University of Virginia Library

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

Tom's Coffee-house. In the background, gentlemen seated in different compartments, or “boxes.”
Enter Walpole and Veasey from opposite sides.
VEASEY.
Ha! good day, my dear patron.

WALPOLE.
Good day, my dear friend;
You can spare me five minutes?

VEASEY.
Five thousand.

WALPOLE.
Attend;
I am just from the king, and I failed not to press him
To secure to his service John Veasey.

VEASEY.
God bless him!

WALPOLE.
George's reign, just begun, your tried worth will distinguish.

VEASEY.
Oh, a true English king!

WALPOLE.
Tho' he cannot speak English.

VEASEY.
You must find that defect a misfortune, I fear.

WALPOLE.
The reverse; for no rivals can get at his ear.
It is something to be the one public man pat in
The new language that now governs England, dog Latin.

VEASEY.
Happy thing for these kingdoms that you have that gift,
Or, alas! thro' what shoals all our counsels would drift.

WALPOLE.
Yes, the change from Queen Anne to King George, we must own,
Renders me and the Whigs the sole props of the throne.
For the Tories their Jacobite leanings disgrace,
And a Whig is the only safe man for a place.

VEASEY.
And the Walpoles of Houghton, in all their relations,
Have been Whigs to the backbone for three generations.

WALPOLE.
Ay, my father and mother contrived to produce
Their eighteen sucking Whigs for the family use,
Of which number one only, without due reflection,
Braved the wrath of her house by a Tory connection.
But, by Jove, if her Jacobite husband be living,
I will make him a Whig.

VEASEY.
How?

WALPOLE.
By something worth giving:
For I loved her in boyhood, that pale pretty sister;
And in counting the Walpoles still left, I have mist her.
(Pauses in emotion, but quickly recovers himself.)
What was it I said?—Oh,—the State and the Guelph,
For their safety, must henceforth depend on myself.
The revolt, scarcely quenched, has live sparks in its ashes;
Nay, fresh seeds for combustion were sown by its flashes.
Each example we make dangerous pity bequeathes;
For no Briton likes blood in the air that he breathes.

VEASEY.
Yes; at least there's one rebel whose doom to the block
Tho' deserved, gives this soft-hearted people a shock.

WALPOLE.
Lord Nithsdale, you mean; handsome, young, and just wedded,—
A poor head, that would do us much harm if beheaded.

VEASEY.
Yet they say you rejected all prayers for his life.

WALPOLE.
It is true; but in private I've talked to his wife:
She had orders to see him last night in the Tower.
And—

VEASEY.
Well?

WALPOLE
(looking at his watch).
Wait for the news—'tis not yet quite the hour.
Ah! poor England, I fear, at the General Election,
Will vote strong in a mad anti-Whiggish direction.
From a Jacobite Parliament we must defend her,
Or the King will be Stuart, and Guelph the Pretender.
And I know but one measure to rescue our land
From the worst of all ills—Civil War.

VEASEY.
True; we stand
At that dread turning-point in the life of a State
When its free choice would favour what freedom should hate;
When the popular cause, could we poll population—

WALPOLE.
Would be found the least popular thing in the nation.

VEASEY.
Scarce a fourth of this people are sound in their reason—

WALPOLE.
But we can't hang the other three-fourths for high treason.

VEASEY.
Tell me, what is the measure your wisdom proposes?

WALPOLE.
In its third year, by law, this Whig Parliament closes.
But the law! What's the law in a moment so critical?
Church and State must be saved from a House Jacobitical.
Let this Parliament then, under favour of heaven,
Lengthen out its existence from three years to seven.

VEASEY.
Brilliant thought! could the State keep its present directors
Undisturbed for a time by those rowdy electors,
While this new German tree, just transplanted, takes root,
Dropping down on the lap of each friend golden fruit,
Britain then would be saved from all chance of reaction
To the craft and corruption of Jacobite faction.
But ah! think you the Commons would swallow the question?

WALPOLE.
That depends on what pills may assist their digestion.
I could make—see this list—our majority sure,
If by buying two men I could sixty secure;
For as each of these two is the chief of a section
That will vote black or white at its leader's direction,
Let the pipe of the shepherd but lure the bellwether,
And he folds the whole flock, wool and cry, altogether.
Well, the first of these two worthy members you guess.

VEASEY.
Sure, you cannot mean Blount, virtuous Selden Blount?

WALPOLE.
Yes.

VEASEY.
What! your sternest opponent, half Cato, half Brutus,
He, whose vote incorruptible—

WALPOLE.
Just now would suit us;
For a patriot so stanch could with dauntless effrontery—

VEASEY.
Sell himself?

WALPOLE.
Why, of course, for the good of his country.
True, his price will be high—he is worth forty votes,
And his salary must pay for the change in their coats.
Prithee, has not his zeal for his fatherland—rather
Overburthened the lands he received from his father?

VEASEY.
Well, 'tis whispered in clubs that his debts somewhat tease him.

WALPOLE.
I must see him in private, and study to ease him.
Will you kindly arrange that he call upon me
At my home, not my office, to-day—just at three?
Not a word that can hint at the object in view—
Say some bill in the House that concerns him and you;
And on which, as distinct from all party disputes,
Members meet without tearing each other like brutes.

VEASEY.
Lucky thought—Blount and I both agree in Committee
On a bill for amending the dues of the City—

WALPOLE.
And the Government wants to enlighten its soul
On the price which the public should pay for its coal.
We shall have him, this Puritan chief of my foes.
Now the next one to catch is the chief of the Beaux;
All our young members mimic his nod or his laugh;
And if Blount be worth forty votes, he is worth half.

VEASEY.
Eh! Bellair, whose defence of the Jacobite peers—

WALPOLE.
Thrilled the House; Mister Speaker himself was in tears.
Faith, I thought he'd have beat us. (Taking snuff.)


VEASEY.
That fierce peroration—

WALPOLE.
Which compared me to Nero—superb (brushing the snuff from his lace lappet)
declamation!

VEASEY.
Yes; a very fine speaker.

WALPOLE.
Of that there's no doubt,
For he speaks about things he knows nothing about.
But I still to our party intend to unite him—
Secret Service Department—Bellair—a small item.

VEASEY.
Nay, you jest—for this gay maiden knight in debate,
To a promise so brilliant adds fortune so great—

WALPOLE.
That he is not a man to be bought by hard cash;
But he's vain and conceited, light-hearted and rash.
Every favourite of fortune hopes still to be greater,
And a beau must want something to turn a debater.
Hem! I know a Duke's daughter, young, sprightly, and fair;
She will wed as I wish her; hint that to Bellair;
Ay, and if he will put himself under my steerage,
Say that with the Duke's daugther I throw in the peerage.

VEASEY.
Those are baits that a vain man of wit may seduce.

WALPOLE.
Or, if not, his political creed must be loose;
To some Jacobite plot he will not be a stranger,
And to win him securely—

VEASEY.
We'll get him in danger.
Hist!

Enter Bellair, humming a tune.

SCENE II.

Walpole, Veasey, Bellair.
WALPOLE.
Good morning, Sir Sidney; your speech did you credit;
And whatever your party, in time you will head it.
Your attack on myself was exceedingly striking,
Tho' the subject you chose was not quite to my liking.
Tut! I never bear malice. You hunt?

BELLAIR.
Yes, of late.

WALPOLE.
And you ride as you speak?

BELLAIR.
Well, in both a light weight.

WALPOLE.
But light weights have the odds in their favour, I fear.
Come and hunt with my harriers at Houghton this year;
I can show you some sport.

BELLAIR.
Sir, there's no doubt of that.

WALPOLE.
We will turn out a fox.

BELLAIR
(aside).
As a bait for a rat!

WALPOLE.
I expect you, next autumn! Agreed then: good day.

(Exit Walpole.)

SCENE III.

Veasey, Bellair.
BELLAIR.
Well, I don't know a pleasanter man in his way;
'Tis no wonder his friends are so fond of their chief.

VEASEY.
That you are not among them is matter for grief.
Ah, a man of such stake in the land as yourself,
Could command any post in the Court of the Guelph.

BELLAIR.
No, no; I'm appalled.

VEASEY.
By the king? Can you doubt him?

BELLAIR.
I'm appalled by those Gorgons, the ladies about him.

VEASEY.
Good! ha, ha! yes, in beauty his taste may be wrong,
But he has what we want, sir, a government strong.

BELLAIR.
Meaning petticoat government? Mine too is such,
But my rulers don't frighten their subjects so much.

VEASEY.
Nay, your rulers? Why plural? Legitimate sway
Can admit but one ruler to love—

BELLAIR.
And obey.
What a wife! Constitutional monarchy? Well,
If I chose my own sovereign I might not rebel.

VEASEY.
You may choose at your will! With your parts, wealth, condition,
You, in marriage, could link all the ends of ambition.
There is a young beauty—the highest in birth,
And her father, the Duke—

BELLAIR.
Oh, a duke!

VEASEY.
Knows your worth.
Listen: Walpole, desiring to strengthen the Lords
With the very best men whom the country affords,
Has implied to his Grace, that his choice should be clear,
(Carelessly.)
If you wed the Duke's daughter, of course you're a peer.

BELLAIR.
With the Lords and the lady would Walpole ally me?

VEASEY.
Yes; and, if I were you—

BELLAIR.
He would certainly buy me;
But I,—being a man—

(Draws himself up haughtily.)
VEASEY.
No offence. Why that frown?

BELLAIR
(relapsing into his habitual ease).
Nay, forgive me. Tho' man, I'm a man about town;
And so graceful a compliment could not offend
Any man about town, from a Minister's friend.
Still, if not from the frailty of mortals exempt,
Can a mortal be tempted where sins do not tempt?
Of my rank and my fortune I am so conceited,
That I don't, with a wife, want those blessings repeated.
And tho' flattered to learn I should strengthen the Peers—
Give me still our rough House with its laughter and cheers.
Let the Lords have their chamber—I grudge not its powers;
But for badgering a Minister nothing like ours!
Whisper that to the Minister;—sir, your obedient.

(Turns away.)
VEASEY
(aside).
Humph! I see we must hazard the ruder expedient.
If some Jacobite pit for his feet we can dig,
He shall hang as a Tory, or vote as a Whig.

(Veasey retires into the background.)
BELLAIR
(seating himself).
Oh, how little these formalist middle-aged schemers
Know of us the bold youngsters, half sages, half dreamers!
Sages half? Yes, because of the time rushing on,
Part and parcel are we: they belong to time gone.
Dreamers half? Yes, because in a woman's fair face
We imagine the heavën they find in a place.
At this moment I, courted by Whig and by Tory,
For the spangles and tinsel which clothe me with glory,
Am a monster so callous, I should not feel sorrow
If an earthquake engulfed Whig and Tory tomorrow;
“What a heartless assertion!” the aged would say:
True, the young have no heart, for they give it away.
Ah, I love! and here—joy!—comes the man who may aid me.

(Enter Blount.)

SCENE IV.

Bellair, Blount, Veasey, etc.
BLOUNT
(to Coffee-house loungers, who gather round him as he comes down the stage).
Yes, sir, just from Guildhall, where the City has paid me
The great honour I never can merit enough,
Of this box, dedicated to Virtue—

(Coffee-house loungers gather round.)
VEASEY.
And snuff.

BLOUNT.
Yes, sir, Higgins the Patriot, who deals in rappee,
Stored that box with pulvillio, superfluous to me;
For a public man gives his whole life to the nation,
And his nose has no time for a vain titillation.

VEASEY.
On the dues upon coal—apropos of the City—
We agreed—

BLOUNT.
And were beat; Walpole bribed the Committee.

VEASEY.
You mistake; he leans tow'rds us, and begs you to call
At his house—three o'clock.

BLOUNT
(declaiming as if in Parliament).
But I say, once for all,
That the dues—

VEASEY.
Put the case as you only can do,
And we carry the question.

BLOUNT.
I'll call, sir, at two.

VEASEY.
He said three.

BLOUNT.
I say two, sir; my honour's at stake,
To amend every motion that Ministers make.

(Veasey retires into the background.)
BLOUNT
(advancing to BELLAIR).
Young debater, your hand. One might tear into shreds
All your plea for not cutting off Jacobite heads;
But that burst against Walpole redeemed your whole speech.
Be but honest, and high is the fame you will reach.

BELLAIR.
Blount, your praise would delight, but your caution offends.

BLOUNT.
'Tis my way—I'm plain spoken to foes and to friends.
What are talents but snares to mislead and pervert you,
Unless they converge in one end—Public Virtue!
Fine debaters abound: we applaud and despise them;
For when the House cheers them the Minister buys them.
Come, be honest, I say, sir—away with all doubt;
Public Virtue commands! Vote the Minister out!

BELLAIR.
Public virtue when construed means private ambition.

BLOUNT.
This to me—to a Patriot—

BELLAIR.
In fierce opposition;
But you ask for my vote.

BLOUNT.
England wants every man.

BELLAIR.
Well, tho' Walpole can't buy me, I think that you can.
Blount, I saw you last evening cloaked up to your chin;
But I had not a guess who lay, perdu, within
All those bales of broadcloth—when a gust of wind rose,
And uplifting your beaver it let out your nose.

BLOUNT
(somewhat confusedly).
Yes, I always am cloaked—half disguised, when I go
Certain rounds—real charity hides itself so;
For one good deed concealed is worth fifty paraded.

BELLAIR.
Finely said. Quitting, doubtless, the poor you had aided,
You shot by me, before I had time to accost you,
Down a court which contains but one house;—there I lost you.

BLOUNT.
One house!

BELLAIR.
Where a widow named Vizard—

BLOUNT
(aside).
I tremble.
Yes—

BELLAIR.
Resides with an angel—

BLOUNT
(aside).
'Twere best to dissemble.
With an angel! bah! say with a girl—what's her name?

BELLAIR.
On this earth, Lucy Wilmot.

BLOUNT.
Eh!—Wilmot?

BELLAIR.
The same.

BLOUNT
(after a short pause).
And how knew you these ladies?

BELLAIR.
Will you be my friend?

BLOUNT.
I? of course. Tell me all from beginning to end.

BELLAIR.
Oh, my story is short. Just a fortnight ago,
Coming home tow'rds the night from my club—

BLOUNT.
Drunk?

BELLAIR.
So, so.
“Help me, help!” cries a voice—'tis a woman's—I run—
Which may prove I'd drunk less than I often have done.
And I find—but, dear Blount, you have heard the renown
Of a set called the Mohawks?

BLOUNT.
The scourge of the town.
A lewd band of night savages, scouring the street,
Sword in hand,—and the terror of all whom they meet
Not as bad as themselves;—you were safe, sir; proceed.

BELLAIR.
In the midst of the Mohawks I saw her and freed—

BLOUNT.
You saw her—Lucy Wilmot—at night, and alone?

BELLAIR.
No, she had a protector—the face of that crone.

BLOUNT.
Mistress Vizard?

BELLAIR.
The same, yet, tho' strange it appear,
When the rogues saw her face they did not fly in fear.
Brief—I came, saw, and conquered—but own, on the whole,
That my conquest was helped by the City Patrol.
I escorted them home—at their threshold we part—
And I mourn since that night for the loss of my heart.

BLOUNT.
Did you call the next day to demand back that treasure?

BELLAIR.
Yes.

BLOUNT.
And saw the young lady?

BELLAIR.
I had not that pleasure;
I saw the old widow, who told me politely
That her house was too quiet for visits so sprightly;
That young females brought up in the school of propriety
Must regard all young males as the pests of society.
I will spare you her lectures, she showed me the door,
And closed it.

BLOUNT.
You've seen Lucy Wilmot no more?

BELLAIR.
Pardon, yes—very often; that is, once a-day.
Every house has its windows—

BLOUNT.
Ah! what did you say?

BELLAIR.
Well, by words very little, but much by the eyes.
Now instruct me in turn,—from what part of the skies
Did my angel descend? What her parents and race?
She is well-born, no doubt—one sees that in her face.
What to her is Dame Vizard—that awful duenna,
With the look of a griffiness fed upon senna?
Tell me all. Ho there!—drawer, a pottle of clary!

BLOUNT.
Leave in peace the poor girl whom you never could marry.

BELLAIR.
Why?

BLOUNT.
Her station's too mean. In a small country town
Her poor mother taught music.

BELLAIR.
Her father?

(Drawer places wine and glasses on the table.)
BLOUNT.
Unknown.
From the mother's deathbed, from the evil and danger
That might threaten her youth, she was brought by a stranger
To the house of the lady who—

BELLAIR.
Showed me the door?

BLOUNT.
Till instructed to live, like her mother before,
As a teacher of music. My noble young friend,
To a match so unmeet you could never descend.
You assure me, I trust, that all thought is dismist
Of a love so misplaced.

BELLAIR.
No (filling Blount's glass)
—her health!

BLOUNT.
You persist?
Dare you, sir, to a man of my tenets austere,
Ev'n to hint your designs if your suit persevere?
What!—you still would besiege her?

BELLAIR.
Of course, if I love.

BLOUNT.
I am Virtue's defender, sir—there is my glove.

(Flings down his glove, and rises in angry excitement.)
BELLAIR.
Noble heart! I esteem you still more for this heat.
In the list of my sins there's no room for deceit;
And to plot against innocence helpless and weak—
I'd as soon pick a pocket!

BLOUNT.
What mean you then? Speak.

BELLAIR.
Blount, I mean you to grant me the favour I ask.

BLOUNT.
What is that?

BELLAIR.
To yourself an agreeable task.
Since you know this Dame Vizard, you call there to-day,
And to her and to Lucy say all I would say.
You attest what I am—fortune, quality, birth,
Adding all that your friendship allows me of worth.
Blount, I have not a father; I claim you as one;
You will plead for my bride as you'd speak for a son.
All arranged—to the altar we go in your carriage,
And I'll vote as you wish the month after my marriage.

BLOUNT
(aside).
Can I stifle my fury?

Enter Newsman with papers.
NEWSMAN.
Great news!

BELLAIR.
Silence, ape!

(Coffee-house loungers rise and crowd round the Newsman—Veasey snatching the paper.)
OMNES.
Read.

VEASEY
(reading).
“Lord Nithsdale, the rebel, has made his escape.
His wife, by permission of Walpole last night,
Saw her lord in the Tower—”

(Great sensation.)
BELLAIR
(to BLOUNT).
You will make it all right.

VEASEY
(continuing).
“And the traitor escaped in her mantle and dress.”

BELLAIR
(to BLOUNT).
Now my fate's in your hands—I may count on you.

BLOUNT.
Yes.