 Preface of The Drummer or The Haunted House by Joseph Addison. Having recommended this play to the town and delivered the copy of it to the bookseller, I think myself obliged to give some account of it. It had been some years in the hands of the author, and falling under my perusal, I thought so well of it that I persuaded him to make a few additions and alterations to it, and let it appear upon the stage. I own I was very highly pleased with it, and liked it the better, for the want of those studied similes and repartets which we, who have writ before him, have thrown into our plays, to indulge and gain upon a false taste that has prevailed for many years in the British theatre. I believe the author would have fallen into this way a little more than he has, had he, before the writing of it, been often present at theatrical representations, and observed the effect that such ornaments generally have upon the town. I was confirmed in my thoughts of the play, by the opinion of better judges to whom it was communicated, who observed that the scenes were written very much after Molière's manner, and that an easy and natural vein of humour ran through the hole. I do not question but the reader will discover this, and see many beauties that escape the audience, the touches being too delicate for every taste in a popular assembly. My brother-sharers were of opinion, at the first reading of it, that it was like a picture in which the strokes were not strong enough to appear with advantage at a distance. As it is not in the common way of writing, the approbation was at first doubtful, but has risen every time it has been acted, and has given an opportunity, in several of its parts, for as just and good action as I ever saw on the stage. The reader will consider that I speak here as the patentee, for which reason I forbear being more particular in the character of this play, lest I should appear like one who cries up the wares of his own shop to draw in customers. Richard Steele Jermattis Bersone Sir George Truman, read by Larry Wilson Tinsel, read by Thomas Peter Phantom, the drama, read by son of the Exiles Vellum, Sir George Truman Steward Read by Todd The Butler, read by T.J. Burns Coachman, read by Campbell Shelp Gardner, read by Alan Mapstone Lady Truman, read by Beth Thomas Epigale, read by Avayee Stage Directions, read by Devorah Allen The Prologue In this grave age, during comedies or few, we crave your patronage for one that's new, though to her poor stuff yet bid the author fair, and let the scarceness recommend the word. Long have your ears been filled with tragic parts, blood and blank verse have hardened all your hearts. If ere you smile, Tiz, at some party's stokes, round heads and wooden shoes are standing jokes. The same conceit gives claps and hisses birth, you're grown such politicians in your birth. For once we try, though Tiz I own none safe, to please you all and make both parties laugh. The author, anxious for his fame tonight, and bashful in his first attempt to write, lies cautiously obscure and unrevealed, like ancient actors in a mask concealed, since sure when no man knows who writes the play, for much good malice merely thrown away, the mighty critics will not blasts for shame a raw young thing who dares not tell his name. Good-natured judges will then know and defend, and fear to blame, least they should hurt a friend. Each wit may praise it for his own dear sake, and hint he rid it if the thing should take. But if you're rough and use him like a dog, depend upon it, he'll remain in cove. If you should hiss, he swears he'll hiss as high, and like a culprit join the hue and cry. If cruel men are still averse to spare these scenes, they fly for refuge to the fair. Though with a ghost our comedy is heightened, ladies upon my word, you shan't be frightened. O, tis a ghost that scorns to be uncivil, a well-spread, lusty, jointure, hunting devil, an amorous ghost that's faithful, fond and true, made up of flesh and blood as much as you. Then every evening come and flocks, undaunted, we never think this house is too much haunted. End of Preface, Act I of the Drummer, or the Haunted House, by Joseph Addison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act I, A Great Hall, Enter the Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. There came another coach to town last night that brought a gentleman to inquire about this strange noise we hear in the house. This spirit will bring a power of custom to the George. If so be he continues, his pranks, I designed to sell a pot of ale and set up the sign of the drum. I'll give madder mourning, that's flat. I've always lived in sober families. I will not disparage myself to be a servant in a house that is haunted. I'll eat and marry now, and rent a bit of ground on my own if both of you leave madam. Not but that madam's a very good woman, if Mistress Abigail did not spoil her. Come, here's her elf. It's a very hard thing to be a butler in a house that is disturbed. He made such a racket in the cellar last night that I'm afraid he'll sour all the beer in my barrels. Why then, John? We ought to take it off as fast as we can. Here's to you. He rattled so loud under the tiles last night that I verily thought the house would have fallen over our heads. I durst not go up into the cock loft this morning if I had not got one of the maids to go along with me. I thought I heard him in one of my bed posts. I marvel, John, how he gets into the house when all the gates are shut. Why, look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep you into an auger hole. He'll whisk you through a keyhole without so much as justling against one of the wards. Poor madam is mainly frightened, that's certain, and verily believes tis my master that was killed in the last campaign. Out of all manner of question, Robin, tis sir George. Mistress Abigail is of the opinion it can be none but his honor. He always loved the wards. And ye know, he was mightily pleased from a child with the music of a drum. I wonder his body was never found after the battle. Found? Why ye fool, is not his body here about the house? Does thou think he can beat his drum without hands and arms? Tis master, as sure as I stand here alive, and I verily believe I saw him last night in the town clothes. I? How did he appear? Like a white horse. Fuh, Robin, I tell ye he has never appeared yet but in the shape of the sound of a drum. This makes one almost afraid of one's own shadow. As I was walking from the stable tether-night without my land-thorn, I fell across a beam that lay in my way, and faith my heart was in my mouth. I thought I had stumbled over a spirit. Thou mightest as well have stumbled over a straw. Why, a spirit is such a little, little thing, that I have heard a man, who was a great scholar, say, that he'll dance ye a lankisher hornpipe on the point of a needle. As I sat in the pantry last night, counting my spoons, the candle me thought burnt blue, and the spade-bitch looked as if she saw something. I, poor Kerr, she's almost frightened out of her wits. I, all warrant ye, she is in many a time and often when we don't. My lady must have him laid, that's certain, whatever it cost her. I, fancy, when one goes to market, one might hear of somebody that can make a spell. Why, may not the person of our parish lay him. No, no, no, our barson cannot lay him. Why, not he as well as another man? Why ye fool, he is not qualified, he has not taken the oaths. Why, do you think, John, that the spirit would take the law of him? Faith, I could tell you one way to drive him off. How's that? I'll tell you immediately. Drinks. I, fancy, mistress Abigail, might scold him out of the house. I, she has a tongue that would drown his drum, if anything could. Pfft, this is all froth, you understand nothing of the matter. The next time it makes a noise, I'd tell you what ought to be done. I would have the steward speak Latin to it. I, that would do if the steward had but courage. There you have it. He's a fearful man. If I had as much learning as he, and I met the ghost, I'd tell him his own. But, Alak, what can one of us poor men do with a spirit that can neither write nor read? Thou art always cracking and boastin', Peter. Thou dost not know what mischief it might do thee, if such a silly dog as thee should offer to speak to it. For all I know, he might flee thee alive, and make parchment of thy skin to cover his drum with. Ah, fiddle-stick, tell me not, I fear nothing, not I. I never did harm in my life, I never committed murder. I verily believe thee, keep thy temper, Peter. After supper, we'll drink each of us a double mug, and then let come what will. Why, that's well said, John, an honest man that is not quite sober, has nothing to fear. Here's to ye. Why, how if he should come this minute, here would I stand. Oh, what noise is that? Huh, where? The devil, the devil, oh, no, Tis Mistress Abigail. Ah, faith, to she, Tis Mistress Abigail, a good mistake, Tis Mistress Abigail. Enter Abigail. Here are your drunken thoughts for you. Is this a time to be guzzling when gentry are coming to the house? Why don't you lay your cloth? How come you out of the stables? Why are not you at work in your garden? Why, yonder's the fine Londoner, and madam fetching a walk together, and me thought they looked as if they should say they had rather have my room than my company. And so, for soothe being all three met together, we are doing our endeavours to drink this same drummer out of our heads. For you must know, Mistress Abigail, we are all of opinion that one can't be a match for him, unless one be as drunk as a drum. I am resolved to give madam warning to hire herself another coachman, for I came to serve my master, D.S.C., while he was alive, but do suppose that he has no further occasion for a coach, now he walks. Truly, Mistress Abigail, I must need say that this same spirit is a very odd sort of a body, after all, to fright madam and his old servants at this rate. And truly, Mistress Abigail, I must need say I served my master contentedly while he was living, but I will serve no man living, that is, no man that is not living, without double wages. I, to such cowards as you, that go about with idle stories, to disgrace the house and bring so many strangers about it. You first frighten yourselves, and then your neighbours. Frightened? I scorn your words, frighten, quother. What you thought? Are you grown pot-valiant? Frightened with a drum? That's a good one. It will do us no harm, I'll answer for that. It will bring no bloodshed along with it, take my word. It sounds as like a train-band drum as ever ironed in my life. Prithee, Peter, don't be so presumptuous. Abigail, aside. Well, these drunken rogues take it as I could wish. I scorned to be frightened. Now I'm in for it. If old Double-Dubb should come into the room, I would take him. Prithee, hold thy tongue. I would take him. The drum beats, the gardener endeavors to get off, and falls. Speak to it, Mistress Abigail. Spare my life, and take all I have. Make off, make off, Good Butler, and let us go hide ourselves in the cellar. They all run off. Abigail, Sola. So, now the coast is clear, I may venture to call out my drummer. But first let me shut the door lest we be surprised. Mr. Funtone? Mr. Funtone? Nay, nay, pray come out. The enemies fled. I must speak with you immediately. Don't stay to be to parley. The back-scene opens and discovers Phantom with a drum. Dear Mistress Nebe, I have overheard all that has been said, and find thou hast managed this thing so well, that I could take thee in my arms and kiss thee, if my drum did not stand in my way. Well, oh my conscience, you are the merriest ghost, and the very picture of Sir George Truman. There you flatter me, Mistress Abigail. Sir George had that freshness in his looks that we men of the town cannot come up to. Oh, death may have altered you, you know. Besides, you must consider you lost a great deal of blood in the battle. Aye, that's right. Let me look never so pale. This cut cross my forehead will keep me in countenance. Ah, it is just such a one as my master received from a cursed French trooper, as my lady's letter informed her. It happens, luckily, that this suit of clothes of Sir George's fits me so well. I think I can't fail hitting the air of a man with whom I was so long acquainted. You are the very man. I vow I almost start when I look upon you. But what good will this do me, if I must remain invisible? Pray, what good did your being visible, do you? The fair Mr. Funtome thought no woman could withstand him. But when you were seen by my lady in your proper person, after she had taken a full survey of you, and heard all the pretty things you could say, she very civilly dismissed you for the sake of this empty, noisy creature tinsel. She fancies you have been gone from hence this fortnight. Why, really, I love thy lady so well, that though I had no hopes of gaining her for myself, I could not bear to see her given to another, especially to such a wretched tinsel. Well, tell me truly, Mr. Funtome, have not your great opinion of my fidelity to my dear lady, that I would not suffer her to be deluded in this manner for less than a thousand pounds? Well, art always reminding me of my promise. Thou shalt have it, if thou canst bring our project to bear. Dost not know that stories of ghosts and apparitions generally end in a pot of money? Why, truly now, Mr. Funtome, I should think myself a very bad woman if I had done what I do for a farthing less. Dear Abigail, how I admire thy virtue. No, no, Mr. Funtome, I defy the worst of my enemies to say I love mischief for mischief's sake. But is thy lady persuaded that I am the ghost of her deceased husband? I endeavour to make her believe so, and tell her every time your drum rattles, that her husband is chiding her for entertaining this new lover. Pray they make use of all thy art, for I am tired to death with strolling round this wide old house, like a rat behind a wane's cut. Did not I tell you it was the purest place in the world for you to play your tricks in? There is none of the family that knows every hole and corner in it, besides myself. Ah, Mistress Abigail, you have had your intrigues. For you must know, when I was a romping young girl, I was a mighty lover of hide and seek. I believe by this time I am as well acquainted with the houses yourself. You are very much mistaken, Mr. Funtome, but no matter for that. Here is to be your station to-night. This is the place unknown to any one living besides myself, since the death of the joiner, who, you must understand, being a lover of mine, contrived the wane's cut to move to and fro in the manner that you find it. I designed it for a wardrobe for my lady's cast clothes. Oh, the stomachers, petticoats, commodes, laced shoes, and good things that I have had in it. Pray take care you don't break the cherry brandy bottle that stands up in the corner. Well, Mistress Abigail, I hire your closet of you but for this one night. A thousand pound, you know, is a very good rent. Well, get you gone. You have such a way with you there's no denying you anything. I'm thinking how Tinsel will stare when he sees me come out of the wall, for I am resolved to make my appearance to-night. Get you in, get you in. My lady's at the door. Pray take care she does not keep me up so late, as she did last night. All depend upon it. I'll beat the tattoo. I'm undone. I'm undone. As he is going in. Mr. Phantom, Mr. Phantom, you have put a thousand pound bond into my brother's hands. Thou shalt have it, I tell thee, thou shalt have it. Phantom goes in. No more words. Vanish, vanish. Enter, Lady Truman. Abigail opening the door. Oh dear madam, was it you that made such a knocking? My heart does so beat. I vow you have frighted me to death. I thought verily it had been the drummer. I have been showing the garden to Mr. Tinsel. He's most insufferably witty upon us about this story of the drum. Indeed, madam, he's a very loose man. I'm afraid it is he that hinders my poor master from resting in his grave. Well, an infidel is such a novelty in the country, that I am resolved to divert myself for day or two at least, with the oddness of his conversation. Ah, madam, the drum began to beat in the house as soon as ever this creature was admitted to visit you. All the while Mr. Phantom made his addresses to you. There was not a mouse stirring in the family more than used to be. Lady Truman aside. This baggage has some design upon me, more than I can yet discover. Mr. Phantom was always thy favourite. I, and should have been yours too, by my consent. Mr. Phantom was not such a slight fantastic thing as this is. Mr. Phantom was the best-built man one should see in a summer's day. Mr. Phantom was a man of honour, and loved you. Poor soul, how has he sighed when he has talked to me of my heart-hearted lady? Well, I had his leaf as a thousand pounds you would marry Mr. Phantom. To tell thee truly, I loved him well enough till I found he loved me so much. But Mr. Tinsel makes his court to me with so much neglect and indifference, and with such an agreeable sourciness. Not that I say I'll marry him. Marry him, quoth her? No, if you should, you'll be awakened sooner than married couples generally are. You'll quickly have a drum at your window. Lady Truman aside. I'll hide my contempt of Tinsel for once, if it be but to see what this wench drives at. Why, suppose your husband, after this fair warning he has given you, should sound you an alarmed midnight? Then open your curtains with a faces pale as my apron, and cry out with a hollow voice, what dost thou in bed with this spindle-shanked fellow? Why wilt thou need'st have it to be my husband? He never had any reason to be offended at me. I always loved him while he was living, and should prefer him to any man where he so still. Mr. Tinsel is indeed very idle in his talk, but I fancy, Abigail, a discreet woman might reform him. That's a likely matter indeed. Did you ever hear of a woman who had power over a man when she was his wife, that had none while she was his mistress? Oh, there's nothing in the world improves a man in his complacence like marriage. He is indeed at present too familiar in his conversation. Familiar? Madam, in truth, he's downright rude. But that you know, Abigail, shows that he has no dissimulation in him. Then he is apt to jest a little too much upon grave subjects. Grave subjects? He jests upon the church. But that you know, Abigail, may be only to show his wit. Then it must be owned. He is extremely talkative. Talkative, do you call it? He's downright impertinent. But that you know, Abigail, is a sign he has been used to good company. Then indeed he is very positive. Positive? Oh, he contradicts you in everything you say. But then you know, Abigail, he has been educated in the ends of court. Blessed education indeed. It has made him forget his catechism. You talk as if you hated him. You talk as if you loved him. Hold your tongue. Here he comes. Enter Tinsel. My dear widow. Abigail, aside. My dear widow, Mary, come up. Let him alone, Abigail. So long as he does not call me my dear wife, there's no harm done. I have been most ridiculously diverted since I left you. Your servants have made a convert of my booby. His head is so filled with this foolish story of a drummer. I expect the rogue will be afraid hereafter to go upon a message by moonlight. Ah, Mr. Tinsel, what a loss a billet would do. Would that be to many a fine lady? Then you still believe this to be a foolish story? I thought my lady had told you that she had heard it herself. Why, you would not persuade us out of our senses? Abigail, aside. There's manners for you, madam. Admirably rallied, that laugh is unanswerable. Now I'll be hanged if you could forbear being witty upon me, if I should tell you I heard it no longer ago than last night. Fancy. But what if I should tell you my maid was with me? Vapours, vapours. Pray, my dear widow, will you answer me one question? Had you ever this noise of a drum in your head, all the while your husband was living? And pray, Mr. Tinsel, will you let me ask you another question? Do you think we can hear in the country, as well as you do in town? Believe me, madam, I could prescribe you a cure for these imaginations. Don't tell my lady of imaginations, sir. I have heard it myself. Hark, veiled child! Are thou not an elder maid? Sir, if I am, it is my own fault. Wins, freaks, megrims! Indeed, Mr. Saabigo! Mary, sir, by your talk one would believe you thought everything that was good is a megrim. Why truly, I don't very well understand what you meant by your doctrine to me in the garden just now, that everything we saw was made by chance. Very pretty subject indeed for a lover to divert his mistress with. But I suppose that was only a taste of the conversation you would entertain me with, after marriage. I shall then have time to read you such lectures of motions, atoms and nature, that you shall learn to think as freely as the best of us, and be convinced in less than a month that all about us is chance work. You are a very complacent person indeed, and so you would make your court to me by persuading me that I was made by chance. Well said, my dear, my faith! Though we're to very lucky hit that certain. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, where did you learn this odd way of talking? Ah, widow, does your country innocence makes you think it an odd way of talking? Though you give no credit to stories of apparitions, I hope you believe there are such things as spirits. Simplicity! I fancy you don't believe women have souls, do you, sir? Foolish enough! I vow, Mr. Tinsel, I'm afraid malicious people will say I'm in love with an atheist. My dear, that's an old-fashioned word. I'm a free thinker, child. I'm sure you are a free speaker. Really, Mr. Tinsel, considering that you are so fine a gentleman, I am amazed where you got all this learning. I wonder it has not spoiled your breeding. To tell you the truth, I have not time to look into these dry matters myself, but I am convinced by four or five learned men, whom I sometimes overhear at a coffee-house I frequent, that our forefathers were a pack of asses, that the world has been in an era for some thousands of years, and that all the people upon earth, excepting those two or three worthy gentlemen, are imposed upon cheated, bubbled, abused, bamboozled. Madam, how can you hear such a profligate? He talks like the London prodigal. Why, really, I'm thinking, if there be no such things as spirits, a woman has no occasion for marrying. She need not be afraid to lie by herself. Ah, my dear, a husband's good for nothing but to frighten away spirits. Dost thou think I could not instruct thee in several other comforts of matrimony? Ah, but you are a man of so much knowledge, that you would always be laughing at my ignorance. You learned men are so apt to despise one. No, child, I teach thee my principles. Thou shouldst be as wise as I am in a week's time. Do you think your principles would make a woman the better wife? Pretty widow, don't be queer. I love a gay temper, but I would not have you rally things that are serious. Well enough, Faith. Where is the jest of rallying anything else? Abigail, aside. Ah, Madam, did you ever hear Mr. Funtome talk at this rate? But where is this ghost, this son of a horror-drama? I'd faint hear him, me thinks. Pray, Madam, don't suffer him to give the ghost such ill language, especially when you have reason to believe it is my master. That's well enough, Faith, and Ab. Dost thou think thy master is so unreasonable as to continue his claim to his relict after his bones are laid? Pray, widow, remember the words of your contract. You have fulfilled them to a titl. Did not you marry Sir George to the tune of till death us do part? Lady Truman, aside. I must not hear Sir George's memory treated in so slight a manner. This fellow must have been at some pains to make himself such a finished coxcomb. Give me but a possession of your person, and I'll whirl you up to town for a winter, and cure you at once. I have known many a country, lady, come to London with frightful stories of a hall house being haunted of fairy spirits and witches, that by the time she'd seen a comedy played at an assembly and ambled in a ball or two has been so little afraid of bugbears that she has ventured home in a chair at all hours of the night. Abigail, aside. Hum, sauce-box. Tears the solitude of the country that creates these whimsies. There was never such a thing as a ghost heard of at London except in the playhouse. Oh, we'd pass all our time in London. Tears a scene of pleasure and diversions, where there's something to amuse you every hour of the day. Life's not life in the country. Well, then, you have an opportunity of showing the sincerity of that love to me which you profess. You may give a proof that you have an affection to my person, not my jointer. Your jointer? How can you think me such a dog? But, child, won't your jointer be the same thing in London as in the country? No, you are deceived. You must know it is settled on me by marriage articles on condition that I live in this old mansion house and keep it up in repair. How? That's well put, madam. Why, Faith, I have been looking upon this house and think it is the prettiest habitation I ever saw in my life. Aye, but then this cruel drum. Something so venerable in it. Aye, but the drum. For my part, I like this gothic way of building better than any of your new orders. It would be a thousand pitties that should fall to ruin. Aye, but the drum. How pleasantly we two could pass our time in this delicious situation. Our lives would be a continued dream of happiness. Come, Faith, widow, let's go upon the leads and take a view of the country. Aye, but the drum. The drum. My dear, take my word for it. It is all fancy. Besides, should he drum in thy very bed-chamber, I should only hug thee the closer. Clasped in the folds of love, I'd meet my doom and act my joys, they thunder shook the room. End of Act One. Act Two of The Drummer, or The Haunted House, by Joseph Addison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Two. Scene opens and discovers Vellum in his office and a letter in his hand. This letter astonishes. May I believe my own eyes, or rather my spectacles, to Humphrey Vellum Esquire, steward to the Lady Truman. Vellum, I doubt not, but you will be glad to hear your master is alive and designs to be with you in half an hour. The report of my being slain in the Netherlands has, I find, produced some disorders in my family. I am now at the George Inn. If an old man with a gray beard, in a black cloak, inquires after you, give him admittance. He passes for a conjurer, but is really your faithful friend, G. Truman. P.S., let this be a secret, and you shall find your account in it. This amazeth me. And yet the reasons why I should believe he is still living are manifold. First, because this has often been the case of other military adventurers. Second, because the news of his death was first published in Deer's letter. Thirdly, because this letter can be written by none but himself, I know his hand and manner of spelling. Fourthly, Enter Butler. Sir, here's a strange old gentleman that asks for you. He says he's a conjurer, but he looks very suspicious. I wish he be into Jesuit. Admit him immediately. I wish he be into Jesuit, but he says he's nothing but a conjurer. He says right. He is no more than a conjurer. Ring him in and withdraw. Exit Butler. And fourthly, as I was saying, because… Enter Butler with Sir George. Sir, here is the conjurer. Aside. What a devilish long beard he has. I warrant it has been growing these hundred years. Exit. Dear Vellum, you have received my letter. But before we proceed, lock the door. It is his voice. Shut the door. In the next place, help me off with this cumbersome cloak. It is his shape. So now lay my beard upon the table. Vellum, after having looked on Sir George through his spectacles… It is his face, every liniment. Ah, well now, I have put off the conjurer and the old man. I can talk to thee more at my ease. Believe me, my good master. I am as much rejoiced to see you as live, as I was upon the day you were born. Your name was, in all the newspapers, in the list of those that were slain. We have not time to be particular. I shall only tell thee in general that I was taken prisoner in the battle, and was under close confinement for several months. Upon my release, I was resolved to surprise my wife with the news of my being alive. I know, Vellum, you are a person of so much penetration, that I need not use any further argument to convince you that I am so. I am. And moreover, I question not, but your good lady will likewise be convinced of it. Her honour is a discerning lady. I am only afraid she should be convinced of it to her sorrow. Is not she pleased with her imaginary widowhood? Tell me, truly, was she afflicted at the report of my death? Sorely. How long did her grief last? Longer than I have known any widows, at least three days. Three days, says thou? Three whole days? I am afraid thou flatterest me. Oh, woman, woman! Grief is twofold. Sir George, aside. This blockhead is as methodical as ever. But I know he's honest. There is real grief, and there is methodical grief. She was drowned in tears till such time as the tailor had made her widow's weeds. Indeed, they became her. They came her? And was that her comfort? Truly a most seasonable consolation. But I must need say she paid a due regard to your memory, and could not forbear weeping when she saw company. That was kind indeed. I find she grieved with a great deal of good breeding. But how comes this gang of lovers about her? Her jointure is considerable. Sir George, aside. Ah, how this fool torments me. Her person is amiable. Sir George, aside. Death. But her character is unblemished. She has been as virtuous in your absence as a Penelope. And has had as many suitors. Several have made their overtures. Several? But she has rejected all. There, thou revives me. But what means this tinsel? Are his visits acceptable? He is young. And does she listen to him? He is gay. Sure she could never entertain a thought of marrying such a coxcomb. He is not ill-made. Are the vows and protestations that pass between us come to this? I can't bear the thought of it. Is tinsel the man designed for my worthy successor? You do not consider that you have been dead these fourteen months? Sir George, aside. Was there ever such a dog? And I have often heard her say that she must never expect to find a second Sir G. Truman. Meaning your honour. I think she loved me. But I must search into this story of the drummer before I discover myself to her. I have put on this habit of a conjurer in order to introduce myself. It must be your business to recommend me as a most profound person, that by my great knowledge in the curious arts can silence the drummer and dispossess the house. I am going to lay my accounts before my lady, and I will endeavour to prevail upon her honour to admit the trial of your art. I have scarce heard of any of these stories that did not arise from a love intrigue. Amherst raised as many ghosts as murders. Mistress Abigail endeavourst to persuade us that is your honour who troubles the house. That convinces me to a cheat. For I think, vellum, I may be pretty well assured it is not me. I am apt to think so truly. Ha-ha! Abigail had always an ascendant over her lady, and if there is a trick in this matter, depend upon it she is at the bottom of it. I'll be hanged if this ghost be not one of Abigail's familiars. I, fancy vellum, thou couldst warm it out of her. I know formerly there was an amour between you. And she knows I have picked up a competency in your honour's service. If thou hast, all I ask of thee in return is that thou wouldst immediately renew thy addresses to her. Coax her up. Thou hast such a silver tongue, vellum, as to be impossible for her to withstand. Besides, she is so very a woman, that she'll likely the better for giving her the pleasure of telling a secret. In short, weedle her out of it, and I shall act by the advice which thou givest me. Mistress Abigail was never deaf to me when I talked upon that subject. I will take an opportunity of addressing myself to her in the most pathetic manner. In the meantime, lock me up in your office, and bring me word what success you have. Ah, well, sure I am the first that ever was employed to lay himself. You act indeed a threefold part in this house. You are a ghost, a conjurer, and my honoured master Sir George Truman. You will pardon me for being jocular. Oh, Mr. Vellum, with all my heart, you know I love you men of wit and humour. Be as merry as thou pleases, so thou dost thy business. Mimicking him. You would remember, Vellum, your commission is twofold. First to gain admission for me to your lady, and secondly to get the secret out of Abigail. It suffices. The scene shuts. Enter Lady Truman, Sola. Women who have been happy in a first marriage are the most apt to venture upon a second. But for my part I had a husband so every way suited to my inclinations that I must entirely forget him before I can like another man. I have now been a widow but fourteen months, and have had twice as many lovers, all of them professed admirers of my person, but passionately in love with my jointure. I think it is a revenge I owe my sex to make an example of this worthless tribe of fellows who grow impudent, dress themselves fine, and fancy we are obliged to provide for him. But of all my captives, Mr. Tinsel is the most extraordinary in his kind. I hope the diversion I give myself with him is unblamable. I'm sure it is necessary to turn my thoughts off from the memory of that dear man who has been the greatest happiness and affliction of my life. My heart would be a prey to melancholy if I did not find these innocent methods of relieving it. Oh, but here comes Abigail. I must tease the baggage, for I find she has taken it into her head that I am entirely at her disposal. Enter Abigail. Madam, Madam, Yondra's Mr. Tinsel has as good as taken possession of your house. Mary, he says. He must have served George's apartment enlarged, for truly, says he, I hate to be straightened. Nay, he was so impudent as to show me the chamber where he intends to consummate, as he calls it. Well, he is a wildfellow. Indeed, he's a very sad man, Madam. He's young, Abigail, to the thousand pities he should be lost. I should be mighty glad to reform him. Reform him? Mary, hang him? Has not he a great deal of life? Aye, enough to make your heart ache. I daresay thou thinkest him a very agreeable fellow. He thinks himself so. I'll answer for him. He's very good-natured. He ought to be so, for he's very silly. Does thou think he loves me? Mr. Fantôme did, I'm sure. With what raptures he talked? Yes, but was in praise of your jointer house. He has kept bad company. He must be very bad indeed, if they were worse than himself. I have a strong, fancier good woman might reform him. It would be a fine experiment, if it should not succeed. Well, Abigail, we'll talk of that another time. Here comes the steward. I have no further occasion for you at present. Exit Abigail, enter Vellum. Madam, is your honour at leisure to look into the accounts of the last week? They rise very high. Housekeeping is chargeable in a house that is haunted. How comes that to pass? I hope the drum neither eats nor drinks, but raid your account, Vellum. Vellum, putting on and off his spectacles in this scene. A hog's head and a half of ale. It is not for the ghost drinking, but your honour's servants say they must have something to keep up their courage against this strange noise. They tell me they expect a double quantity of malt in their small beer, so long as the house continues in this condition. At this rate they'll take care to be frightened all the year round, I'll answer for them. But go on. Item, two sheep and a— Where is the ox? Ah, here I have him—and an ox. Your honour must always have a piece of cold beef in the house for the entertainment of so many strangers, who come from all parts to hear this drum. Item, bread, ten peclos. They cannot eat beef without bread. Item, three barrels of table-beer. They must have drink with their meat. Lady Truman, aside. Sure no woman in England has a steward that makes such ingenious comments on his works. Item, two Mr. Tinsel's servants, five bottles of port wine. It was by your honour's order. Item, three bottles of sack for the use of Mistress Abigail. I suppose that was by your own order. We have been long friends. We are your honour's ancient servants. Sack is an innocent cordial, and gives her spirit to chide the servants when they are tardy in their business. Pardon me for being jocular. Well, I see you'll come together at last. Item, a dozen pound of watch-lights for the use of the servants. For the use of the servants? What? Are the rogues afraid of sleeping in the dark? What an unfortunate woman am I? This is such a particular distress. It puts me to my wit's end. Bellum, what would you advise me to do? Madam, your honour has two points to consider. In premise, to retrench these extravagant expenses, which so many strangers bring upon you. Secondly, to clear the house of this invisible drummer. This learned division leaves me just as wise as I was. But how must we bring these two points to bear? I beseech your honour to give me the hearing. I do, but, Prithee, take pity on me and be not tedious. I will be concise. There is a certain person arrived this morning, an aged man of a venerable aspect, and of a long, hoary beard that reaches down to his girdle. The common people call him a wizard, a white witch, a conjurer, a cunning man, a necromancer, a— No matter for his titles, but what of all this? Give me the hearing, good my lady. He pretends to great skill in the occult sciences, and has come hither upon the rumour of this drum. If one may believe him, he knows the secret of laying ghost, or of quieting houses that are haunted. Foe, these are idle stories to amuse the country people. This can do us no good. It can do us no harm, my lady. I daresay thou dost not believe there is anything in it thyself. I cannot say I do. There is no danger, however, in the experiment. Let him try his skill. If it should succeed, we are rid of the drum. If it should not, we may tell the world that it has, and by that means, at least, get out of this expensive way of living, so that it must turn to your advantage one way or another. I think you argue very rightly, but where is the man? I would faint see him. He must be a curiosity. I have already disgorced him, and he is to be with me in my office half an hour hence. He asks nothing for his pains till he has done his work. No cure, no money. That circumstance, I must confess, would make one believe there is more in his art than one would imagine. Pray, Vellum, go and fetch him hither immediately. I am gone. He shall be forthcoming, forthwith. Exeunt, enter Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. Rare news, my lads, rare news. What's the matter? Has they got any more veils for us? No, it is better than that. Is there another stranger come to the house? Aye, such a stranger as we'll make all our lives easy. Well, is he a lord? A lord? No, nothing like it. He's a conjurer. A conjurer? What? Is he come a-wooing to my lady? Oh no, you fool. He's got my purpose to lay the spirit. Aye, Mary, that's good news indeed. But where is he? He's locked up with the steward in his office. They are laying their heads together very close. I fancy they are casting a figure. Pretty, John. Also a creature's a conjurer. Why, he's made much as other men are, if it was not for his long gray beard. Look ye, Peter, it stands with reason that a conjurer should have a long gray beard. For did ye ever know a witch that was not an old woman? Why, I remember a conjurer once at a fair, that to my thinking was a very smock-faced man, and yet he spewed out fifty yards of green ferret. Aye, fancy, John. If Thabs get him into the pantry and give him a cup of ale, he'd show us a few tricks. Does he think we couldn't persuade him to swallow one of thy case knives for his diversion? He'll certainly bring it up again. Peter, thou art such a wiseacre. Thou dost not know the difference between a conjurer and a juggler. This man must be a very great master of his trade. His beard is at least half a yard long. He's dressed in a strange dark cloak, as black as coal. Your conjurer always goes in mourning. Is he a gentleman? Any a sword by his side? No, no, he's too grave a man for that. The conjurer is as grave as a judge. But he had a long white wand in his hand. You may be sure there's a good deal of virtue in that wand. I fancy it is made out of which ale. I warrant you if the ghost appears, he'll whisk you that wand before his eyes and strike you the drumstick out of his hand. No, the wand, lucky, is to make a circle. And if he once gets the ghost in a circle, then he has him. Let him get out again if he can. A circle, you must know, is a conjurer's trap. But what will he do with him when he has him there? Why, then, he'll overpower him with his learning. If he can once compass him and get him in Lobb's pound, he'll make nothing of him but speak a few hard words to him and perhaps bind him over to his good behaviour. For a thousand years. Aye, aye, he'll send him packing to his grave again with a flea in his ear, I warrant him. No, no, I would advise madam to spare no cost. If the conjurer be but well paid, he'll take pains upon the ghost and lay him lucky in the Red Sea, and then he's laid forever. Aye, Mary, that would spoil his drum for him. Why, John, there must be a pair of spirits in that same Red Sea. Only warrant you there is plenty as fish. Well, I wish, after all, that he may not be too hard for the conjurer. I'm afraid he'll find a tough bit of work on't. I wish the spirit may not carry a corner of his house off with him. As for that, Peter, you may be sure that the steward has made his bargain with the cunning man beforehand, that he shall stand to all costs and damages. But, Hark, yonder's, Mr. Sabagel, we shall have her with us immediately if we do not get off. Aye, lads, if we could get Mr. Sabagel well laid to, we should lead Mary lives. For to a man like me, the snow and bold, a ghost is not so dreadful as a scold. End of Act II, Act III of the Drummer or the Haunted House by Joseph Addison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act III, scene opens and discovers Sir George in Vellum's office. Ah, I wonder, I don't hear Vellum yet. But I know his wisdom will do nothing rashly. The fellow has been so used to form in business, that it has infected his whole conversation. But I must not find fault with that punctual and exact behavior, which has been of so much use to me. My estate is the better for it. Enter Vellum. Well, Vellum, I'm impatient to hear your success. First, let me lock the door. Will your lady admit me? If this lock is not mended soon, it will be quite spoiled. Rithy, let the lock alone at present, and answer me. Delays in business are dangerous. I must send for the smith next week. And in the meantime, we'll take a minute of it. But what says your lady? This pen is not, and wants mending. My lady, did you say? Does she admit me? I have gained admission for you as a conjurer. Ah, that's enough. I'll gain admission for myself as a husband. Does she believe there's anything in my art? It is hard to know what a woman believes. Did she ask no questions about me? Sundry, she desires to talk with you herself, before you enter upon your business. But when? Immediately, this instant. What has thou been doing all this while? Why didst thou not tell me so? Give me my cloak. Have you met with Abigail? I have not yet had an opportunity of talking with her. But we have interchanged some languishing glances. Let thee alone for that, Vellum. I have formerly seen thee ogle her through thy spectacles. Well, this is a most venerable cloak. After the business of this day is over, I'll make thee a present of it. We'll become thee matterly. Would you make a conjurer of your steward? Pithy, don't be jocular. I'm in haste. Help me on with my beard. And what will your honour do with your cast beard? By faith, thy gravity wants only such a beard to it. If thou wouldst wear it with the cloak, thou wouldst make a most complete heathen philosopher. Ah, but where's my wand? A fine taper's dick. It is well chosen. I will keep this till you are share of the county. It is not my custom to let anything be lost. Come, Vellum, lead the way. You must introduce me to your lady. Thou art the fittest fellow in the world, to be a master of several moddies, to a conjurer. Exeunt, enter Abigail crossing the stage. Tensil following. Naby, naby, with a so fast child. Keep your hands to yourself. I'm going to call the steward to my lady. What? Goodman twofold? I met him walking with a strange old fellow, Yonder. I suppose he belongs to the family, too. He looks very antique. He must be some of the furniture of this old mansion house. What does the man mean? Don't think to palm me as you do my lady. Pretty naby, tell me one thing. What's the reason, though, art my enemy? Mary, because I'm a friend to my lady. Dost thou see anything about me, though dost not like? Come here, the hussy. Give me a kiss. Don't be ill-natured. Sir, I know how to be civil. Kisses her. Abigail aside. This rogue will carry off my lady if I don't take care. Thy lips are as soft as velvet, Abigail. I must get thee a husband. Ah, now you don't speak idly. I can talk to you. I have one in my eye for thee. Dost thou love a young lusty son of a whore? Lord, how you talk. This is a thundering dog. What is he? A private gentleman. Aye, where does he live? In the horse-guards. But he has one fault, I must tell thee of. If thou canst bear with that, he's a man for thy purpose. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what may that be? He's but five and twenty years old. It is no matter for his age if he has been well educated. No man better child. He'll tie a wig, toss a die, make a pass, and swear with such a grace as would make thy heart leap to hear him. Half these accomplishments will do, provided he has an estate. Pray, what has he? Not a farthing. Abigail aside. Packs on him, what do I give him the hearing for? But as for that, I wouldn't make it up to him. How? My look ye, child, as soon as I have married thy lady, I design to discard this old prick of a steward, and to put this honest gentleman I am speaking of into his place. Abigail aside. This fellow's a fool. I'll have no more to say to him. Hark! My ladies are coming. Depend upon it, nab. I remember my promise. Abigail aside. I, and so will I too, to your cost. Exit Abigail. My dear is purely fitted up with the maid, but I shall rid the house of her. Enter Lady Truman. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, I am glad to meet you here. I am going to give you an entertainment that won't be disagreeable to a man of wit and pleasure of the town. Aside. There may be something diverting in a conversation between a conjurer and this conceited ass. Tinsel aside. She loves me to destruction. I see that. Pretty widow, explain thyself. You must know, here is a strange sort of a man come to town, who undertakes to free the house from this disturbance. The steward believes him a conjurer. Aye, thy steward is a deep one. He's to be here immediately. It is indeed an odd figure of a man. Oh, I warrant you his study the black heart. It's not it an Oxford scholar. Widow, thy house is the most extraordinarily inhabited of any widows, this day in Christendom. I think thy four chief domestics are a withered Abigail, a superannuated steward, a ghost, and a conjurer. Lady Truman mimicking Tinsel. And you would have it inhabited by a fifth, who is a more extraordinary person than any of all these four. Tinsel aside. It's a sure sign a woman loves you when she imitates your manner. The hilt very smart, my dear, but see, smoke the doctor. Enter Vellum and Sir George in his conjurer's habit. I will introduce this profound person to your ladieship, and then leave him with you. Sir, this is her honor. I know it well. Exit Vellum. Sir George aside, walking in amusing posture. That dear woman, the sight of her unmans me. I could weep for tenderness, did not I at the same time feel an indignation rise in me to see that wretch with her, and yet I cannot but smile to see her in the company of her first and second husband at the same time. Mr. Tinsel, do you speak to him? You are used to the company of men of learning. Old gentlemen, thou dost not look like an inhabit of this world. I suppose thou art lately come down from the stars. Pray what news is stirring in the zodiac. News that ought to make the heart of a coward tremble. Mars is now entering into the first house, and will shortly appear in all his domelof dignities. Mars, pretty Father Greybeard, explain thyself. The entrance of Mars into his house portends the entrance of a master into this family, and that soon. Do you hear that widow? The stars have cut me out for thy husband. This house is to have a master, and that soon. Hark thee, old Gadbury! Is not Mars very like a young fellow called Tom Tinsel? Not so much as Venus is like this lady. A word in your ear, Doctor. These two planets will be in conjunction by and by. I can tell you that. Sir George, aside, walking disturbed. Curse on this impertinent fob. I shall scarce forbear discovering myself. Madam, I am told that your house is visited with strange noises. And I am told that you can quiet them. I must confess, I had a curiosity to see the person I had heard so much of. And indeed, your aspect shows that you have had much experience in the world. You must be a very aged man. My aspect deceives you. What do you think is my real age? I should guess thee within three years of Methuselah. Brittany, tell me, was not thou born before the flood? Truly, I should guess you to be in your second or third century. I warrant you, you have great grandchildren with beards of a foot long. If there be truth in man, I was but five and thirty last August. Oh, the study of the occult sciences makes a man's beard grow faster than you would imagine. What an escape you have had, Mr. Tinsel, that you were not bred a scholar. And so I fancy, Doctor, thou thinkst me an illiterate fellow because I have a smooth chin. Archie, sir, a word in your ear. You are a cox comb by all the rules of physiognomy. But let that be a secret between you and me. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what is it that Doctor whispers? Only a compliment, child, upon two or three of my features. It does not become me to repeat it. Pray, Doctor, examine this gentleman's face and tell me his fortune. If I may believe the lines of his face, he likes it better than I do. There you do, fair lady. Wither, I hope now thou art convinced he's a cheat. For my part I believe he's a witch. Go on, Doctor. He will be crossed in love, and that soon. Pretty Doctor, tell us the truth. Dost not thou live in more fields? Take my word for it. Thou shalt never live in my Lady Truman's mansion house. Pray, old gentleman, has there never been plucked by the beard when thou art saucy? Nay, Mr. Tinsel, you are angry. Do you think that I would marry a man that dares not have his fortune told? Let him be angry. I matter not. He is short-lived. He will soon die of fright. Come, come, speak out, old Hocus. This fellow makes me burst with laughing. He will soon die of fright, or of the... let me see your nose. Ah, it is so. You son of a whore, I'll run ye through the body. I never yet made the sun shine through a conjurer. Oh, fine, Mr. Tinsel. You will not kill an old man. An old man? The dog says he's but five and thirty. Oh, fine, Mr. Tinsel. I did not think you could have been so passionate. I hate a passionate man. Put up your sword, or I must never see you again. I was but in jest, my dear. I had a mind to have made an experiment upon the dog's body. I would but have drilled a little eyelet hole in it, and have seen whether he had art enough to close it up again. Courage is but ill-shown for a lady. But know if ever I meet thee again, thou shalt find this arm can wield other weapons besides this wand. Well, learned sir, you are to give a proof of your art, not of your courage. Or if you will show your courage, let it be at nine o'clock, for that is the time the noise is generally heard. And, lucky, old gentleman, if thou dost not do thy business well, I can tell thee by the little skill I have, that thou wilt be tossed in a blanket before ten. We'll do our endeavour to send thee back to the stars again. I'll go and prepare myself for the ceremonies. And, lady, as you expect, they should succeed your wishes. Treat that fellow with the contempt he deserves. Exits, sir George. The sossiest dog I've ever talked with in my whole life. Me thinks he's a diverting fellow. One may see he's no fool. No fool? Aye, but thou dost not take him for a conjurer. Truly, I don't know what to take him for. I am resolved to employ him, however. When a sickness is desperate, we often try remedies that we have no great faith in. Enter Abigail. Madam, the tea is ready in the parlour, as you ordered. Come, Mr. Tinsel, we may there talk of this subject more at leisure. Exiant, Lady Truman and Tinsel. Abigail, Sola. Sure never any lady had such servants as mine has. Well, if I get this thousand pound, I hope to have some of my own. Let me see. I'll have a pretty tight girl, just such as I was ten years ago. I'm afraid I may say twenty. She shall dress me and flatter me, for I will be flattered. That's pause. My lady's cast suits will serve her after I have given them the wearing. Besides, when I'm worth a thousand pound, I shall certainly carry off the steward. Madam Vellum, how prettily that will sound. Here bring out Madam Vellum's chase. Nay, I do not know, but it may be a chariot. I will break the attorney's wife's heart. For I shall take place of everybody in the parish, but my lady. If I have a son, he shall be called Funtome. But see, Mr. Vellum, as I could wish, I know his humour, and will do my utmost to gain his heart. Enter Vellum with a pint of sack. Mistress Abigail, don't I break in upon you unseasonably? Oh no, Mr. Vellum, your visits are always seasonable. I have brought with me a taste of fresh canary, which I think is delicious. Pray set it down. I have a dram-glass just by. Bring Xenor Rumor. I'll pledge you. My lady's good health. And your own with it, sweet Mistress Abigail. Pray good, Mr. Vellum, buy me a little parcel of this sack, and put it under the article of tea. I would not have my name appear to it. Mistress Abigail, your name seldom appears in my bills. And yet, if you will allow me a merry expression, you have been always in my books, Mistress Abigail. Mr. Vellum, you're such a dry-gesting man. Why truly, Mistress Abigail, I have been looking over my papers, and I find you have been, a long time, my debtor. Your debtor? For what, Mistress Vellum? For my heart, Mistress Abigail. And our accounts will not be balanced between us, till I have yours in exchange for it. Oh, you are the most gallant done, Mistress Vellum. But I am not used to being paid by words only, Mistress Abigail. When will you be out of my debt? Oh, Mistress Vellum, you make one blush. My humble service to you. I must answer you, Mistress Abigail, in the country phrase, your love is sufficient. Well, I must own I love a merry man. Let me see, how long is it, Mistress Abigail, since I first broke my mind to you? It was, I think, undecimo gulliami. We have conversed together these fifteen years, and yet, Mistress Abigail, I must drink to our better acquaintance. Mistress Abigail, you know I am naturally Jacose. Ah, you men love to make sport with us silly creatures. Mistress Abigail, I have a trifle about me, which I would willingly make you a present of. It is indeed but a little toy. You are always exceeding the obliging. It is but a little toy. Scarce worth your acceptance. Pray do not keep me in suspense. What is it, Mistress Vellum? A silver thimble. I always said Mistress Vellum was a generous lover. But I must put it on myself, Mistress Abigail. You have the prettiest tip of a finger. I must take the freedom to salute it. Oh, why, you make me ashamed, Mistress Vellum. How can you do so? I protest I am in such a confusion. A feigned struggle. This finger is not the finger of idleness. It bears the honourable scars of the needle. But why are you so cruel as not to pair your nails? Oh, I vow you press it so hard. Pray give me my finger again. This middle finger, Mistress Abigail, has a pretty neighbour. A wedding ring would become it mightily. You're so full of your jokes. Ay, but where must I find one for it? I design this thimble, only as the forerunner of it. They will set of each other and are, indeed, a twofold emblem. The first will put you in mind of being a good housewife. And the other of being a good wife. Yes, yes, I see you laugh at me. Indeed, I am serious. I thought you had quite forsaken me. I am sure you cannot forget the many repeated vows and promises you formerly made me. I shouldst as soon forget the multiplication table. I have always taken your part before my lady. You have so, and I have itemed it on my memory. For I have always looked upon your interest as my own. It is nothing but your cruelty can hinder them from being so. Abigail, aside. I must strike while the iron's hot. Well, Mr. Vellum, there is no refusing you. You have such a bewitching tongue. How? Speak that again. Why, then, in plain English? I love you. I'm overjoyed. I must own my passion for you. I'm transported. Catches her in his arms. Dear charming man. Thou some total of all my happiness, I shall grow extravagant. I can't forbear to drink thy virtuous inclinations in a bumper of sack. Your lady must make haste, my duck, or we shall provide a young steward to the estate before she has an heir to it. Pretty, my dear. Does she intend to marry Mr. Tinsel? Marry him? My love, no, no. We must take care of that. There would be no staying in the house for us if she did. That young rake-hell would send all the old servants a-grazing. You and I should be discarded before the honeymoon was at an end. Pretty, sweet one. Does not this drum put the thoughts of marriage out of her head? This drum, my dear, if it be well-managed, will be no less than a thousand pound in our way. Aye, sayest thou so, my turtle? Well, since we are now as good as man and wife, I mean, almost as good as man and wife, I ought to conceal nothing from you. Certainly, my dove, not from thy yoke fellow, thy helpmate, thy own flesh and blood. Hush. I hear Mr. Tinsel's laugh. My lady and he are coming this way. If you will take a turn without, I'll tell you the whole contrivance. Give me your hand, chicken. Here, take it. You have my heart already. We shall have much issue. Exeunt. End of Act Three. Act Four of the Drummer, or the Haunted House, by Joseph Addison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Four. Enter Vellum and Butler. John, I have certain orders to give you, and therefore be attentive. Attentive? Aye, let me alone for that. Aside. I suppose he means being sober. You know I have always recommended to you a method in your business. I would have your knives and forks, your spoons and napkins, your plate and glasses, laid in a method. Ah, Mr. Vellum, you are such a sweet-spoken man. It does one's heart good to receive your orders. Method, John, makes business easy. It manages all perplexity and confusion out of families. Ha! Oh, he talks. I could hear him all day. And now, John, let me know whether your table-dinning, your sideboard, your cellar, and everything else within your province are properly and methodically disposed for an entertainment this evening. Mr. Vellum, they shall be ready at quarter of an hour's warning. But, pray, sir, is this entertainment to be made for the conjurer? It is, John, for the conjurer, and yet it is not for the conjurer. Why, look, you, Mr. Vellum, if it is for the conjurer, the cookmaid should have orders to get him some dishes to his palate. Perhaps he may like a little brimstone in his sauce. This conjurer, John, is a complicated creature, an amphibious animal, a person of a twofold nature. But he eats and drinks like other men. Mary, Master Vellum, he should eat and drink as much as two other men by the account you give of him. Thy conceit is not a miss. He is indeed a double man. I understand you. He's one of your hermaphrodites, as they call him. He is married, and he is not married. He hath a beard, and he hath no beard. He is old, and he is young. How charmingly he talks. I fancy, Master Vellum, you can make a riddle. The same man, old and young. How do you make that out, Master Vellum? The thou hast heard of the snake casting his skin and recovering his youth? Such is this sage-person. Nay, it is no wonder a conjurer should be like a serpent. When he has thrown aside the old conjurer's slow that hangs about him, he'll come out as fine a young gentleman as ever was seen in this house. Does he intend to sup in his sloth? That time will show. Well, I am not ahead for these things, indeed, Master Vellum. I have not understood one word you have said this half hour. I did not intend, thou shouldest. But to our business. Let there be a table spread in the great hall. Let your pots and glasses be washed, and in a readiness. Bid the cook provide a plentiful supper, and see that all the servants be in their best liberaries. I now I understand every word you say, but I would rather hear you talk a little in that other way. I shall explain to thee what I have said by and by. Bid Susan lay two pillows upon her lady's bed. Two pillows? Madam won't sleep upon them both. She is not a double woman too. She will sleep upon neither. But Hark, Mistress Abigail, I think I hear her chiding the cookmaid. Then all away or it will be my turn next. She, I'm sure, speaks plain English. One may easily understand every word she says. Exit Butler. Vellum solis. Servants are good for nothing. Unless they have an opinion of the person's understanding who has the direction of them. But see, Mistress Abigail, she has a bewitching countenance. I wish I may not be tempted to marry her in good earnest. Enter Abigail. Ha! Mr. Vellum. What brings my sweet one hither? I am coming to speak to my friend behind the Wainscott. It is fit, child, he should have an account of this conjurer that he should not be surprised. That would be as much as thy thousand pound is worth. I'll speak low. Walt have ears. Pointing at the Wainscott. But Hark, you duckling! Be sure you do not tell him that I am let into the secret. That's a good one indeed, as if I should ever tell what passes between you and me. Oh no, my child, that must not be. That must not be. You will always be waggish. Adieu. And let me hear the result of your conference. How can you leave one so soon? I shall think at an age till I see you again. Adieu, my pretty one. Adieu, sweet Mr. Vellum. My pretty one. As he is going off. Dear Mr. Vellum. My pretty one. Exit Vellum. Abigail, sola. I have him, if I can but get this thousand pound. Ah! Three wraps upon the drum. The signal Mr. Phantom and I agreed upon when he had a mind to speak with me. Very well, I hear you. Come, Fox, come out of your hole. Scene opens and Phantom comes out. You may leave your drum in the wardrobe till you have occasion for it. Well, Mistress Abigail, I want to hear what is a doing in the world. You are a very inquisitive spirit, but I must tell you, if you do not take care of yourself, you will be late this evening. I have overheard something of that matter, but let me learn for the doctor. I'll engage to give a good account of him. I am more in pain about Tinsel. When a lady is in the case, I am more afraid of one thop than twenty conjurers. To tell you truly, he presses his attacks with so much impudence that he has made more progress with my lady in two days than you did in two months. I shall attack her in another manner, if thou canst but procure me another interview. There's nothing that makes a lover so keen as being kept up in the dark. Pray no more of your distant vows, your respectful compliments. Really, Mr. Phantom, you're only fit to make love across a tea table. My dear girl, I can't forbear hugging thee for thy good advice. Aye, now I have some hopes for you, but why don't you do so to my lady? Child, I always thought your lady loved to be treated with respect. Believe me, Mr. Phantom, there is not so great a difference between woman and woman as you imagine. You see, Tinsel has nothing but his sourciness to recommend him. Tinsel is too great a coxcomb to be capable of love. And let me tell thee, Abigail, a man who is sincere in his passion makes but a very awkward profession of it. But I'll mend my manners. Aye, or you'll never gain a widow. Come, I must tutor you a little. Suppose me to be my lady, and let me see how you'll behave yourself. I'm afraid, child, we haven't time for such a piece of mummery. Oh, it will be quickly over, if you play your part well. Well then, dear mistress Ab, I mean Lady Truman. Aye, but your hand saluted me. That's right. Faith, I forgot that circumstance. Kisses her. Nettar and Embreja. That's very well. How long must I be condemned to languish? When shall my sufferings have an end? My life, my happiness, my all is wound up in you. Well, why don't you squeeze my hand? What, thus? Thus? Aye. Now throw your arm about my middle, hug me closer. Ah, you're not afraid of hurting me. Now pour forth a volley of rapture and nonsense till you are out of breath. Transport an ecstasy. Where am I? My life, my bliss, I rage, I burn, I bleed, I die. Go on, go on. Flames and darts. Bear me to the gloomy shade, rocks and grottos, flowers, zeffas, and purling streams. Oh, Mr. Fantôme, you have a tongue who'd undo a vestal. You were born for the ruin of our sex. This will do, then, Abigail. Aye, this is talking like a lover. Though I only represent my lady, I take a pleasure in hearing you. Well, oh am I conscious when a man of sense has a little dash of the cox comb in him, no woman can resist him. Go on at this rate, and the thousand pound is as good as in my pocket. I shall think at an age till I have an opportunity of putting this lesson in practice. You may do it soon if you make good use of your time. Mr. Tinsel will be here with my lady at eight, and at nine the conjurer is to take you in hand. Let me alone with both of them. Well, forewarned, forearmed. Get into your box, and I'll endeavour to dispose everything in your favour. Phantom goes in. Exit Abigail. Enter Vellum. Mistress Abigail is withdrawn. I was in hopes to have heard what passes between her and her invisible correspondent. Enter Tinsel. Vellum. Vellum. Vellum, aside. Vellum. We are, me thinks, very familiar. I am not used to being called so by any but their honours. What would you, Mr. Tinsel? Let me beg a favour of the old gentleman. What is that, good sir? Pretty run and fetch me the rent roll of thy lady's estate. The rent roll? The rent roll? Aye, the rent roll. Does not understand what that means. Why, have you thoughts of purchasing of it? Thou hast hit it, old boy. That is my very intention. The purchase will be considerable. And for that reason I have bid thy lady very high. She is to have no less for it than this entire person of mine. Is your whole estate personal, Mr. Tinsel? Why, you queer old dog, you don't pretend to jest, do ye? Look ye, Vellum, if you think of being continued, my steward, you must learn to walk with your toes out. Vellum, aside. An insolent companion. Thou hast confounded rich I see by that dangling of thy arms. An ungracious bird. Thou shalt lend me a couple of thousand pounds. A very profligate. Look ye, Vellum, I intend to be kind to you. I'll borrow some money of you. I cannot but smile to consider the disappointment this young fellow will meet with. I will make myself marry with him. And so, Mr. Tinsel, you promise you will be a very kind master to me? Stifling a laugh. What will you give for a life in the house you live in? What do you think of five hundred pounds? That's too little. And yet it is more than I shall give you. And I will offer you two reasons for it. Pretty, what are they? First, because the tenement is not in your disposal. And secondly, because it never will be in your disposal. And so fare you well, good Mr. Tinsel. You will pardon me for being jocular. Exit, Vellum. This rogue is as saucy as a contrary. I'll be hanged if they are not akin. Enter Lady Truman. Mr. Tinsel, what, all alone? You free thinkers are great admirers of solitude. No, Vave, I have been talking with thy steward, a very grotesque figure of a fellow, the very picture of one of our benches. How can you bear his conversation? I keep him for my steward and not my companion. He's a sober man. Yes, yes, he looks like a put. Queer old dog is ever I saw in my life. We must turn him off, Widow. He treats thee confoundedly. I see that. Indeed, you're mistaken. He has always had the reputation of being a very honest man. What? I suppose he goes to church. Goes to church? So do you too, I hope. I would for once, Widow, to make sure of you. Ah, Mr. Tinsel, a husband who would not continue to go thither, would quickly forget the promises he made there. Very innocent and very ridiculous. Well then, I warn thee, Widow, that what's not for the world merriest Sabbath breaker. Truly, they'd generally come to a bad end. I remember the conjurer told you, you were short-lived. The conjurer! Indeed, you're very witty. Indeed, you're very handsome. Kisses her hand. Lady Truman, aside. I wish the fool does not love me. Thou art the idol I adore. How must I pay my devotion? Pretty Widow, have so any timber upon thy estate? The most impudent fellow I ever met with. I take notice thou hast a great deal of old plate here in the house, Widow. Mr. Tinsel, you are a very observing man. The large silver cistern would make a very good coach, and half a dozen salvers that I saw on the sideboard, might be turned into six as pretty horses as any that appear in the ring. You have a very good fancy, Mr. Tinsel. What pretty transformations you could make in my house. Aside. But I'll see where it will end. Then, I observe, child, you have two or three services of gilt plate. We'd eat always in China, my dear. I perceive you are an excellent manager. How quickly you have taken an inventory of my goods. No, Hark you, Widow, to show you the love that I have for you. Very well, let me hear. You have an old-fashioned gold coddle-cup, with the figure of a saint upon the lid-ond. I have. What then? Why, look here, I'd sell the coddle-cup with the old saint for as much money as it fetch, which I would convert into a diamond buckle, and make you a present of it. Oh, you are generous to an extravagance. But pray, Mr. Tinsel, don't dispose of my goods before you are sure of my person. I find you have taken a great affection to my movables. My dear, I love everything that belongs to you. I see you do, sir. You need not make any protestations upon that subject. Oh, my dear, we are grown serious. And let me tell you, that's the very next step to being dull. Come, that pretty face was never made to look grave with. Believe me, sir, whatever you may think, marriage is a serious subject. For that very reason, my dear, let us get over it as fast as we can. I should be very much in haste for a husband, if I marry within fourteen months after Sir George's disease. Pray, my dear, let me ask you a question. Does not thou think that Sir George is as dead at present to all intents and purposes as he will be a twelve-month hence? Yes, but decency, Mr. Tinsel. Or dost thou think thou would be more a widow then than thou art now? The world would say I never loved my first husband. Oh, my dear, they would say you loved your second, and they would own I deserved it, for I shall love thee most inordinately. But what would people think? Think? Why, they would think thee the mirror of widowhood, that a woman should live fourteen home months after the decease of a spouse without having engaged herself. Why, about town, we know many a woman of quality, second husband, several years before the death of the first. Aye, I know you wits have your commonplace jests upon us poor widows. I'll tell you a story, widow. I know a certain lady, who, considering the craziness of her husband, had, in case of mortality, engaged herself to two young fellows of my acquaintance. They grew such desperate rivals to her, while her husband was alive that one of them pinked the other in a duel. But the good lady was no sooner a widow, but what did my dowager do? Why, Faith, being a woman of honour, she married a third, to whom it seems she had given her first promise. And this is a true story upon your own knowledge? Every titl, as I hoped to be married, or never believe Tom Tinsel. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, do you call this talking like a wit or like a rake? It isn't enough. Why, worth a difference, my dear? Yes, Mr. Tinsel, the only man I ever loved in my life had a great deal of the one and nothing of the other in him. Nay, now you grow vaporish. Thou to begin to fancy thou hears the drum by and by. If you had been here last night about this time, you would not have been so merry. About this time, says thou. Come, Faith, for the humour's sake, we'll sit down and listen. I will, if you'll promise to be serious. Serious? Never fear me, child. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Dost not hear him? You break your word already. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, do you laugh to show your wit or your teeth? Why, both, my dear? Aside. I'm glad, however, that she has taken notice of my teeth. But you look serious, child. I fancy thou hears the drum, dost not? Don't talk so rashly. My, my dear, you could not look more frightened if you had Lucifer's drum made on your house. Mr. Tinsel, I must desire to see you no more in it if you do not leave this idle way of talking. Child, I thought I had told you what is my opinion of spirits as we were drinking a dish of tea by just now. There is no such thing, I give thee my word. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, your authority must be of great weight to those that know you. For my part, child, I have made myself easy in those points. Lady Truman, aside. Sure, nothing was ever like this fellow's vanity, but his ignorance. I'll tell thee what now, widow. I would engage by the help of a white sheet and a penny worth of link in a dark night to frighten your whole country village out of their senses and the vecka into the bargain. What noise is that? Heaven defend us. This is more than fancy. It beats more terrible than ever. T-t-t is very dreadful. What a dog have I been to speak against my conscience, only to show my parts. It comes nearer and nearer. I wish you have not angered it by your foolish discourse. Indeed, madam. I did not speak for my heart. I hope it will do me no hurt for a little harmless railery. Harmless, do you call it? It baits hard bias as if it would break through the wall. What a devil had I to do with a white sheet. Scene opens and discovers Phantom. Mercy on us. It appears. Oh, tis he, tis he himself, tis Sir George, tis my husband. She faints. Now would I give ten thousand pound that I were in town? Phantom advances to him drumming. I beg ten thousand pardons. I'll never talk at this rate any more. Phantom still advances, drumming. By my soul, Sir George, I was not an earnest. Falls on his knees. Have compassion on my youth, and consider I am but a cockscomb. Phantom points to the door. But see, he weighs me off, high with all my heart. What a devil had I to do with a white sheet. He steals off the stage, mending his pace as the drum beats. The scoundrel is gone, and has left his mistress behind him. I'm mistaken if he makes love in this house any more. I have now only the conjurer to deal with. I don't question, but I shall make his reverence scamper as fast as the lover, and then the day's my own. But the servants are coming. I must get into my cupboard. He goes in. Enter Abigail and servants. Oh, my poor lady! This wicked drum has frightened Mr. Tinsel out of his wits, and my lady into a swan. Let me bend her a little forward. She revives. Here, carry her into the fresh air, and she'll recover. They carry her off. This is a little barbarous to my lady, but it's all for her good. And I know her so well that she would not be angry with me, if she knew what I was to get by it. And if any of her friends should blame me for it hereafter, I'll clap my hand upon my purse, and tell them it was for a thousand pound, and Mr. Vellum.