Burgum. [Pompously.] Mr. de Burgum, Madam. I trust that I shall have
a more honorable title soon;--eh, daughter?
Bertha. There is no more honorable title, father.
Burgum. Bah! romantic.
Mrs. Angell. He surely will return soon: he is seldom out in the
evening.
Burgum. I'll await his coming. I must see him on a matter connected
with the de Burgum Pedigree, which he was fortunate enough to discover.
I say "fortunate enough," since otherwise some one else would have
discovered it--birth, like murder, will out.
Mrs. Angell. Pray be seated, sir. [Burgum sits R. of table; Bertha,
L.]
Burgum. [Looking around the room.] The rewards of poetry, my dear.
Bertha. The rewards of poetry, father, only poets know.
Burgum. Another romantic speech! If you must worship a poet, worship
my collateral ancestor, Master John de Bergham, a Cistercian monk, one
of the greatest ornaments of his age--so the Pedigree reads--and a
translator of the Iliad. This boy never can be a poet: he knows no
Latin and Greek.
Bertha. He is not writing Latin and Greek.
Burgum. I regret that I permitted you to come. You are a sentimental
girl likely to fall in love with such a vagabond as Chatterton.
Bertha. Do not call him a vagabond, father: you owe so much to him.
Burgum. For what?
Bertha. Your Pedigree.
Burgum. He has been paid.
Bertha. Yes--a crown.
Burgum. Hem! He shall have more after the College of Heralds has
passed upon my claims--not before.
Bertha. In the meantime he may starve.
Mrs. Angell. Indeed, lady, he is starving now.
Burgum. Nonsense! One-half the troubles in life are due to gorging.
Besides, I heard before we left Bristol that he had sent his mother some
china and dress patterns--even British herb-tobacco and a pipe for his
grandmother. Starving?--nonsense!
Mrs. Angell. That was over a month ago, sir. Then he always was
telling of what he was going to do for his mother; but now he seems so
hopeless, and still he writes so hopefully to her. I do not believe he
has had a morsel of food these two days. He is too proud to take
anything from me. He says he is not hungry, and yet he looks almost
famished.
Bertha. Poor Chatterton!
Burgum. Why does he not work?
Mrs. Angell. He does work, sir--all night sometimes--writing, writing,
writing.
Burgum. I mean at something profitable--looking up pedigrees, for
instance,--the boy has a genius for pedigrees.
Mrs. Angell. I believe he is trying to get an appointment as a
surgeon's mate. My husband, good man, offered to secure him a place as
a compter; but Mr. Chatterton stormed about the house.
Burgum. A poet's gratitude.
Bertha. A poet's indignation 'gainst a clown.
Mrs. Angell. My husband is no clown, lady.
Bertha. I beg your pardon, Madam.
Burgum. [To Mrs. Angell.] Pay no attention to her: she is as crazy as
Chatterton.
Bertha. I would I were.
Burgum. Bah! You are half in love with the beggar already.
Mrs. Angell. If he had a chance, sir, I think he would make something
great.
Bertha. I am sure of it!
Burgum. You never met him.
Bertha. But I have seen him, and have read his poems.
Burgum. That doggerel in the "Town and County"? [Taking a paper from
table.] Here is more of it. [Glances at paper.] What's this?
[Reads.]
"Gods! what would Burgum give to get a name
And snatch his blundering dialect from shame?"
The ingrate!
"What would he give to hand his memory down
To time's remotest boundary--a crown.
Would you ask more, his swelling face looks blue;
Futurity he rates at two pounds two."
Zounds! this of a de Burgum--a descendant of Simon de Seyncte Lyze, a
companion of William the Conqueror!
Mrs. Angell. Be not angry with him, sir; he is not like one of us.
Enter Chatterton, who pauses near doorway.
Burgum. Thank heaven for that! I will not longer brook
The impudence of this ungrateful boy,
Who mutters, rants, and doth himself opine
One of the brooding darlings of the world.
By what right is he moody and revengeful?
Bertha. He is as nature made him: full of pride
And fierce resentment 'gainst a callous race.
Give him but patience to endure neglect--
Quell his rebellious spirit, and you take
From his tossed soul God's gift of poesy.
Chatterton. [Coming forward.]
Lady, were I the poet of my dreams,
Instead of Chatterton, I could not word
My gratitude to you.
Bertha. 'Tis Chatterton!
Chatterton. Well, Burgum, what's the news?
Burgum. [Aside.] Impertinence!
Mrs. Angell. [To Chatterton.]
Be seated, sir; you must be very tired;
You have not been at home since ten o'clock.
The day--
Chatterton. [Sinking upon a chair.]
Clouds, sunshine, rain--I'll sleep to-night.
Mrs. Angell. Is there not something I can get you, sir?
Chatterton. Ah, yes: go purchase me another heart;
The world has worn this out--'tis like my shoes.
Mrs. Angell. When through with business you must dine with us:
I have some sheep tongues I would have you try.
Chatterton. What use are sheep tongues when I needs must roar?
I'd eat a lion's litter.
Bertha. [Aside.] O, how strange!
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy talks very wildly.
Chatterton. [Impatiently.] Madam, go!
You'd make a helpless invalid of me. [Exit Mrs. Angell.]
She is a noble woman and a bore.
Now, Norman blood, what's wrong in Bristol that
Brings you to town?
Burgum. Let us be serious, sir.
Chatterton. First let me borrow Lord North's goggle eyes,
And have the modish stare: my fiery orb
Disquiets men of birth. Go on, go on.