 | The Insolvent : or Filial Piety |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A court sitting. Judges on the bench. Lawyers with clients at the bar.2d President.
Hail! reverend judges! May this meeting prove
Prosperous to us, and end in general good.
Old Aumele.
Speak to the point, the cause of this our summons.
2d President.
We meet, my lords, reluctant to dispose
The awful place, and high important power
Of first in council of this sacred court:
This, to our grief, the reverend wise Valdore
Resolves, grown weary of the ponderous charge,
Here to give up this day.
Valdore.
Too heavy trust! it press'd my conscious weakness:
Yet, not for private ease wou'd I resign it,
10
Implores your kind release from care too weighty.
Old Aumele.
Still to preside, we all wou'd gladly move you.
Valdore.
It must not be; nor can your lordships goodness
Deny my poor remains of time the refuge
Of some short space, for penitence and prayer.
Let me employ my last low ebb of breath,
In cares for future life—and learn to die.—
I pray the court to ease me of this burden.
3d President.
The court entreats your lordship wou'd be pleas'd
To guide the general voice—The choice you make
Will be, by all, confirm'd.
Valdore.
The lord Aumele.
3d President.
[After a pause—the presidents bow.]
The court allows it—
Be it so decreed.
Valdore.
But here are suitors, and their cause may carry
More weight, than forms like those attending on
This choice—Dispatch them first.
3d President.
Please you, my lord Aumele, to take the chair,
We wou'd begin.
Old Aumele.
[Seats himself.
Speak, Advocate; we hear.
Advocate.
The cause my client offers to your lordships
Is in itself so pleaful, that it needs
Nor eloquence, nor favour, in this court.
The guilty, when condemn'd, confess your justice;
Our cause shall claim your mercy.
Old Aumele.
Speak to the cause.
11
'Tis the cause speaks.—Great Burgundy's blest state
Had once—But stop. [Pause.]
To say that her dead marshal,
The father of this brave young lord, my client,
[Pointing to Chalons.]
Honour'd his country's name by far-fam'd service,
Wou'd tax assertion, by a doubt undue.
You all, my lords, remember that so well,
'Twere injury to prove it.—In his life,
He grew indebted to these thrifty men;
[Pointing to the creditors.
And failing, by repeated loss in war,
Of power to free himself from such low claims;
I weep to tell it—But, his country sav'd,
Saw him imprison'd—and in prison die.
It is a maxim in our law—that debts
Die, with insolvent debtors: But these men,
Length'ning malicious pain beyond life's bounds,
From death snatch bodies for new chains.
They dare deny him ev'n his funeral rites;
Rites, not by heathens held from wretched slaves.
We humbly, therefore, pray your lordships pity,
Setting aside their more than barbarous insult,
To disappoint revenge—That woe may rest.
Old Aumele.
How long have you, sir, practis'd in this court?
Advocate.
Full twenty years, my lord.
Old Aumele.
How!—Twenty years?—
So bold an ignorance had half convinc'd me,
Your judgment scarce cou'd number twenty days.
Advocate.
I hope, in such a cause as this, my lord—
Old Aumele.
How dare you thus presume to urge the court
(Law's sacred guardian) to dispense with law?
Terror of bankrupts gave this statute birth.
Go home, and with more care peruse known acts;
And then make motions.
12
I submit—but mourn.
[Exit Advocate.
La Foy.
Can then your lordships think, that he whose plea
Supports a friendless cause (condemn'd by law,
Tho' justice owns it) errs by honest zeal?
Old Aumele.
Prodigious arrogance!
La Foy.
Is reason such!
Or is it here a maxim, that the pleader
Reads on the judge's face his cause's worth?
3d President.
Too bold La Foy—Pay reverence where 'tis due.
La Foy.
Or was the power you act by, trusted with you
To qualify no rigour in the laws;
But doubling ev'ry wound that mercy feels,
Treat pity like a guilt?—Oh, shame of state!—
This strictness of your sour decree, that grinds
The debtor's dying bones, to feast the spight
Of a still greedy creditor, who gapes
For payment from the grave's unclosing dust;
Condemns misfortune, to let crimes go free.
Old Aumele.
You, sir, that prate thus saucily, what are you?
La Foy.
I am a soldier—If you know not me,
Ne'er has yourself been known in honour's courts.
Beneath the banner of the dead Chalons,
Long witness of his deeds, I serv'd, in blood;
Sav'd your ungrateful head, and lent it means
To lift that haughty brow—my partial judge.
3d President.
Forbear, bold Man—'Tis rashness past support.
La Foy.
Let those proud angry Eyes flash lightning round,
Each object they can meet feels dumb disdain;
13
Long had they been, ere this, by some fierce hand
Torn from their tasteless orbs; or, sav'd for shame,
Had, justly weeping, serv'd some needy foe;
Had I not worn a sword, and us'd it better,
Than, in disgrace of law, thou dost thy tongue.
Old Aumele.
If insolence, like this, pass here unpunish'd—
La Foy.
Yet I—who in my country's balanc'd scale
Out-weigh'd a thousand tame proud logs like thee,
Confess myself unworthy name, compar'd
With the least claim of my dead general's worth.
Then from his numberless, long line of glories,
Make choice of any one, e'en of the meanest;
Whether against that wily fox of France,
The politick Lewis, or more desperate Swiss;
Still shalt thou find it poize, beyond all tricks,
Craft, views, or acts, that ever gown-men thought of.
Old Aumele.
Away—to prison with him.
La Foy.
Off. [To the guards.]
If curses,
Urg'd in the bitterness of aching wrong,
E'er pierc'd the ear of heav'n—and drew down bolts,
On heads that most deserv'd them, let not mine,
Now, rise in vain.—Fear, from this moment;
And, fearing, feel; and tremble to sustain,
The whips that furies shake o'er cruel men.
[To Aumele.]
You have a son; take care this curse not reach him.
You clods [To the creditors.]
in human forms, that cou'd deny
Earth, gentler than your own, its mournful claim,
To cover the remains of that great chief.
May all your wives prove false, and bring you heirs
Of liberal hearts, whose riots may undo you!
Your factors all prove thieves, your debtors bankrupts;
And thou, stern patron of their blushless plea,
Live to lose all thy lordships; not even save
14
Be old before thou diest, to die more wretched!
That, as thou hast deny'd the dead a grave,
Thy living misery in vain may wish one.—
I've well begun—on—imitate—exceed.
[To Chalons.
Old Aumele.
Force him away.
[Exit La Foy guarded.
3d President.
Remember where you are.
[To Chalons.
Chalons.
Thus low the wretched bends to thank your counsel.
I'll teach my temper'd language to suspend
All sense of filial pain—and speak but duty.
Not that I fear to raise my voice as loud,
And with as fierce complaint, as touch'd La Foy;
But that from me, who am so deeply sunk
In misery's gulph, so hopeless in distress,
'Twou'd seem the rash man's means to cure despair,
By casting off his load, that ends with life.
No—let my suffering duty to the dead
Live on—and pay the tribute of your praise,
Honest severity renowns your justice:
Why should such white, unsinning souls as yours,
Forgive the guilt you act not?—Why shou'd service
By any man perform'd, to bless his country,
Exact his country's mercy?—What tho' my father,
Ere scarce arriv'd at youth, out acted man;
Number'd that day no part of life, wherein
He snatch'd not some new trophy from your foes,
Was he for that to triumph o'er your courts,
Superior to the laws he fought to save?
What tho' the sums he dy'd indebted for,
Were borrow'd, not for his, but publick use,
Shou'd he be free from payment; because poor,
From a spent patrimony, kindly spread
To the starv'd soldiers wants?—'Twas his brave choice;
And, when the willing suffer,—are they wrong'd?
Old Aumele.
The precedent were ill—
15
True, my kind lord!
What is it to your courts, that weigh but laws,
That after all our great defeats in war,
Which in their dreadful ruins buried quick
Courage and hope in all men, but himself;
He forc'd the foe from that proud height of conquest,
To tremble in his turn—and sue for peace!
What tho' he sav'd an hundred thousand lives,
By hard fatigues, that robb'd him of his own;
Dauntless to summer heats, and winter's frost,
Ill airs, mines, cannons, and th'unsparing sword;
Was he, for that, to hope escape from debt,
Or privilege from prison?
3d President.
'Twas his fault
To be so prodigal—he shou'd have spar'd.
Old Aumele.
The state allow'd him what maintain'd their army.
Chalons.
You say he shou'd have spar'd—He shou'd indeed—
Have spar'd, to trust his hopes on hopeless ground.
I too will spare to speak the pangs I feel,
And feed my thoughts within.—Yet to these men,
[To the creditors.]
To these soft-hearted men, these wise men, here;
These only good men—Men that pay their debts;
To these, I turn my hopes—these honest souls!
1st Creditor.
And so they are.
2d Creditor.
It is our doctrine, sir.
Chalons.
Be constant in it—lest you change your road,
And straggle to salvation—Do not cheat
The devil of his best dues—make punctual payment.
But my sad swelling heart forgets its cue—
On deaf and narrow natures, such as yours,
16
The court shall squeeze no scruple from the law,
That lends your felon hearts the weight of right.
I know there is no musick to your ears
More pleasing, than the groans of men in pain:
The tears of widows, and the orphans cry,
Feast but your happier sense of wealth's coarse joy.
But rather than my father's reverend dust,
Shall want its place in that still monument
Where all his silent ancestors sleep safe,
Take me, your living pledge—Renounce the dead,
And, in my fetter'd freedom, find revenge.
I am possess'd of strength to scorn your malice,
Shun the detested world, and love restraint.
I wou'd forget the sun, that shines on you,
And chuse my dwelling where no light can enter.—
Release my father's corps.
Valdore.
Alas! young lord,
Consider well what hopes you cast away;
Your liberty, youth, joy, life, friends and fame.
Your bounty is employ'd upon a subject,
That cannot feel its vastness: The known glory
Of your dead father vindicates his urn,
Treads on their living dust who wrong his name,
And breaks the prison's gates that bind his body.
Old Aumele.
Let him alone—the young man loves renown:
If he courts misery, let misery meet him.
Provided these consent, the court objects not.
Chalons.
Consent!—the wrongful doubt offends their wisdom.
Can these trade-tools lie sullen, and shun work,
When willing interest hires 'em?—Calls their idol,
And shall their zeal grow deaf—and drop their worship?—
From my dead father's corps what hopes of profit?
Nay, they have there no chance of giving pain.
What relish of revenge, where 'tis not felt?
17
And cherish prospect of some future gain.
1st Creditor.
What think you of the offer?—Shall we close?
2d Creditor.
I like the motion well—It gives some hopes.
1st Creditor.
Some young, unthinking girl, or gay, warm widow,
Pleas'd with his fame for manly deeds in arms,
May pay us all our debts, and bind him hers.
3d President.
What is your answer?
2d Creditor.
You shall speak for all.
1st Creditor.
Make all our actions on his father laid,
Stand the son's debts, and we release the body.
Old Aumele.
The court must grant you that.
Chalons.
I thank you all.
In this you have confer'd a glory on me,
That nobly over-pays your envious view.
Come, lead me to the gloom I long to find;
'Twill free me from your forms, and shade my own.
[Exit, with creditors, officers, &c.
Old Aumele.
Strange madness!
Valdore.
Madness, do you call it!—Term it
Strange, generous extacy of matchless virtue!
Worthy of happier fortune, nobler fate!—
But rest that now unargued.—To my cause
Already I have found your lordships bounty
So lavish in your grants, that it should teach me
To limit my desires to narrower bounds.
18
There's nothing you can ask, we wou'd not grant.
2d President.
Our wills are all your own; pray use 'em freely.
Valdore.
It has been here, you know, the court's kind custom,
Confirm'd by time's long venerable practice,
That at surrender of the place I held,
Some grant indulg'd confirms a favour ask'd.
As proof then of your grace, that loves to give,
I tempt its proffer'd bounty.
3d President.
Think it yours.
Valdore.
I ask remission for that rash La Foy;
And that you, lord Aumele, whose wrong partook
Th'affront that mov'd the court, will pardon with it,
And sign his wish'd enlargement.
Old Aumele.
Nay, my lord, demand one half of my estate—Take all—
But spare me this strange prayer—It warms my wonder!
Valdore.
If I must be deny'd—
2d President.
That cannot be.
3d President.
I have a voice to give.
2d President.
I add mine to it.
3d President.
If then persuasion fails—we must insist,
That votes decide this question.
Old Aumele.
You are too absolute;
I cou'd consent to any thing but this:
Yet, this—if it must be—my lord—I yield.
19
I thank your hard concurrence.
Old Aumele.
Break up the court.
[The court rises.
[Exeunt, all but Valdore and servant.
Valdore.
I'll follow instantly.—
Le Fer.
Le Fer.
My lord.
Valdore.
What didst thou think, but now, of young Chalons;
How did his conduct strike thee?
Le Fer.
With due wonder; and so did brave La Foy's.
Valdore.
Fye, fye; he's faulty.—
What ready money have I unassign'd?
Le Fer.
Enough for every use your wish can form.
Valdore.
'Tis well.—I'm wounded, when the brave feel pain:
Some call this weakness—Heav'n turn their hearts.
The filial piety of young Chalons, demands reward
Beyond our admiration.—
Methinks from his example—low mankind,
Shou'd rise in body's scorn—for taste of mind;
Fly the coarse dross, that weighs down virtue's claim;
Stretch for futurity—and grapple fame.
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the first Act.
| The Insolvent : or Filial Piety | |