University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—London.—An apartment in Lord Transit's house.
Lord Transit, Pliant, Sir Harry Sumner, and Hardiman. Heartright follows, sits down to a table in the back scene, takes up a newspaper and reads.
PLIANT.
Your lordship comes amongst us in good time;
A little more philosophy had marr'd you.

LORD TRANSIT.
Well, spare your raillery—it is confest
We country-people do but crawl through life:
The world, I see, gallops apace with you;
'Tis a free tit, my masters, and you ride
As if you meant to make it a short race.

PLIANT.
Yes, we go off at score, and trust to bottom.

LORD TRANSIT.
You're men of penetration, I perceive,
And calculate most truly of yourselves.
You are not of the sort that carry weight;
Mere feathers in the scale.

PLIANT.
We have no wives;
We don't ride double, as your lordship does.

SIR HARRY.
Come, Pliant, Pliant, you have got your charge;
Keep your pan down, nor let your priming flash.

LORD TRANSIT.
Oh! stop him not.—He is exceeding pleasant;
There is much argument in his discourse;
For what escapes so fast as pleasure does?
And wou'd not you, who chase it, be thrown out,
If you pull'd up for breath?

PLIANT.
Truly, my lord,
We do not often stop to moralise,
And make profound remarks upon the practice
Of other men, as you make upon ours.

LORD TRANSIT.
It speaks well for your candour, worthy sir;
And by the same rule I must plead my humour
For having married, though you all prefer
A life of singleness and liberty.

SIR HARRY.
Come, gentlemen, we'll drop these disquisitions.

HEARTRIGHT.
And you'll do well; for you have much more wine
Than wisdom in your heads.

[sitting at the table.]
SIR HARRY.
And now, my lord,
What kind of neighbours have you in the Country?

LORD TRANSIT.
But few, Sir Harry; and of those, perhaps,
The only man you know is Charles Le Brun.

PLIANT.
He is a damn'd honest fellow.

LORD TRANSIT.
I shou'd doubt
If he has honesty enough to damn him.

PLIANT.
You can speak well of no man.

LORD TRANSIT.
Yes, of him:
For, with your leave, I hold it worth some praise
“To affect a virtue, though you have it not.”
That merit I allow him.

PLIANT.
He's my friend.

LORD TRANSIT.
Well, if you choose your friend shou'd be a saint,
He can be one, whene'er it suits his purpose.
I hope that satisfies you, Mr. Pliant.

PLIANT.
Not at all satisfies me, not at all:
I must insist upon it with my lord,
My friend Sir Charles Le Brun shall have all dues,
Rights and prerogatives, pertaining to him,—
That he's no saint, that he has not a virtue,
But all those graceful eccentricities,
Those high-bred aberrations from decorum,
That sit so well upon a fort-esprit,
And (what I style him) a damn'd honest fellow.

HARDIMAN.
Come, pr'ythee, Pliant, let us have no more.
Sir Harry, let us wish my lord good night.

LORD TRANSIT.
Who waits? Attend upon the gentlemen.

PLIANT.
I satisfied! I'm any thing but that.

[Exeunt Pliant, Sir Harry, and Hardiman.— Manent Lord Transit and Heartright. Heartright rises and speaks.
HEARTRIGHT.
So! these are the agreeable companions
For whose society you have renounc'd
Tedious tranquillity, and those dull virtues
That want the zest of vice to recommend them.
I think this specimen may be enough
To recreate your genius with a taste
Of those soft pleasures which this Town supplies.

LORD TRANSIT.
I see you hold by your old humour still;
Bitter and blunt as ever.

HEARTRIGHT.
Yes: I see
No cause to sweeten my morality
To the pall'd palate of a libertine.
For you, my lord, whom I have train'd at school,
At university, abroad, at home,
Ever your friend, I'm not dispos'd to smooth
My bluntness down to such a silvery edge
As cannot penetrate the steel, in which
That heart is cas'd, which can revolt from virtue
When all her blessings were shower'd down upon you.

LORD TRANSIT.
What have I done, that like a chidden boy
You school me at this rate; which when I bear,
You are beholden to your age?

HEARTRIGHT.
My age!
If you can say I have no other claim
Upon your patience, let your anger loose—
I fear it not.

LORD TRANSIT.
Hold, hold—I do remember
That the last words my dying father spoke
Bequeath'd me to your friendship, to your care.
Give me your pardon—I am calm.

HEARTRIGHT.
Enough!
You have dismiss'd your wife.—That is a deed,
Which if you cannot justify by fact,
No sophistry can palliate. What induc'd you
So to disgrace the woman of your choice?

LORD TRANSIT.
Unless I cou'd lay open to your sight
The movements of my heart, I cou'd not answer
Why, for no crime committed on her part,
No fault, no failing, I dismiss'd my wife.
But as the sailor sickens in the calm,
So did the tame serenity, in which
I liv'd, deprive my spirits of their spring,
And made me sigh for change.

HEARTLIGHT.
And what a change!
Lady Le Brun, for instance—Gracious Heaven,
Cou'd such a change as that be worth a sigh?

LORD TRANSIT.
It costs me many.

HEARTRIGHT.
It will cost you more.
Go on, go on.

LORD TRANSIT.
I see you know my weakness.

HEARTRIGHT.
Consult those casuists who have just now left you;
They'll find a salvo to excuse your weakness.

LORD TRANSIT.
Hang 'em, dull rascals!

HEARTRIGHT.
Well! I grant 'em rascals:
Yet are they the prime spirits of the time,
Whom the men copy, and the women court.
To undermine the virgin's chastity,
The parent's peace, the wife's fidelity,
The husband's honour—These are modern arts,
Events too trivial to create surprise,
And crimes too common to extort a blush.

LORD TRANSIT.
My conscience hardly will subscribe to that.

HEARTRIGHT.
Hardly, I grant; for you have made of late
A kind of cautionary truce with Virtue,
Which tho' you've cancell'd, still your nature feels
Some small repugnance to be all at once
The monster that such wickedness will make you.
But Vice, when once admitted to the heart,
Soon grows familiar, talks reflection down,
And from a rubric of her own can quote
Lessons, to teach that passion is a plea
For every crime that can defile the soul.

[Exit.
LORD TRANSIT.
I cannot bear his lectures. They disturb me.
His graceless manner mars his good intent,
And checks, not turns me; puzzles, not persuades.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—A street.
Pliant meeting Sir Charles Le Brun.
PLIANT.
Oh, by Olympian Jove, I'm charm'd to see you!
Where are you going?

SIR CHARLES.
What is that to you?
You're tipsy, my gay fellow.

PLIANT.
Well, I'm tipsy;
That's granted.—What do you infer from that?
Wine mends the memory; props the body up
When the legs flinch their duty; makes the heart
Beat a quick march upon the ribs, and scares
Blue devils off—that, else, would come at night
In shape of owls, and hoot us into megrims.
Wine gives us courage to defend our friends;
And that I've done for you.

SIR CHARLES.
Who has assail'd me?

PLIANT.
Oh, as for that, leave me to tell you who.
You have been rattled off at no allowance;
Lord Transit is your man.

SIR CHARLES.
Hold! say no more:
My house is close at hand—We are too public—
This way, and recollect yourself the whilst.

PLIANT.
Give me your arm! So! that helps recollection.
How is your beauteous lady?

SIR CHARLES.
What of her?

PLIANT.
By the nectareous gods, we pledg'd her health
In brimmers of rich Burgundy, my boy!

SIR CHARLES.
Did my Lord Transit put that toast about?

PLIANT.
Did he? He did; and merrily it went,
For no man stopp'd the bottle. Heh! what ails you?
Ah, baronet, if you would start a quarrel
With every man that shall admire your wife,
You may turn out with thousands.

SIR CHARLES.
Come, this gabble
Rouses no curiosity in me;
I must hear graver matters—Come along!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A room in Fairford's house.
Trevor and Lady Transit.
TREVOR.
And now, my noble cousin, welcome home.

LADY TRANSIT.
I've been a sad companion to you, George.

TREVOR.
Not so, not so. Your patience was so lovely,
I am convinc'd it is a female virtue,
Which I can never learn.

LADY TRANSIT.
'Tis, as you say,
A female virtue, for it springs from fear
And awful dread of man's superior power:
Ev'n now I tremble to approach my father.

TREVOR.
Why shou'd you tremble? Tho' he may come down
As fierce upon you as a hungry bear,
You know his nature.—Hark, I hear him coming!
Courage, sweet cousin! meet him without fear.

[Exit.
Fairford speaks as he is entering.
FAIRFORD.
Where is this child, this disobedient child?
Come hither, hussey! You, my Lady Transit,
Down on your knees, and ask your father's pardon,
(She is about to kneel.)
Hold! you sha'n't kneel to me—Take notice, child,
Though I embrace, and press you to my heart,
'Tis not a certain proof that I forgive you.
No, no; nor are these tears a mark of fondness—
'Tis fury, anger, rage, that wring them from me—
Are you not frighted?

LADY TRANSIT.
No, my dearest father.
What can I fear from you, whose heart o'erflows
With human kindness, not alone to me
Your grateful daughter, but to all the world?

FAIRFORD.
You're wrong, you're wrong. It is not so. I'm chang'd:
I've a new nature. Not one spark of pity
Lives in my heart; 'tis frozen.

LADY TRANSIT.
Can it freeze
And melt at the same time?

FAIRFORD.
How dar'd you marry
Without my leave?

LADY TRANSIT.
You were in Russia, sir.
My mother gave consent.

FAIRFORD.
Your mother! Yes—
Your mother—Ah, she's gone; she is no more.
Fierce, unforgiving as I am by nature,
I will not speak of her, but as of one
Who had the goodness of an angel in her,
And now is gone where angels will receive her.
In her 'twas a mistake;—in you a sin.

LADY TRANSIT.
I never sinn'd against you in my heart:
Heav'n knows I never did.

FAIRFORD.
Come, don't tell me—
Your eye was caught with colours, and you took
A painted pheasant for your tawdry mate,
When you had match'd yourself, with better hopes
Of lasting comfort, with an honest equal.
And where's this lord of yours? No matter where;
No matter where he is. I've nothing for him;
No, not a shilling, though I'm monstrous rich,
Rich to a surfeit:—I'll have no concern
With lords or ladies—I'll repair no castles,
Buttress no broken fortunes—I'll endow
And build an alms-house.

LADY TRANSIT.
Ah! I now perceive
The reason why you call'd me up to Town;
I am to lay the first stone of your alms-house.
Your letter to my lord is now explain'd.

FAIRFORD.
I wrote no letter. 'Twas a fool that wrote it.

LADY TRANSIT.
He was no fool that sign'd it.

FAIRFORD.
Hold your tongue.
Perhaps some little trifle I may give you
To answer your expenses on the road,
Because I'll take no favour from your lord.
Here, here! You'll never have a farthing more.

(Gives her a packet of bank bills.)
LADY TRANSIT.
And if I never have, 'tis great, 'tis noble.—
Oh, my too generous, too indulgent father,
How can I merit this excess of goodness,
This unexampled bounty?—'Tis too much!

FAIRFORD.
I give thee nothing as Lord Transit's wife;
To him or his I would not deal out bread;
But to my darling child, to the dear image
Of her blest mother, I will give my heart,
My life, my all—For thee alone I live,
For thee, my child!
[He embraces her, holds her in his arms for a time, then breaks from her, and speaks:
There! now you've made me angry—
Leave me! I will not hear another word.

LADY TRANSIT.
Heav'n in its providence protect my father!

[Exit.
FAIRFORD.
Poor thing, poor thing! That lord has us'd her ill,
I know he has—Oh! had she but been happy,
And proud, and prosperous, I had shut my heart
As hard against her, and as icy cold
As the warp'd Neva, when the fur-clad Russ
Sleds o'er its glassy surface:—but to tread
The humbled and afflicted spirit down
Is cruelty of so sublime a pitch,
My nature is not quite prepar'd to reach it.

Tim. Dogherty enters to Mr. Fairford.
DOGHERTY.
The blessing be about you, worthy sir,
And long life to enjoy the goodly fortune
That tumbles in upon you, so commodious!
Troth, 'tis a lucky chance, when rascals scramble,
If honest men get any of the booty.

FAIRFORD.
To whom am I indebted for this greeting?
I do not recollect you.

DOGHERTY.
That may be,
Seeing I've been a lodger forty years
In yonder castle, where you've never been.

FAIRFORD.
What castle do you speak of?

DOGHERTY.
Ah, what castle?
Why, that big house, where your sweet daughter dwelt,
Blessing and blest by all, inside and out.
Troth, you did well, when you had her, to stop;
You hardly would have father'd such another
Out of a hundred, if the Lord had sent them.

FAIRFORD.
You're an odd fellow—but I now perceive
You are my lord's domestic.

DOGHERTY.
Not at all.
I'm not domestic with him. I belong
To your sweet daughter—Ah, there's nothing like her,
I tell you so in plainness—and moreover,
I'm proud to let you know your own good name
Is up among your people.

FAIRFORD.
Pooh! my people!
What do they know of me?

DOGHERTY.
I'll tell you what.
They know you for a crabbed shell without,
But sound at heart, and wholesome.

FAIRFORD.
Who believes them?

DOGHERTY.
Whugh! who believes them! Take your own course then;
And if you think they speak too well of you,
Turn 'em away, and get another set
To know you better, and to praise you less.

FAIRFORD.
You've got your nation's nimble wits, I see,
And dare say you could make up a good story
For your own lord.

DOGHERTY.
My nation you may know,
But me you do not. I don't deal in stories,
And when I can't speak well, can hold my tongue;
Therefore, when you are nam'd, I shall be silent.

FAIRFORD.
Give me your hand! You and I must be friends.

A Clerk enters.
CLERK.
A gentleman attends, whose name is Heartright.

FAIRFORD.
What is his business? I know no such person.

CLERK.
I think he is an agent of Lord Transit,
And comes about the interest of your mortgage
Upon that lord's estate.

FAIRFORD.
Well, let him pay it,
And go about his business.

DOGHERTY.
Why, he comes
About his business; can he come and go
At the same moment? Ah, now, if you knew
This worthy Mr. Heartright, as I know him,
You'd throw your two fond arms about his neck,
And hug him as your daughter's dearest friend.
A better man don't breathe the breath of life;
And would you have an honest gentleman trot
From Hyde-Park Corner clear to Wellclose-Square,
Only to see the outside of your house?

FAIRFORD.
Well, get you gone. I can't be angry with you.
Tell Mr. Heartright I'll be glad to see him.

[Exit Clerk.
DOGHERTY.
Why, now you answer like a British merchant.
If you drive on a trade with all the world,
Why, you must be at home to all the world.

[Exit.
Heartright enters.
HEARTRIGHT.
Your clerk has kept me waiting a good while:
Perhaps I come unwelcome?

FAIRFORD.
By no means.

HEARTRIGHT.
I understand, old Gallishoff is dead:
My business was with him about a mortgage,
The interest of which is over-due
From the Lord Transit.

FAIRFORD.
Have you brought the money?

HEARTRIGHT.
Truly, I have not: and my lord requests
From the executors a little patience.

FAIRFORD.
I'm the executor.

HEARTRIGHT.
Well, if you are,
You are the very man to do our business,
If you have but the patience that we want.

FAIRFORD.
I'm not dispos'd to accommodate your friend.

HEARTRIGHT.
I guess'd as much—If I had brought the cash,
Perhaps your patience would have serv'd to count it.
You must foreclose.

FAIRFORD.
Perhaps I sha'n't do that.
Lord Transit has enough, with management;
But nothing is enough for dissipation.

HEARTRIGHT.
You're right. It play'd him but an ugly trick,
When dissipation laid him at your mercy.

FAIRFORD.
I like your plainness. You may know your lord,
But me you do not know.

HEARTRIGHT.
Nor do you know
The lady of my lord—Else you would know,
Though dissipation reign'd before her time,
She brought good order.

FAIRFORD.
Pooh! she brought no fortune.

HEARTRIGHT.
True; in your sense of fortune, she brought nothing:
In my sense, every thing that's rich and precious;
Virtues above all price; and charms, that wealth
Tenfold what you inherit could not purchase.

FAIRFORD.
You're warm in her applause.

HEARTRIGHT.
Because I know her.

FAIRFORD.
I know her too; and do not only pardon,
But thank you for your warmth. I pray excuse me
For a few moments. I will soon return.

[Exit.
HEARTRIGHT.
Something has greatly mov'd him, I perceive—
There is a feeling heart in that rough case;
Therefore, by sympathy of soul I'm bound
To bear with his coarse manners. I forgot
To inform me of his name—What do I see?
My dear, my honour'd lady! How is this?

Fairford returns with Lady Transit.
LADY TRANSIT.
Even as you see, my good and worthy friend!
Give me your hand, and let me introduce you
To my beloved father.

HEARTRIGHT.
Hah! your father!

[They embrace.
LADY TRANSIT.
Yes; take him, sir, and wear him in your heart,
As I in mine.—He merits your esteem.

[to her father.
FAIRFORD.
When you bestow'd such praises on my daughter,
I was resolv'd to bring her face to face,
And shame you for your flattery. Had you seen her,
As when I left her, in the prime of youth
And virgin bloom of beauty, then indeed
You might have truly said, no wealth could reach
The worth of charms like hers. I thought so too—
And now behold a base injurious lord,
A titled tyrant, first despoils those charms
Of their pure lustre, and then turns away
To whet his sated appetite afresh
With profligate incitements.

LADY TRANSIT.
Hold, my father!
Spare him, spare me, devoutly I implore,
And take good heed you do not urge too far
This aggravated charge beyond the bounds
Of justice, truth, or mercy. Hear him first
Before you strike so deep; examine well
How far, though innocent of purpos'd ill,
I, your own daughter, may have brought upon me
The loss of his affections, from my want
Of grace and judgment how to keep alive
And fan that passion I had once inspir'd.
Ah, sir, there's much allowance to be made
For human errors—Who can else abide it?

HEARTRIGHT.
There, there is patience in its fairest form!
Put out your hand, and reach it. Who would keep
So sweet an inmate in his family,
And make no court to gain it?

FAIRFORD.
Who but you
Would doubt my patience, when it stands the trial
Of your rough sparring buffets? But I see
You drive in your philanthropy head downwards;
A clumsy workman: but as I am sure
Your zeal is honest, and your love sincere
For genuine virtue,—here! I leave her with you.

[Takes his daughter's hand, gives it to Heartright, and goes out.]
Manent Lady Transit and Heartright.
LADY TRANSIT.
I'm glad we are alone. Oh sir! my friend,
The friend of my lost lord; I don't accuse him.
I pray you still to love him, to protect him,
To guard him with your counsel—There is need.
I only call Heav'n's truth to witness for me,
That nor in deed, nor word, nor meditation
Have I, unless in ignorance, giv'n him cause
To treat me thus unkindly.

HEARTRIGHT.
I believe you:
Nay, he himself acquits you.

LADY TRANSIT.
You have seen him?—

HEARTRIGHT.
I have.

LADY TRANSIT.
Then there is hope—for him, I mean.
For me, my only wish is to enjoy
That triumph, that revenge, which mercy feels
When it redeems and pardons an offender.
I know my lord, just now, is bare of money;
And this new course of life may plunge him deeper,
And drive him upon desperate resources.
I cannot bear the thought. I brought him nothing:
My father's bounty now has made me rich;
Take him this money.

HEARTRIGHT.
What should I do with it?

LADY TRANSIT.
Tell him you've found an easy creditor;
Yourself, for instance—

HEARTRIGHT.
That will never pass.

LADY TRANSIT.
Nothing so easy—Let him only find
His wants supplied, he'll not be over curious
To know from whom the obligation springs.

HEARTRIGHT.
If you supply his wants, you feed his wishes,
And they are in no worthy train, believe me.

LADY TRANSIT.
I fear they are not; but he is no gamester.

HEARTRIGHT.
Lady Le Brun is.

LADY TRANSIT.
There! ah, there indeed
You probe the wound, that rankles in his heart
Unheal'd, untended!—There you sound the depth
Of my profound affliction! Hear me, now!
I am resolv'd to see this dangerous fair one
So fatal to my peace. I shall not play
The clamorous Statira with my rival;
Therefore mistake me not.—Sir Charles Le Brun
Upon my lord's departure found admission,
And had, or feign'd, a letter from his lady
To tender the asylum of her house.
This is the plea for my intended visit.

HEARTRIGHT.
Are you determin'd on this rash adventure?

LADY TRANSIT.
Not to be mov'd.

HEARTRIGHT.
Then I will bear your message;
For better 'twere for both, that you should meet
Prepar'd for the occasion. Ah, dear lady!
You take much pains for an unhappy man,
Who is environ'd by a set of wretches
Whose swords are at his throat, and push him on
To ruin, to perdition.

LADY TRANSIT.
Save him then;
For Heav'n's sweet sake redeem him; bid him fly
The snares of that fair syren; set before him
The horrors of his crime, the avenging sword
Of an insulted husband.—'Tis an act
Blessed for ever, that now calls upon you.

[Exeunt.