, what! why, Wilford! Out, alas! the boy's passion will betray all! What, Wilford, I say! Wil. You have curdled my blood! Win. What, variet! thou darest not think ill of our worthy master? Wil. I-I am his secretary-often alone with him, at dead midnight, in his library; the candles in the sockets; and a man glaring upon me who has committed mur-Ugh! Win. Committed!-Thou art a base, lying koavo to say it! Well, well; hear me, pettishi boy, hear me.-Why, look now, thou dost not attend. Wil. I-I mark-I mark. Win. I tell thee, then, our good Sir Edward was beloved in Kent, where he had returned, a year before, from his travels. Madam Helen's uncle was hated by all the neighbourhood, rich and poor -a mere brute. Dost mark me? Wil. Like enough; but when brutes walk upon two legs, the law of the land, thank Haven! will not suffer us to butcher them. Win. Go to, you firebrand! Our good master laboured all he could, for many a month, to sooth his turbulence, but in vain. He picked a quarrel with Sir Edward in the public county assembly; nay, the strong ruffian struck him down, and trampled on him. Think on that, Wilford; on our good master, Sir Edward, whose great soul was nigh to burst with the indignity? Wit. Well, but the end on't? Win. Why, our young master took horse for his own house, determined, as it appeared, to send a challenge to this white-livered giant in the moruing. Wil. I see: he killed him in a duel. |