 | Hamlet |  |
ACT I.
Scene—Drury Lane Play-house.[Johnson on the Stage, with a lanthorn in his hand:]
Hopkins.
Who's there?
Johnson.
Nay, answer me; stand and unfold
Yourself.
Hopkins.
Long live the King of Drury!
Johnson.
Hopkins?
Hopkins.
He.
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You come most punctually:—how is your gout?
Hopkins.
I hobble, as you see; get thee to bed;
'Tis now struck twelve; farewell, Johnson:—good night.
Johnson.
For this relief, I thank you—Here's a quid
To chew upon your watch. 'Tis bitter cold,
And I am craw-sick.—
Hopkins.
Has the stage to-night been quiet?
Johnson.
Yes: as quiet as I've known it;
Not a mouse stirring.
Hopkins.
Well, good night, my friend.
But hark, a word; are all the places let
For the next night of Hamlet?
Johnson.
How should I
Resolve your question? 'Tis the Manager
Settles that matter: it is he that lets
The boxes for those nights; it makes our King
Of greater pith and moment. Lords and ladies
All send their cards to him; he plays those parts,
Not for the public, but his private friends.
Hopkins.
Johnson, that's right: our Monarch is so great,
It now befits him to select his audience.
Johnson.
But this must not transpire: 'tis ours, you know,
Still to deceive the town, and make 'em think
The boxes are with equity disposed.
Hopkins.
Well, well, good night.
If in your way you meet Becket and George,
The rivals of my watch, bid 'em make haste.
Johnson.
I think, I hear them.—Stand, ho! Who's there?
Enter George and Becket.
George.
Friends to this house.
Becket.
And true to Drury's Monarch.
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Give you good night.
Becket.
O, farewell, honest Johnson:
Who hath reliev'd you?
Johnson.
Friend Hopkins has my place.
Give you good night.
[Exit Johnson.
Becket.
Holla! Hopkins!
Hopkins.
Say,
What, is David there?
George.
A piece of him!
Hopkins.
I'm glad you're come, sir; Becket, you are welcome.
Becket.
What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?
Hopkins.
I have seen nothing.
Becket.
George says, 'tis but our phantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him,
Touching this dreadful sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him along,
That, if again this apparition come,
He may make affidavit of it to his brother.
George.
Tush! tush! 't will not appear.
Becket.
Patience awhile;
And let us once again assail those ears
That are so fortified against our story,
With what we have two nights seen.
George.
Well, sit we down,
And let us hear what Becket says of this.
Becket.
Last night of all,
When yon same candle, that now dimly burns
Upon a save-all, had so downward wrought
As to rise up and sink on that same point,
Where now 'tis off and on by fits, myself,
And my friend Hopkins, both a little muddled,
The bell then beating one—
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Peace, break thee off;
[Enter Ghost.]
Look, where it comes again!
Becket.
In the same figure, like to Shakespear's self
Upon his monument—
Hopkins.
Speak to it, George. Thou 'rt an attorney.
Becket.
Looks it not like Shakespear? Mark it well, George.
George.
Most like:—go, call a Constable.
Becket.
It would be spoke to.
Hopkins.
Speak to it, good George.
George.
What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night,
Together with that fair poetic form
In which the majesty of buried Shakespear
Did sometime march? Now in my brother's name
I charge thee speak.
Hopkins.
It is offended.
Becket.
See! it stalks away.
George.
Stay; speak; I charge thee, speak;
Or I will go and swear the peace against thee:
Thou art no renter, and not free o' th' house.
[Exit Ghost.
Hopkins.
'Tis gone, and will not answer.
Becket.
How now, George? why you tremble, and look pale:
Is not this something more than phantasy?
What think you of it?—
George.
Before a Master in Chancery,
Or Sir John Fielding, I might not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of my own eyes.
Becket.
It's like immortal Shakespear.
George.
As thou art to St. Vitus' dance. 'Tis strange.
260
Thus, twice before, and just at this dead hour,
With dreadful stride hath he walk'd o'er the Stage.
George.
In what particular thought to work, I know not;
But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion,
This bodes some strange event to Harlequin,
The Irish Widow, and the Pigmy Revels.
Hopkins.
Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows,
Why this same strict and most observant watch
Of our theatric state in daily papers?
And why such constant vent of brazen lies,
And epigrams as implements of scandal?
Why such impress of scribblers, whose sore task
Doth scarce deserve the freedom of the house?
Who is 't, that can inform me?
Becket.
That can I;
At least the whisper goes so. Drury's King
Was, as you know, by the Author of Alzuma,
Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride,
Dar'd to the fight; in which our prudent Monarch
(For so the green-room and the world esteem him)
Declining open combat, most wisely chooses,
By covert stratagem to annoy his foe.
George.
But, soft; behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,
Speak to me:
If there be any good play to be acted,
That may give ease to thee, or coin to David,
Speak to me:
If thou art privy to what Foote's about,
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
O, speak!
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Some hidden manuscript, some virgin play,
Which you, dread sprite, would wish to have perform'd,
O, speak!—But stay;—my brother is in bed,
And sleeps, if anxious thought will let him sleep.
Hopkins.
I am the prompter: shall I give the word?
George.
Do, if it will but stand.
Becket.
'Tis here.
George.
'Tis here.
Hopkins.
'Tis gone.
[Exit Ghost.
Perhaps to Covent Garden.
George.
I'll engage it.
It cannot eat,—'t will want no salary;—
The Managers will like the Ghost of Wit.
Becket.
It was about to speak when the cat mew'd.
Hopkins.
And then it started, like a mouse from cheese,
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in ale-house, punch-house, round-house, baguio,
Th' extravagant and drunken poet hies
To his confine; and the bum-bailiff comes,
With prying look, to execute his writ;
And then all day no bard dares stir abroad,
And our glad Monarch's happy not to see
A poet's face, unless it be his own
Upon a painter's canvas well pourtray'd.
Becket.
So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
George.
But, see, the morn, with besom in her hand,
Walks o'er the benches of yon Upper Gallery.
262
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto our Sov'reign.
Hopkins.
Be it so—
Let's do 't, I pray; and I this evening know
When we shall find him most conveniently;
Ere the play ends at night, he will be here.
'Tis fit he know it; for, upon my life,
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
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