 | Madrigal And Trulletta |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Street.Strapada.
A yearning fondness hangs about me still:
I'd give the empire of ten thousand worlds
For privilege to unswear what I have sworn—
His father was my friend, and taught me first,
With curved awl, to pierce the rugged soal,
And join the horny bristle to the thread.
Such benefits demand no vulgar gratitude—
His mother too—be hush'd, my fluttering soul—
Goosino tells me, he resolves on blood;
None but th' Olympian gods alone can tell.
Th' event of battle, like a growing fœtus,
Lies 'prison'd in futurity's dark womb,
Till midwife time do bring it into birth—
Whoe'er the conqueror, Buckramo dies;
For should he Madrigal's quietus make
With a bare bodkin, justice acts the second,
And brings the victor to the shameful tree—
It is resolv'd —I'll watch him to prevent
His rage, and save him from the double danger
Of steel and hempen noose—It shall be so:
Madness in taylors must not unwatch'd go.
Our author could not have given a finer demonstration of the virtuous and philosophical character of Strapada, than in this and the following line. I could wish that all mankind would imitate our virtuous cobler in the conscientious observance of his vow. He hath so strict a regard to what he has sworn, that he would even give the empires of ten thousand worlds for the bare privilege of unswearing a rash oath. The height of that yearning fondness to Buckramo, as our author most pathetically expresses it, could not be more strongly drawn, than in these two happy lines. Dr. Humbug.
This and the two succeeding lines are a distant imitation of somewhat in the character of Horatio, in the Fair Penitent.
This laconic sentiment may be found in almost every tragedy, but it is a plagiarism from the speech of Prince Prettyman in the Rehearsal.
SCENE II.
Strapada, Buckramo.Buck.
My ears deceive me, or I heard the voice
Of dear Strapada once; but, now alas!
No more my friend—'tis he—avenging steel!
(puts up his bodkin.
Rest here unseen—his lab'ring mind is lock'd
In contemplation's closest cell—I'll try
To rouse him from this trance of thought—what, ho!
Strapada!
Strap.
Ha!—Buckramo!—Thou wast once
My trustiest friend: in my heart's core I wore thee;
Ay in my heart of hearts.
Ammonian Jove!
(kneeling.
And all ye gods, and goddesses: peruse
The folio of my past and present thoughts!
Peruse it page by page, or in the way
Of modern connoissieurs, videlicet,
Run o'er contents and index—if you find
A wish, unless to have Trulletta mine,
Preferr'd to good Strapada's dearest friendship,
Hurl my thrice-thankless spirit vengeful down
Into th' infernal pitchy lake, prepar'd
For negro-soul'd ingratitude.
Strap.
By Saturn!
His mother's in his face—the dear Scourella—
It is too much to bear—spite of my vow
I must, I must relent—there is a way
To reinstate thee in my love: be virtuous.
The friends of virtue are Strapada's friends—
Forgo thy black design on Madrigal,
And be as dear as ever—what incites thee
To seek his blood?
He robs me of my mistress:
And in return I rob him of his life.
The robber rob, and robbery grows virtue.
Strap.
The subtlety of schools may paint this maxim;
The schools, where learned error stalks abroad
With such gigantic strides, in wisdom's garb;
But truth, and sound philosophy, disclaim
The paultry dawbing—know, blood-thirsty youth!
Know, thou death's orator! dread advocate
For bowelless severity! forgiveness
Is greater, wiser, manlier bravery
Than wild revenge.
Buck.
Ha! whither would'st thou lead me?
Strap.
To virtue, to forgiveness—talk no more
Of fell revenge.
Buck.
Not talk of it, Strapada?
I'll talk of it, tho' hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace—not talk of it?
Not of revenge? the attribute of th' gods,
Who stamp it in our natures to impell
Mankind to noblest darings.
Strap.
Rather call it
The attribute of devils, stamp'd on man
To draw deluded mortals to destruction.
No more, no more—tempt me no more in vain—
My soul is wrought to the sublimest rage
Of horrible revenge.
Strap.
And thou art fix'd
On bloody purpose?
Buck.
Fix'd as Cambrian mountain
On its own base, or gaming lords on ruin.
Strap.
Then all my flattering hopes of thy reclaim
Are lost; and my shock'd soul akes at thee : yet
Attend my last request—defer thy purpose,
Till the cold earth, in her parental bosom,
Receive thy venerable master's corse.
E'er long the sad procession will begin:
Then do not with unhallow'd broil prophane
The dread solemnity of funeral rites:
But lend thy kind assistance to support
Thy sorrowing mistress thro' the mournful scene.
This thou wilt promise?
Buck.
By yon silver lamp,
Which stringless hangs, or hangs by string unseen
Strap.
Till then farewel!
Ay, in my heart of hearts.
As I cannot, with all my sagacity as an editor, trace any imitation of the following prayer, I must conclude it to be an original. Dr. Humbug.
This conflict in the bosom of Strapada plainly shews, that our author design'd to draw him a man, as well as a philosopher; two characters, which seldom meet in the same person; especially in dramatic philosophers. The struggle is so great, that the tenderness of the man overcomes the stiffness of the sage; and compells him to break that vow, which, a few minutes ago, he would have given the empire of so many thousand worlds to forswear with impunity. In the midst of the conflict, we still find him so great a friend to virtue, that he only pardons his repenting friend, on condition of his being virtuous. That this frailty, in regard to his vow, may not appear a blemish in the character of our heroic cobler, I must beg leave to inform my readers, that such breach of rash vows, in dramatic heroes, hath seldom or never been counted criminal. I could produce many instances of such frailty; that of Pierre in Venice Preserv'd may suffice, without quoting further authorities. Dr. Humbug.
Our author seems to have had in view that moral and musical line, viz.
In such gigantic strides.
For bowelless severity!
With their great image on our natures.
Of horrible revenge.
Our author seems to be led away by the prevailing opinion of Gaming, which paints it as the effect of idleness and prodigality; but I am not yet so much a slave to vulgar prejudice, as to suppose that idleness and prodigality are the sources of Gaming. Yet should we judge of its merits, from its prevalency in the fashionable world, we might rather esteem it to be the effect of a laudable desire of acquiring riches, and a praise-worthy calling; under which character the worst of men insinuate themselves into the company of gentlemen, and nobles. And I am of opinion that the philosopher's stone (notwithstanding all the labours of the chymical tribe) will be found, if ever it be found, by a gaming projector. Dr. Humbug.
SCENE III.
Buckramo.Farewel!—till then farewel!—so hot, my friend?
So very hot?—no matter—let him cool—
He thinks my reason a meer babe, a suckling,
To need the leading-strings of his advice—
But to th' interment—if I should appear
In this unseemly dress, they'll think I come
To laugh and fleer at their solemnity.
Custom, that great, that venerable tyrant
On such occasions, asks, requires, demands
A coat—a coat!—alas!—I have no coat.
Oh insupportable!—oh heavy hour!
Methinks it now should be a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at the alteration of my dress—
Of all superfluous cloth necessity
Hath stripp'd me. My incarcerated coat
Lies in that infidel confinement, whence
No captive e'er returns unransom'd—how
To fetch the pris'ner thence puzzles the thought—
Lost in a labyrinth, I wander on
Without a clew to guide—O dark estate
With all his boasted intuition, is
More blind than reptile mole—Goosino's counsel
Must guide me thro' this maze.
In this, and the four following lines, our author hath imitated the complaint of Othello for the loss of his wife.
Probably in the pawn-broker's custody—This thought has some distant resemblance of,
No traveller returns.
SCENE IV.
An apartment hung with black.Trulletta.
weeping over a coffin.
— Hail venerable ghost!
Hail heart-wept Manes of my murder'd sire!
O earth-wrong'd goodness!—in Newgatian cell,
That subterranean sepulchre of peace,
That home of horror, hideous nest of crimes,
Guilt's first sad stage in her dark road to hell,
Whose thick-barr'd, sunless passages for air
Do keep alive the wretch, that longs to die,
Was thy majestic eye-beam clos'd in gin;
In gin, that bliss, and bane of human life—
My sluicing eyes should pour such cataracts
Of ceaseless tears, as would redeluge earth,
And pickle the huge mass in human brine—
O all ye sleeping gods! why did you thus
Nod o'er your charge supine, and suffer one,
By copious swill of gin lethiferous?
Ye should have dash'd the untasted moisture from him—
But hence this prophanation! 'tis impiety
To question the just gods, since reason's line
Wants depth to sound th' Olympian will.
Hail heart-wept Manes of my murder'd lord!
In the 18th century, the inhabitants of Great Britain were very much addicted to drinking a liquid, call'd Geneva; or, according to its usual abbreviation, gin, which was a slow, but sure poison. They swallow'd it, as the Turks do opium, meerly for the sake of intoxication. The consumption of this liquid was so great, that some thousands of poisoners general, distinguish'd by the modest appellation of distillers, got their livelihood; nay, some of them amass'd immense fortunes by the composition of this inebriating spirit. So great was the skill of these chymical poisoners, that they could extract this intoxicating liquor from molosses, juniper-berries, turpentine; nay, I believe, had they set about it, from the upper leathers of old shoes; but the chief, and most beneficial principles, from which they could possibly draw this fatal juice, were wheat, barley, or other grain. In the years 1757 and 1758, on account of the real, or artificial scarcity of grain in England, these gentry were prohibited the use of it, which so affected the distillery, that, happily for the nation, several of its professors were obliged to leave off their pernicious trades, and launch into less destructive callings. During such prohibition it was remark'd, that human excrement, both a priori and a posteriori bore an advanced price, which might probably arise from the use of these fragrant materials in distillery. This conjecture is not at all unnatural, as bread and porter, after they have undergone the internal operations, must still retain some remaining part of their wheaten and malten qualities. For my part, I am almost confirm'd in this opinion, from the near analogy of flavour between gin, and that more solid species of excrement, on which the honour of knighthood hath been time immemorial conferr'd. After so long a note, it will be almost unnecessary to prove the truth and propriety of our author's stiling gin, the bliss and bane of human life; especially as drunkenness seems to be the primary happiness of the present age.
This note I have written partly for the present, and partly for the future tense.
Dr. Humbug.This seems to have been drawn from the following beautiful lines:
That were the world on fire, they might have drown'd
The wrath of heaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin.
SCENE V.
Trulletta, Ghost.Trul.
Dread powers!
Ghost.
I am
Thy father's spirit, doom'd for many years
To fry in liquid lakes of subtlest fire,
T'attone my manifold, my deadly sins
Of cabbage, and high bills.
Trul.
Alas! poor ghost!
Ghost.
My furlo from my prison-house is short:
Brief let me be—I come to warn my child
Against—but hark! th' infernal boatswain calls!
(A whistle within.
He pipes me hence!—my wasted respite grants
No longer stay—again!—relentless dog!
I come.—but this short prayer—not for my self;
Not for my self, but thee—hear me, all-gracious—
Some of our modern connoissieurs in drama mistakenly suppose, a ghost is a kind of unnecessary agent in tragedy. To those learned gentlemen, who are of such infidel opinion, I beg leave to recommend the authority of no less ingenious and judicious a writer, than Mr. John Gay, of facetious memory, who in his What d'ye call it, puts into the mouth of the sagacious Sir Roger this conclusive argument, on the necessity of ghosts in dramatic exhibitions, viz. A play without a ghost is like—is like—egad it is like nothing. Dr. Humbug.
SCENE VI.
Trulletta.'Tis wanting what should follow—Jove should follow;
But 'tis torn off—why should that word alone
Be torn from his petition? —why, indeed?
Quere, whether a word, with as much propriety, may be said to be torn off from a verbal, as from a written petition?—This I recommend as a question to be debated by a certain disputing society. Dr. Humbug.
SCENE VII.
Madrigal, Trulletta.Mad.
Hail to you horrors! hail thou house of death!
And thou, the mournful mistress of these shades!—
But, ha! what means this quivering in thy limbs?
This terror in thy eyes? these ghastly looks?
Even such a form, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,
And told the mournful tale of blazing Troy.
Trul.
Alas! some sudden ruin waits Trulletta—
My father's spirit hath been here to warn me
'Gainst something fatal, but I know not what;
For just as he began the tender caution,
A noise, not much unlike the catcall's knell,
Abridg'd the mournful tale, and down he sunk
Reluctant; yet obedient to the sound.
Mad.
O day and night, but this is wond'rous strange!
The world's last groan, wrapt in surrounding fires,
Had less amaz'd me!—was he cloath'd, or naked?
Trul.
Cloath'd in his 'custom'd garb from top to toe.
Mad.
Wore he his beaver on his head?—or cap
With cat-skin lin'd?
His head arm'd cap a-pe.
Mad.
With, or without his apron?
Trul.
With it, Love!
Mad.
His sandals—shoes, or slippers?
Trul.
One of each.
Mad.
His beard was red?
Trul.
It was, as thou hast seen it,
Almost the colour of the rising moon.
Mad.
Seem'd it not sing'd?
Trul.
Not in the least.
Mad.
That's strange!—
I would I had been here!—it must portend
Some festinating evil—but to whom,
Or what, my comprehension fathoms not:
This is however sure, so sage a ghost
Would hardly come on an unmeaning errand.
But more of this hereafter—come, my Love!
The sad procession waits—now summon all
Thy reason's fortitude to grapple with
Affliction's potence—hark!— (Bell sounds.)
that dreadfull knell
O Cabbagino, is thy passing-bell.
A Procession.
This, and the two foregoing scenes, (in imitation of many of our modern tragedies) appear to be introduced on Mr. Bayes's principle, viz. “What a devil is the plot good for but to bring in fine things?”
And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades.
This image is taken from the greatest connoissieur in human nature that ever existed, I mean our inimitable Shakespear.
The above interrogatories, with the major part of the foregoing scene between Trulletta and the ghost, an imitation of Hamlet.
It hath been often observ'd, that mechanics generally speak in the terms of their respective callings. The word fathoms is a proof, that our author is not free from this almost-universal absurdity. Dr. Humbug.
| Madrigal And Trulletta | |