No More Learning

_ Ha, look there!
My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murder!
Who has done this? speak to me, thou sad vision; [Ghosts _sink_.
On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanished! --
Here they went down. Oh, I'll dig, dig the den up.
You shan't delude me thus. Ho, Jaffier, Jaffier,
Peep up and give me but a look. I have him!
I've got him, father: oh, now how I'll smuggle him!
My love! my dear! my blessing! help me! help me!
They've hold on me, and drag me to the bottom.
Nay--now they pull so hard--farewell! [_Dies. _

_Maid. _ She's dead--
Breathless and dead.

_Priu. _ Then guard me from the sight on't.
Lead me into some place that's fit for mourning,
Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun
May never enter; hang it round with black;
Set up one taper that may last a day,
As long as I've to live; and there all leave me,--
Sparing no tears when you this tale relate;
But bid all cruel fathers dread my fate. [_Exeunt. _

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[77] This was the burden of many songs of that period, as in the
following:

"We'll drive the doctors out of doors,
And parts whate'er they be,
We'll cry all parts and learning down,
And _heigh then up go we_. "

_Collec. of Songs_, 1731. --_Thornton. _



[Illustration:




EPILOGUE]


The text is done, and now for application,
And when that's ended, pass your approbation.
Though the conspiracy's prevented here,
Methinks I see another hatching there;
And there's a certain faction fain would sway,
If they had strength enough, and damn this play.
But this the author bade me boldly say:--
If any take his plainness in ill part,
He's glad on't from the bottom of his heart;
Poets in honour of the truth should write,
With the same spirit brave men for it fight;
And though against him causeless hatreds rise,
And daily where he goes of late, he spies
The scowls of sullen and revengeful eyes,
'Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear,
And serves a cause too good to let him fear.
He fears no poison from an incensed drab,
No ruffian's five-foot-sword, nor rascal's stab,
Nor any other snares of mischief laid,--
Not a Rose-alley cudgel-ambuscade,[78]
From any private cause where malice reigns,
Or general pique all blockheads have to brains:
Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth does call--
No, not the picture-mangler[79] at Guildhall.
The rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one,
Have now set forward, and their course begun;
And while that prince's figure they deface,
As they before had massacred his name,
Durst their base fears but look him in the face,
They'd use his person as they've used his fame:
A face in which such lineaments they read
Of that great martyr's, whose rich blood they shed,
That their rebellious hate they still retain,
And in his son would murder him again.
With indignation, then, let each brave heart
Rouse and unite to take his injured part;
Till Royal love and goodness call him home,[80]
And songs of triumph meet him as he come;
Till Heaven his honour and our peace restore,
And villains never wrong his virtue more.

FOOTNOTES:

[78] This refers to the attack upon Dryden in Rose Street, Covent
Garden, in December 1679--made by order of Rochester in consequence,
it is supposed, of Dryden being reputed the author of the _Essay on
Satire_. The preceding verse probably contains an allusion to the
stabbing of Mr. Scroop by Sir Thomas Armstrong, in the pit of the
Duke's Theatre, which is mentioned by Langbaine (_Dram. Poets_, p. 460).

[79] The same incident is referred to by other writers. The Duke of
York's picture had been cut from the legs downwards.

[80] The Duke was then in a sort of exile in Scotland.




[Illustration: APPENDIX. ]


The following letters were first published among a collection of
_Familiar Letters by Lord Rochester and others_, &c. 8vo, 1697; and
were afterwards subjoined to an edition of Otway's Works in 1727, under
the title of "Love Letters. " They have no superscription, but are
supposed to have been written to Mrs. Barry, the actress.


LETTER I.

My Tyrant!

I endure too much torment to be silent, and have endured it too long
not to make the severest complaint. I love you, I dote on you; desire
makes me mad when I am near you, and despair when I am from you. Sure,
of all miseries, love is to me the most intolerable: it haunts me in
my sleep, perplexes me when waking; every melancholy thought makes my
fears more powerful, and every delightful one makes my wishes more
unruly. In all other uneasy chances of a man's life, there is an
immediate recourse to some kind of succour or another: in wants we
apply ourselves to our friends, in sickness to physicians; but love,
the sum, the total of all misfortunes, must be endured with silence;
no friend so dear to trust with such a secret, nor remedy in art so
powerful to remove its anguish. Since the first day I saw you, I have
hardly enjoyed one hour of perfect quiet. I loved you early; and no
sooner had I beheld that soft bewitching face of yours, but I felt in
my heart the very foundation of all my peace give way: but when you
became another's I must confess that I did then rebel, had foolish
pride enough to promise myself I would in time recover my liberty: in
spite of my enslaved nature, I swore, against myself, I would not love
you; I affected a resentment, stifled my spirit, and would not let it
bend so much as once to upbraid you, each day it was my chance to see
or to be near you: with stubborn sufferance I resolved to bear, and
brave your power: nay, did it often too, successfully.

Generally with wine or conversation I diverted or appeased the demon
that possessed me; but when at night, returning to my unhappy self, to
give my heart an account why I had done it so unnatural a violence, it
was then I always paid a treble interest for the short moments of ease
which I had borrowed; then every treacherous thought rose up, and took
your part, nor left me till they had thrown me on my bed, and opened
those sluices of tears that were to run till morning. This has been for
some years my best condition: nay, time itself, that decays all things
else, has but increased and added to my longings. I tell it you, and
charge you to believe it, as you are generous (which sure you must be,
for everything, except your neglect of me, persuades me that you are
so), even at this time, though other arms have held you, and so long
trespassed on those dear joys that only were my due, I love you with
that tenderness of spirit, that purity of truth, and that sincerity of
heart, that I could sacrifice the nearest friends or interests I have
on earth, barely but to please you: if I had all the world, it should
be yours; for with it I could be but miserable, if you were not mine.

I appeal to yourself for justice, if through the whole actions of my
life I have done any one thing that might not let you see how absolute
your authority was over me. Your commands have been always sacred to
me; your smiles have always transported me, and your frowns awed me.
In short, you will quickly become to me the greatest blessing, or the
greatest curse, that ever man was doomed to. I cannot so much as look
on you without confusion; wishes and fears rise up in war within me,
and work a cursed distraction through my soul, that must, I am sure,
in time, have wretched consequences: you only can, with that healing
cordial, love, assuage and calm my torments. Pity the man then that
would be proud to die for you, and cannot live without you; and allow
him thus far to boast too, that (take out fortune from the balance)
you never were beloved or courted by a creature that had a nobler or
juster pretence to your heart than the unfortunate and (even at this
time) weeping

OTWAY.


LETTER II.

In value of your quiet, though it would be the utter ruin of my own,
I have endeavoured this day to persuade myself never more to trouble
you with a passion that has tormented me sufficiently already; and is
so much the more a torment to me, in that I perceive it is become one
to you, who are much dearer to me than myself. I have laid all the
reasons my distracted condition would let me have recourse to before
me; I have consulted my pride, whether, after a rival's possession, I
ought to ruin all my peace for a woman that another has been more blest
in, though no man ever loved as I did;--but love, victorious love!
o'erthrows all that, and tells me it is his nature never to remember;
he still looks forward from the present hour, expecting still new
dawns, new rising happiness; never looks back, never regards what is
past and left behind him, but buries and forgets it quite in the hot
fierce pursuit of joy before him. I have consulted too my very self,
and find how careless nature was in framing me; seasoned me hastily
with all the most violent inclinations and desires, but omitted the
ornaments that should make those qualities become me. I have consulted
too my lot of fortune, and find how foolishly I wish possession of what
is so precious all the world's too cheap for it; yet still I love,
still I dote on, and cheat myself, very content, because the folly
pleases me. It is pleasure to think how fair you are, though, at the
same time, worse than damnation to think how cruel. Why should you tell
me you have shut your heart up for ever? It is an argument unworthy of
yourself, sounds like reserve, and not so much sincerity as sure I may
claim even from a little of your friendship.

Can your age, your face, your eyes, and your spirit bid defiance to
that sweet power? No, you know better to what end Heaven made you;
know better how to manage youth and pleasure, than to let them die and
pall upon your hands. 'Tis me, 'tis only me you have barred your heart
against. My sufferings, my diligence, my sighs, complaints, and tears,
are of no power with your haughty nature: yet sure you might at least
vouchsafe to pity them, not shift me off with gross, thick, homespun
friendship, the common coin that passes betwixt worldly interests--must
that be my lot? Take it, ill-natured, take it; give it to him who would
waste his fortune for you; give it the man would fill your lap with
gold, court you with offers of vast rich possessions; give it the fool
that has nothing but his money to plead for him: love will have a much
nearer relation, or none. I ask for glorious happiness; you bid me
welcome to your friendship: it is like seating me at your side-table,
when I have the best pretence to your right hand at the feast. I love,
I dote, I am mad, and know no measure; nothing but extremes can give me
ease, the kindest love, or most provoking scorn.

Yet even your scorn would not perform the cure: it might indeed take
off the edge of hope, but damned despair will gnaw my heart for ever.
If then I am not odious to your eyes, if you have charity enough to
value the well-being of a man that holds you dearer than you can the
child your bowels are most fond of, by that sweet pledge of your first
softest love, I charm and here conjure you to pity the distracting
pangs of mine; pity my unquiet days and restless nights; pity the
frenzy that has half possessed my brain already, and makes me write to
you thus ravingly: the wretch in Bedlam is more at peace than I am; and
if I must never possess the heaven I wish for, my next desire is (and
the sooner the better) a clean-swept cell, a merciful keeper, and your
compassion when you find me there.

Think and be generous.


LETTER III.

Since you are going to quit the world[81] I think myself obliged, as
a member of that world, to use the best of my endeavours to divert
you from so ill-natured an inclination: therefore, by reason your
visits will take up so much of this day, I have debarred myself the
opportunity of waiting on you this afternoon, that I may take a time
you are more mistress of, and when you shall have more leisure to hear,
if it be possible for any arguments of mine to take place in a heart
I am afraid too much hardened against me. I must confess it may look
a little extraordinary for one under my circumstances to endeavour
the confirming your good opinion of the world, when it had been much
better for me, one of us had never seen it; for nature disposed me from
my creation to love, and my ill-fortune has condemned me to dote on
one who certainly could never have been deaf so long to so faithful a
passion had nature disposed her from her creation to hate anything but
me. I beg you to forgive this trifling, for I have so many thoughts of
this nature that 'tis impossible for me to take pen and ink in my hand
and keep them quiet, especially when I have the least pretence to let
you know you are the cause of the severest disquiets that ever touched
the heart of

OTWAY.


LETTER IV.

Could I see you without passion, or be absent from you without pain,
I need not beg your pardon for this renewing my vows, that I love you
more than health, or any happiness here or hereafter. Everything you
do is a new charm to me; and, though I have languished for seven long
tedious years of desire, jealously and despairing, yet every minute I
see you I still discover something new and more bewitching. Consider
how I love you; what would not I renounce or enterprise for you! I
must have you mine, or I am miserable, and nothing but knowing which
shall be the happy hour can make the rest of my life that are [is] to
come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to
look with common goodness on me more, for I cannot bear a kind look,
and after it a cruel denial. This minute my heart aches for you; and,
if I cannot have a right in yours, I wish it would ache till I could
complain to you no longer.

Remember poor OTWAY.


LETTER V.

You cannot but be sensible that I am blind, or you would not so openly
discover what a ridiculous tool you make of me. I should be glad to
discover whose satisfaction I was sacrificed to this morning; for I
am sure your own ill-nature could not be guilty of inventing such an
injury to me, merely to try how much I could bear, were it not for
the sake of some ass that has the fortune to please you. In short,
I have made it the business of my life to do you service and please
you, if possible by any way to convince you of the unhappy love I
have for seven years toiled under; and your whole business is to pick
ill-natured conjectures out of my harmless freedom of conversation, to
vex and gall me with, as often as you are pleased to divert yourself
at the expense of my quiet. O thou tormenter! Could I think it were
jealousy, how should I humble myself to be justified! But I cannot
bear the thought of being made a property either of another man's good
fortune or the vanity of a woman that designs nothing but to plague me.

There may be means found, some time or other, to let you know your
mistaking.


LETTER VI.

You were pleased to send me word you would meet me in the Mall this
evening, and give me further satisfaction in the matter you were so
unkind to charge me with: I was there, but found you not; and therefore
beg of you, as you ever would wish yourself to be eased of the highest
torment it were possible for your nature to be sensible of, to let
me see you some time to-morrow, and send me word, by this bearer,
where, and at what hour, you will be so just as either to acquit or
condemn me; that I may, hereafter, for your sake, either bless all
your bewitching sex, or, as often as I henceforth think of you, curse
womankind for ever.

THE END.

"The excellent MERMAID SERIES. "--_Spectator. _

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[81] To leave the stage.




_THE MERMAID SERIES. _


"I lie and dream of your full MERMAID wine. "

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Now Publishing,

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THE ORPHAN;
OR,
_The Unhappy Marriage. _

A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.

BY THOMAS OTWAY.


CORRECTLY GIVEN,
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES ROYAL.
With Remarks.


[Illustration]


London:
Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurch-street;

SOLD BY

T. HUGHES, 35, LUDGATE STREET; J. BYSH, 52,
PATERNOSTER ROW; & J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.




REMARKS.


To the great merit of Miss O'Neil, in _Monimia_, we are indebted for
the revival of this tragedy, which was originally played at the Duke's
Theatre, in 1680; and long kept possession of the stage. The language
of this play is poetical and tender, and the incidents affecting; but,
amidst many beauties, there is great inconsistency[1].

Dr. Johnson observes,--"This is one of the few pieces that has pleased
for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion.
Of this play, nothing new can easily be said.
It is a domestic tragedy,
drawn from middle life:--its whole power is upon the affections; for
it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of
expression. But, if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be
wanting; yet not be missed. "

[1] Many readers will, probably, exclaim with the critic, when he
first saw it,--"Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing
rush-light have prevented! "




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Drury-Lane, 1780. Covent Garden, 1815.
Castalio Mr. Reddish Mr. C. Kemble.
Acasto Mr. Packer Mr. Egerton.
Polydore Mr. Brereton Mr. Conway.
Chaplain Mr. Usher Mr. Chapman.
Ernesto Mr. Wrighten Mr. Jefferies.
Page Master Pulley Miss Prescott.
Chamont Mr. Smith Mr. Young.

Serina Miss Platt Miss Boyce.
Florella Mrs. Johnston Mrs. Seymour.
Monimia Miss Younge Miss O'Neil.

SCENE--Bohemia.




THE ORPHAN.




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I. A GARDEN.

_Enter Castalio, Polydore, and Page. _

_Cas. _ Polydore, our sport
Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to have lodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my force,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.

_Pol. _ But then----

_Cas. _ Ay, then, my brother, my friend, Polydore,
Like Perseus mounted on his winged steed,
Came on, and down the dang'rous precipice leap'd
To save Castilio. --'Twas a godlike act!

_Pol. _ But when I came, I found you conqueror.
Oh! my heart danc'd, to see your danger past!
The heat and fury of the chase was cold,
And I had nothing in my mind but joy.

_Cas. _ So, Polydore, methinks, we might in war
Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,
And I be thine. What is't could hurt us then?
Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,
How fulsome must it be to stay behind,
And die of rank diseases here at home!

_Pol. _ No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.

_Cas. _ Our father
Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries, it is not safe that we should taste it.
I own, I have duty very pow'rful in me:
And though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender, and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.

_Pol. _ Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,
Which you, and only you, can satisfy.
Will you be free and candid to your friend?

_Cas. _ Have I a thought my Polydore should not know?
What can this mean?

_Pol. _ Nay, I'll conjure you too,
By all the strictest bonds of faithful friendship,
To show your heart as naked in this point,
As you would purge you of your sins to heav'n.
And should I chance to touch it near, bear it
With all the suff'rance of a tender friend.

_Cas. _ As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's hand, that ministers his cure.

_Pol. _ That's kindly said. ----You know our father's ward,
The fair Monimia:--is your heart at peace?
Is it so guarded, that you could not love her?

_Cas. _ Suppose I should?

_Pol. _ Suppose you should not, brother?

_Cas. _ You'd say, I must not.

_Pol. _ That would sound too roughly
Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.

_Cas. _ Is love a fault?

_Pol. _ In one of us it may be----
What, if I love her?

_Cas. _ Then I must inform you
I lov'd her first, and cannot quit the claim;
But will preserve the birthright of my passion.

_Pol. _ You will?

_Cas. _ I will.

_Pol. _ No more; I've done.

_Cas. _ Why not?

_Pol. _ I told you, I had done.
But you, Castalio, would dispute it.

_Cas. _ No;
Not with my Polydore:--though I must own
My nature obstinate, and void of suff'rance;
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.

_Pol. _ Yet you will break this friendship!

_Cas. _ Not for crowns.

_Pol. _ But for a toy you would, a woman's toy,
Unjust Castalio!

_Cas. _ Pr'ythee, where's my fault?

_Pol. _ You love Monimia.

_Cas. _ Yes.

_Pol. _ And you would kill me,
If I'm your rival?

_Cas. _ No;--sure we're such friends,
So much one man, that our affections too
Must be united, and the same as we are.

_Pol. _ I dote upon Monimia.

_Cas. _ Love her still;
Win, and enjoy her.

_Pol. _ Both of us cannot.

_Cas. _ No matter
Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.

_Pol. _ You would not wed Monimia, would you?

_Cas. _ Wed her!
No--were she all desire could wish, as fair
As would the vainest of her sex be thought,
With wealth beyond what woman's pride could waste,
She should not cheat me of my freedom. --Marry!
When I am old and weary of the world,
I may grow desperate,
And take a wife to mortify withal.

_Pol. _ It is an elder brother's duty, so
To propagate his family and name.
You would not have yours die, and buried with you?

_Cas. _ Mere vanity, and silly dotage, all:--
No, let me live at large, and when I die----

_Pol. _ Who shall possess th' estate you leave?

_Cas. _ My friend,
If he survive me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.

_Pol. _ 'Tis kindly offer'd.

_Cas. _ By yon heaven, I love
My Polydore beyond all worldly joys;
And would not shock his quiet, to be blest
With greater happiness than man e'er tasted.

_Pol. _ And, by that heaven, eternally I swear
To keep the kind Castalio in my heart.
Whose shall Monimia be?

_Cas. _ No matter whose.

_Pol. _ Were you not with her privately last night?

_Cas. _ I was; and should have met her here again.
The opportunity shall now be thine?
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offer'd to thy brother.
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper;
But wrong not mine.

_Pol. _ By heaven, I will not.

_Cas. _ If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer
(For thou hast all the arts of soft persuasion);
Trust me, and let me know thy love's success,
That I may ever after stifle mine.

_Pol. _ Though she be dearer to my soul than rest
To weary pilgrims, or to misers gold,
To great men pow'r, or wealthy cities pride;
Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.
[_exeunt Castalio and Polydore. _

_Enter Monimia. _

_Mon. _ Pass'd not Castalio and Polydore this way?

_Page. _ Madam, just now.

_Mon. _ Sure, some ill fate's upon me:
Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,
And apprehension shocks my tim'rous soul.
Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave
With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?
Instead of that, I'm wand'ring into cares. ----
Castalio! O Castalio! hast thou caught
My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,
That trusts his plaything to another hand,
I fear its harm, and fain would have it back.
Come near, Cordelio; I must chide you, sir.

_Page. _ Why, madam, have I done you any wrong?

_Mon. _ I never see you now; you have been kinder;
Perhaps I've been ungrateful. Here's money for you.

_Page. _ Madam, I'd serve you with all my soul.

_Mon. _ Tell me, Cordelio (for thou oft hast heard
Their friendly converse, and their bosom secrets),
Sometimes, at least, have they not talk'd of me?

_Page. _ O madam! very wickedly they have talk'd:
But I am afraid to name it; for, they say,
Boys must be whipp'd, that tell their masters' secrets.

_Mon. _ Fear not, Cordelio; it shall ne'er be known;
For I'll preserve the secret as 'twere mine.
Polydore cannot be so kind as I.
I'll furnish thee with all thy harmless sports,
With pretty toys, and thou shalt be my page.

_Page. _ And truly, madam, I had rather be so.
Methinks you love me better than my lord;
For he was never half so kind as you are.
What must I do?

_Mon. _ Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio and his brother use my name.

_Page. _ With all the tenderness of love,
You were the subject of their last discourse.
At first I thought it would have fatal prov'd;
But, as the one grew hot, the other cool'd,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd----

_Mon. _ What, good Cordelio?