THE
FATAL FALSEHOOD:
A TRAGEDY.
IN FIVE ACTS.
AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.
Drawn from:
THE
WORKS
OF
HANNAH MORE.
VOL. II.
LONDON
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, STRAND
1830.
TO THE
COUNTESS BATHURST,
THIS TRAGEDY
IS
VERY RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,
AS
A SMALL TRIBUTE TO HER MANY VIRTUES,
AND
AS A GRATEFUL TESTIMONY
OF THE FRIENDSHIP WITH WHICH SHE HONOURS
HER MOST OBEDIENT
AND MOST OBLIGED
HUMBLE SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PROLOGUE.
WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.
SPOKEN BY MR. HULL.
A subject worthy of the Tragic Muse;
For bards so well have glean'd th' historic field,
That scarce one sheaf th' exhausted ancients yield;
Or if, perchance, they from the golden crop
Some grains, with hand penurious, rarely drop;
Our author these consigns to manly toil,
For classic themes demand a classic soil,
A vagrant she, the desert waste who chose,
Where Truth and History no restraints impose.
To her the wilds of fiction open lie,
A flow'ry prospect, and a boundless sky;
Yet hard the task to keep the onward way,
Where the wide scenery lures the foot to stray;
Where no severer limits check the Muse,
Than lawless fancy is dispos'd to choose.
Nor does she emulate the loftier strains
Which high heroic Tragedy maintains:
Nor conquests she, nor wars, nor triumphs sings,
Nor with rash hand o'erturns the thrones of kings.
No ruin'd empires greet to night your eyes,
No nations at our bidding fall or rise;
To statesmen deep, to politicians grave,
These themes congenial to their tastes we leave.
Of crowns and camps, a kingdom's weal or woe,
How few can judge, because how few can know!
But here you all may boast the censor's art;
Here all are critics who possess a heart.
Of the mix'd passions we display to-night,
Each hearer judges like the Stagyrite.
The scenes of private life our author shows,
A simple story of domestic woes;
Nor unimportant is the glass we hold,
To show th' effect of passions uncontroll'd;
To govern empires is the lot of few,
But all who live have passions to subdue.
Self-conquest is the lesson books should preach,
Self-conquest is the theme the Stage should teach.
Vouchsafe to learn this obvious duty here,
The verse though feeble, yet the moral's clear.
O mark to-night the unexampled woes
Which from unbounded self-indulgence flows.
Your candour once endur'd our author's lays,
Endure them now—it will be ample praise.
THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.
ACT I.
Scene—An Apartment in Guildford Castle.
Enter Bertrand.
Ber. What fools are serious melancholy villains!
I play a surer game, and screen my heart
With easy looks and undesigning smiles;
And while my plots still spring from sober thought,
My deeds appear th' effect of wild caprice,
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.
What but this frankness could have won the promise
Of young Orlando, to confide to me
That secret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy
To seem too good: I am the careless Bertrand,
The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.
The follies I avow cloak those I hide;
For who will search where nothing seems conceal'd?
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour
Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow
Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire
Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap
'Twixt me and fortune: Rivers, how I hate thee!
How fares my noble uncle?
Guild.Honest Bertrand!
I must complain we have so seldom met:
Where do you keep? believe me, we have miss'd you.
Ber. O, my good lord! your pardon—spare me, sir,
For there are follies in a young man's life,
Vain schemes and thoughtless hours which I should blush
To lay before your wise and temperate age.
Guild. Well, be it so—youth has a privilege,
And I should be asham'd could I forget
I have myself been young, and harshly chide
This not ungraceful gaiety. Yes, Bertrand,
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes
A rigid inquisition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time
Has shower'd his snow are then more pardonable,
And age has many a weakness of its own.
Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild reproof,
Correct the wand'rings of misguided youth,
More than rebuke, and shame me into virtue.
Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the Lady Julia?
Ber. She past this way, and with her your fair daughter,
Your Emmelina.
Guild. Call them both my daughters;
For scarce is Emmelina more belov'd
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.
The hour approaches too, (and bless it, heav'n,
With thy benignest kindliest influence!)
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.
Ber. Oft have I wonder'd how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirm'd his claim to Julia.
Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wish'd to see our ancient houses join'd
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
And if he from the field return'd a conqueror,
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.
Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.
Guild. Ere since th' Italian Count, the young Orlando,
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his gen'rous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.
Ber. Orlando's noble.
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour most romantic, with such graces
As charm all womankind.
Guild. And here comes one,
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.
Ber. What, your charming daughter!
Yes, I suspect she loves th' Italian Count:[Aside.
That must not be. Now to observe her closely.
Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we were speaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accomplish'd stranger?
Em. (confused.) Of Orlando?
Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend,
I do esteem the Count.
Guild. Nay, he has merit
Might justify thy friendship if he wanted
The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to blame him.
Em. What has he done? How has he wrong'd my father?
For you are just, and are not angry lightly;
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.
Guild. Nay, 'tis not much:
But why does young Orlando shun my presence?
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit
Which lately charm'd us all? Rivers will chide us,
Should he return, and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What says my child?
Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend arriv'd——
Be still, my heart.[Aside.
Ber. She dares not use his name.
Her brother's friend![Aside.
Em. When first your noble guest
Came from that voyage, he kindly undertook
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety,
When we believ'd him dead; he seem'd most happy,
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave.
Of late he is less gay; my brother's absence
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose:
Nor is it strange; one mind informs them both;
Each is the very soul that warms the other,
And both are wretched, or are bless'd together.
Ber. Why trembles my fair cousin?
Em. Can I think
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger,
Nor feel a strong emotion?
Ber. (ironically.) Generous pity!
But when that danger has so long been past,
You should forget your terrors.
Em. I shall never.
For when I think that danger sprung from friendship;
That Rivers, to preserve another's life,
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises.
Ber. And why another's life? Why not Orlando's?
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom.
Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thoughtless Bertrand,
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice.
Ber. Stay, my fair cousin! still with adverse eyes
Am I beheld? Had I Orlando's form,
I mean, were I like him, your brother's friend,
Then would your looks be turn'd thus coldly on me?
Em. But that I know your levity means nothing,
And that your heart accords not with your tongue,
This would offend me.
Ber. Come, confess the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover,
Has won your easy heart, and given you his:
I know the whole; I'm of his secret council;
He has confess'd——
Em. Ha! what has he confess'd?
Ber. That you are wond'rous fair: nay, nothing further:
How disappointment fires her angry cheek![Aside.
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it;
Your eyes are honest, they conceal no secrets.
Em. Know, Sir, that virtue no concealment needs:
So far from dreading, she solicits notice,
And wishes every secret thought she harbours
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to Heav'n.
Ber. Yet mark me well: trust not Orlando's truth;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of Florence;
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart
Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue:
He laughs at tales of British constancy.
But see, Orlando comes—he seeks you here.
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale cheeks
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire,
And all the careless equipage of love,
He bends this way. Why does the mounting blood
Thus crimson your fair cheek? He does not see us—
I'll venture to disturb his meditations,
And instantly return.
Em. No more; but leave me.
He's talkative but harmless, rude but honest;
Fuller of mirth than mischief.—See they meet—
This way they come: why am I thus alarm'd?
What is't to me that here Orlando comes?
Oh for a little portion of that art
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart
Is so unknowing of dissimulation,
So little
That if my lips are mute my looks betray me. Re-enter Bertrand with Orlando.
Ber. Now to alarm her heart, and search out his.
[Aside.Or. We crave your pardon, beauteous Emmelina,
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts;
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels' wishes,
And gentle as the breast from which they spring.
That since your late return the Count Orlando
Appears once more among us.—Say, my lord,
Why have you shunn'd your friends' society?
Was it well done? My father bade me chide you;
I am not made for chiding, but he bade me:
He says, no more you rise at early dawn
With him to chase the boar: I pleaded for you;
Told him 'twas savage sport.
Or. What was his answer?
Em. He said 'twas sport for heroes, and made heroes;
That hunting was the very school of war,
Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields,
Preserv'd 'em from the rust of dull inaction,
Trained 'em for arms, and fitted them for conquest.
Or. O, my fair advocate! scarce can I grieve
To have done wrong, since my offence has gain'd
So sweet a pleader.
Ber. (aside.) So, I like this well;
Full of respect, but cold.
Em. My Lord, your pardon;
My father waits my coming: I attend him.
Ber. In truth, my Lord, you're a right happy man;
Her parting look proclaims that you are bless'd;
The crimson blushes on her cheek display'd
A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love:
Discretion strove to dash the rising joy,
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale.
My Lord, you answer not.
Or. What shall I say?
Oh, couldst thou read my heart!
Ber. The hour is come
When my impatient friendship claims that trust
Which I so oft have press'd, and you have promis'd.
Or. I cannot tell thee; 'tis a tale of guilt:
How shall I speak? my resolution sickens;
All virtuous men will shun me; thou wilt scorn me,
And fly the foul contagion of my crime.
Ber. My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh prudence
Which would reproach thy failings; tell me all:
The proudest heart loves to repose its faults
Upon a breast that has itself a tincture
Of human weakness: I have frailties too,
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine.
What! silent still? Thou lov'st my beauteous cousin!
Have I not guess'd?
Or. I own that she has charms
Might warm a frozen stoic into love,
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world
They had renounc'd, and make religious men
Forgetful of their holy vows to heaven:
Yet, Bertrand—come, I'll tell thee all my weakness;
Thou hast a tender, sympathising heart——
Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects.
That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold
As marble images of lifeless saints:
I see, and know the workmanship divine;
My judgment owns her exquisite perfections;
But my rebellious heart denies her claim.
Ber. What do I hear! you love her not!
Or. Oh, Bertrand!
For pity do not hate me: but thou must;
For am I not at variance with myself?
Yet shall I wrong her gentle trusting nature,
And spurn the heart I labour'd to obtain?
She loves me, Bertrand; oh, too sure she loves me;
Loves me with tenderest, truest, chastest passion;
Loves me, oh, barbarous fate! as I love—Julia.
Ber. Heard I aright? Did you not speak of Julia?
Julia, the lovely ward of my good uncle?
Julia! the mistress of your friend, of Rivers?
Or. Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt;
Display my crime in all its native blackness:
Tell me some legend of infernal falsehood,
Tell me some dreadful tale of perjur'd friends,
Of trust betray'd, of innocence deceiv'd:
Place the dire chronicle before my eyes;
Inflame the horror, aggravate the guilt,—
That I may see the evils which await me;
Nor pull such fatal mischiefs on my head,
As with my ruin must involve the fate
Of all I love on earth.
Ber. Just as I wish.[Aside.
Or. Thou know'st I left my native Italy,
Directed hither by the noble Rivers,
To ease his father's fears, who thought he fell
In that engagement where we both were wounded:
His was a glorious wound, gain'd in the cause
Of gen'rous friendship; for an hostile spear,
Aim'd at my breast, Rivers in his receiv'd,
Saved my devoted life, and won my soul.
Ber. So far I knew; but what of Emmelina?
Or. Whether her gentle beauties first allur'd me,
Or whether peaceful scenes and rural shades,
Or leisure, or the want of other objects,
Or solitude, apt to engender love,
Engag'd my soul, I know not; but I lov'd her.
We were together always, till the habit
Grew into something like necessity.
When Emmelina left me I was sad,
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came;
Her soft society amus'd my mind,
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my soul:
'Twas gratitude, 'twas friendship, 'twas esteem,
'Twas reason, 'twas persuasion,—nay, 'twas love.
Ber. But where was Julia?
Or. Oh, too soon she came:
For when I saw that wondrous form of beauty,
I stood entranc'd, like some astronomer,
Who, as he views the bright expanse of heaven,
Finds a new star. I gaz'd and was undone;
Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina;
Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, trusting Rivers;
Forgot my faith, my friendship, and my honour.
Ber. Does Julia know your love?
Or. Forbid it, heaven!
What! think'st thou I am so far gone in guilt
As boldly to avow it? Bertrand, no;
For all the kingdoms of the spacious earth
I would not wrong my friend, or damn my honour.
Ber. Trust me, you judge too hardly of yourself.
Or. Think I have lodg'd a secret in thy breast
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends:
Long have I struggled with the fatal truth,
And scarce have dared to breathe it to myself;
For, oh, too surely the first downward step,
The
Is to make sin familiar to the thoughts. [Exit.
Ber. Am I awake?—No: 'tis delusion all!
My wildest wishes never soar'd to this;
Fortune anticipates my plot: he loves her,
Loves just whom I would have him love—loves Julia!
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will:
Poor puppet! thou hast trusted to my hand
The strings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin,
And make thee, too, the instrument of vengeance,
Of glorious vengeance, on the man I hate.
ACT II.
Enter Julia and Emmelina.
Jul. How many cares perplex the maid who loves!
Cares which the vacant heart can never know.
You fondly tremble for a brother's life;
Orlando mourns the absence of a friend,
Guildford is anxious for a son's renown.
In my poor heart your various terrors meet,
With added fears and fonder apprehensions:
They all unite in me, I feel for all,—
His life, his fame, his absence, and his love:
For he may live to see his native home,
And he may live to bless a sister's hopes,
May live to gratify impatient friendship,
May live to crown a father's house with honour,
May live to glory, yet be dead to love.
Em. Forbear these fears; they wound my brother's honour:
Julia, a brave man must be ever faithful;
Cowards alone dare venture to be false;
Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue,
And with bold perjuries affront high heaven.
Jul. I know his faith, and venerate his virtues;
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave:
That all his father's worth, his sister's softness,
Meet in his generous breast—and yet I fear——
Who ever lov'd like me, and did not fear?
Guild. Where are my friends, my daughter where is Julia?
How shall I speak the fulness of my heart?
My son, my Rivers, will this day return.
Em. My dearest brother!
Jul. Ha! my Rivers comes!
Propitious heaven!
Em. And yet my Julia trembles.
Jul. Have I not cause? my Rivers comes! but how?
I dread to ask, and yet I die to hear.
My lord—you know the terms——
Guild. He comes a conqueror!
He comes as Guildford's son should ever come!
The battle's o'er, the English arms successful;
And Rivers, like an English warrior, hastes
To lay his laurels at the feet of beauty.
Jul. My joy oppresses me!
Em. And see, Orlando!
How will the welcome news transport his soul,
And raise his drooping heart! With caution tell him,
Lest the o'erwhelming rapture be too much
For his dejected mind.
Jul. My Lord Orlando,
Wherefore that troubled air? No more you dwell
On your once darling theme; you speak no more
The praises of your Rivers: is he chang'd?
Is he not still the gallant friend you lov'd,
As virtuous and as valiant?
Or. Still the same;
He must be ever virtuous, ever valiant.
Em. If Rivers is the same, then must I think
Orlando greatly chang'd; you speak not of him,
Nor long for his return, as you were wont.
How did you use to spend the live-long day
In telling some new wonders of your friend,
Till night broke in upon the unfinish'd tale;
And when 'twas o'er, you would begin again,
And we again would listen with delight,
With fresh delight, as if we had not heard it!
Does Rivers less deserve, or you less love?
Or. Have I not lov'd him? was my friendship cold?
When any prais'd his glories in the field,
My raptur'd heart has bounded at the tale.
Me though I grew illustrious from his glory,
And rich from his renown: to hear him prais'd,
More proud than if I had achiev'd his deeds,
And reap'd myself the harvest of his fame.
How have I trembled for a life so dear,
When his too ardent soul, despising caution,
Has plung'd him in the foremost ranks of war,
As if in love with danger.
Jul. Valiant Rivers!
How does thy greatness justify my love!
Since I admire the virtues that eclipse me:
With pleasure I survey those dazzling heights
My gay, inactive temper cannot reach.
Em. Spoke like my honest cousin. Then, Orlando,
Since such the love you bear your noble friend,
How will your heart sustain the mighty joy
The news I tell will give you? Yes, Orlando,
Restrain the transports of your grateful friendship,
And hear, with moderation, hear me tell you
That Rivers will return——
Or. How? when?
Em. This day.
Or. Impossible!
Ber. Then all my schemes are air.[Aside.
Em. To-day I shall embrace my valiant brother!
Jul. You droop, my Lord: did you not hear her right?
She told you that your Rivers would return,
Would come to crown your friendship and our hopes.
Or. He is most welcome! Is he not my friend?
You say my Rivers comes.—Thy arm, good Bertrand.
Ber. Joy to us all! joy to the Count Orlando!
Weak man, take care. [Aside to Orlando.
Em. My Lord! you are not well.
Ber. Surprise and joy oppress him: I myself
Partake his transports. Rouse, my Lord, for shame.
Em. How is it with you now?
Or. Quite well—'tis past.
Ber. The wonder's past, and nought but joy remains.
EnterGuild. He's come! he's here! I have embrac'd my warrior;
Now take me, heaven; I have liv'd long enough.
Jul. My Lord! my Rivers!
Riv. 'Tis my Julia's self!
My life!
Jul. My hero! Do I then behold thee?
Riv. Oh, my full heart! expect not words, my Julia!
Em. Rivers!
Riv. My sister! what an hour is this!
My own Orlando too!
Or. My noble friend!
Riv. This is such prodigality of bliss,
I scarce can think it real. Honest Bertrand,
Your hand; yours, my Orlando; yours, my father;
And, as a hand, I have a heart for all;
Love has enlarg'd it; from excess of love
I am become more capable of friendship.
My dearest Julia!
Guild. She is thine, my son;
Thou hast deserv'd her nobly; thou hast won her,
Fulfill'd the terms——
Riv. Therefore I dare not ask her;
I would not claim my Julia as a debt,
But take her as a gift, and, oh, I swear
It is the dearest, richest, choicest gift.
The bounty of indulgent heaven could grant.
Jul. Spare me, my Lord.—As yet I scarce have seen you.
Confusion stops my tongue—yet I will own,
If there be truth or faith in woman's vows,
Then you have still been present to this heart,
And not a thought has wandered from its duty.
Riv. (looking after Julia.) Oh, generous Julia!
Or. (aside to Bertrand.)
Mark how much she loves him!
Ber. (aside to Orlando.)
Mere words, which the fond sex have always ready.
Riv. Forgive me, good Orlando, best of friends!
How my soul joys to meet thee on this shore!
Thus to embrace thee in my native England!
Guild. England! the land of worth, the soil of heroes,
Where great Elizabeth the sceptre sways,
O'er a free, glorious, rich, and happy people!
Philosophy, not cloister'd up in schools,
The speculative dream of idle monks,
Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large;
Wisdom is wealth, and science is renown.
Here sacred laws protect the meanest subject;
The bread that toil procures fair freedom sweetens;
And every peasant eats his homely meal,
Content and free, lord of his small domain.
Riv. Past are those Gothic days, and, thanks to heaven,
They are for ever pass'd, when English subjects
Were born the vassals of some tyrant lord!
When free-soul'd men were basely handed down
To the next heir, transmitted with their lands,
The shameful legacy from sire to son!
Guild. But while thy generous soul, my noble boy,
Justly abhors oppression, yet revere
The plain stern virtues of our rough forefathers:
O never may the gallant sons of England
Lose their plain, manly, generous character;
Forego the glorious charter nature gave them,—
Beyond what kings can give, or laws bestow,—
Their candour, courage, constancy, and truth!
Or. Stay, Bertrand, stay—Oh, pity my distraction!
This heart was never made to hide its feelings;
I had near betray'd myself.
Ber. I trembled for you:
Remember that the eye of love is piercing,
And Emmelina mark'd you.
Or. 'Tis too much!
My artless nature cannot bear disguise.
Think what I felt when unsuspecting Rivers
Press'd me with gen'rous rapture to his bosom,
Profess'd an honest joy, and call'd me friend!
I felt myself a traitor: yet I swear,
Yes, by that Power who sees the thoughts of men,
I swear, I love the gallant Rivers more
Than light or life! I love, but yet I fear, him:
I shrunk before the lustre of his virtue——
I felt as I had wrong'd him—felt abash'd.
I cannot bear this conflict in my soul,
And therefore have resolv'd——
Ber. On what?
Or. To fly.
Ber. To fly from Julia?
Or. Yes, to fly from all,
From every thing I love; to fly from Rivers,
From Emmelina, from myself, from thee:
From Julia? no—that were impossible,
For I shall bear her image in my soul;
It is a part of me, the dearest part;
So closely interwoven with my being,
That I can never lose the dear remembrance,
'Till I am robb'd of life and her together.
Ber. 'Tis cowardice to fly.
Or. 'Tis death to stay.
Ber. Where would you go?—How lost in thought
he stands! [Aside.
A vulgar villain now would use persuasion,
And by his very earnestness betray
The thing he meant to hide: I'll coolly wait,
Till the occasion shows me how to act;
Then turn it to my purpose.—Ho! Orlando!
Where would you go?
Or. To solitude, to hopeless banishment!
Yes, I will shroud my youth in those dark cells
Where Disappointment steals Devotion's name,
To cheat the wretched votary into ruin;
There will I live in love with misery:
Ne'er shall the sight of mirth profane my grief;
The sound of joy shall never charm my ear,
Nor music reach it, save when the slow bell
Wakes the dull brotherhood to lifeless prayer.
Then, when the slow-retreating world recedes,
When warm desires are cold, and passion dead,
And all things but my Julia are forgotten,
One thought of her shall fire my languid soul,
Chase the faint orison, and feed despair.
Ber. What! with monastic, lazy drones retire,
And chant cold hymns with holy hypocrites?
First perish all the sex! Forbid it, manhood!
Where is your nobler self? For shame, Orlando;
Renounce this superstitious, whining weakness,
Or I shall blush to think I call'd you friend.
Or. What can I do?
Ber. (after a pause.) Beg she'll defer the marriage
But for one single day; do this, and leave
The rest to me:
Or. How say'st thou?
What, wrong her virtue?
Ber. Still this cant of virtue!
This pomp of words, this phrase without a meaning!
I grant that honour's something, manly honour;
I'd fight, I'd burn, I'd bleed, I'd die for honour:
But what's this virtue?
Or. Ask you what it is?
Why 'tis what libertines themselves adore;
'Tis that which wakens love and kindles rapture
Beyond the rosy lip or starry eye.
Virtue! 'tis that which gives a secret force
To common charms; but to true loveliness
Lends colouring celestial. Such its power,
That she who ministers to guilty pleasures,
Assumes its semblance when she most would please.
Virtue! 'tis that ethereal energy
Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty.
Ber. Curse on his principles! Yet I shall shake them;
Yes, I will bend his spirit to my will,
Now while 'tis warm with passion, and will take
Whatever mould my forming hand will give it.
'Tis worthy of my genius! Then I love
This Emmelina—true she loves not me—
But should young Rivers die, his father's lands
Would all be mine.—Is Rivers then immortal?
Come—Guildford's lands, and his proud daughter's hand
Are worth some thought.—Aid me, ye spurs to genius!
Love, mischief, poverty, revenge, and envy!
Em. Yet do not blame Orlando, good my brother;
He's still the same, that brave frank heart you lov'd;
Only his temper's chang'd, he is grown sad;
But that's no fault, I only am to blame;
Fond foolish heart, to give itself away
To one who gave me nothing in return!
Riv. How's this? my father said Orlando lov'd thee.
Em. Indeed I thought so—he was kinder once;
Nay still he loves, or my poor heart deceives me.
Riv. If he has wrong'd thee—yet I know he could not;
His gallant soul is all made up of virtues,
And I would rather doubt myself than him.
Yet tell me all the story of your loves,
And let a brother's fondness soothe thy cares.
Em. When to this castle first Orlando came,
A welcome guest to all, to me most welcome;
Yes, spite of maiden shame and burning blushes,
Let me confess he was most welcome to me.
At first my foolish heart so much deceiv'd me,
I thought I lov'd him for my brother's sake;
But when I closely search'd this bosom traitor,
I found, alas! I lov'd him for his own.
Riv. Blush not to own it; 'twas a well-plac'd flame!
I glory in the merit of my friend,
And love my sister more for loving him.
Em. He talk'd of you; I listen'd with delight,
And fancied 'twas the subject only charm'd me;
But when Orlando chose another theme,
Forgive me, Rivers, but I listen'd still
With undiminish'd joy—he talk'd of love,
Nor was that theme less grateful than the former.
I seem'd the very idol of his soul;
Rivers, he said, would thank me for the friendship
I bore to his Orlando; I believ'd him.
Julia was absent then—but what of Julia?
Riv. Aye, what of her, indeed? why nam'd you Julia?
You could not surely think?—no, that were wild.
Why did you mention Julia?
Em. (confusedly.) Nay, 'twas nothing,
'Twas accident, nor had my words a meaning;
If I did name her—'twas to note the time——
To mark the period of Orlando's coldness——
The circumstance was casual, and but meant
To date the change; it aim'd at nothing further.
Riv. (agitated.)
'Tis very like—no more—I'm satisfied——
You talk as I had doubts: what doubts have I?
Why do you labour to destroy suspicions
Which never had a birth? Is she not mine?
Mine by the fondest ties of dear affection?——
But did Orlando change at her return?
Did he grow cold? It could not be for that;
You may mistake.—And yet you said 'twas then;
Was it precisely then—I only ask
For the fond love I bear my dearest sister.
Em. 'Twas as I said.
Riv. (recovering himself.)
He loves thee, Emmelina:
These starts of passion, this unquiet temper,
Betray how much he loves thee: yes, my sister,
He fears to lose thee, fears his father's will
May dash his rising hopes, nor give thee to him.
Em. Oh, flatterer! thus to soothe my easy nature
With tales of possible, unlikely bliss!
Because it may be true, my credulous heart
Whispers it is, and fondly loves to cherish
The feeble glimmering of a sickly hope.
Riv. This precious moment, worth a tedious age
Of vulgar time, I've stol'n from love and Julia;
She waits my coming, and a longer stay
Were treason to her beauty and my love.
Doubts vanish, fears recede, and fondness triumphs.