Part 1 / Act 1 — SCENE I. THE HIGHROAD BEFORE MRS. JUDITH’S HOUSE.

Enter Charles.

Charles. A cold, wet, and misty evening, and above all to one whose pockets are not lined! My foolish fancy for the Stage has brought me to a declining stage, if not a stage of decline. Heigh ho! how dark it is getting! Just the sort of place to meet with a ghost of Hamlet, not the sort of hamlet that I’m looking after, for I have done with theatrical effects,—I wish that I had done with the effects of cold. How dark and gloomy that church steeple looks over the trees! I’m close to a churchyard, I suppose. And—ey! ey! what on earth are those white things upon the grass? Clothes put out to dry; what an ass I was not to see that before! but fasting makes one nervous. There’s a house. How cheerful the lights look in it! I hear the sound of a piano going. There must be ladies there, and ladies are ever good and kind. What if I were to try my fortune at the door? My poor namesake Prince Charlie must have put wanderers into fashion. Northumberland is near enough to Scotland to have imbibed a little of its spirit of romance. Poor Prince! we are fellows in misfortune as we were partners in ambition. We both sought to play the King, I on the boards, he in Britain; but his frea-king and my moc-king are both changed to aching on the moors, and a skul-king too, which makes us as thin as skeletons. I’ll try and muster up courage for a knock. [Knocks.]

I should not look the worse for a new coat, I think. My knee-ribbons are bleached quite pale with the wind and the rain. Mais n’importe! the man, the man remains the same! These locks have proved the keys to a Lady’s heart e’er now; and then wit and eloquence! When I was flogged at school for affirming that a furbelow must be an article, as I knew it to be an article of dress, my Master observed that all my brains lay at the root of my tongue; and the best position for them too, say I! Who would keep a prompter to bellow to one from the top of the Monument, and where’s the use of carrying one’s brains so high, that one must send a carrier pigeon express for one’s thoughts before one can express them at all? Better have wit to cover ignorance, than silence to conceal sense. One can’t squint into a man’s head to see what it contains. Here comes a light to the door: now for the encounter.

Weasel opens the door.

Is Mrs. [coughs] at home? Pray present my compliments to her, and say that a gentleman who has lost his way entreats the favour of shelter for a night under her hospitable roof.

Weasel. Shall I take up your name, Sir?

Charles. No, Sir, you may take up my words. [Exit Weasel.] Had the fellow been a Constable he might have taken me up also, for in this apparel I look more like a highwayman than a gentleman in a highway. How very cold it is! I wish that the triangular-nosed fellow would make haste; and yet my heart misgives me. I must ‘screw my courage to the sticking point!’ Impudence, impudence is my passport! I hear him shuffling downstairs. Be hardy, bold, and resolute, my heart.

Weasel opens the door.

Weasel. Sir, my Mistress begs you to walk up.

Charles. Go on, go on, I’ll follow thee! [Exeunt.]