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SCENE IV.

Madrigal, Trulletta, Sculliona, Scourella.
Scul.
Horror on horror!

Scou.
O inauspicious hour!

Mad.
Ha! what portends
This tristful exclamation?

Scul.
I am come
A secret to disclose, that would awake you,
Were you already dead.—My dearest master—

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Scou.
Alas! that I should ever live to tell it!—

Scul.
The best of masters, and the best of friends—

Scou.
The sweetest, kindest, gentlest Cabbagino—

Scul.
Is now—O savage, marble-hearted fate!—

Scou.
Is now—I cannot tell it for my tears—

Scul.
A corseful shade.

Mad., Trul.
O ye immortal gods!

Scul.
Despairing of reprieve (the turnkey thus
Reports) and nobly scorning to be dragg'd
A publick spectacle up Holborn Hill,
By plenteous draughts of Juniperian juice,
Death-dealing liquid, his undaunted soul,
Freed from corporeal limbo.

Trul.
Oh!

Mad.
Oh!

Scul., Scou.
Oh!

Mad.
The deed was worthy of a Roman soul:
And sad necessity makes all things just.

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Trul.
Oh! 'tis too much; and life and I are lost.

(faints.
Mad.
Alas! she faints: she dies:—Scourella, haste;
Swift as a witch upon a broomstick fly;
Nay, swifter than the lightning's swiftest speed,
And bring a son of Galen to her aid—
The dedication of my tragic piece
To him, who saves her—draw thy smelling phial,
And try the odoriferous charm to lure
Her fleeting spirit back—alas! she's gone!
Gone! irrecoverably gone—she stiffens
A monument of grief—her eyes have lost
Their fire—ah! where is that Promethean heat,
That can their light relumine?—wake, my fair!
Shake off that ghastly ravisher, grim death;
Whose ruffian arms detain thee in his clasp,
Or thy bard rushes on his point to join thee—
She hears—the fair one hears my well-known voice—
She breathes—she wakes—returning colour 'gins
T' illume her reddening cheek.

Trul.
Ill-fated hour!
Undone Trulletta!

Mad.
Pious maid! forbear
This heart-felt woe—to her apartment lead—
I'll hence, and for th'interment of thy sire
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Make preparation—lovely nymph! farewel!
'Tis heaven to have thee; and without thee hell.

 

And I am come a secret to disclose,
That might awake thee, wert thou dead already.
Brothers. If the DOCTOR would be kind enough to give up to the publick this grand restorative nostrum, I am persuaded he would have the thanks of a great many widows and orphans, who are starving for want of their deceas'd supporters. Dr. Humbug.

This interrupted manner of telling a melancholy story, is used by a variety of tragic authors.

Alamode de Merope.

A tragical exclamation—But why immortal? An unnecessary epithet, unless intended to convince an audience, that the speaker does not mean the mortal deities in the upper gallery. Dr. Humbug.

The vocal picture of grief in miniature, and of great service to tragic writers, as it frequently helps to set a broken verse on its heroick legs. For example:

But oh, our meeting was not like the former!
Fair Penitent.
To touch thee's heaven; but to enjoy thee—oh,
Thou nature's, &c.
Orphan.
And I'm relaps'd into a coward—oh,
Bear me, &c.
Abra-Mule.

This line is borrow'd, but I cannot recollect from whom. Dr. Humbug.

A maxim, that may probably be of some comfort to future criminals at the foot of the gallows—I had almost forgot to inform the reader, this line is in Merope.

This beautiful line may be found in Merope also.

Among the many bleeding heroines I have seen on the British stage, I remember but one, whose lover had the presence of mind to call an Æsculapian to her assistance. If the reader can recollect the lady, I need not inform him that the dedication of our heroe's tragedy is an imitation of the vast reward to the surgeon, whose art should restore her.

------ Where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relumine!
Othello.

Or Portius rushes on his sword to join thee.
Cato.

This line is taken from the Orphan—Methinks so beautiful a thought should be cloath'd in a more grammatical dress. Dr. Humbug.

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