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_ ACT I - SCENE II
[A Room in VAN ROUGH'S House]
[MARIA sitting disconsolate at a Table, with Books, &c.]
SONG.
I.
The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day;
But glory remains when their lights fade away!
Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
II.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low:
Why so slow?--do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No--the son of Alknomook will never complain.
III.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:
Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
IV.
I go to the land where my father is gone;
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son:
Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain;
And thy son, Oh Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.
There is something in this song which ever calls forth my affections.
The manly virtue of courage, that fortitude which steels the heart
against the keenest misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel of glory
amidst the instruments of torture and death, displays something so
noble, so exalted, that in despite of the prejudices of education I
cannot but admire it, even in a savage. The prepossession which our
sex is supposed to entertain for the character of a soldier is, I know,
a standing piece of raillery among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd
coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are irresistible by a female
heart. Let it be so. Who is it that considers the helpless situation
of our sex, that does not see that we each moment stand in need of a
protector, and that a brave one too? Formed of the more delicate
materials of nature, endowed only with the softer passions, incapable,
from our ignorance of the world, to guard against the wiles of mankind,
our security for happiness often depends upon their generosity and
courage. Alas! how little of the former do we find! How
inconsistent! that man should be leagued to destroy that honour upon
which solely rests his respect and esteem. Ten thousand temptations
allure us, ten thousand passions betray us; yet the smallest deviation
from the path of rectitude is followed by the contempt and insult of
man, and the more remorseless pity of woman; years of penitence and
tears cannot wash away the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate its
remembrance. Reputation is the life of woman; yet courage to protect
it is masculine and disgusting; and the only safe asylum a woman of
delicacy can find is in the arms of a man of honour. How naturally,
then, should we love the brave and the generous; how gratefully should
we bless the arm raised for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue and
directed by honour! Heaven grant that the man with whom I may be
connected--may be connected! Whither has my imagination transported
me--whither does it now lead me? Am I not indissolubly engaged, "by
every obligation of honour which my own consent and my father's
approbation can give," to a man who can never share my affections, and
whom a few days hence it will be criminal for me to disapprove--to
disapprove! would to heaven that were all--to despise. For, can the
most frivolous manners, actuated by the most depraved heart, meet, or
merit, anything but contempt from every woman of delicacy and sentiment?
[VAN ROUGH without. Mary!]
Ha! my father's voice--Sir!--
[Enter VAN ROUGH.]
VAN ROUGH.
What, Mary, always singing doleful ditties, and moping over these
plaguy books.
MARIA.
I hope, Sir, that it is not criminal to improve my mind with books, or
to divert my melancholy with singing, at my leisure hours.
VAN ROUGH.
Why, I don't know that, child; I don't know that. They us'd to say,
when I was a young man, that if a woman knew how to make a pudding, and
to keep herself out of fire and water, she knew enough for a wife.
Now, what good have these books done you? have they not made you
melancholy? as you call it. Pray, what right has a girl of your age to
be in the dumps? haven't you everything your heart can wish; an't you
going to be married to a young man of great fortune; an't you going to
have the quit-rent of twenty miles square?
MARIA.
One-hundredth part of the land, and a lease for life of the heart of a
man I could love, would satisfy me.
VAN ROUGH.
Pho, pho, pho! child; nonsense, downright nonsense, child. This comes
of your reading your storybooks; your Charles Grandisons, your
Sentimental Journals, and your Robinson Crusoes, and such other
trumpery. No, no, no! child; it is money makes the mare go; keep your
eye upon the main chance, Mary.
MARIA.
Marriage, Sir, is, indeed, a very serious affair.
VAN ROUGH.
You are right, child; you are right. I am sure I found it so, to my
cost.
MARIA.
I mean, Sir, that as marriage is a portion for life, and so intimately
involves our happiness, we cannot be too considerate in the choice of
our companion.
VAN ROUGH.
Right, child; very right. A young woman should be very sober when she
is making her choice, but when she has once made it, as you have done,
I don't see why she should not be as merry as a grig; I am sure she has
reason enough to be so. Solomon says that "there is a time to laugh,
and a time to weep." Now, a time for a young woman to laugh is when she
has made sure of a good rich husband. Now, a time to cry, according to
you, Mary, is when she is making choice of him; but I should think that
a young woman's time to cry was when she despaired of getting one.
Why, there was your mother, now: to be sure, when I popp'd the question
to her she did look a little silly; but when she had once looked down
on her apron-strings, as all modest young women us'd to do, and drawled
out ye-s, she was as brisk and as merry as a bee.
MARIA.
My honoured mother, Sir, had no motive to melancholy; she married the
man of her choice.
VAN ROUGH.
The man of her choice! And pray, Mary, an't you going to marry the man
of your choice--what trumpery notion is this? It is these vile books
[throwing them away]. I'd have you to know, Mary, if you won't make
young Van Dumpling the man of your choice, you shall marry him as the
man of my choice.
MARIA.
You terrify me, Sir. Indeed, Sir, I am all submission. My will is
yours.
VAN ROUGH.
Why, that is the way your mother us'd to talk. "My will is yours, my
dear Mr. Van Rough, my will is yours"; but she took special care to
have her own way, though, for all that.
MARIA.
Do not reflect upon my mother's memory, Sir--
VAN ROUGH.
Why not, Mary, why not? She kept me from speaking my mind all her
life, and do you think she shall henpeck me now she is dead too? Come,
come; don't go to sniveling; be a good girl, and mind the main chance.
I'll see you well settled in the world.
MARIA.
I do not doubt your love, Sir, and it is my duty to obey you. I will
endeavour to make my duty and inclination go hand in hand.
VAN ROUGH.
Well, Well, Mary; do you be a good girl, mind the main chance, and
never mind inclination. Why, do you know that I have been down in the
cellar this very morning to examine a pipe of Madeira which I purchased
the week you were born, and mean to tap on your wedding day?--That pipe
cost me fifty pounds sterling. It was well worth sixty pounds; but I
over-reach'd Ben Bulkhead, the supercargo. I'll tell you the whole
story. You must know that--
[Enter SERVANT.]
SERVANT.
Sir, Mr. Transfer, the broker is below.
[Exit.]
VAN ROUGH.
Well, Mary, I must go.
Remember, and be a good girl, and mind the main chance.
[Exit.]
MARIA
[alone.]
How deplorable is my situation! How distressing for a daughter to find
her heart militating with her filial duty! I know my father loves me
tenderly; why then do I reluctantly obey him? Heaven knows! with what
reluctance I should oppose the will of a parent, or set an example of
filial disobedience; at a parent's command, I could wed awkwardness and
deformity. Were the heart of my husband good, I would so magnify his
good qualities with the eye of conjugal affection, that the defects of
his person and manners should be lost in the emanation of his virtues.
At a father's command, I could embrace poverty. Were the poor man my
husband, I would learn resignation to my lot; I would enliven our
frugal meal with good humour, and chase away misfortune from our
cottage with a smile. At a father's command, I could almost submit to
what every female heart knows to be the most mortifying, to marry a
weak man, and blush at my husband's folly in every company I visited.
But to marry a depraved wretch, whose only virtue is a polished
exterior; who is actuated by the unmanly ambition of conquering the
defenceless; whose heart, insensible to the emotions of patriotism,
dilates at the plaudits of every unthinking girl; whose laurels are the
sighs and tears of the miserable victims of his specious
behaviour,--can he, who has no regard for the peace and happiness of
other families, ever have a due regard for the peace and happiness of
his own? Would to heaven that my father were not so hasty in his
temper? Surely, if I were to state my reasons for declining this
match, he would not compel me to marry a man, whom, though my lips may
solemnly promise to honour, I find my heart must ever despise.
[Exit.
END OF THE FIRST ACT. _
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