University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—An elegant apartment.
Lord Transit and Lady Le Brun.
LADY LE BRUN.
Let go my hand, Lord Transit! Don't be tiresome.
I tell you, once for all, I will be drawn
Into no ambushes, no holes and corners.

LORD TRANSIT.
Stop here, then.—Here is room for all your virtue.

LADY LE BRUN.
Keep yours, then, at its proper distance from it,
For I suspect they are scarce cater-cousins.

LORD TRANSIT.
Lady Le Brun, by heavens it makes me mad
To see a woman, born to be the charm
Of all mankind, devote herself so wholly
To a vile crew of gambling sharks and tabbies,
As if you had no soul but in your cards!

LADY LE BRUN.
Perhaps I do not wish to charm mankind.
The most immediate jewel of my soul
Is reputation. Now, then, you are answer'd,
And in your own heroic style, methinks.

LORD TRANSIT.
Well, madam, I don't want to steal your jewels.
Cards are more likely to purloin that treasure
Than I am.

LADY LE BRUN.
I have heard enough of cards.
What else have you to say?

LORD TRANSIT.
You gave me hopes
That you would let me see Sir Charles's letter.

LADY LE BRUN.
Oh! aye; his letter about Lady Transit.—
How can that int'rest you? You have dismiss'd
That speculation, and are come to Town,
In hopes to find that London husbands care
As little for their wives as you for yours.

LORD TRANSIT.
You are sarcastic, madam.

LADY LE BRUN.
No; I think
You have endur'd your matrimonial spell
As long, at least, as any one who knows you
Could have suppos'd; and when you broke the charm,
You did not turn your charmer out of doors,
As some less gentle husbands would have done,
But civilly dismiss'd her to her father.
Now that was so considerate, so kind,
So careful of the jewel reputation,
That every wife, who values her good name,
Will hold Lord Transit henceforth and for ever
In all due estimation and regard!

LORD TRANSIT.
Your wit, fair lady, carries a keen edge;
And you can smite and smile at the same time.
I know not how I have deserv'd this from you.

LADY LE BRUN.
I really think you can deserve no less
From every woman, who has fellow-feeling
For a much-injur'd, guiltless, virtuous wife.
Ask not to see the letter from my husband;
It would not flatter you,—unless, indeed,
You hold it for a salvo to your conscience
To put a pledge into his hands as sacred
As that you would inveigle out of them.

LORD TRANSIT.
What pledge do you allude to?

LADY LE BRUN.
Let this billet
By you, a married man, address'd to me,
A married woman, show you to yourself.
What have I done to warrant this affront?
Here, take it back again!—My only reason
For not exposing it and you, my lord,
To my vindictive husband, is because
I abhor duels, and despise the writer.

LORD TRANSIT.
Why all this tragic fury?—I suspect
You've lost at cards, my lady?

LADY LE BRUN.
If I have,
It was my money only; not my mind,
My character, my conscience, as you have.
And what is there in me, which you can't find
Fresher and fairer in your own pure wife?
She loves not cards; has not consum'd her time,
Or tainted the sweet lustre of her bloom,
With a vile crew of gambling sharks and tabbies,
As you say I have done. In slighting her
For such a Town-complexion'd face as mine,—
Upon my word, my lord, I think in taste
You err as widely as in principle.

LORD TRANSIT.
You bear me down with words.—Hear my defence.
I do confess, from the first time my eyes
Glanc'd on your form, I've been the slave of passion.
I married, and believ'd I had subdued
That dangerous enemy to my repose.
Again I saw you, and again desire
Seiz'd on my truant heart. I turn'd aside,
From peace, from truth, from honour, to pursue you,
And mark how I am punish'd!

LADY LE BRUN.
Not by me.
I am not form'd, my lord, to make you happy.
Look at Sir Charles; his temper is more placid,
More mild than yours: he slights me; he has reason:
I am not worthy to be call'd a wife,
Being a thoughtless, undomestic creature;
A woman of the world, as it is call'd,
And not averse, as truly you observe,
To the destructive desperate love of play.
Is it not madness, then, to fly from her,
Whose faultless heart was form'd to make you blest,
And sigh for me, who would have made you wretched?

LORD TRANSIT.
Your self-accusing candour is so charming,
The more you labour to extinguish hope
The more you charm me and exalt yourself.

LADY LE BRUN.
Go home, go home. I tell you, as a friend,
You never will succeed with me, my lord;
And in the mean time others may succeed
With your neglected lady. She's no more
Than a mere woman, and I'm much mistaken
If frailty be not moulded with the clay
Of which we all are made.

LORD TRANSIT.
What do you mean?
Your hints alarm me.

LADY LE BRUN.
Lay them to your heart:
And recollect, that if she falls from virtue
The guilt is yours, for you are her destroyer.

[Exit.
LORD TRANSIT.
I thought I was a hard, unfeeling wretch,
Whom no remorse could touch. I now perceive
I am a thinking, conscientious villain,
That never can know peace, and know myself
The base destroyer of an injur'd wife,
In whose arms I have slept and dreamt of virtue.
(Pliant is passing the stage.)
Stop, sir, a word with you.

PLIANT.
Hah! my dear lord,
Ever well met. My eyes have been so dazzled
With the bright blaze of beauty in that room,
I do protest I did not see your lordship.

LORD TRANSIT.
You have said quite enough about your eyes;
I hope you have not lost your memory.

PLIANT.
No, no; your lordship glances at what pass'd
When last I din'd with you.

LORD TRANSIT.
Exactly that.

PLIANT.
Gay, lively, free, delectable discourse;
Much wit, much humour, and some repartee;
I thought your lordship made a pleasant run
Upon my friend Le Brun:—'Faith, 'twas so good,
I told it to him in my raillying way,
Just to keep up the jest.—What ail'd the man,
I cannot for the soul of me conceive;
He couldn't taste the joke, but knit his brow,
And gnaw'd his lips, and in a peevish fit
Desir'd that I would give your lordship notice
That he would wait on you to-morrow morning.
This I have now the honour to perform.

LORD TRANSIT.
Yes, and the honour to create the cause
Of his unfriendly visit.—Tell him, therefore,
Come when he will, from day-break to broad noon,
He'll find me at his call.

PLIANT.
Spoke like yourself,
With elegance and spirit, well becoming
Your rank and fashion—Day-break to broad noon!

[Exit.
Lady Le Brun enters.
LADY LE BRUN.
My lord, my lord,—the company's broke up.
I'm going home. Take courage! I shall send you
An invitation, which you'll not refuse;
And we will bury all unkindness past,
And seal a peace.—Come! see me to my coach.

LORD TRANSIT.
You puzzle me—I cannot comprehend you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—The street.
Sir Charles Le Brun meeting Dogherty.
SIR CHARLES.
Well met, friend Timothy! what news with you?

DOGHERTY.
There now! to see how thoughts will sometimes jump,
And justle one another in by jerks.
Just as I met your honour, I was thinking
What I should say, if any body ask'd me
What news, friend Timothy?

SIR CHARLES.
Well, let us hear
What you will say.

DOGHERTY.
Long life to your kind honour!
It is good news if you are well in health.
Health is a blessing, and the only one
Which the poor have in common with the rich.

SIR CHARLES.
You serve the Lady Transit, I believe?—
Pray, my good fellow, is she now in Town?

DOGHERTY.
Troth, sir, to say where any lady is,
When she is out of sight, is above me.

SIR CHARLES.
But you can tell me if she was in Town
When last you saw her.

DOGHERTY.
As I cannot speak
To time and place correctly to your question,
I humbly beg to waive it altogether.

SIR CHARLES.
You're dumb; but wine will make a dumb man speak.
Will you accept a trifle to procure it?

DOGHERTY.
Sweet sir, most thankfully. Good wine's a jewel,
And whisky punch, and whisky its ownself
In its own naked innocence and beauty,
As we enjoy it in our blessed nation;
All these are harmless wholesome recreations.

SIR CHARLES.
Take this,—and now direct me to your lady.

DOGHERTY.
Ah, noble sir, I hope I'm better taught
Than to lose any time in seeking out
A comely public-house to drink your health in;
And when I've done that handsomely, good chance
If I am able to direct myself.
Good day to your good honour! Ah! a guinea!

[Exit.
SIR CHARLES.
The murrain light upon that Irish pagan!
He has fobb'd me of my guinea, and gone off.
But see! as sure as can be, 'tis the youngster
That came to London with the Lady Transit.

Trevor
enters.
Sir, your most humble servant! With your leave
A few words, if your business is not pressing.

TREVOR.
Sir Charles Le Brun?

SIR CHARLES.
The same—at your command.
I think I saw you with the Lady Transit?

TREVOR.
'Tis very possible.

SIR CHARLES.
You live, perhaps,
In this part of the town?

TREVOR.
Yes, with my uncle.

SIR CHARLES.
And who is he?

TREVOR.
My mother's father's son.

SIR CHARLES.
That does not edify.

TREVOR.
I'm sorry for it.
If in the way of business you wou'd know him,
You'll trace him by the firm of Gallishoff
As readily as you can find the Bank.
If your inquiry only tends to ask
Where Lady Transit may be visited,
I have the honour to inform you, sir,
That lady can receive no visitors.

[Exit.
SIR CHARLES
alone.
If she receives me, I shall little care
How few besides may visit her. These citizens
Give full instruction on their corner houses
To lead us to their execrable shops,
But not one finger-post that points to love.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—An apartment in Fairford's house. A table with papers, parchments, &c.
Fairford, and Codicil his lawyer, discovered at table.
FAIRFORD.
There, there, friend Codicil, dash on! dash on!
My meaning's clear enough till you explain it,
And talk yourself and me into a puzzle.

CODICIL.
Who talks but you? And whilst your clack is going
Thirteen to the dozen, who the plague can write?

FAIRFORD.
Call you this writing? Foh! your curst law scratches
Won't give the honest alphabet fair play.
Look how you crook your rs, and twist the necks
Of your poor half-hang'd es, that look behind 'em
As if you'd set your bailiffs at their heels!
Come, where's this doughty deed of separation?

CODICIL.
Why, here it is; but what use is it of?
You'll not enforce it.

FAIRFORD.
Yes, I will.

CODICIL.
You won't,
I know you won't, and so I plainly tell you:
You let that Heartright fob you of your mortgage:
Every man draws a needle through your nose.

FAIRFORD.
What's this you've given me? This is not the deed;
This is my will. You've caught the unclean beast
By the wrong ear; you're puzzled.

CODICIL.
Well I may—You are enough to puzzle any man,
Blustering and bouncing—Here! we're right at last—
Give me your will—That may come into use
Some time or other, when you're dead and gone;
For die you must.

(They rise and come forward.)
FAIRFORD.
I do believe I must.
You're right, friend Codicil, you're very right;
You bring the pleasant recollection home:
And when the time comes, which you kindly hint at,
The will, perhaps, may be of use to some folks,—
Yourself, amongst the rest, if you survive me.
For I have tack'd a little rider to it,
In your behalf, for old acquaintance-sake;
Something to make your winter evenings merry.
So there is codicil for Codicil—
That is but fair, you'll say.

CODICIL.
I'll not say that.
I'm not of your opinion, Mr. Fairford.
I do not hold it for a lawyer's honour
To have his name found in his client's will.
Leave me your snuff-box, or your walking-stick—
I'll take a token from you—nothing more.

FAIRFORD.
I wou'd I had my walking-stick just now;
You well deserve it.

CODICIL.
I don't care for that.
You've ever been my friend, and that's enough.

FAIRFORD.
I was all that when I was nothing else;
It wou'd be shameful were I less your friend
When I've more means to be so. But, no matter;
You are a mule, a veritable mule,
And, thanks to Nature, generation stops;
None of your cross-grain'd progeny will plague us.
Whence come you, sirrah?

Trevor enters.
TREVOR.
From my agent, sir,
Thanks to your bounty! Here is my commission.
I'm Ensign Trevor now.

FAIRFORD.
Pshaw! Ensign Trevor!
I would have put you in a way to thrive—
Made you a merchant.—Would you think it, sir?
This fellow had no taste for Russia duck,
Hemp, pot-ash, pickled sturgeon, linen rags,
And such nice wares as wou'd have quickly made him
A prancing trader. He must be a soldier,
And honourably starve on ensign's pay.
So, let him go! I've done with you for ever:
Go to your cousin; put on your red coat,
(I know you have your regimentals ready)
And let her see how clownish and how clumsy
A Russian bear shows in a lion's skin.

TREVOR.
Very well, uncle! You and I have fac'd
The north-sea storm, when not a rag of sail
Clung to the yard; you did not find me then
A man unfit for service, or afraid
To look upon a sight more terrible
Than armies can present: so launch your joke;
Your Russian bear may with the lion's skin
Possess the lion's heart. This I will promise,
Go where he will, your bear sha'n't shame his leader.

[Exit.
CODICIL.
That's a brave boy; he charms me, and behold!
He pumps the water up into your eyes.

FAIRFORD.
No, no; they're weak, they're wat'ry. Come, I'll go
And see Louisa.—Pshaw! what ails my eyes?

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—Another apartment.
Lady Transit and Dogherty.
DOGHERTY.
Ah, gracious lady, how it glads my heart
That you approve of your poor servant's answer
To that Sir Charles Le Brun! I took his money,
'Tis true; but why? becase I scorn a bribe—
Whereby I neither laid it out, nor kept it:
I gave it to a poor old beggar woman
Of my own kindred, Judey Dogherty—
Quite an old creature. Troth, it did her good,
For she was mighty boozy when I met her
But a few minutes after.

LADY TRANSIT.
I should doubt
If that could do her good.

DOGHERTY.
Oh yes, oh yes.
It oil'd the springs and hinges of her heart,
And made her dance and roll about for joy.

LADY TRANSIT.
She made herself a beast.

DOGHERTY.
How so, my lady?
To get drunk is the privilege of reason;
Beasts never find it out.

LADY TRANSIT.
That's truly said.

DOGHERTY.
Oh yes; I always like to say the truth,
Whether of man or beast—whereby, d'ye see,
I trusted to my wits with that Sir Charles
To keep clear of the truth, and tell no lie.
Ach! I am good at that. Sir Charles, says I,
'Tis not for me to prate about my lady,
Whether she's here or there, or no where else.

LADY TRANSIT.
Well, Tim, I've heard it once. We'll not repeat it.

DOGHERTY.
Your will is mine; but, by my faith I think
'Twould bear repeating!

LADY TRANSIT.
Tell it then to Ruth;
It will be new to her. In the mean time
I hear my father coming.—You may leave me.

DOGHERTY.
The blessings of a thousand years be with you!
Fairford enters.
Sir, I'm your most devoted humble servant.
Humph! not a word.—He could not well say less.

[Exit.
FAIRFORD.
There! there's a sickener for the queazy lord;
Let him digest that paper as he can;
I hope 'twill choke him.

LADY TRANSIT.
What does it contain?

FAIRFORD.
A list of his bad actions, and your good ones,
About an equal quantity of each
Fairly divided; and in this account
No errors are excepted, I can promise.

LADY TRANSIT.
What does it lead to?

FAIRFORD.
What but separation?
Where else should I lead, when he drives so hard?
Does it surprise you?

LADY TRANSIT.
No, not much, not much;
But it is rather sudden.

FAIRFORD.
How we differ!
I thought it rather slow, and hurried on
Old snail-pac'd Codicil into a gallop,
That shook him in his saddle. What! a fellow
To take my only child without my leave,
And send her back without my leave or license!—
Too much, too much!

LADY TRANSIT.
I am a woman, sir;
I am a wife.

FAIRFORD.
Aye, so you are—a wife
To one of the worst husbands in existence.
But you've a father, who won't see you wrong'd.

LADY TRANSIT.
Sir, that I am your daughter is, I trust,
Warrant enough that I have sense to feel,
And spirit to resent the wrong that's done me.
But separation is a serious act,
And you will not refuse a little pause
For meditation.—Spare me till to-morrow,
And you shall have my answer.

FAIRFORD.
Pshaw! to-morrow!
I hate to-morrow. A long sleepless night
Lies between it and me.

LADY TRANSIT.
Kind Heaven forbid!
The guardian spirit that protects the good
Will watch your couch, and, with his balmy hand
Laid on your aching temples, give you rest.
Your dreams shall be compos'd of those pure thoughts
Which only in untroubled bosoms spring,
Whilst the good angel whispers to the soul
Joys of hereafter, which to th'waking ear
Cannot be told by tongue of mortal man.
Go, go—Benevolence like yours, my father,
Will need no rocking.

FAIRFORD.
Oh, that any fool
Could own a gem so rare, and cast it from him!

[Exit.
LADY TRANSIT
alone.
That he has basely, cruelly renounc'd me,
Without a shadow of pretence, is true;
And that his treatment justifies the measure
My father dictates, cannot be denied:
Yet there is something at my heart, which pleads
That time and healing leisure be allow'd
To the relapse of virtue, and reminds me,
Lest execution should too closely tread
Upon the heels of judgment. I would act
With all the dignity that's due to virtue,
And not forget what charity prescribes.
Let me with candour recollect myself:—
When Transit married me—ah! had I then
Or wit to fascinate, or grace to charm,
Or beauty to surprise? No, no, not I;
Nothing beyond the common dole of nature
To all her unsophisticated brood—
Freshness and health, simplicity of soul,
And modesty innate:—Such and no better
He found and wedded me; such and no worse
I still continued, and he put me from him.

Trevor, in his regimentals, enters.
TREVOR.
Well, cousin, here I am, fresh boil'd and bright.
How do you like me?

LADY TRANSIT.
Oh, to admiration!
I think you'll do prodigious execution.

TREVOR.
I think I shall—abroad eventually;
At home particularly. My uncle calls me
A Russian bear: if so, you know, sweet cousin,
I can plead instinct, if I'm tried for hugging.

LADY TRANSIT.
I am afraid, friend George, your uncle thinks
You choose a poor trade, and forgo a rich one.

TREVOR.
I think I choose well, when I take a trade
Which puts me on a par with any man
Who dares to wrong a lady, of whose honour
By fair succession I'm the avow'd defender.
My King has slung a sword upon my thigh,
(I thank His Majesty) and I take credit
For a bright forethought, when I learnt to use it:
In that accomplishment I yield to none.

LADY TRANSIT.
I'm sorry you're so learned in that art.

TREVOR.
I think I could not learn a better art,
Than to protect the feeble and opprest
Against the strong and brutal.

LADY TRANSIT.
Then go forth;
Find my Lord Transit out; be my averger;
Not against him—beware! He is my husband—
But against those seducers who distract
And warp his virtues from their natural bent.

TREVOR.
Beware how you employ me with your lord,
Who, by insulting you, has given to me
A stab, which, if he does not well atone for,
Will never heal in my flesh; never, never,
Till I have made reprisals upon his.

LADY TRANSIT.
George, George! why will you terrify me thus,
And breathe defiance whilst I sigh for peace?

TREVOR.
I cannot help it. I have dearly lov'd you
From infancy to youth, from youth to manhood,
And shall love to the last-drawn breath of life.
But I was poor, and never did my heart
Cherish a hope of you; for you had charms
To claim the prospect of a match as noble
As this which you have gain'd. When fortune shower'd
These riches on your father, and I heard
Of the injurious treatment you receiv'd,
All other views but the redressing you
Vanish'd at once; and I besought my uncle
To make me what I am—his lordship's equal,
And the declar'd avenger of your wrongs.

LADY TRANSIT.
I know your generous motives, and can trace them
To that pure source of brotherly affection
Which you have nourish'd from your earliest years.
But though your spirit may be still awake,
Your sword, I hope, will sleep.

TREVOR.
It shall, it shall.
I'll see your lord, and for your sake be calm.
I know there is a luxury in mercy,
Which to your soft sensations gives delight—
Though I don't feel it, nor does he deserve it.

LADY TRANSIT.
Ah! if we stay to calculate his merit,
We shall outstay the time to save his life.
Treat men as they deserve—make it your rule
To deal no more than rigid justice claims,
To your frail fellow-creatures,—what becomes
Of those sweet charities that give the soul
Its conscious foretaste of unfading bliss,
Make the day cheerful, and our nightly couch
A bed of roses redolent of heaven?

[Exeunt.