ACT II.
SCENE I.
[An Apartment at Sir Luke Tremor's. Enter Twineall and Meanright.]
Twi.
My dear friend, after so long a
separation,
how glad I am to meet you!—but how devilish unlucky that you shou'd,
on the very day of my arrival, be going to set sail for another part of
the world! yet before you go, I must beg a favour of you—you know Sir
Luke and his family perfectly well, I dare say?
Mean.
I think so—I have been in his house
near six years.
Twi.
The very person on earth I wanted!—
Sir Luke has power here, I suppose?—a word from him might do a man some
service perhaps? [significantly.
Mean.
Why, yes; I don't know a man that
has more influence at a certain place.
Twin.
And her Ladyship seems a very clever
gentlewoman?
Mean.
Very.
Twi.
And I have a notion they think me
very clever.
Mean.
I dare say they do.
Twi.
Yes—but I mean very clever.
Mean.
No doubt!
Twi.
But, my dear friend, you must help
me to make them think better of me still—and when my fortune is made,
I'll make yours—for when I once become acquainted with people's dispositions,
their little weaknesses, foibles and faults, I can wind, twist, twine,
and get into the corner of every one's heart, and lie so snug, they can't
know I'm there, till they want to pull me out, and find 'tis impossible.
Mean.
Excellent talent!
Twi.
Is not it? and now, my dear friend,
do you inform me of the secret dispositions, and propensities of every
one in this family, and of all their connections.—What Lady values herself
upon one qualification, and what Lady upon another?—What Gentleman will
like to be told of his accomplishments? or what man would rather hear of
his wife's, or his daughter's?—or of his horses? or of his dogs?—now,
my dear Ned, acquaint me with all this—and within a fortnight I will
become the most necessary rascal—not a creature shall know how to exist
without me.
Mean.
Why such a man as you ought to have
made your fortune in England.
Twi.
No—my father, and my three uncles
monopolized all the great men themselves; and wou'd never introduce me
where I was likely to become their rival—This—this is the very spot
for me to display my genius—But then I must penetrate the people first—and
you will kindly save me that trouble.—Come, give me all their
characters—all
their little propensities—all their whims—in short, all I am to
praise—and
all I am to avoid praising,—in order to endear myself to them. [Takes
out tablets.] Come—begin with Sir Luke.
Mean.
Sir Luke—values himself more upon
personal bravery, than upon any thing else.
Twi.
Thank you, my dear friend—thank
you. [Writes] Was he ever in the army?
Mean.
Oh yes—besieged a capital fortress,
a few years ago—and now, the very name of a battle or a great general
tickles his vanity, and he takes all the praises you can lavish upon the
subject as compliments to himself.
Twi.
Thank you—thank you a thousand
times—[Writes.] I'll mention a battle very soon.
Mean.
Not directly.
Twi.
O, no—let me alone for time and
place—go on, my friend—go on—her Ladyship—
Mean.
Descended from the ancient kings
of Scotland.
Twi.
You don't say so!
Mean.
And though she is so nicely scrupulous
as never to mention the word genealogy, yet I have seen her agitation so
great, when the advantages of high birth have been extoll'd, she could
scarcely withhold her sentiments of triumph; which in order to disguise,
she has assumed a disdain for all "vain titles—empty sounds—and idle
pomp."
Twi.
Thank you—thank you—this is a
most excellent trait of the Lady's—[Writes.]
"Pedigree of the kings of Scotland?" O, I have her at once.
Mean.
Yet do it nicely—oblique touches,
rather than open explanations.
Twi.
Let me alone for that.
Mean.
She has, I know, in her possession—
but I dare say she wou'd not show it you, nay, on the contrary, would even
affect to be highly offended, if you were to mention it—and yet it certainly
would flatter her, to know you were acquainted with her having it.
Twi.
What—what—what is it?
Mean.
A large old-fashioned wig—which
Malcolm the third or fourth, her great ancestor, wore when he was crowned
at Scone, in the year—
Twi.
I'll mention it.
Mean.
Take care.
Twi.
O, let me alone for the manner.
Mean.
She'll pretend to be angry.
Twi.
That I am prepared for.—Pray who
is my Lord Flint?
Mean.
A deep man—and a great favourite
at court.
Twi.
Indeed!—how am I to please him?
Mean.
By insinuations against the present
Sultan.
Twi.
How!
Mean.
With all his pretended attachment,
his heart—
Twi.
Are you sure of it?
Mean.
Sure:—he blinds Sir Luke, (who
by the bye is no great politician) but I know his Lordship—and if he
thought he was sure of his ground—(and he thinks he shall be sure of
it soon)— then—
Twi.
I'll insinuate myself and join his
party— but, in the mean time, preserve good terms with Sir Luke, in case
any thing shou'd fall in my way there.—Who is Mr. Haswell?
Mean.
He pretends to be a man of principle
and sentiment—flatter him on that.
Twi.
The easiest thing in the world—no
people like flattery better than such as he.—They will bear even to hear
their vices praised.—I will myself undertake to praise the vices of a
man of sentiment till he shall think them so many virtues.—You have
mentioned no Ladies, but the Lady of the house yet.
Mean.
There is no other Lady, except a
pretty girl who came over from England, about two years ago, for a husband,
and not succeeding in another part of the country, is now recommended to
this house—and has been here three or four months.
Twi.
Let me alone, to please her.
Mean.
Yes—I believe you are skilled.
Twi.
For the art of flattery, no one
more.
Mean.
But damn it—it is not a liberal
art.
Twi.
It is a great science, notwithstanding—
and studied, at present, by all the connoisseurs.— Zounds! I have staid
a long time—I can't attend to any more characters at present—Sir Luke
and his Lady will think me inattentive, if I don't join them—Shall I
see you again?—if not—I wish you a pleasant voyage—I'll make the
most of what you have told me—you'll hear I'm a great man— God bless
you!—good bye!—you'll hear I'm a great man. [Exit.
Mean.
And, if I am not mistaken, I shall
hear you are turned out of the house before to-morrow morning. O, Twineall!
exactly the reverse of every character have you now before you—the greatest
misfortune in the life of Sir Luke has been, flying from his army in the
midst of an engagement, and a most humiliating degradation in consequence,
which makes him so feelingly alive on the subject of a battle, that nothing
but his want of courage can secure my friend Twineall's life for venturing
to name the subject—then Lord Flint, firmly attached to the interest
of the Sultan, will be all on fire, when he hears of open disaffection—but
most of all her Ladyship! whose father was a grocer, and uncle, a noted
advertising "Periwig-maker on a new construction." She will run mad to
hear of births, titles, and long pedigrees.—Poor Twineall! little dost
thou think what is prepared for thee.—There is Mr. Haswell too—but
to him have I sent you to be reclaimed— to him,—who, free from faults,
or even foibles, of his own, has yet more potently the blessing given,
of tenderness for ours. [Exit.
SCENE II.
[The inside of a Prison. Several Prisoners dispersed in different situations. Enter Keeper and Haswell with lights.]
Keep.
This way, Sir—the prisons this
way are more extensive still—you seem to feel for these unthinking men—but
they are a set of unruly people, whom no severity can make such as they
ought to be.
Has.
And wou'd not gentleness, or mercy,
do you think, reclaim them?
Keep.
That I can't say—we never try those
means in this part of the world—that man yonder, suspected of disaffection,
is sentenced to be here for life, unless his friends can lay down a large
sum by way of penalty, which he finds they cannot do, and he is turned
melancholy.
Has. [After a pause.]
Who is that? [To another.
Keep.
He has been try'd for heading an
insurrection, and acquitted.
Has.
What keeps him here?
Keep.
Fees due to the Court—a debt contracted
while he proved his innocence.
Has.
Lead on, my friend—let us go to
some other part. [Putting his hand to his eyes.
Keep.
In this ward, we are going to, are
the prisoners, who by some small reserve—some little secreted stock when
they arrived—or by the bounty / of some friend who visit them—or such-like
fortunate circumstance, are in a less dismal place.
Has.
Lead on.
Keep.
But stop—put on this cloak, for,
before we arrive at the place I mention, we must pass a damp vault, which
to those who are not used to it—[Haswell puts on the cloak]—or
will you postpone your visit?
Has.
No—go on.
Keep.
Alas! who wou'd suppose you had been
used to see such places!—you look concerned— vext to see the people
suffer—I wonder you shou'd come, when you seem to think so much about
them.
Has.
Oh! that, that is the very reason.
[Exit, following the Keeper.
[Zedan, a tawny Indian Prisoner, follows them, stealing out, as if intent on something.]
Two Prisoners walk slowly down the Stage.
1st Pris.
Who is this man?
2d Pris.
From Britain—I have seen him once
before.
1st Pris.
He looks pale—he has no heart.
2d Pris.
I believe, a pretty large one.
[Re-enter Zedan.]
Zed.
Brother, a word with you. [To
the 1st Prisoner, the other retires] as the stranger and our keeper
passed by the passage, a noxious vapour put out the light, and as they
groped along I purloined this from the stranger—[Shews a pocket-book]
see it contains two notes will pay our ransom. [Shewing the
notes.
1st Pris.
A treasure—our certain ransom!
Zed.
Liberty! our wives, our children,
and our friends, will these papers purchase.
1st Pris.
What a bribe! our keeper may rejoice
too.
Zed.
And then the pleasure it will be
to hear the stranger fret, and complain for his loss!—O, how my heart
loves to see sorrow!—Misery such as I have known, on men who spurn me—who
treat me as if (in my own Island) I had no friends that loved me—no servants
that paid me honour—no children that revered me—who forget I am a
husband—a father—nay, a man.—
1st Pris.
Conceal your thoughts—conceal your
treasure too—or the Briton's complaint—
Zed.
Will be in vain—our keeper will
conclude the bribe must come to him, at last—and therefore make no great
search for it—here, in the corner of / my belt [Puts up the
pocket-book]
'twill be secure— Come this way, and let us indulge our pleasant prospect.
[They retire, and the scene closes.
SCENE III.
[Another part of the Prison. A kind of sopha with an old man sleeping upon it— Elvirus sitting attentively by him. Enter Keeper and Haswell.]
Keep.
That young man, you see there, watching
his aged father as he sleeps, by the help of fees gains his admission—and
he never quits the place, except to go and purchase cordials for the old
man, who, (though healthy and strong when he first became a prisoner) is
now become ill and languid.
Has.
Are they from Europe?
Keep.
No—but descended from Europeans—
see how the youth holds his father's hand!—I have sometimes caught him
bathing it with tears.
Has.
I'll speak to the young man. [Going
to him.
Keep.
He will speak as soon as he sees
me—he has sent a petition to the Sultan about his father,
and never fails to inquire if a reply is come. [They approach—Elvirus starts, and comes forward]
Elv. [To Haswell]
Sir, do you come from the Court?
has the Sultan received my humble supplication? Can you tell?—softly—let
not my father hear you speak.
Has.
I come but as a stranger, to see
the prison.
Elv.
No answer yet, keeper?
Keep.
No—I told you it was in vain to
write— they never read petitions sent from prisons—their hearts are
hardened to such worn-out tales of sorrow. [Elvirus turns towards his
Father and weeps.
Has.
Pardon me, Sir—but what is the
request you are thus denied?
Elv.
Behold my father! but three months
has he been confined here; and yet—unless he breathes a purer air—O,
if you have influence at Court, Sir, pray represent what passes in this
dreary prison—what passes in my heart.—My supplication is to remain
a prisoner here, while my father, released, shall be permitted to retire
to humble life; and never more take arms in a cause the Sultan may
suspect—which
engagement broken, my life shall be the forfeit.—Or if the Sultan wou'd
allow me to serve him as a soldier—
Has.
You would fight against the party
your father fought for?
Elv. [Starting.]
No—but in the forests—or on the
desert sands—amongst those slaves who are sent to battle with the wild
Indians—there I wou'd go—and earn the boon I ask—or in the
mines—
Has.
Give me your name—I will, at least,
present your suit—and, perhaps—
Elv.
Sir! do you think it is likely? Joyful
hearing!
Has.
Nay, be not too hasty in your hopes—I
cannot answer for my success. [Repeats] "Your father humbly implores
to be released from prison—and, in his stead, you take his chains—
or, for the Sultan's service, fight as a slave, or dig in his mines?"
Elv.
Exactly, Sir—that is the petition—I
thank you, Sir.
Keep.
You don't know, young man, what it
is to dig in mines—or fight against foes, who make their prisoners die
by unheard-of tortures.
Elv.
You do not know, Sir, what it is,—to
see a parent suffer.
Has. [Writing]
Your name, Sir?
Elv.
Elvirus Casimir.—
Has.
Your father's?
Elv.
The same—one who followed agriculture
in the fields of Symria—but, induced by the call of freedom—
Has.
How? have a care.
Elv.
No—his son, by the call of nature,
supplicates his freedom.
Keep.
The rebel, you find, breaks out.
Elv. [Aside to the Keeper.]
Silence—silence! he forgives it—don't
remind him of it—don't undo my hopes.
Has.
I will serve you if I can.
Elv.
And I will merit it—indeed I will—you
shall not complain of me—I will be—
Has.
Retire—I trust you. [Elvirus
bows lowly, and retires.]
Keep.
Yonder cell contains a female
prisoner.
Has.
A female prisoner!
Keep.
Without a friend or comforter, she
has existed there these many years—nearly fifteen.
Has.
Is it possible!
Keep.
Wou'd you wish to see her?
Has.
If it won't give her pain.
Keep.
At least, she'll not resent it—for
she seldom complains, except in moans to herself—[Goes to the cell.]
Lady, here is one come to visit all the prisoners—please to appear before
him.
Has.
I thank you—you speak with reverence
and respect to her.
Keep.
She has been of some note, though now so
totally unfriended—at least, we think she has, from her gentle manners;
and our governor is in the daily expectation of some liberal ransom for her,
which makes her imprisonment without a hope of release, till that day arrives—[Going
to the cell]—Lend me your hand—you are weak.
[He leads her from the cell—she appears faint—and as if
the light affected her eyes—Haswell pulls off his hat, and, after
a pause—
Has.
I fear you are not in health, Lady?
[She looks at him solemnly for some time.
Keep.
Speak—Madam, speak.
Pris.
No—not very well. [Faintingly.
Has.
Where are your friends? When do you
expect your ransom?
Pris. [Shaking her head.]
Never.
Keep.
She persists to say so; thinking
by that declaration, we shall release her without a ransom.
Has.
Is that your motive?
Pris.
I know no motive for a falsehood.
Has.
I was to blame—pardon me.
Keep.
Your answers are somewhat prouder
than usual. [He retires up the stage.
Pris.
They are.—[To Haswell] Forgive
me— I am mild with all of these—but from a countenance like yours—I
could not bear reproach.
Has.
You flatter me.
Pris.
Alas! Sir, and what have I to hope
from such a meaness?—You do not come to ransom me.
Has.
Perhaps I do.
Pris.
Oh! do not say so—unless—unless—I
am not to be deceived—pardon in your turn this suspicion—but when I
have so much to hope for— when the sun, the air, fields, woods, and all
that wonderous world, wherein I have been so happy, is in prospect; forgive
me, if the vast hope makes me fear.
Has.
Unless your ransom is fixed at something
beyond my power to give, I will release you.
Pris.
Release me! Benevolent!
Has.
How shall I mark you down in my petition?
[Takes out his book.] what name?
Pris.
'Tis almost blotted from my memory.
[Weeping.
Keep.
It is of little note—a female prisoner,
taken with the rebel party, and in these cells confined for fifteen
years.
Pris.
During which time I have demeaned
myself with all humility to my governors—neither have I distracted my
fellow prisoners with a complaint that might recall to their memory their
own unhappy fate—I have been obedient, patient; and cherished hope to
chear me with vain dreams, while despair possess'd my reason.
Has.
Retire—I will present the picture
you have given.
Pris.
Succeed too—or, never let me see
you more— [She goes up the stage.
Has.
You never shall.
Pris. [Returns]
Or, if you shou'd miscarry in your
views [for who forms plans that do not sometimes fail?] I will not reproach
you even to myself—no—nor will I suffer much from the
disappointment—merely
that you may not have, what I suffer, to account for. [Exit to her
cell.
Has.
Excellent mind!
Keep.
In this cell— [Going to
another.
Has.
No—take me away—I have enough
to do—I dare not see more at present.— [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
[The former Prison Scene. Enter Zedan.]
Zed.
They are coming—I'll stand here
in his sight, that, shou'd he miss what I have taken, he'll not suspect
me, but suppose it is one who has hid himself.
Enter Keeper and Haswell.
Keep. [To Zedan]
What makes you here?—still moping
by yourself, and lamenting for your family?—[To Haswell]
that man, the most ferocious I ever met with—laments, sometimes even
with tears, the separation from his wife and children.
Has. [Going to him]
I am sorry for you, friend; [Zedan
looks sullen and morose.] I pity you.
Keep.
Yes—he had a pleasant hamlet on
the neighbouring island—plenty of fruits—clear springs—and wholesome
roots—and now complains bitterly of his repasts—sour rice, and muddy
water. [Exit Keeper.
Has.
Poor man! bear your sorrows nobly—
and as we are alone—no miserable eye to grudge the favour—[Looking
round] take this trifle— [Gives money] it will at least make
your meals better for a few short weeks—till Heaven may please to favour
you with a less sharp remembrance of the happiness you have lost—Farewell.
[Going.] [Zedan catches hold of him, and taking the pocket-book
from his belt, puts it into Haswell's hand.]
Has.
What's this?
Zed.
I meant to gain my liberty with it—but
I will not vex you.
Has.
How came you by it?
Zed.
Stole it—and wou'd have stabb'd
you too, had you been alone—but I am glad I did not—Oh! I am glad I
did not.
Has.
You like me then?
Zed. [Shakes his head and holds
his heart.]
'Tis something that I never felt
before—it makes me like not only you, but all the world besides—the
love of my family was confined to them alone; but this makes me feel I
could love even my enemies.
Has.
Oh, nature! grateful! mild! gentle!
and forgiving!—worst of tyrants they who, by hard usage, drive you to
be cruel!
[Enter Keeper.]
Keep.
The lights are ready, Sir, through the
dark passage—[To Zedan.] Go to your fellows.
Has. [To Zedan.]
Farewell—we will meet again. [Zedan
exit on one side, Haswell and Keeper exeunt on the other.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
