A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Two/The Election Act 4
ACT IV.
SCENE I. A summer apartment in Baltimore's house, with a glass door opened to a lawn. The scene without is seen in the sober light of a calm summer evening, with the sun already set. Enter Baltimore and Mrs. Baltimore from an inner room.
Baltimore speaking as they enter.
Let us say no more about it, then. I forgive the little deceit of concealment which my temper, become too hasty of late, may, perhaps, justify. I will confess that the irritation excited in my mind by seeing that girl so frequently with you is unreasonable, is capricious. But you must bear with me a little, my Isabella. It is a part of the infirmity that oppresses me: it is the fretted edge of a deep and ranklingCome, come, come! we'll say no more about it. Let us forswear this subject. Let us now talk, even when we are alone, of light and indifferent things.
Mrs. B. Indeed, I believe it will be safest for us, till this passing storm, it will be but a summer storm I hope, is past over our heads, (assuming cheerfulness.) And now, to begin upon this salutary plan of your's, without loss of time, let me boast to you of the beautiful collection of plants I have nursed with my own hands, in a sly corner of the garden. You have never yet been to see them.
Balt. (eagerly) Ay, even there too.
Mrs. B. What do you mean?
Balt. (peevishly.) Go to! you have heard, as well as I, of the ridiculous expence he has been at in seeds, and rare plant's, and flower-roots, and nonsense; and of the learned botanist he is to pay so liberally for publishing a catalogue of them for the use of the scientific world—All that abominable ostentation. Ha, ha, ha! He does not know a nettle from a crow-foot on his native fields. Ha, ha, ha, ha!—You don't laugh, I think?
Mrs. B. We were to talk, you know, of indifferent things. But I have forgot to tell you of what really is not indifferent: I had a letter from my sister this morning, and, she says, your little godson is quite recovered from the remains of his illness. (pauses for an answer.)
Balt. (nodding his head but not attending to her.) Umph.
Mrs. B. (coaxingly.) She says he has become so chattering, and so playful, it is delightful to see him! And he talks of his godfather very often!
Balt. (nodding again.) Umph.
Mrs. B. He was always a great favourite of your's.
Balt. (breaking out vehemently.) If any man but himself had been guilty ot half that ridiculous vanity, the dullest fool in the county would have laughed at him.
Mrs. B. O dear! still dwelling upon these ideas! (he turns from her, and walks to the bottom of the stage; she sighs deeply, and follows him with her eyes. A long pause.)
Enter Servet.
Serv. (to Balt.) Excuse me if I intrude, Sir. And you too, my good lady, (bowing very low to Mrs. B.) Here is a letter that I received a few moments ago, and I thought it expedient and proper that you should know its contents immediately. (gives the letter to Balt.)
Balt. Let me see. (reads.) "An unknown well-wisher thinks it right to inform you, that your friend"—
Serv. He ought to have said patron, Sir. I'm sure, I have always been proud to name you as my patron to every body:—the family of Baltimore has always been such to me.
Balt. Well, well, no matter. (reads again) "To ruin your friend, 'Squire Baltimore. His adversary"—
Serv. Meaning Freeman, Sir.
Balt. I understand! (reads again.) "His adversary being busy in buying up the claims of some of his principal creditors. If he would walk long at large, let him walk cautiously."
Serv. Meaning that he will lay you up. Sir.
Balt. I understand it perfectly.
Mrs. B. O no, no! Some malicious person has written this.
Balt. Permit me, Madam, to speak to my man of business, without interruption.
Serv. No wonder, Sir, that Mrs. Baltimore should think so. He makes such a good show with his actions, that he must set about such things very cunningly.
Balt. Yes, Servet, thou hast always had some notion of his true character.
Serv. To think that there should be such hypocrisy in the world! It grieves, it distresses me!
Balt. Pooh, man! never mind how many hypocrites there are in the world, if he be but found amongst the number.
Serv. Ay, Sir; but if he get you once into prison—
Balt. Will he not be detested for it?
Serv. But if he should take the borough from you—
Balt. Well! and if he should take my life too, would he not be hanged for it?
Serv. To be sure, there would be some satisfaction in that if you could peep through your winding-sheet to see it.
Balt. He will now appear to the world in his true colours: I shall now speak boldly of a determined and palpable wrong: It relieves me from a heavy load. Give me thy hand, my friend Servet; thou has brought me admirable news.
Serv. But, Sir, we must take care of ourselves. For he is come of such a low, cunning, mean set of people—
Balt. Ha! you know this, do you? You know something of his family?
Serv. Yes, I know well enough: and his father every body knows was no better than a—a—a
Balt. Than a what?—Out with it, man!
Serv. Than a—Than a—
Balt. (eagerly.) Than a thief? Is that it? O prove to me, only prove to me, that his father was a thief, and I'll give thee all that I have in the world.
Serv. No, not absolutely that—but no better than a paltry weaver.
Balt. (disappointed.) Pooh! I knew that before.
Serv. Yes, every body knows it, to be sure. But there is no time to be lost: I am so zealous about it, that I can't rest till I have further information. I'll take horse directly and go in quest of it. I know where to enquire, and I shall return to you without loss of time.
Balt. Do so, my good friend, and don't be afraid of bringing back what you will call bad news. I shall not shrink from it.(Exit Servet.
(turning to Mrs. B. who has been listening to their conversation with great marks of distrust and disapprobation.)
And so. Madam, you are diffident of all this?
Mrs. B. It will be impossible at this moment to make you view it in the same light that I do.
Balt. Yes, Madam, I knew it would be so with you. He has bewitched and thrown a veil over the understandings of all men! I have perceived it long. Even from the first of his settling in the neighbourhood, my friends have begun to look on me not as they were wont to do. Even my very tenants and dependants salute me less cheerily. He has thrown a veil over the understandings of all men! He has estranged from me that sympathy and tenderness, which should have supported my head in the day of adversity.
Mrs. B. All, my dear Baltimore! It is you who have got a veil, a thick and gloomy veil cast over your mind. That sympathy and tenderness is still the same (pressing his hand.) And, if the day of adversity must come, you will be convinced of it. But let us for a while give up thinking of these things: let us walk out together, and enjoy the soothing calmness of this beautiful twilight. The evening-star already looks from his peaceful sky: no sound of busy man is to be heard: the bat, and the beetle, and the night-fly are abroad, and the pleasing hum of happy unseen life is in the air. Come forth, my husband. The shade of your native trees will wave over your head; the turf your infant feet first trod will be under your steps. Come forth, my friend, and more blessed thoughts will visit you.
Balt. No, no; my native trees and my native lawns are to me more cheerless than the dreary desert. I can enjoy nothing. The cursed neighbourhood of one obnoxious being has changed every thing for me. Would he were—(clenching his hands and muttering.)
Mrs. B. O! what are you saying?
Balt (turning away from her.) No matter what.
Enter a little Boy from the lawn by the glass-door, running wildly, and frightened.
Boy. He'll be drown'd, if nobody runs to save him! He'll be drown'd! he'll be drown’d!
Mrs. B. Has any body fallen into the pond?
Boy. Yes, Madam; into the deepest part of it; and, if nobody does not run to pull him out, he'll be drowned.
Balt. (running eagerly towards the glass-door.) I'll go. Dost thou know who it is, boy?
Boy. Yes, to be sure, Sir; it is 'Squire Freeman's own self. (Balt. starts, and stops short. Mrs. B. clasping her hands and holding them up to heaven remains in anxious suspence. Balt. after a moments pause, rushes out quickly.)
Mrs. B. O God! what will this come to! (throws herself back into a chair, and remains stupid and motionless. The boy stands staring at her.)
Boy. Are you not well, Ma'am? Shall I call any body? (She makes no answer: he still stands staring at her.) She don't speak: she don't look at nothing; I will call somebody. (goes to the side-scene, and calls.) Who's there, I beseech you? O, hear me, hear me! Who's there, I say?
Enter Housemaid and Coachman.
Housem. What a bawling you make here, with your dusty feet, you little nasty jackanapes! How dare you for to steal into a clean house?
Coach. If he be'n't that little devil that put the cracker under my horse's tail, I have no eyes in my head. He is always prowling about: there is never a dog hanged, nor a kitten drowned, in the parish, but he must be after it.
Boy. (pointing.) Look there: what is the matter with the lady?
Housm. O, mercy on us! my dear good lady? Are you sick Ma'am? or swooning? or beside yourself? Run, Coachy, stupid oaf! and fetch us something.
Coach. I would run to the farthest nook of the earth if I only knew what to bring. Will burnt feathers, or a little aqua-vitæ do you any good?
Mrs. B. (starting up.) Do you hear any noise? Are they coming yet? I'll go out myself. (endeavours to go out, but cannot. Housemaid and Coachman support her.)
Enter David hastily from the lawn.
Dav. He is saved, Madam!
Mrs. B. O, what say you, David!
Dav. He has saved 'Squire Freeman. He threw himself into the deep water, and plashed about his arms lustily, till he caught him by the hair of his head, and drew him to the bank. One minute more had made a dead man of him.
Mrs. B. Who did that? Who caught him by the hair of the head?
Dav. My master. Madam; and a brave man he is.
Mrs. B. (holding up her hands in extacy.) Thy master! ay, and my husband! and God Almighty's good creature, who has formed every thing good! O, yes! he has made every being with good in it, and will at last make it perfectly so, in some way or other, known only to his wisdom. Ha! I hear a noise on the lawn.
Boy. (running out.) I must not lose a sight of the drowned man. For he'll be as dropping wet as any corpse, I dare say; for all that there is life in him.(Exit.
Mrs. B. I'll go and meet them. I'm strong enough now.
Dav. Let me support you. Madam.
Housem. (to Coach. as they go out.) La! will he be all wet, do you think, and stretched upon his back? (Exeunt by the glass door into the lawn, Mrs. B. supported by David. Light from a window is now thrown across the path without doors, and discovers Baltimore and servants carrying Freeman into the house by another entry. The scene closes.)
SCENE II. A room in Baltimore's house. Enter Simeon and David.
Dav. Now, my Old Simeon, you'll see your master as hearty, after his ducking, as if he were an otter, and could live either in the water or out of it; though we had some trouble to bring him to his senses at first.
Sim. Ay, do let me go to him quickly. It had been a sorrowful day to this grey head if my master had—
Dav. Yes, and if my master had not, as a body may say, put his life in his hand to save him.
Sim. Very true, David, I say nothing against all that: I honour your master for it; thof I must say he has but an ungracious look with him. There is not another gentleman in the neighbourhood, thof I say it myself, that does not stop and say, "How do ye do, Old Simeon?" when he passes me.
Dav. I don't know; I'm sure he used not to be ungracious. All the old folks of the parish used to thrust themselves in his way, as if it had been good for the ague, or an aching in the bones, to say "God bless your honour,"
Sim. That must have been before we came amongst you, then. Ha! here comes his Honour,
(Enter Freeman, dressed in a night-gown, with Truebridge and Charles Baltimore. Mrs. Baltimore, at the same time, enters by another door.)
Sim. (going eagerly to his master, and kissing his hand, which Freeman holds out to him.) God bless and preserve your worthy Honour!
Free. I thank you, Simeon: a good God has preserved me. You have not been much alarmed, I hope?
Sim. No, Sir; I heard of your safety before I heard of your danger; but some how or other it came across my heart, for all that; and I could not but think—I could not—(pauses and draws the back of his hand across his eyes.) But the blessings of the aged and helpless have borne you up: the water could have no commission to hurt you.
True. Well said, good Simeon! the blessings of the aged and the helpless are of a very buoyant quality. A cork jacket is nothing to them.
Free. Do my wife and daughter know of it?
Sim. No, please your honour; my mistress is not returned from her visit yet, and my poor young lady is closed up in her room with Madumselle, taking on her book-larning, as I suppose.
Free. I'll go home then, before they know any thing of it. (to Mrs. B.) My dear Madam, I return you my warmest acknowledgments. You flattered me, that I should have an opportunity, before I leave the house, of thanking, once more, the brave man who has saved my life.
Mrs. B. He will come to you immediately.
Char. (to Mrs. B.) Faith! I went to him myself, as you desired me, and he won't come.
Mrs. B. (frowning significantly to Char.) I have just come from him, and he will be here immediately.
Char. You went too, did you? I couldn't— (Mrs. B. frowns again, and Char. is silent.)
True. (to Free.) You had better sit down till he come.
Char. Yes, do sit in this chair in the recess; for you don't like the light in your eyes, I perceive. (leading Free, kindly to the chair.)
Free. I thank you. You are very good to me, friend Charles. I think you would have lent a helping hand yourself, if you had been in the way, to have saved a poor neighbour from drowning.
Char. I should have been a Pagan else. (Free. sits down and they all gather round him.) Now, my good Sir, it is pleasanter to sit in a dry seat like this, with so many friendly faces round you, than to squash amongst the cold mud and duck-weed, with roaches and eels for your comrades.
Free. Indeed, friend Charles, I sha'nt contradict you.
(Enter Baltimore, going directly across the stage towards the opposite door, by which Free. and the others had entered, without perceiving them in the recess.)
Free. He thinks I am still in the bed-room. (goes behind Balt, and lays his hand kindly upon his shoulder.)
Balt. Nay, my dear Isabella! let me go by myself! I would rather encounter him alone, than when you are all staring upon me.
Free. (still holding him.) Ha, ha, ha! My brave deliverer! I have caught you.
Balt. (turning hastily about, and shaking himself loose from his hold.) Ha! is it you?
Free. (stepping back disappointed.) It is me, Sir; and I flattered myself that the overflowings of a grateful heart would not be offensive.
Balt. They are not offensive, Sir; you mistake me. You are too—There is no occasion for all these thanks: I do not deserve them.
Sim. (vehemently.) Ah, but you do, Sir! and all the country round will thank you too. There is not a soul of them all, thof he might not care a brass penny for you before, who will not fill a bumper to your health now, for saving to them his noble and liberal Honour. O, Sir! the blessings of every body will be upon your head now.
Balt. (turning away frowningly from Sim.) So, so!
Mrs. B. Old Simeon says very true: every body will bless you.
Balt. (turning away from her.) This is pleasant, indeed!
Char. I'll be hang'd if every old woman in the parish don't foist you into her next Sunday's prayers, along with the Royal Family.
Balt. (turning away from Char.) Must I be beleager'd by every fool? (goes hastily towards the door.)
Mrs. B. (aside, running after him.) You will not go away so abruptly?
Balt. (aside, to her.) Will there be no end to this damned gratitude? (about, to Free.) Sir, I am very happy—I—I hope you will have a good sleep after this accident; and I shall be happy to hear good accounts of you to-morrow morning.
Free. No, Mr. Baltimore, we must not part thus. My gratitude for what you have done is not to be spent in words only: that is not my way. I resign to you and resign to you, most cheerfully, all my interest in the borough of Westown.
(Balt. pauses.)
True. That is nobly said, Mr. Freeman, and I expected it from you.
Char. (rubbing his hands, and grinning with delight.) I thought so!—I thought it would come to this: he has such a liberal way with him in every thing.
Balt. (half-aside to Char.) Wilt thou never give over that vile habit of grinning like a dog? (going up with a firm proud step to Free.) No, Sir; we have entered the lists as fair combatants together, and neither of us, I hope, (significantly) have taken any unfair advantage of the other. Let the most fortunate gain the day. I will never receive reward for a common office of humanity. That is not my way (mimicking Freeman.)
Free. Let me intreat you!
Balt. Mention it no more: I am determined.
Free. It would make me infinitely happy.
Balt. Do me the honour to believe that I speak truth, when I say, I am determined. If you give up the borough, I give it up also.
Free. Then I say no more. I leave with you the thanks of a grateful heart. I should have said, if it had been permitted me, the very grateful affection of an honest heart, that it will never forget what it owes to you but in that place where both affection, and animosity are forgotten. (Exit with emotion, followed by Charles and Simeon.)
Mrs. B. O Baltimore! Baltimore! Will you suffer him to go thus?
Balt. (going two or three steps after him, and stopping short.) He is gone now.
Mrs. B. No, he is not; you may easily overtake him. Do—for the love of gentleness and charity!
Balt. (going hastily towards the door, and stopping short again.) No, hang it! I can't do it now. (Exit hastily by the opposite side.)
Mrs. B. (shaking her head) I had great hopes from this accident, but his unhappy aversion is, I fear, incurable.
True. Don't despair yet: I prophecy better things. But do not, my dear Madam, before Baltimore at least, appear so anxious about it. It serves only to irritate him.
Mrs. B. Is it possible to be otherwise than anxious? This unlucky prejudice, gradually gaining strength from every little trivial circumstance, embitters all the comfort of our lives. And Freeman has so many good qualities—he might have been a valuable friend.
True. Very true; he is liberal, good-tempered, and benevolent; but he is vain, unpolished, and, with the aid of his ridiculous wife to encourage him, most provokingly ostentatious. You ought to make some allowance for a proud country gentleman, who now sees all the former dependants of his family ranging themselves under the patronage of a new, and, what he will falsely call a mean man.
Mrs. B. O, would make every allowance! but I would not encourage him in his prejudice.
True. The way to reclaim him, however, is not to run directly counter to it. I have never found him so ready to acknowledge Freeman's good qualities as when I have appeared, and have really been half provoked myself with his vanity and magnificence. When we would help a friend out of the mire, we must often go a little way into it ourselves.
Mrs. B. I believe you are right. Ah! Truebridge! if you had been more amongst us lately, we should not now, perhaps, have been so unhappy. He would have listened more to you than to any other friend.
True. Have good comfort: I don't despair. (Exeunt.
SCENE III. Night. An open space before the Blue Posts: the scene dark except where the light gleams from the open door of the house. A noise of drinking and merriment heard within. Enter some of Baltimore's voters, &c. from the house, carrying a table, a bowl of punch and glasses, which they set down in the porch, and place themselves round on the benches at the door.
Sailor. Now, messmates, let us set down our bowl here. We have been long enough stow'd in that there close smoky hold, while the fresh air has been playing on the decks. Let us sit down and be merry! I am return'd home in a good jolly time, old neighbours; let us enjoy it.
First Vote. Ay, I remember at our last election, when 'Squire Burton was chosen, we drank a hearty bowl in this very porch, and neighbour Bullock, the tanner, sat as it were in that very corner. Rest his soul! he loved his country, and his king, and his cause, and his candidate, as well as any heart in Old England.
Second Vote. Ay, and he was always ready to knock any body down that was not as hearty as himself. That was what I liked in him. That was the true spirit. That was the true roast beef of old England.
First Vote. And he had such a good knack at a toast. Come, stand up, Mr. Alderman. We have drunk already to the ancient family of the Baltimores, give us some other good public toast. You have a good knack at the business too. I would give you one myself, but then I doesn't know how to do it for want of education.
Ald. (standing up conceitedly.) May all the king, and the queen, and the royal family, and all the rest of the nobility and members of parliament, serving over them and under us be good; and may all us, serving under them again, be—be—be happy and be good too, and be—and be—
Second Vote. Just as we should be.
First Vote. Ay, just so. Very well and very nicely said, Mr. Alderman!
Second Vote. But does nobody drink to the navy of old England.
Ald. Yes, man: stop a little, and I'll have a touch at that too.
First Vote. Ay, do so. I stand up for the British navy; that I do. The sea is our only true friend either by land or by water. Come, give us a sailor's song, Will Weatherall. I have lived upon dry land all my days, and never saw better than a little punt-boat shov'd across the ferry for a sixpence; but some how or other I have a kindness for every thing that pertains to the great salt sea, with all the ships, and the waves roaring, and all that; and whenever I sees a good heart of oak seated at an alehouse door with his glass in his hand, my heart always turns to him, an there should be a hundred men besides. Give us a song, man.
Sailer. That I will. Hang me if thou does'n't deserve to feed upon biscuit.
SONG.
Merry mantling social bowl,
Many a cheerful kindly soul
Fills his glass from thee:
Healths go round, care is drown'd,
Every heart with lighter bound
Gen'rous feels and free.
Cann and beaker by thy side,
May'st thou oft' in flowing pride
Thus surrounded be:
And shame befal the narrow mind,
That to a messmate proves unkind,
Who once hath fill'd his glass from thee!
Whate'er our state, where'er we meet,
We'll still with kindly welcome greet
The mate of former jollity:
Far distant, in a foreign land,
We'll give to all a brother's hand
That e'er have filled their glass from thee.
Enter Margery in great fury.
Mar. Dash down your bowl, and break all your glasses in shivers? Are you sitting singing here, and 'Squire Baltimore hurried away to prison by his vile rascality creditors? Shame upon your red chops! Who pays for the liquor you are drinking?
All. You're wrong in the head, Margery,
Mar. Ye're wrong in the heart, and that's a worse thing, ungrateful punch swillers! You would be all up on end in a moment else; for I saw them lay their detestable paws upon him with mine own eyes. Rise up every skin of you, or I'll break the bowl about your ears! I'll make the liquor mount to your noddies, I warrant you!
All. (starting up.) Which way did they go?
Mar. Come, follow me and I'll shew you. Let them but come within reach of my clench'd fist, and I'll teach them to lay hands upon his honour! An esquire and a gentleman born. (Exeunt, every body following her with great noise and hubbub.)
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.