A Rough Diamond

ADVERTISEMENT

THE two little Dramas of A ROUGH DIAMOND and GOOD FOR NOTHING, would not have been published but for the loss to the English Stage of one of its greatest ornaments, – the original representative of Margery and Nan. Whatever of goodness of heart, affection, cheerfulness, honesty, and self-sacrifice may be found in those characters, the truthfulness with which she pourtrayed such qualities may be mainly ascribed to the fact, that they existed in her own genuine and most genial nature.

It was intended by the Author to keep these with other productions unpublished, and solely for the professional use of the late Mrs. Fitzwilliam; but the affliction he has suffered in losing one so dear to him having changed this intention, and prevented him ever again appearing as Cousin Joe or Tom Dibbles, he has been induced to print the Dramas in the hope that the female characters may be found suited to young and rising talent, of which the Stage at the present time unfortunately stands so much in need.

A

ROUGH DIAMOND

SCENE. —A Country Residence – Door C., opening on a lawn with carriage way; on each side of the entrance are Statues – Door L.H.U.E. – An open door, R.H.U.E., leading to a Shrubbery – High flower stands on each side of the Stage, containing flowers – Plain chairs, &c. &c.

SIR WILLIAM. Come in, come in – I’m delighted to see you. Harry, lead the horse to the stable.

SIR W. I thought it was a face I knew. I’m very glad to see you – it’s more than two years since we met! Where do you come from? – where are you going to? – and how d’ye do?

BLEN. My regiment is quartered about a mile off – we arrived there but yesterday – I knew you had a country house in the neighbourhood, and I had come in search of you.

SIR W. Excellent! now I have indeed a companion, for I shall expect you to pass all your leisure with me. I thought you were abroad, as I had not heard from you so long.

BLEN. I have been stationed in Ireland.

SIR W. You’re looking in excellent health, and your spirits are as buoyant as ever, I’m sure.

BLEN. I have nothing to complain of as regards my health – my spirits I can’t say much for.

SIR W. What, any old creditors troublesome, or —

BLEN. No, I’ve nothing to fear from them.

SIR W. Some love affair – some tender attachment.

BLEN. Now you’re right; I may as well be candid and tell you so.

SIR W. Jilted, or rejected, or —

BLEN. Shortly after you left me at college, I formed an attachment to a young girl that I idolized with all the enthusiasm of youth.

SIR W. Aye, aye; we generally begin that way.

BLEN. My passion was returned with equal fervor; when it became necessary that I should select my position in life. My friends suggested the army, and my inclination led me to adopt their views. Ireland soon became my destination – a constant correspondence with the object of my passion was my only solace in exile, and for months I almost daily opened a letter written by her dear hand.

SIR W. How delightful! I have often thought how charming it must be to receive an eloquent letter from a much-loved source – to have the colloquial grace of a Sévigné mingled with the fervor of a Heloise, or the moral delicacy of a Chapone. Oh, my dear fellow, I envy you!

BLEN. Have you never experienced that happiness?

SIR W. Never; – but proceed with your history, mine shall follow – you went to Ireland, and there received letters from the lady of your love.

BLEN. A long silence ensued.

SIR W. What anxious hours you must have passed.

BLEN. Till one morning my servant placed a letter on my table – the object of my passion had married during her silence.

SIR W. I guessed as much – always something ominous in a woman’s silence.

BLEN. Her parents had met with misfortunes – a wealthy match presented itself – a match with a title.

SIR W. A match with a title! – ignition at once, of course.

BLEN. The temptation, added to the prayers of her friends, were too much for her. She yielded, but assured me she had done so with a broken heart – implored me to forget her – that her lot in life was cast, that the stern duties of her future existence should be fulfilled if she died in the struggle, yet confessed that I still occupied one little corner in her heart, and concluded with a beautiful quotation from Milton.

SIR W. A refined mind, an educated divinity, no doubt – one formed to adorn the rank she had gained.

BLEN. She was indeed accomplished.

SIR W. I thought so. Spoke Italian, no doubt?

BLEN. Fluently.

SIR W. And French?

BLEN. Better than a native.

SIR W. What a woman! Understood music?

BLEN. An enthusiast in the science.

SIR W. And mineralogy and archæology?

BLEN. Perfectly.

SIR W. And the steam engine?

BLEN. Yes.

SIR W. And the vestiges of creation?

BLEN. Yes, and chaos, and everything.

SIR W. What a woman! I should have adored her. And you lost this professor in petticoats?

BLEN. Irrevocably! She concealed the name and title of her husband, as she did not wish me to write in reply, as any reproach from me would but add to her wretchedness – and now you know the cause of my dejection.

SIR W. I pity you from my heart. If you have lost a treasure, you should see the one that I have found.

BLEN. You are married, I hear.

SIR W. Yes, I also formed an attachment to a young girl that I idolised. You have known me some years – that is to say, I was leaving college shortly after you entered, and you know how I have ever prized education – that it has been my watchword, my constant theme when I had a seat in Parliament. I don’t sit now, but that’s not my fault; but when I did sit, my constant agitation was education. “Educate,” said I, “educate! that is the panacea for every social evil!”

BLEN. I’ve read your speeches.

SIR W. You should have heard them – will you hear one now?

BLEN. Don’t trouble yourself.

SIR W. Well, after dinner. One day, Sir, in riding through the country, my horse stumbled, and I was thrown violently. My head encountered the edge of a stone wall; the wall being the hardest I was the only sufferer. Stunned and bleeding I was carried into a farm-house. My injuries were so severe that I was compelled to remain there for some weeks. The farmer’s daughter constantly waited on me, paid me so much attention, so amused me, so anticipated my every wish – in short, made herself so necessary to my comforts, that —

BLEN. You —

SIR W. Exactly! I used to watch her every action as I reclined on my sofa. She was rude and odd, but there was a heartiness in her nature and a comeliness in her person that pleased me, that really fascinated me, till at last I began rather to love her.

BLEN. You love an uneducated country wench?

SIR W. It was silly, wasn’t it? but we are not our own masters in such matters. However, don’t laugh at me yet. I anticipated the pleasure of rightly directing her mind, of the happiness in possessing a subject on which to practise my favorite theory – in short, I pictured a whole life of felicity in educating the object of my affection.

BLEN. For which purpose you married her.

SIR W. I did, to the great disgust of my connexions; indeed, my uncle, Lord Plato, has never visited me since my union – has never written, or noticed me in any way.

BLEN. But you found happiness in combining the character of husband and tutor?

SIR W. I surrounded her with masters – an English master, a French master, a music master, a dancing master, a singing master, a philosophical lecturer, and a political economist.

BLEN. And what has been her progress?

SIR W. Her progress has been entirely stationary. I can do nothing with her – she seems to rejoice in her ignorance – and, though I sometimes think she has a capacity for learning, my hopes have been so often disappointed that I now give her up. She’s a female Orson, Sir, though I confess I was once her Valentine.

– There she is.

BLEN. Very merry, at any rate.

SIR W. Oh, she’s merry enough, and good-humoured enough; but, my dear Sir, with my prejudices, with my ideas of refinement, with my delicacy as regards conduct in society, conceive my agony in possessing a wife who is as wild as an unbroken colt, finds a nickname for everybody, and persists in being called by her Christian name of – of —

BLEN. What?

SIR W. I’m ashamed to tell you – Margery.

BLEN. Margery?

SIR W. I have tried to persuade her to change it to Matilda, or Magaretta, or Marguerite, but all in vain – she says her mother’s name was Margery, her grandmother’s name was Margery, that her name is Margery, and Margery she’ll be to the end of the chapter.

MARGERY. (without) Now, come along, Jack! and you, Tom, mind how you carry my kitten.

MAR. Now, Jack, mind what I say – how many pigs is there in the last litter? Oh, I know – eight! Well, you may send one to my cousin Joe – I’ll tell you where he lives by and by – two to my old dad, and one to Betsy Buncle, my old playfellow in Lancashire – the three black ones I shall want to have in the parlor to play with.

SIR W. Pigs in the parlor to play with? Lady Evergreen, do you not perceive a visitor?

MAR. Wait a minute – I’ll speak to him presently. Do as I bid you; and you, Tom, give my kitten her lunch, and turn all the young terriers loose on the grass plot, because I like to see ’em tumble over one another – and now go.

– Well, Sir, and how d’ye do, Sir? and (to BLENHEIM) how are you, and who are you?

SIR W. My dear, my dear, do think of your station! This is an old friend of mine – we were at college together. Captain Blenheim – Lady Evergreen.

MAR. (dropping a country curtsey) Hope you’re well, Sir – fine weather for the hay, and nothing can look better as yet than the taters.

SIR W. Hush, hush! don’t talk, my dear.

MAR. Then what did you bring him here for?

BLEN. I am delighted in being introduced to the wife of my old friend.

MAR. Well, I ain’t sorry to see you, if it comes to that, if only for a bit of a change, for my Billy here seldom lets anybody come a-visiting, and when I ask him why he don’t have a few friends now and then to kick up a bit of a bobbery —

SIR W. My dear!

MAR. I will talk! He says I’m too rough to mix up with his sort, and that he can’t bring ’em here or take me amongst them till I’m polished up; but I’m afraid I shall take so much polishing that I shall be worn out before I’m as bright as he wants me to be.

BLEN. I trust not, Madam.

SIR W. My dear, will you go into your —

MAR. Not just yet – if I talk a little more to the gentleman he’ll get used to me, and won’t notice my grammar. And I’m not going to stand mumchance and try to talk that horrid gibberish you’ve been wanting to teach me, when I’ve got a good English tongue of my own. Leave me alone, Billy, or I’ll set Growler at you. Please don’t mind us, Sir (to BLENHEIM), man and wife, you know, when in company often have a few snaps at one another on the sly, and, as it’s nobody’s business but their own, why, of course you don’t know what we’re snapping about, do you?

BLEN. Certainly not, my lady.

MAR. Of course! I suppose you’ve been educated, haven’t you, Sir?

BLEN. Your husband and I were at college together.

MAR. I know what you mean – you were schoolfellows. Well, I dare say you’re very glad to see one another. I know I should be very glad to see my cousin Joe – we were schoolfellows, too – used to go to Old Mother Tickle’s, at the first house in the village, close to the duck pond. Oh, many and many’s the time I’ve pushed him into it – up to his knees! Oh lord! it was so bong-bong– that’s a bit of French – do you understand it, Sir?

SIR W. (who has crossed behind to BLENHEIM) Don’t you, don’t you pity me?

BLEN. I think her charming – it’s natural gaiety of heart, nothing more.

SIR W. No, no, you’re pleased to compliment.

MAR. (comes between them) Hallo! you’re whispering! where’s your manners, whispering before a lady? Is that your education, my dear?

SIR W. I stand corrected.

MAR. Corrected? why, I haven’t touched you – though you deserve to catch toko, that you do.

SIR W. Well, my dear friend, I shall expect you to dine with us to-day.

MAR. Ah, do! come and take pot luck!

SIR W. Lady Evergreen, I implore you!

MAR. If he knows my meaning what does it matter? You’ll come, won’t you? Oh, do! and bring some of the sojers with you – I like sojers! What are you, a sharpshooter, or a – what d’ye call ’em?

BLEN. In the infantry, your ladyship.

MAR. Infant – infantry! Oh! what, young ’uns in arms?

SIR W. No, no, my dear!

MAR. I know, bless you! but I like what I used to see in the country – the – the yeo-ho – No, yeo-ho’s sailors – the yeomanry, that’s it! I like them best – such red jackets with yellow insides, and a thing on their heads like a tin pot with a large fox’s brush pulled over it. Oh, didn’t they look prime!

SIR W. Oh good gracious! oh good heavens! (stamps about in agony)

MAR. Oh! look at my Billy dancing! I never saw him so full of fun before.

BLEN. Well, Lady Evergreen, I shall certainly accept your kind invitation: I must return to my quarters for a short time, but will rejoin you in the course of half-an-hour. I am delighted at meeting you again, Sir William, and believe me equally delighted at my introduction to your excellent lady.

MAR. That’s hearty! give me your hand —you’re the kind o’ man I like, after all.

SIR W. Don’t be longer than half-an-hour.

BLEN. Not a moment. Adieu, my lady, for the present.

MAR. Good bye! Come again soon, now.

– Captain! bon jour! There! that’s French, there’s a bit of education for him!

SIR W. Now, my dear, that we are alone, I must tell you that your behaviour has been abominable.

MAR. Oh! has it? Now if I didn’t think I was quite the lady!

SIR W. What with your directions respecting your animals, and your reference to your cousin Joe and the old woman your schoolmistress, and your ridiculous eulogium on the uniform of the yeomanry, I thought I should have taken to my heels and have run out of the house.

MAR. I wish you had – I know I should have got on much better without you at my elbow. And as for my cousin Joe, he may be a stupid fellow and all that, but he’s a very good fellow, and if he don’t know how to make a proper bow, or a long speech like you do – such as when I’ve heard you practising to yourself about railroads, and borrowing money, and taxes, and the state of the nation, and situation of the population, and that horrible Education —he can talk so as I can understand him, and that’s more than I always can when you talk – and anybody else, for the matter o’ that. And if I did like the sojers I used to see so often, what harm was there in that? I’m sure the Captain was a fine man, a very fine man, whiskers and all – and I’ve often looked at him till I’ve felt as if I could eat him.

SIR W. I know that you mean no harm – I know that your heart is pure; but you must learn to be conscious of your present station in society. The diamond, though of value in its rough and original state, must be polished and set before it can be worn. Now to-day, when I rang for the cook and wished you to commence giving your own orders for dinner, and had previously practised you in the pronunciation of asking for cabillaud au gratin poulet roti—pomme de terre bute—

MAR. Well, I couldn’t recollect it, and so I thought it best to ask for what I liked better than anything.

SIR W. And are you aware what you did ask for?

MAR. I only asked for a toad in a hole.

SIR W. And didn’t you perceive the vain endeavour of the servant to conceal his laughter? didn’t you perceive my face suffused with blushes?

MAR. Well, I speak according to my knowledge, and I know I always speak the truth and what I want to say, without any beating about the bush; and that’s much better than being deceitful and making believe to be glad to see people when you really wish ’em at Jericho, and go grinning and smiling up to ’em, and shaking hands, when in your heart you’d like to shake ’em inside out – and make use of fine words and say beautiful things when you don’t mean it. You may call it polish if you like, but I call it telling lies.

SIR W. But the usages of society – the —

MAR. I don’t care! I shall follow my own usages, and I begin this morning by packing off my French master and my music master; and as for the dancing master, if he dares come here again and make my feet ache as he did yesterday, I’ll break his little fiddle over his head for him!

SERV. Lord and Lady Plato.

SIR W. Good heavens! my uncle and his wife, his first visit since his marriage! Now, my dearest Margaret, if you have any regard for me – and I know you have, after your own fashion —

MAR. I like you very much when you don’t snub me.

SIR W. I never will again, if you will only be a little on your guard now. Speak as few words as possible, and take off that apron and those gardening gloves, and try to recollect the way of receiving visitors that I have so often taught you.

MAR. I’ll try.

SIR W. There’s a dear! and I’ll give you a kiss when they’re gone.

MAR. No, give it me now.

SIR W. (kissing her) There! (to SERVANT) I’ll attend his lordship immediately.

MAR. Bless me! then I must titivate a little. (rings a bell) I’m to take off these gloves and this apron.

– Come here, Lucy – take these things, will you? (giving her the gloves and apron) Now my hair and my dress – do I look nice and proper to see gentlefolks? Oh! my shoes do pinch me so! There, that will do – now go.

SIR W. My dear uncle, this is kind! I was afraid you would never honor me with a visit again. Lady Plato, I am delighted to know you. You can form no idea how gratified I am by the unexpected pleasure of seeing you.

PLATO. Just returned from a trip to the Highlands.

SIR W. I was fearful I had offended you, but this kindness assures me we are still friends.

PLATO. We shall have the pleasure of meeting Lady Evergreen, I hope.

SIR W. Certainly – her ladyship is present. You have heard of my choice, and will, I trust, overlook any gaucherie– any —

PLATO. Certainly! I’ve considered the matter, and as there is now no help for it, why, what can’t be cured – I need say no more.

SIR W. Lady Evergreen, permit me to introduce you to my excellent uncle, Lord Plato, and to Lady Plato.

MAR. Lord, it’s Polly! Oh, Polly dear, is it you? Oh! how glad I am to see you. Well now, only to think!

LADY P. My dear old friend!

MAR. It is she! Oh, I’m so glad! Oh! that I should see you again – oh my gemini! (to SIR WILLIAM) My dear, she’s my old, my dear, my dearest friend – she was at school at the big house where I used to take fruit from the farm to all the girls, and she took a fancy to me – didn’t you, Polly? and I took a fancy to her, and we used to play together, and sing together, and then she came to my father’s and stopped a whole month when she had the measles. Oh dear! oh! I’m going to cry now – I’m so happy.

SIR W. (to LADY PLATO) Old acquaintance I perceive, my lady.

LADY P. Indeed we are! I cannot express the pleasure, the delight I experience at once more meeting the playmate of my infancy.

MAR. Don’t you remember blind man’s buff, and puss in the corner? Oh, I do, so well! And only to think that you should be married to my husband’s uncle! Lord, you’re my aunt! Oh what fun! (takes LADY PLATO up the Stage)

SIR W. You see, my lord, the choice I have made; but you are aware of my feelings, my motives – I have been disappointed hitherto, but still I hope to succeed.

PLATO. Don’t allude to the matter, I beg. In the refined society of Lady P., your wife will receive more instruction from the force of example than could be accomplished by any system. We’ll leave them together, as I wish to have a little conversation with you on the state of the nation.

SIR W. I’ll attend your lordship with pleasure.

PLATO. (to LADY PLATO) Adieu, my dearest, for a few moments – you will, I know, prefer a little freedom with your old acquaintance. Lady Evergreen will, I’m sure, excuse us.

MAR. Oh yes! and thank you for going.

PLATO. Frank, at any rate! You’ll be delighted with Lady Plato. (to SIR WILLIAM) Such refinement! such intellect! Gigantic, Sir, gigantic! – and such angelic sweetness!

SIR W. Ah! all education – all education!

MAR. Oh, Polly dear! I never thought to see you any more! Let me look at you all over! Yes, it is the same – the same eyes, the same mouth, the same nose – all the same! But you don’t laugh as you used – not look so merry. What’s the matter, dear? – don’t you do as you like? ar’n’t you happy in your mind?

LADY P. A sadness oppresses me that I find very difficult to conquer.

MAR. Your husband worries you, I dare say – mine does sometimes, though he’s very good to me, one way and another. But I don’t like his wanting me to learn so much about nouns, and pronouns, and history – and then he gives me such dull books to read, all about astrology, and chronology, and physiology, and conchology, and etymology, and how many miles the moon’s off – just as if one wanted to know, as long as it shines. I can’t bear it! Give me Robinson Crusoe and the Seven Champions – that’s what I like! But with all his learning I can do what he can’t.

LADY P. What’s that, my dear?

MAR. Get up on a cold morning. Ah! you should only see him try!

LADY P. Your gaiety of heart, my dear Margaret —

MAR. Margery, call me Margery – it sounds more comfortable.

LADY P. My dear Margery —

MAR. That’s it!

LADY P. And animal spirits, are proof against all temperatures.

MAR. Lord! how fine you do talk! you’ll be just the thing for my husband – I wonder whether I shall like yours. He seems a funny old fellow, and so grand too, and so upright, and his hair all so nicely floured over. What did you love him for?

LADY P. To gratify the wishes of my parents; the position that my union insured flattered and pleased me, while it removed the troubles of my family. I am grateful, very grateful, for his lordship’s preference, I confess – but – there’s —

MAR. Somebody else you like better. Well, never mind, dear, you’ll love the old one very well by and by.

BLEN. I am pretty punctual you see, Lady Evergreen. Is it possible? Mary!

LADY P. Augustus!

MAR. What, do you know one another too? Why, he’s my husband’s old schoolfellow, and we’ve asked him to come and pick a bit with us to-day. Now this is what I like – old friends all meeting together again. Oh! won’t we have a merry evening!

BLEN. I never thought to see you more.

LADY P. This meeting will be most embarrassing! I am here, with my husband, and —

BLEN. You would wish me to retire.

MAR. I can understand – that is the one you like better, is it? Well, never mind, dear, don’t be afraid of your husband meeting him – they won’t fight, will they? and if they do, what o’ that? People that fight are often the best friends in the world when it’s all over.