Page images
PDF
EPUB

Plume. Can he write?

ho

Kite. Hum! he plays rarely upon the fiddle. Plume. Keep him, by all means-But how stands the country affected? were the people pleas'd with the news of my coming to town? Kite. Sir, the mob are so pleas'd with your nour, and the justices and better sort of people are so delighted with me, that we shall soon do your business-But, sir, you have got a recruit here, that you little think of. Plume. Who?

Kite. One that you beat up for the last time you were in the country. You remember your old friend Molly at the Castle?

Plume. She's not with child, I hope.
Kite. She was brought to-bed yesterday.
Plume. Kite, you must father the child.
Kite. And so her friends will oblige me to
marry the mother.

Plume. If they should, we'll take her with us; she can wash, you know, and make a bed upon

occasion.

Kite. Ay, or unmake it upon occasion. But your honour knows that I am married already. Plume. To how many?

Kite. I cann't tell readily-I have set them down here upon the back of the muster-roll. [Draws it out.] Let me see-Imprimis, Mrs Shely Snikereyes; she sells potatoes upon Ormond key in Dublin-Peggy Guzzle, the brandy woman, at the Horse-Guards at Whitehall-Dolly Waggon, the carrier's daughter, at Hull-Madamoiselle Van Bottomflat, at the Buss-then Jenny Oakum, the ship carpenter's widow at Portsmouth; but I don't reckon upon her, for she was married at the same time to two lieutenants of marines and a man of war's boatswain.

Plume. A full company—you have named fivecome, make them half-a-dozen-Kite, is the child a boy or a girl?

Kite. A chopping boy.

Plume. Then set the mother down in your list, and the boy in mine; enter him a grenadier, by the name of Francis Kite, absent upon furlough -I'll allow you a man's pay for his subsistence; and now, go comfort the wench in the straw. Kite. I shall, sir.

Plume. But hold, have you made any use of your German doctor's habit since you arriv❜d?

should hold them open when a friend's so near-
The man has got the vapours in his ears, I be
lieve. I must expel this melancholy spirit.
Spleen, thou worst of fiends below,
Fly, I conjure thee, by this magic blow.
[Slaps WORTHY on the shoulder.
Wor Plume! my dear captain! welcome. Safe
and sound return'd!

Plume. i escaped safe from Germany, and sound, I hope, from London: you see I have lost neither leg, arm, nor nose. Then, for my inside, 'tis neither troubled with sympathies nor antipathies; and I have an excellent stomach for roast beef.

Wor. Thou art a happy fellow: once I was so.
Plume. What ails thee, man? no inundations
nor earthquakes in Wales I hope? Has your fa-
ther rose from the dead, and reassumed his es-
tate?
Wor. No.

Plume. Then you are married, surely?
Wor. No.

Plume. Then you are mad, or turning quaker? Wor. Come, I must out with it-Your once gay, roving friend is dwindled into an obsequious, thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb.

Plume. And pray what is all this for?
Wor. For a woman.

Plume. Shake hands, brother. If thou go to
that, behold me as obsequious, as thoughtful, and
as constant a coxcomb as your worship.
Wor. For whom?

Plume. For a regiment!-but for a woman! 'Sdeath! I have been constant to fifteen at a time, but never melancholy for one: and can the love of one bring you into this condition? Pray, who is this wonderful Helen?

Wor. A Helen indeed! not to be won under ten years siege; as great a beauty, and as great à jilt.

Plume. A jilt! pho! is she as great a whore?
Wor. No, no.

Plume. 'Tis ten thousand pities! But who is she? do I know her?

Wor. Very well.

Plume. That's impossible--I know nò woman that will hold out a ten years siege.

Wor. What think you of Melinda?

Plume. Melinda! why, she began to capitulate this time twelvemonth, and offered to surrender Kite. Yes, yes, sir, and my fame's all about upon honourable terms; and I advised you to the country, for the most faithful fortune-teller propose a settlement of five hundred pounds athat ever told a lie-I was obliged to let my land-year to her, before I went last abroad. lord into the secret, for the convenience of keeping it so; but he is an honest fellow, and will be faithful to any roguery that is trusted to him. This device, sir, will get you men and me money, which, I think, is all we want at presentBut yonder comes your friend, Mr Worthy.Has your honour any farther commands?

Plume. None at present. [Erit KITE.] 'Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the life's departed.

Wor. I did, and she hearken'd to it, desiring only one week to consider when, beyond her hopes, the town was reliev'd, and I forc❜d to turn my siege into a blockade.

Plume. Explain, explain.

Wor. My lady Richly, her aunt, in Flintshire, dies, and leaves her, at this critical time, twenty thousand pounds.

Plume. Oh, the devil! what a delicate woman was there spoil'd! But, by the rules of war, now -Worthy, blockade was foolish-After such a convoy of provisions was enter'd the place, you -What! arms across, Worthy! methinks you could have no thought of reducing it by famine;

Enter WORTHY.

you should have redoubled your attacks, taken the town by storm, or have died upon the breach. Wor. I did make one general assault, but was so vigorously repuls'd, that, despairing of ever gaining her for a mistress, I have alter'd my conduct, giving my addresses the obsequious and distant turn, and court her now for a wife.

Plume. So, as you grew obsequious she grew haughty, and because you approached her like a goddess, she us'd you like a dog.

Wor. Exactly.

Plume. 'Tis the way of 'em all- -Come, Worthy, your obsequious and distant airs will never bring you together; you must not think to surmount her pride by your humility. Wou'd you bring her to better thoughts of you, she must be reduc'd to a meaner opinion of herself. Let me see, the very first thing that I would do should be to lie with her chamber-maid, and hire three or four wenches in the neighbourhood to report that I had got them with child———Suppose we lampoon'd all the pretty women in town, and left her out; or, what if we made a ball, and forgot to invite her, with one or two of the ugliest.

Wor. These would be mortifications, I must confess; but we live in such a precise, dull place that we can have no balls, no lampoons,

no

Plume. What! no bastards! and so many recruiting officers in town! I thought 'twas a maxim among them to leave as many recruits in the country as they carried out,

Wor. Nobody doubts your good will, noble captain, in serving your country with your best blood, witness our friend Molly at the Castle; there have been tears in town about that business, captain.

Plume. I hope Sylvia has not heard of it. Wor. Oh, sir, have you thought of her? I began to fancy you had forgot poor Sylvia.

Plume. Your affairs had quite put mine out of my head. 'Tis true, Sylvia and I had once agreed to go to bed together, could we have adjusted preliminaries; but she would have the wedding before consummation, and I was for consummation before the wedding: we could not agree. She was a pert, obstinate fool, and would lose her maidenhead her own way; so she might keep it for Plume.

Wor. But do you intend to marry upon no other conditions?

Plume. Your pardon, sir; I'll marry upon no conditions at all-If I should, I am resolv'd never to bind myself down to a woman for my whole life, till I know whether I shall like her company for half an hour. Suppose I marry'd a woman that wanted a leg-such a thing might be, unless I examined the goods before-hand.

-If

people would but try one another's constitutions before they engag'd, it would prevent all these elopements, divorces, and the devil knows what. Wor. Nay, for that matter, the town did not stick to say that

Plume. I hate country towns for that reason

If your town has a dishonourable thought of Sylvia, it deserves to be burnt to the ground-I love Sylvia, I admire her frank generous disposition— there's something in that girl more than woman -her sex is but a foil to her-the ingratitude, dissimulation, envy, pride, avarice, and vanity of her sister females do but set off their contraries in her-In short, were I once a general, I wou'd marry her.

Wor. Faith, you have reason-for were you but a corporal, she would marry you-But my Melinda coquets it with every fellow she seesI'll lay fifty pounds she makes love to you.

Plume. I'll lay you a hundred, that I return it, if she does.-Look'e, Worthy, I'll win her, and give her to you afterwards.

Wor. If you win her you shall wear her, faith; I would not value the conquest without the credit of the victory.

Enter KITE.

Kite. Captain, captain! a word in your ear. Plume. You may speak out, here are none but friends.

Kite. You know, sir, that you sent me to comfort the good woman in the straw, Mrs Mollymy wife, Mr Worthy.

Wor. O ho! very well. I wish you joy, Mr Kite. Kite. Your worship very well may-for I have got both a wife and a child in half an hour-But as I was saying-you sent me to comfort Mrs Molly-my wife, I mean-but what d'ye think, sir? she was better comforted before I came. Plume. As how?

Kite. Why, sir, a footman in a blue livery had brought her ten guineas, to buy her baby-clothes. Plume. Who, in the name of wonder, could send them?

Kite. Nay, sir, I must whisper that—Mrs Sylvia.

Plume. Sylvia! generous creature!
War. Sylvia! impossible!

Kite. Here are the guineas, sir-I took the gold, as part of my wife's portion. Nay, farther, sir, she sent word the child should be taken all imaginable care of, and that she intended to stand godmother. The same footman, as I was coming to you with this news, call'd after me, and told me, that his lady would speak with me-I went, and upon hearing that you were come to town, she gave me half-a-guinea for the news, and order'd me to tell you, that Justice Balance, her father, who is just come out of the country, would be glad to see you.

Plume. There's a girl for you, Worthy-Is there any thing of woman in this?-No, 'tis noble, generous, manly friendship. Shew me another woman that would lose an inch of her prerogative that way, without tears, fits, and reproaches. The common jealousy of her sex, which is nothing but their avarice of pleasure, she despises, and can part with the lover though she dies for the man-Come, Worthy-where's the best wine? for there I'll quarter.

Wor. Horton has a fresh pipe of choice Bar

celona, which I would not let him pierce before, because I reserv'd the maidenhead of it for your welcome to town.

Plume. Let's away, then-Mr Kite, go to the lady, with my humble service, and tell her, I shall only refresh a little, and wait upon her.

Wor. Hold, Kite-have you seen the other recruiting captain?

Kite. No, sir; I'd have you to know I don't keep such company.

Plume. Another! who is he?

Wor. My rival, in the first place, and the most unaccountable fellow-but I'll tell you more as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-An Apartment. MELINDA and SYLVIA meeting.

Mel. Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia. [Salute.] I envy'd you your retreat in the country; for Shrewsbury, methinks, and all your heads of shires, are the most irregular places for living: here we have smoke, scandal, affectation, and pretension; in short, every thing to give the spleen-and nothing to divert it-then the air is intolerable.

Syl. Oh, madam! I have heard the town commended for its air.

Mel. But you don't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in it; for I can assure you, that, to a lady the least nice in her constitution-no air can be good above half a year. Change of air I take to be the most agreeable of any variety in life.

Syl. As you say, cousin Melinda, there are several sorts of airs.

Mel. Pshaw! I talk only of the air we breathe, or, more properly, of that we taste-Have not you, Sylvia, found a vast difference in the taste of airs? Syl. Pray, cousin, are not vapours a sort of air! Taste air! you might as well tell me I may feed upon air! But pr'ythee, my dear Melinda! don't put on such an air to me. Your education and mine were just the same, and I remember the time when we never troubled our heads about air, but when the sharp air from the Welch mountains made our fingers ache in a cold morning at the boarding-school.

Mel. Our education, cousin, was the same, but our temperaments had nothing alike: you have the constitution of an horse.

Syl. So far as to be troubled neither with spleen, cholic, nor vapours. I need no salts for my stomach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my complexion; I can gallop all the morning after the hunting horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. In short, I can do every thing with my father, but drink, and shoot flying; and I am sure I can do every thing my mother could, were I put to the trial.

Mel. You are in a fair way of being put to't, for I am told your captain is come to town. Syl. Ay, Melinda, he is come, and I'll take care he sha'n't go without a companion. Mel. You are certainly mad, cousin.

Syl.And there's a pleasure in being mad Which none but madmen know. Mel. Thou poor, romantic Quixote !-hast thou the vanity to imagine that a young, sprightly officer, that rambles o'er half the globe in half a year, can confine his thoughts to the little daughter of a country justice, in an obscure part of the world?

Syl. Pshaw! what care I for his thoughts? I should not like a man with confined thoughts; it shews a narrowness of soul. Constancy is but a dull, sleepy quality at best; they will hardly admit it among the manly virtues, nor do I think it deserves a place with bravery, knowledge, policy, justice, and some other qualities that are proper for that noble sex. In short, Melinda, I think a petticoat a mighty simple thing, and I am heartily tired of my sex.

Mel. That is, you are tir'd of an appendix to our sex, that you cann't so handsomely get rid of in petticoats as if you were in breeches.-O' my conscience, Sylvia, hadst thou been a man, thou hadst been the greatest rake in Christendom.

Syl. I should have endeavoured to know the world, which a man can never do thoroughly without half a hundred friendships, and as many amours. But, now I think on't, how stands your affair with Mr. Worthy?

Mel. He's my aversion.
Syl. Vapours!

Mel. What do you say, madam?

Syl. I say that you should not use that honest fellow so inhumanly: he's a gentleman of parts and fortune, and, besides that, he's my Plume's friend; and, by all that's sacred, if you don't use him better, I shall expect satisfaction.

Mel. Satisfaction! you begin to fancy yourself in breeches in good earnest-But, to be plain with you, I like Worthy the worse for being so intimate with your captain, for I take him to be a loose, idle, unmannerly coxcomb.

Syl. Oh, madam! you never saw him, perhaps, since you were mistress of twenty thousand pounds: you only knew him when you were capitulating with Worthy for a settlement, which perhaps might encourage him to be a little loose and unmannerly with you.

Mel. What do you inean, madam? Syl. My meaning needs no interpretation, madam.

Mel. Better it had, madam, for methinks you are too plain.

Syl. If you mean the plainness of my person, I think your ladyship's as plain as me to the full.

Mel. Were I sure of that, I would be glad to take up with a rake-helly officer, as you do. Syl. Again! look'e, madam, you are in your own house.

Mel. And if you had kept in yours, I should have excused you.

Syl. Don't be troubled, madam; I sha'n't desire to have my visit returned.

Mel. The sooner, therefore, you make an end of this the better.

[blocks in formation]

Bal. Look'e, captain, give us but blood for our money, and you sha'n't want men. I remember that for some years of the last war we had no blood, no wounds, but in the officers' mouths; nothing for our millions but news-papers not worth a reading-Our army did nothing but play at prison-bars, and hide and seek with the enemy; but now ye have brought us colours, and standards, and prisoners-Ads my life, captain, get us but another marshal of France, and I'll go myself for a soldier.

Plume. Pray, Mr Balance, how does your fair daughter?

Bal. Ah, captain! what is my daughter to a marshal of France! we're upon a nobler subject: I want to have a particular description of the battle of Hockstet.

Plume. The battle, sir, was a very pretty battle, as any one should desire to see; but we were all so intent upon victory that we never minded the battle: all that I know of the matter is, our general commanded us to beat the French, and we did so; and, if he pleases but to say the word, we'll do it again. But pray, sir, how does Mrs Sylvia?

Bal. Still upon Sylvia! for shame, captain! you are engaged already, wedded to the war: Victory is your mistress, and 'tis below a soldier to think of any other.

Plume. As a mistress, I confess, but as a friend, Mr Balance

Bal. Come, come, captain, never mince the matter; would not you debauch my daughter if you could?

Plume. How, sir! I hope she is not to be de

bauch'd.

Bal. Faith but she is, sir, and any woman in England, of her age and complexion, by your youth and vigour. Look'e, captain, once I was young, and once an officer, as you are, and I can guess at your thoughts now by what mine were then; and I remember very well that I would have given

one of my legs to have deluded the daughter of an old country gentleman like me, as I was then like you.

Plume. But, sir, was that country gentleman your friend and benefactor?

Bal. Not much of that.

Plume. There the comparison breaks: the favours, sir, that

Bal. Pho, pho! I hate set speeches: If I have done you any service, captain, it was to please myself. I love thee, and if I could part with my girl, you should have her as soon as any young fellow I know; but I hope you have more honour than to quit the service, and she more prudence than to follow the camp: but she's at her own disposal: she has fifteen hundred pounds in her pocket, and so-Sylvia, Sylvia ! [Calls.

Enter SYLVIA.

Syl. There are some letters, sir, come by the post from London; I left them upon the table in your closet.

Bal. And here is a gentleman from Germany. [Presents PLUME to her.] Captain, you'll excuse me; I'll go read my letters, and wait on you. (Exit.

Syl. Sir, you are welcome to England. Plume. You are indebted to me a welcome, madam, since the hopes of receiving it from this fair hand was the principal cause of my seeing England.

Syl. I have often heard that soldiers were sincere; may I venture to believe public report ?

Plume. You may, when 'tis back'd by private assurance; for I swear, niadam, by the honour of my profession, that whatever dangers I went upon, it was with the hope of making myself more worthy of your esteem; and if ever I had thoughts of preserving my life, 'twas for the pleasure of dying at your feet.

Syl. Well, well, you shall die at my feet, or where you will; but you know, sir, there is a certain will and testament to be made beforehand.

Plume. My will, madam, is made already, and there it is; and if you please to open that parch

[ocr errors]

ment, which was drawn the evening before the battle of Hockstet, you will find whom I left my heir.

Syl. Mrs Sylvia Balance.-[Opens the will, and reads.] Well, captain, this is a handsome and a substantial compliment; but I can assure you I am much better pleased with the bare knowledge of your intention, than I should have been in the possession of your legacy: but, methinks, sir, you should have left something to your little boy at The Castle.

Plume. That's home. [Aside.] My little boy! Lack-a-day, madam! that alone may convince you 'twas none of mine: why, the girl, madam, is my serjeant's wife, and so the poor creature gave out that I was the father, in hopes that my friends might support her in case of necessity-That was all, madam-My boy! no, no,

no!

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Madam, my master has receiv'd some ill news from London, and desires to speak with you immediately; and he begs the captain's pardon that he cann't wait on him, as he promised. Plume. Ill news! Heavens avert it! Nothing could touch me nearer than to see that generous, worthy gentleman afflicted. I'll leave you to comfort him, and be assured, that if my life and fortune can be any way serviceable to the father of my Sylvia, he shall freely command both. Syl. The necessity must be very pressing that would engage me to endanger either.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.-Another Apartment.

Enter BALANCE and SYLVIA. Syl. Whilst there is life there is hope, sir: perhaps my brother may recover.

Bal. We have but little reason to expect it: the doctor Kilman acquaints me here, that before this comes to my hands he fears I shall have no son.-Poor Owen !-but the decree is just: I was pleased with the death of my father, because he left me an estate, and now I am punish'd with the loss of an heir to inherit mine. I must now look upon you as the only hopes of my family; and I expect that the augmentation of your fortune will give you fresh thoughts and new pro

spects.

Syl. My desire in being punctual in my obedience requires that you would be plain in your commands, sir.

Bal. The death of your brother makes you sole heiress to my estate, which, you know, is about twelve hundred pounds a-year: this fortune gives you a fair claim to quality and a title: you must set a just value upon yourself, and, in plain terms, think no more of Captain Plume. Syl. You have often commended the gentleman, sir.

Bal. And I do so still; he's a very pretty fellow; but though I lik'd him well enough for a bare son-in-law, I don't approve of him for an

heir to my estate and family:-fifteen hundred pounds, indeed, I might trust in his hands, and it might do the young fellow a kindness; butods my life! twelve hundred pounds a-year would ruin him, quite turn his brain-A captain of foot worth twelve hundred pounds a-year! 'tis a prodigy in nature! Besides this, have five or six thousand pounds in woods upon my. estate: oh! that would make him stark mad; for you must know that all captains have a mighty aversion to timber; they cann't endure to see trees standing. Then I should have some rogue of a builder, by the help of his damn'd magic art, transform my noble oaks and elms into cornices, portals, sashes, birds, beasts, and devils, to adorn some maggoty new-fashion'd bauble upon the Thames; and then you should have a dog of a gard'ner bring a habeas corpus upon my terra firma, remove it to Chelsea or Twickenham, and clap it into grass-plots and gravel-walks.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Sir, here's one with a letter below for your worship, but he will deliver it into no hands: but your own.

Bal. Come, shew me the messenger.

[Exit with Servant. Syl. Make the dispute between love and duty, and I am Prince Prettyman exactly-If my bro ther dies, ah, poor brother! if he lives, ah, poor sister! It is bad both ways. I'll try it againFollow my own inclinations, and break my father's heart, or obey his commands, and break my own! Worse and worse. Suppose I take it thus:-A moderate fortune, a pretty fellow, and a pad; or, a fine estate, a coach-and-six, and an ass- That will never do neither.

Enter BALANCE and a Servant. Bal. Put four horses to the coach. [To a Servant, who goes out.] Ho, Sylvia! Syl. Sir.

Bal. How old were you when your mother died? Syl. So young that I don't remember I ever had one; and you have been so careful, so indulgent to me since, that indeed I never wanted one.

Bal, Have I ever denied you any thing you ask'd of me?

Syl. Never, that I remember. Bal. Then, Sylvia, I must beg that, once in your life, you would grant me a favour.

Syl. Why should you question it, sir?

Bal. I don't, but I would rather counsel than command. I don't propose this with the authority of a parent, but as the advice of your friend,that you would take the coach this moment, and go into the country,

Syl. Does this advice, sir, proceed from the contents of the letter you receiv'd just now?

Bal. No matter; I will be with you in three or four, days, and then give you my reasonsbut before you go, I expect you will make me one solemn promise.

Syl. Propose the thing, sir.

« PreviousContinue »