LADY RAYMOND [sola.]
This is a sad
life I've got into. My Lord forgets I'm a stranger to the great world;—I
will however endeavour to steal him from his follies, and to acquire some
knowledge of those around me, though left unguided in those scenes of dissipation;
independent of my fond attachment to him, I never can forget what I
owe myself.
[Enter Lord and Lady Bonton, Daffodil, and Macpharo.]
LADY
BONTON.
Allow me to
present to you the irresistible Captian Daffodil.—If you will take his
word for it, he is the assassin of every heart in the purlieus of St. James's;
take care, ma chere, else he will have you on his list very soon.
LADY RAYMOND.
Fortunately
for me, the charms of Raymond have taken out of my keeping, a treasure, which,
in this gay world, it seems few females can keep.
LADY BONTON [Aside.]
What
a poor ignorant simpleton it is!
LORD BONTON.
If this be all
that we have to fear, it yet may come amongst us; for Raymond soon will resign
a charge, he can't be so untonish as to accept from his wife! ha! ha!
DAFFODIL.
Especially,
when he has concerns of that nature to occupy him more fashionably elsewhere!
he! he!
LADY RAYMOND.
However, my
Lord from fashion may appear to slight his wife, he has too much delicacy
not to value her affections, and only leaves her so much to herself, because
she perfectly possesses his esteem—which she never can forfeit.
LORD BONTON.
'Pon my soul,
a pretty way of construing a husband's indifference into a compliment!—Ha!
ha! ha!
DAFFODIL.
But I trust
her Ladyship will, in a little time, humanize—and give up these misplac'd
plebeian ideas! he! he!
LADY RAYMOND [Aside.]
Petulent
coxcomb!
LADY BONTON.
Why was you
not at the rehearsal of the opera this morning?—The new singer is divine.—Oh,
the celestial creature!—I was all rapture!
MACPHARO, [Aside.]
Oh,
now just as if every body did not know that the terrestrial
creatures please her far better.
LADY RAYMOND.
I like music
very much;—but I have enough of it in the evening;—mere sound pleases—but
cannot occupy my mind.
LADY BONTON.
Lord, child!
you must leave the morality, wit, and satire of the drama to your sensible,
stupid, reasoning folks,—as for my part, I don't understand them.—But
if you an't in raptures with Signor Trillin—, you'll be thought quite Gothic.
DAFFODIL.
'Pon
my soul, we will call you La Belle Sauvage! he! he!
LADY RAYMOND.
I'm no Ton
lady, and as I'm never violent, I want the most necessary ingredient
to form one.
MACPHARO.
'Pon my soul
then, your Ladyship is so divine, you may make what you please the Ton.
DAFFODIL.
Perhaps her
Ladyship dislikes the opera singers, because they are like fashionable husbands!
he! he! he!
MACPHARO.
Like fashionable
husbands!—How is that, Daffodil?—is it because they are usually
accompanied by horns?
LADY BONTON.
More likely,
because they have most strange crotchets, and are often out of tune.
DAFFODIL.
He! he! monstrous
clever, my lady; very well, indeed:—but the similitude which I meant
was, because they never compose their own airs! he! he! he!
LADY BONTON.
'Pon my word,
Captain, you're quite brilliant this morning.
MACPHARO.
I fancy Daffodil
borrows his wit as well as his money, it is so plenty.
LADY BONTON.
"Mac. do
give us the favorite air—[To Lady Raymond.] Do you know, he sings
it charmingly!
MACPHARO
"'Pon my
soul, ladies, I have no greater claim to be a singer, than Daffodil has to
wit.
LADY RAYMOND.
"You may
at least, like him, attempt it.
MRS. TENDER.
"Whatever
Mac. attempts, he is sure to succeed.—Not such the fate of poor Daffy.
MACPHARO.
"I'm
always at the command of the ladies.
[Sings a song.
LADY BONTON. [Aside.]
"Oh the bewitching,
divine fellow!
MRS. TENDER. [Aside.]
"Lady
Bonton looks as if she'd devour him.
LADY BONTON.
"Who would
give the rudest note of his voice for all the quivering of an opera singer?
LADY RAYMOND.
"Extremely
well indeed, Sir!—You have great taste.
MACPHARO.
You flatter
me too much.—[To Lady Bonton.] I hope your ladyship's ill luck
did not continue last night.—They made quite a dove of me at the club.
LADY BONTON.
Pray don't talk
of it!—I lost every thing—I absolutely lost eight hundred pounds
on one card; and it grew worse after supper.—I got to bed by six, but
faro had murdered sleep.—Have you been at Bath, these holidays, Captain?
DAFFODIL.
"No, I
could not go; I was so much engaged, which I regretted;—for I have a
friend there, whose house is very convenient for carrying on matters without
eclat, which I do hate monstrously! he! he! he!
LADY RAYMOND.
"Is
it possible!—why then perpetually talking of them?
DAFFODIL.
"It is
vastly hard that all my little adventures come to be talked of;—but the
women are so jealous of each other—they blow one another."—This
year I kept away from Bath in compassion to the poor misses;—for no sooner
do the mammas read my name amongst the arrivals, than the girls are locked
up in garrets and cellars.
LADY BONTON.
Poor Daffodil!—I
hear you sent last year several to the hot-wells in consumptions from pining
despair.
DAFFODIL.
It is vastly
foolish in the girls to allow themselves to be caught with me.—I never
pay any attention but to married women.—I can't bear the misses—they
are so foolish in their calf love! he! he!
LADY RAYMOND [Aside.]
Calf
love, indeed, if they love with such a thing as thou art!
LADY BONTON.
But, Daffodil,
where are your vouchers for your killed and wounded?—for I am quite an
infidel in love matters.
LORD BONTON.
Oh, prey look
at his face and figure, then think on his wit to captivate the heart! ha!
ha!
LADY BONTON.
Well, at least
he is as amusing as a dice-box, or a race-horse, to which you devote your
soul, body, and estate.
MACPHARO [Aside.]
Faith,
I'll be bound, if he is not amusing, that is not her fault.
LORD BONTON.
Gad, if my horses
had won no more plates than Daffy has hearts and favors from the ladies, I
should have cut a cursed bad figure on the turf! ha! ha!
DAFFODIL.
I must go, my
dear ladies; I have an appointment of great consequence.
[Exit Daffodil affectedly.
LADY
BONTON.
Well, I do believe
that Master Daffodil, like most of the beaux of St. James's-street, dreams
all his bonne fortunes and successes.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Yet, when women
will appear pleas'd to be followed by such empty coxcombs, whose only recommendation
is a pretty face and person—
LORD BONTON.
Why, to be sure,
people may imagine what sort of pleasures they afford.
MACPHARO.
These bragging
fellows I never believe.
LADY RAYMOND.
Were one to
make a slip, for that very reason those bragging fellows would be the choicest
creatures alive to make the faux pas with; for when they tell, no one believes
them! ha! ha!
[All laugh.
LADY
BONTON.
Lord, child!
it is impossible for you to do without those young fellows!—One has no
eclat in the world, except one is attended by the men.—or consequence
even, were we angels of perfection.
MACPHARO.
And you surely
cannot suppose that your husband will be so ridiculous as to be tagging after
his wife.
LADY BONTON.
Oh, no; if you
meet him, it will be with his girl, or paying divine honors to a friend's
wife.—You may, during the honey-moon, prefer him—but depend upon
it, as Daffodil says, you will certainly humanize—Lord! I should die
of the vapours—not exist without the men:—to what end dress—opera—party—or
assembly? and I'm sure I see less of my Lord than of any man I know.
LORD BONTON.
My dear, if
you wish to be adored by men and women, and enjoy perfect happiness, follow
my example: give petit soupées—ask those couples that will be happiest
to meet each other—have a faro-table, and laugh at every thing.—A
leader of the Ton surpasses in power a reigning Empress.
MACPHARO.
Faith, it bestows
every advantage that empire can. It aggrandizes the low born,—sets at
naught ancient titles—makes the great do little things without
reproach, and little people do great ones, without praise or reward.
LADY BONTON.
It makes the
poor rich, and the rich laugh at being impoverished.
MACPHARO.
People of Ton
require no money.
LADY BONTON.
No—only
for one's card purse;—for one has credit in every shop, and it were vulgar
to pay one's bills.
LORD BONTON.
Mechanics are
flattered to have people of fashion on their books, tho' they were sure to
become bankrupts in their service! ha! ha! ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
They must run
all risks, lest the French get all their custom.
LADY BONTON.
Why, you know,
child, every thing French is the rage at present.
LADY RAYMOND.
I wish that
rage was shewn against—in place of for them—for our manufactures
are shamefully neglected.
MACPHARO.
Don't say so,
my lady.—Have not half the fine ladies home manufactures of their own
faces and figures.
[All laugh.
LADY
BONTON.
But still the
materials are French.
MACPHARO.
Long may it
be so, that all English false colours may be French.
LADY RAYMOND.
And soon may
every British face be asham'd to carry them.
MACPHARO.
Away with the
roses and lilies of France, I say; English flesh and blood for me.
LADY BONTON.
Can you really
admire robust, vulgar health!—Horrid wretch!—I vow, I never see
a country-looking Miss with a complection like a half ripe cherry, but it
sets my teeth an edge!
MACPHARO.
Faith, then,
it makes my mouth water sure enough.
LADY BONTON.
But with dear
rouge one can assume any character one pleases, by the quantity; be either
languishing, fi're—or tender.
LADY RAYMOND.
But are those
all the mighty advantages of high Ton? if so—
LADY BONTON.
No, child, they
are supreme!—for with each frown a reputation dies;—and a sneer
from Ton renders all vulgar praise ridiculous!
LADY RAYMOND.
And it is quite
bourgeois to countenance one's relations, except equally fashionable; or bestow
any mark of approbation on humble virtue.—Before I had the honor of being
Lord Raymond's wife, I remember well the slights that I received from Lady
Hurricane, a rantipole Tonish sister of my mother's. She carried on the little
intercourse she had with me, with as much, nay more, secrecy, than she did
her amouretts! ha! ha!—for it would have made her far more unhappy, to
have had it known, that I, whom no body knew, was with her, than if
it had been reported that she had committed the most outrageous faux pas—ha!
ha!
[All ha! ha! ha!
MACPHARO.
Ha! ha!—now
that is so like her!—
LADY RAYMOND.
She never ask'd
me to her house, when any one, but some untonish country cousin was to be
there, and that only that she might chatter and fill us with wonder at her
account of her vanities, and finery: but I verily believe, she'd sooner have
made the enormous sacrifice of staying one night at home, than have been seen
with me in public! ha! ha!
[All ha! ha! ha!
MACPHARO.
Indeed, Ton
releases one from all vulgar attentions, and from all connections out of its
own circle.
LADY BONTON.
I vow, my dear,
you must adopt its system; for if you persist in your hideous sentimentals,
you'll tire every body ù la mort.—Every man will regret that he is not
your husband, that he may be at liberty to shun you.—I protest I get—[Yawns.]
such a dose whenever I see you, that I can't adjust my dimples, and enjoument
for an hour. [Looking in the glass]—Frightful! I absolutely look
as doleful as if I was just come from the funeral of my favorite monkey.
MACPHARO.
Oh, you are
most bewitching! such a languor in your eyes, one dares look on them now,
without being totally consumed, which sometimes I fear—
LADY BONTON.
O, you agreeable
wretch!—you are quite charming to put me in spirits again.—[Gives
him her hand, which he kisses.] There—I'll carry you with me to the
exhibition to chassée ennui. [Pulls away her hand.] But don't devour
me. [To Lady Raymond.] Will you go, my dear?
LADY RAYMOND.
I promis'd to
call on Lady Clairville.
MACPHARO [Aside.]
Lady
Raymond is not a bit jealous, I have but bad chance, I fear.
LADY BONTON.
This is the
most singular affair between her and Ormond.
LADY RAYMOND.
As Miss Raymond
is my sister, it is not a subject for me to mention to her, and I know
not what to think of it.
LADY BONTON.
Poor Lady Clairville,
who was all vivacity, is in sad distress.
LADY RAYMOND.
Yet she appears
with proper dignity, and as yet, I fancy, knows nothing of his marriage
with Miss Raymond.
LADY BONTON.
I fear more
has pass'd than we are aware of;—tho' Lady Clairville is very prudent.
LORD BONTON.
W{h}y, is it
so odd, that Ormond should change his mind?—It would be devilish hard
if a man of fashion was expected to stick to his bargain, like an honest
merchant, whose all depends on his credit! ha! ha! ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
Very hard, indeed.—half
the pleasure of their existence would be de{st}royed.
LADY BONTON.
Come, Macpharo,
allons.—shall I see you before you go to Newmarket, my Lord?
LORD BONTON.
Perhaps I may
dine at home one day next week; and if you chance to be chez vous, I shall
ask your commands.—I shall see my friend Raymond at the club—[Exit
Lady Bonton and Macpharo.] and shall tell him how perfectly I admire
his charming wife; [bowing.] [Aside.] who will make a glorious
tit, when properly train'd.
[Exit opposite sides.
SCENE [II].
[Lady Clairville, Lady Raymond, seated.]
[LADY RAYMOND.]
Alas,
my dear, I fear that my lord loves me not.—I begin to fancy my hopes
of happiness a delusive dream.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
Why suppose
it, my dear? When you do meet, he is never unkind.—But he, you know,
is a hero of St. James's-street.
LADY RAYMOND.
This thing,
Daffodil says, that he has a mistress; and it is but too evident, that he
is afraid, or ashamed of being seen with me.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
Because, my
dear, fools would laugh at him;—and many wise men cannot brook ridicule.
LADY RAYMOND.
Should I express
a wish for his company, which in you, Lady Bonton, or perhaps even this mistress,
would please him, from me would fret him sadly.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
You are yet
to learn the follies and weakness which degrades the lords of the creation;
should a mistress command one of them to give up for her his dearest pleasure,
he would.
LADY RAYMOND.
But a wife is
ever suspected of having a plot on the reins of government;—and that
man would hide his head, ashamed if but suspected of giving into the hands
of a woman of family, honor, and education, one particle of that power—
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Which he would
glory in consigning to an ignorant, low-bred profligate, who laughs at her
dupe, with half the young fellows in town.
LADY RAYMOND.
I must endeavour
to tempt my lov'd Lord from this vice of gaming;—as to his amouretts,
I care for no caprice of that sort,—that will not rob me of his
protection, which I shall ever study to merit, by good-humour, and every endeavour
to make home agreeable to him; which may steal him from himself, and tho'
no courtier bred, I trust that my fond wishes to please him, may one day interest
his heart.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
I sincerely
hope you may succeed in taming your wild mate;—it is a most difficult
task, for they look upon us poor women, as only fit to be fools, or fooled.
LADY RAYMOND.
My Lord has
lost a large sum, and that, I dare say, frets him. I'll go to my father, and
implore him to advance me part of my fortune;—he so fondly values my
happiness, that I am sure he will. I shall get it conveyed to my Lord, without
his knowing that it comes from me.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
I approve of
your not letting him know it is you who assists him;—for even
such liberality in a wife would displease ungenerous man, who hates to owe
them any obligation.
LADY RAYMOND.
He has applied
to Levy for the money, and I mean that he shall give it him.—I
must go to his house—don't you think that I am very bold to venture?
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
Oh, you are
in no danger—Ben Levy, I fancy, has no inclination to lay violent hands
on any thing but sterling monies, or to admire any face but that of
his Majesty—in truth, my dear, I sincerely
feel for you; for gay men look upon us as only a species of game, which they
take pleasure in decoying to destroy.
LADY RAYMOND.
Yet, they expect
from us, the most perfect rectitude in all our intercourse with them.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
No wonder so
many innocent females have wounded reputations, when at the mercy of those
wretches, who glory in defaming them.
LADY RAYMOND.
Thank Heav'n,
the law allows damages for us wives being defam'd, but the unmarried are sadly
exposed; it is a pity there were not coroners appointed to examine what reputations
are basely murder'd, and which of them die a natural death.
LADY CLAIRVILLE.
Who knows but
we one day may see such a law made, now that we have so able a lawyer at the
bar as the benevolent, eloquent Erskine;—whose delicate feelings of honor,
and disinterested generosity, are ever solicitous to enforce justice and right,
even where he finds the laws are deficient:—but, my dear, your case only
requires that your feelings should not be too much engag'd.
LADY RAYMOND
Alas! they are
too warmly interested in my Lord's every action—but I forget that I must
go to my father.
[Exit Lady Raymond.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
I wish you much
success, my dear.—How wretched I am about my Ormond!—what could
tempt him to write to me, desiring me to forget him, as he is now unworthy
to become my husband!—he says, honor forces him to renounce me;—what
can he mean? Honor—yes, honor dictates his every action—perhaps
he too has been ruined at play,—and generosity dictated this cruel letter!—but
if so, can he think that my rank or fortune, without him, can bestow one charm?—if
this is only the malheur, I shall be transported to give my all to
restore his comfort. I'll fly and send him such a letter as must relieve his
embarrassment, and convince him that his Augusta values nothing but his repose.—Oh
what joy to be able to prove to him, of what a disinterested, generous attachment
the heart of woman is capable!
[Exit.
SCENE [III].
[Macpharo's Room. Mrs. Tender, and Macpharo.]MRS. TENDER.
Lady Raymond,
Lord! how I hate her!—such a piece of prating impertinence! detestable
creature!
MACPHARO.
Faith, but she
is a glorious creature for all that—Ah now, by my soul, my dear old Tender,
I have been so prudent in this intrigue of ours, that you owe me some reward
for not blowing you,—and you must assist me in this affair—
MRS. TENDER.
What
would you have me seduce my friend?
MACPHARO.
Why you forget
where you are now—faith all her husband's shiners will be nothing at
all, at all, without a little bit of an affair with her;—besides it will
be surest way to get at him.
MRS. TENDER. [Patting
his Cheek.]
And do you
really own your infidelity to me, you dear inconstant wretch?
MACPHARO.
O my dear creature!
now you know from experience that variety is the soul of pleasure;—besides,
we shall have such fun in telling it, and humbling the pert minx in society—
MRS. TENDER.
Well, I will
lay a scheme to expose her, if you will give me a thousand pieces, for I do
detest her—mean time do you exaggerate Clara's story,—her Lord's
want of generosity, his great losses at play,—then hint that when the
money is gone, she may expect every degree of ill usage—
MACPHARO.
I'll use the
old argument of retaliation—the joys of revenge.
MRS. TENDER.
And having a
handsome lover, to prevent her from meeting the humiliating pity of a neglected
beauty.—You know your cue, you seducing wretch you;—And you
may depend on it that I will use every art.—
MACPHARO.
O leave art
alone!—Stick by your nature, that is deception enough to cheat the devil:—but
then for all her vivacity, she keeps one at such a distance.
MRS. TENDER.
But I hope a
little of Lady Bonton's doctrine will give her a proper turn, and she won't
suspect any thing, for you know every thing is carried on with such decency
at Bonton house, that one may either stake one's money, or one's virtue, and
no one hear of it the next day.—
MACPHARO.
Lady Bonton
is so good humoured, we may do as we please there you know.—
MRS. TENDER.
Lady Raymond
will find that she must keep well with the ton men, else she will be
left out of all fashionable circles.—
MACPHARO.
You may say
that,—for when a woman refuses and offends one of us, we make the doors
be shut against her, by insinuation and ridicule.
MRS. TENDER.
And though you
cannot boast yourself of favours,—you talk of her profligacy with
others;—and wonder how any man can pay his court to her!
MACPHARO.
Faith, this is the surest way to
level those rigid ladies, who have such plebeian principles!—we at least
blast their reputations, if we can not undermine their virtue.
MRS. TENDER.
What glory is due to the exalted
hero who invented this magic spell to level all female reputation, without
aiming one to blow at their virtue.—But we must endeavour to make Raymond
jealous of her too!—the morose, sour looks and sulks which jealousy assumes,
are the best foils in the world to set off the gaiety and tender attentions
of a lover.
MACPHARO.
That will be
a difficult point faith; for he is too much a Ton man to mind
her gallantries.
MRS. TENDER.
True, our only
plan is to make her tease him with her anxieties about his.—I
long to hear of your success; and remember the thousand I'm to have, play
or pay.
MACPHARO.
No, faith, no
play, no pay!—so mind your hits.
MRS TENDER.
Oh, I'll do
for her: but don't forget to throw in a word of my rigid virtue; a little
too austere, or so;—but then such nice principles!—you understand
me—I will steal down stairs into my chair—Adieu, dear Paddy—you
know I am only a clear-starcher come for your honor's lace ruffles!
ha! ha! ha! [Puts on a calash and exit Mrs. Tender.]
MACPHARO.
What a sly old
toad it is;—but these sort of she-devils level all their sex, either
by corrupting their principles, defaming their reputations;—and all in
virtue of their canting religion.—She , like a knowing broker, has sunk
all her principal for unlawful interest: [Takes out his pocket book.]
By St. Patrick, last night was a rare one!—I made the odds of five thousand
by one slip—and now Lady Bonton play, or pay, for the money.—O,
faith it is money gives us all the go here:—it signifies nothing
at all, at all, how you came by it.—Rogue or not, 'tis all one in the
great world.—Every one has a respectable character, that has the cash;
and no character at all, at all, without it.—Oh, then by my soul, leave
me alone—cut, slip, and cog, shall make Paddy Macpharo great as a Prince:—but
I must be paid by Lady Bonton, or have personal security.—She
must also help me to Lady Raymond.—Faith this woman cannot be such a
fool to refuse such a fellow as me!—bear with such neglect from Raymond
the first week—and her fortune squandered;—and if I am not mistaken,
passion's not a little awakened!—Oh, sure it will do,—now that the
bones have failed, she will next try something
else.
[Exit dancing.
SCENE [IV].
[Villiers and Lord Ormond laying on a Sofa in his Night Gown and Slippers—pale and disordered with a Letter in his hand.]
ORMOND.
Yes, Villiers,
I'm undone!—but I have deserved my ruin!—alas! the generosity and
tenderness of my Augusta distracts me!—Oh, read her letter to me again,
for, alas! I cannot—[Covers his face.]
VILLIERS. [Reads.]
"That my Ormond could
have acted unworthy of his Augusta, I never can believe! No, he is incapable
of forgetting what he owes himself.—I can easily imagine, that
in some unguarded moment of dissipation, even Lord Ormond's prudence has been
duped by gamblers:—but so soon to be master of her fortune, whose soul
is already his,—surely he cannot refuse to use the enclosed twenty thousand
pounds, as his own—for riches have no charms for Augusta, farther than
they can purchase peace or pleasure to Ormond."
ORMOND.
Alas! Villiers!
peace never more can visit my wretched bosom—noble—generous girl!—Oh,
I shall run wild with agony!
VILLIERS.
I am lost in wonder—what does
she mean?—what do you mean?—
ORMOND.
Oh! Villiers, I dare not even tell
you the fatal story—like a false barbarian, I have sunk in misery her
unsuspecting heart;—and for ever ruin'd my own peace of mind!—Oh,
the bliss that once was mine.
VILLIERS.
When I last
saw you, all was transport and fond impatience to make Lady Clairville your
wife,—now I find you have proposed to marry Julia Raymond, and have planted
misery in the bosom of the gentle, angelic Lady Clairville.—For Heaven's
sake explain this mystery?
ORMOND.
Oh, I am deservedly
wretched! for I am a villian,—and yet how studious have I ever been to
guard my impetuous passions, lest they should involve me in dishonor, which
my soul abhors.
VILLIERS.
Talk not thus,
my friend; sure your mind is affected by your fever!—you a vilian!—no!—I
too well know your benevolence, and nice sense of honor, to believe it: but
what is this mystery?—open your mind to your friend, who has no wish
but to serve you.
ORMOND.
That I must
keep that secret from you and my Augusta is my severest pang:—but there
are wounds which must rankle in secret, and prey upon the heart.—
VILLIERS.
You torture me to see you thus!—must
I then be denied your confidence?
ORMOND.
You must think me base, inconstant,
and contemptible.—Yet, alas! I must be silent?—'tis true, that I'm
a monster—but oh, Heaven! must I suffer my Augusta to believe me false?—There's
madness in the thought!—
VILLIERS.
Surely it is
not true, that you are on the point of marring Julia whom you never saw but
at Lord Raymond's wedding: a mere girl at school;—it is a strange affair,
for she too seems lost in melancholy ever since!
ORMOND.
Oh, Villiers!
I'm a wretch who brings nought but misery on all connected with me:—too
true, Julia is a poor ignorant girl.
VILLIERS.
Bred too at
one of these fashionable schools, where only the accomplishments to attract
men are taught;—and those principles totally neglected which alone can
enable them to guard against our profligate attacks—
ORMOND.
Is it surprising,
when every study is to add to their vanity, the most dangerous rock for female
virtue, that they should become innocent victims.—I say innocent, because
ignorant of the delusions and force of passion.
VILLIERS.
It is true:—and
were the principles of females studied half as much as their persons, we should
be able to find interesting sensible companions in our wives;—have fewer
divorces,—and our young men be less devoted to the follies of St. James's
Street:—but when so sensible of this, how can you think of Julia;—when
every perfection, good sense, rectitude of heart and manners can form, may
be yours in the accomplished Lady Clairville?—
ORMOND.
Oh! Tear not
open my wounds; since it is impossible for me to acquaint you with their cause.—Let
me implore you fly to my Augusta!—try to sooth the tumult in her breast:—tell
her that I'm unworthy of her!—tell her I'm a villain, sunk even beneath
her regret;—since the believing me vile, can only restore a heart, like
hers, to tranquillity—For never could she prove inconstant, had I merited
her esteem:—but she has a pride of soul, an elevation of sentiment, which
will enable her to conquer and suppress every feeling, for an object that
proves unworthy of her regard. [Gives the notes.] Take these back—tell
her I have not lost money;—tell her, in a few days she will see the perjured
Ormond; the husband of Miss Raymond!
[Exit Ormond.
VILLIERS.
And must I paint
the man, I from my infancy have so perfectly esteemed a villain?—no—my
Ormond I must believe still, that you merit more pity than blame!—But
I must hasten to the cruel talk of giving pain to the feeling heart of the
charming Lady Clairville.
[Exit Villiers.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
