SMILES ATO TSARS
mtto anti Ceara;
OR
THE WIDOWS STRATAGEMS
A COMEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS;
AS. PERFORMED AT THE
C&eatre-iRogal,
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1815.
BY MRS. C. KEMBLE*
LONDON:
PRINTED TOR JOHN MILLER, 25, BOW-STREET,
COV ENT-G ARDEN.
1815.
[Price Two Shillings and Sixpence.]
London: Printed by B. M'Milian, 3
Bcw-Slmt,
PROLOGUE.
BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.
SPOKEN BY MR. ABBOTT.
IF, as our Drama's Sov'reign Lord proclaims,
The Scenic Art to copy Nature aims,
To shew the times their manners as they pass,
And characters reflect, as in a glass,
To paint the world in all its motley strife,
The gay and dread vicissitudes of life;
Here Vice in splendour, Virtue bent to earth,
Here pining Want, and here luxurious Mirth;
Here airy Fashion and her gaudy shows,
Here Maniacs sportive 'mid the worst of woes; -
Then must the Comic Muse from Nature stray,
When Laughter holds an undivided sway ;
For such, alas ! are all the scenes around,
And where can pleasure unalloy'd be found ?
Still man must struggle with a chequer'd fate,
Whate'er his climate, and whate'er his state. ..
Hence, if to-night our Author should appear
To deviate rashly from his proper sphere,
Jf he suspend the ludicrous and gay,
And at the shrine of Pity homage pay,
Yet Truth and Reason with his cause defend,
And, spite of formal Custom, heed his end-
Not from the Drama seek for barren joy,
Which, to the mind well -balanc'd, soon will cloj,
But, in the words of an Illustrious Sage,
Whose works shall moralize each future age,
All lighter feelings of the heart forego,
/' For useful mirth and salutary woe/'
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Mr. Fitzharding, Mr. Young.
Sir Henry Chomley, Mr. C. Kerable.
Col. O'Donolan, Mr. Jones.
Mr. Stanly, Mr. Fawcett.
Mr. Delaval, Mr. Abbott.
Roberts, , , Mr. Jefferies.
Jefferies, Mr. Treby.
Keeper, Mr. Atkins.
Lady Emily Gerald, Mrs. C. Kemble.
Mrs. Belmore, Mrs. Faucit.
Cecil Fitzharding, Miss Foote.
Mrs. Jefferiesy Mrs. Gibbs.
Fanny ) Miss Seymour.
SCENE, London and Richmond,
TIME, One Day,
ADVERTISEMENT.
I AM too proud of public approbation, not
to put my name to a production so highly ho-
noured by the applause which it has received ;
but I should be wanting in candour as well as
gratitude, were I not fairly to acknowledge the
sources from which that applause has chiefly been
derived. To Mrs. Opie's beautiful Tale of Father
and Daughter , I am indebted for the serious inte-
rest of the Play'; upon a French Piece in one Act,
.enitled La Suite d'un Bal Masque, some of the
lighter scenes were founded to the exertions
of the Manager, and the talents of the Perfor-
mers also, I unquestionably owe much ; and it is
no small addition to the pleasure which I feel in
the success of the Piece, that I have an oppor-
tunity of subscribing myself, their much obliged,
And truly humble Servant,
MARIE THERESE KEMBLE.
Craven-Hill,
Tuesday, Dec. 19, 1815.
N. B. In the hurry of publishing, the preced-
ing Advertisement was omitted by the Publisher,
in some of the early Copies.
Bow-Street, Covent-Garden, ^
December 22, 1815.
-
SMILES AND TEARS.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Delaval's Apartments.
DEL AVAL and JEFFERIBS, discovered.
Jef. (Shutting a Secretary.) I DON'T see the
letter any where, Sir.
Del, Have you look'd over all the papers ?
Jef. I have, Sir ; and there is certainly no let-
ter with your father's seal upon it : I think, Sir,
you must have dropp'd it out of doors, for I have
searched every place within, in vain,
Del. Heaven forbid ! there are some secrets
contained in that letter, which, published, would
prove neither creditable to my fame or beneficial
to my interests (Aside) Let a more diligent
search be made after it, d'ye hear ? I would not
have it lost for the world. [Exit JEFFERIES.
**- 'Tis very odd that I have not he^ird from old
Stanly yet ! without encouragement from that
quarter, I know not what will become of me !
Lord Glen thorn, like a kind father, obstinately
refuses to advance me one shilling- my creditors
are already informed that I have lost my election,
and they grow clamorous upon it : when I could
6 SMILES AND TEARS.
not be compelled to pay, they were glad enough
to be civil.
Re-enter JEFFERIES, with Letters.
Jef. The post is just come in, Sir, and has
brought half a dozen letters from the old bo-
rough (Significantly).
Del. The privilege of escaping the persecution
of duns, makes a seat in Parliament a desideratum
of no mean value ; but to lose the election, and
yet be obliged* to disburse, neither suits my hu-
mour or my finances 'tis cursedly provoking, to
be sure. (Opening one of the Letters.) What have
we here ?
" SIR,
" As a free and independent burgess, I in-
" sist upon my agreement : I am an Englishman,
" Sir, and always act according to my conscience ;
" and if I had thought you would have quitted
<c the Borough without paying me the price of
" my vote, I should have felt it my duty to sup-
" port the Ministerial Candidate. Your humble
" Servant, when you pay him,
" PETER PLUMPER !"
Well said, Independence ! Here, JefFeries, put
Peter Plumper, and the rest of this incorruptible
fraternity, behind the fire. Any more duns ?
Jef. No, Sir ; none but our constituents this
morning. I beg pardon, Sir, but I forgot to give
you this letter, which came last night from Mr.
Stanly.
Del. And why the devil, Sir, did you forget ?
when I told you over and over again of what
consequence it was to me to hear from that
quarter. (Takes the Letter from him and reads it).
SMILES AND TEARS.
Jef. (Aside) I wish I could have kept ft from
you altogether ; I fear it bodes little comfort to
poor Miss Fitzharcling.
Del. Have you found my father's letter yet ?
Jef. No, indeed, Sir ; I have searched all
your pockets emptied every drawer and closet,
but all to no purpose.
Del. It must be found ; I would not lose it for
the universe. Go, go, and look for it again.
[Kxit JEFFERIES.
-This brings some consolation, however, and
deserves a more attentive perusal. (Reads it
aloud) " My dear Delaval, I have felt the
" ground, as I promised, with Lady Emily,
" and find her by no means averse to the
u thoughts of a second marriage. I shall return
" to Richmond to-morrow, whither I have pre-
'' vailed upon her to accompany me: the sooner,
" therefore, you make your appearance there,
" the better. My long intimacy with your fa-
* 6 ther, induces me to use every endeavour to be
e serviceable to you ; and in my niece, tho'
' perhaps I ought not to be her panegyrist, I
**' dare assert you will find wealth without osten-
' tation, beauty without pride." Ay, ay, and
what I prize above them all, an unincumbered in-
come of four thousand a year. I'm beholden to
you, however, old Stanly ; and sincerely hope
your endeavours may prosper ; but I have no re-
lish for revisiting Richmond. My adventure
there, is still too recent ; and my being seen
about Lady Emily, will revive among the gossips
of the place, every circumstance relative to Cecil's
elopement; but yet, the deranged state of my
affairs requires that I should take this step. At
any rate, a marriage with Lady Emily will enable
me to make a settlement upon poor Cecil and her
B 2
8 SMILES AND TEARS.
child to place her above the fear of want, shall
be the first use to which I will apply my newly
^acquired wealth. Let me see what says the "Fa-
shionable World 1 ' (Ta\es up the Newspaper.)
" Richmond We have authority to contradict
" the report of Mr Fitzharding's marriage ; that
" unhappy gentleman having, in consequence of
*' the seduction of his only daughter, been de-
" prived of reason, is at this moment, an inmate
" of the lunatic asylum." How ! Cecil's father
a maniac? what have I to answer for ? I had the
article respecting his marriage inserted, to per-
suade Cecil that her father had ceased to lament
her should this refutation meet her eye, I know
not to what fatal extremity her feelings may im-
pel her !
Enter JEFFERIES.
Jef Sir Henry Chomley, Sir.
Del Why did you say I was at home ?
Jef. I did not know you wished to be out,
Sir.
Del. Order my horse to be saddled imme-
diately should any message come from my fa-
ther, bring it after me to Blackheath.
[Exit JEFFERIES.
Enter Sir HENRY CHOMLEY.
Sir Hen, Did I hear you say you were going
out, so earl) too ? I thought no one had been
restless but myself -I want half an hour's conver-
sation with you.
De'. It must be some other time then, my
dear Chomley ; for at present a ver^- particular
engagement carries me from home.
Sir Hen. Don't let me prevent you. I heard
SMILES AND TEARS.
you say something about Blackheath, as I came
in ; and as my horses are at the door, I '11 ride
with you, and we can talk as we go.
Del. You must excuse me, Chomley ; I am
under very peculiar circumstances, and for the
present, must decline the pleasure Of' your com*
pany.
Sir Hen. Why then 'tis clear, your are going
to meet your man or your woman ; in both cases,
you may confide in me ; for I '11 neither send the
Bow-street officers after you, if it prove an affair
of honour, or elope with your mistress, should it
be an assignation for Oh ! I am already so despe-
rately in love.
Del, In love ? ha ha! you ? and with whom?
Sir Hen. I don't know.
Dei. What's her name ?
Sir Hen. I can't tell.
Del. Where does she live ?
Sir Hen. Can you inform me ?
Del. What are her connexions ?
Sir Hen. Men and women, I suppose.
Del. Where did you see her ?
Sir Hen. No where, my good fellow ; that's
a happiness I'd give the world for.
Del. Psha ! this is your last night's dream,
and I am by no means certain that you are
awake now.
Sir Hen. Yes, but I am ; and awake to the
reality of being the wretchedest dog alive, too,
unless I can gain some account of my charming
incognita. I met her at Lady Brellington's mas-
querade ; where, in the most tantalizing manner,
she persisted in concealing from me both her
name and rank I enquired of every body ; every
body had admired, but nobody knew her. Last
night, however, I learn'd that you were the fa-
10 SMILES AND TEARS.
votir'd mortal who waited upon her to her car-
riage ; and unable any longer to restrain my cari-
osity, I have flown upon the wings of impa-
tience for the complete and instant gratification
of it.
Del. Lady Brellington's masquerade! let me
see, whom did I take that night to a carnage ?
Oh ! the old Dowager of
Sir Hen. Dowager be damn'd ! do you think
I would fall in love with a Dowager?
Del. The case is by no means uncommon,
now-a-days, but stay perhaps it was crooked
little Mrs.
Sir Hen. No, no; it was no crooked Mrs.
but a divinely proportioned figure, that might have
lent additional charms to one of Titian's graces.
Del. Oh, that was my mother.
Sir Hen. The devil it was !
Del. Yes, all in black.
Sir Hen. Black ! no ; the woman I mean, had
a sort of a thing that is, it looked like a kind of
a faith I never knew how to describe a woman's
dress in my life but J know she had something
on
Del. Probably ; tho* what, by your description,
it is not very easy to define but now I recollect,
I led Lady Emily Gerald to her. carriage ; who,
by the way, was so inimitably well disguised, that
even I, tho' I am perfectly well acquainted with
her person, should have been as much puzzled to
discover her, as yourself, had not her Uncle, old
Stanly, let me into the secret.
S'/r Hen. Lady Emily Gerald ! and yon are ac-
quainted with her? then you can tell me no-
thing of her wit and person, I have already /c/
power of those but her face, my dear fellow,
her lace
SMILES AND TEAKS. H
Del. An angel's!
Sir Hen. I know it, I know it but detail, de-
tail
Del. Forehead, white as alabaster, smooth as
ivory, eyes beaming with sweetness and expres-
sion ; an aquiline nose, teeth like pearls, with
a bewitching dimple on each side of her ruby lips,
that
Sir lien. Say no more ; I'll have her, whether
she be maid, wife, or widow tell me, is there a
husband to poison?
Del. No, nor to cuckold-; which is the more
fashionable practice of the two she is a widow,
with a noble fortune too, I can tell you.
Sir Hen. Curse fortune ! I have enough for
both.
Del. (Aside.) What an absurd idiot am I ! to
tell him all this, and raise an obstacle to my own
views on Lady Emily this must be remedied.
Sir Hen. My horses are at the door. I'll go
ancl call on her directly where does she live ?
Del. In Ireland.
Sir Hen. That's rather too far, for a morning
visit.
Del. I should think so.
Sir Hen. When does she return ?
Del. I don't know.
Sir Hen. I'll tell you what, DeJaval, it is quite
clear that you don't choose to know and the
reason is obvious ; you are in love with her your-
self but tho' you don't think proper to answer
my enquiries, I shall soon find those who will, I
warrant me !
Del. (Constrainedly). You totally mistake my
motive, my dear Chomley ; 'tis my regard for
your happiness, that keeps me silent. Lady
12 SMILES AND TEARS.
Emily's beauty is undisputed, but I should be
sorry, be very sorry, my dear friend, to see you
fall a sacrifice to so artful a character she is the
arrantest coquette why she broke her husband's
heart.
Sir Hen. So much the better! If he hadn't
died, she couldn't have been a widow, and I
shouldn't now be the happiest dog in the universe,
Del. If you have such a passion for widows,
why don't you close with Mrs, Belmore, and re-
versing the natural order of things, put an end
to all disputes by marriage ?
Sir Hen. (Rings the Bell.) Weugh ! you have
given me a surfeit, which even the thoughts of
my beloved Lady Emily will hardly enable me to
overcome give me leave to write a short note to
Counsellor Pother (sits doion) But for these
cursed consultations with my lawyers, I might
have followed her all the world over what should
a man in love do with a law- suit ? Now, more
than ever, do I detest this Mrs. Belmore,, for
preventing the pursuit of my enchantress.
Enter JEFFERIES.
Jef. (To Delayal). Did you ring, Sir ?
Sir Hen. (Writing) Send my horse up *
Psha ! I mean, my groom.
Jef. I will, Sir your horses are at the door
too, Sir. [Exit JKFFERIES.
Del. Very well ; I am sorry to leave you,
Chomley, but, as the case is urgent, I know
your good nature will excuse me ; so fare you
well ; and if you should make a trip to the sister
kingdom, I wish you a prosperous voyage! but
if you will take a friend's advice, you will stay
SMILES AND TEARS. IS
where you are, and put the fair widow, Lady
Emily, entirely out of your head.
[Exit DEL AVAL.
Sir Hen. (Seals the Note, and rises. ) That you
wish me to do so, I am fully persuaded but ad-
vice and physic are equally disagreeable to me,
and I never take either, if I can possibly avoid it.
It is evident, Delaval wants to mislead me she
is no more in Ireland, than I am.
Enter Sir HENRY'S Groom.
Here, put this note into the first two-penny
post-office you come to Do you know Lady
Emily Gerald ?
Groom. Can't say as how I does, Sir Henry.
Sir Hen. Do you remember where she lives ?
Groom. No, I don't Sir Henry, 'cause I never
know'd.
Sir Hen. You are a stupid blockhead ! Go,
knock at every door from St. James's to White-
chapel, till you find it out ; and as you go, Sir,
if you chance to meet a beautiful figure, with an
alabaster forehead, an aquiline nose, a piercing
eye, with lovely dimples on each side her ruby
lips, that's she follow her home, bring me word
directly where she lives, or I'll kick you to the
devil ! [Exit Sir HENRY.
SCENE II.
A Room in Lady Emily* s House.
Enter Lady EMILY, and Mr. STANLY.
Stan. (As he enters). That's not the point,
Lady Emily ; that's not the point.
Lady E. But, my dear Uncle, there need be
c
14 SMILES AND TEARS.
no argument upon a subject upon which we are
already agreed. I have told you twenty times,
that I have no objection whatever to marrying
again.
Stan. Then, why won't you accept of De-
laval ?
Lady E. Because, I have told you as often,
that I have great objections to him.
Stan. But your objections are not founded in
reason, Emily; upon his father's, Lord Glen-
thorn's death, he will enjoy both title and for-
tune.
Lady E. Then, let him bestow both upon
one possessing neither, Uncle.
Stan. (Growing warm.) That's as you mean
to do, Emily ; that's as you mean to do -I can
see as far into a mill -stone as most folks; you
have a preference elsewhere.
Lady E. Well, Sir, if that really be the case-
join that preference upon one side, to my aver-
sion upon the other, and then calculate how in-
superable an obstacle it raises to the accomplish-
ment of your wishes.
Stan. This Colonel O'Donolan, who is on the
Staff in our neighbourhood, has done the business,
'tis plain ; but you'll repent it Emily a hot-
headed Irishman
Lady E. You will not surely make that a re-
proach to him I till time shall have obliterated the
records of our days, while any trace remains of
the bright achievements destined to adorn the
future pages of our history, gratitude will endear
the name of Irishman to every lover of his coun-
try's glory !
Stan. O'Donolan is a spendthrift for a all that
over head and ears in debt 1
Lady E. A proof of credit, Sir!
SMILES AND TEARS. 15
Stan. So is the National Debt, I have heard ;
but I wish it was paid for all that!
Lady E. Well, at any rate Sir, a hot-headed
spendthrift, is better than a cold-hearted libertine
but I never believed that Colonel O'Donolan
had any thing to throw away.
Stan. No, no; every body knows that: yet,
beggar as he is, he no doubt endeavours to make
you believe, that l)is passion for you is entirely
disinterested but he is a deep one, tho' he
makes no show of it ; now Delaval is an honest
fellow
Lady E. Tho' he makes no show of it every
body, my dear Uncle, yourself excepted, does
justice to Mr. DelavaPs total carelessness of even
appearing to possess any principle.
Stan. Hey, hey ! Emily I never heard
Lady E. No, my dear Sir ; because, being the
simplest, most upright character yourself, your
ears are shut against the report of villanies, of
which your heart can scarcely credit the exist-
ence do not confound me with those scandal-
mongers, who are never so happy as when they
can relate a tale of slander, at every word of
which, u a reputation dies," or with those
wretched beings, who, having themselves in-
fringed the laws of morality and religion, are de-
lighted to find a fellowship in vice ; but there are
circumstances I do not wish to detail them
which render it impossible that I should ever
marry Mr. Delaval as your friend, I shall receive,
and shew him every attention, \\ihich respect for
you can suggest but it must be distinctly under-
stood, and I hope you will take particular care
that it is so by Mr. Delaval, that his visits here,
can only be sanctioned under that character.
[Exit.
c 2
16 SMILES AND TEARS.
Stan. I can 't comprehend what this means
there's something in it ; for Emily is not apt to
be ill-natured and yet, I never heard but then
I have been a long time in India, and as she says,
never enquire into these things, and upon prin-
ciple ; for if there were fewer listeners to detrac-
tion, there would not be so many detractors
O, here comes Mrs. JefFeries ; I wonder whe-
ther she has at any time heard Emily speak of
Delaval : when I was a youngster, the Lady
Abigail was a very important agent in a family,
but since ladies can write their own love-letters,
I fancy the office is fallen into disrepute.
Enter Mrs. JEFFERIES.
Good morning, Mrs. JefFeries, good morn-
ing! your Lady and I have just had a bit of a
squabble you must know, I think it a shame
she should remain a widow any longer.
Mrs Jef. There 's many ^gentlemen of your
mind for that, I fancy, Sir; but if my. mistress
takes my advice, she 11 keep as she is I would
have every woman marry once, because it's as well
to know the nature of things ; but she 's a fool
that tries it a second time.
Stan. What ! if things have answer'd, Mrs.
JefFeries ? now I should think that a good hus-
band
Mrs. Jef. Law, Sir ; bad's the best ; but whe-
ther good, bad or indifFerent, a husband is still
a master; and give me freedom I say.
Stan. I am sorry to find you are of that opi-
nion ; for I wanted you to second me in persuad-
ing Lady Emily to accept Mr. Delaval.
Mrs. Jef. Who ? Lord Glenthorn's son, Sir ?
not 1 indeed : and he can be no friend of my
Lady's, who would recommend such a match.
SMILES AND TEARS. IT
Stan. Do you know him then, that you speak
so decidedly ?
Mrs. Jef. I know more than's good of him
why, Sir, are you one of the Governors of the
Lunatic Assylum at Richmond, and never heard
the story of Mr. Fitzharding ? Poor old soul ! he
little thought when he laid the foundation of
that building, that it was, one day to become his
own wretched residence ! and who has he to
thank for it but that vile wretch, Delaval ?
Stan. (Warmly!) Don't judge too hastily; I
hate scandal, Mrs. Jefferies a slanderer's tongue
is like a raging fire, that withers every thing it
touches most active when it seems extinct, it un-
dermines the structure of the fairest reputation,
blackening even that which it has not power to
destroy. You may have been misinformed.
Mrs. Jef. That's very likely indeed ; when my
own husband is valet to Mr. Delaval, and when
I have been constantly living in the midst of it
all.
Stan. That alters the case, to be sure ; but I
had always understood that the failure in his cir-
cumstances, had deprived Mr. Fitzharding of his
senses.
Mrs. Jef. No such thing, Sir ; 'twas his daugh-
ter's elopement that drove the poor gentleman
mad ; and then, and not till then, the bank went
all to smash ! every thing was seized and sold ;
even the very mansion which you live in at
Richmond, fell into the creditor's hands.
Stan. What! did my house belong to Mr.
Fitzharding ?
Mrs. Jef . O yes; for many years, Sir.
Stan. Poor fellow ! the last time I saw him, he
was very differently lodged his habitation was a
18 SMILES AND TEARS.
cell, a truss of straw its only furniture. How
came his daughter to forsake him ?
Mrs. Jef. O, Sir, it never could have happened,
liad she remained under her father's care, for she
doated upon him even more, if possihle, than he
did upon her ; but being compelled to take a
long journey, he placed her under the care of an
old crabbed maiden sister of his, who, (when she
first discovered Miss Fitzharding's attachment to
this Delaval, with \\hoiii she had fr^uently
danced at our Richmond ball-), instead of giving
her good advice and miiJ treatment, had recourse
to every kind of harsh usage ; confined her to
her own room, and denied her the company of her
friends, the use of pen. ink, and paper.
Stan. The stupid old fool ! not to know that
difficulties are the food of love, and opposition the
whetstone of disobedience. I always hated old
maids, and now I know the reason why.
Mrs. Jef. Delaval was but too well pleased at
this restraint ; it put him upon stratagems and
contrivances, and he very soon contrived to get
her out of the window, under pretence of carrying
her off to Gretna-green ; but before he had got fifty
miles on his way, he found, poor man ! that he
had forgotten his pocket-book ; and consequently,
not having money enough to proceed to Scotland,
he must bring her to London, and place her in a
quiet lodging till a license could be procured.
Stan. But that, I imagine, was dispensed with ?
Mrs. Jef. It was, Sir ; and Miss Fitzharding is
now a mother at eighteen years of age, without
a friend, and probably destitute of common neces-
saries ; for Delaval's a beggar, solely dependent
on his father's bounty, who, informed of this
connection, hopes to break it oft', by depriving
him of all means of supporting her and her child.
SMILES AND TEARS. 19
Stan. (Very angrily.) So, so, so ! and this is
the follow who has dared to solicit my good offices
xvith Lady Emily. Why, the scoundrel should be
hunted out of society ! O that the Legislature,
which has so well protected the honour of our
English husbands, would take the English father's
case into consideration too, and brand the heart-
less wretch with infamy, who in the wantonness of
vanity could rob a doating parent of his child,
the blossom of his hope, the only stay and com-
fort of his age. I thank you, Mrs. Jefferies, foj
your story it will save your lady some persecu-
tion, but it has given me a sad awkward feeling
towards human nature.
Mrs. Jef. Law, Sir, I wonder your own expe-
rience has not taught you, that human nature is
as good for nothing as it can be ; for instance
now, was there ever any thing so abominable as
Sir Henry Chomley's endeavouring to deprive that
sweet woman, Mrs. Belmore, of her estate, and
make an absolute beggar of her ?
Stan. Ah, Jefferies ! she is a sweet woman in-
deed ; and Til tell you what I have been medi-
tating if she should lose her cause, and unfortu-
nately be reduced to beggary, as you say, I have
some idea of offering myself, as a trifling compen-
sation.
Mrs. Jef. (Laughs ) A very trifling compen-
sation, Tin afraid, Sir.
Stan. Indeed I you think, then, she would not
have me ?
Mrs. Jef. Why, she has had one old husband
already, and that's rather against her trying an-
other ; don't you think so, Sir ?
Stan. (Laughing.) That depends upon cir-
cumstances but I see you are a wag, Mrs.
feries.
SMILES AND TEARS^
Mrs. Jef. No, upon my word, Sir ; I'm a plairi
matter-of fact person, and from what I see, I
judge it would not answer.
Stan. Mrs. JefFeries, let me give you a bit of
advice; never judge of any thing but upon your
own experience for many a man besides the
Prince of Denmark, " has that within which
passeth shew." [Exit STANLY.
Mrs. Jef. Well said, old gentleman he is as
kind-hearted an oddity as ever lived !
Enter Lady EMILY.
Lady E. Did not I hear Mrs. Bel more come
in a little while ago ?
Mrs. Jef. No, my Lady ; and her maid Mrs,
Simkison is sadly afraid she won't come home
time enough to accompany you to Richmond ;
but she left word that she would follow you as
soon as the consultation was over.
Lady E. Poor soul ! how she is tormented by
this vexatious law-suit ; though she has been
nearly six weeks in my house, I declare I have
not enjoyed her society for as many hours, so
entirely are her time and attention engrossed by
it.
Mrs. Jef. Ah, my Lady, he must be a tasteless,
ugly old fellow, that could find in his heart to per-
secute such a charming creature.
Lady E. No, JefFeries, not old, or ugly ; nei-
ther do I think the man entirely devoid of taste,
for he is one of my most ardent admirers : what
think you of his being my masquerade enamorato ?
Mrs. Jef. No, sure, my Lady ! and does Mrs.
Belmore know this ?
Lady E. She knows that a somebody has fol-
lowed me from masquerade to masquerade ; but
SMILES AND TEARS. SI
she has such a horror of the name of Chomley,
he being her opponent in this law-suit, that I
have never told her it was he ; though I have
drawn him on for the express purpose of bring-
ing them together if I can.
Mrs. Jef, Lau ! my Lady ; to what end ? if
he is so desperately in love with you?
Lady E. Oh, he cannot be incurable ; for he
has never even beheld my face.
Mrs. Jef* But if you made a conquest of him
under a mask, my Lady, your attraction is not
likely to be weakened by shewing him your face ;
but poor Colonel O'Donolan ! how he'll fret and
fume when he hears of this !
Lady E. The Colonel will be very silly if he
fret or fume about any such thing he ought to
be perfectly assured by this time, that I have the
sincerest regard for him.
Mrs. Jef. If he isn't, every body else is, my
Lady : to be sure he thinks your Ladyship has
no objection to a little admiration.
Lady E. A great objection to a little / I like
an abundance of admiration ; it is the privilege of
our sex if the love of conquest were not inhe-
rent in our natures, common prudence would
prescribe it as a necessary policy to please alhnen,
is the sure way to fix the man who pleases us
there's nothing like uncertainty it quickens at-
tention a lover soon grows weary of an inter-
course into which his mistress does not contrive to
throw a little occasional mortification.
Mrs. Jef. Why then, Colonel O'Donolan will
long remain attached to your Ladyship ; for to be
sure, you do plague him most handsomely some-
times he will never get over your having con-
cealed from him that you were going to the mas-
querade.
22 SMILES AND TEARS.
%
Lady E. I concealed it, because I had a point
to carry, which his presence would have marred ;
and when he knows the motive upon which I
acted, I have no doubt even ins jealous scruples
will be appeased.
Enter a Servant^ with a Letter.
Serv. The servant waits for an answer, my
Lady.
Lady E. Very well ; Jefferies shall bring it to
you. [Exit Servant.
I don't know the hand. (Opens it.) " Chom-
" ley !" So then he has found me out ! but what
gays he ? " Can you, Madam, forgive me, for hav-
*' ing, contrary to your strict commands, sought
" to discover the enchantress whose spells have
" rivetted me so entirely within her power ? and
" were you not convinced, while you imposed
" the cruel restriction, how impossible it was
" to have seen and heard, and not hazard every
" thing to hear and see you again ? it was not
" in human effort to resist the impulse, and I
" have learnt in whom my happiness must lience-
" forth centre but alas! how little will this know -
" ledge advance my felicity, if you deny me the
" hope of being admitted to your presence n-o,
" you will not be so obdurate as to force me
" upon expedients, which, though they may
(( serve to multiply my perplexities, will never
" alter my determination of remaining eternally
" yours." Admitted to my presence ! a modest
request, upon my word; yet if I refuse, what will
become of my plan ? it will be* impossible to per-
suade Mrs. Bel more to let me present Sir Henry
Chomley to her. (Ruminates.)
Mrs. Jef. Is there any answer, my Lady ?
SMILES AND TEARS. 23
Lady E. Presently ; it is the very thing I
protest it will do admirably, and yet, I iear she
will never believe but why not ? I was rnask'd,
and if the worst come to the worst, we'll say it
was a masking frolick 111 venture it the grand
point is to get them to meet the rest I leave to
chance. (fVrites an Amwtr.)
Mrs. Jef. She seems delighted she may say
as she pleases, but I'll be hanged if the pleasure
of the flirtation here, does not outweigh the de-
sire to serve Mrs. Belmore, and it certainly is no
small stretch of disinterestedness to give up a
lover to forward the views of a friend.
[Aside, &? Exit.
(Lady EMILY reads the Answer.)
" For reasons, which I am not, now, at liberty
" to divulge, I cannot receive you as Sir H, Chom*
" ley ; but if you will consent to present your-
" self at my Uncle Stanly's at Richmond, under
" the assumed name of Grenville, I shall be happy
" in the honor of receiving you. I am, 8cc. &c."
(Folds iij
This is rather a strong measure (Re-enter Mrs.
JEFFERIES, with a candle) but I think I am jus-
tified in hazarding a Stratagem, which may be
productive of the happiest consequences, not only
to my friend, but to Sir Henry himself. There,
give this to the servant. [Exit Mrs. JEFFERIES.
I must let Jefferies into my plans, or she may set
her wits to work and defeat my intentions.
Re-enter Mrs. JEFFERIES.
Mrs. Jef. Sir Henry's man has got the note a
my Lady.
Lady E. I have appointed Sir Henry to come
D 2
24 SMILES AND TEARS.
to Richmond, but as he will probably present
himself under a feigned name, you will be so
good as not to speak of it.
Mrs. Jef. Lau ! my Lady; what, .in disguise ?
Ladij E. (Aside.} That's an interpretation I
was not prepared for : if I don't take care, I shall
have the credit of being engaged in an intrigue
J have already hinted to you-, Jefferies, that I have
a scheme, by which I hope to put n stop to the
law-suit between Mrs. Belmore and Sir H. Chom-
ley - he never saw me but under a mask, and as
he evidently did not know me, I mean, if I can,
to pass Mrs. Belmore upon him for myself; and,
in order that she may not be compromised, I
have contrived, that he shall appear before her
under the name of Grenville I have but one
fear, which is, that O'Donolan should stumble
upon him, which would at once put an end to the
whole plot.
Mrs. Jef. Then quarrel with him, my Lady:
hejs of the true spaniel breed, and may be whis-
tled back at any time.
Enter a Servant.
Scrv. The carriage is at the door, and Mr.
Stanly is waiting for your Ladyship.
Lady E- Very well ; My shawl, Jefferies.
Mrs. Jef. Here it is, my Lady ; but I did not
think your Ladyship would wear it any more it
is not good enough for yon. Ma'am.
Lady E. Is not it ? Well is it good enough
for you, Jcfferies ?
Mrs. Jef. Lau ! my Lady (curtseying.}
Lady E There, there ; you may take it and
remember, Jefferies, that upon your discretion I
implicitly rely. [Exit.
SMILES AND TEARS. 25
Mrs. Jef 'Tis a pity to lose any thing for want
of a hint and my Lady, to do her justice, takes
one as readily as it is given an Indian shawl I
very handsome too! Well, I'm sure I deserve it ;
for if one is denied the satisfaction of talking, one
ought at least to be placed upon the secret service
list, and handsomely rewarded for one's silence.
[Exit Mrs. JEFFERIES.
END OF ACT I.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A Room in a Neat Cottage.
FANNY, discovered looking through the JVindow.
Fan. Dear, dear ; what can keep Mr. Delaval
so long to day ? He didn't use to be so late I've
looked, and looked till I've cried my eyes blind
My mother too not returned! why I could have
gone there and back again, twice in the time;
but she would have the pleasure of telling Mr.
Delaval the doleful tidings herself. If some of
'em don't come soon, I shall go beside myself
Hark I sure I heard the trampling of horses,
(goes to the window) the powers be praised ! its
Mr. Delaval come at last but, Lord, Lord ! ho\v
shall I ever be able to tell him what has hap-
pened ?
Enter DELAVAL.
Del. lam late to day, Fanny ; I was overtaken,
on my way hither, by an express from my father ;
26 SMILES AND TEARS,
who, I fear, is on the point of death. ~ I have,
therefore, but a few moments to command is
Miss Fitzharding in her own room ?
Fan. (Crying.) Oh, Sir!
Del. What *s the matter ? Cecil is not ill, I
hope, has any thing happened to the child ? Let
me know the worst at once. Miss Fitzharding
Fan. Is gone away, Sir !
Del. Gone! Whither?
Fan. Heaven only knows, Sir ; she was very
low after you went away last night, and had two
of those frightful fits; from which, my mother
and I could scarce recover her however, we did
get her about again and, after a time, she
seem'd tolerably composed ; so much so, indeed,
that, upon her insisting I should go to bed, I left
her ; but I shall never forgive myself for it had
I stay'd by her bed-side, she couldn't have got
away, as she did, in the middle of the nigjtt
(crying).
DeL In the middle of the night, do you say ?
Fan. Ay, that it must have been ; I thought I
heard a noise in the house, like somebody walk-
ing about, and I listened ; but as I'm very timo-
rous, and apt to take fancies into my head, and
as the great do didn't bark, I thought, to be
sure, I had been dreaming Little did I fancy that,
when I should go into Madam's room in the morn-
ing, I should find both her and baby vanished :
&uch a stormy night, too ! she must have been
perish'd before she got half way across the heath ;
tor she took nothing with her but a shawl.
Del. And did she drop no hint of her design
Sny nothing, from which you might gather what
sht' purposed doing ?
Fan. JNot a word, Sir; she cried a good deal
ever the baby, and kiss'd it very often as she pwt
SMILES AND TEARS. ^
it to bed ; which, for all we could say to her,
she always did herself but that we were not
surprised at; for she would often taken it in her
arms and say, "and will you break my heart?
\vill you desert me, as /deserted my poor father?"
And then, the tears would roll one after another,
clown her cheeks, in such big drops, that we that
stood by could not help crying too.
Del. (inping away a tear.) Poor Cecil ! where
is your mother, Fanny ?
Fan. Gone after you, Sir; I catVt think how
you happen'd to miss of one another she has
got a letter for you.
Del. From 'Miss Fitzharding ? Oh 1 why
didn't she wait my arrival ? It may afford some
clue to her retreat how Jong has she been gone ?
Fan. Since ten o'clock this morning : as Miss
hadn't rung her bell at seven. I thought she was
in a comfortable sleep -I wondered too, that {
didn't hear the child ; but at nine, hearing nei-
ther of 'em stir, a chill, somehow, came all over
me; and J thought I would go and see if they
were getting up - finding the door open, I went
up to the bed-side; but mother and babe were
both gone, without money too; for here^s her
purse, and the ring which she always wore upon
her wedding finger, left behind.
Enter JEFFERIES.
Jef. I beg pardon, Sir: I've brought poor
ivlrs. Jennings home. Your mother, Fanny, is very
unwell you had better step to her.
[Exit FANNY.
The poor old woman is seriously indispos'd,
Sir, and I thought you wouldn't be displeas'd at
my accompanying her home she was ou her
way to our house with this letter, when she was
28 SMILES AND TEARS.
taken ill, and forced to turn back again. (Gives
him the Letter.)
Del. Heaven be praised ! it is her hand and
seal ; (opens the cover , andjlnds his Father's Let-
ter, which he enquired so anxiously after in the
Jlrst Scene of the Play. Reads) " Your ready
4f acquiescence, my dear son, with my desire to
" see you married" Confusion! my father's lost
letter ! the letter I was so anxious to find this
explains the motive of her flight : my poor, poor
Cecil ! what is become of her ? overwhelmed by
the conviction of being deserted by the father of
her child, may she not have devoted herself and
her innocent offspring to an untimely death ! and
am I not accountable for this double crime of mur-
der and of suicide ? I am, I am ! Barbarous fa-
ther ! it is you, who have heaped this load of
guilt upon me ; it is you, who have plunged me
into this abyss of horror and despair i
Jef. O, Sir, spare yourself the regret of hav-
ing reproached your father's memory Lord
Glenthorn is no more !
Del. What do you say, dead ? ,
Jef. You had scarcely quitted his chamber,
this morning, when turning to Lady Glenthorn,
he ultefd in a feeble tone, " I am happy Dela-
val has proved himself a son, and may the blessing
of a dying parent communicate to his heart, that
peace and comfort which his filial duty now im-
parts to mine" he wished to add something more,
but the words expired upon his lips, and he
breathed his last and now, my Lord
Del. I cannot weep for him ! No, Cecil is lost,
and what is all the world to me? a void dreary
and cheerless as my own bosom ! what have I
to do with rank and splendour ? I, who ought to
crawl upon the earth, shunn'dand detested by the
SMILES AND TEARS. 29
human race I, the betrayer, the destroyer the
thought is frenzy oh ! that it were ! come mad-
ness ! and with your hottest fires consume the
worm that gnaws my tainted soul ! O come and
free me from this conflict of the brain, this ago-
nizing torture of reflection !
\_Exeunt DELAVAL and JEPFERIES.
SCENE II.
Stanly's House at Richmond.
Lady EMILY and Mrs. RELMORE, meeting.
Lady E. Bless me, Mrs. Bel more ! why you are
here almost as soon as we are but how jaded
you look, my dear creature!
Mrs. Bel. I am indeed fagg'd out of all spi-
rits.
Lady E. But have you done any thing; are
you satisfied as you proceed ?
Mrs. Bel. How is it possible to be satisfied in
the midst of so many contradictory opinions ? you
know it is a question which involves not merely
affluence, but the very means of my existence
that hateful Sir H. Chomley !
Lady E. I did not understand that he had been
so much to blame ; it was his father who com-
menced the action against Mr. Belmore, wasn't
it ? mine is mere hear-say information, though,
which, nine times out of ten is erroneous ; and,
as you never thought proper to speak upon the
subject
Mrs. Bel. I had so firm a reliance upon Mr.
Belmore's judgment, that I never interfered in
matters of business.
Lady E, There, my dear, in my opinion, you
were to blame ; 1 am far from thinking a wife
30 SMILES AND TEARS.
should have the sole direction of them ; but a
voice, in all that are of importance, no reason-
able husband can deny her -your interference
might perhaps have prevented this law-suit.
Mrs.']Bei. I doubt not; my husband was po-
sitive as to his right ; old Chomley, equally con-
vinced of the legality of his pretensions ; the
lawyers were interested in persuading their clients
that each had a good cause obstinacy is the in-
firmity of age, so they found no difficulty in cut-
ting out work for themselves ; and, as very soon
after, I lost my husband, and Sir Henry his fa-
ther, I unexpectedly found myself involved in a
law-suit, the event of which may be my utter ruin.
Lady E. I wonder you never endeavoured to
settle the matter amicably, with young Chomley
I hear, he is a very good sort of man, tho' now I
recollect, I have heard you say you don't know
him at all.
Mrs. Bel. No ; I never even saw him, and
very sincerely hope 1 never shall. That meddling
old man, General Harding, on his return to Eng-
land, took it into his head that a marriage would
be the shortest way of ending our disputes, and
without consulting me, wrote to Sir Henry to
propose the match now, as the General is a re-
lation of mine. Sir Henry will never believe that
I did not know of, and even authorize the mea-
sure I declare, I never think of it, but I am in
a perfect fever !
Lady E. Poor General ! he meant it well, no
doubt.
Mrs. Bel. But you will acknowledge, my dear
Lady Emily, that without much pretension, it is
not very flattering ta one's vanity, to be rejected;
which has certainly been my case ; and probably
in no very delicate terms for the General, with
SMILES AND TEARS. 31
all his zeal in my behalf, never ventured to shew
me Sir Henry'? answer. O! here's CoL O'Do-
nolan !
Lady E. (Aside.) How unlucky ! if Sir Henry
should walk in now, I $hall be in a fine scrape.
Enter O'DONOLAN.
CPDon. Are you visible, Lady Emily ? I fear
I'm breaking in upon you.
Mrs. Bel. No, indeed ; we were upon that
eternal subject, my law-suit ; and it will be quite
a relief to talk of something else.
Lady E. (To O'DONOLAN.) Are you engaged
this evening, Col. O'Donolan ?
O'Don. That's as much as to say, that you are.
this morning ; and had rather I went away.
Lady E. How suspicious you always are \ He r s
quite right, though (Aside.) What I meant was,
that we shall have some very good music, and 1
thought you might like to hear it.
O'Don, I had rather hear the music of your
voice with Mrs. Bel more, all three in a tete-a-
tete Oh ! Lady Emily, that you had my taste
for the quiet enjoyments of life !
Lady E. I'm much obliged to you ; but I hate
any thing so dull ; I like society, it amuses me
doesn't it you ?
O'Don. Indeed it does not, Lady Emily ; Fm
not an April- day, to laugh and cry at the same
time I can't be afnused, while I'm upon the rack!
Lady E'. But, my good friend, why will you be
upon the rack ?
VDon. Why will I ? O! and is it myself that
wishes it ? now here's Mrs. Belmore, who knows
what a fool I am, and how distractedly I am de-
voted to you she shall judge between us Lady
E 2
32 SMILES AND TEARS.
Emily asks why I am upon the rack ; can T be
otherwise, when a whole week will sometimes
elapse, without my being able to obtain so much
as a word or a look I have been at her door
every hour in the day I have not gone away
from it, before I have come back again ; and yet,
I have not been able to catch a glimpse of her
rny only chance of seeing her now, is in public
places, or assemblies, where the devil a bit can
I see her at all ; for she is so everlastingly sur-
rounded by a herd of coxcombs, pouring flat-
tery into her ears, that 'tis impossible to get near
her.
Lady E. Why not you, as well as the rest of
the coxcombs ? if you won't come, I can't drag
you 'by the sleeve.
0\Don. Ah, now ! and did I ever expect it ?
No, upon rny honour'. But a look, if you would
only give me a look, just to say, O, you're there,
are you! I should be satisfied : but no such luck
for me! it's a nod to one, a shake of the hand
with another, a whisper to a third ! and while
I arn kicking my heels in a corner, I have the
mortification of seeing her led off in triumph to
her carriage by some stupid fellow, who would
be cleem'd too great an ass to stand behind it
then do I return home to pass a sleepless night,
and dream of the miseries I've endured thro' the
day.
Lddij E Poor O'Donolan, jealous even in his
dreams ! Why, that's working double tides ! and
how can you, with all this barbarous usage, per-
sist in wishing to marry me ?
Don Because I'm a madman, I believe.
Mrs. Bel. Not so ; but because you yet hope
that time and your entreaties
Lady E. Or the commands of a lord and im s-
SMILES AND TEARS. 33
ter, when we are linked together, may work a
wonderful reformation but I foresee your jea-
lousy will
O*Don. Jealousy ! O give me hut an assurance
that you will be mine, and I shall be for ever
cured of jealousy.
Lady E. How little do you know the extent of
your malady ! it is but two days ago that you
displayed it in a paroxysm of frenzy, merely on
account of my rencontre at the masquerade
CfDon. No, Lady Emily, no; it was your con-
cealing from me that you were going thither.
Lady E. Why, doesn't one always keep it a
secret ? What amusement can there be, but in
the mystery ?
O'Don. Besides, who could with common tem-
per hear you commend the wit and person of a
man, whose name yon did not even know ?
Lady E. O ! didn't I tell you his name ? 'tis
Grenville.
O'Don. Some adventurer, I suppose.
Lady E. You suppose very wrongly I am
particularly well acquainted with all his connec-
tions his father's estate is close to my uncle
Stanly's.
'Don. A mighty weak reason, for following
him from masquerade to masquerade, for all that.
Lady E. Following him ? You have a deli-
cate manner of expressing yourself, Colonel O'Do-
nolan !
O'Don. Well, then, for letting him follow you
'tis the same thing, I hope isn't it ?
Lady E. Not exactly, I apprehend ; at least
in this country.
O'Don. That's a reflection upon Ireland, Lndy
Emily, and I only wish you were a man !
Lady E. A very flattering wish from a lover to
his mistress !
34 SMILES AND TEARS?.
CFDon. Only for half an hour, I mean j that
I might have the satisfaction of calling you out.
Lady E. (Aside) I wish to heaven somebody
wou'd call you out ; for 'tis plain you'll not go of
your own accord.
0*Don. You should not dare to speak of Ire-
land in black or in white, without answering it
to me I'd have you to know, Lady Emily, that
the women of Ireland are beautiful without art,
free without impropriety, and virtuous without
ostentation.
Lady E. Charming creatures I
Cf Don. O! you may say that, and tell no
story for they've the heads of men, the forms
of women, and the hearts of angels !
Lady jE. What a pretty description ! why yon-
talk like a book j a review, elegantly bound in
calf.
Q'Don. And when I speak of the men, I shall
talk like an extraordinary gazette, I believe; far
that has published more than once to the world,,
how neatly they can fight or like the parlia-
mentary debates, when I tell you that they are
eloquent orators, sound politicians, arid incorrup^
tible patriots.
Lady E. Bravo ! St. Patrick for Ireland ! They
have their merits ; and I am free to confess, that*
bating one solitary instance, I have generally
found them extremely agreeable.
Q'Don. And your exception is myself, I sup-
pose I knew it ; but whatever your opinion of
me may be, I think tolerably well of myself.
Lady E. That's modest, at any rale !
O y Don. I didn't mean what I said I only
meant, that as long as I did nothing to forfeit my
own good opinion, I ought not to forfeit that of
others, nor be considered by any means so excep-
SMILES AND TEARS. 35
tillable as your Mr. Grenville, a fellow that o-
body knows !
Lady E. Whom you don't know, you mean.
O'Don. One meets him, no where.
Lady E. I beg your pardon j I meet him every
xvhere.
O'Don. O! I dare be bound you do; I
shouldn't wonder if he came here.
Lady E. He does ? for once, you are right in
your conjecture, and you may probably meet him
here.
G'Don. Here! when?
LadijE. To-night.
O'Don. No you are joking, sure.
Lady E. Not I, upon my word ; I expect him.
QDon. You do ? and pray, who introduced
him ?
Ijady E. He introduced himself.
Q'Don. Talk of Irish impudence ! what, he haft
been here already ?
Lady E. No ; but we have corresponded.
O'Don. Corresponded ! now, I ask. I only ask,
Mrs. Belmore, if this is not the sort of thing to
drive a man wild ?
Lady E. What sort of thing ?
O'Don. To be clandestinely carrying on
Lady E. Clandestinely ? I beg, Sir, you'll go-
vern your expressions.
Mrs. Bel. Nay nay now-
tyDon. Excuse me, Lady Emily ; but if in
order to please you, it be necessary to banish all
sense of right and wrong
Lady E. It is, at least, indispensible, in order
to be endured by me, to possess good manners.
Mrs. Bel. Now, my good friends
G*Don. O ! my dear Madam, no allowances
are to be made for disappointed attachment !
36 SMILES AND TEARS.
Lady E. Your attachment is oppressive.
O'Don. Very well, Madam, it shan't oppress
you much longer.
Lady E. I'm rejoiced to hear it 'twill be a
great relief.
0' Don. O then ! and you shall have it in
this disagreement, at least, we are of one way of
thinking 'tis high time to make up my rnind
Lady E. I only wish you had done so long
ago.
O'Don It's not too late, Ma'am ; I can shake
off my bonds and live free live happily, Ma'am !
Lady E. I'm glad to hear it.
Mrs. Bel. How can you both be so inconside-
rate ? my dear Emily, say but a word to him.
Lady 'E. Wherefore ? I think Colonel O'Do-
nolan quite right I have often told him that our
dispositions did not accord.
O 1 Don. You'll not deny at least, that there is
some cause for jealousy, now ?
Lady E. No, indeed ; I will deny nothing.
O'Don. A jealous man deserves pity, at any
rate.
Lady E. (Contemptuously .) You do excite my
pity.
0' Don. And a coquette contempt she ought
to be shunned
Lady E. Why don't you go ?
O'Don. I will, Ma'am, I will ; this last stroke
has unsealed my eyes ; I now see clearly I will
leave the field open for Mr. Grenville ; and that
he may meet no obstruction from me, I this
moment bid you eternally farewell. (Goes off, and
returns) And after that, you need not expect to
see me again. [Exit O'DONOLAN.
Mrs. Bel. (Calling after him.) Mr. O'Dono-
lan ! Mr. O'Donolan ! He is really gone.
SMILES AND TEARS. 37
Lady E. Well, let him go.
Airs. Bel. Indeed, you are to blame ; why did
you consent to receive this young man ?
Lady E. And why not ? am I to bury myself
alive, to gratify Col. O'Donolan's jealous whims?
Mrs. Bel. No ; but where a man is so de-
votedly attached as he appears to be, I think he
merits some consideration unless, indeed, you
feel an interest for Mr. Grenville.
Lady E. Not the slightest ; and I would put
him off, but that O'Donolan's jealousies are so
perfectly well known in the world, that my mo-
tive would at once be divined, and we should be-
come the ridicule of all our acquaintance.
Mrs. Bel. You would rather have him sup-
pose then, that this Grenville is a favour'd lover ?
Lady E. On the contrary, I very much wish
he were undeceived upon that point But how ?
his reason is so perverted, that Yet stay there
might be a way but then I don't like to place
you in so awkward a predicament.
Mrs. Bel. My dear Emily, you know I would
do any thing to reconcile you.
Lady E. I will fairly confess to you, that I
did not think of driving things to such an extre-
mity.
Mrs. Bel. Then, at once proceed to the re-
medy what can I do ?
Lady E. Why then, it has occurred to me,
that all difficulties would be overcome, if you
would but consent to be my representative, and
receive Mr. Grenville under my name.
Mrs. Bel. What an extravagant idea !
Lady E. Not at all ; Mr. Grenville cannot
possibly be offended at it; for we shall laugh it
Off as a masquerade frolic : O'Donolan himself
will view it in. the same light, and will then be so
p
38 SMILES AND TEARS.
ashamed of his unjust suspicions, that it may cure
him of his jealousies for ever.
^ Mrs. Bel. If I thought that but Mr. Gren-
ville, I am certain, must at once detect the im-
posture.
Lady E. Impossible ! I disguised my voice,
never took off my mask, and my dress was so
contrived, that I defy my most intimate friend
to have recognized me it will afford us all a
hearty laugh, and what I know will have great
weight with you, it will serve me, by setting poor
O'Donolan's mind effectually at ease.
Mrs. Bel. I will hazard any thing to accom-
plish that ; but I know, I shall commit every
sort of blunder, so pray be near to assist me ;
and if I should fail
Lady E. I'll answer for it, you will not fail ;
for the motive which prompts the endeavour will
supply you with confidence for the execution of it.
She \vho can boldly dare in friendship's cause,
Tho' unsuccessful, fails with all the world's applause.
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Stanly's House at Richmond.
Lady EMILY, and Mrs. BELMORE.
Mrs. BeL I begin to think Mr. Grenville does
not intend to favour us to day. It grows late.
SMILES AND TEARS. 39
Lady E. I am glad to see this impatience ; it
looks as if you entered into the spirit of the plot
but you forget that days at this time of the
year are not remarkable for length, and the
fashion of making morning calls by moon-light,
very much in favour of his arriving yet.
Enter a Servant.
- Serv. Mr. Grenville is at the door, my Lady,
and wishes to know if you are at home.
Lady E. (Aside.) Thank heaven ! he has re-
membered his assumed name I have been in an.
agony lest he should walk in as Chomley. Say I
shall be happy to see Mr. Grenville. \_Exit Servant.
Mrs. Bel. I declare I am quite in a tremble
you are not leaving me no ; Emily, that's not
the agreement (To Lady EMILY, who is going.)
Lady E. But for a momentI must set Jeffe-
ries to keep rny uncle out of the way if he should
walk in, it will entirely spoil the joke : I'll return
instantly to second you. [Eocit Lady EMILY.
Mrs. BeL How extremely awkward is this si-
tuation ! I don't know what to say or do : there
certainly is a great deal of levity in the proceed-
ing, and I ought not to have lent myself to it.
Enter Sir H. CHOMLEY.
Sir Hen. Shall I not incur your displeasure/
Lady Emily, in thus early presuming to avail
myself of your permission ? The happy are sel-
dom discreet : if I have been too precipitate, at-
tribute my intrusion to its 1 true cause, the impos-
sibility of checking the ardour of my gratitude.
Mrs. Belmore. (Aside). He has fallen into the
deception to her very wish.
p 2
40 SMILES AND TEARS.
Sir Hen. I have, as you perceive, observed
your Ladyship's commands.
Mrs. Bel. (Aside.) Dear ! what commands
have I laid upon him ? O! you are very good !
{pretending to understand him).
Sir Hen. Would there had been some diffi-
culty in them, Madam, that I might have proved
how far above all other considerations, I prize an
opportunity of obeying you.
Mrs. Bel. I can perfectly understand your de-
sire to see a person who has so successfully evaded
your discovery in the support of an assumed cha-
racter there's always a certain charm attached to
mystery imagination, no doubt, had pictured
to you
Sir Hen. Nothing, which the reality has not
far exceeded - the first moment I beheld you, I
\vasenraptured by the symmetry'of your person,
by the exquisite grace of all your movements,
and the sweetness of your accents. However you
endeavor' d to disguise your voice, I now per-
fectly recognize to be the same which thrilled
to rny heart at Lady Brellington's masquerade.
Mrs. Bel. (Smiling.) And you really know my
voice again ?
Sir Hen I should have distinguished it amongst
a thousand ; and tho' concealed by an envious
mask, you will perhaps scarcely believe, that
rny fancy had pictured your features just what
they are. But, in my warmest moments, I must
acknowledge, that I failed of imparting to them
that irresistible charm of expression which they
possess in so eminent a degree.
Mrs. Bel. So you think, that if chance had
thrown me in your way, you should have known
me ?
Sir Hen. So entirely am I convinced of it, that
SMILES AND TEARS. 41
ever since I had the happiness of meeting 1 you,
I have gone to every assembly, every public place;
paraded every street, visited every shop, in hopes
of seeing you it I saw a fine arm across the
room, I instantly darted to the spot, full of breath-
less expectation, till some uncouth defect in the
rest of the person, painfully proved to me how
much I was mistaken. A small foot has led rne
to Kensington to Hampstfad have I trotted after
a well-turned ancle ; in short, Lady Emily, I have
left no place in London or its environs unvisited,
in pursuit of your separate perfections.
Mrs. Bel I am quite at a loss how to answer
so many civilities- I can only say, that one rea-
son, and a very sufficient one I think it, for your
not having met me in your perambulations about
London, is, tl^at I very rarely go thither.
Sir Hen. Formed in every way to constitute
its chief ornament, permit me to say, you are
unjust in secluding yourself 'tis a public loss
besides, you wrong yourself as well as others,
for surely there is no existence out of London.
Mrs. Bel. That very much depends upon cir-
cumstances\ the best years of my life, were
passed in a remote county, in an ancient castle,
with a husband, old enough to be my father;
and yet, I can with truth declare, that I never
knew what it was to experience a moment's te-
dium.
Sir Hen. And friendship, the only feeling of
your breast ? O 1 Lady Emily, had love been of
the party
Mrs. Bel. It would have ruin'd all when two
people are so utterly dependent upon each other
for their enjoyments, 'tis fortunate when their
sentiments are of a calm, enduring nature pas-
sion is seldom long-lived ; and what painful re-
SMILES AND TEARS.
grets take place of those feelings which are too ar-
dent to be lasting!
Sir Hen. Then you don't believe that love
can endure for ever ?
Mrs. Eel. I'm not certain that I believe in the
existence of the passion at all.
Sir Hen.'~And can it be possible that you have
never felt its power ?
Mrs. Bel. That is a question which
1 Sir Hen. 1 fear may appear presumptuous but
did you know how deeply I am interested in it
you would say
Enter Lady EMILY.
The devil take this woman, for interrupting us !
(Aside.)
Lady E, (With Music in her Hand.) He
seems confounded at my approach that's a good
sign (Aside) My dear ! I shall never be able to ac-
complish this Duet for to-night.
Mrs,. Bel. Allow me to present Mr. Gren-
ville.
- Lady E. Mr. Grenville of Gloucestershire ?
Sir Hen. (Aside.) Upon my soul I don't know
but 1 suppose so. (Bows very low.)
Lady E. I shall be happy in the honour of your
acquaintance, Sir ; I formerly knew your sister,
and a sweet creature she was she 's quite well, I
hope ? Your poor dear father too, is he still
alive ?
Sir Hen. (Aside.) Curse me if I can tell ; but I
had better kill him, lest she should ask more ques-
tions No, Ma'am, he is dead.
Lady E. I beg pardon I'm quite shocked that
Do you understand music ?
Sir Hen, No, I de not.
SMILES AND TEARS. 43
Lady E. Then, I'm afraid you can't sing?
Sir Hen. Not in the least.
Lady E. That's very unlucky ; for I meant to
have asked you to help me out in this Duet, this
evening.
Sir Hen. What an opportunity had I nearly
lost ! (Aside) Sing? sing, did you say ? O, to be
sure ; every body sings devil a tune can I turn,
(Aside) that is, I in a sort of a manner
Lady E. Yes, yes; that's just in my own
way ; so, if you'll step into the next room, we can
amuse ourselves with trying it over.
Sir Hen. Confound you and your Duet too !
(Aside affects to cough) Bless my soul, Ma'am,
the worst cold I ever had in my life !
Lady E. Ay, it seems very bad, indeed ; I
think you had better not venture into the night
air I must insist upon your not coming here
this evening we'll positively have the doors shut
against you.
Sir Hen. My dear Madam, I shall mend sur-
prisingly by that time. After dinner, I always sing
like a nightingale ; my notes would quite asto-
nish you there's no lie in that, at any ratG.(^4side.)
Lady E. But the fogs, at this time of the year
Sir Hen. Are a sovereign remedy for coughs
like mine you see 'tis not a common sort of
cold j 'tis only a Hum ! (Coughs.}
Lady E. So I perceive, Sir.
Sir Hen. An asthma, or spasmodic affection
that in short the fouler the air, the better I
feel myself,
Lady E. (To Mrs. BELMORE.) How do you
find him ?
Mrs. Bel. O, very agreeable.
Lady E. That's as much as to say, quite
charming (Aside.) Well, since you won't sing
44 SMILES AND TEARS.
with hie, I must give it up for the present. I
have two calls to make across the Green, and I'll
take this opportunity.
Sir Hen. (Eagerly.) Do people let one an-
other in at Richmond ?
Lady E. Oh yes ; bat I shall be so anxious to
return, that I will merely slide in my card. There
never was any thing so tormenting as this tax
upon society : visiting people one hardly knows
by sight, and that one shouldn't care, if one
never saw again. I'm sure you must have ex-
perienced how annoying it is, to be compell'd
to be civil to a person one wishes a hundred miles
off one, that won't be driven away by a hint, how-
ever broadly given, but that will run on from one
thing to another talk, talk, talk, till one's spi-
rits are worn out, and one's patience quite ex-
hausted! Don't you detest such beings?
Mrs. Bel. I do indeed.
Lady E. I am sure you must. Well, as I
hope to be back again in a very few minutes, I
won't take my leave Sans adieu ?
[Exit Lady EMILY.
Sir Hen. (Aside.) Thank heaven ! you are gone,
at any rate.
Mrs. Bel. How do you like my friend ?
Sir Hen. I hardly looked at her; and I shall
not easily forgive her having interrupted a con-
versation which was so replete with interest to
me. I remember I was asking a question of
Lady Emily
Mrs. Bel. Which, I remember, I had no in-
tention of answering.
Sir Hen. I am aware it was a very delicate one,
but recollect, Lady Emily, this is not the first
time of our meeting you cannot have misunder-
stood my declarations at the masquerade ; tho' it
SMILES AND TEARS. 45
is evident, by the reserve and total change in
your manner, that they have not been so favour,
ably received as I then flattered myself they
would be.
Mrs. Bel. You would not have me all my life
in masquerade
Sir Hen. Ah ! believe me, I do not regret the
absence of your vivacity ! How many women at-
tract by their brilliancy how few, by the ineffable
charm of unaffected sensibility ! Till this mo-
ment, I hfid judged of your wit only ; but now I
think I know how to appreciate your heart also
before, I could find words to express my admira-
tion ; but now, the utterance of vny feelings is
impossible. Oh ! but for a moment, resume
your mask, that, unawed by the dignity of your
expression, I may tell )ou with what fervour I
adore you !
Enter Mrs. JEFFERJES.
Another interruption, by Jove ! ,
Mrs. Jef. My mistress has been prevented go-
ing out, Ma'am ; Mr. Stanly has just been brought
in rather ill, and very much agitated.
Mrs. Eel. Good heavens ! what has hap-
pened ?
Mrs. Jef. Returning home, it seems, he was met
by an unfortunate maniac, who had just broken
from his confinement Having seen Mr. Stanly
at the Asylum, he probably mistook him for one
of the keepers ; and, with all the strength which
madness gives, dragged him to the ground ; but,
luckily, somebody was within hearing, and came
to his assistance upon which the maniac fled,
and the keepers are already in pursuit of him.
[firffc
6
46 SMILES AND TEARS.
Mrs. Bel. (Retiring) You must excuse me,
Sir
Sir Hen. But wherefore, Madam ? You hear
that Mr. Stanly is more frightened than hurt
now, I am more hurt than frightened, and of the
two, a much fitter object for your compassion.
Mrs. Bel. You must, notwithstanding, allow
me to retire my situation was rather embarrass-
ing ; and, but for this accident, I might have
found it difficult to extricate myself. (Aside.)
[Exit Mrs. BEL MORE.
Sir Hen. The devil take the keepers, for not se-
curing their madmen better, I say. I had just
arrived at the critical juncture ! When such a fa-
vourable opportunity may occur again, heaven
only knows however, I shall certainly return
this evening. Charming, charming Lady Emily !
what manners ! what sentiments ! ~ that rogue,
Delaval, too! to slander her perfections ! Oh !
't was blasphemy ! (Takes out his watch) Let me
see ; at five, I am to meet the Lawyers - however,
I can be back by eight- but will she be ready to
receive me ? they '11 probably sit down to dine at
seven : Soup she'll be five minutes, at least,
eating that she can't bfc less ; it is generally so
confoundedly hot ! I wish she would eat fish in
its stead ; but there, there again ! the bones are a
great drawback. Psha ! she 's a divinity ; and far
above the vulgar prejudice of eating and drinking
as coarse mortals do ! Lady Emily, I adore you !
Mrs. Belmore, I detest you ! and heartily wish the
Lawyers and you were all at the bottom of the Red
Sea ! [Exit.
SMILES AND TEARS. 47
SCENE II.
A gloomy part of Richmond Park several Trunks
of Trees lying here and there Twilight.
Enter CECIL, with an Infant wrapped in a Shawl.
Cecil. Your cries, at length, are hush'd in
sleep, my precious infant ! and cold and hunger
are, for awhile, forgotten ! How awful is this
silence ! no sound falls on my ear, but the
tumultuous beating of my frightened heart lie
still, lie still; your throbbings will awake my
babe how comes this mist before my eyes ? I 'in
very faint My child, my child ! I can no longer
bear your weight ; (she sinks ^ placing the Infant
upon the trunk of one of the trees.) What agony
is this ? numbed as my limbs are by the stiffening
blast, a scorching fire consumes my brain ! Can
this be fear ? It is, the terror of a guilty con-
science : there was a time, when neither solitude
nor night had power to terrify me but I was inno-
cent then ; then I had not offended Heaven, whose
protection I dare not now implore. Ha ! I hear
a voice Oh! welcome, welcome sound! Yet,
should it be any one whom I have known in other
days an idle fear ; for if it should, night's friendly
shadows will conceal the features of the guilty
Cecil, I '11 follo^v his footsteps in common cha-
rity, he'll not deny that comfort to a wretched,
houseless wanderer !
Fitz. (Without.) Ha, ha I have I escaped you,
ruffians ? here I shall be safe from their pursuit.
(He is seen climbing the wall, and with
the assistance of the arm of a tree, lets
himself down upon the Stage ; in this
G 2
48 SMILES AND TEARS.
effort he breaks one of the smaller
branches, and uses it as a weapon of
defence) .
Here will I lie concealed they shall not again
imprison me !
Cecil. Seme miscreant escaped from justice!
What will become of us ?
Fitz. There, there they go ! One, two, three,
four ! So, so ; lie close ; they are gone, they are
gone, and now I breathe again.
Cecil. Alas ! a maniac ! what's to be done ?
/ shall I conceal myself? No; I'll make for the
gate, and endeavour to regain the public road.
(FrxzHARDiNG turns suddenly round )
Fitz. What are you ? one lying in ambush
to entrap me ? Wretch ! advance one hair's
breadth, and I fell yon to the ground! (Raising the
broken branch j Ah ! a woman !
Cecil. Yes; one without the power or wish to
harm you.
Fitz. That's false you are a woman, born
only to betray I know you are leagued against
m e but t h n s ( Threa ten ing/y .)
Cecil. O ! for my child's sake, do not harm
me.
Fitz. A child! have you a child ? give it me
let me strangle it, before the little serpent turns
to sting the breast that nourished it pity is
folly if she live, she lives to blast your comfort.
I had a child, a child more precious to me than
my own heart's blood but she betrayed me
made a gay festival to welcome me upon my re-
turn from a long, tedious journey invited guests
too three hideous guests ! Seduction, Penury,
and Despair With the first she fled, and left me
victim to the other two.
Cecil. What do I hear ? what horrid vision
SMILES AND TEAKS. 49
darts across my brain ! Can it be ? No, no ! and
yet, alt ho' destruction follow, I must, I will be
satisfied (She throws o^FiTZH A RHINO'S Hat, rc-
cogniscs, and Jails at his feet.) Great God ! my
father !
Titz. (Raising her, looks wistfully in her face,
and laughs wildly pause.} They are coming
you will not give me up to my pursuers you will
have more compassion than my unnatural daugh-
ter.
Cecil. Can I hear this, and yet not curse thee,
Del aval ?
Fitz. Ha ! does that darnnM name again as-
sail my ears ? Does he pursue me still ? What new
torment can he inflict upon me ? Yes, yes, I see
him DOW where is my daughter, villain ? Give
her hack restore her to me, polluted as she is,
and I will bless you but you have murdered her
your barbarous hand has nipped my pretty
rose-bud ere it was blown, and now she lies,
scorn 'd, pale, and lifeless monster ! no longer
shall your poisonous breath infect the air - an in-
jured father strikes this poniard to your faithless
heart no struggling down down Oh, oh !
(CECIL supports him.}
Cecil. (Weeping ) O, sight of horror! will all
the agony ffeel restore your peace, belov'd, much
injured father !
Fitz. (Reccvering feels her $hce\s.J How 1
weeping ! tears, real tears ! poor thing, poor
thing ! don't cry I cannot be a partner in your
grief since my poor Cecil died (for she is dead,
is she not?) I have not shed a tear.
Cecil. Oh, Heaven ! too much, too much to
bear !
Fitz. Poor thing ! poor thing ! (Pause.) You
not leave me, will you ? (&Kws her close to
his bosom.)
50 SMILES AND TEARS.
Cecil. Leave you ! O never, never ; I will
serve you, live for you, die for you.
Fitz. Come then, come with me ; and I will
shew you Cecil's grave ; and we will strew fresh
yew and cypress over it Come, come !
(As he is leading her aivay, voices of the
Keepers are heard without 1st Keeper.
*' This way, this way ; Til follow him over
the Wall do you secure the Gate" He
leaps from the JVall y two more come on at
the Gate.)
Fitz. I hear them, they are coming don't
let them tear me from you save, O, save me !
Cecil. Kind people, hear me ! he is my father
leave him to my tender care !
]st Keep. O yes, you'll do much good ; I wish
we had more hands with us step across to the cot-
tage, and see if you can get any body to assist.
[Exit 2nd Keeper.
Cecil. You call in vain for assistance no power
on earth shall part us once again, I tell you he-
is my father.
1st Keep. That may be but what can you do
for him ? you had better stand aside young wo-
man ; you'll only get yourself hurt.
Cecil. You shall tear me limb from limb, rather
than separate me from him.
Re-enter Ind Keeper, with Cottager.
1st Keep. (To Cottager.} There, do you take
charge of the young woman and keep her off
Now, now ! (They rush forward to seize him.)
Fitz. The first who approaches, I will lay dead
at my foot folded in your arms I fear them not.
(A sciifflc enmes, on which they are separated
FITZH^RDING disarmed^ and dragg'd
away.)
SMILES AND TEARS. 51
Save me from these butchers ! O save me,
save me ! [Exeunt FJTZHARDING and Keepers.
Cecil. O, for the love of mercy ! let me follow
him.
1st Keep. (Without.) Bind his hands !
Cecil. No, no ; for the love of Heaven, no !
Inhuman men ! I must, I will go to him. O
oruel ! cruel ! O my poor deceived, unhappy fa-
ther !
(She breaks from the Cottager, and endea-
vours to follow her Father, but her strength
fails her 9 and she sinks upon her knees /
the Cottager supports her, and the Curtain
falls.)
END OP ACT III.
ACT IV.
SCENp I.
A Library in Stanlys House.
Enter STANLY, followed by a Servant.
Stan. Who wants me, whom did you say ?
Serv, The young woman, herself, wouldn't
send any name, but Mrs. JefFjries, who happen'd
to cme into the hall at the time, cried " Bless
me ! is that you, Miss Fitzharding?"
Stan. Miss Fitzharding ! at this door ? are
you certain of it ?
Serv. I only know what Mrs Jefferies said .
the young woman made no answer, but' drew
52 SMILES AND TEARS.
her bonnet over her face. When I told her that
you cou'dn't see her, (for as it was so near dinner,
I thought you would not chnse to be disturbed),
she seem'd greatly distressed, and talked some-
thing about the Asylum.
Stan. Ay, that's a subject that may well dis-
tress her Worthless minx ! is there any body in
the carriage with her ?
Serv. Carriage, Sir ?
Stan. Carriage, Sir ! ay ; don't you know what
a carriage is ?
Serv. Yes, Sir ; but there's no carriage, nor
any thing like one, that I saw I think you must
mistake the person, Sir, altogether ; for the young
woman in the hall said she had heard that a ser-
vant was wanted at the Asylum, and that she had
been directed to apply to you, as one of the Go-
vernors.
Stan. Ah J this is another of your blessed
blunders!
Serv. Upon my word, Sir
Stan. Poh ! poh ! did not you yesterday say
there was an old woman in the parlour, who
wanted to see Mrs. Betrnore, and when *he went
in, did not it turn out to be a Master in Chancery?
Serv. Well, Sir, what message shall I take ?
Stan. Take, Sir ! do you take me for a walking
Therapolegia, that you bring your maid-servants
to me for places ?
Serv. I took you for no such thing, Sir ; but
the poor creature seem'd in a deal of trouble, and
you don't usually send away such as apply in dis-
tress : so, I thought
Stan. Thought, blockhead ! why didn't you
bring her in at once then ?
Serv. That's as good as a five pound note in her
pocket. [ai/ Servant.
SMILES AND TEARS. 53
Enter Lady EMILY.
Lady E. O ! my dear Uncle ; what an extra-
ordinary circumstance ! Who, do you think is
here ? Miss Fitzharding : the daughter of the un-
fortunate gentleman
Stan. Who had nearly made worms-meat of
me the fellow, was right, then ; William, said
she wanted to see me. VY hy does not she come?
I desired she might be sent in.
Lady E. She will come, no doubt, as soon as
she is sufficiently recovered, for she appears very
urgent to speak with you : Jerferies, who had
known her, it seems, asked ^ome unguarded ques-
tion, which threw her into a dreadful agitation,
and she fainted I ran to entreat that you would
see her, Sir; for her mind is burthened with a
grief which, she says, no body but yourself can
relieve.
Stan. I am no conscience- doctor, Emily, and
tho' I am willing to see Miss Fitzharding, and to
do all in my power to alleviate her sorrow, since
you say she suffers ; yet, it will never be in my
ability to relieve her from the burthen of remorse,
which her unfeeling conduct towards her father,
must needs have laid upon her soul.
Lady E. I am sincerely sorry for her she is
so interesting
Stan. Interesting! Psha ! don't prostitute the
epithet, Emily ; the virtuous only should be in-
terestingbut now a-days, every thing is inte-
restinglet a Lady abandon a worthy husband,
and half a dozen lovely children, for the arms of
a paramour, arid the cry directly is, " but she's
so interesting !" Here's a girl, whoMias driven a
doating father into madness, by her profligacy,
M SMILES AND TEARS.
then you come and tell me, " she's so interest-
ing." -
Lady E. Well, my dear Uncle, if I have used
an expression which offends you, I will retract
it only tell me into what words I shall put an
entreaty that may induce you, notonl) to see Miss
Fitzharding, but dispose you, if possible, to serve
her.
Stan. As to serving her, I have already told
you that I mean to do so, if it be within my
power ; and in order to understand how that may
best be done, I am willing to admit Miss Fitz-
harding ; but, I must make it a particular re-
quest, that you do not so far forget what is due
to your rank, as to converse a second time with
so degraded a being.
Lady E. Is there any situation, my dear Sir,
that puts one person above the obligation of suc-
couring another in distress ? 'tis the best privi-
lege of superior rank, and in my opinion, the sole
condition upon which Providence intended that
we should possess it.
Stan. True, Emily, Charity is undoubtedly the
greatest of all virtues; but beware of indiscrimi-
nate compassion ; and remember, that to tolerate
vice, is to encourage it.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Miss Fitzharding waits to know if you
are disengaged, Sir.
Stem. Desire her to walk in Emtty (Signs to
her to retire.)
Lady E. Well, Sir, you wish it, and I will
leave you, but don't be. harsh with her; consi-
der the cause she has for self-condem nation,
and do not, by your reproaches, add to the load
SMILES AND TEARS. 55
of her affliction ; which even now seems greater
than she can bear.
[Exit Lady EMILY on one side.
Enter Servant and CECIL on the other.
Stan. (With constrained civility.) A chair!
(Servant sets Chairs) -Sit down, Miss Fitzhard-
ing ; let dinner be served, and desire the Ladies
not to wait (Exit Servant). I am sorry you have
been indisposed Sit down, Ma'am, sit down ;
and inform me what are your commands with me
pray compose yourself: you seem greatly agi-
tated.
Cecil. Agitated ! Ah, Sir, when every sur-
rounding object reminds me of happier days, of
days passed in innocence and peace, I may well
seem agitated, and sink with conscious shame
and agon^ . Many a time has my poor father,
while seated in that chair, placed his beloved
hands upon my head, and with tears of fondness
glisten. ug in his eyes, implored of Providence to
bless his darling child ! Little did he then know
what a serpent he cherish'd in his bosom ! little
did I then anticipate the deep, deep anguish
which has been since my portion*
Stan. Be comforted, Madam ; there is no state,
however wretched, which does not admit of hope.
Cecil. True, true; I have yet a hope, and in
you that hope is centered : on my knees, let me
implore your kind interposition, Sir; you may
be the blessed means of restoring a father to rea-
son, and his repentant daughter to tranquillity,
though not to happiness.
Stan. Let me know in what manner you think
I can relieve you, Miss Fitzharding the incli-
nation, be assured, will not be wanting.
Cecil. The particulars of my unhappy story, I
fear, are but too generally known ; spare me the
u 2
56 SMILES AND TEARS.
shame of repeating what, I wish I could for tvcr
blot from recollection.
Stan. We will remember nothing but that
which may at present forward your views speak,
Madam.
Cecil. Flying from the man, who (after hav-
ing seduced me to the dereliction of every sacred
duty) was on the point of sacrificing, not only
me, but his innocent child, to worldly selfish
views, I chanced to meet my father - Good Hea-
ven ! in what a slate ! bereft of recollection,
(driven to fiercest madness, oy the dishonour of
his thankless child.
Stan. He did not recognize you then ?
Cecil. O that he had! though it. had been to
curse me but no 'twas nearly dark, and I am
sadly changed since he last saw me ~ yet, I
fondly think, that he was pleased to hear my
voice he implored me not to forsake him O !
that I never had ! (iveeps bitterly) from this cir-
cumstance, I feel a certain conviction, that were
I constantly about his person, my dutiful atten-
tions might at last restore that precious reason,
of which my guilt so fatally deprived him
(weeps).
Stem Madarn ! Miss Fitzharding !
Cecil. Let me become a servant in the Asylum ;
by a thousand little assiduities, I may, at least,
ameliorate his -condition ; and, Oh! should it
please Heaven to smile on my endeavours, and
crown my penitent design with favour, intelli-
gence once more shall beam from his bright eyes,
and he again may bless me ere I die.
Stan. O Delaval ! what have you to answer for,
in labouring to corrupt a heart like this (4ddc)
Your request is granted, Madam ; you shall
be near your father, you shall watch over and con-
SMILES AND TEAttS. 57
sole him every facility shall be afforded you, to
put your virtuous resolution into practice: should
your efforts prove successful, there are still many
of your father's friends residing here ; we will
consult together, and see what may be done to-
wards his support, and the alleviation of your
sorrows ,
Cecil' (Nobly). His support? Sir, I shall pro-
vide for that I will not eat the bread of idleness
or shame ; and the best alleviation of my griefs,
will be to toil incessantly for him and. my poor
infant too blest, if, in fulfilling the duties of a
mother, I may make some atonement for the
errors of a daughter.
Stan. Accept, at least, a temporary assist-
ance, till you possess the means so honourably
acquired.
Cecil. O 1 Sir, I have not a proud or an un-
grateful heart. Your generous compassion to-
wards a poor degraded creature, has sunk deeply
into my soul ; but, from the misery into which
my own guilt has plunged me, I am resolved that
nothing but my own unwearied industry shall
ever extricate me.
Stan. I will not again attempt to shake a reso-
lution pregnant at once with sensibility and ho-
nour; but tho' you refuse my offer of assistance,
Madam, I trust you will allow me to present you
to my niece, whose soothing cares and prudent
councils will support and aid you in the virtuous
task you have imposed upon yourself may re-
formation so sincere, and filial piety so exem-
plary, draw down a blessing on you from above,
and crown your efforts with complete success !
[Exeunt,
58 SMILES AND TEARS.
SCENE II.
A Drawing-Room in Stanly's House.
Enter O'DoNOLAN.
O'Don. Isn't it past all belief now, thai; a man
possessing, upon most points, as clear a concep-
tion of things as any Irishman in the world, shall,
upon the subject of his passion, be an absolute
idiot ? Tho' 1 know I am deceived, laugh'd at,
and contemn'd by this perfidious woman, I can't
help hovering about her, if possible, with in-
creased infatuation wretched as she makes me,
I feel a delight in being tormented by such an
angelic creature, that I would not exchange for
the quiet possession of any other woman upon
earth ! if I could but contrive to see her before
the company assembles, I might
Enter Sir H. CHOMLEY, and a Servant.
somebody arrived already ever frustrated in
all that regards her ! (Turns up).
Sir Hen. Why, 'tis eight o'clock, Sir ; past
eight ; I heard it strike : 'tis past eight by my
watch too.
Serv. I don't say it is not, Sir, but dinner was
later than usual to day, and the Ladies have not
yet left table I can let them know } 06 are here ;
Mr. Stanly is the only gentleman, and I dare
say will be very glad if you will take your wine
with him.
Sir Hen. By no means ; I -would n't have them
disturb'd for the world say nothing about it, if
you please; I'd rather wait (i xit Servant). No,
no ; it would have been rather loo good a joke
SMILES AND TEARS. 59
to have been fix'd with old Stanly swallowing
glass after glass of his London particular, instead
of quaffing love's inebriating draught from the
fascinating eyes of the adorable Lady Emily for
the last half hour I have been walking backwards
and forwards opposite the windows, in hopes of
seeing the fellow walk into the drawing-room with
a long stick to light the candles but my impa-
tience could endure it no longer. There's an
uneasy restlessness about me, which I never felt
before -the fidgets, I think they call it - since
1 left this house, I have done nothing but wan-
der up and down with my hands in my pockets,
as if I had lost something I have, I have lost
my heart to this enchanting syren, and come
what may, my fate this very night shall be de-
cided, What, O'Donolan !
O'Am. Chomleyl
Sir Hen. Hush!"
O'Don. How long have you been returned from
the Continent ?
Sir Hen. Above a fortnight.
O'Don. My dear Chomley !
Sir Hen. Hush, I tell you, for the love of mys-
tery ! I am np longer Chomley, I have changed
my name.
O'Don. For an estate ? I give you joy, my
dear fellow !
Sir Hen. Nd for a better thing a devilish
handsome woman, my boy : Lady Emily Gerald !
a most extraordinary adventure ; and so you '11
think it,
& Don. O, I dare say I shall.
Sir Hen. Her reasons, I don't know; but, as
she thought proper to desire that I would change
my name, I have done so, in compliance with
her wishes. 1 know you can be discreet, so I'll
60 SMILES AND TEARS.
let you into the whole affair The very day aftef
my return, I met Lady Emily at a masquerade
you know her figure ; and may guess what the
effect of it was upon a fellow, who for many
months had not feasted his eyes upon the grati-
fying sight of a well-dressed Englishwoman of
fashion ! She seem'd pleas'd with my attentions;
I was charmed with her conversation ; and, tho'
she persisted in concealing from me who she was,
yet she so far encouraged me, as to say, she
should be at the subscription masquerade on the
Thursday ; and again, at Lady Brellington's on
the Saturday : at each of these we met, we talked,
and liked this very morning only I discovered
who she was, wrote to \solicit her permission to
present myself; and here, you rogue, is the an-
gers answer (Gives O'DONOLAN the Letter he
reads, and returns it) Very satisfactory don't
yon think so ?
O'Don. O, very! Damn her fora jilt ! (Aside)
But why this change of name ?
Sir Hen. That 's what I don't understand my-
self ; I was too happy, you may be sure, to be
admitted upon any terms, and of course never
stopp'd to make enquiries my interview with her
this morning has rivetted my chains ; and I am
now here, under a fixed determination of propos-
ing to her
0' Don And do you expect to be accepted ?
Sir Hen. Why, without any extraordinary por-
tion of vanity, 1 flatter myself that the thing is
possible I am delighted to have met you here ;
are you intimate in the family ?
O' Don. Faith, you may say that.
Sir lien. Better and better ! What a lucky dog
I am !
O'Don. How so, pray ?
SMILES AND TEARS. 61
Sir Hen. You may assist me, by speaking to
Lady Emily in my favour.
O'Don. I! No, curse me if I do.
Sir Hen. How, O'Donolan ? I thought T could
have depended upon your friendship ; but perhaps
you think the match objectionable.
O'Don. Indeed and I do, Sir ; very objection-
able.
Sir Hen. Hey day ! what can this mean ?
O'Don. It means, Sir, that you are damnably
mistaken, if you imagine that I shall plead your
cause in this affair Lady Emily has received me,
avowedly admitted me as her lover, for the last fif-
teen months, Sir ; and although I think her the
vilest of coquettes, I shall not relinquish my claim
to you, or any man in England, or Ireland, Sir.
Now, do you understand what it means, Sir ?
Sir Hen. Why, yes, I begin to apprehend
then you suppose that she has a regard for you ?
O'Don. (Imitating him.} Why, without any
extraordinary portion of vanity, I had a pretty
good right to think so, Sir.
Sir Hen. (Playing carelessly with the Letter)
Ay, fifteen months ago but, possibly, she may
have changed her mind since that time.
O'Don. Possibly; but I have not changed mine;
so you will be pleased to release your pretensions,
whether 'tis agreeable to you or not.
Sir Hen< But, my dear O'Donolan, as the Lady
ought unquestionably to have a voice in this
affair, don't you think we may as well refer the
matter to her if she decide in your favour, I
swear, it shall make no difference in my feelings
towards you : if she declare in rrtine
O'Don. I'll cut your throat, my dear friend !
Sir Hen. I hope not ; at any rate, let all be
fair and open between us. By Jove ! I have just
62 SMILES AND TEAHS.
recollected, that I have ordered the carriage, with-
out apprizing my servants of my new appellation
of Grenville ; and I shall have some fellow bawl-
ing out> Sir Henry Chomley's carnage stops
the way ! that would ruin me with Lady Emily
I must continue the name of Grenville, 'till I
have my charmer's leave to throw it off (Aside.)
I am compelled to return to the hotel, O'Dono-
lan, for ten minutes, and* all I require at your
hands, is, not to betray that I have let you into
my confidence.
O'Ztow. And did I ask for it Sir Henry ? No,
indeed ; you foisted it upon me.
Sir Hen. That's very true ; but since chance,
or I will rather say, a reliance on your friendship,
has helped you to my secret, I trust to your honor ,
not to obtain any unfair advantage, by represent-
ing what I have said, under false colours to Lady
Emily ; but wait my return, before you enter irfto
an explanation with her.
O'Don. Upon this subject, you have no right
to prescribe any conditions, Sir Henry ; but for
old friendship's sake, I do agree to postpone this
explanation till your return ; and then, I shall
have the double satisfaction of telling her, all I
think of you, all I think of her, and all I think
of myself, for being such a damn'd ass, as still to
waste one thought upon her !
Sir Hen. Ha ! ha ! ha ! an revoir ! I rely upon
your honor, O'Donolan, and hope, upon my re-
turn, to find you as entertaining as I now leave
you. [Exit Sir HENRY.
O'Don. How shall I contain myself ? The jilt!
I'll not speak to her before he comes back- I'll
have the gratification of confounding her, in the
presence of her new lover f will expose her per-
fidy, lay bare her arts, tell her how I love her,
SMILES AND TEARS. 63
how I hate her, and put an end to my torments,
by blowing out my brains.
Enter Mrs. BELMORE.
Mrs. Eel. Colonel O'Donolan ! now this is
kind of you ; and I am sure Lady Emily will
O'Dott. Don't name her, Madam ; a perfi-
dious - O ! Mrs. Belmore, Mrs. Belmore ! a'n't
I the most miserable of human creatures ?
Mrs. Bel. What do you mean P-^-nothing new,
I hope, has happened !
O'Don. Yes, Ma'am ; an unequivocal confir-
mation of all my suspicions no longer, treache-
rous as she is, can she deny the justice of my ac-
cusation my doubts have been cleared, all clear-
ed, and by Sir H. Chomley himself.
Mrs. Bel. Whom <Jo you say, byir H. Chom-
ley ?
O'Don. Yes, Madam; I met him here not
five minutes ago, and, upon the strength of for*
mer friendship, he made me his confidante told
me of their rencontres at the masquerade, of his
request to see her shewed me her answer to it,
in which, no doubt, the^better to impose upon
me, she desires him to assume the name of Gran-
ville False, false woman ! to fix her affections
upon such a profligate ! such an ugly feilow too!
Mrs. Bel. (Eagerly.) Heavens ! what do you
tell me ?
O'Don. You are amazed, astonish'd at her per-
fidy-no wonder.
Mrs. Bel. Sir H. Chomley, under the name of
Grenville ?
O'Don. Tis too true, Madam What deceit!
what falsehood !
Mrs. Bel. To dupe her friend !
i 2
<34 SMILES AND TEARS.
O'Don. To betray her lover !
Mrs. Bel, To involve me, so unwarrantably !
O'Don. To pretend a quarrel with me, that she
might have more liberty to receive him !
Mrs. Ed. I did not think her capable of such
an action !
O'Don. Nor I either, Ma'am.
Mrs. Bel. I never will forgive her !
O'Don. Nor I either, Ma'am : I have thought
her light, capricious, sometimes even unfeeling ;
but never, never could I have imagined this ! I'll
see her once again but it shall be to tell her that I
know the extent of her unworthiness-^-to make
her feel that I despise and hate her ! Pardon me,
Mrs. Belmore, you know how tenderly I loved
her, and the concern you shew, calls for my
warmest thanks.
Mrs. Bel. You will not wonder at the interest
I take in this affair, when I inform you, Colonel
O'Donolan, that I am the only person entitled to
resent the conduct of Lady Emily.
O'Don. You, Madam ?
Mrs. Be'. If Mr. Grenville and Sir H. Chom-
ley are one person, Lady Emily must be absolved
from all intention of offence towards you ; but
she has expos'd, committed mi, past ail retrieving.
0' Don. Would you please to explain your
meaning. Ma'am ?
Mrs Bel. Have you forgotten that I am en-
gaged in a law suit with Sir Henry ? 'Tis evident
that Lady Emily has wished to reconcile us, and,
hurried on by the warmth of her affections, has
never stopp'd to weigh the consequences in which
her conduct might involve me : she saw Sir Henry
at a masquerade, permitted his visits here, and
under a well- feigned apprehension of exciting
your suspicious, prevailed upon me to assume her
SMILES AND TEARS. 65
name, and receive the supposed Mr. Grenville in
her place.
O Don. (mid with joy ) Eh ! How ! What
do you say ? Am I in my senses ? You, you, Mrs.
Belmore, as Lady Emily ?
Mrs. Bel. 'Tis too true ; you may readily be-
lieve I should not have lent myself to such an im-
position, had I known it was Sir Henry whom I
was to meet : this too, perfectly explains his
being brought here, under the name of Gren-
ville.
O'Don. So, after all, Mrs. Belmore, it turns
out that it's yourself that is the goddess of his
idolatry !
Mrs. BeL I, Colonel O'Donolan ?
O' Don. O ! and you may believe me, you ; he
raves about you doats upon you from the crown
of your head to the tip of your toe : marry,
marry, Mrs. Belmore, and make him and me the
happiest men in the world.
Mrs. Bel Don't you think that would be ra-
ther a rash measure, Col. O'Donolan ?
O'Don. Not in the least do it, do it, if it be
only for the pleasure of non- suiting the lawyers.
O ! 'twill be the prettiest match that ever was
heard of- a match, where prudence and inclina-
tion are both of one mind.
Mrs. Bel. Colonel O'Donolan ! have I ever
profess'd a liking for Sir Henry ?
O'Don. Not yet ; but I'll engage you will ; you
must; he's very handsome,, every body must al-
low that ; I have known him intimately for years,
and upon my soul, a worthier fellow does not
breathe.
Mrs Bel. He has risen very rapidly in your
good opinion, Sir ; 'tis but a few minutes, sjnce
he was a profligate, a
66 SMILES AND TEARS.
O'Don. O ! that was while I thought Lady
Emily was in love with him ; but I know you will
forgive me indeed, we all have need of your in-
dulgence.
Mrs. Bel. Lady Emily has the least right to
expect my forgiveness ; for at the time she put
this imposture upon me, she was acquainted
with a circumstance which makes my situation
much more embarrassing than it appears.
O'Don. The friendly motive, I am sure, will
weigh with you in her behalf. The angel ! but
why do I continue prating here, when I should
be upon my knees before her, soliciting for pardon
I will confess my fault, renounce my jealousy,
and by a life of adoration, make amends for all
my suspicions past, present, arid to come !
(Going.)
Mrs. Bel. Stay, Colonel O'Donolan ; with
your permission, I had rather Lady Emily knew
nothing of what has just occurred.
G* Don. Your reason, Madam ? if you please.
Mrs. Bel. Why, at present, she is firmly per-
suaded that I am her dupe; now, I own, it
would be no small pleasure to me, to turn the
tables upon her, and make her mine besides,
'twould be as well, I think, to know a little more
of Sir Henry Chomley, before we venture to con-
fess the trick that we have played him.
ODon. Ha ! ha ! ha ! yes, my dear Mrs. Bel-
more, perhaps it would be as well, that you should
see a little more of him.
- Mrs. Bel. (Confused.) You are quite mistaken,
I don't mean that, at all.
0' Don. O ! by rny soul then, if you didn't
mean it, your tongue should teach your eyes not
to iniike bulls, Mrs. Belmore ; but Chomley will
le back again presently, and tho* I can't compre-
SMILES AND TEARS. 67
hend your meaning, I hope, at least, that you'll
come to a right understanding with him.
'Mrs. Bel. I see you are bent upon being
amus'd at my expence, so 1 will say no more upon
this silly subject; only give me your faithful pro-
mite not to betray me to Lady Emily.
O* Don. Ah now ! and haven't I promised ?
Mrs- Bel. But swear it ; for if you do not, you
will no more be able to resist the bright twinkle
of her enquiring eye, than
O'Don. (Kneels.} Why there, then ; upon my
knees I solemnly declare, that by you, and you
only, shall Lady Emily be undeceived.
s,
Enter Lady EMILY, behind, and unperceived.
You have made me the happiest man in the
universe, and have a right to impose upon me
what conditions you please.
Mrs. Bel Only abstain from seeing Lady Emily,
till my explanation is over, and I shall be satis-
fied. [Exit Mrs. BELMOKK,
CfDon, (Kneeling) That is a promise
Lady E. Which it will not he in your power
to keep I am here, Colonel O'Donolan, and de-
lighted in the opportunity of congratulating you
upon being the happiest man in the universe
I lament that Mrs. Belmore has -withdrawn ; be-
cause it deprives me of the pleasure of congra-
tulating her too, upon having been the fortunate
mortal who has made you so.
ODon Hey ! what ! you surely can't believe
that Upon my soul !
Lady E. No explanation, Colonel O'Donolan ;
you have brought this affair to a most satisfactory
conclusion, and I have now only to request that
you will leave this house immediately some other
08 SMILES AND TEARS.
place will more honorably suit your declarations
to Mrs. Belrnore.
O'Don. O! and is it Mrs. Belmore that you
mean? the sweetest creature, sure
Lady E. How !
O'Don. No, I don't mean that the most
amiable
Lady E. Intolerable !
O'Don. I don't mean that, either.
Lady E. Didn't I find you upon your knees
before her ?
O'Don. Yes.
Lady E. Weren't you making declarations of
love to her?
O'Don. No.
Lady E, How! did not you say, she had made
you the happiest man in the universe ?
ODon. Yes, no, most certainly I did ; but
that was Oh, botheration! how will I ever get
out of this ?
Lady E. 'Tis all in vain, Sir, you are a faith-
less lover! Mrs. Belmore a false friend! and I
am the silliest dupe that was ever cheated by
either.
O'Don. Wait a while. Lady Emily, only wait
a while don't turn me away unheard, till I've
told you all I have to say your Mr. Grenville is
at the bottom of all this only wait till I fetch
him he has just stepped to the hotel, but I'll
run after him immediately, that I may be sure of
meeting him patience, my dear Lady Emily,
patience for five minutes only, and I'll be with
you again in less than a quarter of an hour.
[Exit O'DONOLAX.
END OF ACT IV.
SMILES AND TEARS. CO
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Room in Stanly's House.
Enter STANLY, and Lady EMILY.
Lady E Well, Sir, what tidings ? has the
meeting taken place ? did Mr. Fitzharding recog-
nize his daughter ?
Stan. I fear not ; but one so lovely in resig-
nation as that poor suffering g'rl, I never saw
wholly absorbed in the pious purpose to which she
has devoted herself, she watches every look, every
turn of his countenance, lending herself to all
his childish fancies, and smiling, even in agony,
to please him.
Lady E. And may I not call that creature in-
teresting? but what were his sensations when he
first beheld her ?
Stan. When we-first entered his cell, we found
him seated with his back to the door, drawing
upon the wall.
Lady E. Drawing ! what r
Stan. A tomb over the entrance of which, he
had inscribed the name of Cecil.
Lady E. Unhappy man !
Stan. Startled by an involuntary groan, which
burst from the overcharged heart- of his afflicted
daughter, he suddenly turned he was much agi-
tated at the sight of her gazed wildly upon her
features for an instant, then shook his head, and
sighing deeply, again resumed his occupation :
still, from time to time, as if he could not chase
70 SMILES AND TEARS.
the idea of her from his mind, he would cast en-
quiring glances at her ; and when he saw the tears
piteously chasing one another down her pale
cheeks, in a tone of deep cqmrniseratiori, he ex-
claimed, " Poor thing! Poor thing !" looked
in her face again with eager curiosity, and
snatching his hand away, which she was fondly
pressing to her lips, muttered, with disappoint-
ment, to himself, u but she is dead for all that."
Lady E. (With great vivacity} Then, be as-
sured, my dear Uncle, he does recollect her his
present habitation, Cecil's appearance, so altered
by misfortune, and the menial dress she has as-
sumed, joined to a strong impression of her
death, all, all combine to puzzle his bewildered
mind some strong effect, must be produced upon
him, and if my heart deceive me not, I am the
doctor destined to restore him.
Stan. What stronger effect than that we have
already tried, can
Lady E. One that has just flashed across my
mind Will you grant me a diploma? am I at
liberty to practise ?
Stan. Provided you call in the physician of the
Asylum.
Lady E. By all means ; as I am but a young
practitioner, I shan't object to a consultation.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Lord Glen thorn, Sir, is at the door, and
begs to know if he can speak with you upon par-
ticular business.
Stan. Come to support the pretensions of his
worthless son, I suppose the moment is not
auspicious- what can I do ?
Lady E. Of course you will admit him, Sir;
SMILES AND TEARS. 71
but let me see you as soon as possible, for Pm
impatient till I put a scheme in execution, which
I forsee will translate me to the skies the world
shall acknowledge the genuine offspring of j^Escu-
lapius, and raise altars to me under the appella-
tion of the modern Hygeia. [Exit.
Stan. Desire Lord Glenthorn to walk in.
[Exit Servant.
How perplexing is my present position ! My
old friend is, no doubt, come to ascertain the
result of my promised endeavours in behalf of his
son Delaval, at a time too, when my heart is
swelling with indignation at his barbarity ! I
would not wantonly wound the feelings of a fa-
ther ; but I know it will be impossible for me to
conceal the abhorrence that I feel of his un-
principled son ! What do I see ! Delaval himself ?
Enter Lord GLEN-THORN.
Lord G. I read in your countenance, Mr.
Stanly, that I am an unwelcome visitor ; but the
assurance I beg to offer, that my stay will not be
protracted beyond the time necessary for a few
enquiries, will, I trust, ensure me the favour of
a patient hearing.
Stan. Ask all you wish to know, Sir ; takfe
your own time ; for I mean to claim the same
privilege to tell you, more perhaps than you may
wish to hear.
Lord G. As I am convinced that Mr. Stanfy
cannot say any thing which I ought not to listen
to, I accede to his proposal.
Stan. Sir, how far -you may flatter yourself that
you are safe under the shelter of my forbearance,
I cannot tell ; but that you may not deceive your-
self upon that point, I beg, as a preliminary, to
K 2
72 SMILES AND TEARS.
inform you, that I hold your conduct in utter
detestation ; and that nothing could have added
to the disgust it has excited, but the mean sub-
terfuge under which you have presumed to gain
admittance here.
Lord G. Sir ! I am unconscious of having re-
sorted to any artifice 'tis evident you are not
yet informed of your late friend, my father's
death ; by which, unfortunately, I am privileged
to announce myself under the title of Lord Glen-
thorn your mistake is excusable ; but this lan-
guage, Mr. Stanly
Stan. You must hear from me, and every man
who has a grain of honest feeling in his breast-
your heartless conduct has given every upright
character a right to express the just abhorrence
which he entertains of your unpardonable profli-
gacy Crimes like yours
Lord G. Crimes ! Mr. Stanly
Stan. Crimes, my Lord ; by what title would
you dignify the seduction of an innocent girl ? By
what specious argument gloss over the subsequent
desertion of her and of her infant ? Can the in-
genious sophistry of vice supply a single pallia-
tive for actions such as these ? or are you so pre-
sumptuous as to believe that Heaven will leave
the libertine unpunished, whose arts betrayed a
virtuous child to shame, and drove a doating fa-
ther into madness ?
Lord G. I am not here to palliate or defend
my actions whatever they have been, I am not
accountable at this tribunal, altho' my future life
may prove, I hold them in as much abhorrence as
yourself. The object of my visit here, was to
gain some intelligence of Miss Fitzharding ; I
have traced her hither, and if I have trespassed
upon your patience, tell me but where she is, and
I'll obtrude no longer.
SMILES AND TEARS. 73
Stan. She is under my protection, no\v, my
Lord ; and whatever you may have to say to her,
must be communicated thro' rne.
Lord G. Until I know upon what authority
you arrogate this power to yourself, I can't ac-
knowledge it and I must add, her having
sought protection of a person so entirely unknown
to her, as you are, savours as little of prudence,
as it does of delicacy.
Stan And what must you he, who have forced
her to seek refuge at the hands of strangers ? Pru-
dence and delicacy ! whither would your insinua-
tions tend ?
LordG. No farther than your own declaration
you have acknowledged that Miss Fitzharding
is now under your protection.
Stan. And what of that, Sir ? Have you any
thing to offer apon that ?
Lord G. (Sneer ingly .) Congratulations only :
to you, upon your good fortune to Miss Fitz-
Harding, upon her well-directed preference.
Stan. O spare your irony, my Lord; sarcasm
is a blunt weapon in the hands of guilt : the au-
thority which I possess over her, springs solely
from a pure desire to serve an injured woman ;
to heal the wounds of an afflicted -heart, and re-
store a fallen, but repentant angel, to health,
tranquillity, and self-respect.
Lord G. Pardon me, Mr. Stanly alt ho' I
scorn to whine, I am not ashamed to display my
feelings, when I arn conscious they originate in
truth' and virtue ; and though I own, my former
conduct gives me little claim to your considera-
tion, yet, from the patience which I have evinced
while smarting under the lash of your deserved
reproach, you may perhaps form some opinion of
the sincerity of my contrition. For Cecil's sake,
Ti SMILES AND TEARS,
for her clear infant's, I entreat you will allow me
once more to see her, tho' but for a few moments.
I fear I have no longer any influence over her 5
but should it happily prove otherwise, I pledge
my honour to make no unworthy use of it : you
may yourself be witness to our interview but let
me, let me see her!
Stan. (After reflection.) It shall be so your
request, my Lord, is grantedorder the carriage!
Lord G. Mine is at the door O, let us not
lose a moment !
Stan. Proceed, my Lord ; I have one word to
say to Lady Emily before I go, and I will follow
you immediately.
\_Exit Lord GLENTHORN on one side*
If you have a heart, I will yet probe it to the
core. \_Exit STANLY on the other.
Enter Sir H. CHOMLEY.
Sir Hen. Then I was right, and it was Del aval's
carriage that I saw at the door In what a hurry
he brushed by rne ! he seem'd as little inclined
to be seen by me, as I could be to be recognized
by him but for this name of Grenville, tho',
which I am fo^ed to assume, I should have had
some pleasure in shewing him, that in spite of his
efforts to mislead me, I had not only found Lady
Emily out, but was already established here, upon
a tolerable footing of intimacy. But where's
O'Donolan ? should he have given Lady Emily an
impression that I have boasted of the distinction
with which she has honoured me, 'twould ruin
me for ever ! but she is here ! I don't read any
marks of hostility in her looks then, O'Donolan,
thou art a noble fdjow !
SMILES AND TEARS. 75
Enter Mrs. BELMORE.
I hardly hoped to have the good fortune of
finding you alone, Madam ; I thought the Colo-
nel had been with you he is often here, he tells
me.
Mrs. Bel. O ? yes ; almost every day.
Sir Hen. So far accounts agree (Aside.) He
is a very good sort of fellow !
Mrs. Bel. Excellent, I think ; his feelings are
so warm, his understanding so good, his manners
so arqiable, I have the greatest possible esteem for
Colonel O'Ponolan.
Sir Hen. So it appears ; and 'tis as well to know
it from the fountain head (Aside.)
Mrs. Bel. You seem a little discomposed this
evening.
Sir Hen. I do feel a little awkwardly, I own,
Madam ; I have a most earnest desire to be inform-
ed upon a particular point, and yet I fear you may
deem my question impertinent.
Mrs Bel. I dare say not what is it ?
Sir Hen. Believe me, I don't propose it from idle
curiosity, but from a feeling in which my happi-
ness is deeply involved : Q'Donolan is young ;
prepossessing in person ; unexceptionable in cha-
racter ; with all these advantages, (pardon the
enquiry), has he not been fortunate enough to
inspire you with a sentiment of preference ?
Mrs. BeJ. Colonel O'Donolan ? No ; nor did
he ever dream of such a thing.
Sir Hen. O, you must pardon me ; he loves you
tenderly, most ardently ; for, by the oddest acci-
dent in the world, we communicated to each
other
Mrs, Bel. I have no wish to enquire into the
subject of his confidences ; but, whatever the Co-
76 SMILES AND TEARS.
lonel may have asserted, I owe it to myself to say,
the only sentiments he ever inspired in me, were
those of friendship
Sir Hen. You will, at least, allow that I had
cause for apprehension ; widowhood is not the
natural state of youth and beauty.
Mrs. Bel. Be that as it may, 'tis a state which
I shall never change.
Sir Hen. And what motive can have determin-
ed you in so selfish a resolution ?
Airs BeL The hazard I should run of not being
happy under a second engagement; besides, 'tis
pot unlikely that, by a law suit which is now peud-i
ing, my whole fortune may be forfeited, and I re-
duced to absolute penury.
Sir Hen. Happy, thrice happy the man, who is
permitted to avert the wrongs of fortune from
you ! Were I so blessed ! Oh, Lady Emily,! can no
longer struggle with my passion, and tho' a decla-
ration may for ever drive me from your presence,
yet, I must hazard all, to ease a heart overflowing
with the purest adoration my character is
known to all the world, my fortune, already am-
ple, will shortly be considerably increased, by a
favourable decree in Chancery.
Mrs. BeL And are you, too, so unfortunate as
to be involved in law ?
Sir Hen. Nay, call me rather fortunate ; for my
Lawyers assure me positively of success it was
once proposed that I should terminate the differ-
ence by a marriage with the hateful woman with
whom I am at issue, one Mrs. Belmore.
Mrs. Bel. Mrs. Belmore! And she is very
disagreeable ?
Sir Hen. Yes, I dare say she is ; I never saw her
though: a fat, ruddy dame, with a fine broad
provincial dialect, I '11 be worn* whose accomplish-
SMILES AND TEARS . 77
ments are making punch, preserves and pickles,
whose virtue is prudery, whose conversation is
scandal, and whose code of morality consists in a
zealous intolerance towards all the weaknesses of
frail humanity.
Mrs. Bel. What a portrait ! but I can assure
you, Mrs. Belmore, in no one point, resembles the
description you have given of her.
Sir Htn. You know her then, Madam ?
Mrs. Bel. Intimately ; I know too, that she
possesses many estimable qualities : Her husband,
Mr Brim ore, was a man of cultivated taste and
polished manners ; can it then be believed that he
would be content to live, and in retirement too,
with such a being as you have just depicted ?
Come, let us do her justice, and suppose she may
possess some virtues, which entitled her to the
esteem and love of so wise and honourable a man :
she is prouder, too, than you imagine ; and, if
you have received an offer of her hand, be assur-
ed, it was without her knowledge, and the pro-
posal has entailed upon it's author the strongest
marks of her resentment.
Sir Hen. As I have never seen the Lady, what I
have said, were she even informed of it, ought not
to wound her self-love in the least. But, can you
pardon this attack upon your friend, for, by your
warmth in her defence, I perceive she is so ?
Mrs. Bel. What inconsiderate creatures are
you men ! hating and loving, as prejudice or pre-
possession governs ! For instance, now, you think
me pleasing, at least you have told me so ; yet
scarcely know me, and judge as superficially of me
as you have done of Mrs. Belmore ; but she shall
take her own revenge, for I am determined you
shall see her.
Sir Hen. My dear Lady Emily, you cannot
mean to
/
78 SMILES AND TEARS.
Mrs. Bel. How do you know that you may not
think her agreeable ?
Sir Hen. As your friend, I may, just that; but
nothing more.
Mrs. Bel. I have a strong idea that you would
fall in love with her as suddenly as you have done
with me, and in that case, a marriage
Sir Hen. Never, never! Were I to lose my cause,
and my whole estate to it, I would save neither
by an union with her. No, no ; 't is you, and
only you.
Mrs. Bel. But I have already told you, I may
shortly be a beggar ; should I lose my law- suit
Sir Hen. I shall gain mine the chances are, we
cannot both be cast.
Mrs. Bel. Probably not ; but what would you
say, now, if, without knowing it, you had already
met Mrs. Bel more ? Suppose she were the lady
whom you saw here this morning, and with whom
you are engaged to sing to-night ?
Sir Hen. You are not in earnest, surely What!
that lady Mrs. Belmore ?
Mrs. Bel. The same.
Sir Hen. Now is n't this extraordinary ! the very
instant I saw that woman, I took an aversion to
her.
Mrs. Bel. And yet. she is extremely beauti-
ful !
Sir Hen. I don't think so.
Mrs Bel. And remarkably clever.
Sir Hen. If you desire it, I will subscribe to all
her perfections ; and to prove that she does not
in vain possess the title of your friend, I here
drop all proceedings against her, and to your arbi-
tr^tion submit my cause.
Mrs. Bel, Why then but here she comes.
SMILES AND TEARS. 70
Enter Lady EMILY and O'DONOLAN.
Lady E. (As she enters, to O'DoxoLANJ Well,
since you so solemnly assert it, I, like an upright
judge, am bound to believe you innocent till you
are proved guilty.
Mrs. Bel. You could not, my dear friend,
have arrived at a more propitious moment ; Sir
H. Chomley, for I must now give him his real
appellation, informed of my friendship to Mrs.
Bel more, generously agrees to drop all further
proceedings, and is desirous of terminating the
dispute by an amicable arrangement.
O'Don. O ! then, I'm delighted to hear it ;
and by what method do you propose
Sir Hen. Faith, 'tis a matter of indifference to
me the simplest and shortest way, however, I
think best.
O'Don. The simplest way, would be by mar-
riage; Oh ! I give you joy, with all my heart !
Sir Hen. The simplest, indeed; I understand it,
Sir ; you would be happy to get rid of a rival.
Lady E. But Mrs. Belmore may think her
cause better than Sir Henry's, and not easily be
induced to relinquish
Sir Hen. You'll see, now, this confounded wo-
man will force me ^o marry her whether I will
or not.
Lady E. To be sure, as Colonel O'Donolan
observes, a marriage would
Sir Hen. There, there ! I told you so ; a bold
push for a husband, that, by Jupiter! (Aside.)
Madam, it would be vain to use any ceremony
upon the present occasion; you maybe, and I
dare say are, every thing that is charming but,
vve^are not the masters of our affections, and I
L2
SO SMILES AND TEARS.
must inform you, that mine are irrevocably de-
voted to your amiable friend.
Lady E. I don't comprehend you, Sir Henry ;
for whom do you take me ?
Sir Hen* For whom, but Mrs. Belmore ?
Lady E. (To Mrs. BELMORE.) So then, it
seems I -pass for you now ?
Mrs. Bel. And why not, my dear Lady Emily,
since you so lately contrived to make me pass for
you ?
Sir Hen. What do I hear? Lady Emily ! and
you then, after all, are
Mrs. Bel. The hateful Mrs Belmore.
Sir Hen. (Kneeling) O ! how shall I ever atone
for the injuries which I have done you ?
Lady E. Rise, rise, Sir Henry ; for I read in
her looks, that you have gained your cause.
Sir Hen. (To Mrs. BELMORE.) Will you not
deign to confirm the
Lady E. Why will you force her to look more
silly than she does already ? The thing is set-
tled ; say HO more about it ; and now, having
ended a case in law, to the satisfaction, I hope,
of all parties, I have one in physic that claims
our immediate attention ; and may the cause of
poor Fitzharding terminate as happily as that of
Belmore versus Chomley ! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Ward in the Asylum.
FITZHARDING and CECIL.
Fitz. She used to sing it, and it thrilled my
very soul !
Cecil. Shall I sing it to you ?
SMILES AND TEARS. 81
Fitz. No, no ; not you, not you : I could not
bear it yet let me hear the words ; repeat them !
Cecil (repeats.)
" Tears, such as tender fathers sliecl,
Warm from my aged eyes descend,
For joy to think when I am dead,
My son will have mankind his friend.'*
Fitz. No, no, no, not so ;
" For joy to think when I am dead,
Cecil will have mankind her friend."
She used to sing it so, when I desired her
and Oh ! so well hut she can sing it no more
now ; she is dead, she is dead ! and we will go
and weep upon her tomb you will not leave me ?
Cecil. (Weeping). O, never, never, never!
Fitz. (Looking wistfully in her face.) Poor
thing ! poor thing ! pale, very pale ; and she had
such a bloom ! you have promised not to leave
me? The ruffians will, perhaps, attempt to drive
you hence ; but do not go, Oh ! no ; stay here,
and talk with me the live-long day of Cecil.
Cecil. (Eagerly). You love her still, then ?
Fitz. Ah 1 can a father cease to love his child ?
Assassins have stabbed, and vultures gnawed my
flesh, morsel by morsel ; but they have not yet
reached the seat of life feel, feel, my heart is
whole, still (she lets her head sink upon his breast)
very, very pale !
Cecil. If you were to see your Cecil, should
you should you know her again ?
Fitz. (Recollecting.) Should I know her ? O
yes, yes ; were she to appear before me with her
golden ringlets playing luxuriantly about her face,
her ethereal form all clad in virgin white, and her
soft voice breathing those heavenly sounds which
82 SMILES AND TEARS.
still vibrate in my heart, Oh ! then, I could not
be mistaken in her but she is gone ! she is
there (pointing to the drawing of the Tomb in his
Cell) cold, cold and lifeless !
Cecil. But were she living, now to clasp your
knees, as I do now, confess her fault, and with
a penitent and humble heart solicit your forgive-
ness, what would you do ?
Fitz. (Furiously.) Do ? I would strike the
wanton lifeless to rny feet !
Cecil. Oh horrible !
Fitz. No, no ; not if it give you pain no,
no ; if she could come again, the only vengeance
I would take, should be to clasp her to my heart,
and ratify the pardon she implored
Enter STANLY.
Stan. (To CECIL.) Your presence is immedi-
ately required in the adjoining chamber.
Fitz. Ah ! whither are you going? And can
you leave me too ?
Cecil. 1 will soon return, my Father.
Fitz. Father ! Father ! Ha, ha, ha ! 'tis long,
'tis very long, since I have heard that appellation,
and in such a tone repeat itO 1 repeat it !
Cecil. Farewell, my Father !
Fitz. Ha ! ha ! ha ! but you'll return ; O ! say
you will you have been too long away I cannot
longer live without you.
Cecil (Delighted.) O ! heard you that ?
Stan. Come, come ; but a few hours, and with
Heaven's assistance, all your distress will vanish,
(STANLYybrces CECIL gently off.)
Fitz. She's gone ; again she has abandon'd me
is this another dream ? once before, I thought I
saw a form resembling Cecil : I press'd her to my
SMILES AND TEAKS. 83
heart : this very day, she sheltered me from ruf-
fiansbut, for all that, she is dead ; she's there!
(Points to the Tomb.) There, and my own
for ever ! O Cecil ! Cecil ! Cecil !
[Exit into Ids Cell.
SCENE III.
An Apartment in the Asylum.
Enter Lord GLENTHORN.
Lord G, What have I heard ! am I myself in-
fected, or have I really beheld my Cecil, and her
frantic father? and could I view the frightful spec-
tacle occasioned by my crime, and not expire
upon the spot ! Inhuman Stanly ! were not the
agonies of remorse sufficiently acute, but you must
superadd this scene of horror ? should Cecil
scorn my unfeigned repentance, I have no re-
medy, no hope for this world or the next.
Enter STANLY and CECIL.
Stan. Grieve not, that you must leave him
now the impression given to his mind, will be a
powerful auxiliary in Lady Emily's plan ; while
you remain here, I will give orders for his im-
mediate conveyance to my house, and trust to
Providence, to crown our efforts with success.
[Exit STANLY.
Cecil. -Success ! alas ! I have not deserved it
but, my Father, whose life has been one scene
of pure unsullied goodness, for his sake,, Heaven
may extend its mercy, and change our present
misery, to joy unutterable (Lord GLENTHORN
timidly advances.) What do I see? Delaval,
81 SMILES AND TEARS.
here ! this shock at least might have been spared
me.
LordG. Cecil!
Cecil. Ah! leave me 'tis not my wish to
upraid you, Delaval, therefore leave me lest
suffering under anguish, great, sure, as ever hu-
man breast endured, I vent my feelings in re-
proach and bitterness.
Lord G. Spare me not, Cecil ; pour deepest
curses on my head I have deserved them all.
Cecil. No, Delaval ; in my acutest moments
of affliction, when scarcely mistress of my despe-
rate thoughts, I have recollected that you were
the father of my infant, and all my maledictions
have been changed to fervent prayers for your
repentance.
Lord G. Those prayers were heard, my Cecil :
truer contrition never touched a sinner's heart,
that that which Heaven has awakened here by
that remorse, and for our tender infant's sake, let
me conjure you
Cecil Delaval, desist ! nor, by appealing to a
mother's weakness, strive to shake a resolution
which is now irrevocable.
Lord G. At your suspicions of my sincerity,
Cecil, I have no right to feel offended your
worst reproaches cannot wound more keenly than
those of my own self-accusing conscience ! but
by my regenerated heart I swear, that every fu-
ture hour of my life shall prove my truth, every
faculty of my soul be bent to repair the wrong*
that I have done you, and bring back peace and
comfort to your heart.
Cecil. Peace ! O, cast a look within yon cell,
behold my father, driven to madness by my guilt,
then tell me where a wretch like me should look
for peace ! That your sentiments have undergone
a change so conducive to your future welfare,
SMILES AND TEARS. 85
Heaven knows how truly I rejoice ! for me, I
have imposed a sacred duty upon myself, to
which every instant, every thought, must be assi-
duously dedicated to your protection I dare now
assign our child ; it would have eased my afflicted
heart to have wept over him sometimes ; but to
comfort I have no claim, and even that sorrowful
consolation I will forego for his advantage re-
ceive him, Delaval ! teach him to shun the vices
which have destroyed our happiness, and never,
Oh ! never let him know the wretched being to
whom he owes existence !
Lord G (Striking his forehead.) Fool 1 Fool !
what a treasure hast thou cast away !
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE IV.
d Room in Stantys House.
Enter O'DONOLAN and Sir H. CHOMLEY.
O'Don. Had I not sworn to renounce all jea-
lousy for the future, I should feel inclined to give
way to something like ill-humour, during this
separation frotrfLady Emily ; and how you can
be so composed under your privation, is to me
marvellous ! I'm sure I shan't be able to keep my
temper long.
Sir Hen. I tell you what, my friend, 'tis a de-
vilish bad one, and the sooner you get rid of it
the better ; but the truth is, I am too happy to
be out of humour at any thing that can happen
and had you employed yourself as I have done,
you would have had no leisure for irritability
the secret of happiness, is occupation, and the true
art of attaching man or woman, the constant en-
deavour to make yourself useful take my word
86 SMILES AND TEARS.
for it, a woman of spirit soon grows tired of a fel-
low who can do nothing but languish and look
soft there's too little variety in sighs and groans;
for, when you have breathed your longest Oh !
you have reached your climax, and there's an end
of you.
O'Don. And how the devil can I help looking
soft! Well, that you should choose to walk into
a dirty lumber-room and tumble over fusty old
pictures and broken china, when you ought to
nave been elevated to the seventh heaven with
delight, is past my comprehension.
Sir Hen. I think it good policy to be concerned
as far as possible in every thing which gives plea-
sure to others ; and trifling as the circumstance
may appear, my having assisted in hunting out
the family pictures, if they should contribute to
Mr. Fitzharding's recovery, will not only ensure
me Lady Emily's good wishes, but 1 shall have
the satisfaction also of knowing, that I had some
little share in producing so desirable an event;
and I hope that's better than being, like you,
happy till you are quite miserable.
Enter Lady EMILY.
Lady E. Come, come ; every thing is in rea-
diness Fitzharding is arrived, and tho' hitherto
kept in total darkness, has been perfectly tran-
quilthe room that we have selected for our
scene of action, is, in every particular, restored
to the sarrie state it was in when he himself in-
habited this house. My own agitation is scarcely
less than that of Cecil j who, flushed with anxiety
and wild with hope, js looking mpre animatedly
beautiful than she could have done even in her
days of happiness pray come, for the moment
of trial is qt hand.
SMILES AND TEARS. 87
Q'Don. Are there no more tables and chairs to
move then ? Ah, now, can't / make myself use-
ful by taking some sort of trouble ?
Lady E. I am afraid not, Colonel ; so for the
present, you must content yourself with being
merely ornamental.
O'Don. O then, that will suit me to a hair ;
for sure I can be that without any trouble at all.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V,
A Room in Stanly's House, hung with Pictures ;
a full length of Cecil, playing upon the Harp
occupies the centre: it is covered by a green
Cur taint
FITZHARDING, SfANLY, Lady EMILY, Sir H.
CHOMLEY, Mrs. BELMORE, and O'DONOLAN,
discovered.
Fitz. Yes, I remember now, 'twas there^ on
summer evenings I used to sit with one, too
dearly loved, and watch the sun-beams sparkling
in the stream.
Sir Hen. And shall again, I hope, Sir.
Fitz. Never, never ; she was snatched from
me by the damned artifices of a human fiend
Oh ! never, never !
Stan, Stung by remorse, and eager to repair
the wrongs that he has done you he comes to
give her to your arms again, and crave your
blessing on their union.
Fitz. For shame, for shame ! falsehood but ill
becomes that silvered head.
Stan* By Heaven
M2
SS SMILES AND TEARS.
Fitz. You mock me, Sir ; I tell you she is
dead Poor Cecil 1 Cold ! cold ! cold !
Lady E. (Drawing back the curtain.) Has not
this portrait some resemblance to her ?
Fitz. Ha ! hide her, hide her ! she has shot
lightning thro* my veins ! and see, see, see, at her
command, the spirits of departed joys flit quickly
by, pointing .and grinning at me as they pass
Oh ! let me fly (as he is rushing off, she plays
and sings " Tears such as" &c.) Why, yes,
that voice! and yet, O, tell me, art thou real, or
sent by Hell to tantalize and torture me ?
Cecil. (Rising in the frame.) Oh! my belov-
ed father !
Fitz. (In extacy.) Ha ! 't is not illusion for
by the thick pulsation of my heart, I feel 't is she,
my long-lost child, my much-loved, erring, and
forgiven Cecil ! (They rush into each other's arms,
then Cecil falls at his feet, and embraces his knees).
Lady E. This is a spectacle, on which even
Heaven smiles Repentance, kneeling at the
feet of Mercy ! (Ths Curtain falls, and the Play
concludes}.
THfi END.
Undon : Printed by B.
t, Covatt C*rufc
IPILOGUE.
BY JAMES SMITH, ESQ.
SPOKEtf BY MR.LISTON, AS GOOSEQUILL THE POET,
Walks on disordered, then attempts to walk off.
They've fasten'd the door O Lord what shall I doi
I'll bolt thro' the other they've bolted that too !
I'm hoarse 1'rrHiysteric I can't speak a nofe!
I really feel quite a lump in my throat 1
I'm Goosequill the Poet Lord ! don't look so queer;
If you doubt I'm a Poet why only look here
[Shews his ragged elbow.]
I lodge in Fleet Street, where they sell sassafras,
You must know the shop it is lit up with gas
From cellar to garret ; my bed-room can't hide me-
When I put on my night-cap, the whole parish 'spied met
As my cash wasn't ready for next quarter-day,
Says I, " What's to be done ?" Says my wife, " Write a play,"
Oh Genius Dramatic ! thou sweetest of blisses j 1
It hits for a certain unless where it misses ! V
Ecod, its rare fun ! if it wasn't for hisses. ^
When my play was fair copied top-heavy with joy all,
I walk'd thro' the Strand to the Theatre Royal.
I chanced, in my ramble, a fine girl to see
I lik'd her of course, and, of course, she lik'd me.
I wanted to-kiss her the devil take gas !
My wife on the opposite side chanc'd to pass,
And seeing me, scream'd in a jezabel yell,
' O ho ! Mr. Goosequill ! that's you ! very well I"
I took to my heels, and to Bow Street came soon,
Where a poor girl was had up for stealing a spoon.
Her friends were in tears - f it was all six and seven--
There should have been twelve but she counted eleven.
The Justice was stern, and her heart seem'd to farther;
I didn't keep house, yet I offer'd to bail her,-
When a fur-coated buck, in a chimney-pot hat,
Cried, " Psha ! its the Maid and the Magpie, you fiat !"
How d'ye like Smiles and Tears? If you smile I'll be skittish
I'll dine at ihe Bedford ! FJ1 sup at the British !
I'll buy Mrs. Goosequill a Frenchified bonnet j
I'll walk to Blackheath but I mustn't walk on it !
I'm off! verbum sat ! Critics down with your rod :
If you damn Smiles and Tears, you will send me to quod,
I must quit my sky-parlour, to 'scape John Doe's clutches.
And bolt thro' the air like the Devil on Crutches I
REVISED BY MR. KEMBLE.
This Day is published,
In Eight handsome Volumes, 12mo., Price 27. 4s. extra
Boards; or in Numbers, It. each,
A SELECT BRITISH THEATRE;
BEING
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London: Printed for John Miller, 25, Bow-strett, Covent-
Garden : Sold also by Gale & Fenner, Paternoster-row; Mae-
redie, SkeHy&Co. Edinburgh; W. H. Tyrrell, College-green.
Dublin; and W. Grapel, Liverpool.
Printed by B. M'Millan, Bow-Street, Covent-Gardcu.
NEW "PLAYS,
PUBLISHED BY JOHN MILLER,
25, BOW-STREET, COVENT - CABMEN*
THE MAID AND THE MAGPIE 5 or, Which i
the Thief? translated from the French, by SAMUEL JAM**
AKNOLD, Esq. Price Is. 6d.
THE MAGPIE OR THE MAID? by I. POCOCK,
Esq. ; as performing at the Theatre- Royal, Covent- Garden.
With a Coloured Print. Price 2s.
THE DUKE'S COAT; or, The Night after Waterloo:
a Musical Farce, intended for Representation at the Theatre-
Royal, Lyceum, but interdicted by the Licenser of Plays.
Price 2s.
LIVING IN LONDON, a Comedy, in Three Acts, by
the AUTHOR OF LOVE AND GOUT, 8rc. &c. > as performed
at the Theatre- Royal, Haymarket. Price 2s, (yd.
ZEMBUCA, a Melo-Dramaiic Romance, in Two Acts,
by 1. POCOCK, Esq. j as performed at the Theatre-Royal,
Covent-Garden. Price 2s.
JOHN OF PARIS, a Comic Opera, in Two Acts, by
I. POCOCK, Esq. ; a* performed at the Theatre-Royal,
Covem-Garden. Price 2s.
TAMERLANE, a Tragedy, in Five Acts, by ROWE - r
now first published as it is performed at the Theatres Royal,
Price Is.
THE ORPHAN, a Tragedy, in Five Acts, by OTWAY*
as revived at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Gardtn. Price Jj.
KING RICHARD THE SECOND; altered and adapted
to the Stage by RICHARD WRGUGHTON, Esq. j as per-
formed at the Theatre- Royal, Drury-Lane. Price 2s. tid.
RICHES ; or, The Wife and Brother : a Play, in Five
founded on Mnssinger's City Madam, by Sir JAMES
BLAND BURGES, Bart. Price 2s. Od.
INTRIGUE, a Comic Interlude, in One Act, by JOHN
POOLE, Esq. Author of Hamlet Travestie 5 as performed at
the Theatre- Royal, Drury-Lane. Price is. 6d.
THE WOODMAN'S HUT, a Melo-Dramatic Ro-
mance, in Three Acts j as performed at the '1 he-
Drury-Lane. Price 2s.
.-ion: Printed by
rv. Strict, Covnt Garden.
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