Inkle and Yarico: An opera, in three acts
Date: 2011-07-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Shipwreck survival -- Drama; Inkle; Thomas -- Drama; Yarico (Fictitious character) -- Drama; Indians of the West Indies -- Drama; British -- West Indies -- Drama; Carib Indians -- Drama; Indian women -- Drama; West Indies -- Drama

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Title: Inkle and Yarico: An opera, in three acts

Author: George Colman

Commentator: Mrs. Inchbald

Release date: July 5, 2011 [eBook #36621]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36621

Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins, David Garcia and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INKLE AND YARICO: AN OPERA, IN THREE ACTS ***

INKLE AND YARICO
INKLE—BY HEAVENS! A WOMAN!
ACT I. SCENE III.
PAINTED BY HOWARD. PUBLISHD BY LONGMAN & CO. ENGRAVD BY HEATH.

INKLE AND YARICO;
AN OPERA,
IN THREE ACTS;

AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES ROYAL
COVENT GARDEN, AND HAYMARKET.

BY
GEORGE COLMAN, the younger;

PRINTED, UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS,
FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.

WITH REMARKS
BY MRS. INCHBALD.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER ROW.

T. Davison, Whitefriars,
London.

REMARKS.

This is a drama, which might remove from Mr. Wilberforce his aversion to theatrical exhibitions, and convince him, that the teaching of moral duty is not confined to particular spots of ground; for, in those places, of all others, the doctrine is most effectually inculcated, where exhortation is the most required—the resorts of the gay, the idle, and the dissipated.

This opera was written, when the author was very young; and, should he live to be very old, he will have reason to be proud of it to his latest day—for it is one of those plays which is independent of time, of place, or of circumstance, for its value. It was popular before the subject of the abolition of the slave trade was popular. It has the peculiar honour of preceding that great question. It was the bright forerunner of alleviation to the hardships of slavery.

The trivial faults of this opera are—too much play on words (as it is called) by Trudge; and some classical allusions by other characters, in whose education such knowledge could not be an ingredient.

A fault more important, is—that the scene at the commencement of the opera, instead of Africa, is placed in America. It would undoubtedly have been a quick passage, to have crossed a fourth part of the western globe, during the interval between the first and second acts; still, as the hero and heroine of the drama were compelled to go to sea—imagination, with but little more exertion, might have given them a fair wind as well from the coast whence slaves are really brought, as from a shore where no such traffic is held 1.

As an opera, Inkle and Yarico has the singular merit not to be protected, though aided, by the power of music: the characters are so forcibly drawn, that even those performers who sing, and study that art alone, can render every part effectual: and singers and actors of future times, like those of the past, and of the present, will find every character exactly suited to their talents.

This opera has been performed in every London theatre, and in every theatre of the kingdom, with the same degree of splendid success. It would have been wonderful had its reception been otherwise; for the subject is a most interesting one, and in the treatment of it, the author has shewn taste, judgment—virtue.

1 (return)
No doubt the author would have ingenuity to argue away this objection—but that, which requires argument for its support in a dramatic work, is a subject for complaint. As slaves are imported from Africa, and never from America, the audience, in the two last acts of this play, feel as if they had been in the wrong quarter of the globe during the first act. Inkle could certainly steal a native from America, and sell her in Barbadoes, but this is not so consonant with that nice imitation of the order of things as to rank above criticism.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

COVENT GARDEN.

Inkle | Mr. Johnstone.
Sir Christopher Curry | Mr. Quick.
Campley | Mr. Davies.
Medium | Mr. Wewitzer.
Trudge | Mr. Edwin.
Mate | Mr. Darley.
Yarico | Mrs. Billington.
Narcissa | Mrs. Mountain.
Wowski | Mrs. Martyr.
Patty | Mrs. Rock.

HAYMARKET.

Inkle | Mr. Bannister, jun.
Sir Christopher Curry | Mr. Parsons.
Medium | Mr. Baddeley.
Campley | Mr. Davies.
Trudge | Mr. Edwin.
Mate | Mr. Meadows.
Yarico | Mrs. Kemble.
Narcissa | Mrs. Bannister.
Wowski | Miss George.
Patty | Mrs. Forster.

SCENE,—First on the Main of America: Afterwards in Barbadoes.

INKLE AND YARICO.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

An American Forest.

Medium. [Without.] Hilli ho! ho!

Trudge. [Without.] Hip! hollo! ho!—Hip!——

Enter Medium and Trudge.

Med. Pshaw! it's only wasting time and breath. Bawling won't persuade him to budge a bit faster, and, whatever weight it may have in some places, bawling, it seems, don't go for argument here. Plague on't! we are now in the wilds of America.

Trudge. Hip, hillio—ho—hi!——

Med. Hold your tongue, you blockhead, or——

Trudge. Lord! sir, if my master makes no more haste, we shall all be put to sword by the knives of the natives. I'm told they take off heads like hats, and hang 'em on pegs, in their parlours. Mercy on us! My head aches with the very thoughts of it. Hollo! Mr. Inkle! master; hollo!

Med. [Stops his mouth.] Head aches! Zounds, so does mine, with your confounded bawling. It's enough to bring all the natives about us; and we shall be stripped and plundered in a minute.

Trudge. Aye; stripping is the first thing that would happen to us; for they seem to be woefully off for a wardrobe. I myself saw three, at a distance, with less clothes than I have, when I get out of bed: all dancing about in black buff; just like Adam in mourning.

Med. This is to have to do with a schemer! a fellow who risks his life, for a chance of advancing his interest.—Always advantage in view! Trying, here, to make discoveries, that may promote his profit in England. Another Botany Bay scheme, mayhap. Nothing else could induce him to quit our foraging party, from the ship; when he knows every inhabitant here is not only as black as a pepper-corn, but as hot into the bargain—and I, like a fool, to follow him! and then to let him loiter behind.—Why, nephew;—Why, Inkle.—[Calling.]

Trudge. Why, Inkle——Well! only to see the difference of men! he'd have thought it very hard, now, if I had let him call so often after me. Ah! I wish he was calling after me now, in the old jog-trot way, again. What a fool was I to leave London for foreign parts!——That ever I should leave Threadneedle-street, to thread an American forest, where a man's as soon lost as a needle in a bottle of hay!

Med. Patience, Trudge! Patience! If we once recover the ship——

Trudge. Lord, sir, I shall never recover what I have lost in coming abroad. When my master and I were in London, I had such a mortal snug birth of it! Why, I was factotum.

Med. Factotum to a young merchant is no such sinecure, neither.

Trudge. But then the honour of it. Think of that, sir; to be clerk as well as own man. Only consider. You find very few city clerks made out of a man, now-a-days. To be king of the counting-house, as well as lord of the bed-chamber. Ah! if I had him but now in the little dressing-room behind the office; tying his hair, with a bit of red tape, as usual.

Med. Yes, or writing an invoice in lampblack, and shining his shoes with an ink-bottle, as usual, you blundering blockhead!

Trudge. Oh, if I was but brushing the accounts or casting up the coats! mercy on us! what's that?

Med. That! What?

Trudge. Didn't you hear a noise?

Med. Y—es—but—hush! Oh, heavens be praised! here he is at last.

Enter Inkle.

Now, nephew!

Inkle. So, Mr. Medium.

Med. Zounds, one would think, by your confounded composure, that you were walking in St. James's Park, instead of an American forest: and that all the beasts were nothing but good company. The hollow trees, here, sentry boxes, and the lions in 'em, soldiers; the jackalls, courtiers; the crocodiles, fine women; and the baboons, beaus. What the plague made you loiter so long?

Inkle. Reflection.

Med. So I should think; reflection generally comes lagging behind. What, scheming, I suppose; never quiet. At it again, eh? What a happy trader is your father, to have so prudent a son for a partner! Why, you are the carefullest Co. in the whole city. Never losing sight of the main chance; and that's the reason, perhaps, you lost sight of us, here, on the main of America.

Inkle. Right, Mr. Medium. Arithmetic, I own, has been the means of our parting at present.

Trudge. Ha! A sum in division, I reckon.

[Aside.

Med. And pray, if I may be so bold, what mighty scheme has just tempted you to employ your head, when you ought to make use of your heels?

Inkle. My heels! Here's pretty doctrine! Do you think I travel merely for motion? What, would you have a man of business come abroad, scamper extravagantly here and there and every where, then return home, and have nothing to tell, but that he has been here and there and every where? 'Sdeath, sir, would you have me travel like a lord?

Med. No, the Lord forbid!

Inkle. Travelling, uncle, was always intended for improvement; and improvement is an advantage; and advantage is profit, and profit is gain. Which in the travelling translation of a trader, means, that you should gain every advantage of improving your profit. I have been comparing the land, here, with that of our own country.

Med. And you find it like a good deal of the land of our own country——cursedly encumbered with black legs, I take it.

Inkle. And calculating how much it might be made to produce by the acre.

Med. You were?

Inkle. Yes; I was proceeding algebraically upon the subject.

Med. Indeed!

Inkle. And just about extracting the square root.

Med. Hum!

Inkle. I was thinking too, if so many natives could be caught, how much they might fetch at the West Indian markets.

Med. Now let me ask you a question, or two, young cannibal catcher, if you please.

Inkle. Well.

Med. Ar'n't we bound for Barbadoes; partly to trade, but chiefly to carry home the daughter of the governor, Sir Christopher Curry, who has till now been under your father's care, in Threadneedle-street, for polite English education?

Inkle. Granted.

Med. And isn't it determined, between the old folks, that you are to marry Narcissa, as soon as we get there?

Inkle. A fixed thing.

Med. Then what the devil do you do here, hunting old hairy negroes, when you ought to be obliging a fine girl in the ship? Algebra, too! You'll have other things to think of when you are married, I promise you. A plodding fellow's head, in the hands of a young wife, like a boy's slate, after school, soon gets all its arithmetic wiped off: and then it appears in its true simple state: dark, empty, and bound in wood, Master Inkle.

Inkle. Not in a match of this kind. Why, it's a table of interest from beginning to end, old Medium.

Med. Well, well, this is no time to talk. Who knows but, instead of sailing to a wedding, we may get cut up, here, for a wedding dinner: tossed up for a dingy duke, perhaps, or stewed down for a black baronet, or eat raw by an inky commoner?

Inkle. Why sure you ar'n't afraid?

Med. Who, I afraid? Ha! ha! ha! No, not I! What the deuce should I be afraid of? Thank Heaven I have a clear conscience, and need not be afraid of any thing. A scoundrel might not be quite so easy on such an occasion; but it's the part of an honest man not to behave like a scoundrel: I never behaved like a scoundrel—for which reason I am an honest man, you know. But come—I hate to boast of my good qualities.

Inkle. Slow and sure, my good, virtuous Mr. Medium! Our companions can be but half a mile before us: and, if we do but double their steps, we shall overtake 'em at one mile's end, by all the powers of arithmetic.

Med. Oh curse your arithmetic!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Another part of the Forest.—A ship at anchor in the bay at a small distance.—Mouth of a cave.

Enter Sailors and Mate, as returning from foraging.

Mate. Come, come, bear a hand, my lads. Tho'f the bay is just under our bowsprits, it will take a damned deal of tripping to come at it—there's hardly any steering clear of the rocks here. But do we muster all hands? All right, think ye?

1st. Sail. All to a man——besides yourself, and a monkey——the three land lubbers, that edged away in the morning, goes for nothing, you know—they're all dead, may-hap, by this.

Mate. Dead! you be—Why they're friends of the captain; and if not brought safe aboard to-night, you may all chance to have a salt eel for your supper—that's all—Moreover the young plodding spark, he with the grave, foul weather face, there, is to man the tight little frigate, Miss Narcissa—what d'ye call her? that is bound with us for Barbadoes. Rot'em for not keeping under weigh, I say! But come, let's see if a song will bring 'em too. Let's have a full chorus to the good merchant ship, the Achilles, that's wrote by our captain.

SONG.

The Achilles, though christen'd, good ship, 'tis surmis'd,

From that old man of war, great Achilles, so priz'd,

Was he, like our vessel, pray fairly baptiz'd?

Ti tol lol, &c.

Poets sung that Achilles—if, now, they've an itch

To sing this, future ages may know which is which;

And that one rode in Greece—and the other in pitch.

Ti tol lol, &c.

What tho' but a merchant ship—sure our supplies:

Now your men of war's gain in a lottery lies,

And how blank they all look, when they can't get a prize!

Ti tol lol, &c.

What are all their fine names? when no rhino's behind,

The Intrepid, and Lion, look sheepish you'll find;

Whilst, alas! the poor Æolus can't raise the wind!

Ti tol lol, &c.

Then the Thunderer's dumb; out of tune the Orpheus;

The Ceres has nothing at all to produce;

And the Eagle I warrant you, looks like a goose.

Ti tol lol, &c.

1st. Sail. Avast! look a-head there. Here they come, chased by a fleet of black devils.

Midsh. And the devil a fire have I to give them. We han't a grain of powder left. What must we do, lads?

2d. Sail. Do? Sheer off to be sure.

Midsh. [Reluctantly.] Well, if I must, I must. [Going to the other side, and holloing to Inkle, &c.] Yoho, lubbers! Crowd all the sail you can, d'ye mind me!

[Exeunt Sailors.

Enter Medium, running across the stage, as pursued by the Blacks.

Med. Nephew! Trudge! run—scamper! Scour—fly! Zounds, what harm did I ever do to be hunted to death by a pack of bloodhounds? Why nephew! Oh, confound your long sums in arithmetic! I'll take care of myself; and if we must have any arithmetic, dot and carry one for my money.

[Runs off.

Enter Inkle and Trudge, hastily.

Trudge. Oh! that ever I was born, to leave pen, ink, and powder for this!

Inkle. Trudge, how far are the sailors before us?

Trudge. I'll run and see, sir, directly.

Inkle. Blockhead, come here. The savages are close upon us; we shall scarce be able to recover our party. Get behind this tuft of trees with me; they'll pass us, and we may then recover our ship with safety.

Trudge. [Going behind.] Oh! Threadneedle-street, Thread—

Inkle. Peace.

Trudge. [Hiding.]—Needle-street. [They hide behind trees. Natives cross. After a long pause, Inkle looks from the trees.]

Inkle. Trudge.

Trudge. Sir. [In a whisper.]

Inkle. Are they all gone by?

Trudge. Won't you look and see?

Inkle. [Looking round.] So all is safe at last. [Coming forward.] Nothing like policy in these cases; but you'd have run on, like a booby! A tree, I fancy, you'll find, in future, the best resource in a hot pursuit.

Trudge. Oh, charming! It's a retreat for a king, sir: Mr. Medium, however, has not got up in it; your uncle, sir, has run on like a booby; and has got up with our party by this time, I take it; who are now most likely at the shore. But what are we to do next, sir?

Inkle. Reconnoitre a little, and then proceed.

Trudge. Then pray, sir, proceed to reconnoitre; for the sooner the better.

Inkle. Then look out, d'ye hear, and tell me if you discover any danger.

Trudge. Y——Ye—s—Yes.

Inkle. Well, is the coast clear?

Trudge. Eh! Oh lord!—Clear! [Rubbing his eyes.] Oh dear! oh dear! the coast will soon be clear enough now, I promise you——The ship is under sail, sir!

Inkle. Confusion! my property carried off in the vessel.

Trudge. All, all, sir, except me.

Inkle. They may report me dead, perhaps, and dispose of my property at the next island. [The vessel appears under sail.]

Trudge. Ah! there they go. [A gun fired.]——That will be the last report we shall ever hear from 'em I'm afraid.—That's as much as to say, Good bye to ye. And here we are left—two fine, full-grown babes in the wood!

Inkle. What an ill-timed accident! Just too, when my speedy union with Narcissa, at Barbadoes, would so much advance my interests.—Ah, my Narcissa, I never shall forget thy last adieu.—Something must be hit upon, and speedily; but what resource? [Thinking.]

Trudge. The old one—a tree, sir.—'Tis all we have for it now. What would I give, now, to be perched upon a high stool, with our brown desk squeezed into the pit of my stomach—scribbling away an old parchment!——But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black pin of a negro.

SONG.

[Last Valentine's Day.]

A voyage over seas had not entered my head,

Had I known but on which side to butter my bread,

Heigho! sure I—for hunger must die!

I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall,

Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all!

Oho! I'm a terrible booby!

Oh, what a sad booby am I!

In London, what gay chop-house signs in the street!

But the only sign here is of nothing to eat.

Heigho! that I——for hunger should die!

My mutton's all lost; I'm a poor starving elf!

And for all the world like a lost mutton myself.

Oho! I shall die a lost mutton!

Oh! what a lost mutton am I!

For a neat slice of beef, I could roar like a bull;

And my stomach's so empty, my heart is quite full.

Heigho! that I—for hunger should die!

But, grave without meat, I must here meet my grave,

For my bacon, I fancy, I never shall save.

Oho! I shall ne'er save my bacon!

I can't save my bacon, not I!

Trudge. Hum! I was thinking——I was thinking, sir—if so many natives could be caught, how much they might fetch at the West India markets!

Inkle. Scoundrel! is this a time to jest?

Trudge. No, faith, sir! Hunger is too sharp to be jested with. As for me, I shall starve for want of food. Now you may meet a luckier fate: you are able to extract the square root, sir; and that's the very best provision you can find here to live upon. But I! [Noise at a distance.] Mercy on us! here they come again.

Inkle. Confusion! Deserted on one side, and pressed on the other, which way shall I turn?—This cavern may prove a safe retreat to us for the present. I'll enter, cost what it will.

Trudge. Oh Lord! no, don't, don't——We shall pay too dear for our lodging, depend on't.

Inkle. This is no time for debating. You are at the mouth of it: lead the way, Trudge.

Trudge. What! go in before your honour! I know my place better, I assure you—I might walk into more mouths than one, perhaps. [Aside.]

Inkle. Coward! then follow me. [Noise again.]

Trudge. I must, sir; I must! Ah, Trudge, Trudge! what a damned hole are you getting into!

[Exeunt into a Cavern.

SCENE III.

A cave, decorated with skins of wild beasts, feathers, &c. In the middle of the scene, a rude kind of curtain, by way of door to an inner apartment.

Enter Inkle and Trudge, as from the mouth of the cavern.

Inkle. So far, at least, we have proceeded with safety. Ha! no bad specimen of savage elegance. These ornaments would be worth something in England.—We have little to fear here, I hope: this cave rather bears the pleasing face of a profitable adventure.

Trudge. Very likely, sir! But for a pleasing face, it has the cursed'st ugly month I ever saw in my life. Now do, sir, make off as fast as you can. If we once get clear of the natives' houses, we have little to fear from the lions and leopards: for by the appearance of their parlours, they seem to have killed all the wild beast in the country. Now pray, do, my good master, take my advice, and run away.

Inkle. Rascal! Talk again of going out, and I'll flea you alive.

Trudge. That's just what I expect for coming in.—All that enter here appear to have had their skins stript over their ears; and ours will be kept for curiosities—We shall stand here, stuffed, for a couple of white wonders.

Inkle. This curtain seems to lead to another apartment: I'll draw it.

Trudge. No, no, no, don't; don't. We may be called to account for disturbing the company: you may get a curtain-lecture, perhaps, sir.

Inkle. Peace, booby, and stand on your guard.

Trudge. Oh! what will become of us! Some grim, seven foot fellow ready to scalp us.

Inkle. By heaven! a woman.

[As the curtain draws, Yarico and Wowski discovered asleep.

Trudge. A woman! [Aside.]—[Loud.] But let him come on; I'm ready—dam'me, I don't fear facing the devil himself—Faith it is a woman—fast asleep too.

Inkle. And beautiful as an angel!

Trudge. And egad! there seems to be a nice, little plump bit in the corner; only she's an angel of rather a darker sort.

Inkle. Hush! keep back—she wakes. [Yarico comes forward—Inkle and Trudge retire to opposite sides of the scene.]

SONG.—YARICO.

When the chace of day is done,

And the shaggy lion's skin,

Which for us, our warriors win,

Decks our cells at set of sun;

Worn with toil, with slap opprest,

I press my mossy bed, and sink to rest.

Then, once more, I see our train,

With all our chase renew'd again:

Once more 'tis day,

Once more our prey

Gnashes his angry teeth, and foams in vain.

Again, in sullen haste, he flies,

Ta'en in the toil, again he lies,

Again he roars—and, in my slumbers, dies.

Inkle and Trudge come forward.

Inkle. Our language!

Trudge. Zounds, she has thrown me into a cold sweat.

Yar. Hark! I heard a noise! Wowski, awake! whence can it proceed? [She awakes Wowski, and they both come forward—Yarico towards Inkle; Wowski towards Trudge.]

Yar. Ah! what form is this?——are you a man?

Inkle. True flesh and blood, my charming heathen, I promise you.

Yar. What harmony in his voice! What a shape! How fair his skin too——[Gazing.]

Trudge. This must be a lady of quality, by her staring.

Yar. Say, stranger, whence come you?

Inkle. From a far distant island; driven on this coast by distress, and deserted by my companions.

Yar. And do you know the danger that surrounds you here? Our woods are filled with beasts of prey—my countrymen too——(yet, I think they cou'd'nt find the heart)—might kill you.——It would be a pity if you fell in their way——I think I should weep if you came to any harm.

Trudge. O ho! It's time, I see, to begin making interest with the chamber maid. [Takes Wowski apart.]

Inkle. How wild and beautiful! sure there is magic in her shape, and she has rivetted me to the place. But where shall I look for safety? let me fly and avoid my death.

Yar. Oh! no—don't depart.——But I will try to preserve you; and if you are killed, Yarico must die too! Yet, 'tis I alone can save you; your death is certain, without my assistance; and, indeed, indeed you shall not want it.

Inkle. My kind Yarico! what means, then, must be used for my safety?

Yar. My cave must conceal you: none enter it, since my father was slain in battle. I will bring you food by day, then lead you to our unfrequented groves by moonlight, to listen to the nightingale. If you should sleep, I'll watch you, and awake you when there's danger.

Inkle. Generous maid! Then, to you will I owe my life; and whilst it lasts, nothing shall part us.

Yar. And shan't it, shan't it indeed?

Inkle. No, my Yarico! For when an opportunity offers to return to my country, you shall be my companion.

Yar. What! cross the seas!

Inkle. Yes, Help me to discover a vessel, and you shall enjoy wonders. You shall be decked in silks, my brave maid, and have a house drawn with horses to carry you.

Yar. Nay, do not laugh at me—but is it so?

Inkle. It is indeed!

Yar. Oh wonder! I wish my countrywomen could see me——But won't your warriors kill us?

Inkle. No, our only danger on land is here.

Yar. Then let us retire further into the cave. Come—your safety is in my keeping.

Inkle. I follow you—Yet, can you run some risk in following me?

DUETT.

[O say, Bonny Lass.]

Inkle. O say, simple maid, have you form'd any notion

Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean?

When winds whistle shrilly, ah! won't they remind you,

To sigh with regret, for the grot left behind you?

Yar. Ah! no, I could follow, and sail the world over,

Nor think of my grot, when I look at my lover;

The winds, which blow round us, your arms for my pillow,

Will lull us to sleep, whilst we're rocked by each billow.

Both. O say then my true love, we never will sunder,

Nor shrink from the tempest, nor dread the big thunder:

Whilst constant, we'll laugh at all changes of weather,

And journey all over the world both together.

[Exeunt; as retiring further into the cave.

Manent Trudge and Wowski.

Trudge. Why, you speak English as well as I, my little Wowski.

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. Iss! and you learnt it from a strange man, that tumbled from a big boat, many moons ago, you say?

Wows. Iss—Teach me—teach good many.

Trudge. Then, what the devil made them so surprized at seeing us! was he like me? [Wowski shakes her head.] Not so smart a body, mayhap. Was his face, now, round and comely, and—eh! [Stroking his chin.] Was it like mine?

Wows. Like dead leaf—brown and shrivel.

Trudge. Oh, oh, an old shipwrecked sailor, I warrant. With white and grey hair, eh, my pretty beauty spot?

Wows. Iss; all white. When night come, he put it in pocket.

Trudge. Oh! wore a wig. But the old boy taught you something more than English, I believe.

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. The devil he did! What was it?

Wows. Teach me put dry grass, red hot, in hollow white stick.

Trudge. Aye, what was that for?

Wows. Put in my mouth—go poff, poff!

Trudge. Zounds! did he teach you to smoke?

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. And what became of him at last? What did your countrymen do for the poor fellow?

Wows. Eat him one day—Our chief kill him.

Trudge. Mercy on us! what damned stomachs, to swallow a tough old tar! Ah, poor Trudge! your killing comes next.

Wows. No, no—not you—no—[Running to him anxiously.]

Trudge. No? why what shall I do, if I get in their paws?

Wows. I fight for you!

Trudge. Will you? Ecod she's a brave good-natured wench! she'll be worth a hundred of your English wives.—Whenever they fight on their husband's account, it's with him instead of for him, I fancy. But how the plague am I to live here?

Wows. I feed you—bring you kid.

SONG.—WOWSKI.

[One day, I heard Mary say.]

White man, never go away——

Tell me why need you?

Stay, with your Wowski, stay:

Wowski will feed you.

Cold moons are now coming in;

Ah, don't go grieve me!

I'll wrap you in leopard's skin:

White man, don't leave me.

And when all the sky is blue,

Sun makes warm weather,

I'll catch you a cockatoo,

Dress you in feather.

When cold comes, or when 'tis hot,

Ah, don't go grieve me!

Poor Wowski will be forgot—

White man, don't leave me!

Trudge. Zounds! leopard's skin for winter wear, and feathers for a summer's suit! Ha, ha! I shall look like a walking hammer-cloth, at Christmas, and an upright shuttlecock, in the dog days. And for all this, if my master and I find our way to England, you shall be part of our travelling equipage; and, when I get there, I'll give you a couple of snug rooms, on a first floor, and visit you every evening, as soon as I come from the counting-house. Do you like it?

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. Damme, what a flashy fellow I shall seem in the city! I'll get her a white boy to bring up the tea-kettle. Then I'll teach you to write and dress hair.

Wows. You great man in your country?

Trudge. Oh yes, a very great man. I'm head clerk of the counting-house, and first valet-de-chambre of the dressing-room. I pounce parchments, powder hair, black shoes, ink paper, shave beards, and mend pens. But hold! I had forgot one material point—you ar'n't married, I hope?

Wows. No: you be my chum-chum!

Trudge. So I will. It's best, however, to be sure of her being single; for Indian husbands are not quite so complaisant as English ones, and the vulgar dogs might think of looking a little after their spouses. But you have had a lover or two in your time; eh, Wowski?

Wows. Oh, iss—great many—I tell you.

DUETT.

Wows. Wampum, Swampum, Yanko, Lanko, Nanko, Pownatowski,

Black men—plenty—twenty—fight for me,

White man, woo you true?

Trudge. Who?

Wows. You.

Trudge. Yes, pretty little Wowski!

Wows. Then I leave all, and follow thee.

Trudge. Oh then turn about, my little tawny tight one!

Don't you like me?

Wows. Iss, you're like the snow!

If you slight one——

Trudge. Never, not for any white one;

You are beautiful as any sloe.

Wows. Wars, jars, scars, can't expose ye,

In our grot——

Trudge. So snug and cosey!

Wows. Flowers, neatly

Pick'd, shall sweetly

Make your bed.

Trudge. Coying, toying,

With a rosy

Posey,

When I'm dosey,

Bear-skin nightcaps too shall warm my head.

Both. Bearskin nightcaps, &c. &c.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

The Quay at Barbadoes, with an Inn upon it. People employed in unlading vessels, carrying bales of goods, &c.

Enter several Planters.

1st Plant. I saw her this morning, gentlemen, you may depend on't. My telescope never fails me. I popp'd upon her as I was taking a peep from my balcony. A brave tight ship, I tell you, bearing down directly for Barbadoes here.

2d Plant. Ods, my life! rare news! We have not had a vessel arrive in our harbour these six weeks.

3d Plant. And the last brought only Madam Narcissa, our Governor's daughter, from England; with a parcel of lazy, idle, white folks about her. Such cargoes will never do for our trade, neighbour.

2d Plant. No, no; we want slaves. A terrible dearth of 'em in Barbadoes, lately! But your dingy passengers for my money. Give me a vessel like a collier, where all the lading tumbles out as black as my hat. But are you sure, now, you ar'n't mistaken? [To 1st Planter.]

1st Plant. Mistaken! 'sbud, do you doubt my glass? I can discover a gull by it six leagues off: I could see every thing as plain as if I was on board.

2d Plant. Indeed! and what were her colours?

1st Plant. Um! why English——or Dutch——or French——I don't exactly remember.

2d Plant. What were the sailors aboard?

1st Plant. Eh! why they were English too——or Dutch——or French——I can't perfectly recollect.

2d Plant. Your glass, neighbour, is a little like a glass too much: it makes you forget every thing you ought to remember. [Cry without, "A sail, a sail!"]

1st Plant. Egad, but I'm right though. Now, gentlemen!

All. Aye, aye; the devil take the hindmost.

[Exeunt hastily.

Enter Narcissa and Patty.

SONG.

Freshly now the breeze is blowing,

As yon ship at anchor rides;

Sullen waves, incessant flowing,

Rudely dash against the sides.

So my heart, its course impéded,

Beats in my perturbed breast;

Doubts, like waves by waves succeeded,

Rise, and still deny it rest.

Patty. Well, ma'am, as I was saying——

Nar. Well, say no more of what you were saying—Sure, Patty, you forget where you are; a little caution will be necessary now, I think.

Patty. Lord, madam, how is it possible to help talking? We are in Barbadoes here, to be sure—but then, ma'am, one may let out a little in a private morning's walk by ourselves.

Nar. Nay, it's the same thing with you in doors.

Patty. I never blab, ma'am, never, as I hope for a gown.

Nar. And your never blabbing, as you call it, depends chiefly on that hope, I believe.

Patty. I have told the story of our voyage, indeed, to old Guzzle, the butler.

Nar. And thus you lead him to imagine I am but little inclined to the match.

Patty. Lord, ma'am, how could that be? Why I never said a word about Captain Campley.

Nar. Hush! hush! for heaven's sake.

Patty. Aye! there it is now. But if our voyage from England was so pleasant, it wasn't owing to Mr. Inkle, I'm certain. He didn't play the fiddle in our cabin, and dance on the deck, and come languishing with a glass of warm water in his hand, when we were sea-sick. Ah, ma'am, that water warm'd your heart, I'm confident. Mr. Inkle! No, no; Captain Cam——

Nar. There is no end to this! Remember, Patty, keep your secrecy, or you entirely lose my favour.

Patty. Never fear me, ma'am. But if somebody I know is not acquainted with the Governor, there's such a thing as dancing at balls, and squeezing hands when you lead up, and squeezing them again when you cast down. I'm as close as a patch box. Mum's the word, ma'am, I promise you.

[Exit.

Nar. How awkward is my present situation! Promised to one, who, perhaps, may never again be heard of; and who, I am sure, if he ever appears to claim me, will do it merely on the score of interest—pressed too by another, who has already, I fear, too much interest in my heart—what can I do? What plan can I follow?

Enter Campley.

Camp. Follow my advice, Narcissa, by all means. Enlist with me under the best banners in the world. General Hymen for my money! little Cupid's his drummer: he has been beating a round rub-a-dub on our hearts, and we have only to obey the word of command, fall into the ranks of matrimony, and march through life together.

Nar. Then consider our situation.

Camp. That has been duly considered. In short, the case stands exactly thus—your intended spouse is all for money; I am all for love. He is a rich rogue; I am rather a poor honest fellow. He would pocket your fortune; I will take you without a fortune in your pocket.

Nar. Oh! I am sensible of the favour, most gallant Captain Campley; and my father, no doubt, will be very much obliged to you.

Camp. Aye, there's the devil of it! Sir Christopher Curry's confounded good character knocks me up at once. Yet I am not acquainted with him neither; not known to him even by sight; being here only as a private gentleman, on a visit to my old relation, out of regimentals, and so forth; and not introduced to the Governor, as other officers of the place. But then, the report of his hospitality—his odd, blunt, whimsical friendship—his whole behaviour—

Nar. All stare you in the face; eh, Campley?

Camp. They do, till they put me out of countenance.

Nar. What signifies talking to me, when you have such opposition from others? Why hover about the city, instead of boldly attacking the guard? Wheel about, captain! face the enemy! March! Charge! Rout 'em!—Drive 'em before you, and then—

Camp. And then—

Nar. Lud ha' mercy on the poor city!

Enter Patty, hastily.

Patty. Oh lud, ma'am, I'm frightened out of my wits! sure as I'm alive, ma'am, Mr. Inkle is not dead; I saw his man, ma'am, just now, coming ashore in a boat, with other passengers, from the vessel that's come to the island.

[Exit.

Nar. Then one way or other I must determine.—[To Campley.] Look'ye, Mr. Campley, something has happened which makes me wave ceremonies.—If you mean to apply to my father, remember, that delays are dangerous.

Camp. Indeed!

Nar. I mayn't be always in the same mind, you know. [Smiling.]

[Exit.

Camp. Nay, then—Gad, I'm almost afraid too—but living in this state of doubt is torment. I'll e'en put a good face on the matter; cock my hat; make my bow; and try to reason the Governor into compliance. Faint heart never won a fair lady.

SONG.

Why should I vain fears discover,

Prove a dying, sighing swain?

Why turn shilly-shally lover,

Only to prolong my pain?

When we woo the dear enslaver,

Boldly ask, and she will grant;

How should we obtain a favour,

But by telling what we want?

Enter Trudge and Wowski, (as from the ship), with a dirty runner to one of the inns.

Run. This way, sir; if you will let me recommend——

Trudge. Come along, Wows! Take care of your furs, and your feathers, my girl!

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. That's right.—Somebody might steal 'em, perhaps.

Wows. Steal!—What that?

Trudge. Oh Lord! see what one loses by not being born in a christian country.

Run. If you would, sir, but mention to your master, the house that belongs to my master; the best accommodations on the quay.—

Trudge. What's your sign, my lad?

Run. The Crown, sir.—Here it is.

Trudge. Well, get us a room for half an hour, and we'll come: and harkee! let it be light and airy, d'ye hear? My master has been used to your open apartments lately.

Run. Depend on it.—Much obliged to you, sir.

[Exit.

Wows. Who be that fine man? He great prince?

Trudge. A prince—Ha! ha!——No, not quite a prince—but he belongs to the Crown. But how do you like this, Wows? Isn't it fine?

Wows. Wonder!

Trudge. Fine men, eh?

Wows. Iss! all white; like you.

Trudge. Yes, all the fine men are like me. As different from your people as powder and ink, or paper and blacking.

Wows. And fine lady—Face like snow.

Trudge. What! the fine lady's complexions? Oh, yes, exactly; for too much heat very often dissolves 'em! Then their dress, too.

Wows. Your countrymen dress so?

Trudge. Better, better a great deal. Why, a young flashy Englishman will sometimes carry a whole fortune on his back. But did you mind the women?

All here—and there; [Pointing before and behind.] they have it all from us in England.—And then the fine things they carry on their heads, Wowski.

Wows. Iss. One lady carry good fish——so fine, she call every body to look at her.

Trudge. Pshaw! an old woman bawling flounders. But the fine girls we meet, here, on the quay—so round and so plump!

Wows. You not love me now?

Trudge. Not love you! Zounds, have not I given you proofs?

Wows. Iss. Great many: but now you get here, you forget poor Wowski!

Trudge. Not I. I'll stick to you like wax.

Wows. Ah! I fear! What make you love me now?

Trudge. Gratitude, to be sure.

Wows. What that?

Trudge. Ha! this it is, now, to live without education. The poor dull devils of her country are all in the practice of gratitude, without finding out what it means; while we can tell the meaning of it, with little or no practice at all.—Lord, Lord, what a fine advantage christian learning is! Hark'ee, Wows!

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. Now we've accomplished our landing, I'll accomplish you. You remember the instructions I gave you on the voyage?

Wows. Iss.

Trudge. Let's see now—What are you to do, when I introduce you to the nobility, gentry, and others—of my acquaintance?

Wows. Make believe sit down; then get up.

Trudge. Let me see you do it. [She makes a low courtesy.] Very well! and how are you to recommend yourself, when you have nothing to say, amongst all our great friends?

Wows. Grin—show my teeth.

Trudge. Right! they'll think you've lived with people of fashion. But suppose you meet an old shabby friend in misfortune, that you don't wish to be seen speak to—what would you do?

Wows. Look blind—not see him.

Trudge. Why would you do that?

Wows. 'Cause I can't see good friend in distress.

Trudge. That's a good girl! and I wish every body could boast of so kind a motive for such cursed cruel behaviour.—Lord! how some of your flashy bankers' clerks have cut me in Threadneedle street.—But come, though we have got among fine folks, here, in an English settlement, I won't be ashamed of my old acquaintance: yet, for my own part, I should not be sorry, now, to see my old friend with a new face.—Odsbobs! I see Mr. Inkle—Go in, Wows; call for what you like best.

Wows. Then I call for you—ah! I fear I not see you often now. But you come soon——

SONG.

Remember when we walked alone,

And heard, so gruff, the lion growl:

And when the moon so bright it shone,

We saw the wolf look up and howl;

I led you well, safe to our cell,

While tremblingly,

You said to me,

—And kiss'd so sweet—dear Wowski tell,

How could I live without ye?

But now you come across the sea,

And tell me here no monsters roar;

You'll walk alone, and leave poor me,

When wolves, to fright you, howl no more.

But ah! think well on our old cell,

Where tremblingly,

You kiss'd poor me—

Perhaps you'll say—dear Wowski tell,

How can I live without ye?

[Exit Wowski.

Trudge. Who have we here?

Enter First Planter.

Plant. Hark'ee, young man! Is that young Indian of yours going to our market?

Trudge. Not she—she never went to market in all her life.

Plant. I mean, is she for our sale of slaves? Our black fair?

Trudge. A black fair, ha! ha! ha! You hold it on a brown green, I suppose.

Plant. She's your slave, I take it?

Trudge. Yes; and I'm her humble servant, I take it.

Plant. Aye, aye, natural enough at sea.—But at how much do you value her?

Trudge. Just as much as she has saved me—My own life.

Plant. Pshaw! you mean to sell her?

Trudge. [Staring.] Zounds! what a devil of a fellow! Sell Wows!—my poor, dear, dingy, wife!

Plant. Come, come, I've heard your story from the ship.—Don't let's haggle; I'll bid as fair as any trader amongst us. But no tricks upon travellers, young man, to raise your price.——Your wife, indeed! Why she's no christian!

Trudge. No; but I am; so I shall do as I'd be done by: and, if you were a good one yourself, you'd know, that fellow-feeling for a poor body, who wants your help, is the noblest mark of our religion.—I wou'dn't be articled clerk to such a fellow for the world.

Plant. Hey-day! the booby's in love with her! Why, sure, friend, you would not live here with a black?

Trudge. Plague on't; there it is. I shall be laughed out of my honesty, here.—But you may be jogging, friend; I may feel a little queer, perhaps, at showing her face—but, dam me, if ever I do any thing to make me asham'd of showing my own.

Plant. Why, I tell you, her very complexion——

Trudge. Rot her complexion—I'll tell you what, Mr. Fair-trader, if your head and heart were to change places, I've a notion you'd be as black in the face as an ink-bottle.

Plant. Pshaw! the fellow's a fool—a rude rascal—he ought to be sent back to the savages again. He's not fit to live among us christians.

[Exit Planter.

Trudge. Oh, here comes my master, at last.

Enter Inkle, and a second Planter.

Inkle. Nay, sir, I understand your customs well; your Indian markets are not unknown to me.

2d Plant. And, as you seem to understand business, I need not tell you, that dispatch is the soul of it. Her name you say is—

Inkle. Yarico: but urge this no more, I beg you; I must not listen to it: for, to speak freely, her anxious care of me demands, that here,—though here it may seem strange—I should avow my love for her.

Plant. Lord help you for a merchant!—It's the first time I ever heard a trader talk of love; except, indeed, the love of trade, and the love of the Sweet Molly, my ship.

Inkle. Then, sir, you cannot feel my situation.

Plant. Oh yes, I can! we have a hundred such cases just after a voyage; but they never last long on land. It's amazing how constant a young man is in a ship! But, in two words, will you dispose of her, or no?

Inkle. In two words, then, meet me here at noon, and we'll speak further on this subject: and lest you think I trifle with your business, hear why I wish this pause. Chance threw me, on my passage to your island, among a savage people. Deserted,—defenceless,—cut off from companions,—my life at stake—to this young creature I owe my preservation;—she found me, like a dying bough, torn from its kindred branches; which, as it drooped, she moistened with her tears.

Plant. Nay, nay, talk like a man of this world.

Inkle. Your patience.—And yet your interruption goes to my present feelings; for on our sail to this your island—the thoughts of time mispent—doubt—fears—for call it what you will—have much perplexed me; and as your spires arose, reflections still rose with them; for here, sir, lie my interests, great connexions, and other weighty matters—which now I need not mention——

Plant. But which her presence here will mar.

Inkle. Even so—And yet the gratitude I owe her—

Plant. Pshaw! So because she preserved your life, your gratitude is to make you give up all you have to live upon.

Inkle. Why, in that light indeed—This never struck me yet, I'll think on't.

Plant. Aye, aye, do so—Why, what return can the wench wish more than taking her from a wild, idle, savage people, and providing for her, here, with reputable hard work, in a genteel, polished, tender, christian country?

Inkle. Well, sir, at noon——

Plant. I'll meet you—but remember, young gentleman, you must get her off your hands—you must, indeed.—I shall have her a bargain, I see that—your servant!—Zounds, how late it is—but never be put out of your way for a woman—I must run—my wife will play the devil with me for keeping breakfast.

[Exit.

Inkle. Trudge.

Trudge. Sir!

Inkle. Have you provided a proper apartment?

Trudge. Yes, sir, at the Crown here; a neat, spruce room they tell me. You have not seen such a convenient lodging this good while, I believe.

Inkle. Are there no better inns in the town?

Trudge. Um——Why there is the Lion, I hear, and the Bear, and the Boar—but we saw them at the door of all our late lodgings, and found but bad accommodations within, sir.

Inkle. Well, run to the end of the quay, and conduct Yarico hither. The road is straight before you: you can't miss it.

Trudge. Very well, sir. What a fine thing it is to turn one's back on a master, without running into a wolf's belly! One can follow one's nose on a message here, and be sure it won't be bit off by the way.

[Exit.

Inkle. Let me reflect a little. Part with her!—My interest, honour, engagements to Narcissa, all demand it. My father's precepts too—I can remember, when I was a boy, what pains he took to mould me.—School'd me from morn to night—and still the burden of his song was—Prudence! Prudence! Thomas, and you'll rise. His maxims rooted in my heart, and as I grew—they grew; till I was reckoned, among our friends, a steady, sober, solid, good young man; and all the neighbours call'd me the prudent Mr. Thomas. And shall I now, at once, kick down the character which I have raised so warily?—Part with her—sell her!—The thought once struck me in our cabin, as she lay sleeping by me; but, in her slumbers, she passed her arm around me, murmured a blessing on my name, and broke my meditations.

Enter Yarico and Trudge.

Yar. My love!

Trudge. I have been showing her all the wigs and bales of goods we met on the quay, sir.

Yar. Oh! I have feasted my eyes on wonders.

Trudge. And I'll go feast on a slice of beef, in the inn, here.

[Exit.

Yar. My mind has been so busy, that I almost forgot even you. I wish you had stayed with me—You would have seen such sights!

Inkle. Those sights have become familiar to me, Yarico.

Yar. And yet I wish they were not—You might partake my pleasures—but now again, methinks, I will not wish so—for, with too much gazing, you might neglect poor Yarico.

Inkle. Nay, nay, my care is still for you.

Yar. I am sure it is: and if I thought it was not, I would tell you tales about our poor old grot—bid you remember our palm-tree near the brook, where in the shade you often stretched yourself, while I would take your head upon my lap, and sing my love to sleep. I know you'll love me then.

SONG.

Our grotto was the sweetest place!

The bending boughs, with fragrance blowing,

Would check the brook's impetuous pace,

Which murmur'd to be stopp'd from flowing.

'Twas there we met, and gaz'd our fill:

Ah! think on this, and love me still.

'Twas then my bosom first knew fear,

—Fear to an Indian maid a stranger—

The war-song, arrows, hatchet, spear,

All warn'd me of my lover's danger.

For him did cares my bosom fill:—

Ah! think on this, and love me still.

For him, by day, with care conceal'd,

To search for food I climb'd the mountain;

And when the night no form reveal'd,

Jocund we sought the bubbling fountain.

Then, then would joy my bosom fill;

Ah! think on this and love me still.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the House of Sir Christopher Curry.

Enter Sir Christopher and Medium.

Sir Chr. I tell you, old Medium, you are all wrong. Plague on your doubts! Inkle shall have my Narcissa. Poor fellow! I dare say he's finely chagrined at this temporary parting—Eat up with the blue devils, I warrant.

Med. Eat up by the black devils, I warrant; for I left him in hellish hungry company.

Sir Chr. Pshaw! he'll arrive with the next vessel, depend on't—besides, have not I had this in view ever since they were children? I must and will have it so, I tell you. Is not it, as it were, a marriage made above? They shall meet, I'm positive.

Med. Shall they? Then they must meet where the marriage was made; for hang me, if I think it will ever happen below.

Sir Chr. Ha!—and if that is the case—hang me, if I think you'll ever be at the celebration of it.

Med. Yet, let me tell you, Sir Christopher Curry, my character is as unsullied as a sheet of white paper.

Sir Chr. Well said, old fool's-cap! and it's as mere a blank as a sheet of white paper. You are honest, old Medium, by comparison, just as a fellow sentenced to transportation is happier than his companion condemned to the gallows—Very worthy, because you are no rogue; tender hearted, because you never go to fires and executions; and an affectionate father and husband, because you never pinch your children, or kick your wife out of bed.

Med. And that, as the world goes, is more than every man can say for himself. Yet, since you force me to speak my positive qualities—but, no matter,—you remember me in London; didn't I, as member of the Humane Society, bring a man out of the New River, who, it was afterwards found, had done me an injury?

Sir Chr. And, dam'me, if I would not kick any man into the New River that had done me an injury. There's the difference of our honesty. Oons! if you want to be an honest fellow, act from the impulse of nature. Why, you have no more gall than a pigeon.

Med. And you have as much gall as a turkey cock, and are as hot into the bargain—You're always so hasty; among the hodge-podge of your foibles, passion is always predominant.

Sir Chr. So much the better.——Foibles, quotha? foibles are foils that give additional lustre to the gems of virtue. You have not so many foils as I, perhaps.

Med. And, what's more, I don't want 'em, Sir Christopher, I thank you.

Sir Chr. Very true; for the devil a gem have you to set off with 'em.

Med. Well, well; I never mention errors; that, I flatter myself, is no disagreeable quality.—It don't become me to say you are hot.

Sir Chr. 'Sblood! but it does become you: it becomes every man, especially an Englishman, to speak the dictates of his heart.

Enter Servant.

Serv. An English vessel, sir, just arrived in the harbour.

Sir Chr. A vessel! Od's my life!——Now for the news—If it is but as I hope—Any dispatches?

Serv. This letter, sir, brought by a sailor from the quay.

[Exit.

Sir Chr. [Opening the letter] Huzza! here it is. He's safe—safe and sound at Barbadoes. [Reading]——

Sir,
My master, Mr. Inkle, is just arrived in your harbour,

Here, read, read! old Medium—

Med. [Reading.] Um'—

Your harbour;—we were taken up by an English vessel, on the 14th ulto. He only waits till I have puffed his hair, to pay his respects to you, and Miss Narcissa: In the mean time, he has ordered me to brush up this letter for your honour, from

Your humble Servant, to command,
Timothy Trudge.

Sir Chr. Hey day! Here's a style! the voyage has jumbled the fellow's brains out of their places; the water has made his head turn round. But no matter; mine turns round, too. I'll go and prepare Narcissa directly; they shall be married slap-dash, as soon as he comes from the quay. From Neptune to Hymen: from the hammock to the bridal bed—Ha! old boy!

Med. Well, well; don't flurry yourself—you're so hot!

Sir Chr. Hot! blood, ar'n't I in the West Indies? Ar'n't I governor of Barbadoes? He shall have her as soon as he sets his foot on shore. "But, plague on't, he's so slow."—She shall rise to him like Venus out of the sea. His hair puffed? He ought to have been puffing, here, out of breath, by this time.

Med. Very true; but Venus's husband is always supposed to be lame, you know, Sir Christopher.

Sir Chr. Well, now do, my good fellow, run down to the shore, and see what detains him.

[Hurrying him off.

Med. Well, well; I will, I will.

[Exit.

Sir Chr. In the mean time I'll get ready Narcissa, and all shall be concluded in a second. My heart's set upon it.—Poor fellow! after all his rumbles, and tumbles, and jumbles, and fits of despair—I shall be rejoiced to see him. I have not seen him since he was that high.—But, zounds! he's so tardy!

Enter Servant.

Serv. A strange gentleman, sir, come from the quay, desires to see you.

Sir Chr. From the quay? Od's my life!——'Tis he—'Tis Inkle! Show him up directly.

[Exit Servant.

The rogue is expeditious after all.—I'm so happy.

Enter Campley.

My dear fellow! [Shakes hands.] I'm rejoiced to see you. Welcome; welcome here, with all my soul!

Camp. This reception, Sir Christopher, is beyond my warmest wishes—Unknown to you——

Sir Chr. Aye, aye; we shall be better acquainted by and by. Well, and how, eh! tell me!—But old Medium and I have talked over your affair a hundred times a day, ever since Narcissa arrived.

Camp. You surprise me! Are you then really acquainted with the whole affair?

Sir Chr. Every tittle.

Camp. And, can you, sir, pardon what is past?—

Sir Chr. Pooh! how could you help it?

Camp. Very true—sailing in the same ship—and—But when you consider the past state of my mind——the black prospect before me.—

Sir Chr. Ha! ha! Black enough, I dare say.

Camp. The difficulty I have felt in bringing myself face to face to you.

Sir Chr. That I am convinced of—but I knew you would come the first opportunity.

Camp. Very true: yet the distance between the Governor of Barbadoes and myself. [Bowing.]

Sir Chr. Yes—a devilish way asunder.

Camp. Granted, sir: which has distressed me with the cruellest doubts as to our meeting.

Sir Chr. It was a toss up.

Camp. The old gentleman seems devilish kind.—Now to soften him. [Aside.] Perhaps, sir, in your younger days, you may have been in the same situation yourself.

Sir Chr. Who? I! 'sblood! no, never in my life.

Camp. I wish you had, with all my soul, Sir Christopher.

Sir Chr. Upon my soul, Sir, I am very much obliged to you. [Bowing.]

Camp. As what I now mention might have greater weight with you.

Sir Chr. Pooh! pr'ythee! I tell you I pitied you from the bottom of my heart.

Camp. Indeed! if, with your leave, I may still venture to mention Miss Narcissa—

Sir Chr. An impatient, sensible young dog! like me to a hair! Set your heart at rest, my boy. She's yours; yours before to-morrow morning.

Camp. Amazement! I can scarce believe my senses.

Sir Chr. Zounds! you ought to be out of your senses: but dispatch—make short work of it, ever while you live, my boy. Here she is.

Enter Narcissa and Patty.

Here girl: here's your swain.

[To Nar.

Camp. I just parted with my Narcissa, on the quay, sir.

Sir Chr. Did you! Ah, sly dog——had a meeting before you came to the old gentleman.—But here—Take him, and make much of him—and, for fear of further separations, you shall e'en be tacked together directly. What say you, girl?

Camp. Will my Narcissa consent to my happiness?

Nar. I always obey my father's commands, with pleasure, sir.

Sir Chr. Od! I'm so happy, I hardly know which way to turn; but we'll have the carriage directly; drive down to the quay; trundle old Spintext into church, and hey for matrimony!

Camp. With all my heart, Sir Christopher; the sooner the better.

Sir Christopher, Campley, Narcissa, Patty.

Sir Chr. Your Colinettes, and Arriettes,

Your Damons of the grove,

Who like fallals, and pastorals,

Waste years in love;

But modern folks know better jokes,

And, courting once begun,

To church they hop at once—and pop—

Egad, all's done!

All. In life we prance a country dance,

Where every couple stands;

Their partners set—a while curvet—

But soon join hands.

Nar. When at our feet, so trim and neat,

The powder'd lover sues,

He vows he dies, the lady sighs,

But can't refuse.

Ah! how can she unmov'd e'er see

Her swain his death incur?

If once the squire is seen expire,

He lives with her.

All. In life, &c. &c.

Patty. When John and Bet are fairly met,

John boldly tries his luck;

He steals a buss, without more fuss,

The bargain's struck.

Whilst things below are going so,

Is Betty pray to blame?

Who knows up stairs, her mistress fares

Just, just the same.

All. In life we prance, &c. &c.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

The Quay.

Enter Patty.

Patty. Mercy on us! what a walk I have had of it! Well, matters go on swimmingly at the Governor's—The old gentleman has ordered the carriage, and the young couple will be whisked here, to church, in a quarter of an hour. My business is to prevent young sobersides, young Inkle, from appearing, to interrupt the ceremony.—Ha! here's the Crown, where I hear he is housed: So now to find Trudge, and trump up a story, in the true style of a chambermaid. [Goes into the house.] [Patty within.] I tell you it don't signify, and I will come up. [Trudge within.] But it does signify, and you can't come up.

Re-enter Patty with Trudge.

Patty. You had better say at once, I shan't.

Trudge. Well then, you shan't.

Patty. Savage! Pretty behaviour you have picked up amongst the Hottypots! Your London civility, like London itself, will soon be lost in smoke, Mr. Trudge: and the politeness you have studied so long in Threadneedle-street, blotted out by the blacks you have been living with.

Trudge. No such thing; I practised my politeness all the while I was in the woods. Our very lodging taught me good manners; for I could never bring myself to go into it without bowing.

Patty. Don't tell me! A mighty civil reception you give a body, truly, after a six weeks parting.

Trudge. Gad, you're right; I am a little out here, to be sure. [Kisses her.] Well, how do you do?

Patty. Pshaw, fellow! I want none of your kisses.

Trudge. Oh! very well—I'll take it again. [Offers to kiss her.]

Patty. Be quiet. I want to see Mr. Inkle: I have a message to him from Miss Narcissa. I shall get a sight of him, now, I believe.

Trudge. May be not. He's a little busy at present.

Patty. Busy—ha! Plodding! What he's at his multiplication table again?

Trudge. Very likely; so it would be a pity to interrupt him, you know.

Patty. Certainly; and the whole of my business was to prevent his hurrying himself—Tell him, we shan't be ready to receive him, at the Governor's, till to-morrow, d'ye hear?

Trudge. No?

Patty. No. Things are not prepared. The place isn't in order; and the servants have not had proper notice of the arrival. Sir Christopher intends Mr. Inkle, you know, for his son-in-law, and must receive him in public form, (which can't be till to-morrow morning) for the honour of his governorship: why the whole island will ring of it.

Trudge. The devil it will!

Patty. Yes; they've talked of nothing but my mistress's beauty and fortune for these six weeks. Then he'll be introduced to the bride, you know.

Trudge. O, my poor master!

Patty. Then a breakfast; then a procession; then—if nothing happens to prevent it, he'll get into church, and be married in a crack.

Trudge. Then he'll get into a damn'd scrape, in a crack.

Patty. Hey-day! a scrape! How!

Trudge. Nothing, nothing——It must out——Patty!

Patty. Well!

Trudge. Can you keep a secret?

Patty. Try me.

Trudge. Then [Whispering.] My master keeps a girl.

Patty. Oh, monstrous! another woman?

Trudge. As sure as one and one make two.

Patty. [Aside.] Rare news for my mistress!—Why

I can hardly believe it: the grave, sly, steady, sober Mr. Inkle, do such a thing!

Trudge. Pooh! it's always your sly, sober fellows, that go the most after the girls.

Patty. Well; I should sooner suspect you.

Trudge. Me? Oh Lord! he! he!—Do you think any smart, tight, little, black-eyed wench, would be struck with my figure? [Conceitedly.]

Patty. Pshaw! never mind your figure. Tell me how it happened?

Trudge. You shall hear: when the ship left us ashore, my master turned as pale as a sheet of paper. It isn't every body that's blest with courage, Patty.

Patty. True.

Trudge. However, I bid him cheer up; told him, to stick to my elbow: took the lead, and began our march.

Patty. Well?

Trudge. We hadn't gone far, when a damn'd one-eyed black boar, that grinned like a devil, came down the hill in jog trot! My Master melted as fast as a pot of pomatum!

Patty. Mercy on us!

Trudge. But what does I do, but whips out my desk knife, that I used to cut the quills with at home; met the monster, and slit up his throat like a pen—The boar bled like a pig.

Patty. Lord! Trudge, what a great traveller you are!

Trudge. Yes; I remember we fed on the flitch for a week.

Patty. Well, well; but the lady.

Trudge. The lady! Oh, true. By and by we came to a cave—a large hollow room, under ground, like a warehouse in the Adelphi.—Well; there we were half an hour, before I could get him to go in; there's no accounting for fear, you know. At last, in we went, to a place hung round with skins, as it might be a furrier's shop, and there was a fine lady, snoring on a bow and arrows.

Patty. What, all alone?

Trudge. Eh!—No—no.—Hum—She had a young lion, by way of a lap-dog.

Patty. Gemini; what did you do?

Trudge. Gave her a jog, and she opened her eyes—she struck my master immediately.

Patty. Mercy on us! with what?

Trudge. With her beauty, you ninny, to be sure: and they soon brought matters to bear. The wolves witnessed the contract—I gave her away—The crows croaked amen; and we had board and lodging for nothing.

Patty. And this is she he has brought to Barbadoes?

Trudge. The same.

Patty. Well; and tell me, Trudge;—she's pretty, you say—Is she fair or brown? or——

Trudge. Um! she's a good comely copper.

Patty. How! a tawny?

Trudge. Yes, quite dark; but very elegant; like a Wedgwood tea-pot.

Patty. Oh! the monster! the filthy fellow! Live with a black-a-moor!

Trudge. Why, there's no great harm in't, I hope?

Patty. Faugh! I wou'dn't let him kiss me for the world: he'd make my face all smutty.

Trudge. Zounds! you are mighty nice all of a sudden; but I'd have you to know, Madam Patty, that Black-a-moor ladies, as you call 'em, are some of the very few whose complexions never rub off! 'Sbud, if they did, Wows and I should have changed faces by this time—But mum; not a word for your life.

Patty. Not I! except to the Governor and family. [Aside.] But I must run—and, remember, Trudge, if your master has made a mistake here, he has himself to thank for his pains.

[Exit Patty.

Trudge. Pshaw! these girls are so plaguy proud of their white and red! but I won't be shamed out of Wows, that's flat.—

Enter Wowski.

Ah! Wows, I'm going to leave you.

Wows. For what you leave me?

Trudge. Master says I must.

Wows. Ah, but you say in your country, women know best; and I say you not leave me.

Trudge. Master, to be sure, while we were in the forest, taught Yarico to read, with his pencil and pocket-book. What then? Wows comes on fine and fast in her lessons. A little awkward at first, to be sure—Ha! ha!—She's so used to feed with her hands, that I can't get her to eat her victuals, in a genteel, christian way, for the soul of me; when she has stuck a morsel on her fork, she don't know how to guide it, but pops up her knuckles to her mouth, and the meat goes up to her ear. But, no matter—After all the fine, flashy London girls, Wowski's the wench for my money.

SONG.

A clerk I was in London gay,

Jemmy linkum feedle,

And went in boots to see the play,

Merry fiddlem tweedle.

I march'd the lobby, twirled my stick,

Diddle, daddle, deedle;

The girls all cry'd, "He's quite the kick."

Oh, Jemmy linkum feedle.

Hey! for America I sail,

Yankee doodle, deedle;

The sailor-boys cry'd, "Smoke his tail!"

Jemmy linkum feedle.

On English belles I turned my back,

Diddle, daddle, deedle;

And got a foreign fair quite black,

O twaddle, twaddle, tweedle!

Your London girls, with roguish trip,

Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle,

May boast their pouting under lip,

Fiddle, faddle, feedle.

My Wows would beat a hundred such,

Diddle, daddle, deedle,

Whose upper lip pouts twice as much,

O, pretty double wheedle!

Rings I'll buy to deck her toes;

Jemmy linkum feedle;

A feather fine shall grace her nose,

Waving siddle seedle.

With jealousy I ne'er shall burst;

Who'd steal my bone of bone-a?

A white Othello, I can trust

A dingy Desdemona.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Room in the Crown.

[Enter Inkle.]

Inkle. I know not what to think—I have given her distant hints of parting; but still, so strong her confidence in my affection, she prattles on without regarding me. Poor Yarico! I must not—cannot quit her. When I would speak, her look, her mere simplicity disarms me; I dare not wound such innocence. Simplicity is like a smiling babe, which, to the ruffian that would murder it, stretching its little naked, helpless arms, pleads, speechless, its own cause. And yet, Narcissa's family—

Enter Trudge.

Trudge. There he is; like a beau bespeaking a coat—doubting which colour to choose—Sir—

Inkle. What now?

Trudge. Nothing unexpected, sir:—I hope you won't be angry; but I am come to give you joy, sir!

Inkle. Joy!——of what?

Trudge. A wife, sir! a white one.—I know it will vex you, but Miss Narcissa means to make you happy, to-morrow morning.

Inkle. To-morrow!

Trudge. Yes, sir; and as I have been out of employ, in both my capacities, lately, after I have dressed your hair, I may draw up the marriage articles.

Inkle. Whence comes your intelligence, sir?

Trudge. Patty told me all that has passed in the Governor's family, on the quay, sir. Women, you know, can never keep a secret. You'll be introduced in form, with the whole island to witness it.

Inkle. So public, too!——Unlucky!

Trudge. There will be nothing but rejoicings, in compliment to the wedding, she tells me; all noise and uproar! Married people like it, they say.

Inkle. Strange! that I should be so blind to my interest, as to be the only person this distresses.

Trudge. They are talking of nothing else but the match, it seems.

Inkle. Confusion! How can I, in honour, retract?

Trudge. And the bride's merits——

Inkle. True!—A fund of merits!—I would not—but from necessity—a case so nice as this—I—would not wish to retract.

Trudge. Then they call her so handsome.

Inkle. Very true! so handsome! the whole world would laugh at me; they'd call it folly to retract.

Trudge. And then they say so much of her fortune.

Inkle. O death! it would be madness to retract. Surely, my faculties have slept, and this long parting from my Narcissa has blunted my sense of her accomplishments. 'Tis this alone makes me so weak and wavering. I'll see her immediately. [Going.]

Trudge. Stay, stay, sir; I am desired to tell you, the Governor won't open his gates to us till to-morrow morning.

Inkle. Well, be it so; it will give me time, at all events, to put my affairs in train.

Trudge. Yes; it's a short respite before execution; and if your honour was to go and comfort poor Madam Yarico——

Inkle. Damnation! Scoundrel, how dare you offer your advice?—I dread to think of her!

Trudge. I've done, sir, I've done—But I know I should blubber over Wows all night, if I thought of parting with her in the morning.

Inkle. Insolence! begone, sir!

Trudge. Lord, sir, I only——

Inkle. Get down stairs, sir, directly.

Trudge. [Going out.] Ah! you may well put your hand to your head; and a bad head it must be, to forget that Madam Yarico prevented her countrymen from peeling off the upper part of it. [Aside.]

[Exit.

Inkle. 'Sdeath, what am I about? How have I slumbered! Is it I?—I—who, in London, laughed at the younkers of the town—and, when I saw their chariots, with some fine, tempting girl, perked in the corner, come shopping to the city, would cry—Ah!—there sits ruin—there flies the Green-horn's money! then wondered with myself how men could trifle time on women; or, indeed, think of any women without fortunes. And now, forsooth, it rests with me to turn romantic puppy, and give up all for love.—Give up!—Oh, monstrous folly!—thirty thousand pounds!

Trudge. [Peeping in at the door.]

Trudge. May I come in, sir?

Inkle. What does the booby want?

Trudge. Sir, your uncle wants to see you.

Inkle. Mr. Medium! show him up directly.

[Exit Trudge.

He must not know of this. To-morrow! I wish this marriage were more distant, that I might break it to her by degrees: she'd take my purpose better, were it less suddenly delivered.

Enter Medium.

Med. Ah! here he is! Give me your hand, nephew! welcome, welcome to Barbadoes, with all my heart.

Inkle. I am glad to meet you here, uncle!

Med. That you are, that you are, I'm sure. Lord! Lord! when we parted last, how I wished we were in a room together, if it were but the black hole! I have not been able to sleep o'nights for thinking of you. I've laid awake, and fancied I saw you sleeping your last, with your head in the lion's mouth, for a night-cap! and I've never seen a bear brought over to dance about the street, but I thought you might be bobbing up and down in its belly.

Inkle. I am very much obliged to you.

Med. Aye, aye, I am happy enough to find you safe and sound, I promise you. But, you have a fine prospect before you now, young man. I am come to take you with me to Sir Christopher, who is impatient to see you.

Inkle. To-morrow, I hear, he expects me.

Med. To-morrow! directly—this moment—in half a second.—I left him standing on tip-toe, as he calls it, to embrace you; and he's standing on tiptoe now in the great parlour, and there he'll stand till you come to him.

Inkle. Is he so hasty?

Med. Hasty! he's all pepper—and wonders you are not with him, before it's possible to get at him. Hasty, indeed! Why, he vows you shall have his daughter this very night.

Inkle. What a situation!

Med. Why, it's hardly fair just after a voyage. But come, bustle, bustle, he'll think you neglect him. He's rare and touchy, I can tell you; and if he once takes it into his head that you show the least slight to his daughter, it would knock up all your schemes in a minute.

Inkle. Confusion! If he should hear of Yarico! [Aside.]

Med. But at present you are all and all with him; he has been telling me his intentions these six weeks; you'll be a fine warm husband, I promise you.

Inkle. This cursed connexion! [Aside.]

Med. It is not for me, though, to tell you how to play your cards; you are a prudent young man, and can make calculations in a wood.

Inkle. Fool! fool! fool! [Aside.]

Med. Why, what the devil is the matter with you?

Inkle. It must be done effectually, or all is lost; mere parting would not conceal it. [Aside.]

Med. Ah! now he's got to his damn'd square root again, I suppose, and Old Nick would not move him.—Why, nephew!

Inkle. The planter that I spoke with cannot be arrived—but time is precious—the first I meet—common prudence now demands it. I'm fixed, I'll part with her. [Aside.]

[Exit.

Med. Damn me, but he's mad! The woods have turned the poor boy's brains; he's scalped, and gone crazy! Hoho! Inkle! Nephew! Gad, I'll spoil your arithmetic, I warrant me.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Quay.

Enter Sir Christopher Curry.

Sir Chr. Ods, my life! I can scarce contain my happiness. I have left them safe in church, in the middle of the ceremony. I ought to have given Narcissa away, they told me; but I capered about so much for joy, that Old Spintext advised me to go and cool my heels on the quay, till it was all over. Ods

I'm so happy; and they shall see, now, what an old fellow can do at a wedding.

Enter Inkle.

Inkle. Now for dispatch! Hark'ee, old gentleman! [To the Governor.]

Sir Chr. Well, young gentleman?

Inkle. If I mistake not, I know your business here.

Sir Chr. 'Egad, I believe half the island knows it, by this time.

Inkle. Then to the point—I have a female, whom I wish to part with.

Sir Chr. Very likely; it's a common case, now a-days, with many a man.

Inkle. If you could satisfy me you would use her mildly, and treat her with more kindness than is usual—for I can tell you she's of no common stamp—perhaps we might agree.

Sir Chr. Oho! a slave! Faith, now I think on't, my daughter may want an attendant or two extraordinary; and as you say she's a delicate girl, above the common run, and none of your thick-lipped, flat-nosed, squabby, dumpling dowdies, I don't much care if—

Inkle. And for her treatment—

Sir Chr. Look ye, young man; I love to be plain: I shall treat her a good deal better than you would, I fancy; for though I witness this custom every day, I can't help thinking the only excuse for buying our fellow creatures, is to rescue them from the hands of those who are unfeeling enough to bring them to market.

Inkle. Fair words, old gentleman; an Englishman won't put up an affront.

Sir Chr. An Englishman! more shame for you!

Let Englishmen blush at such practices. Men, who so fully feel the blessings of liberty, are doubly cruel in depriving the helpless of their freedom.

Inkle. Let me assure you, sir, it is not my occupation; but for a private reason—an instant pressing necessity——

Sir Chr. Well, well, I have a pressing necessity too; I can't stand to talk now; I expect company here presently; but if you'll ask for me to-morrow, at the Castle—

Inkle. The Castle!

Sir Chr. Aye, sir, the Castle; the Governor's Castle; known all over Barbadoes.

Inkle. 'Sdeath this man must be on the Governor's establishment: his steward, perhaps, and sent after me, while Sir Christopher is impatiently waiting for me. I've gone too far; my secret may be known—As 'tis, I'll win this fellow to my interest. [To him.]—One word more, sir: my business must be done immediately; and as you seem acquainted at the Castle, if you should see me there—and there I mean to sleep to-night——

Sir Chr. The devil you do!

Inkle. Your finger on your lips; and never breathe a syllable of this transaction.

Sir Chr. No! Why not?

Inkle. Because, for reasons, which, perhaps, you'll know to-morrow, I might be injured with the Governor, whose most particular friend I am.

Sir Chr. So! here's a particular friend of mine, coming to sleep at my house, that I never saw in my life. I'll sound this fellow. [Aside.] I fancy, young gentleman, as you are such a bosom friend of the Governor's, you can hardly do any thing to alter your situation with him?

Inkle. Oh! pardon me; but you'll find that hereafter—besides, you, doubtless, know his character?

Sir Chr. Oh, as well as I do my own. But let's understand one another. You may trust me, now you've gone so far. You are acquainted with his character, no doubt, to a hair?

Inkle. I am—I see we shall understand each other. You know him too, I see, as well as I.—A very touchy, testy, hot old fellow.

Sir Chr. Here's a scoundrel! I hot and touchy! Zounds! I can hardly contain my passion!—But I won't discover myself. I'll see the bottom of this——[To him.] Well now, as we seem to have come to a tolerable explanation—let's proceed to business—Bring me the woman.

Inkle. No; there you must excuse me. I rather would avoid seeing her more; and wish it to be settled without my seeming interference. My presence might distress her—You conceive me?

Sir Chr. Zounds! what an unfeeling rascal!—The poor girl's in love with him, I suppose. No, no, fair and open. My dealing is with you and you only: I see her now, or I declare off.

Inkle. Well then, you must be satisfied: yonder's my servant—ha—a thought has struck me. Come here, sir.

Enter Trudge.

I'll write my purpose, and send it her by him—It's lucky that I taught her to decypher characters; my labour now is paid. [Takes out his pocket book, and writes.]—This is somewhat less abrupt; 'twill soften matters. [To himself.] Give this to Yarico; then bring her hither with you.

Trudge. I shall, sir. [Going.]

Inkle. Stay; come back. This soft fool, if uninstructed, may add to her distress. When she has read this paper, seem to make light of it; tell her it is a thing of course, done purely for her good. I here inform her that I must part with her. D'ye understand your lesson?

Trudge. Pa—part with Ma—madam Ya-ri-co!

Inkle. Why does the blockhead stammer!—I have my reasons. No muttering—And let me tell you, sir, if your rare bargain were gone too, 'twould be the better: she may babble our story of the forest, and spoil my fortune.

Trudge. I'm sorry for it, sir; I have lived with you along while; I've half a year's wages too, due the 25th ult. for dressing your hair, and scribbling your parchments; but take my scribbling; take my frizzing; take my wages; and I, and Wows, will take ourselves off together—she saved my life, and rot me, if any thing but death shall part us.

Inkle. Impertinent! Go, and deliver your message.

Trudge. I'm gone, sir. Lord, Lord! I never carried a letter with such ill will in all my born days.

[Exit.

Sir Chr. Well—shall I see the girl?

Inkle. She'll be here presently. One thing I had forgot: when she is yours, I need not caution you, after the hints I've given, to keep her from the Castle. If Sir Christopher should see her, 'twould lead, you know, to a discovery of what I wish concealed.

Sir Chr. Depend upon me—Sir Christopher will know no more of our meeting, than he does at this moment.

Inkle. Your secrecy shall not be unrewarded; I'll recommend you, particularly, to his good graces.

Sir Chr. Thank ye, thank ye; but I'm pretty much in his good graces, as it is; I don't know anybody he has a greater respect for.——

Re-enter Trudge.

Inkle. Now, sir, have you performed your message?

Trudge. Yes, I gave her the letter.

Inkle. And where is Yarico? did she say she'd come? didn't you do as you were ordered? didn't you speak to her?

Trudge. I cou'dn't, sir, I cou'dn't—I intended to say what you bid me—but I felt such a pain in my throat, I cou'dn't speak a word, for the soul of me; and so, sir, I fell a crying.

Inkle. Blockhead!

Sir Chr. 'Sblood, but he's a very honest blockhead. Tell me, my good fellow—what said the wench?

Trudge. Nothing at all, sir. She sat down with her two hands clasped on her knees, and looked so pitifully in my face, I could not stand it. Oh, here she comes. I'll go and find Wows: if I must be melancholy, she shall keep me company.

[Exit.

Sir Chr. Ods my life, as comely a wench as ever I saw!

Enter Yarico, who looks for some time in Inkle's face, bursts into tears, and falls on his neck.

Inkle. In tears! nay, Yarico! why this?

Yar. Oh do not—do not leave me!

Inkle. Why, simple girl! I'm labouring for your good. My interest, here, is nothing: I can do nothing from myself, you are ignorant of our country's customs. I must give way to men more powerful, who will not have me with you. But see, my Yarico, ever anxious for your welfare, I've found a kind, good person who will protect you.

Yar. Ah! why not you protect me!

Inkle. I have no means—how can I?

Yarico. Just as I sheltered you. Take me to yonder mountain, where I see no smoke from tall, high houses, filled with your cruel countrymen. None of your princes, there, will come to take me from you. And should they stray that way, we'll find a lurking place, just like my own poor cave; where many a day I sat beside you, and blessed the chance that brought you to it—that I might save your life.

Sir Chr. His life! Zounds! my blood boils at the scoundrel's ingratitude!

Yar. Come, come, let's go. I always feared these cities. Let's fly and seek the woods; and there we'll wander hand in hand together. No cares shall vex us then—We'll let the day glide by in idleness; and you shall sit in the shade, and watch the sun-beam playing on the brook, while I sing the song that pleases you. No cares, love, but for food—and we'll live cheerily I warrant—In the fresh, early morning, you shall hunt down our game, and I will pick you berries—and then, at night I'll trim our bed of leaves, and lie me down in peace—Oh! we shall be so happy!——

Inkle. Hear me, Yarico. My countrymen and yours differ as much in minds as in complexions. We were not born to live in woods and caves——to seek subsistence by pursuing beasts——We christians, girl, hunt money; a thing unknown to you—But, here, 'tis money which brings us ease, plenty, command, power, every thing; and, of course, happiness. You are the bar to my attaining this; therefore 'tis necessary for my good——and which, I think, you value——

Yar. You know I do; so much, that it would break my heart to leave you.

Inkle. But we must part; if you are seen with me, I shall lose all.

Yar. I gave up all for you—my friends—my country:

all that was dear to me: and still grown dearer since you sheltered there.—All, all, was left for you—and were it now to do again—again I'd cross the seas, and follow you, all the world over.

Inkle. We idle time; sir, she is yours. See you obey this gentleman; 'twill be the better for you. [Going.]

Yar. O barbarous! [Holding him.] Do not, do not abandon me!

Inkle. No more.

Yar. Stay but a little. I shan't live long to be a burden to you: your cruelty has cut me to the heart. Protect me but a little—or I'll obey this man, and undergo all hardships for your good; stay but to witness 'em.—I soon shall sink with grief; tarry till then, and hear me bless your name when I am dying; and beg you now and then, when I am gone, to heave a sigh for your poor Yarico.

Inkle. I dare not listen. You, sir, I hope, will take good care of her. [Going.]

Sir Chr. Care of her!—that I will—I'll cherish her like my own daughter; and pour balm into the heart of a poor, innocent girl, that has been wounded by the artifices of a scoundrel.

Inkle. Hah! 'Sdeath, sir, how dare you!—

Sir Chr. 'Sdeath, sir, how dare you look an honest man in the face?

Inkle. Sir, you shall feel—

Sir Chr. Feel!—It's more than ever you did, I believe. Mean, sordid wretch! dead to all sense of honour, gratitude, or humanity—I never heard of such barbarity! I have a son-in-law, who has been left in the same situation; but, if I thought him capable of such cruelty, dam'me if I would not turn him to sea, with a peck-loaf, in a cockle shell—Come, come, cheer up, my girl! You shan't want a friend to protect you, I warrant you.—[Taking Yarico by the hand.]

Inkle. Insolence! The Governor shall hear of this insult.

Sir Chr. The Governor! liar! cheat! rogue! impostor! breaking all ties you ought to keep, and pretending to those you have no right to. The Governor never had such a fellow in the whole catalogue of his acquaintance—the Governor disowns you—the Governor disclaims you—the Governor abhors you; and to your utter confusion, here stands the Governor to tell you so. Here stands old Curry, who never talked to a rogue without telling him what he thought of him.

Inkle. Sir Christopher!—Lost and undone!

Med. [Without.] Holo! Young Multiplication! Zounds! I have been peeping in every cranny of the house. Why, young Rule of Three! [Enters from the inn.] Oh, here you are at last—Ah, Sir Christopher! What are you there! too impatient to wait at home. But here's one that will make you easy, I fancy. [Clapping Inkle on the shoulder.]

Sir Chr. How came you to know him?

Med. Ha! ha! Well, that's curious enough too. So you have been talking here, without finding out each other.

Sir Chr. No, no; I have found him out with a vengeance.

Med. Not you. Why this is the dear boy. It's my nephew; that is, your son-in-law, that is to be. It's Inkle!

Sir Chr. It's a lie; and you're a purblind old booby,—and this dear boy is a damn'd scoundrel.

Med. Hey-day! what's the meaning of this? One was mad before, and he has bit the other, I suppose.

Sir Chr. But here comes the dear boy—the true boy—the jolly boy, piping hot from church, with my daughter.

Enter Campley, Narcissa, and Patty.

Med. Campley!

Sir Chr. Who? Campley?—It's no such thing.

Camp. That's my name, indeed, Sir Christopher.

Sir Chr. The devil it is! And how came you, sir, to impose upon me, and assume the name of Inkle? A name which every man of honesty ought to be ashamed of.

Camp. I never did, sir.—Since I sailed from England with your daughter, my affection has daily increased: and when I came to explain myself to you, by a number of concurring circumstances, which I am now partly acquainted with, you mistook me for that gentleman. Yet had I even then been aware of your mistake, I must confess, the regard for my own happiness would have tempted me to let you remain undeceived.

Sir Chr. And did you, Narcissa, join in—

Nar. How could I, my dear sir, disobey you?

Patty. Lord your honour, what young lady could refuse a captain?

Camp. I am a soldier, Sir Christopher. Love and war is the soldier's motto; though my income is trifling to your intended son-in-law's, still the chance of war has enabled me to support the object of my love above indigence. Her fortune, Sir Christopher, I do not consider myself by any means entitled to.

Sir Chr. 'Sblood! but you must though. Give me your hand, my young Mars, and bless you both together!—Thank you, thank you for cheating an old fellow into giving his daughter to a lad of spirit, when he was going to throw her away upon one, in whose breast the mean passion of avarice smothers the smallest spark of affection or humanity.

Nar. I have this moment heard a story of a transaction in the forest, which I own would have rendered compliance with your former commands very disagreeable.

Patty. Yes, sir, I told my mistress he had brought over a Hottypot gentlewoman.

Sir Chr. Yes, but he would have left her for you; [To Narcissa.] and you for his interest; and sold you, perhaps, as he has this poor girl to me, as a requital for preserving his life.

Nar. How!

Enter Trudge and Wowski.

Trudge. Come along, Wows! take a long last leave of your poor mistress: throw your pretty, ebony arms about her neck.

Wows. No, no;—she not go; you not leave poor Wowski. [Throwing her arms about Yarico.]

Sir Chr. Poor girl! A companion, I take it!

Trudge. A thing of my own, sir. I cou'dn't help following my master's example in the woods——Like master, like man, sir.

Sir Chr. But you would not sell her, and be hang'd to you, you dog, would you?

Trudge. Hang me, like a dog, if I would, sir.

Sir Chr. So say I to every fellow that breaks an obligation due to the feelings of a man. But, old Medium, what have you to say for your hopeful nephew?

Med. I never speak ill of my friends, Sir Christopher.

Sir Chr. Pshaw!

Inkle. Then let me speak: hear me defend a conduct——

Sir Chr. Defend! Zounds! plead guilty at once—it's the only hope left of obtaining mercy.

Inkle. Suppose, old gentleman, you had a son?

Sir Chr. 'Sblood! then I'd make him an honest fellow; and teach him, that the feeling heart never knows greater pride than when it's employed in giving succour to the unfortunate. I'd teach him to be his father's own son to a hair.

Inkle. Even so my father tutored me: from my infancy, bending my tender mind, like a young sapling, to his will—Interest was the grand prop round which he twined my pliant green affections: taught me in childhood to repeat old sayings—all tending to his own fixed principles, and the first sentence that I ever lisped, was—Charity begins at home.

Sir Chr. I shall never like a proverb again, as long as I live.

Inkle. As I grew up, he'd prove—and by example—were I in want, I might e'en starve, for what the world cared for their neighbours; why then should I care for the world? Men now lived for themselves. These were his doctrines: then, sir, what would you say, should I, in spite of habit, precept, education, fly in my father's face, and spurn his councils?

Sir Chr. Say! why, that you were a damn'd honest, undutiful fellow. O curse such principles! Principles, which destroy all confidence between man and man—Principles which none but a rogue could instil, and none but a rogue could imbibe.—Principles——

Inkle. Which I renounce.

Sir Chr. Eh!

Inkle. Renounce entirely. Ill-founded precept too long has steeled my breast—but still 'tis vulnerable—this trial was too much—Nature, 'gainst habit combating within me, has penetrated to my heart; a heart, I own, long callous to the feelings of sensibility; but now it bleeds—and bleeds for my poor Yarico. Oh, let me clasp her to it, while 'tis glowing, and mingle tears of love and penitence. [Embracing her.]

Trudge. [Capering about.] Wows, give me a kiss! [Wowski goes to Trudge.]

Yar. And shall we—shall we be happy?

Inkle. Aye; ever, ever, Yarico.

Yar. I knew we should—and yet I feared—but shall I still watch over you? Oh! love, you surely gave your Yarico such pain, only to make her feel this happiness the greater.

Wows. [Going to Yarico.] Oh Wowski so happy!—and yet I think I not glad neither.

Trudge. Eh, Wows! How!—why not!

Wows. 'Cause I can't help cry——

Sir Chr. Then, if that's the case—curse me, if I think I'm very glad either. What the plague's the matter with my eyes?—Young man, your hand—I am now proud and happy to shake it.

Med. Well, Sir Christopher, what do you say to my hopeful nephew now?

Sir Chr. Say! Why, confound the fellow, I say, that is ungenerous enough to remember the bad action of a man who has virtue left in his heart to repent it—As for you, my good fellow, [To Trudge.] I must, with your master's permission, employ you myself.

Trudge. O rare!—Bless your honour!—Wows! you'll be lady, you jade, to a governor's factotum.

Wows. Iss—I Lady Jactotum.

Sir Chr. And now, my young folks, we'll drive home, and celebrate the wedding. Od's my life! I long to be shaking a foot at the fiddles, and I shall dance ten times the lighter, for reforming an Inkle, while I have it in my power to reward the innocence of a Yarico.

FINALE.

[La Belle Catharine.]

CAMPLEY.

Come, let us dance and sing,

While all Barbadoes bells shall ring:

Love scrapes the fiddle string,

And Venus plays the lute;

Hymen gay, foots away,

Happy at our wedding-day,

Cocks his chin, and figures in,

To tabor, fife, and flute.

CHORUS.

Come then dance and sing,

While all Barbadoes bells shall ring, &c.

NARCISSA.

Since thus each anxious care

Is vanished into empty air,

Ah! how can I forbear

To join the jocund dance?

To and fro, couples go,

On the light fantastic toe,

White with glee, merrily,

The rosy hours advance.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

YARICO.

When first the swelling sea

Hither bore my love and me,

What then my fate would be,

Little did I think——

Doomed to know care and woe,

Happy still is Yarico;

Since her love will constant prove,

And nobly scorns to shrink.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

WOWSKI.

Whilst all around, rejoice,

Pipe and tabor raise the voice,

It can't be Wowski's choice,

Whilst Trudge's to be dumb.

No, no, dey blithe and gay,

Shall like massy, missy play.

Dance and sing, hey ding, ding,

Strike fiddle and beat drum.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

TRUDGE.

'Sbobs! now, I'm fix'd for life,

My fortune's fair, tho' black's my wife,

Who fears domestic strife—

Who cares now a souse!

Merry cheer my dingy dear

Shall find with her Factotum heve;

Night and day, I'll frisk and play

About the house with Wows.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

INKLE.

Love's convert here behold,

Banish'd now my thirst of gold,

Bless'd in these arms to fold

My gentle Yarico.

Hence all care, doubt, and fear,

Love and joy each want shall cheer,

Happy night, pure delight,

Shall make our bosoms glow.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

PATTY.

Let Patty say a word——

A chambermaid may sure be heard——

Sure men are grown absurd,

Thus taking black for white;

To hug and kiss a dingy miss,

Will hardly suit an age like this,

Unless, here, some friends appear,

Who like this wedding night.

Chorus. Come then, &c.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- INKLE AND YARICO; AN OPERA, IN THREE ACTS;

- REMARKS.

- PERSONS REPRESENTED.

- ACT THE FIRST.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SONG.

- SONG.

- SCENE III.

- SONG.—YARICO.

- DUETT.

- SONG.—WOWSKI.

- DUETT.

- ACT THE SECOND.

- SCENE I.

- SONG.

- SONG.

- SONG.

- SONG.

- SCENE II.

- ACT THE THIRD.

- SCENE I.

- SONG.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- FINALE.

- THE END.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE