THE CHIMERA; OR, EFFUSIONS OF FANCY: A FARCE IN TWO ACTS.
By Mrs. MARRIOTT, OF THE OLD AMERICAN COMPANY.
NEW-YORK: Printed by T. and J. SWORDS, No. 167 William-Street. 1795.
PROLOGUE.
THE CHIMERA, &c.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Chamber in Sir Lambert's House
O I'm ruined! I'm distracted! I shall break my heart! My poor, dear child has lost her senses. These foolish books, this poetry, this nonsense has turned her brain. What shall I do? Lord Aberford will be here to-morrow; that noble Lord who intended to do my daughter such honour, who intended to marry her: but it's all over now, for he never could bear the name of poetry and inspiration, since one of these inspired poetasters ran away with his only daughter. What will he say when he hears the ravings of my child? Why, he'll be off the match, to be sure, and then what will she do? She must die an old maid, and I die of grief, I believe.
What, Sir Lambert, should you die for grief, if your daughter should resolve to follow [Page 6] my glorious example, and forever remain in a state of dove-like purity?
Dove-like purity! ha! ha! ha! Why you know you are mad to be married at this very moment. Did not I detect you writing a letter to your groom? Did not I prevent you from running away with your footman? And this is dove-like purity, is it! O give me patience, give me patience!
Sir! Sir! I'm not to be treated with this incivility—I, who am chaste as Vesta's self—What do I say! chaste as the virgins of Vesta, and am worthy of being admitted into her temple, to trim her holy lamps.
What, is that ancient head of thine turned with romance too? Vesta and her virgins! O Rhadamanthus! I shall soon be as familiar with all the gods and goddesses, with their grand-sons, and their great-grand-sons, as I am with farmer Gilbert and our old parson.
Sir, my Lord Aberford is just arrived.
Arrived! just arrived! What shall I do? I'm in a fine state to receive him! John introduce him.
What shall I do! Shew him to this room, and tell my daughter to prepare to receive him!—What shall I do! what shall I do.
O heavens! had I but known of his coming to-day! I'm not fit to be seen! O, this unbecoming dress! these intolerable ruffles! I shall faint to appear before him.
Why, you make as much noise as if it was to [...] he intended his visit.
And why not to me? Let me tell [Page 7] you, brother, the elegancies of my person are equal to those of your daughter, and will not be overlook'd, I dare say.
Dear sister, if you would pay more attention to the ornaments of your mind, and less to those of your person; if you would strive to adorn that with elegance, it would not be overlook'd I'm sure.
My Lord Aberford.
My Lord, I'm sensible of the honour you confer upon me by this visit, and shall ever gratefully remember it.
It is an honour, I assure you, Sir Lambert Martin, for I have not travelled ten miles before these ten years; since my daughter left me, there was a grief—O! had she married as I wish'd her, a man of your age, I might now have been happy; but, as I said before, since she left me I have led a retired life; but, thinking myself not old enough to relinquish all the joys of this world, I'm resolved to marry, and when possessed of your charming daughter, I shall be the happiest man, hey boy!
My Lord, my daughter is unworthy the honour of becoming your wife; she is perverse; may, I believe her head is turned; for, ever since I informed her that I was resolved you should be her husband, she has been seized with wild extravagant fits.
I must tell him, and then I fear he wont have her.
Fits! what sort of fits? O, 'tis her joy at the idea of becoming a lady! let me see her—I'll soon cure her of her fits.
No, my Lord, you shall not be deceived; she's writing mad: if she was to see you, old and lame as you are, she would fancy you to be the beautiful Adonis—but here she comes, and—
Niece, I'm amazed at your dressing yourself in that manner; those flowers are ridiculous.
These flowers are sacred, they grew on the borders of the river Permessus; Apollo and the muses sung whilst I gathered them: and O, the transports that I felt to drink the immortal waters! inspiration, joy thrill'd my bosom! I feel it now, and now, and there Apollo sings.
Hark, what heavenly sounds! 'tis the harp of Zetus. Now Triton blows his silver sounding trumpet: and now it echoes o'er the foaming wave; and now, and now—
Lord have mercy on me! how she's frightened me! I shall be glad to get away—her looks are frantic—don't you think she should be confined?
She is harmless, quite harmless—Now are all my hopes destroyed.
If she is quite harmless, Sir Lambert, I might venture to take her; three thousand a year might perhaps bring her to her senses.
O! I must do an act that will immortalize my name! What shall it be? Ah? I have it—I'll fly to Sol, and — my knees implore, that he will let me guide [...] flaming charriot of the sun; and then! and then! Phaeton like, I'll set the world on fire.
O, Sir Lambert, I dare not venture; she would set my house on fire, and burn all my family pictures. O, I dare not venture, I dare not venture! Lord, how she looks at me! don't let her hurt me—O! I'm terrified.
I knew 'twas he—his azure flowing vest, his joy inspiring face, his flaming eye, 'tis Jupiter! O! how he smiles, and shining stars are round him! I will, I will embrace him, though I share the fate of hapless Semele.
Ah! he flies from me, and see he mounts in air! borne on yon silver floating cloud, he mounts, and leaves me here to sigh and mourn his absence.
I am sorry for your misfortune, Sir Lambert; she is a fine girl, but she is incurable; she ought to be bled, and put in a cold bath, and kept on water gruel. I must be going, I dare not stop all night with you, for I'm afraid that she will do something to immortalize her name.
My Lord, you must not go, the evening is too far advanced; depend upon it, she will not hurt you—she is harmless as yourself.
O no, that she is not, that she is not! I expect her to fly at me again in a moment.
Hark! 'tis Calliope calls me; and O how sweet, how heavenly are her strains! celestial sounds break in upon my ear!
Do go after her, Sir Lambert, and see that she is confined, and does no harm. I am happy to think my house is far enough from yours, or I should be in perpetual fear—I must not venture, I find I must not venture.
What a miserable fellow I am!—But this one daughter, and plague me so!—O! to think she loses three thousand pounds a year by her folly!—I shall run wild too, and fancy I'm in company with the Devil upon Two Sticks.
SCENE
—A Garden.—Moon-light.
By all that's unlucky, I'm the most unfortunate dog in Christendom! Here have I been wandering about for these two hours, and can neither see maid nor mistress. O Matilda! dear, cruel Matilda, where art thou? Perhaps entertaining thy old lover with thy wild chimeras, whilst thy youthful adorer is venting his sighs to the moon.—I am all impatience to hear how her scheme of madness has succeeded—I hope she'll frighten the old Lord out of his matrimonial fit, and then she may be mine. I'll venture under her window; perhaps I may make her hear me—somebody approaches, I'll retire.
O beauteous scene!—O rapture breathing night!—Behold the moon, sublimely wandering through the gold and sable clouds! Ah! how lovely she appears; but all her charms are lost [Page 11] on me, who am thus forced to stray alone. O! for a youthful, rapturous, tender swain, to whom I could impart my gentle thoughts, and on his shoulder fondly lean and talk of love, and sigh, and blush, and—
—O heavens! a man! young and handsome! O! I shall die, I shall faint! he does not observe me—now, if I could fall into a charming fit, that is, faint away with an elegant grace, it would have a most delightful effect, it would make him mine forever.—Oh!
Oh! for assistance—O! I faint!
Now, I know my cue.
How fair, how beautiful she looks; open those sparkling eyes, thou loveliest child of beauty! What a heaven of charms is here! Timandra was never half so bewitching; her fit lasts long; egad, I shall be tired soon.
Ah! she revives, and looks like the sun in a blaze of charms, breaking thro' the gates of the morning.—How fares the fairest maid I ever gazed on?
Oh, Sir! I am all confusion—I am covered with blushes to think what trouble I must have given you. O! I am still very faint, I shall fatigue you with leaning on your arm; there is a chair in the next walk, if you will be so tenderly obliging to lead me to it, I shall remain indebted to you forever.
Name it not, Madam! I shall think myself the happiest of mankind, if I can be of service to so charming an object.—Where could such perfection hide itself? Behold, at your feet, the slave of your charms; nor will he rise, till you give him leave to hope—
My dear Sir, I beg you will rise; if you persevere in your affection, I will give you leave to hope that I shall return it; for, with blushes I own it,—
—you are the man I have long sighed for.
Pardon me, angelic sweetness! but I believe you never saw me before.
Now, to display the beauties of my mind.
No, Sir, but in idea, I have often beheld you, conversed with you, walked with you, and O, Sir! I have the most brilliant imagination in the world; my fancy is exquisite, and my taste, was you to be acquainted with me, you would find to be elegantly fine—
O! thou art all accomplishment, all grace, all love; but are not the sighs of Zephyrus, and the falling dews too cold for that soft frame? Come let me attend you into the house? Why that sigh? Will my company be disagreeable?
Ah, no! Witness, the newly kindled flame, that warms my heart; but, dear Sir, my brother may be offended.
Banish all fears, love surmounts every obstacle, braves every danger, scorns every fear.
SCENE—Another part of the Garden.
Great guns and small arms! Here's a pretty time of night to be kicking my heels and rubbing my hands under the mournful shades of the weeping willow. My master, Captain Rupert, thinks every body is as warm as himself; but faith he's mistaken. This love makes a person as hot in December as in the middle of the dog-days.—Here I left him about an hour ago, sighing and groaning for his Desdemona. Now, was I in his place, instead of reconnoitering the out works, I'd storm the castle, force the battlements, and carry off the prize triumphant—None of your whining lovers for me—I have been bred up to the wars; my country is my mistress; my heart, my honour, my life are her's; and like an ardent lover, I'd die to defend her—Hey! who comes here? Matilda's maid.
La! Mr. Frolic, you are very rude; I doesn't suffer such liberties to be taken with me, I assure you; I that am as great a wirgin as a westal, as Miss Martin says—Now, if ever you hopes to win my affection, you must imitate the heroine of some great romance, such as Don Quixote, for instance—Why, I have heard how he conquer'd armies, subdued towns, and fought giants to gain HIS Doll—Cinca and I thinks, as I have often thought, as how I am worthy of being traduced into some helegant novel; am not I, my dear Frolic?
Why yes, Mrs. Dolly, the novel would be very fine to be sure, were you the heroine; and to gain your heart, my charmer, I would do as much for you as Don Quixote ever did for his Dulcinea.
Nay, but that's impossible.
By my soul it's true, for I'd rout every flock of sheep in the adjoining common; and, with my sword drawn, I'd quarrel and fight with the first wind-mill that chanced to place itself in my way.
Sheep and wind-mills, Mr. Frolic! ( passion) you mean this as an insult upon my judgment! I that have received daily lectures from the learned Miss Martin, who is the delight of Mal-pomene, Polly Hymnia, Call-ye-up, and the distressing muse of tragedy, Thalia!
Come, my dear, learned Dolly, let us retire, or such a combination of hard words will so bewilder my ideas, that I shall forget to call my master up.
Call your master up! Why, you illiteral man, you! I meant the muse Call-ye-up.
O! O! I suppose you mean Calliope, the muse of eloquence; upon my soul I don't wonder at the brilliancy of your expressions, now I find you are under her influence; but I'm afraid, my dear Dolly, nature never formed you for a votary to the muses.
Nature never formed me! so you mean it as a disparagement to my person;—let me tell you, that I am the toast of the village; that John, our footman, is dying for me; and that Dick, the gardener, compared my neck to the full blown sunflower, and my cheeks to the beautiful crimson of the opening poppy—Nature never formed me, indeed! Well then, one of the graces did; and [Page 15] though every one is in love with my wit, I've more sense than to run mad, as my Mistress Matilda has done: but, I supposes, it is because her father is going to force her to marry an helpless old Lord, when she might have your master, a smart young Captain; but he has no money, and so he dares not openly to discover his passion. Well, for my part, I likes a young man that hasn't a farthing, better than a rich old Lord with his weight in gold.
ACT II. SCENE—A Chamber.
I Am quite a new man; wine has done wonders, I'm now as bold as Hector. Matilda, I defy thee, and I'll marry thee in spite of all thy vagaries—Hem! hem! I'll let her see who shall be lord and master.
Where is the hero I so long have sought? this perjured, false, this unrelenting Jason? O tell me where he is, or by yon orb, yon lucid orb, by every star that gems the face of night, by the dire gulph that glows with endless fire, by all that's great and powerful do I swear, I'll do a deed shall make pale nature tremble—I'll rend, I'll rend, I'll rend—
O Lord have mercy on me, how dreadfully she talks! my courage begins to fail me; wine cannot save me—how shall I make my escape! She stands betwixt me and the door—I can't get by her—O! what must I do? I expect every moment that she'll rend me!—O! O!—and not a soul in the room to save me!—
Thou slave, avoid the fury of my rage—This arm shall whirl thee low upon the ground, shall tear thy treacherous heart; for thou art Jason, thou art the false, the unrelenting Jason.
No, no! I am not Jason—indeed I am not Jason, and on my knees I beg for mercy—
—Don't hurt me, for I am but a poor old man—O! I must cry out for assistance.
No, thou art young, thou art beautiful; but thou art false and cruel, and now shalt feel my vengeance; here is the weapon that must end thy treasons.
O! I dare not look—it is doubtless a dagger! Why did I think of marrying! Why did I come here! Now must I die a timeless death—I that am innocent as a lamb, must be slaughtered.
Save my life, my precious life! do not, do not kill me!—
Traitor, thou diest this moment!
O! I am mortally wounded! Help! murder! help!—O! I am dying!—Help! murder! help!
My dear Lord Aberford, what is the matter? Lord, I am frightened to death—O! I shall faint with fear—tell us, Sir, the cause of this alarm.
Tell you! Ah! I have no time to lose—I have but a moment to live—I, I have received a mortal wound; the dagger has certainly pierced a vital part; and now I repent my ill usage to my nephew—if I could but see him before I die I should be happy.
Behold him here before you—and indeed, my Lord, I pity the deplorable situation I [Page 18] now see you in. But what has been the cause of this dreadful calamity?
I have no time to tell you; give me pen, ink and paper.
There, I have now made amends.
I shall die in peace; but I should have liked to live a little longer.
What do I see! I here find myself endowed with two thousand a year. O, my Lord, how shall I sufficiently thank you? But you may yet recover.
O! never, never! and if I do, I have more than enough to live retired upon.
But, my Lord, you are going to marry the charming Matilda.
I marry her! O! she's a devil! 'tis she has wounded me, nephew; avoid her; she's mad, stark mad; and if I die, I beg that she may be brought to justice. O! what a pain in my back! 'tis like a violent rheumatism—do send for a Doctor—O! O! I die! I die!
Ah! he is going, and I will never cease to lament over him—let me kiss his dear cold hand, and close his eyes for ever!—I'll go bespeak a coffin for him, that he may be interred with his honourable ancestors. My dear, dear uncle! how miserable I am for the loss of you!—
And I'll sympathise in your misfortunes, join in your tears, and give you sigh for sigh: I'll go and order the best room for him to be laid out in—Do not be too much afflicted, all will be shortly well again. Excuse my absence, I'll soon return to give you comfort.
And I'll go and bespeak his coffin, for he's certainly gone.
Nephew, I am not dead, indeed I am not dead—O Lord! O Lord! here shall I be put into my coffin alive and well—Nephew, why nephew, I say I am not dead, indeed I am not dead!
I see you are not dead; but what's the matter friend? you seem very much alarmed.
Dear Sir, have you not heard I'm wounded, mortally wounded? I am, sure.
Wounded! and in my house! who gave you the wound? and where did you receive it?
O Sir! your daughter gave it me—'tis in my back, and I shall shortly die.
My daughter! O heavens! let me look at the wound—'tis in your back you say.
Why, here is not one speck of blood to be seen; the waistcoat is quite entire: you must be wrong—I'm sure she could not hurt you.
Now, if all this pain should be only the effects of fear!
—Dear Sir Lambert, look again; I think I am wounded, at least I hope I am wounded—O! I would give my head to be wounded—If I am not wounded, how ridiculous I shall look.
My Lord you may make yourself perfectly happy, for I can assure you that you are not wounded.
Make myself happy! I shall never be happy any more—Now would I give a man one thousand pounds for a flight cut on the back—How [Page 20] I shall be laughed at! they'll put me in the newspapers, and I shall be branded with the name of coward as long as I live. I had better have died with a wound than of grief.
Ha! ha! ha! I can't help laughing—ha! ha! ha! I beg your pardon, but I can't help it—And so you fancied yourself mortally wounded!—ha! ha! ha!—What weapon did she make use of to terrify you so?
O, Lord, Sir, my fear would not let me look, but I believe it was a dagger or a carving-knife: and she uttered such dreadful words that fill'd my poor heart with horror; my fear was so great, that I supposed she had wounded me; but I think she has not, I think she has not—if I once get away from this house I shall be happy. Have you seen my nephew, Sir Lambert?
No; why, is your nephew here?
Yes, he came in just time enough to save me, or I should have certainly died with fear, and I have rewarded him with two thousand pounds a year for his trouble.
I shall be happy in having the pleasure to know him: I hear he is a fine young man, and since you have rejected my daughter, I shall have no objection to bestow her on him.
He marry your daughter! No, no Sir, he will not marry a mad woman. O, my poor back! it still aches with pain, as if there was a wound.
But, my dear Lord Aberford, my daughter was lately a charming, sensible girl, and there is no doubt but she will speedily recover her senses, for I begin to suspect that you was the cause of her madness.
I the cause of her madness! How could I be the cause of her madness?—She's nearly been the cause of my death I know.
My Lord, I pity, but I cannot help smiling at your misfortunes, and you yourself own that they are very laughable.
Well, well, I shall have no objection to give my consent to the match, provided this affair be kept a secret; for if it is known, O! I shall be caricatured; I shall be undone!
Depend upon it, it shall never be divulged.
Well, then, if my nephew dares venture—but I think he dare not—he may marry her. But, Lord! Lord! he's gone to bespeak my coffin—it is sure to be known—O! it is sure to be known.
To bespeak your coffin! ha! ha! ha! well, I'll take care that you are not put into it, so don't frighten yourself.
I should not be so much frightened at that neither, Sir Lambert.
You have more courage than I suspected, my Lord; there are few men that would not be afraid of being put alive into their graves.
Dear Sir Lambert, don't name it, it makes me tremble.
O! my dear nephew, sure you have not bespoke my coffin!
No, my Lord; but the Doctor is below with his bag of instruments, to probe the wound and see if it be mortal.
Hush, don't speak so loud; I am not wounded, I only thought I was wounded—but indeed I wish I had been wounded.
Not wounded! heavens! what shall I say to the Doctor? But since you so earnestly wish it, and as I am ever ready to oblige you,
I'll give you a slight scar on whatever part of your body you please.
Save me! heaven defend me! save me! put up your sword, put up your sword, or I shall die this moment—O dear! O dear! you are all combined to frighten me out of my senses.
Dear uncle, I beg your pardon; it was only my desire to make you happy.
Captain Rupert, I am glad to see you—you have been the object of our discourse, and we have just now agreed upon a very serious affair: if you coincide with our wishes, you will make me very happy.
Now, if my wise uncle is going to marry me to the old virgin—
Sir, Matilda, my daughter, has a handsome fortune, an agreeable person, a—
But, nephew, she's stark wild, stark mad; but if you wish to marry her you may, that's all.
O! Sir Lambert, how shall I express my joy?—My Lord, how shall I thank you for your goodness? you have made me the happiest of mankind—and must the charming Matilda then be mine?
Yes, and if you can cure her of her fits, she will be worth having.
Leave that to me; but where's the charming maid!
Oh! he doubtless means me—
I come, Sir, covered with blushes; I come to own a mutual flame and make my lover blessed.
Hey day! what have we here? make your lover blessed! why, he is speaking of Matilda, my daughter; you own a mutual flame! why, he means Matilda.
Sir Lambert, I know who he means. No, no, Captain Rupert has more discernment, more prudence, and more discretion than to make choice of one so much my inferior in every respect.
Nephew, is she your choice? Ha! ha! ha! I can't help laughing in spite of my misfortunes: well, you must confess that I have the better taste.
Captain, I shall be obliged to you for an explanation.
Pardon me, Sir Lambert, for indulging your sister's weakness, for my intentions were laudable; I did it with a view to open her eyes, that she might see the impropriety of her conduct. I found her breathing soft sighs to the moon, and, in the language of romance, wishing for a youthful adorer. Chance threw me in her way. She became enamoured with my person; but I believe had it been my footman he would have been equally fortunate. I bestowed encomiums on her, which might have flattered an angel; and she, supposing all a just tribute to her beauty, eagerly believed them to be true. Forgive me, Madam, for thus exposing your secrets; I hope it will warn you to be more prudent in future. Believe me, Madam, I have a respect, nay, veneration for you, because you are the aunt of my charming Matilda; but remember that your person has long since lost its attraction, and I would advise you to lay by those romantic notions, and become a useful member of society.
Oh! I shall die with rage; I shall expire with vexation. Sir, you are—you are—but my grief wont let me tell you what you are. Oh!—
—I shall never survive this disappointment—O! you cruel, you barbarous deceiver.
Heavens! what do I behold? Capt. Rupert!
You now behold the tenderest, truest swain that ever breath'd adoration at the shrine of love, and with my Matilda's consent, I shall be the happiest votary Hymen e'er could boast of.
Yes, he shall be your husband, Matilda, if you will promise to frighten me no more. But, Lord, Lord, I shall not recover this two months! how could you do so you little jade?
My Lord, I beg your pardon for the fear I have given you; and as I have frightened you into your senses, I am amply repaid for my trouble.
Come, my child, we shall now be happy; I here give you to an honourable gentleman, one who will deserve all your affection.
And I receive her as the greatest blessing heaven could bestow. Charming Matilda! I will do every thing in my power to deserve your warmest love.
And to my Rupert, I will ever prove myself a duteous wife.