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TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES
This e-book contains the text of _She Would Be A Soldier_, extracted
from Representative Plays by American Dramatists: Vol 1, 1765-1819.
Comments and background to all the plays and the other plays are
available at Project Gutenberg.
Spelling as in the original has been preserved.
SHE WOULD BE A SOLDIER
_By_ M. M. NOAH
[Illustration: M. M. NOAH]
MORDECAI MANUEL NOAH
(1785-1851)
Mr. Noah was born in Philadelphia, July 19, 1785, the son of Portuguese
Jewish descent, it being stated by some sources that his father not only
fought in the Revolutionary Army, but was a sufficient friend of George
Washington to have the latter attend his wedding. In his early years, he
was apprenticed, according to the custom of the day, to a carver and
gilder, but he spent most of his evenings in the Franklin Library and at
the theatre, likewise attending school in his spare time, where, among
the pupils, he met John and Steven Decatur, famed afterwards in the
history of the American Navy. He filled a minor position in the
Auditor's office in Philadelphia, but his tastes inclined more to
journalistic than they did to desk work, and, in 1800, he travelled to
Harrisburg as a political reporter.
Several years after this, he went to Charleston, and studied law, but
before he had had a chance to practise, he became the editor of the
Charleston _City Gazette_, and, advocating those principles which
resulted in the War of 1812, he used his pen, under the pseudonym of
_Muley Molack_, to disseminate those ideas in editorials. The
consequence is he encouraged much hatred, and was forced into many duels
to support his opinions. In 1811, he was offered the position of Consul
at Riga by President Madison, but declined. In 1813, he was sent by Mr.
Monroe, as Consul, to Tunis, at a time when the United States was having
trouble with Algerian piracy.
During all this period, his pen was actively busy, and while he was
abroad he did much travelling which resulted, in 1819, in his publishing
a book of travels.
In 1816, he returned to New York, and settled there as a journalist.
Being a Tammanyite in politics, we find him filling the position of
Sheriff, Judge and Surveyor of the Port at various periods. He was,
likewise, an editor of some skill, and his name is associated with the
columns of the _New York Enquirer_, the _Evening Star_, the _Commercial
Advertiser_, the _Union_, and the _Times and Messenger_.
His political career may be measured in the following manner:
In 1821 he became Sheriff. In 1823, he was admitted to the bar of New
York, and in 1829 to the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States.
This same year he was appointed Surveyor of the Port of New York.
Entering very prominently in politics, he opposed the election of Van
Buren, and gave his vote to General Harrison. Governor Seward appointed
him, in 1841, Judge of the Court of Sessions. The same year he was made
a Supreme Court Commissioner.
It was in 1825 that, as one of the early Zionists of America, he entered
into negotiations for the purchase of nearly three thousand acres of
land on Grand Island, in New York State, where it was his dream to
establish the City of Ararat, a haven of Judaism in this country. This
venture became the basis for a story by Israel Zangwill, called "Noah's
Ark." He died in New York on March 22, 1851, having lived in that city
since 1813.
Any full Bibliography will give a sufficient idea of the scope of Major
Noah's pen. He lived at a time when American Letters were beginning to
develop, himself a friend of most of the literary figures of the
day--Cooper, Irving, Fitz-Green Halleck and others. And we have an
excellent impression of the manner in which the younger literary men
regarded the authority of Noah in the "Reminiscences" of J. T.
Trowbridge:
"Come with me," he [Mr. Noah] said, putting on his hat; and we
went out together, I with my roll of manuscript, he with his
stout cane. Even if I had been unaware of the fact, I should
very soon have discovered that I was in company with an
important personage. Everybody observed him, and it seemed as if
every third or fourth man we met gave him a respectful salute.
He continued his friendly talk with me in a way that relieved me
of all sense of my own insignificance in the shadow of his
celebrity and august proportions.
As far as his theatrical association is concerned, we can have no better
source of information than a letter written by Noah to William Dunlap,
and published in the latter's "History of the American Theatre." It is
quoted in full:
New-York, July 11, 1832.
To William Dunlap, Esq.,
Dear Sir:
I am happy to hear that your work on the American Drama is in
press, and trust that you may realize from it that harvest of
fame and money to which your untiring industry and diversified
labours give you an eminent claim. You desire me to furnish you
a list of my dramatic productions; it will, my dear sir,
constitute a sorry link in the chain of American writers--my
plays have all been _ad captandum_: a kind of _amateur_
performance, with no claim to the character of a settled,
regular, or domiciliated writer for the green-room--a sort of
volunteer supernumerary--a dramatic writer by "particular
desire, and for this night only," as they say in the bills of
the play; my "line," as you well know, has been in the more
rugged paths of politics, a line in which there is more fact
than poetry, more feeling than fiction; in which, to be sure,
there are "exits and entrances"--where the "prompter's whistle"
is constantly heard in the voice of the people; but which, in
our popular government, almost disqualifies us for the more soft
and agreeable translation to the lofty conceptions of tragedy,
the pure diction of genteel comedy, or the wit, gaiety, and
humour of broad farce.
I had an early hankering for the national drama, a kind of
juvenile patriotism, which burst forth, for the first time, in a
few sorry doggerels in the form of a prologue to a play, which a
Thespian company, of which I was a member, produced in the
South-Street Theatre--the old American Theatre in Philadelphia.
The idea was probably suggested by the sign of the Federal
Convention at the tavern opposite the theatre. You, no doubt,
remember the picture and the motto: an excellent piece of
painting of the kind, representing a group of venerable
personages engaged in public discussions, with the following
distich:
"These thirty-eight great men have signed a powerful deed,
That better times, to us, shall very soon succeed."
The sign must have been painted soon after the adoption of the
Federation Constitution, and I remember to have stood "many a
time and oft," gazing, when a boy, at the assembled patriots,
particularly the venerable head and spectacles of Dr. Franklin,
always in conspicuous relief. In our Thespian corps, the honour
of cutting the plays, substituting new passages, casting parts,
and writing couplets at the exits, was divided between myself
and a fellow of infinite wit and humour, by the name of
Helmbold; who subsequently became the editor of a scandalous
little paper, called _The Tickler_: He was a rare rascal,
perpetrated all kind of calumnies, was constantly mulcted in
fines, sometimes imprisoned, was full of faults, which were
forgotten in his conversational qualities and dry sallies of
genuine wit, particularly his Dutch stories. After years of
singular vicissitudes, Helmbold joined the army as a common
soldier, fought bravely during the late war, obtained a
commission, and died. Our little company soon dwindled away; the
expenses were too heavy for our pockets; our writings and
performances were sufficiently wretched, but as the audience
was admitted without cost, they were too polite to express any
disapprobation. We recorded all our doings in a little weekly
paper, published, I believe, by Jemmy Riddle, at the corner of
Chestnut and Third-Street, opposite the tavern kept by that
sturdy old democrat, Israel Israel.
From a boy, I was a regular attendant of the Chestnut-Street
Theatre, during the management of Wignell and Reinagle, and made
great efforts to compass the purchase of a season ticket, which
I obtained generally of the treasurer, George Davis, for
eighteen dollars. Our habits through life are frequently
governed and directed by our early steps. I seldom missed a
night; and always retired to bed, after witnessing a good play,
gratified and improved: and thus, probably, escaped the haunts
of taverns, and the pursuits of depraved pleasures, which too
frequently allure and destroy our young men; hence I was always
the firm friend of the drama, and had an undoubted right to
oppose my example through life to the horror and hostility
expressed by sectarians to plays and play-houses generally.
Independent of several of your plays which had obtained
possession of the stage, and were duly incorporated in the
legitimate drama, the first call to support the productions of a
fellow townsman, was, I think, Barker's opera of _The Indian
Princess_. Charles Ingersoll had previously written a tragedy, a
very able production for a very young man, which was supported
by all the "good society;" but Barker, who was "one of us," an
amiable and intelligent young fellow, who owed nothing to
hereditary rank, though his father was a Whig, and a soldier of
the Revolution, was in reality a fine spirited poet, a patriotic
ode writer, and finally a gallant soldier of the late war. The
managers gave Barker an excellent chance with all his plays, and
he had merit and popularity to give them in return full houses.
About this time, I ventured to attempt a little melo-drama,
under the title of "The Fortress of Sorrento" [1808], which, not
having money enough to pay for printing, nor sufficient
influence to have acted, I thrust the manuscript in my pocket,
and, having occasion to visit New-York, I called in at David
Longworth's Dramatic Repository one day, spoke of the little
piece, and struck a bargain with him, by giving him the
manuscript in return for a copy of every play he had published,
which at once furnished me with a tolerably large dramatic
collection. I believe the play never was performed, and I was
almost ashamed to own it; but it was my first regular attempt at
dramatic composition.
In the year 1812, while in Charleston, Mr. Young requested me to
write a piece for his wife's benefit. You remember her, no
doubt; remarkable as she was for her personal beauty and amiable
deportment, it would have been very ungallant to have refused,
particularly as he requested that it should be a "_breeches
part_," to use a green-room term, though she was equally
attractive in every character. Poor Mrs. Young! she died last
year in Philadelphia. When she first arrived in New-York, from
London, it was difficult to conceive a more perfect beauty; her
complexion was of dazzling whiteness, her golden hair and ruddy
complexion, figure somewhat _embonpoint_, and graceful carriage,
made her a great favourite. I soon produced the little piece,
which was called "Paul and Alexis; or, the Orphans of the
Rhine." I was, at that period, a very active politician, and my
political opponents did me the honour to go to the theatre the
night it was performed, for the purpose of hissing it, which was
not attempted until the curtain fell, and the piece was
successful. After three years' absence in Europe and Africa, I
saw the same piece performed at the Park, under the title of
"The Wandering Boys,"[1] which even now holds possession of the
stage. It seems Mr. Young sent the manuscript to London, where
the title was changed, and the bantling cut up, altered, and
considerably improved.
About this time, John Miller, the American bookseller in London,
paid us a visit. Among the passengers in the same ship was a
fine English girl of great talent and promise, Miss Leesugg,
afterwards Mrs. Hackett. She was engaged at the Park as a
singer, and Phillips, who was here about the same period
fulfilling a most successful engagement, was decided and
unqualified in his admiration of her talent. Every one took an
interest in her success: she was gay, kind-hearted, and popular,
always in excellent spirits, and always perfect. Anxious for her
success, I ventured to write a play for her benefit, and in
three days finished the patriotic piece of "She Would be a
Soldier; or, the Battle of Chippewa,"[2] which, I was happy to
find, produced her an excellent house. Mrs. Hackett retired from
the stage after her marriage, and lost six or seven years of
profitable and unrivalled engagement.[3]
After this play, I became in a manner domiciliated in the
green-room. My friends, Price and Simpson, who had always been
exceedingly kind and liberal, allowed me to stray about the
premises like one of the family, and, always anxious for their
success, I ventured upon another attempt for a holy-day
occasion, and produced "Marion; or, the Hero of Lake George." It
was played on the 25th of November, Evacuation day [1821], and I
bustled about among my military friends, to raise a party in
support of a military play, and what with generals,
staff-officers, rank and file, the Park Theatre was so crammed,
that not a word of the play was heard, which was a very
fortunate affair for the author. The managers presented me with
a pair of handsome silver pitchers, which I still retain as a
memento of their good-will and friendly consideration. You must
bear in mind that while I was thus employed in occasional
attempts at play-writing, I was engaged in editing a daily
journal, and in all the fierce contests of political strife: I
had, therefore, but little time to devote to all that study and
reflection so essential to the success of dramatic composition.
My next piece, I believe, was written for the benefit of a
relative and friend, who wanted something to bring a house; and
as the struggle for liberty in Greece was at that period the
prevailing excitement, I finished the melodrama of the _Grecian
Captive_, which was brought out with all the advantages of good
scenery and music [June 17, 1822]. As a "good house" was of more
consequence to the actor than fame to the author, it was
resolved that the hero of the piece should make his appearance
on an elephant, and the heroine on a camel, which were procured
from a neighbouring _menagerie_, and the _tout ensemble_ was
sufficiently imposing, only it happened that the huge elephant,
in shaking his skin, so rocked the castle on his back, that the
Grecian general nearly lost his balance, and was in imminent
danger of coming down from his "high estate," to the infinite
merriment of the audience. On this occasion, to use another
significant phrase, a "gag" was hit upon of a new character
altogether. The play was printed, and each auditor was presented
with a copy gratis, as he entered the house. Figure to yourself
a thousand people in a theatre, each with a book of the play in
hand--imagine the turning over a thousand leaves simultaneously,
the buzz and fluttering it produced, and you will readily
believe that the actors entirely forgot their parts, and even
the equanimity of the elephant and camel were essentially
disturbed.
My last appearance, as a dramatic writer, was in another
national piece, called "The Siege of Tripoli," which the
managers persuaded me to bring out for my own benefit, being my
first attempt to derive any profit from dramatic efforts. The
piece was elegantly got up--the house crowded with beauty and
fashion--everything went off in the happiest manner; when, a
short time after the audience had retired, the Park Theatre was
discovered to be on fire, and in a short time was a heap of
ruins. This conflagration burnt out all my dramatic fire and
energy, since which I have been, as you well know, peaceably
employed in settling the affairs of the nations, and mildly
engaged in the political differences and disagreements which are
so fruitful in our great state.
I still, however, retain a warm interest for the success of the
drama, and all who are entitled to success engaged in sustaining
it, and to none greater than to yourself, who have done more, in
actual labour and successful efforts, than any man in America.
That you may realize all you have promised yourself, and all
that you are richly entitled to, is the sincere wish of
Dear sir,
Your friend and servant,
M. M. NOAH.
Wm. Dunlap, Esq.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] John Kerr wrote "The Wandering Boys; or, The Castle of Olival"
(1823), which Dr. Atkinson believes was taken from the same French
source as Noah's piece.
[2] She Would Be A Soldier,/or the/Plains of Chippewa;/An Historical
Drama,/In Three Acts./By M. M. Noah./Performed for the first time on the
21st/of June, 1819./ New-York:/Published at Longworth's Dramatic
Repository./Shakspeare Gallery./ G. L. Birch & Co. Printers./1819./[At
one time, Edwin Forrest played the Indian in this piece.]
[3] Catherine Leesugg married James H. Hackett, the American actor, in
1819. As early as 1805, some critics in England spoke of her as the
Infant Roscius. Of her, the newspaper versifier proclaimed:
"There's sweet Miss Leesugg--by-the-by, she's not pretty,
She's a little too large, and has not too much grace,
Yet there's something about her so witching and witty,
'Tis pleasure to gaze on her good-humoured face."
[Illustration: SHE WOULD BE A SOLDIER,
OR THE
PLAINS OF CHIPPEWA;
_AN HISTORICAL DRAMA,_
IN THREE ACTS.
BY M. M. NOAH.
PERFORMED FOR THE FIRST TIME ON THE 21ST OF JUNE, 1819.
NEW-YORK:
Published at Longworth's Dramatic Repository, Shakspeare Gallery.
_G. L. Birch & Co. Printers._
1819.
FAC-SIMILE TITLE-PAGE TO 1819 EDITION]
PREFACE
The following dramatic _bagatelle_ was written in a few days, and its
reception, under every circumstance, far exceeded its merits. I had no
idea of printing it, until urged to do so by some friends connected with
theatres, who, probably, were desirous of using it without incurring the
expense of transcribing from the original manuscript. Writing plays is
not my "vocation;" and even if the mania was to seize me, I should have
to contend with powerful obstacles, and very stubborn prejudices; to be
sure, these, in time, might be removed, but I have no idea of being the
first to descend into the arena, and become a gladiator for the American
Drama. These prejudices against native productions, however they may be
deplored as impugning native genius, are nevertheless very natural. An
American audience, I have no doubt, would be highly pleased with an
American play, if the performance afforded as much gratification as a
good English one; but they pay their money to be pleased, and if we
cannot afford pleasure, we have no prescriptive right to ask for
approbation. In England, writing of plays is a profession, by which much
money is made if the plays succeed; hence a dramatic author goes to
work, _secundum artem_.--He employs all his faculties, exhausts all his
resources, devotes his whole time, capacity and ingenuity to the work in
hand; the hope of reward stimulates him--the love of fame urges him
on--the opposition of rivals animates his exertions--and the expectation
of applause sweetens his labours--and yet, nine times out of ten, he
fails. Mr. Dunlap, of this city, has written volumes of plays, and
written well, "excellent well," but he made nothing; nay, he hardly
obtained that civic wreath which he fairly earned. Barker, of
Philadelphia, whose muse is the most delicate and enticing, has hung up
his harp, which, I dare say, is covered with dust and cobwebs; and even
Harby, of Charleston, whose talents are of the finest order, and who is
a bold yet chaste poet, gained but little profit and applause from his
labours. We must not expect, therefore, more encouragement for the
American Drama than may be sufficient to urge us on. We will succeed in
time, as well as the English, because we have the same language, and
equal intellect; but there must be system and discipline in writing
plays--a knowledge of stage effect--of sound, cadences, fitness of time
and place, interest of plot, spirit of delineation, nature, poetry, and
a hundred _et ceteras_, which are required, to constitute a good
dramatic poet, who cannot, in this country, and while occupied in other
pursuits, spring up over night like asparagus, or be watered and put in
the sun, like a geranium in a flower pot.
I wrote this play in order to promote the benefit of a performer who
possesses talent, and I have no objections to write another for any
deserving object. New plays, in this country, are generally performed,
for the first time, as anonymous productions: I did not withhold my name
from this, because I knew that my friends would go and see it performed,
with the hope of being pleased, and my opponents would go with other
motives, so that between the two parties a good house would be the
result. This was actually the case, and two performances produced nearly
$2,400; I hope this may encourage Americans of more talent to attempt
something.
National plays should be encouraged. They have done everything for the
British nation, and can do much for us; they keep alive the recollection
of important events, by representing them in a manner at once natural
and alluring. We have a fine scope, and abundant materials to work with,
and a noble country to justify the attempt. The "Battle of Chippewa" was
selected, because it was the most neat and spirited battle fought during
the late war, and I wish I was able to do it more justice.
N.
New-York, July, 1819.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE[4]
GENERAL, Mr. Graham.
JASPER, Mr. Robertson.
LENOX, Mr. Pritchard.
HON. CAPTAIN PENDRAGON, Mr. Simpson.
JERRY, Mr. Barnes.
LAROLE, Mr. Spiller.
JENKINS, Mr. Johnson.
INDIAN CHIEF, Mr. Maywood.
1ST OFFICER, Mr. Bancker.
SOLDIER, Mr. Nexsen.
WAITER, Mr. Oliff.
JAILOR, Mr. Baldwin.
_Soldiers, Peasants, Indians, &c._
CHRISTINE, Miss Leesugg.
ADELA, Miss Johnson.
MAID, Mrs. Wheatley.
_Peasant Women, &c._
FOOTNOTES:
[4] In Dr. Atkinson's copy of this play, the following cast is given: as
a note, in the handwriting of Henry Wallack:
PHILADELPHIA, 1819.
GENERAL, Hughes.
JASPER, ----
LENOX, Darley, John, Jr.
PENDRAGON, Wood, William.
JERRY, Jefferson, Joseph.
LAROLE, Blissett, Francis.
CHIEF, Wallack, Henry.
CHRISTINE, Darley, Mrs. John (Miss E. Westray).
ADELA, Wood, Mrs. Wm. (Miss J. Westray).
SHE WOULD BE A SOLDIER,
or; the
PLAINS OF CHIPPEWA
ACT I.
SCENE I. _A Valley with a neat Cottage on the right, an Arbour on the
left, and picturesque Mountains at a distance._
_Enter from the cottage, JASPER and JENKINS._
JENKINS. And so, neighbour, you are not then a native of this village?
JASPER. I am not, my friend; my story is short, and you shall hear it.
It was my luck, call it bad or good, to be born in France, in the town
of Castlenaudary, where my parents, good honest peasants, cultivated a
small farm on the borders of the canal of Midi. I was useful, though
young; we were well enough to live, and I received from the parish
school a good education, was taught to love my country, my parents, and
my friends; a happy temper, a common advantage in my country, made all
things easy to me; I never looked for to-morrow to bring me more joy
than I experienced to-day.
JENKINS. Pardon my curiosity, friend Jasper: how came you to leave your
country, when neither want nor misfortune visited your humble dwelling?
JASPER. Novelty, a desire for change, an ardent disposition to visit
foreign countries. Passing through the streets of Toulouse one bright
morning in spring, the lively drum and fife broke on my ear, as I was
counting my gains from a day's marketing. A company of soldiers neatly
dressed, with white cockades, passed me with a brisk step; I followed
them through instinct--the sergeant informed me that they were on their
way to Bordeaux, from thence to embark for America, to aid the cause of
liberty in the new world, and were commanded by the Marquis de la
Fayette. That name was familiar to me; La Fayette was a patriot--I felt
like a patriot, and joined the ranks immediately.
JENKINS. Well, you enlisted and left your country?
JASPER. I did. We had a boisterous passage to America, and endured many
hardships during the revolution. I was wounded at Yorktown, which long
disabled me, but what then? I served under great men, and for a great
cause; I saw the independence of the thirteen states acknowledged, I was
promoted to a sergeancy by the great Washington, and I sheathed my
sword, with the honest pride of knowing, that I had aided in
establishing a powerful and happy republic.
JENKINS. You did well, honest Jasper, you did well; and now you have the
satisfaction of seeing your country still free and happy.
JASPER. I have, indeed. When the army was disbanded, I travelled on foot
to explore the uncultivated territory which I had assisted in
liberating. I purchased a piece of land near the great lakes, and with
my axe levelled the mighty oaks, cleared my meadows, burnt out the
wolves and bears, and then built that cottage there.
JENKINS. And thus became a settler and my neighbour; thanks to the drum
and fife and the white cockade, that lured you from your home.
JASPER. In a short time, Jenkins, everything flourished; my cottage was
neat, my cattle thriving, still I wanted something--it was a wife. I was
tired of a solitary life, and married Kate, the miller's daughter; you
knew her.
JENKINS. Ay, that I did; she was a pretty lass.
JASPER. She was a good wife--ever cheerful and industrious, and made me
happy: poor Kate! I was without children for several years; at length my
Christine was born, and I have endeavoured, in cultivating her mind, and
advancing her happiness, to console myself for the loss of her mother.
JENKINS. Where is Christine? where is your daughter, neighbour Jasper?
JASPER. She left the cottage early this morning with Lenox, to climb the
mountains and see the sun rise; it is time for them to return to
breakfast.
JENKINS. Who is this Mr. Lenox?
JASPER. An honest lieutenant of infantry, with a gallant spirit and a
warm heart. He was wounded at Niagara, and one stormy night, he
presented himself at our cottage door, pale and haggard. His arm had
been shattered by a ball, and he had received a flesh wound from a
bayonet: we took him in--for an old soldier never closes his door on a
wounded comrade--Christine nursed him, and he soon recovered. But I wish
they were here--it is growing late: besides, this is a busy day, friend
Jenkins.
JENKINS. Ah, how so?
JASPER. You know Jerry Mayflower, the wealthy farmer; he has offered to
marry my Christine. Girls must not remain single if they can get
husbands, and I have consented to the match, and he will be here to-day
to claim her hand.
JENKINS. But will Christine marry Jerry? She has been too well educated
for the honest farmer.
JASPER. Oh, she may make a few wry faces, as she does when swallowing
magnesia, but the dose will go down. There is some credit due to a wife
who improves the intellect of her husband; aye, and there is some pride
in it also. Girls should marry. Matrimony is like an old oak; age gives
durability to the trunk, skill trims the branches, and affection keeps
the foliage ever green. But come, let us in.
[_JASPER and JENKINS enter the cottage._
_Pastoral Music.--LENOX and CHRISTINE are seen winding down the
mountains--his left arm is in a sling._
CHRISTINE. At last we are at home.--O my breath is nearly gone. You
soldiers are so accustomed to marching and countermarching, that you
drag me over hedge and briar, like an empty baggage-wagon. Look at my
arm, young Mars, you've made it as red as pink, and as rough as--then my
hand--don't attempt to kiss it, you--wild man of the woods.
LENOX. Nay, dear Christine, be not offended; if I have passed rapidly
over rocks and mountains, it is because you were with me. My heart ever
feels light and happy when I am permitted to walk with you; even the air
seems newly perfumed, and the birds chaunt more melodiously; and see, I
can take my arm out of confinement--your care has done this; your voice
administered comfort, and your eyes affection. What do I not owe you?
CHRISTINE. Owe me? Nothing, only one of your best bows, and your
prettiest compliments. But I do suspect, my serious cavalier, that your
wounds were never as bad as you would have me think. Of late you have
taken your recipes with so much grace, have swallowed so many bitter
tinctures with a playful smile, that I believe you've been playing the
invalid, and would make me your nurse for life--O sinner as you are,
what have you to say for yourself?
LENOX. Why, I confess, dear Christine, that my time has passed with so
much delight, that even the call of duty will find me reluctant to quit
these scenes, so dear to memory, hospitality, and, let me add, to love.
Be serious, then, dear Christine, and tell me what I have to hope; even
now I expect orders from my commanding officer, requiring my immediate
presence at the camp; we are on the eve of a battle--Speak!
CHRISTINE. Why, you soldiers are such fickle game, that if we once
entangle you in the net, 'tis ten to one but the sight of a new face
will be sufficiently tempting to break the mesh--you're just as true as
the smoke of your cannon, and you fly off at the sight of novelty in
petticoats, like one of your Congreve rockets--No, I won't love a
soldier--that's certain.
LENOX. Nay, where is our reward then for deserving well of our country?
Gratitude may wreath a chaplet of laurel, but trust me, Christine, it
withers unless consecrated by beauty.
CHRISTINE. Well, that's a very pretty speech, and deserves one of my
best courtesies. Now suppose I should marry you, my "dear ally Croaker,"
I shall expect to see myself placed on the summit of a baggage-wagon,
with soldiers' wives and a few dear squalling brats, whose musical tones
drown e'en the "squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife;" and if I should
escape from the enemy at the close of a battle, I should be compelled to
be ever ready, and "pack up my tatters and follow the drum."--No, no, I
can't think of it.
LENOX. Prithee, be serious, dear Christine, your gaiety alarms me. Can
you permit me to leave you without a sigh? Can I depart from that dear
cottage and rush to battle without having the assurance that there is a
heart within which beats in unison with mine? a heart which can
participate in my glory, and sympathize in my misfortunes?
CHRISTINE. No--not so, Lenox; your glory is dear to me, your happiness
my anxious wish. I have seen you bear pain like a soldier, and
misfortune like a man. I am myself a soldier's daughter, and believe me,
when I tell you, that under the appearance of gaiety, my spirits are
deeply depressed at your approaching departure. I have been taught, by a
brave father, to love glory when combined with virtue. There is my
hand;--be constant, and I am ever your friend; be true, and you shall
find me ever faithful.
LENOX. Thanks--a thousand thanks, beloved Christine; you have removed a
mountain of doubts and anxious wishes from my heart: I did hope for
this reward, though it was a daring one. Love and honour must now
inspire me, and should we again be triumphant in battle, I shall return
to claim the reward of constancy--a reward dearer than thrones--the
heart of a lovely and virtuous woman.
CHRISTINE. Enough, dear Lenox; I shall never doubt your faith. But come,
let us in to breakfast--stay--my knight of the rueful countenance, where
is the portrait which you have been sketching of me? Let me look at your
progress.
LENOX. 'Tis here. [_Gives a small drawing book._
CHRISTINE. [_Opening it._] Heavens, how unlike! Why Lenox, you were
dreaming of the _Venus de Medici_ when you drew this--Oh, you flatterer!
LENOX. Nay, 'tis not finished; now stand there, while I sketch the
drapery.--[_Places her at a distance, takes out a pencil, and works at
the drawing._]
CHRISTINE. Why, what a statue you are making of me. Pray, why not make a
picture of it at once? Place me in that bower, with a lute and a lap
dog, sighing for your return; then draw a soldier disguised as a
pilgrim, leaning on his staff, and his cowl thrown back; let that
pilgrim resemble thee, and then let the little dog bark, and I fainting,
and there's a subject for the pencil and pallet.
LENOX. Sing, dear Christine, while I finish the drawing--it may be the
last time I shall ever hear you.
CHRISTINE. Oh, do not say so, my gloomy cavalier; a soldier, and
despair?
THE KNIGHT ERRANT.
_Written by the late Queen of Holland._
It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound to Palestine,
But first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine:
And grant, immortal Queen of Heav'n, was still the soldier's prayer,
That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.
His oath of honour on the shrine he grav'd it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air--
Be honour'd, aye, the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.
They ow'd the conquest to his arm, and then his liege lord said,
The heart that has for honour beat must be by bliss repaid:
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.
And then they bound the holy knot before St. Mary's shrine,
Which makes a paradise on earth when hearts and hands combine;
And every lord and lady bright that was in chapel there,
Cry'd, Honour'd be the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair.
LENOX. There, 'tis finished--how do you like it?
CHRISTINE. Why, so, so--if you wish something to remind you of me, it
will do.
LENOX. No, not so; your image is too forcibly impressed here to need so
dull a monitor. But I ask it to reciprocate--wear this for my sake
[_Gives a miniature._], and think of him who, even in the battle's rage,
will not forget thee. [_Bugle sounds at a distance._] Hark! 'tis a bugle
of our army. [_Enter a SOLDIER, who delivers a letter to LENOX and
retires--LENOX opens and reads it._]
"The enemy, in force, has thrown up entrenchments near Chippewa; if your
wounds will permit, join your corps without delay--a battle is
unavoidable, and I wish you to share the glory of a victory. You have
been promoted as an aid to the general for your gallantry in the last
affair. It gives me pleasure to be the first who announces this grateful
reward--lose not a moment.
Your friend,
MANDEVILLE."
I must be gone immediately.
_Enter JASPER and JENKINS from the cottage._
JASPER. Ah! Lenox, my boy, good morning to you. Why Christine, you have
had a long ramble with the invalid.
CHRISTINE. Lenox leaves us immediately, dear father; the army is on the
march.
JASPER. Well, he goes in good time, and may success attend him. Ods my
life, when I was young, the sound of the drum and fife was like the
music of the spheres, and the noise and bustle of a battle was more
cheering to me, than "the hunter's horn in the morning." You will not
forget us, Lenox, will you?
LENOX. Forget ye? Never--I should be the most ungrateful of men, could I
forget that endearing attention which poured oil into my wounds, and
comforted the heart of a desponding and mutilated soldier. No, Jasper,
no; while life remains, yourself and daughter shall never cease to live
in my grateful remembrance.
[_CHRISTINE and LENOX enter the cottage._
_Pastoral Music.--Peasants are seen winding down the mountains, headed
by JERRY, dressed for a festive occasion, with white favours, nosegays,
&c._
JERRY. Here I am, farmer Jasper--come to claim Miss Crissy as my wife,
according to your promise, and have brought all my neighbours. How do
you do?
JASPER. Well--quite well--and these are all your neighbours?
JERRY. Yes--there's Bob Short, the tanner; Nick Anvil, the blacksmith;
Patty, the weaver's daughter--and the rest of 'em; come here, Patty,
make a curtchey to the old soger--[_PATTY comes forward._]--a pretty
girl! I could have had her, but she wanted edication--she wanted the
airs and graces, as our schoolmaster says.
JASPER. Well, farmer, you are an honest man, but I fear my Christine
will not approve this match, commenced without her advice, and concluded
without her consent. Then her education has been so different from--
JERRY. O, fiddle-de-dee, I don't mind how larned she is, so much the
better--she can teach me to parlyvoo, and dance solos and duets, and
such elegant things, when I've done ploughing.
JASPER. But I'm not sure that she will like you.
JERRY. Not like me? Come, that's a good one; only look at my
movements--why she can't resist me. I'm the boy for a race, for an
apple-paring or quilting frolic--fight a cock, hunt an opossum, or snare
a partridge with any one.--Then I'm a squire, and a county judge, and a
_brevet_ ossifer in the militia besides; and a devil of a fellow at an
election to boot. Not have me? damme, that's an insult. Besides,
sergeant Jasper, I've been to the wars since I've seen ye--got
experience, laurels and lilies, and all them there things.
JASPER. Indeed!
JERRY. Yes--sarved a campaign, and was at the battle of Queenstown. What
do you think of that?
JASPER. And did you share in the glory of that spirited battle?
JERRY. O yes, I shared in all the glory--that is--I didn't fight. I'll
tell you how it was: I marched at the head of my village sogers,
straight as the peacock in my farm yard, and I had some of the finest
lads in our county, with rifles--well, we march'd and camp'd, and camp'd
and march'd, and were as merry as grigs until we arrived at the river:
half the troops had cross'd and were fighting away like young devils:
ods life, what a smoke! what a popping of small arms, and roaring of big
ones! and what a power of red coats!
JASPER. Well, and you panted to be at them? clubb'd your rifles, and
dashed over?
JERRY. Oh no, I didn't--I was afear'd that in such a crowd, nobody would
see how I fought, so I didn't cross at all. Besides, some one said, it
were contrary to law and the constitution, to go into the enemy's
country, but if they com'd into our country, it were perfectly lawful to
flog 'em.
JASPER. And you did not cross?
JERRY. Oh no, I stood still and look'd on; it were contrary to the
constitution of my country, and my own constitution to boot--so I took
my post out of good gun shot, and felt no more fear nor you do now.
JASPER. No doubt. Admirable sophistry, that can shield cowards and
traitors, under a mistaken principle of civil government! I've heard of
those scruples, which your division felt when in sight of the enemy. Was
that a time to talk of constitutions--when part of our gallant army was
engaged with unequal numbers? Could you calmly behold your fellow
citizens falling on all sides, and not avenge their death? Could you,
with arms in your hands, the enemy in view, with the roar of cannon
thundering on your ear, and the flag of your country waving amidst fire
and smoke--could you find a moment to think of constitutions? Was that a
time to pause and suffer coward scruples to unnerve the arm of freemen?
JERRY. Bravo! bravo! sergeant Jasper; that's a very fine speech--I'll
vote for you for our assemblyman; now just go that over again, that I
may get it by heart for our next town meeting--blazing flags--fiery
cannon--smoking constitutions--
JASPER. I pray you pardon me. I am an old soldier, and fought for the
liberty which you enjoy, and, therefore, claim some privilege in
expressing my opinion. But come, your friends are idle, let us have
breakfast before our cottage door.--Ah, Jerry, my Crissy would make a
fine soldier's wife: do you know that I have given her a military
education?
JERRY. No, surely--
JASPER. Aye, she can crack a bottle at twelve paces with a pistol.
JERRY. Crack a bottle! Come, that's a good one; I can crack a bottle
too, but not so far off.
JASPER. And then she can bring down a buck, at any distance.
JERRY. Bring down a buck? I don't like that--can't say as how I like my
wife to meddle with bucks. Can she milk--knit garters--make apple butter
and maple sugar--dance a reel after midnight, and ride behind her
husband on a pony, to see the trainings of our sogers--that's the wife
for my money. Oh, here she comes.
_Enter CHRISTINE and LENOX from the cottage._
JASPER. Christine, here is farmer Mayflower and his friends, who have
come to visit our cottage, and you in particular.
CHRISTINE. They are all welcome. Good morning, Jerry--how is it with
you?
JERRY. Purely, Miss Crissy, I'm stout and hearty, and you look as pretty
and as rosy as a field of pinks on a sunshiny morning.
JASPER. Come here, farmer--give me your hand--Christine, yours--[_Joins
them._]--there; may you live long and happy, and my blessings ever go
with you.
Christine. [_Aside in amazement._] Heavens! what can this mean? [_LENOX
is agitated--pause--JASPER and group retire--LENOX remains at a
distance._]
JERRY. Why, Miss Crissy, your father has consented that I shall marry
you, and I've come with my neighbours to have a little frolic, and carry
you home with me.
CHRISTINE. And am I of so little moment as not to be consulted? Am I
thus to be given away by my father without one anxious question? [_With
decision._] Farmer, pardon my frankness; on this occasion, sincerity
alone is required--I do not like you, I will not marry you--nay, do not
look surprised. I am a stranger to falsehood and dissimulation, and thus
end at once all hopes of ever becoming my husband.
JERRY. Why, now, Miss Crissy, that's very cruel of you--I always had a
sneaking kindness for you, and when your father gave his consent, I
didn't dream as how you could refuse me.
CHRISTINE. My father has ever found me dutiful and obedient, but when he
bestows my hand, without knowing whether my heart or inclinations
accompany it, I feel myself bound to consult my own happiness. I cannot
marry you, farmer.
LENOX. [_Advancing._] All things are prepared, and I am now about to
depart. Christine, farewell! Friends, good fortune await you! [_Aside._]
Dear Christine, remember me.
[_Exit hastily._
JERRY. Lack-a-daisy! What a disappointment to me, when I had put my
house in such nice order--painted my walls--got a new chest upon
chest--two new bed quilts, and a pair of pumps, and had the pig-sty and
dairy whitewashed.--Hang me, after all, I believe, she is only a little
shy. Oh, I see it now, she only wants a little coaxing--a little
sparking or so--I've a great mind to kiss her. I will, too.
[_Approaches CHRISTINE, who stands at a distance,
buried in deep thought._
CHRISTINE. Begone--dare not touch me! Heavens, am I reserved for this
humiliation? Could my father be so cruel?
JERRY. Now, Crissy, don't be so shy--you know you like me--you know you
said t' other day, when I were out training, that I held up my head more
like a soger than anybody in the ranks; come now, let's make up; you'll
always find me a dutiful husband, and if I ever flog you, then my name's
not Jerry.
_Enter JASPER from the cottage, with a basket; PEASANTS following with
fruit._
JASPER. Come, let us have breakfast in the open air--help me to arrange
the table.
JERRY. Breakfast! Oh, true, I've a powerful appetite.
[_Assists._
CHRISTINE. [_Aside._] What is to be done? I have not a moment to lose;
my father is stern and unyielding--I know his temper too well, to hope
that my entreaties will prevail with him--the farmer is rich, and gold
is a powerful tempter. I must be gone--follow Lenox, and in disguise, to
avoid this hateful match. I'll in, whilst unobserved.
[_Enters the cottage._
JASPER. Come, sit down, farmer and neighbours; and you, my pretty lads
and lasses, let's have a dance. Ah, here is a foraging party.
[_Enter SOLDIERS._
_Party dance--several pastoral and fancy dances--and as the whole
company retires, CHRISTINE comes from the cottage with cautious
steps--she is dressed in a frock coat, pantaloons and hat._
CHRISTINE. They are gone--now to escape. Scenes of my infancy--of many a
happy hour, farewell! Oh, farewell, forever!
[_Exit._
_JASPER and JERRY return._
JERRY. She refused me plumply.
JASPER. Impossible!
JERRY. No, it's quite possible. Farmer, said she, I will _not_ marry
you--and hang me if there's any joke in that.
JASPER. Refuse an honest man? A wealthy one, too? And one whom her
father gives to her? Trifling girl! Insensible to her happiness and
interest. What objections had she to you, farmer?
JERRY. Objections! Oh, none in the world, only she wouldn't marry me;
she didn't seem struck at all with my person.
JASPER. Mere coyness--maiden bashfulness.
JERRY. So I thought, sergeant Jasper, and was going to give her a little
kiss, when she gave me such a look, and such a push, as quite astounded
me.
JASPER. I will seek and expostulate with the stubborn girl. Ah, Jerry,
times have strangely altered, when young women choose husbands for
themselves, with as much ease and indifference, as a ribbon for their
bonnet.
[_Enters the cottage._
JERRY. So they do--the little independent creatures as they are--but
what Miss Crissy could see in me to refuse, hang me if I can tell. I'm
call'd as sprightly a fellow as any in our county, and up to
everything--always ready for fun, and perfectly good-natured.
[_Enter JASPER from the cottage, agitated._
JASPER. She is nowhere to be found--she has gone off and left her poor
old father. In her room, I found these lines scrawled with a pencil:
"You have driven your daughter from you, by urging a match that was
hateful to her. Was her happiness not worth consulting?" What's to be
done? Where has she gone? Ah, a light breaks in upon me--to the camp--to
the camp!
JERRY. Oho! I smell a rat too--she's gone after Mr. Lenox, the infantry
ossifer. Oh, the young jade! But come along, old soger--get your hat and
cane, and we'll go arter her--I'm a magistrate, and will bring her back
by a habes corpus.
[_They enter the cottage._
SCENE II. _A Wood._
_Enter CHRISTINE in haste, looking back with fear._
CHRISTINE. On, on, or I shall be pursued and o'ertaken--I have lost my
way. Ah, yonder is the camp--I see the flags and tents--a short time and
I shall be with you, dear Lenox.
[_Exit._
_Enter JASPER, JERRY and PEASANTS._
JERRY. We're on the right track, farmer; I know all tracks--used to 'em
when I hunt 'possums.
JASPER. Cruel girl! to desert her old father, who has ever been kind and
affectionate.
JERRY. Cruel girl! to desert me, who intended to be so very
affectionate, if he had given me a chance.
JASPER. We cannot be far from the outposts, let us continue our search.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III. _A Camp. A row of tents in the rear with camp flags at equal
distances; on the right wing is a neat marquee, and directly opposite to
it another. Sentinels on duty at each marquee._
_Enter from the marquee, LENOX and ADELA._
LENOX. I never was more surprised! just when I had brush'd up my arms,
and prepared to meet the enemy, who should I find in camp but you, my
old hoyden scholar. Why Adela, you have grown nearly as tall as a
grenadier, and as pretty--zounds, I would kiss you, if I dare.
ADELA. I am delighted to see you, dear Lenox; you are still as gay and
amiable as when you taught your little Adela to conjugate verbs, and
murder French; I heard of your gallantry and wounds, and imagined I
should see you limping on crutches, with a green patch over one eye, and
a wreath of laurel around your head, a kind of limping, one-eyed cupid;
but I find you recovered from your wounds, and ready for new ones, my
soldier.
LENOX. Bravo! the little skipping girl, who was once so full of
mischief, has grown a tall and beautiful woman. But what brings you to
camp, Adela? What have you to do with "guns and drums? heaven save the
mark!"
ADELA. Why, my father wrote for me, expecting that the campaign was
drawing to a close; but scarcely had I arrived here, when intelligence
reached us that the enemy, in force, had occupied a position near
Chippewa; it was too late to return, so I remained to see a little
skirmishing.
LENOX. And are you prepared to endure the privations of a camp?
ADELA. Oh, it is delightful! it is something out of the common order of
things, something new--such echoing of bugles--glistening of fire-arms,
and nodding of plumes--such marchings and countermarchings--and such
pretty officers too, Lenox; but then a terrible accident happened to me
the other day.
LENOX. Aye, what was it?
ADELA. Why you must know, that I accompanied my father, who with his
suite, and a small detachment, went out on a reconnoitering
project.--Just as we _debouched_ from the wood, according to the
military phrase, we came suddenly and unexpectedly on a foraging party
of the enemy, who began to fight and retreat at the same time.
LENOX. Well?
ADELA. My horse happening to be an old trooper, the moment the bugles
sounded, and he heard the prattle of the small arms, he dashed in
amongst them, and there was I screaming in a most delightful style,
which, by some, must have been mistaken for a war-whoop, and to mend the
matter, a very polite and accomplished Indian took aim at me with his
rifle, and actually shot away the plume from my hat, which, I dare say,
was as valuable a prize to him as I should have been.
LENOX. And how did you escape from your perilous situation?
ADELA. Oh, I soon recovered my fright, and reined in my old horse; my
father and a few soldiers cut in before me, and covered my retreat, so
that in the conclusion of this little affair, I gained a feather in my
cap, though the enemy carried off the plume; and I found myself at last
on the field of battle, as cool as any hero in the army.
LENOX. And so, my lively Adela, you have been fairly introduced to Mars
and Bellona; how do you like them?
ADELA. Prodigiously. I find, after all, that courage is something like a
cold bath; take the first plunge, and all is over. Lord, Lenox, how
delightful it would have been, had I been armed and fought gallantly in
that affair; my name would have been immortalized like Joan of Arc's.
Congress would have voted me a medal, I should have had a public dinner
at Tammany-Hall, and his honour the mayor would have made me one of his
prettiest speeches, in presenting me with the freedom of the great city
in a gold box.
LENOX. And so, then, you admire a military life?
ADELA. Oh, I'm in raptures with it! I am a perfect female Quixote, and
would relinquish a thousand dandy beaux for one brave fellow; and,
therefore, Lenox, don't be surprised, if you should see me going about
from tent to tent, chaunting the old songs of
_"Soldier, soldier, marry me,
With your fife and drum."_
_CHRISTINE suddenly appears in the background and surveys the party with
astonishment._
CHRISTINE. Heavens! what do I see? Lenox, and with a female so
affectionately?
LENOX. Your spirits charm me, dear Adela, and revive those feelings for
you, that time has impaired, but not destroyed. But come, let us in and
see your worthy father.
[_Leads her into the tent to the left._
CHRISTINE. Cruel, unkind, false Lenox! Are these your vows of constancy?
are these your protestations of love? Scarcely are you free from our
cottage, when your vows and pledges are but air. Wretched Christine!
what will become of you? I have deserted my father's house to avoid a
hateful match, and seek the protection of the man I love; he is false,
and I am lost. What's to be done? Return home a penitent, and meet the
frowns of my father, and be wedded to the man I hate? Never. Seek out
Lenox, and upbraid him with his falsehood? No, pride and wounded honour
will not permit me. Let him go--he is a wretch who trifles with the
affections of a woman. I care not what becomes of me, despair is all
that I have left. Ha! a thought strikes me with the lightning's
force--the army--I will enlist--this disguise is favourable, and in the
battle's rage, seek that death which quickly awaits me--'tis resolved.
[_CORPORAL passes over the stage._] Hist, corporal.
CORPORAL. Well, my lad, what would ye?
CHRISTINE. I would enlist, good corporal, and serve my country.
CORPORAL. Enlist! As a drummer or fifer, I suppose.
CHRISTINE. No; in the ranks--and though small, you will find me capable.
Give me your musket. [_CHRISTINE takes the musket, shoulders, presents,
and goes through a few motions._]
CORPORAL. Well done, my little fellow; you'll do, if it's only for a
fugelman; come along to our sergeant, and receive the bounty.
[_Exit._
CHRISTINE. Now, Lenox, now am I fully revenged for your cruel desertion.
[_Follows._
_End of the First Act._
ACT II.
SCENE I. _York, in Upper Canada; a Tavern meanly furnished._
_Enter LAROLE, in pursuit of the chambermaid._
LAROLE. Come here, you littel demoiselle--you bootiful sauvage, vy you
run vay from me--hay?
MAID. I wish you would let me alone, mounsure, you officers' gentlemen
are very disagreeable things.
LAROLE. Disagreeable? ma foi! I am one joli garcon, one pretti
batchelor; disagreeable? I vill tell you, ma belle grizette, I am maitre
de mode, I give de lecons for dance, to speake de English, and de
Francaise aussi; I can fence, aha! or fight de duel, or de enemi, je
suis un soldat.
MAID. Well, if you're a soldier, you have no business to be following me
up and down the house like a pet lamb. Why don't you go to camp?
LAROLE. Camp? vat is de camp? Oho, le champ de bataille; I shall tell
you, mademoiselle, I did fight at the bataille de Vittoria, com un
diable, like littel devil. I did kill beaucoup d'Anglais. Mai my maitre,
le capitain, he did give me a dam tump on my head wis his rapier, and
did knock me down from on top of my horse, and make a me von prisonier.
MAID. Poor fellow! And so, mounsure, you were made prisoner?
LAROLE. Oui, ven I could not run avay, begar I surrender like von brave
homme, and now I am jentiman to capitain Pendragoon; I do brus his coat,
poudre his hair, and pull his corset tight, and ven he was order to come
to Amerique, and fight wis de Yankee Doodel, begar me come too. I arrive
ici, I am here, to make a littel de love to you.
MAID. Well now, once for all, I tell you not to be following me; I don't
like Frenchmen--I can't parlyvoo.
LAROLE. You no like de Frenchiman? O quell barbare! vy you ave von
abominable gout, mademoiselle, von shockin taste. I shall tell you,
mademoiselle, en my contree, en France, de ladies are ver fond of me. O
beaucoup, I am so charmant--so aimable, and so jentee, I have three five
sweetheart, ami de coeur, mai for all dat I do love you ver mush, par
example.
MAID. Let me go! [_Bell rings._] There, your master calls you.
[_Exit._
LAROLE. Dam de littel bell, I vill not come; mon maitre he always
interrupt me ven I make de love to the pretti ladi, he be jealous, begar
I vill not come.
[_Exit opposite side._
_Enter CAPTAIN PENDRAGON, dressed in the British uniform, but in the
extreme of fashion--throws himself into a chair._
PENDRAGON. Oh, curse such roads! My bones are making their way out of
their sockets--such vile, abominable, detestable--Waiter!--If my friends
at Castle Joram only knew the excruciating fatigues which I am
undergoing in this barbarous land--Why, waiter!--or if his highness the
commander-in-chief was only sensible of my great sacrifices to--Why,
waiter! where the devil are you?
_Enter WAITER._
WAITER. Here I be, sir.
PENDRAGON. Why didn't you come when I first called? Do you think I've
got lungs like a hunter? I'm fatigued and hungry. Get me an anchovy, a
toast, and a bottle of old port.
WAITER. A what, sir? an ancho--
PENDRAGON. Yes, sir, an anchovy--small ones--delicate.
WAITER. Why, sir, we don't know what these are in this country.
PENDRAGON. The devil you don't! Then pray, sir, what have you to eat in
this damn'd house fit for a gentleman?
WAITER. Why, sir, not much--the army eats us out of house and home. We
have some very excellent fresh bear meat, sir.
PENDRAGON. Bear meat! Why, what the devil, fellow, do you take me for a
Chickasaw, or an Esquimau? Bear meat! the honourable captain Pendragon,
who never ate anything more gross than a cutlet at Molly's chop-house,
and who lived on pigeons' livers at Very's, in Paris, offered bear meat
in North America! I'll put that down in my travels.
WAITER. Why, sir, it is considered here a great delicacy.
PENDRAGON. The devil it is! Then pray, sir, what are your ordinary
fares, if bear's meat is considered a delicacy?
WAITER. Why, truly, sir, this is but a young country, and we have to
live upon what we can catch. Pray, would you fancy some 'possum fat and
hominy?
PENDRAGON. Oh, shocking! begone, fellow--you'll throw me into a fever
with your vile bill of fare. Get me a cup of tea--mix it, hyson and
souchong, with cream and muffins.
WAITER. We can't give you any of those things, sir.--However, you can
have an excellent cup of sage tea, sweetened with honey.
PENDRAGON. Sage tea! Why, you rascal, do you intend to throw me into a
perspiration by way of curing my hunger? or do you take me for a goose
or a duck, that you intend stuffing me with sage? Begone, get out, you
little deformed fellow! [_Exit WAITER._] I shall perish in this
barbarous land--bear meat, 'possum fat, and sage tea! O dear St. James!
I wish I was snug in my old quarters. LaRole! [_Enter LAROLE._] Where
the devil do you hide yourself in this damn'd house? Why, I shall
starve--there's nothing to eat, fit for a gentleman.
LAROLE. Oui, monsieur, dis is von damn contree, I can find nosing to
eat. I did look into all de pantri, mai parbleu, I find only a ver
pretti demoiselle, mai, I could not eat her.
PENDRAGON. We must be off to the camp, LaRole, my quarters there will be
infinitely more agreeable. I shall get the blue devils in this cursed
place.
LAROLE. Vell, sair, I have all de devils ventre bleu, das you can
imagine; dere is no politesse, no respect, nosing paid to me.
PENDRAGON. My fit of the blues is coming on me; sing me a song, LaRole.
LAROLE. A chanson? Vell, sair, I shall sing to frighten avay de littel
blue devil; vill you I shall sing de English or de Francaise?
PENDRAGON. Oh, English, by all means--curse your foreign lingo.
LAROLE. Ahem! Ahem! you shall understand.
_Vat is dis dull town to me,
Robin Hadair?
Vere is all de joys on earth, dat
Make dis town_--
[_A bugle sounds without._
Ha! what is dat? who de devil intrup me in my chanson?
INDIAN CHIEF. [_Speaks without._] Have them all ready, with their rifles
and tomahawks in order; [_Enters with another INDIAN._] and you,
Coosewatchie, tell our priests to take their stand on yonder hill, and
as my warriors pass them, examine whether they have fire in their eyes.
[_Exit INDIAN._] How now, who have we here?
PENDRAGON. [_Examining him with his glass._] Where the devil did this
character come from? he's one of the fancy, I suppose.
INDIAN. Who and what are you?
PENDRAGON. Who am I? Why, sir, I am the honourable captain Pendragon, of
his majesty's guards, formerly of the buffs.
INDIAN. [_Aside._] The officer who is to be under my command. Well sir,
you have lately arrived from across the great waters: How did you leave
my father, the King of England?
PENDRAGON. How! call my most gracious sovereign your father? Why, sir,
you are the most familiar--impertinent--'sdeath! I shall choke--What the
devil do you mean?
INDIAN. [_Coolly._] What should I mean, young man, but to inquire after
the health of my father, who commands my respect, who has honoured me
with his favours, and in whose cause I am now fighting.
PENDRAGON. Well, sir, if you have the honour to hold a commission from
his majesty, I desire that you will speak of him with proper awe, and
not call him your father, but your gracious master.
INDIAN. Young man, the Indian warrior knows no master but the Great
Spirit, whose voice is heard in thunder, and whose eye is seen in the
lightning's flash; free as air, we bow the knee to no man; our forests
are our home, our defence is our arms, our sustenance the deer and the
elk, which we run down. White men encroach upon our borders, and drive
us into war; we raise the tomahawk against your enemies, because your
king has promised us protection and supplies. We fight for freedom, and
in that cause, the great king and the poor Indian start upon equal
terms.
PENDRAGON. A very clever spoken fellow, pon honour; I'll patronise him.
LAROLE. Parbleu, he is von very sensible sauvage; vill you take von
pinch snuff?
INDIAN. Pshaw!
LAROLE. He say pshaw, I see he is born in de voods.
PENDRAGON. And are you prepared to fan these Yankees? We shall flog them
without much fatigue, I understand.
INDIAN. Not so fast, young soldier; these pale-faced enemies of ours
fight with obstinacy; accustomed to a hardy life, to liberty and laws,
they are not willing to relinquish those blessings on easy terms; if we
conquer them, it must be by no moderate exertions: it will demand force
and cunning.
PENDRAGON. Oh, dry dogs, I suppose, not to be caught napping; well, I'm
up to them, we'll fan them in high style; the ragged nabobs, I
understand, are not far off, and our troops are in fine preservation.
INDIAN. True, preparation must be made to meet them. You are under my
orders.
PENDRAGON. The devil I am!
INDIAN. Aye, sir; your general, at my request, has ordered you here to
take command of a company of my warriors; but you must not appear in
that dress: change it quickly, or they will not be commanded by you;
they are men, and fight under the orders of men.
PENDRAGON. Change my dress! why what the devil do you mean, sir?
INDIAN. Mean? that you should appear in the ranks like a warrior, and
not like a rabbit trussed for dressing--off with these garments, which
give neither pleasure to the eye nor ease to the limbs--put on
moccasins, wrap a blanket around you, put rings through your nose and
ears, feathers in your head, and paint yourself like a soldier, with
vermilion.
PENDRAGON. Why, this is the most impertinent and presuming savage in the
wilds of North America. Harkee, sir, I'd have you to know, that I am a
man of fashion, and one of the fancy--formerly of the buffs, nephew of a
peer of the realm, and will be a member of parliament, in time; an
officer of great merit and great services, Mr.--Red Jacket. Paint my
face, and fight without clothes? I desire, sir, that you will please to
take notice, that I fought at Badahoz with the immortal Wellington, and
had the honour to be wounded, and promoted, and had a medal for my
services in that affair, Mr.--Split-log. Put rings in my nose? a man of
taste, and the _ne plus ultra_ of Bond-street, the very mirror of
fashion and elegance? Sir, I beg you to observe, that I am not to be
treated in this manner--I shall resent this insult. Damme, I shall
report you to the commander-in-chief at the Horse Guards, and have you
courtmartialled for unfashionable deportment--Mr.--Walk-in-the-Water.
INDIAN. Come, come, sir, enough of this trifling; I do not understand
it; you have heard my orders--obey them, or, after the battle, I'll
roast you before a slow fire!
[_Exit._
LAROLE. O le barbare! O de dam sauvage! dis is de most impertinent dog
in de vorld. Roast before de fire! Parbleu, mon maitre, ve are not de
littel pig.
PENDRAGON. I'm horrified! lost in amazement! but I'll resent it. Damme,
I'll caricature him.
LAROLE. Oh, I vish I vas fight encore at Saragossa, vis mi lor
Villainton; par example, I did get some hard tumps, mai I did get plenti
to eat; but ici I ave nosing but de little bear to mange.
PENDRAGON. Come along--courage, LaRole. We'll fan the Yankee Doodles in
our best style, and then get a furlough, and be off to White-Hall, and
the rings in our noses will afford anecdotes for the bon-ton for a whole
year. Allons.
[_Exeunt._