University of Virginia Library

THE NEIGHBOUR'S HOUSE.
Martha
(alone).
God help and pity me, and pardon
My poor old man! he treats me badly;—
Thus to go off—'tis very hard on
A wedded wife,—here pining sadly
Am I upon my lonely straw.
I loved and doted on him so,
His very will to me was law;
And for no reason thus to go
And die abroad (weeping)
—he must have died—
Yet 'twould be satisfactory
If I could have it certified.

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.
Martha.

Martha.
What can the matter be?

Margaret.
My knees are sinking under me.
I've found another casket, one
Like that so lately had and gone,
Laid in my press—of ebony—
The rings and jewels in it are
More brilliant than the former far.

Martha.
Your mother must not hear it, though,
Or straitway to the priest they go.

Margaret.
Look at them, only look at them.

Martha.
Fortunate girl.

Margaret.
Alas, one gem
I cannot—can I?—ever dare
Put on in church or any where.

Martha.
Come here as often as you please,
And try them on where no one sees:
Before the glass be whole hours spent
Adjusting every ornament.
We will enjoy their full effect,
With none your secret to suspect;
Then as occasions come, a ball,
A dance, a day of festival,
We let them one by one appear—
A chain, a pearl-drop in the ear—
And coin some story or another
To keep the matter from your mother.

Margaret.
Twice to have had such caskets brought,
There's something in it more than ought!
[A knock.
Good God! my mother! I'll be seen.

Martha.
'Tis a strange gentleman.—Come in.

Mephistopheles
(enters).
I've come unceremoniously;
But, ladies, you will pardon me.
[Retreats respectfully before Margaret.
To Mrs. Schwerdtlein was my visit:
I'm told this is her lodging. Is it?

Martha.
Sir, I'm the person. What's your pleasure?

Mephistopheles.
I'll call when you are more at leisure:
You have a guest of consequence;
I'll call again in three hours hence.

Martha
(to Margaret).
The funniest thing I ever knew—
The gentleman imagined you
To be some lady of high rank.
I can't but laugh.

Margaret.
I have to thank
The gentleman's extreme good nature.
I am a poor young humble creature:
These ornaments are not my own.

Mephistopheles.
I did not judge by them alone;
'Tis something in your mien and glance.
—My visit was a lucky chance.

Martha
(aside).
To know what brings him, I am dying.

Mephistopheles.
I wish I had news more gratifying;
But blame me not, though sad it prove.
Your husband's dead, and sends his love.

Martha.
Is dead! the faithful creature dead!
My husband—would 'twere I instead.

Margaret.
Friend, let thy strong good sense prevail
O'er grief—

Mephistopheles.
And hear the full detail.

Margaret.
I fear at all to think of love,
Such loss my certain death would prove.

Mephistopheles.
Grief waits on joy—joy follows grief.

Martha.
Tell on; it will be some relief.

Mephistopheles
In Padua, at St. Anthony's,
In consecrated earth he lies!
A cool bed under the church floor,
Where he sleeps soundly.

Martha.
Nothing more?

Mephistopheles.
Oh, yes! a death-bed legacy:
His last commission was to thee,
To have three hundred masses said,
With requiem service for the dead.
His last was a religious thought:
This is the whole of what I brought.

Martha.
What, not a coin, no trinket token,
Nothing to soothe his poor heart-broken?
Why, the most paltry artisan,
The veriest wretch in form of man,
Some small memorial still will hoard,
Some little pledge in secret stored,
To show his love is not forgot—
Will starve—will beg—but parts it not!

Mephistopheles.
Madam, I'm sorry for his blindness
To the true value of your kindness:
'Tis your mistake, to think he squandered
His money—as he died, he pondered
The past—and, as his heart relented,
His sins and his bad luck repented.

Margaret.
Unhappy men! I weep for them!
He shall not want my requiem!

Mephistopheles.
Oh, what an angel she will prove,
—So kind, so good,—in wedded love!

Margaret.
Time long enough 'twill be till then.

Mephistopheles.
You'll find admirers 'mong the men:
If not a husband, yet some lover
Will soon these ripening charms discover:
Heaven gives us nothing better here
Than clasping one so loved, so dear.

Margaret.
'Tis not the custom of the place.

Mephistopheles.
Custom or not, it is the case.

Martha.
Tell on.

Mephistopheles.
I stood at his bedside;
The rotting straw on which he died,
Something less foul than dung, not much,
Infectious to the smell and touch.—
He died a Christian, and in debt,
Settled his scores with Heaven;—the trifle
Due at the gin-shop, is due yet.
“Alas,” said he, “I used my wife ill.—
“Would die at peace, did she forgive.”

Martha.
Poor man! I long ago forgave.

Mephistopheles.
“But 'twas her folly, as I live!”

Martha.
What! standing on the very grave
Did he say this? assert this lie?
And did he tell you it was I,
I who was wrong?—

Mephistopheles.
He did: but out
The truth has come, and leaves no doubt.
He lied: your very countenance
Decides the matter at a glance!—
“Mine was hard work, you may conjecture,
(Thus ran his peevish death-bed lecture,)
“First, all her children to be fed;
“And while I toiled to make them bread,
“Not let to eat my crust in peace.”

Martha.
What, will his slanders never cease?
Love, Honour, Truth, forgotten quite;
Our tendernesses day and night.

Mephistopheles.
Not so: he thought of you with great affection.
“As I,” said he, “was late from Malta sailing,
“I found myself in prayer; a sudden rapture,
“Following a burst of tender recollection
“Of wife and children, and the prayer prevailing
“Was heard on high. That day we made a capture;
“A Turkish vessel laden with rich treasure
“For the great sultan: 'twas a gallant fight,
“And valour triumphed, and was well rewarded:
“And when they came the shares of each to measure,
“I got, to say the least of it, my right.”

Martha.
What? how? a prize? think you, he buried it?

Mephistopheles.
Who knows where heaven's four winds have scattered it?
Bury it?—no, his heart was far from sordid:
That his death proves, his generous nature hurried it.
A lady, one of your nice Neapolitans,
As he was loitering in their pleasant city,
Looked on his loneliness, kind soul, with pity,
And saw his vanity—and soothed and flattered it—
Fastened upon him, led him such a jolly dance,
That with his cash, and him, all was soon over.
Marks of affection, too, she gave her lover,
Of such a kind, that to the blessed hour
In which your poor saint died, he felt their power.

Martha.
Scoundrel, to use his wife and children so!
Ought not the poverty, which his neglect
Had heaped on us, his shameless course have checked?

Mephistopheles.
It ought; and he is punished for it now:
But as this will not mend the case,
I would, if I were in your place,
Put on my mourning, keep a good eye out,
And wed again, when the year came about.

Martha.
Where could I find, in this wide world of men,
Any thing like my own poor man again?
There could not be a creature kinder, fonder;
His only fault was his desire to wander:
And when I think of him, my eyes are swimming:
He was so good, without a single vice,
Except his taste for foreign wines and women,
And the society they bring—and dice.

Mephistopheles.
Well! if on his side he had only made
Allowances as just and generous,
Your quarrels had been easily allayed.
Why, I myself—if you indulge me thus—
With such good sense—in a few little things—
Am tempted to propose exchanging rings.

Martha.
Oh, Sir, you are a pleasant gentleman:—
Sure you were speaking but in jest.

Mephistopheles.
I'd best be off: this vile old pest
Has her brains turned already with the plan
Of marrying me at once outright!
My only safety is in flight.
Damn her! she'll keep the devil to his word.
[To Margaret.
How goes it with your heart?

Margaret.
What means my lord?

Mephistopheles
(as if to himself).
—The good sweet innocent child!
(Aloud.)
Ladies, farewell!

Margaret.
Farewell!

Martha.
Sir! Sir! don't leave us till you tell
One little matter more: I want a witness
To prove his death and burial—how—when—where—
Formally proved; and you will see the fitness
Of having it on record—'twould be pleasant
To have it in the papers of the week.

Mephistopheles.
“At the mouth of two witnesses the matter
“Shall be established.”—By good luck, at present
There's one in town, who to the fact can speak;
A man of character and high condition:
He'll make the necessary deposition—
I'll bring him in the evening.

Martha.
Don't be later.

Mephistopheles.
And this young woman—shall we find her here?
She will so please him—nay, I do not flatter;—
A fine young man—has travelled far and near—
Is so admired—and so admires the sex,
And has so true a feeling of decorum.

Margaret.
I feel afraid—to meet him would perplex
And so confuse—I'd blush to death before him.

Mephistopheles.
Were he a king—should it be thus?

Martha.
The garden, then, behind my house—
We shall expect both gentlemen
This evening there—farewell till then.