 | Madrigal And Trulletta |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
An Apartment.Madrigal, Trulletta.
Mad.
Thy last sad duties to thy sire are paid:
The grave hath op'd its consecrated maw
To swallow down thy father's hallow'd corse.
The Stygian tar no longer can refuse
His spirit passage to th' Elysian shades.
For the benefit of our less learned readers, we have thought proper to signify, that the Stygian tar is Charon, the owner of the infernal ferry boat.
SCENE II.
Madrigal, Trulletta, Sculliona.Scul.
Oh! Sir, these wretched eyes have newly seen
Buckramo skulking 'hind a cobler's stall.
Some hint's officious note had reach'd his ear
That you was here—In his right hand he bore,
Most terrible to tell! a glitt'ring bodkin;
And ask'd, if I had seen you: I replied,
(Forgive me, Jove, the pious falshood!) no:
On which, with sullen aspect, he rejoin'd;
“Well! I may meet him e'er the noon of night.”
Where is the stall, my gentle Sculliona?
Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May fly to my revenge.
Trul.
A breathless horror
Heaves panting at my heart!—Indeed, my Love,
You must not hence to night: the time is big
With danger.
Mad.
What! be coop'd within these walls;
Thro' fear of one base cross-legg'd animal,
But the ninth part of manhood?—by Alcides!
Were there a hundred of the prick-louse tribe,
With each a hundred bodkins in his hands,
I could, with steadfast, and advancing scorn,
Stare in each phyz, full-sighted—I'll be gone,
And sacrifice a hecatomb of taylors
To my wak'd wrath, while mercy's faintest glympse
Shall shun to reach them.
Trul.
Madrigal! forbear,
And do not rush on such eventful broil.
If all their lice were lives, my great revenge
Has stomach for them all.
Trul.
And canst thou leave me,
Disconsolate to mourn thy rashness?—hast thou
So soon forgot me?
Mad.
Do not rive my heart
With such unkind expressions—Didst thou say
Forget thee?—much indeed must be forgot,
E'er Madrigal forget his fair Trulletta—
The gods, that pry into the close recesses
Of every heart, can evidence the love,
The wond'rous love I bear thee—Now, even now,
A flow of fondness gushes from my eyes:
And did not honour's call command me hence,
I would not leave thee for the laurell'd wreath,
That binds a Milton's, or a Shakespear's brow;
But, throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
Would play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom
Till I had drown'd thee with my streaming tears.
Trul.
And is it possible that thou should'st love,
Yet leave me thus inhumanly?
Forbear
This unprevailing woe—Alas! 'tis more
Than death to see thee weep! —but we must part—
O! I could curse this idle bubble, honour;
This fashionable frenzy, that enslaves
The mob polite, that tears me from thy arms?—
Farewel, my Love!—why dost thou hang upon me?—
Release me! give me way!—let go my arm!
Trul.
Thou shalt not leave me.
Mad.
Shalt not! have a care;
Thou'lt wake the slumb'ring lyon in my breast:
Do not provoke my rage too far—thou know'st
My hasty temper—quit thy stubborn hold,
Or, by the gods, I'll force thee to forego it!
Trul.
Behold my streaming eyes—
Mad.
Ha! shall the tears
Of abject importunity detain me,
While vengeance, striding from his grizly den
With fell impatience, grinds his iron teeth,
And waits my nod, to satisfy his hunger?—
Not all the tears, that ever yet were shed,
Could stop my rapid course—May Jove exhaust
His thunder on my head! may hell disgorge
Infernal plagues to blast me, if I cease
To persecute the Prick-louse, till his blood
Or give me way; or thou'rt no more my friend.
Trul.
Help, Sculliona! Sculliona, help
To save my raging bard!
Mad.
To save me so,
Were but to lose me surer—quit me, fair ones!
Trul.
For pity's sake—
Mad.
With thee a kneeling world
Should sue in vain—Unhand me, gentlewomen!
By hell! I'll make a ghost of her that lets me!—
Nay 'tis in vain to strive—no force can hold me—
Let Broughton, or let Slack do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
(breaks from them.
Those who are acquainted with the sublimity of Mr. Hill's style, need not be inform'd from whom this line is borrow'd. Dr. Humbug.
That is, I presume, when the moon is in her meridian, and not as commonly suppos'd, at midnight—Many tragic authors are fond of this beautiful phrase. Dr. Humbug.
These lovers lie.
This line, and the remaining part of the speech from Hamlet. Our hero seems to be in greater earnest than the young Dane, as he flies with greater expedition to his revenge.
I am persuaded our author would scarce have ventur'd on this expression, if he had not found it in so correct a writer, as the author of Eugenia, for fear of incurring the charge of an Iricism. How breathless horror can heave panting at the heart, is not very obvious to human understandings; but Mr. Francis must have undoubtedly been satisfied of the possibility of such an effect, or he would hardly have made use of the expression. Dr. Humbug.
Look in death's face full-sighted.
The sirnames of two bards, that will be an honour to Great Britain as long as her present language is known. The first the greatest epic poet that ever existed; the last so great a dramatic genius, that to him (to imitate his own phrase)
------ All the NINE did seem to set their seals,To give the world assurance of a bard.
To this note Dr. Humbug hath added, “I am sorry to inform the world, these two immortal men were such latitudinarians in morals, that the former was a rebel, and the latter a deer-stealer.”
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom:
Oh, I shall drown thee with my sorrows.
Our author hath borrow'd this image, but I cannot satisfy the reader's curiosity from whence. Dr. Humbug.
This hemistic, and the four following lines, which, for their sublimity, may be rank'd with any in the English language, are taken verbatim from Boadicia.
Its thunders on my head; may hell disgorge
Infernal plagues to blast me, if I cease
To persecute the caitif till his blood
Assuage my parch'd revenge.
As I cannot recollect from what author I have borrow'd this sentiment, I should take it as a favour, if the said author, or his ghost would give me a letter (post paid) to inform me in which of his performances it may be found; in which case I assure him, that honourable mention shall be made of it in the next publication of this tragedy, if my bookseller have the good fortune to get off the present edition, and courage to venture on a second.
This, and the following line, a parody from the tragedy last mention'd. As these two heroes are so universally known, it would be loss of time to say any thing about them. Dr. Hum.
SCENE III.
Trulletta, Sculliona.Trul.
Then go, inhuman bard! begone for ever—
I vainly hop'd Trulletta's eyes had power
To check th' impetuous sallies of his rage—
Ebbing prodigiously the sea withdraw,
And quite defenceless left the scaly race.
The huge scate, which e'er while with wanton pride
Spread his broad fins, and lash'd the foaming tide,
Vainly essay'd to suck the faithless flood
With heaving gills, and tumbled in the mud.
The lobsters, whose great trunks the stars could reach
Flounc'd their huge claws, and panted on the beach.
So have my hopes, whose waves e'er while ran o'er,
And to the skies my towering wishes bore,
Retir'd, and left me gasping on the shore.
This simile, which, for its beauty, propriety, elegance, (and I may justly add, conciseness) for it only consists of twelve lines, may be called the master-piece of simile. Allowing the alterations of seate for dolphin, and lobster for whale; it is almost verbatim as in the sublime original, which may be found in the close of the third act of Abra-Mule, a tragedy written by a Levitical play-wright.—My punning friend, on reading this simile, replied, “So, I see you understand TRAP .”
SCENE IV.
The Street.Madrigal.
Where is this hero, famous and renown'd
For killing vermin, and for botching cloaths?—
What ho! Buckramo!
SCENE V.
Madrigal, Buckramo.Buck.
Ha! who calls Buckramo,
With lungs so loud, and vehemence so great?
Mad.
Of one, that comes to scourge thy insolence,
Presuming arrogant! unletter'd slave!
Thou little more than a bare tythe of manhood!
Buck.
The lewdest sland'rer, that e'er broach'd abuse,
Came short of this—Take note, take note, O god,
Of this reproachful calumny—This railer,
With breath envenom'd, impiously affirms,
Your human figures are but decimals,
But tythes of manhood—Vile, licentious cur!
The very dogs would spurn thy wretched carcase;
Because—it scarce would furnish out a meal.
Go hence! buy food! and get thee into flesh!
'Twould grieve my very soul to grace a gibbet
For killing but a shadow.
Mad.
This from thee!
Thou seeming semblance of the human form,
Made from the shreds, and clippings of mankind!
Are not thy cross-legg'd tribe th'unsifted mold,
Nay, by the powers! your composition is
Of baser matter still, the lumpish dregs,
The refuse vile of animal creation!
Buck.
Dost thou compare the fashioners of man
With these base botchers of the verseful train?
What are ye but a shrivel'd, half-starv'd race
Of living skeletons? shadows of shadows?
With brains of whirligigs, and limbs of reeds?
A cringing, lying, snarling, monkey tribe,
That, pack-horse like, jogg thro' the stage of life,
Proud of your senseless jingle?
Mad.
Awful shades
Of Homer, Sophocles, Euripides,
Virgil, and Horace, Milton, Shakespear, Pope,
Hear this blasphemer of the gods and you!
Was it for this ye toil'd, incessant toil'd,
To polish, and refine that lump of oar,
The mind?—immortal shades! ye gods on earth!
(kneels.
Look down from your blest thrones, or laurel groves,
How sharper, than a serpent's tooth, it is
To hear a thankless railer—
(rises.
Mark me, caitif!
No single life can expiation make
For this abuse—chuse thou a hundred Knights
Of Cabbage, skill'd in chivalry and arms;
My self, in opposition, will select
As many Garretters—To morrow night,
At twelve, our different prowess shall be tried
On Smithfield's flinty plains—Dare ye the combat?
Buck.
What is beyond the daring of my tribe?
Why, I will meet thee at West-Smithfield then.
Buckramo seems to be in the same perplexity with Calista, where she says,
Is it the voice of thunder, or my father?Fair Penitent.
That such mistake in sounds may not appear unnatural, to the tragic already quoted, I shall add a comic authority, which comes from the mouth of no less ingenious a personage, than Mr. Scrub in the Stratagem.
Archer.“Did you hear nothing of Mrs. Sullen?”
Scrub.
“I did hear something that sounded that way, but whether it was Sullen or Dorinda I could not distinguish.”
The altercation in this scene between our two heroes, seems to be a distant imitation of that spirited conference between Horatio and Lothario in the Fair Penitent.
One would naturally imagine from this verse, that Mr. Theobald, whom envy itself (notwithstanding Pope's sarcasm, viz. Shakespear of Tibbald sore) must allow to be a judicious editor, had been a tapster, as well as a critick and play-wright —The curious reader may find the above image in the Fatal Secret. Dr. Humbug.
The criticks, a set of snarling people, that right or wrong, must always be finding fault; have establish'd it for a standing rule, that dramatic heroes must never be allow'd to degenerate into Billingsgate scolds. If authorities were necessary to refute this absurd restriction, I could bring a whole string of examples from our best play-wrights, ancient and modern, to prove the legality of sarcastic raillery and altercation in tragedy. The immortal Shakespear makes his Danish heroe call his father-uncle-sovereign
A cut-purse of the empire.A king of shreds and patches.
A vice of kings.
and a great many other names. Rowe makes Lothario call his opponent a tavern-bully, slave, villain, beggar, parasite, &c. These authorities (to mention no others) will certainly justify the use of a few sarcastic appellations.
Dr. Humbug.SCENE VI.
Madrigal.To-morrow—oh! my better stars, to morrow!—
(My gracious stars! I mean to-morrow night)
Exert your influence! shine strongly for me!—
But, wherefore should I doubt?—now will I steal
To my dear Love, and with assuasive sounds
Allay her sorrow's ferment—
(knocks at the door.
Gone to sleep!—
She cannot yet!—again—once more—
(knocks.
(at the window)
Who's there,
That comes so rudely to disturb the house?
Mad.
'Tis I—the bard.
Scul.
You have no business here;
My mistress ne'er will see you more—good night.
Mad.
Blast to my soul's best hope! —ne'er see me more!—
Chaos is come again —and I am—nothing—
Henceforth I'll live a sad recluse from man,
And in some shady grove, or lonely cell,
Or garret of stupendous height, inclos'd,
(Retirements blest!) where Clio, heavenly muse,
To whom the rapt'rous charms of song pertain,
Holds frequent visitation, will I write
Ten thousand ditties in Trulletta's praise—
Trulletta! most irradiate nymph, in whom
Perfection centers: in whose form the gods
Infus'd an angel's soul: whose fulgent eyes,
With brilliant sparkle, strike adorers thro'
The heart, the lights, the liver, and the—guts:
With her my ditties shall begin; with her
My endless ditties end. Her I'll pursue
Thro' all the vast infinity of thought.
Till death to worms, insatiate cannibals,
Consigns this frame, and sends my widow'd soul
To regions unexplor'd; to realms opake,
Where boiling Tartarus roars—Oh! how unlike
The bubbling musick of a purling stream,
Or gently-murmuring rill! to quaff, instead
Of Helicon, whole gulps of brimstone down—
Unfragrant bev'rige! unpoetic juice!
I cannot help taking notice that our hero's address to the stars is much more rational, than that of Lothario, who says,
To-morrow—oh, my better stars, to-morrowExert your influence, shine strongly for me!
Fair Penitent.
The combat propos'd by the Genoese duelists was to be at ten in the morning; wherefore a petition for the stars to shine strongly for him in the forenoon, must certainly border a little on the absurd. Our author was within an ace of falling into Mr. Rowe's mistake; but perceiving the blunder, he sensibly checks himself, and adds,
My gracious stars, I mean to-morrow night.Dr. Humbug.
SCENE VII.
Madrigal, Scourella.Scour.
O miserable hour! ill-fated maid!
Mad.
What of my Love?—O my portending soul!
Scour.
Ah fatal day to me! poor Sculliona
Now touches her last moments—as she climb'd
Into the garret, her too-faithless foot
Slipp'd from the ladder's topmast round; she fell,
And with the fall expires.
Mad.
O ill-starr'd wench!
Scour.
I saw her in her pangs—her out-stretch'd eye
Strain'd with a death-mix'd tenderness on mine—
But thy relenting mistress craves an ode,
From thy great muse, for her endanger'd friend.
The pious maid a holy visit means
To Guildhall's dome, with solemn invocation,
To sue the Gogan and Magogan gods,
For danger'd Sculliona's lengthen'd life—
Haste to the cheerless maid, while I in quest
Of barber-surgeon trudge—O cursed spite!
That ever I was born to fetch the wight!
An Invocation to Gog and Magog.
Strain'd with a death-mix'd tenderness on mine.
| Madrigal And Trulletta | |