Mr. B. (at the opposite door). “Business of importance!” Hum! I’m glad I’m prepared with a good basin of soup. There’s no doing business well upon an empty stomach. Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I’ve no great stomach for that. But it will be an honour, to be sure. (Exit.)
SCENE III.
Landlady’s Parlour.
LANDLADY — MR. FINSBURY, a man-milliner, with bandboxes — a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady’s hand — a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner’s hand — a mantle hanging over his arm. A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.
Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon’on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap —
Finsbury. Why, as you observe, ma’m, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton’s fancy cap, ma’m; and here, ma’m, is Mr. Saul’s rich satin bag, covered with gold net. He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress. But, in my humble opinion, ma’m, the marshal’s white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn’t say that, — for the colonel’s and lieutenant’s, and ensign’s, are beautiful in the extreme. And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough’s lilac and silver, with a Roman cap. And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake’s flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma’m, you see.
(The farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time during this speech, with contempt.)
Farmer (reads the newspaper). French fleet at sea — Hum!
Landlady. O gemini: Mr. Drake’s Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing! Mr. Finsbury, I protest —
Finsb. Why, ma’m, I knew a lady of your taste couldn’t but approve of it. My own invention entirely, ma’m. But it’s nothing to the captain’s cap, ma’m. Indeed, ma’m, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress. To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice; and when you see it, ma’m, you will be really surprised; for (for contrast, and elegance, and richness, and lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume) you’ve never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain Wheeler’s mantle, ma’m.
Farmer (to the Landlady). Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men’s clothes?
Landlady (aside to Farmer). Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush! This is Mr.
Finsbury, the great man-milliner.
Farm. The great man-milliner! This is a sight I never thought to see in
Old England.
Finsb. (packing up band boxes). Well, ma’m, I’m glad I have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please the ladies.
Farm. (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat). And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?
Finsb. (taking off the mantle). Sir, with your leave — I ask pardon — but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands —
Farm. ’Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.
Finsb. MAN!
Farm. I ask pardon — man-milliner, I mean.
Enter LANDLORD.
Landlord. Why, wife!
Landlady. Wife!
Landlord. I ask pardon — Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?
Landlady (alarmed). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it’s no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? ’Tis no fault of mine. Why didn’t you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the ‘versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who’s who, I say?
Farm. Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord.
Clapper! clapper! clapper! — enough to stun a body.
Landlord. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.
Landlady. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington? Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin? — and what’s become on them?
Landlord. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.
Landlady. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life!
Finsb. For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?
Landlady. There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.
Landlord. Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.
Finsb. Dear me! ’Twas not I said SCRUB. Did I say scrub?
Farm. No matter if you did.
Finsb. No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said — that I called — any young gentleman of Eton a SCRUB! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!
Farm. And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot!
Landlady. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.
Farm. Nor about scrubs.
Finsb. But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot’s being captain to-morrow, I didn’t conceive how he could well appear without any dress. That was all, upon my word and honour. A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off. Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton. (Finsbury bows and exit.)
Farm. A good day to you and your bandboxes. There’s a fellow for you now! Ha! ha! ha! — A man-milliner, forsooth!
Landlord. Mrs. Talbot’s coming — stand back.
Landlady. Lord! why does Bob show them through this way?
Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA; Waiter showing the way.
Landlady. You are going on, I suppose, ma’am?
Waiter (aside to Landlord). Not if she could help it; but there’s no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal’s come.
Landlord. I say nothing, for it is vain to say more. But isn’t it a pity she can’t stay for the Montem, poor old lady! Her son — as good and fine a lad as ever you saw — they say, has a chance, too, of being captain. She may never live to see another such a sight.
(As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on, the Farmer puts himself across her way, so as to stop her short.)
Farm. No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you’d be so good to take a night’s lodging, you and the young lady with you, you’d have a hearty welcome. That’s all I can say and you’d make my wife very happy; for she’s a good woman, to say nothing of myself.
Landlord. If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you’d have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e’er a house at Salt Hill.
Mrs. Talb. I am very much obliged —
Farm. O, say nothing o’ t
hat, madam. I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come. Do, miss, speak for me.
Louisa. Pray, dear mother —
Farm. She will. (Calls behind the scenes.) Here, waiter! hostler! driver! what’s your name? drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, and we’ll have you in and home in a whiff. (Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, Farmer, Landlord and Waiter.)
Landlady (sola). What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes! and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t’other. The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe. (Aloud.) A good morning to you, ladies.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
A field near Eton College; — several boys crossing backwards and forwards in the back-ground. In front, TALBOT, WHEELER, LORD JOHN and BURSAL.
Talbot. Fair play, Wheeler! Have at ‘em, my boy! There they stand, fair game! There’s Bursal there, with his dead forty-five votes at command; and Lord John with his — how many live friends?
Lord John (coolly). Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.
Talb. Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes — Wheeler inclusive, no doubt.
Lord J. That’s as hereafter may be.
Wheeler. Hereafter! Oh, fie, my LUD! You know your own Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.
Talb. Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw you, my lord!
That’s well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; stick fast. Fifty-six friends,
Wheeler INclusive, hey, my lord! hey, my LUD!
Lord J. Talbot EXclusive, I find, contrary to my expectations.
Talb. Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust: but then there’s enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for; hey, Wheeler?
Bursal (aside to Wheeler). A pretty electioneerer. So much the better for you, Wheeler. Why, unless he bought a vote, he’d never win one, if he talked from this to the day of judgment.
Wheeler (aside to Bursal). And as he has no money to buy votes — he! he! he! — we are safe enough.
Talb. That’s well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle there with Bursal.
Now you are sure of the main with Lord John.
Lord J. Sure! I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise yet.
Wheel. O; I ask no promise from his lordship; we are upon honour: I trust entirely to his lordship’s good nature and generosity, and to his regard for his own family; I having the honour, though distantly, to be related.
Lord J. Related! How, Wheeler?
Wheel. Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may say, to being related. Related slipped out by mistake; I beg pardon, my Lord John.
Lord J. Related! — a strange mistake, Wheeler.
Talb. Overshot yourself, Wheeler; overshot yourself, by all that’s awkward. And yet, till now, I always took you for “a dead-shot at a yellow-hammer.”*
*Young noblemen at Oxford wear yellow tufts at the tops of their caps.
Hence their flatterers are said to be dead-shots at yellow-hammers.
Wheel. (taking Bursal by the arm). Bursal, a word with you. (Aside to
Bursal.) What a lump of family pride that Lord John is.
Talb. Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should spoil sport. But never fear: you’ll please Bursal sooner than I shall. I can’t, for the soul of me, bring myself to say that Bursal’s not purse-proud, and you can. Give you joy.
Burs. A choice electioneerer! — ha! ha! ha!
Wheel. (faintly). He! he! he! — a choice electioneerer, as you say.
(Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal; manent Lord J. and Talbot.)
Lord J. There was a time, Talbot —
Talb. There was a time, my lord — to save trouble and a long explanation- -there was a time when you liked Talbots better than spaniels; you understand me?
Lord J. I have found it very difficult to understand you of late, Mr.
Talbot.
Talb. Yes, because you have used other people’s understandings instead of your own. Be yourself, my lord. See with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then you’ll find me still, what I’ve been these seven years; not your understrapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but your friend! If you choose to have me for a friend, here’s my hand. I am your friend, and you’ll not find a better.
Lord J. (giving his hand). You are a strange fellow, Talbot; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said last night.
Talb. What? for I don’t keep a register of my sayings. Oh, it was something about gaming — Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion — I forget what I said. But, whatever it was, I’m sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.
Lord J. But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.
Talb. Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?
Lord. J. But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at. Listen to me, and don’t fumble in your pockets while I’m talking to you.
Talb. I’m fumbling for — oh, here it is. Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what’s droll enough, it was at your back I laughed. Here’s a caricature I drew of you — I really am sorry I did it; but ’tis best to show it to you myself.
Lord J. (aside). It is all I can do to forgive this. (After a pause, he tears the paper.) I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this. Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.
Talb. Oh, hang it! I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.
Enter RORY O’RYAN.
Rory (claps Talbot on the back). Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot? Say seven — fifty-seven, I mean; for I’ll lay you a wager, you’ve forget me; and that’s a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O’Ryan. And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman. Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all. But don’t let’s be talking sintimint; for, for my share I’d not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.
Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?
Rory. Phoo! don’t be playing the innocent, now. Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my LARD) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it? (Turns to Talbot.) But what are ye standing idling here for? Sure, there’s Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate. And haven’t I been huzzaing for you there till I’m hoarse? So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice — (sucks an orange.) I am a THOROUGH GOING friend, at anyrate.
Talb. Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a THOROUGH GOING friend; but have a care, or you’ll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent THOROUGH GOING work.
Rory. Never fear! never fear, man! — a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that’s my maxim.
Talb. Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter enemy.
Rory. Oh, never fear me! I’m as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they tink I’m tinking of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as — now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you plase.
Talb. I do please.
Rory. I call it Rory’s song. Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody — o’ the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put ’em in or lave ’em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind. So you comprehend it will be Rory’s song, with variations.
Talbot and Lord John. Let’s have it; let’s have it without further preface.
Rory sings.
&nb
sp; “I’m true game to the last, and no WHEELER for me.”
Rory. There’s a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler, — you take it?
Talb. O yes, yes, we take it; go on.
Rory sings.
”I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me.
Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea,
Webb’d or finn’d, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory,
None but Talbot, O, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”
Talb. “Talbot the dog” is much obliged to you.
Lord J. But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr.
O’Ryan.
Rory. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind. Slur it in the singing, and don’t be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you know. Only let me go on, and you’ll come to something that will plase you.
Rory sings.
“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm.”
Rory. That’s Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.
Lord J. If the allusion’s good, we shall probably find out your meaning.
Talb. On with you, Rory, and don’t read us notes on a song.
Lord J. Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.
Rory sings.
”Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm;
His father’s a tanner, — but then where’s the harm?
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee,
Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?”
Lord J. Encore! encore! Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.
Rory. Sure ’twas none of I made it—’twas Talbot here.
Talb. I!
Rory. (aside). Not a word: I’ll make you a present of it: sure, then, it’s your own.
Talb. I never wrote a word of it.
Rory. (to Lord J.). Phoo, Phoo! he’s only denying it out of false modesty.
Lord. J. Well, no matter who wrote it, — sing it again.
Rory. Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it. (Winking at Talbot aside.) You shall have the credit of all. (Aloud.) Put me in when I’m out, Talbot, and you (to Lord John) join — join.
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