Corp. Charge bayonets Tom. Grape and canister Corp. Bombs and bullets-- Tom. With five sail of the line we attack forty of the enemy-- Tom. Take ten; burn, sink, and destroy twenty; thirty scud awayCorp. Kill thirty thousand; make forty thousand prisoners; fifty thousand fly Together. Victory! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Tom. That was when you lost your eye, Corporal? Corp. No: My eye I lost with the great Marlborough at Blenheim; my leg I gloriously left at Waterloo; and my arm I left fighting by the side of the brave Harry, at Agincourt. † And how came you crippled, Tom?—— Come, tell us all about it. Tom. No, split my timbers if I do. A British tar can beat forty Frenchmen at any time; but, dam'me, he won't boast. Howsomever, I'll tell you. SONG. Tom Topsail. My name's Tom Topsail: I have seen For nine times round the world I've been The boatswain pip'd all hands ahoy! Old England pip'd her sons to arms, I lost a leg: and next I sail'd To plough the seas again I went, And oft the Mounseer's flag I beat by the galleries-an experienced writer will leave it to the actor's discretion to introduce it as soon as he perceives the pit and boxes beginning to yawn, or at any period when he discovers indications of a coming storm on the other side of the lamps. On such occasions, a battle and " British valour" always beat British common-sense out of the field. Our heroes are killing, burning, sinking, and destroying more ships and soldiers than were engaged in the combat. No matter: it would be absurd to attempt to circumscribe, within the common rules of arithmetic, courage and loyalty so enthusiastic as theirs. + Unless we are to consider this as a downright anachronism (and our comic operas now and then furnish examples of the use of this licence), the Corporal is a veteran in the fullest sense of the term. On a moderate computation he must be upwards of four hundred years old. Assuredly not. He helped to beat the Armada in 1588, and fought with Nelson full two centuries later. But, compared with his companion, Tom is a mere infant in the career of arms; for, as yet, he can hardly be more than two centuries and a half old. It has already been observed, that anachronisms, and similar lapses, are allowable in comic operas; but if Mr. Topsail sailed round the world with Drake," it follows as the night the day," that "brave Jarvis" promoted him to the post of cabin-boy when he was but about two hundred and twenty years of age. After this, let us hear no more complaints of the tardiness of naval promotion. With him I lost a leg and eye; And all for Britain's glory." Then next with Howe, in storms and calms, I oft the foe did leather: A chain-shot took off both my arms And t'other leg together.* But soon the doctor set me right, As now I stand before ye; My heart is whole, and still I'll fight, Then, since I've not lost both my glims, Enter ADMIRAL ANCHOR. Admiral. Softly there, softly; keep less noise between decks. Tom. We are drinking to the success of old England, my noble Commander. Admiral. Then make less noise about it, and be damn'd to you. Tom. Less noise! It wasn't your word of command to make less noise when the cannons were roaring aboard the Thunderer. ‡ Admiral. We are not aboard the Thunderer now, you lubber. Tom. No; for aboard the Thunderer Tom Topsail was fighting alongside of you. But Tom's hulk is batter'd, and I suppose he's to be put out of commission. Corp. Aye, Gratitude has shoulder'd arms, and march'd out of the garrison. Admiral. Split my timbers! a mutiny in the fleet! Tom. Mutiny! Look'ee, Admiral, I've shed my blood for you; but run me up the yard-arm, if ever I thought to shed a tear. § (Wiping his eye.) Corp. Nor I neither, spike me on a shiver-de-freeze if I did. (Wiping his eye.) Admiral. What the devil are you piping at? Who spoke to you? Corp. True; but looke'e, your honour: when a British sailor pipes his eye, 'tis the duty of ev'ry British soldier to pipe his eye also. Admiral. (Wiping his eyes.) Dam'me, my old weather-beaten timbers a'nt proof against this. (Kindly.) Boatswain. Tom. (Sulkily.) What says my noble Commander? Admiral. Corporal. Corporal. (As sulkily as Tom.) Your honour. counts. A very ingenious operation of this chain-shot. But let me check Mr. Tom's acHe lost a leg with Drake, a second leg with Rodney, and "t'other leg " with Howe. This then makes the third leg he has lost! But what does that signify to a theatrical British tar? Besides, one can never suffer too much in defence of one's king and country. And a very ample salvage too, for a tar of such determined courage and loyalty. But after his boast of what his head should do, even should he lose his body, it is to be hoped we shall hear no more of Witherington, of Chevy-chace celebrity. Tom, however, is a mere pigmy, compared with some others of Mr. D -'s heroes. I will take this occasion to mention as a general rule, that when a British audience is to be drugged with clap-trap loyalty, and boasts of British valour, British generosity, or British any thing else, the dose cannot be too strongly administered. A foremast-man abusing his admiral, forms a true picture of naval manners; at least it passes for such on the stage. It is now, perhaps, a little the worse for use. § More naval pathetic. Admiral. I've wrong'd you; and a British admiral is not too proud to own it. Come, fill a bumper, lads. Here's" Gratitude: and may the man that is without gratitude never sail in his right latitude." Tom. Corp. Long life to your honour! Admiral. Ah! lads, and I might still be happy, if my poor niece Tom. Aye, Miss Lovely, who died in her infancy. But come, your honour mustn't think of that. (A scream heard.) Admiral. (Agitated.) Tom! that scream! Tom. 'Twas very like!* Should it be. But make all sail for the port a-head, and leave me plenty of sea-room. (ADMIRAL retires into a room at the side-CORPORAL walks up the stage.) Enter LUCY LOVELY (running), followed by SIR FREDERICK FRIBBLE. Lucy. Save me! save me! Sir F. Why do you fly me, my charmer? I have four spanking greys, that shall gaily gallop us to Gretna-green. Let me be your beau; the blacksmith shall fasten the matrimonial knot; and I shall come back to London with an additional-rib-on. Lucy. Leave me, monster, nor longer persecute me. Sir F. Well, my frisky filly, if you've the folly not to follow freely, Frederick Fribble would feel it foolish not to force you. So here goes. (Takes her arm.) Tom. Avast there, pirate: fire a shot at that little cutter, and I'll pour a broadside into you. Corp. Leave him to me: what can you do who have neither legs nor arms? Tom. The duty of a British sailor. Sir F. Stand out of the way, you great sea-bear. Do you know who I am? Tom. No; but I know that a female is a woman, and it is the duty of a British tar to protect a woman in distress. ‡ So surrender your prize, and make all sail out of an enemy's port. If you stay you'll buy a rabbit. Sir F. Then I'll go, and buy a brush. This tar is above my pitch. (Exit.) Lucy, Pr'ythee don't run after him. Tom. (Pointing to his wooden legs.) A British sailor scorns to run. § Lucy. Thanks, my brave deliverer. Pardon this intrusion. Alighting from the Plymouth Telegraph, the monster accosted me (ADMIRAL appears listening); he would have forced me to accompany him; I fled; he followed; perceiving this door open, I entered to avoid him: you know the rest. But, where am I? Tom. Aboard the good ship Admiral Anchor. Lucy. Good Heavens! my uncle! Extraordinary adventure! || ADMIRAL (rushing forward). Admiral. Yes, Lucy, your uncle, who has so long mourned your death. Image of your departed mother! (They embrace.) But more of this anon. Tom. Never a more unlooked for ship than this came into harbour; and come what may of it -'tis all for BRITAIN'S GLORY. End of the Scene. Like the scream of the Admiral's niece who died in her infancy. The modern drama abounds in recognitions equally probable. + Alliteration is the beauty by which (next to pun) Mr. D's style is dis tinguished. In the art of punning he is not without rivals, and (I am forced to admit) dangerous rivals too; but in alliteration he reigns alone. This sentiment is sufficient to save a play on the very brink of damnation. Pro batum est. § Ditto. Perfectly natural and probable; and, in the modern drama, nothing more comme HONEST MAN JOHN OCHILTREE. A gay young lad frae Locherben His brow was brent, his glance was gleg, Aboon the fire upon the bink, He had bread to eat an' wine to drink, Thy tale of Elphin Irving, said a hale and ruddy old man to me, whose singular knack in relating adventures, chiefly of a joyous and festive kind, had rendered him a welcome visitant to the Portioner of Lyddalcross; thy tale, said this patriarch in narratives, is veritable doubtless, I have heard snatches of it said or sung myself while wandering about the country. But ye have steeped it so deep, young man, in the dark stream of superstition, that ye have fairly drowned the tale and the hero of it together. Now, touching fairies and elves, and elf-candles, and water-spunkies, and wraiths, and ghosts, and goblins, and foul fiends horned or clovenfooted, and witches, and wizards, and familiar spirits, I have suffered more from a bed of wet sacks in a farmer's barn, than from all the invisible dwellers of the earth or the air. For save the sinful forms clothed in flesh and blood, nought else has ever disturbed the peace of honest old John Ochiltree: nevertheless, some of the early hours of my life have been devoted to curious adventures, any of which falling from the lips of one who has a natural grace of utterance might move you to mirth; from my lips they will only move you to commiseration. The old man adjusted his wallet, or traveling knapsack, stood perpendicularly up, and combing his white locks several times with his fingers, commenced his narrative with some thing of a look and tone at once arch and grave. I was not always, said he, an old man with a lank leg and hoary head: there was a time before I took to this pleasant life of wandering from house to hall, cheering the dames of the district with my grave look and my merry tale. I was then young, my locks were black, and my leg was firm, and I could have pitched a bar, or played on the fiddle, with any youth in the land. But a sad cough which I caught among the damp broom on Quarrelwood-hill, hearkening a sectarian sermon, plucked strength and spirit down, and drove me to the country to win the bread by my wit which I should have won by the sweat of my brow. The adventures I shall relate commenced with my seventeenth year: I had learned to sing and also to dance; but nature, which lavishes so many notable gifts, denied me that ready and familiar grace of address which wins its way to woman's regard: I conversed with the maids whom the music of the fiddle surrendered to my company, with such manifest confusion, and even alarm, that they soon reckoned me a creature equally uncouth and ungracious, and I was subjected to abundance of scorn, and caprice, and wit, when I endeavoured at gallantry. The maidens, when I led them to the floor, would examine me from head to foot, with an eye sparkling in malicious wit; and even their grandmother |