Re-enter WAITER.
Waiter. Your breakfast is ready, sir.
O’Prompt. Faith, that’s good news, and as soon as my master has done, I shall make free with the larder myself.
Tactic. Nay, O’Prompt, you need not be so ceremonious.
O’Prompt. Ceremonious — not at all. Only I make it a point of good manners never to feed before my master.
Tactic. As you please.
[Exeunt TACTIC and WAITER.
Comfit (aside). I must find out this fellow’s scheme: I’ll talk to him. (Advances)
O’Prompt (aside). There’s a mighty suspicious-looking chap! He has the air of a burn-bailey. I’ll try and find out. A-a-hem!
Comfit. Good morning, my friend.
O’Prompt. Yours: yours.
Comfit (aside). What a sly-looking dog! I hope you like the air of Warwickshire?
O’Prompt. Pretty well. It’s keen enough to get one a good wholesome appetite.
Comfit. I presume it’s peculiarly attractive to your master — being a dilettante?
O’Prompt (aside). A dil-dil-dilettante! Botheration! what’s that? Sh! it’s the law term for a runaway debtor.
Comfit. There are several other gentlemen of his description in the neighbourhood.
O’Prompt (aside). Then I suppose he’s come down with his pocket full of writs.
Comfit. At the house of one Comfit, an old country codger, that’s only fit to be knocked down.
O’Prompt. Ah! the dirty old vagabond! I’ll knock him down with all the pleasure in life.
Comfit (aside). Here’s a pretty rascal! — May I ask to what branch of art your master is particularly partial? —
O’ Prompt (aside). He wants to pump me; but I’ll be close.
Comfit. Painting is an elegant art.
O’Prompt. Very elegant.
Comfit. Music has charms.
O’Prompt. ‘To soothe a savage rock, to soften oaks, to bend the knotted breast.’ That’s what you were going to say. Oh! how touchingly my sweet Shelah Granore used to recite that speech, when she acted Almeria in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company! Yes, I like a touch on the harp.
Comfit. And perhaps you are fond of theatricals?
O’Prompt (aside). Och! he has found us both out. I’ll dissemble with him. — No: I don’t like theatricals at all, at all.
Comfit. No! I thought —
O’Prompt. You thought wrong. I never belonged to Mr. O’Tagrag’s company. I never performed Macbeth, King Lear, or Coriolanus.
Comfit. I don’t suppose you ever did.
O’Prompt. Hark ye, old one! Don’t think to palaver me. I’m too cunning for you.
Comfit. How?
O’Prompt. I’ve smoked you: that’s all.
Comfit. Smoked me! —
O’Prompt. And we’ll carry the day in spite of your teeth.
Comfit (aside). Unparalleled impertinence! How could the rascal discover me?
Re-enter TACTIC.
Tactic. O’Prompt!
O’ Prompt. Your honour! — Ah! it’s all up with us now. (Aside.)
Comfit. I think I know that face.
O’Prompt (aside). I dare say you do, and be hanged for a villainous tipstave!
Comfit (aside). It’s the son of my old friend Tactic. Here is some mistake. He’s no dilettante. I think I may venture to speak to him.
O’Prompt (aside). Now comes the writ, and the tap on the shoulder.
Comfit. Mr. Tactic, your most obedient.
Tactic. Sir, you have the advantage of me.
Comfit. In this disguise you don’t recollect old Gregory Comfit, your father’s most intimate friend.
Tactic. What, my old friend Comfit! How are you, my boy? —
O’Prompt (aside). So! all’s well again.
Tactic. I have not seen you this century.
Comfit. Your century is about two years.
Tactic. When I last saw you, you were flourishing in the city with a large fortune, a capital business, and a fine jolly old wife.
Comfit. And now I’m flourishing in the country with a young one.
Tactic. Indeed!
Comfit. A pretty bargain I’ve made of it. I’ve tied myself up to a girl — a dashing extravagant girl — that has filled my house with foreign fooleries, and a whole crew of dilettanti! But I’ll tell you a secret: she thinks I am in Ireland now; and here I am, incog., to take observations.
Tactic. Jealous, by all that’s fantastical!
O’Prompt (aside). Jealous! I’ll have rare fun with this old merry-andrew.
Comfit. Then there’s another plague — my daughter. Did you ever see her?
Tactic. Never. You kept her constantly at Mr. Carney’s Academy to prevent her being infected with fashionable follies. I hope the plan succeeded.
Comfit. No, it did not. If my brains had not been addled, I should have known better than to send her to a boarding-school for that purpose. She thinks of nothing but dressing, dancing, and masquerading. However, she’ll get married soon, and then I wash my hands of her:
Tactic. Is she engaged?
Comfit. No. She has been bidden for several times by some of my wife’s cronies; but I don’t like to throw her away on a fellow with a thimbleful of brains that is only in love with the mopusses.
Tactic (aside). Mopusses! — Then you intend to come down with the Spanish?
Comfit. To the tune of twenty thousand.
Tactic. And that is all they court her for?
Comfit. Nothing more.
Tactic. Sordid scoundrels!
Comfit. Interested dogs!
Tactic. I hate a mercenary rascal.
Comfit. It’s my greatest antipathy.
Tactic. Is your daughter pretty?
Comfit. Hum — she’s well enough.
Tactic. Lively?
Comfit. Lively with a vengeance!
Tactic. Accomplished?
Comfit. So I’m told.
Tactic. Come, come, my old friend; you are too discontented. I am convinced, from what you say, your daughter is a very amiable girl.
Comfit. The deuce you are!
Tactic. I’m quite in love with your description.
Comfit. My description!
Tactic. You’ve set me on fire! She’s not engaged, you say?
Comfit. No.
Tactic. I’ll have her.
Comfit. You!
Tactic. I. I’m tired of a single life, and she’s just the girl I want.
Comfit. I hope you’ll ask my consent.
Tactic. Oh! that of course you can’t refuse.
Comfit. Can’t I?
Tactic. Refuse the sincerest friend you have in the world, the son of your old schoolfellow? Impossible!
Comfit. Why, I believe you’re an honest fellow enough, as times go. I heard your father died and left you a considerable property.
Tactic. He did so.
O’Prompt (aside). But the devil a penny of it is left now.
Comfit. You are so abrupt.
Tactic. The only way of doing business. What say you?
Comfit. Why, see the girl first, and then if you like each other —
Tactic. Enough. Come along.
Comfit. Remember I’m incog. I can’t introduce you.
Tactic. Never mind. Give me a letter and I’ll introduce myself. Where is the house?
Comfit. Not five hundred yards off. I’ll direct you.
Tactic. Take your breakfast, O’Prompt, and follow me.
O’Promfit. Faith, good wholesome advice, and I’ll take it.
Tactic. You may just step in with me, and scratch off a letter; and then for love and victory!
[Exeunt COMFIT and TACTIC.
O’Prompt. My master’s love for his unknown sweetheart won’t be the death of him. He does not feel the tender passion so keenly as I do. It was very near being the death of me when I acted Romeo in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company. Ohone! it goes to my heart when I think of it.
Song.
W
hen first I began to talk big,
I chose the theatrical path, sir;
I put on a tragedy wig,
And flourished my dagger of lath, sir.
Love rais’d such a flame in my heart,
That I fancy it is not quite cool yet,
When in Romeo I strutted my part,
And Shelah Granore was my Juliet.
Her lip was so prettily curl’d;
Her heart than a turtle’s was kinder;
But one day she walked out of the world,
And left her poor Romeo behind her.
In despair at the cruel control
Of fortune so fierce and so frisky,
I seiz’d on our tragedy bowl —
And fill’d up a brimmer of whisky.
Says I, ‘This shall finish all strife’
(And my tears they fell faster and thicker),
‘I’ll soon put an end to my life —
But I’ll first put an end to my liquor.’
The curtain drew up for Macbeth:
I paus’d between glory and sorrow —
Says I: ‘I’m resolv’d upon death,
But I’ll just put it off till to-morrow.’
[Exit.
SCENE II. — AN APARTMENT IN COMFIT’S HOUSE. Two CLOSETS IN FLAT.
Enter METAPHOR, with a manuscript.
Metaphor.
‘Incumbent darkness bursts the trembling rays, With smould’ring smoke, and adamantine blaze!’ That’s a magnificent image!
Enter SHADOW and CHROMATIC.
Shadow. My dear Metaphor, I hope we do not intrude on your sublime meditations.
Metaphor. Amphion and Michael Angelo intrude! Impossible.
Shadow. What have you there?
Metaphor. It is part of the seventeenth canto of my poem on the Principles of Astonishment. Give me your candid opinion.
Shadow (reads).
‘O’er the red lake the liquid flames aspire, And wrathful witches drown themselves in fire.’
Astonishing indeed! This is a very glowing example of the ‘thoughts that breathe and words that burn.’ It shall be the next subject of my pencil. It affords ample scope for warm colouring.
Chromatic. And for impassioned music. I’ll arrange it as a rondo.
Metaphor. Oh, gentlemen, you overwhelm me with your favours.
Shadow. Apropos, Metaphor, how comes on your love affair with Miss Comfit?
Metaphor. I have no reason to complain of the young lady’s severity. But, between ourselves, the old codger is a little bit of a quiz.
Shadow. Egad, so he is; a quiz of the first water. But that is among friends.
Chromatic. What think you of Miss Emma?
Shadow. She’s pretty and pleasing, but wants the grand essential.
Metaphor. That’s a great blot in her composition.
Chromatic. A complete bar to perfection.
Shadow. Here come the ladies, with our Roscius, Sir Harry Flourish.
Enter SIR HARRY FLOURISH, MRS. COMFIT, MISS COMFIT, MISS CADENCE, and Miss MELPOMENE DASHALL.
Sir Harry. Music, painting, and poetry! We may expect some brilliant emanation from such a constellation of talents.
Mrs. Comfit. What is become of Emma? She is always moping by herself. She seems as indifferent to our masked ball as she is to our private theatricals. I am astonished at her want of taste.
Sir Harry. She never seemed much to admire my tragic exertions.
Metaphor. Nor my didactic poem.
Chromatic. She is totally insensible to the melody of my Cremona.
Shadow. And to my series of paintings from the Orlando Furioso.
Mrs. Comfit. None but superior minds can relish the beauties of art.
Miss Comfit. She actually prefers a forest to a landscape-garden, and a natural river to an artificial cascade.
Sir Harry. Prodigious!
Mrs. Comfit. How shall we contrive to kill the day?
Shadow. We may kill part of it in the temple of Ariosto, and hear the seventeenth canto of the Principles of Astonishment.
Metaphor. Sir, you make me proud.
Shadow. Shall I have the pleasure — (to Mrs. Comfit).
Metaphor. May I presume — (to Miss Comfit).
Chromatic. Permit me — (to Miss Cadence).
Sir Harry. Allow me the happiness — (to Miss Melpomene).
Metaphor.
Then let the muse the wond’rous tale pursue Of fairies bathing in ethereal dew, Of elves and giants startling all beholders, And men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.
[Exeunt.
Enter EMMA.
Emma. I believe every heart in the house is lighter than mine. I am mortified by the consciousness of dependence, and derive little pleasure from the splendour that surrounds me. Since the death of my dear unfortunate father small indeed has been my portion of happiness. Would my uncle were returned! My new aunt and my thoughtless cousin delight only in dissipation and frivolity.
Song.
How blest is the lot of the poor village maiden, Who breathes not a sigh for the pageants of wealth; For whom ev’ry flow’ret with sweetness is laden, Whom the fields crown with pleasure, the breezes with health!
Though the Indies may boast of their far-spreading treasures, Her heart for their sake would not tempt her to roam; She thinks not of more than the innocent pleasures, The simple delights and endearments of home.
Oh! had I been plac’d in some hamlet surrounded By green-waving meadows and soft-flowing rills, How lightly my steps through the valleys had bounded, And courted the zephyrs that breathe on the hills!
Be mine the sweet pleasures that charm in reflection; I prize not the joys of the proud-swelling dome; May my dwelling be cheered with the voice of affection, And the simple delights and endearments of home.
My Southampton lover, I suppose, no longer thinks of me. I was silly enough to conceal my name; but I intended to have revealed it at last, and my sudden departure prevented me. Heigho! I wish I could forget him.
Enter TACTIC, behind.
Tactic. Found the door open, and nobody in the way; so walked in. Who is this?
Emma. He was rather volatile, but I believe he was honourable.
Tactic. Impudence befriend me! (advances).
Madam, I have the honour — My Southampton charmer, by all that’s miraculous! (aside).
Emma. Heavens! ’tis himself.
Tactic. Yes, my angel, it is himself indeed; poor Dick Tactic, whom you once condescended to smile upon, and then left to hang himself.
Emma. I hope you will acquit me of intentional deception, when I assure you that my departure was entirely unforeseen, and that I most sincerely rejoice to meet you again.
Tactic. My dear, dear girl! you more than repay me for all my sufferings. I have travelled through the three kingdoms in search of you. Emma. Indeed!
Tactic. But with very little hope of finding you, for you never would tell me your name.
Emma. You shall know it now — Emma Comfit. Tactic (aside). This is glorious luck! — I guessed as much.
Emma. Really!
Tactic. Mr. Comfit and I are old friends; I met him in Dublin, he told me some particulars of his family, and I knew you by his description.
Emma. I can scarcely tell how to believe you. This is a most extraordinary story.
Tactic. This letter will confirm it.
Emma. It is not directed.
Tactic. My impatience made me consider a direction needless. The contents are sufficient.
Emma (reads). ‘Dublin, June the eleventh. My dear girl, — The bearer, Mr. Tactic, is a young man of family and fortune, who has my full permission to pay his addresses to you. — Yours, with great affection and violent haste, Gregory Comfit.’ — This is astonishing.
Tactic. I hope it is not unwelcome.
Emma. My duty and gratitude to the writer of this letter forbid that anything from him should be unwelcome. You have taken me by surprise; permit me to retire for the pres
ent, and if my good opinion be your aim, I think from present appearances you have some claim to it. [Exit.
Tactic. Bravo! Dick Tactic, you’re in high luck, my fine fellow! This is hardly fair dealing, by the bye. If I had leisure to reflect I should be rather ashamed of myself. But I have not time for repentance now. I must put it off till after I’m married.
Enter O’PROMPT.
Tactic. I desired you to wait without.
O’Prompt. Faith, and I desired myself to walk in. You may think it mighty agreeable, while you are making love in the house, for me to be kicking my heels at the door, but there are two opinions on that subject.
Tactic. Well, I am too happy to be angry. O’Prompt, you dog, give me joy.
O’Prompt. What, have you fascinated the heiress?
Tactic. The heiress turns out to be the identical girl whom I sought so long in vain; and now she is mine, and her fortune is mine, and the whole world is mine!
O’ Prompt. Bravo! Hurrah!
Tactic. I am ether — I am essence — I could jump over Mount Atlas! Follow me, Mr. O’Tagrag!
[Exit.
O’Prompt. All in good time. If I stay here a little longer I may meet with an adventure. Somebody’s coming. Here’s a closet. As I used to say when I acted little Falstaff in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company, ‘I’ll ensconce me behind the arras!’ — (Goes into the closet.)
Enter METAPHOR and Miss COMFIT.
Metaphor. How long, dear cynosure of my affections, will you continue to sport with the feelings of your devoted admirer?
O’Prompt (peeping out). A mighty fine-spoken prig!
Miss Comfit. Oh, Mr. Metaphor, if I could but believe one half of what you say! — but you poets are such dealers in fiction.
Metaphor. Believe it! my dear Miss Comfit.
O’Prompt (aside). Och! this is my master’s flame. I begin to smell a rat.
Metaphor. Put me to the proof. Command, and I obey.
O’Prompt (aside). I’ll put you to the proof presently!
Miss Comfit. But suppose I should be weak enough to consent to elope with you, would you not repent your engagement?
Metaphor. Doubt that the sun is fire —
Miss Comfit. Spare your protestations. I will even run all risks.
Metaphor. My dear, dear angel!
O’Prompt (aside). Oh the double-fac’d vixen!
Miss Comfit. Now hear my plan.
O’Prompt (aside). There are more hearers than one.
Miss Comfit. At the masquerade this evening I shall assume the character of a Sultana.
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 107