 | CHAPTER V. The forsaken |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
A worthy man is Stephano, but too much prone to talking.
Old Play.
Habit has been pronounced a second nature, and
its influence over major M`Druid was truly remarkable.
The State House clock seldom rung four, post meridian,
without his starting from his seat, should he
peradventure be sitting, and drawing from his fob a
massy silver watch of curious workmanship, he would
test the accuracy of the town timepiece. He would
then pull his shirt collar above his black stock, and
endeavour to brush up the nap on his foxy beaver, in
order to give himself a more buckish appearance before
he sallied forth, for the major had seen enough of
the world to know that a fair outside will make even a
counterfeit coin pass currently, while a genuine one, a
little tarnished, is frequently rejected.
But what was the reason of the major's propensity
to walk at the hour of four? He had discovered that
it was an ancient custom in 'squire Morton's family to
set the wine circulating daily at that hour, and it has
already been shown that the major was strict in his
devotions to the fire-begotten, provided another furnished
the libation: we do not mean to insinuate that
this was the sole cause of his periodical visits; it
would be improper in us so to do, for certain it is Miss
different motive, and she had an opportunity of
forming a correct opinion on the subject; still it had
its influence on the major, and doubtless would have
led to the result mentioned, without the additional
attraction.
The major and the 'squire had fairly discussed the
merits of a second bottle of the Anno Domini '65,
when a servant informed the latter that the earl of Balcarras
desired to see him in another apartment, and as
he withdrew Miss Buckley entered to entertain the
major. She seated herself upon the extremity of the
sofa upon which M`Druid was anchored, and casting
a fascinating look upon the soldier, began to open her
battery.
“It is astonishing to me, major, that a gentleman of
your gallantry and address should have passed through
life without having your heart perforated by the shafts
of Cupid.”
“By my hilts,” replied the major, “excuse the
coarseness of my favourite expression; my heart has
been a target for the blind god to shoot at from the
age of fifteen to the present speaking, and I am of
opinion, before he is done with his sport, he will leave
it like a cullender.”
“A just comparison, major, as they appear to possess
equal powers of retaining what they receive.”
“Smaller particles may escape, madam,” continued
the major, “while all that is valuable is still retained.
But there is no hole large enough to permit a lady to
pass, I promise you.”
“If so,” replied the spinster, “how is it that you
have never ventured upon the connubial state? Ah!
major, I fear you are a reprobate after all, and credit
the cant abuse of matrimony.”
She looked uncommonly fascinating as she concluded;
that is to say, as much so as the nature of
things would admit, for Cupid somehow loses his
still she looked archly, and the major recognised the
signal, and sat more erect upon the sofa. His rosy face
mantled with what was intended to be an engaging
smile, but the spirit of wine was in him, and like most
men who attempt to look remarkably sagacious while
in that condition, by some strange mistake he moved
the wrong muscles of his countenance, and appeared
more like a simpleton than became a man of his age
and distinction.
“You do me injustice,” he replied, bowing. “I
consider the marriage state the happiest that can be
entered upon in the walks of civil life; but for a military
man, Miss Buckley, that changes the whole complexion
of affairs—a military man”—
The major's words became thick and his ideas
confused, and accordingly he forgot to conclude his
sentence, for he did not belong to that numerous class
who consider words the only essential part of conversation,
and ventilator-like are kept in constant motion
by the slightest puff of wind. Miss Buckley, however,
was differently constituted, and thinking it but idle
waste of time to wait until he could collect himself,
she continued—
“You are right, major; though we sometimes meet
with a pair who wrangle like Xantippe and Zoroaster,
yet, on the other hand, we are gratified by seeing numbers
imitate the example of Plutarch and Laura, and
Peter and Harriet.”
The major drew his large hand slowly across his
capacious forehead, in order to confine his wandering
ideas within as small a compass as possible, and after
a few moments of silence, he gave a deep hem, and
said—
“Peter and Harriet! Some of your neighbours,
perhaps? Really, madam, I have not the pleasure of
an acquaintance with the happy couple.”
“Their melancholy fate,” replied the spinster, “is
example of female fortitude and constancy.”
“In the Roman history,” replied M`Druid, “that
was before my time; I however remember something
about one Petus and Arria, which in truth is a very
pretty story, and for any thing I know the modern historians
may have changed the names of the parties in
the translation.”
“I think,” said the spinster, “that such an example
of constancy should silence the sneers of the railers
against matrimony.”
“I think so, too,” replied the major.
“And when we are told that Alexander the Great
swam the Red Sea to visit a Hero—what are we to
think then, major?”
“Think—that he was a master in the art of swimming,”
replied M`Druid, gravely.
“Nothing else, major?” demanded the spinster, at
the same time bestowing an expressive glance, by way
of prompting an answer.
“Yes, madam, I should pronounce John Mandeville
a spalpeen in the art of lying, compared to the man
who would venture to record such a fable for gospel.”
“Then you don't credit it?”
“By my hilts, madam, not until I see it, unless I am
to understand that you vouch for its authenticity.”
“O! major, major,” exclaimed the spinster, “I
find you are a downright heretic after all. You may
talk of your heart being a target for Cupid, but you
know nothing of the power of love. You are the first
of your sex that ever denied that Alexander the Great
swam the Red Sea.”
The conversation now turned upon the conduct of
Jurian in avoiding the duel with Balcarras. The subject
had been enlarged upon in the family circle, to
the disadvantage of our hero, for the purpose of estranging
the affections of Agatha, for it is one of the
irreconcilable contradictions in the composition of woman,
human blood, she will despise and avoid the man who
refuses to imbue his hands in it. Still the representations
of the conduct of her lover had little effect upon
the mind of Agatha, for she well knew that cowardice
had not influenced the step he had taken. Her father
declaimed in good set terms against him, and her aunt,
in whose bosom chivalry and romance still smoked in
the embers, was eloquent on the subject, and brought
Richard Cœur de Lion, Peter the Hermit, and Don
Quixotte, to bear her out in the assertion that he had
forfeited all claim to female regard—notwithstanding
which Agatha obstinately remained of a different way
of thinking.
It is remarkable how firm the most timid and undecided
female will become on a subject of this nature.
It is not uncommon to behold a delicate creature, as
ethereal as if she were nourished by `the chameleon's
dish;' so timid that she will tremble as the aspen leaf,
if the wind but pipe hoarsely; sensitive as the mimosa
that shrinks within itself, if the minutest insect in nature
crawl upon it; one that would blush blood deep,
should you presume to imagine that there was any
thing corporeal between the ankle and the chin; and
yet this delicate creature, so timid, so sensitive, so
modest, speaking in the vernacular, when a man is in
the case, possesses the surprising faculty of divesting
herself of all the qualities just enumerated, and assuming
their very opposites, as if nature knew not what she
was about when she mingled the materials. And why
is this? The fact is such, but as we have not leisure
to analyze the subject, we must leave it to the ladies
themselves to explain.
We have said that Miss Buckley had changed the
subject of conversation to Jurian's conduct. She had
delivered her sentiments in the same strain for the
twentieth time, to which M`Druid listened with all the
drowsy patience of a judge who holds court after dinner
countless objections to our hero, and descanting on
his presumption in aspiring to the hand of her niece,
she concluded—
“Under such circumstances, major, there can be no
fear of his entering one of the most respectable families
of America. We have all set our faces against
him, and my niece's pride will prevent her from frustrating
our wishes. We know what is due to our station,
and the man who marries Miss Morton must be
like Cæsar's wife, major, take my word for it.”
“Then, by the powers, he will not be the man for
Miss Morton, take my word for that,” replied the major.
The spinster affected to blush, and exclaimed—
“Fie, fie major, what do you mean to insinuate?”
“Nothing, madam,” replied M`Druid.
“Nothing!” repeated the spinster, stealing a look
that seemed to question his veracity.
“Nothing, on the honour of a soldier,” responded
the major, gravely.
Miss Buckley's inquisitive look vanished, and she
turned away evidently disappointed, for it is said, and
perhaps truly, that there is nothing so trying to a lady's
patience, as to excite her curiosity and refuse to gratify
it.
Much to the satisfaction of M`Druid, their conversation
was interrupted at this critical juncture by the
entrance of 'squire Morton, accompanied by major
Andre and Balcarras, for the old major, notwithstanding
his unlimited gallantry, was impatient to be relieved
from the burden of a tête-a-tête, that he was not in a
condition to sustain with spirit. It is among the greatest
bores that society imposes upon its votaries, to be
obliged to talk by the hour when you have exhausted
all you have to say during the first five minutes, and
feel that you are becoming excessively stupid while
endeavouring to maintain your character of an agreeable
fellow. Such were the feelings of the major during
but they had gained too great an ascendency to be
thrown off at will—we can therefore account for his recovering
his usual spirits upon the entrance of the
company, for he felt like one reprieved on his way to
execution. Extremes, it is said, are nearly allied, and
the major's spirits were an evidence of the truth of the
assertion.
“Major,” exclaimed Andre, “we have a project
on foot, and require your assistance to carry it through;
and as it is for a charitable purpose we will take no
refusal.”
“Och! now, my jewel, at this present speaking I
could not find it in my heart to refuse you any thing,
charitable or otherwise; so name your project.”
“By way of adding to the amusements of the winter,”
continued Andre, “we propose getting up theatrical
entertainments, in which the officers will sustain
the principal parts. There is a good theatre in South
street, Delancey and myself have some skill with the
brush, and will decorate the stage. We are now beating
up for recruits for our dramatic corps, and as soon
as our numbers are filled we shall commence business.”
“I am your man for the heavy line,” exclaimed
M`Druid. “By my hilts, there is not a better in the
whole army. But you spoke of charity; now, for the
soul of me, I can see nothing like charity in all this,
unless you mean that charity begins at home, and intend
to pocket the proceeds accordingly, which would
be following the example of stage-managers throughout
the world.”
“That is by no means our intention,” replied Andre.
“The receipts shall be appropriated to the relief of the
widows of our brave comrades who have fallen, and
there are many of them, God knows, who need assistance,
however small it may be.”
“Your heart was ever in the right place, major,”
kindled to cheer the heart of the widow, never let it be
said that M`Druid was the man to throw cold water
upon it. On or off the stage, I shall ever be ready to
play the fool at woman's bidding; so, major, I say,
mark me for the heavy business, and if you have a
better actor in your company, eggs are not eggs, for
you'll find me no novice in the art, Mr. Manager.”
“No novice! have you ever tried your wings,
major?”
“To be sure and I have, and a bold flight I made
of it, my jewel. It was at Drogheda that I made my
first appearance in the Ghost in Hamlet, and by the
powers I played it to the life, that is to say, there was
never seen such a lively ghost on the stage before or
since. It was beautiful.”
“This is the first I have heard of it,” replied Andre.
“Read the chronicles of the day, sir, read the chronicles
of the day, and you will find it somewhere recorded
that Mr. Phelim M`Druid, having obtained
merited applause by enacting in Terence's comedies
at Father O'Flogagain's grammar school, despised
hiding his candle under a bushel, and accordingly exhibited
the full blaze of his talents upon the public
stage to the amazement of a numerous audience.”
“I am astonished at this confession, major,” said
Miss Buckley, “for we are told that the condition of
players among the Romans was infamous; true, it was
more honourable among the Greeks, but when the
poet Laberius was forced upon the stage by the tyranny
of Cæsar—”
“Faith, madam,” exclaimed M`Druid, “we have
little to do with the ancients in the present day; they
had their way of thinking and we have ours; and
though perhaps we look upon players in the same light
as the Romans did, yet we live among them, and treat
them as did the Athenians; and as the business of life
is to sustain life, to my mind it matters little how the
We are all merely players upon a mighty stage of which
Providence is the manager, and he who struts the hero
of the day should not affect to despise even the candle-snuffers
of his company, for when the scene closes and
the curtain falls, they must mingle promiscuously together.”
“You were ever a radical, major,” replied Andre;
“but, pray, tell us how did this frolic of yours terminate?”
“Some said I was a great deal too fat and rosy for
a ghost,” continued the major, “but, by my hilts, fat as
I was, they came near to making a real ghost of me
before the play was over.”
“How so?”
“Having made my face as pale and ghastly as a
pound of meal could make it, I stalked on, truncheon
in hand, and though I say it, was as kingly a looking
ghost as you would see in a summer's day. When I
turned my mealy face upon the audience, shouts of
applause arose, and I of course made three graceful
bows, after the latest fashion, to show that my breeding
had not been neglected in that particular.”
“It was quite in character,” replied Andre, “for
you were playing the ghost of a king.”
“I never lose sight of nature, no matter what character
I assume,” replied M`Druid, gravely, “for propriety
is the very soul of acting. Horatio and Marcellus
seeing me so civil, were not quite as much
alarmed as they ought to have been at my presence,
especially as I had directed brimstone to be burnt behind
the scenes to remind them of the place I came
from. As soon as one of them exclaimed—
`Stay; speak; I charge thee, speak;'
of showing that he was too familiar, and turning short
upon my heel, vanished in a twinkling, amidst a volume
of smoke. It had a prodigious effect, I assure you.”
“I dare say it had,” replied the other.
“The torrents of applause had scarcely subsided,”
continued the major, “when I re-entered upon the succeeding
scene, in which you know I had nothing to do
but stand still, and look at the players and audience
until the cock crows. I was perfect in the play in all
its parts, and as the actor who appeared as Horatio
preferred his own language to the author's, no uncommon
circumstance in the profession, instead of standing
idle on the stage, I did double duty, that of
prompter and ghost at the same time, and in order to
show my parts I prompted as loud as Horatio roared
and ranted. It was a fair trial between us, but the
spalpeen stood no chance, for I had the audience all
on my side, and they applauded my zeal mightily.”
“I will venture to say they did.”
“One bad player,” continued M`Druid, “is enough
to destroy the effect of the whole piece, and so it proved
in the present instance. The bogtrotter, stationed
behind the scenes to play chanticleer, forgot to crow,
and I became impatient to vanish, but you know could
not conveniently do it without the summons. I waxed
warm at this unpardonable neglect, and in order to
show that I was perfect in the part, while the other
players were going on with the dialogue, I hopped to
the centre of the stage, clapped my arms against my
sides two or three times, and then crowed as loud and
beautifully as ever you heard from the throat of true
game in the cock-pit; after which I vanished, as every
true ghost is in duty bound, in a flame of blue fire and
rosin.”
“Really, I think it was time,” replied Andre, while
Balcarras and the 'squire laughed heartily.
“The thing was relished mightily, I assure you,”
continued the major, “and when I appeared again
they were all on tiptoe to hear me. I began—
`I am thy father's spirit;'
satisfaction, until I came to the line—
`But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air'—
the action to the word, for I stalked about the stage,
with my head raised, like a pig in a storm, snuffing the
air from the four points of the compass. The whole
house was delighted!”
“That was certainly what the players call striking
out a new reading,” observed Balcarras.
“I thought so,” continued M`Druid, “and so I
went on with even greater spirit, until the poor Ghost
cries out—
`O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!'
with a brogue as thick as my leg, stood up in the
pit, and cried aloud—
“By Saint Patrick, and you may say that with a safe
conscience.”
“Well, what effect had this?”
“The laugh was rather against me for a time, but
my friends made so much noise in applauding that
they soon obtained silence, and I went on peaceably
to the end of the speech, then making three polite bows
to Hamlet, as became the ghost of a king, I concluded—
`Adieu, adieu, adieu, remember me.'
bye to ye, and thank ye for going.' I shall never forget
the rough brogue of the bogtrotter.”
“Well, what ensued?”
“A shower of rotten oranges and other filth from all
parts of the house,” replied the major, gravely.
“And you of course decamped?”
“No, by my hilts, I withstood it like a soldier, until
I found it too much for flesh and blood to bear, and
then I stalked off and quietly gave up the Ghost—and
thus ended my theatrical career.”
“You have mistaken your forte, major,” replied
Andre, “and had better engage for the low comedy
line, for if you were so successful in creating a laugh
in a terrific part, in comedy you would certainly be
irresistible.”
“We shall not fall out about parts, Mr. Manager,
though it has been the bone of contention among actors
from time immemorial. Comedy or tragedy, it
will be all one to Phelim M`Druid, for the player
should make the part, and not the part the player.
Still, you will find that I am your man for the heavy
business.”
“I am of opinion,” replied Balcarras, smiling, “that
you will play the heavy business, no matter what walk
of the drama you may attempt.”
“Let me alone for giving them something substantial,”
replied the major, who did not appear to understand
the Scotchman's sarcasm. “They shall get
none of your whip-sillabub from me, but a plain wholesome
dish, where they may cut and come again.”
Miss Buckley was of opinion that the major's representation
of the Ghost was not true to nature, and
that they did these things in a widely different style
among the Romans and Athenians, but the major contended,
that as few people were so fortunate as to have
seen a ghost, and as they had discontinued their visits
to this sphere entirely of late years, an actor was at
liberty to exercise his own imagination in personating
one, and no matter how fanciful his conception of the
part, it would be absurd to pronounce it untrue to nature,
as he was just as capable of judging of the nature
of a ghost as his most sagacious critic. Miss
Buckley now entered into a critical examination of the
character of Hamlet, but as a whole library has already
been written upon this subject, and no doubt, in the
course of time another will be produced, we shall spare
the reader the trouble of either perusing or passing
over the remarks of our blue stocking, though they
said by her predecessors or followers.
Major Andre succeeded in organizing his corps of
Thespians, of which he and Delancey were the scene
painters, and they decorated the stage with taste, but
as their dramatic library was rather circumscribed, they
were obliged to advertise in the tory press for copies
of the popular dramas of the day. Eventually all difficulties
were surmounted, and they figured away much
to their own satisfaction and the edification of all loyal
subjects in the good city of Penn, who felt charitably
disposed towards the widows and orphans of those who
had fallen in battle. The young officers were pronounced
far more successful in the fictitious scenes,
than in the eventful drama of real life which at that
time engrossed their attention, but whether or not
M`Druid performed the heavy business we have been
unable to ascertain, after the most patient and laborious
research. Neither have we been so fortunate as to
meet with any record of the names of this corps, which
could not fail to prove an interesting document in these
days of antiquarian research, when it is deemed important
to inform posterity who it was wore the first
silk stockings, and who the last cocked hat in our favoured
city. We were once introduced to an old lady
who, it was said, was a reigning toast of the day, and
present at all the entertainments, but on interrogating
her, she protested that she was too young at the time
to remember any thing of the matter, but as the old
lady was married to her third husband a few days
after, there was no difficulty in accounting for her absence
of memory. Several other sources of information
were applied to with similar success, when we relinquished
the pursuit in despair, more fully convinced
than ever that the path to useful knowledge is indeed
a rugged and an arduous one. If such a matter as this
required so much trouble to produce nothing at last,
what must not the philosophical Bacon or the antiquarian
Watson have encountered in opening their mines
of learning to the world!
While this pious attempt to cheat Satan at his own
game, and travel to heaven as it were through his favourite
hothouse, the stage, was in progress, the soldiers
of the garrison were committing daily depredations
on the inhabitants of the vicinity, and leaving the
marks of fire and sword wherever they appeared.
Neutrality and passiveness were no plea for protection.
It was sufficient cause for savage brutality and
wanton devastation, that the inoffensive victim resided
on the soil that the invader came to pillage. The husbandman
at midnight was dragged from his bed, his
house plundered and fired, his cattle driven away, and
his barn containing all his earthly store, reduced to
ashes in the sight of his terrified and houseless family.
This is no solitary picture, for the whole district was
for years after dotted and disfigured with vestiges of
this sort, that tended to kindle in the bosoms of their
sons the animosity that the sufferers carried to their
graves. And yet this was the policy adopted throughout,
in order to reduce the colonies to subjection. They
were to be scourged into bondage, without any regard
being paid to their grievances, for the little aristocratic
isle has ever been disposed to arrogate to itself a superiority
over the rest of the world, and to view her colonies,
whence she draws the nourishment that sustains
her, in the light of plantations worked by slaves, and
she will continue to do so until they have, one after
another, taught her to consider them in the light of
free and independent states. John Bull was ever a
hard landlord, disposed to exact the whole product of
the soil for rent, which if not paid on the day it became
due, he would immediately distrain and bluster most
terribly; now this is very bad policy on the part of
master Bull, inasmuch as his title to most of his farms
is exceedingly questionable, and his tenants may be
driven by oppression to contest his right to exact any
rent at all. We have been wandering; it is time to
return.
| CHAPTER V. The forsaken | |