THE SPANISH LADY, A MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT, IN TWO ACTS; Founded on the PLAN of the OLD BALLAD.
As performed at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden.
LONDON Printed for the AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
THE Author of this little Piece having already thought it incumbent on him, to explain, in the public Paper, his Motives for writing it, and the Reasons, why it did not make it's Appearance on the Stage at that time, he presumes a Repetition of those will be the most proper Preface to it here.
The elegant Simplicity of the Old Ballad (which has been justly remarked by many writers of allowed Taste) had often induced me to wish to see it modelled into a Petite-piece. The Advice of a singular Conquest, obtained over Spain, in the Year 1762, influenced me to attempt it. I thought the Scene might, not improbably, be laid there; and that some few Hints, tending to illustrate, and (as far as so small a Production might be able) to perpetuate that glorious Exploit, [Page] would, while popular Praise and Admiration was alive and warm, attone for what Deficiences might be found in the Conduct and Diction, such a kind of Undertaking being really new to me.
With this View, the Piece was received, licensed, and rehearsed at Covent-Garden, the Winter before last—but the Disturbances, which then happened at both Theatres, obstructed the intended Performance.
If now stands as a simple Fable, and may be considered merely as the Story of the SPANISH LADY brought forward into View. If, in the principal Scene between the English Officer, and the Lady, I have not wholly destroyed the pathetic Simplicity of my Original, I should hope, with the Assistance of the Music, (which has been selected under the Inspection of an eminent Composer) that the Piece may not be found un-entertaining to a delicate, and a feeling Mind. Wherever I could, I have used the very Words of the Ballad, which, for the Satisfaction of a curious Eye, I have hereunto annexed.
In this plain Dress, my Production now appeals to the Candour of an English Audience,
And is,
WITH THE HIGHEST DEFERENCE AND RESPECT, DEDICATED TO THE BROTHERS.
Persons Represented.
- WORTHY, a noble English Officer. Mr. Mattocks,
- Major HEARTY, Mr. Perry,
- A sea LIEUTENANT, Mr. Dunstall,
- An ENSIGN, Mr. R. Smith,
- SOLDIERS and SAILORS.
- ELVIRA, the Lady, Mrs. Mattocks,
- ANNA, her younger Sister, Miss Valois,
- A DUENNA, Mrs. White,
THE SPANISH LADY.
ACT .I. SCENE I.
LIEUTENANT, good Morrow. You're not blown away then! Prythee how did your Vessel weather out that dreadful Hurricane last Night?
Why tolerably well, at last. And yet I thought, sometimes, we shou'd never have crack'd Biscuit again. In all the Voyages I have made, (and I have rode out many a hard Gale) I never was so near going to the Bottom. You Landmen, now, lie safe enough.
I don't know what you mean by safe; the Devil cou'd not have slept in such a Storm! I'll swear, the Fort shook about our Ears with ten Times the Violence it did, when the Mine was sprung, and I was more alarm'd. Yet, Lieutenant, that was no trifling Work.
Trifling! No, faith; for that resolute Dog, the Governor, laid about him, like a Devil.
Poor Fellow! It so griev'd the Heart of me, to see him, when the cowardly Rascals had all left him, oblig'd to give up his Sword, that I cou'd have cry'd for him, if I had not thought it a Shame for a Soldier in Action.
Ay, but, Ben, shall you ever forget our Commander's Usage of him, upon that Occasion? I cod! 'tis my Opinion, the Governor was not very sorry to lose his Friends, when he found so good an Enemy.
Ensign, can you tell me where your good Commander, Worthy, is? I have a Message to him from our Admiral.
I expect him here every Moment. He went to the Governor's just now, and said, he wou'd return soon. I am waiting fresh Orders.
I'll bear you Company—
In the mean Time, prythee, lets have Tom's Song, that he wrote upon the Action.
I'll oblige you as well as I can. Lads, remember to chime in.
SONG.
Thank you, Lieutenant;—And you've just done in Time, for here's your good Commander.
Bless the honest Heart of him!
The Admiral, Sir, desires your immediate Answer to this.—
—
He may depend on their being on Board by Noon;—If at Leisure, I shou'd be glad to see him, in the Evening, at my Quarters.
I'll be sure to let him know it, Sir,
Ensign, a Word. Have you seen the poor Widow, and her Children to Day?
I have, Sir,—The Children are all purely, except the Eldest, who seems chain'd to her Mother's Chair; 'Tis hard to say, which of the two has cry'd most. When I gave her the Purse, she wou'd have express'd her thanks, but her Amazement, a while, prevented her. At last she had just sighed out your Name, when I produced her poor dead Husband's Watch, which I discover'd, last Night, at George Ravage's; the very sight of it threw her into such an Agony, that I was oblig'd to leave it in her Lap, and run off. It was too much for me.
You give me Pleasure to hear you say so. Good Morrow, good Ensign. When you repeat your Visit, only caution them never to discover my Name; and let it, on your part, be kept equally Secret.
I'll be sure to observe you with Care, Sir; you have no farther Commands, at present?
None, but to desire you will be early enough with me in the Morning, that we may have sufficient Time for the charitable Duties we are engag'd in.
You may depend upon me, Sir, I receive your Orders with Pleasure. Good Morrow, Sir,
Ensign, your Servant! I like this young Fellow. The Readiness and Satisfaction, with which he undertakes a good Action, are singularly agreeable. Such a Disposition reflects Pleasure on itself, and doubles every Favour to the Object it obliges.—How truly valuable in a Soldier, when Success has crown'd his Arms!
So, Major, you have finish'd your Visit. Well, will you return, and dine with this good Family? I have promis'd myself to them.
Not to Day, Sir; I have some Engagements, which, I think, will not release me Time enough; beside, I have no great Pleasure in seeing the poor Girl dine upon looking at you.
Again! You will still persist in that Mistake!
No Mistake, indeed, Sir, Her Confusion when you enter the Room, unceasing Sighs during your Stay, Attention when you speak.—
All easily to be accounted for. Her obsequious Regard to one, whom she cannot look on, yet, but in the Light of her Conqueror; her hourly Anxiety for her Father's Situation, his Wounds not promising so favourably, as might be wish'd.—A thousand Interpretations may be made of her Behaviour.—
All, surely, conducing to prove the Truth of what I say.
To me it does not appear so; nor can I yet, with all you can say, give into the idle Vanity, of indulging such Notions, as would be inconsistent with my Principles and Situation.
Your Principles, indeed, I am no Stranger to; nor am I wishing you should break thro' them; all I presume to urge is, that, if you were inclin'd so to do, here is a fair Occasion offer'd you.
'Tis an Experiment, I shall not be induc'd to make; yet, were I ever so strongly inclin'd to it, it must be Length of Time, and very plain Circumstances, alone could convince me of the Fairness of such an Occasion. I cannot bear that cruel Misinterpretation of a Woman's Behaviour, which supposes her Good-humour, and Affability, can have no End but Love.
SONG.
How many Doubts perplex me! Yet what have I to apprehend? The Greatness of his Soul, and Gentleness of his Disposition, leave no Room for Fear. He must be consistent: And, shou'd his Judgment condemn, his Delicacy cannot but forgive a Weakness, which his own Virtues have given Birth to.
SONG.
Why must such exalted Goodness be fatal to me alone? to every other Breast he brings Ease, and Satisfaction, to [Page] me Heaviness, and Despair. If all of his Nation are like him, how happy the Women, that are united to them! Even to his Foes he shews so lovely, that his Beneficence, and humane Care of all around him, make him appear rather a Father, than a Conqueror. The Hours that he has sat by my Father's Bed, consoling him, and the sweet Means he has us'd to dry my Mother's Tears!—I'll hesitate no longer; I cannot be deceiv'd in him.
My dear Sister, I am glad I have found you.—What, crying again?
No, my Sweet, I am not crying now.
Ay, but you have been, I'm sure; for your Eyes look as red! Do, my dear Sister, tell me what you do it for. There must be some Reason—You never us'd to do so.
My little Pratler, is there not Reason enough, when my Father's Life is in Danger, and our Town in the Hands of our Enemies?
Nay, my Papa is much better now; and for the Town—I have always been told, Sister, that Enemies were proud and cruel; but these People are as friendly, and kind, as you are to me. And, I'm sure, one of the Captains beat his own Man soundly, in the Street, t'other Day, only for offering to hurt my little Lap-Dog.
My sweet, the Cruelty is all over now; and English People never hurt their Enemies, when once they have subdued them.
No, indeed, I think we are as happy, as ever we were; and they are very pretty People. Dear, how I love to look at the Gentleman at Table! What low Bows he makes! And how good-natur'dly he smiles! Well, if ever I live to be marry'd, I hope I shall have just such a Husband as he is,
Sister, I hope I han't said any Thing to offend you; I can't bear to see you so.
No, my little Dear, you can't offend me.
Indeed, I wou'd not, if I knew it. What can be the Matter with you? I'll be whipt if you han't learnt to cry of the Gentleman.
Go, you little Trifler, Soldiers never cry.
No? I vow I saw him myself wipe his Eyes, as he went out of the Room, the Morning the Doctor give my Papa over;—and I heard Papa himself tell my Mama, that he thought he did so, when he gave him his Sword again, after the Fight; for that he turn'd away his Head, and cou'd hardly speak.
Oh, the lovely Heart of him! He was sorry, my Dear, to see my Papa hurt.
But what are you sorry for? Deuce take me, but a thought's come into my Head, if I were not afraid you'd be angry.
I won't, my little Love, tell me.
I'll be whipt, if you don't love the Gentleman.
The Gypsey!—Why so, my Sweet? how shou'd you know any Thing of Love?
I don't know, to be sure; but, I think, I can guess a little. I'm not such a Child as that, neither.
SONG.
My sweet little Companion, now is your happiest State, if you did but know it. You are wishing for the Hour, [Page] that may be fatal; Love, to your unskilful Mind, is a Dream of perfect Happiness; it's Pains, and Woes, you have no Idea of; and may you never know 'em!
I've interrupted you tho' with my Nonsense—I'll go, if you please, Sister, and leave you to finish your Writing.
My dear, I can do that, without your going.
O, Sister, pray is Writing a Sign of Love?
Why, my Child?
Why, if it is, I wish the Gentleman is not in love.
Ha! Why, Anna?
Because I stood by him Yesterday, while he was folding up some Papers, and, I do verily believe, he had filled twenty Sides.
In all my Distraction of Mind, that Fear never occurr'd to me.—How do our Passions blind us! Could Virtues, like his, fail of Attraction? and have not English Ladies peculiar Charms? Shou'd it be so, I am lost.—If not, my only Hope is here. I'll not delay a Moment.
O, Sister, one Word more.
What now, you Trifler?
Why you have not Time to write now, for Dinner's ready, and the Gentleman has been waiting in the Parlour, this half Hour.
Why did not you tell me before? You little heedless [...] w [...]at do you expect?
Wh [...], that you'll go to him directly, Sister; but don't say I rept you: For I wou'd not have him angry with me, for ever so much.
Yes, I thought so.—The Murther's all out. Yet I don't know, some how or other, what my Sister says about Love, don't seem like the Song, Mamma taught me; and which she is so fond of, because Papa made it for her, just after they were marry'd.
SONG.
ACT .II.
THE welcome Orders are come, at last; and I may now hope to be compleatly happy; my Duty properly discharg'd, I may expect such a Welcome, as a gracious King never fails to bestow on an honest Subject. In that Name let me be allow'd to pride myself! A Monarch's Smiles are a Soldier's publick Praise, and Reward. Yet a nearer Bliss remains to crown his Fatigues, and recompence his Dangers. Love.—Love by which the Active are inspir'd, and supported; the Sluggard only it enervates. My Heart is now impatient for the sweet Moment of my Arrival; for the glorious Opportunity of proving my Constancy to my dear HARRIET; of devoting to her the Truth, and Affection, which by Merit, much more than by Vows, she is justly entitled to,
I have been thinking, ever since Dinner, if my Sister shou'd marry this Gentleman, and go to his Country, they might take me with them;—and then how pure that wou'd be, to see such Numbers of fine People, all as pretty as he! And I might get one of them for my Husband, may be, as well as she, when I'm big enough. Oh, that wou'd put me, out of my little Wits. I hear it is a sweet Place. They have no Nunneries, nor Locking up there, but all the People do just what they please.
SONG.
Ay, my Dear, you may as well leave off your singing, for here's sad News. There are Orders come, for the Gentleman, and all his Men to go home. He has taken leave of your Papa, and Mamma, and sent me to look for you, and your Sister.
Home? What, to England? O dear! Sure he need not go, whether he will or no.
Oh, but he must. The King has sent for him; and then they never wait to be bid twice. He must go aboard this after Afternoon. Besides you know very thing has been prepared some time, and they only waited for sailing Orders. He's waiting for you in the Parlour. Do, my Dear, go look for your Sister, and tell her. I must go back to your Papa. He is a great deal worse, since the News came.
Indeed, I can't go look for, nor tell her neither, I am so sorry; and he lov'd me so dearly; If he had but been marry'd to my Sister, before he went.—Here she comes How shall I tell her?
ANNA, my dear, what's the Matter?
Oh, Sister, I can hardly speak for crying—
Why, my sweet, what has befal'n you?
The Gentleman's going.
Going! Where?
Home, to his own Country. And he must go directly.
The Blow, I long have dreaded, now has struck me—No Time for Reason! Distraction and Despair assist me!
Yes, I thought how it wou'd be. I'm sorry for my Sister; I'm sorry for myself.—I can't bear the Thoughts of lofing him, he lov'd me so dearly, and was so good to me.
SONG.
Nay, do not shun me; the fatal Truth is told; reflect, and pity me.—I know that Decency, Reserve, Delicacy, all condemn me, yet do not you. Think what the [Page] Heart must feel, that dares surmount 'em.—'Tis Death to lose you.
This is an unexpected Stroke. My Heart is afflicted with her Distress.—What can I say?
Yet you turn away; yet you are cruel! I have been wrong, and you think meanly of me; if it be so, let me hear you say it.—Blame me, revile me, do any thing but leave me.
She perplexes, and un-mans me. How shall I answer? I almost wish now, that I had paid some Regard to Hearly's Suggestions.
Am I not worth a Word?
Think not so meanly of me, dearest Lady, as that I can be insensible to the Honour you propose. I feel it all, [Page] and, with Gratitude, acknowledge it; but what Return is in my Pow'r? You forget I am your Country's Foe.
You have forgot it long. To your unparallelled Virtues, we owe all that can make us happy. Such Foes as you, might reconcile Savages,—With our City, you have subdu'd our Minds. Treat them with equal Tenderness, and possess what you have so nobly gain'd.
Let not me, alone, experience your Cruelty. Mildness, and Indulgence, are your Nation's Virtues. Shew them now to me.
What wou'd I not do, dear Lady, to relieve your Affliction? Yet, reslect a little. I must sully my Fame for [Page] ever, were it said at my Departure, I robb'd your City of its Pride, and your Father of his Happiness.
Without a Blush would I proclaim my Passion; my Eagerness to accompany you. My Father knows, and loves your Virtues. You have made yourself so dear to him, that he cou'd not but be proud of your Alliance.
Yet, your Sex, Lady!—And amid so rude a Throng.—
My Sex I cou'd disguise. I wou'd dress me like a Page, and attend you thro' the hardest Fortunes, you cou'd encounter. In the severest Extremities, to hear you, to look on you, wou'd be Comfort and Happiness: and in my Perseverance I wou'd rival English Constancy, and Affection.
[Page] I'll wait on all your Steps with unweary'd Duty; and if Wealth can make me worthy—
It shall be so!—To disguise it longer, wou'd be dishonest. Dearest Lady, Oh forgive me, while I declare a fatal Truth. It is not in my Power to accept your proffer'd Love, without making myself the worst of Villains. I left behind me, in England, a sweet Woman, to whom I have sworn to devote every Hour, and every Blessing of Life. In early Youth, our Vows were plighted: Her Constancy and Merit, deserve more, much more from me, than I can ever pay. Think not then I slight or undervalue your Desert, if I say, I must not hear you farther.
I am satisfied.
Commend me to that virtuous Maid. Tell her my Dist [...]ss, but tell it favourably. Let her know I intreat her Pardon, for having even ignorantly attempted to destroy s [...]ch true Happiness. Let her not, on my Account, thin [...] amiss of SPANISH Ladies. Modesty and Virtue [...] them. My Errors, do not call them Crimes, at least by you should be forgiven. Them, and you, I ever shall lament.
My Heart, generous Lady, bleeds for your Distress, Why is my Esteem all I can bestow in Return?
One Moment more—that is not much—and I release you to the Pursuit of your Bliss. These Jewels, these little Ornaments, which I shall now no longer need, give to that happy Fair. Let them not be less dear, because I sent 'em. Let them testify my Wishes for a Continuance of her Bliss.
This Bracelet only—The rest I must not, cannot touch. This will I present her, as a Token of your virtuous Affection, which, when she hears your Story, she will enrich [Page] with a Tear, and lament you with the Tenderness of a Sister.
Farewell for ever. The Blessing of a broken Heart goes with you. For your dear Sake, deaf to Love, and all its Claims, within a Cloister will I hide my Woes, and in Devotion seek Relief and Pardon.
SONG.
Unhappy Creature! Into what Depth of Sorrow has she plung'd me! Her Afflictions have taken such hold of my Heart, that my dearest Hopes are hush'd in Attention to them.
Hark, I am summon'd—Welcome Sound! Amid the Transports of my honest Soldiers, I'll endeavour to lose this Heaviness of Spirit.
SONG.
Well, my Lads, all ready?
All, All ready, please your Honour. Only waiting the Word of Command.
You have discharg'd all your Commissions, Ensign?
To the ssightest Circumstance, Sir; The Widow, and her Family, send Prayers, and Tears to you.
I am indebted to your Care, and will reward it. Now, Lads, for the Crown of all your gallant Actions; they are still fresh in the Minds of your Countrymen; and you are going to receive the Praises of a King, and a Nation, who are ever ready to remember, and to reward the Defenders of their Rights and Liberties.
'Tis a great Comfort, to be fure, your Honour, to think we shall see our Wives, and Children again; but no matter for that, if you have any more Commands for us, lead us where you will: while we have a Stump lest, we'll follow you.
Ay, and we our gallant Admiral;—He deserves it so well, I don't think there's a Toss-up between you. No Offence I hope your Honour.
Well said Jack! let the King give us always such Commanders, and let your Officers, and ours, agree as well every where, as they have done here, and I'll be shot if we don't beat the World.
Brave, my honest Hearts. You have discharg'd your Duties like Men.—And now for England!