SCENE.—An inner Apartment.

(John is discovered kneeling.—Margaret standing over him.)

JOHN (rises) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

JOHN They are gone.— Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth. (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know.

MARGARET Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity, This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

JOHN How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen. Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN Now Margaret weeps herself. (A noise of bells heard.)

MARGARET Hark the bells, John.

JOHN Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET I know it.

JOHN Saint Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells.

MARGARET Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN I have been there already.

MARGARET How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

JOHN I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET Well, John.

JOHN Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people.

And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open, (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd, For all things felt like mystery).

MARGARET Yes.

JOHN So entering in, not without fear, I past into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame, And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little hassock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven.

* * * * *

THE WITCH

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (1798)

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CHARACTERS

Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Pairford. Stranger.

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SERVANT One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. Being o'er-task'd in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begged an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy: but he refused her— And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. She looked at him as one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this:— (Sir Francis told the words)

A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times-killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse.

And still she cried

A mischief, And a nine-fold-withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed, Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; So he described it.

STRANGER A terrible curse! What followed?

SERVANT Nothing immediate, but some two months after Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay, And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there; And, when they asked him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to shew the place, Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, And prick'd him with a pin.— And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway And begged an alms.

STRANGER But did the witch confess?

SERVANT All this and more at her death.

STRANGER I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.

* * * * *

Mr. H——

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

As it was performed at Drury Lane Theatre, December, 1806

"Mr. H——, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see Mr. H——, and answering that they would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. But thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off——."

—Theatrical Examiner.

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CHARACTERS

Mr. H—— Mr. Elliston. BELVIL Mr. Bartley. LANDLORD PRY Mr. Wewitzer. MELESINDA Miss Mellon. Maid to Melesinda. Mrs. Harlowe. Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.

SCENE.—Bath

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PROLOGUE

Spoken by Mr. Elliston

If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, All civil well-bred authors do the same. Survey the columns of our daily writers— You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar, When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. With two stout seconds, just of their own gizard, Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard! Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms, Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. Where the dispensers of the public lash Soft penance give; a letter and a dash— Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing, And loses half her grossness by curtailing. Faux pas are told in such a modest way,— The affair of Colonel B—— with Mrs. A—— You must forgive them—for what is there, say, Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant To such a very pressing Consonant? Or who poetic justice dares dispute, When, mildly melting at a lover's suit, The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute? Even in the homelier scenes of honest life, The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, Initials I am told have taken place Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race; And Cabbage, ask'd by Brother Snip to tea, Replies, "I'll come—but it don't rest with me— I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." O should this mincing fashion ever spread From names of living heroes to the dead, How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head, As each lov'd syllable should melt away— Her Alexander turned into Great A—— A single C. her Caesar to express— Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S—— And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H——.

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MR. H——

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

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