Chapter 40

_He in a Night-gown sitting on a Couch; by him the_ King, _Officers, Attendants to them. Enter_ Cleomena, Semiris, Pimante; Lysander; _the_ King _rises to meet_ Cleo. _and seats her in a Chair by him_.

_Cleo. Thersander_, I am come to beg thy pardon, If thou art innocent, as I must believe thee, And here before the King to make confession Of what I did refuse the Queen my Mother. --Know then, I lov’d, and with a perfect Passion, The most unfortunate of Men, _Clemanthis_. His Birth I never knew, but do believe It was illustrious, as were all his Actions; But I have lost him by a fatal accident, That very day he should have fought with you. [_Weeps_.

_Ther_. Gods! where will this end? [_Aside_.

_Cleo_. But e’er the fatal moment of his Death, _Ismenes_ beg’d to know who did the Murder: But he could answer nothing but _Thersander_, And we believ’d it you. Then Love and my Revenge made me a Soldier; --You know the rest-- And doubtless you’ve accus’d me with Ingratitude.

_Ther_. No, I shall ne’er complain of _Cleomena_, [_He kneels before her_. If she still love _Clemanthis_.

_Cleo_. There needs no more to make me know that Voice. Oh stay, this Joy too suddenly surprizes-- [_Ready to swound_. --Gently distil the Bliss into my Soul, Lest this Excess have the effects of Grief: --Oh, my _Clemanthis_! do I hold thee fast? And do I find thee in the Prince of _Scythia_?

_King_. I lose my Reason by this strange encounter!

_Ther_. Was’t then a secret to my _Cleomena_, That her _Clemanthis_ was the Prince of _Scythia_? I still believ’d that was his only Crime.

_Cleo_. By all my Joys I knew it not--but sure This is Enchantment; for it is as certain These Eyes beheld thee dead.

_Pim_. Ay, and so did I, I’ll be sworn.

_Ther_. That must be poor _Amintas_ in my Dress, Whose Story, when you know, you will bemoan.

_Cleo_. But oh my Life! the cruel Wound I gave thee, Let me be well assur’d it is not mortal, Or I am lost again.

_King_. The Surgeon gives me hopes, and ‘twere convenient You should forbid him not to speak too much--

_Enter a Soldier_.

_Sold_. Arm, arm, great Sir, I think the Enemy Is rallying afresh, for the Plain is cover’d With numerous Troops, which swiftly make this way.

_King_. They dare not break the Truce.

_Sold_. I know not, Sir, but something of a King I heard them talk of--

_Cleo_. It is _Vallentio_ that has kept his word-- Receive ‘em, Sir, as Friends, not Enemies; It is my Brother, who ne’er knew till now Ought of a peopled World.

_King_. I long to see that Monarch, whose Friendship I Must court for you, fair Princess: If you’ll accept _Thersander_ whom I offer’d, I do not doubt an happy Peace on both sides.

_Cleo_. Sir. ‘tis an honour which we ought to sue for.

_Ther_. And ‘tis to me a Blessing-- I wanted Confidence to ask of Heaven.

_Enter_ Ors. Val. Hon. Art. Ism. Geron. _Soldiers, &c_. Ors. _drest gay with a Truncheon in his Hand, advances first, is met by the_ King, _who gaze on each other_.

_Ors_. If thou be’st he that art _Orsames’. Enemy, I do demand a Sister at thy Hands.

_King_. Art thou _Orsames_?

_Ors_. So I am call’d by all that yet have view’d me: --Look on me well-- Dost see no marks of Grandure in my Face? Nothing that speaks me King?

_King_. I do believe thou art that King, and here [_Gives him_ Cleo. I do resign that Sister thou demandest.

_Ors_. It is a Woman too! another Woman! I wou’d embrace thee if I durst approach thee.

_Cleo_. You need not fear, you may embrace your Sister-- [Cleo. _embraces him_.

_Ors_. This is the kindest Women I e’er saw.

_Cleo_. Brother, behold this King no more your Enemy, Since I must pay him Duty as a Father.

_Enter_ Queen, Olympia, _Women_.

_Ors_. Hah, _Olympia_! sure ‘tis an airy Vision--

_Ger_. Approach her, Sir, and try.

_Qu_. Permit a wretched Mother here to kneel.

_King_. Rise, Madam, and receive me as your Friend; This pair of Lovers has united all our Interests. [_Points to_ Cleo. _and_ Thers.

_Qu_. Heavens! what’s this I see, _Clemanthis_ And the Prince of _Scythia_?

_Ther_. Yes, Madam, and a Man that humbly begs The happy Title of your Son--_Honorius_, Of you I ask the greatest Pardon-- [_Talks to_ Olympia.

_Ors_. I am a King, and do adore thee too, And thou shalt rule a World with me, my Fair; A Sword I’ll give thee, with a painted Bow, Whence thou shalt shoot a thousand gilded Arrows.

_Olym_. What to do, Sir?

_Ors_. To save the expence of Cruelty; For they will kill as sure, but rightly aim’d; This noble Fellow told me so. [_To_ Val.

_Olym_. Sir, I’ll do any thing that you will have me: But now the Queen your Mother, Sir, expects you.

_Ors_. Instruct my Eyes, _Olympia_, for ‘tis lately I’ve learnt of some such thing.

_Olym_. This, Sir, you ought to kneel to her.

_Ors_. Must I then kneel to ought but Heaven and thee? [_Kneels_.

_Qu_. My dear _Orsames_, let my Tears make way. Before I can assure thee of my Joy.

_Ors_. Gods! how obliging is this kind Concern! Not all my Passion for my fair _Olympia_ Cou’d ever yet betray me to a Tear. [_Weeps_.

_Qu_. Thou’st greater need of Anger than of Tears, Having before thy Eyes thy worst of Enemies, One that has long depriv’d thee of a Crown, Through what she thought her Duty to the Gods; But now repents her superstitious Error, And humbly begs thy Pardon.

_Ors_. I will, if you’ll implore _Olympia_ but to love me.

_Qu_. I will, my _Orsames_; and ‘tis the only Present I can make to expiate my Fault.

_Ors_. And I’ll receive her as the only thing Can make me both a happy Subject and a King. Oh, _Geron_, still if this should prove a Dream!

_Ger_. Sir, Dreams of Kings are much less pleasant.

_Enter_ Lysander.

_Lys_. Sir, there are without some Shepherdesses, Who say they wou’d present you [_To_ Ther. Something that will not be unwelcome to your Highness.

_Ther_. Let them come in--

_They seat themselves. Enter_ Amin. Ura. _maskt, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, followed with Pipes, or Wind-Musick. They dance; after which_ Amin. _kneels to the Prince_, Ura. _to the Princess_.

--My dear _Amintas_, do I find thee live? Fortune requites my Sufferings With too large a share of Happiness.

_Amin_. Sir, I do live to die again for you.

_Ther_. This, my Divine, is he who had [_To_ Cleo. The Glory to be bewail’d by you; for him you wept; For him had almost dy’d.

_Amin_. That Balm it was, that like the Weapon-salve Heals at a distance--

_Cleo_. But why, Amintas, did you name _Thersander_, When you were askt who wounded you?

_Amin_. Madam, if loss of Blood had given me leave, I wou’d have told you how I came so habited, And who I was, though not how I was wounded.

_King_. Still I am in a mist, and cannot see the happy path I tread.

_Ther_. Anon we will explain the Mystery, Sir.

_Hon_. Now, great _Orsames_, ‘tis but just and fit That you receive the Rites of Coronation, Which are not to be paid you in a Camp; The Court will add more to that joyful Day.

_King_. And there we’ll join our Souls as well as Swords, Our Interests as our Families.

_Ors_. I am content that thou should’st give me Laws: Come, my _Vallentio_, it shall ne’er be said I recompense thy Services With any thing less grateful than a Woman: --Here, I will chuse for thee-- And when I know what ‘tis I more can do, If there be ought beyond this Gift, ‘tis thine. [_Gives him_ Sem.

_Ther. Scythia_ and _Dacia_ now united are: The God of Love o’ercomes the God of War. _After a Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, the Epilogue is spoken by Mrs_. Barry, _as a Nymph; at his Royal Highness’s second Exile into_ Flanders.

EPILOGUE.

_After our showing Play of mighty Pains, We here present you humble Nymphs and Swains. Our rustick Sports sometimes may Princes please, And Courts do oft divert in Cottages, And prize the Joys with some young rural Maid, On Beds of Grass beneath a lovely Shade, ’.ove all the Pride of City-Jilts, whose Arts Are more to gain your Purses than your Hearts; Whose chiefest Beauty lies in being fine; And Coyness is not Virtue, but Design. We use no Colours to adorn the Face, No artful Looks, nor no affected Grace, The neighbouring Stream serves for a Looking-glass. Ambition is not known within our Groves; Here’s no Dispute for Empire, but for Loves; The humble Swain his Birth-right here enjoys, And fears no Danger from the publick Voice; No Wrong nor Insolence from busy Powers, No Rivals here for Crowns, but those of Flowers, His Country and his Flocks enjoy with ease, Ranges his native Fields and Groves in Peace; Nor forc’d by Arbitrary Votes to fly To foreign Shores for his Security. Our humble Tributes uncompell’d we pay, And cheerful Homage to the Lord of May; No Emulation breaks his soft Repose, Nor do his Wreaths or Virtues gain him Foes: No publick Mischiefs can disturb his Reign, And Malice would be busy here in vain. Fathers and Sons just Love and Duty pay; This knows to be indulgent, that t’obey. Here’s no Sedition hatcht, no other Plots, But to entrap the Wolf that steals our Flocks. Who then wou’d be a King, gay Crowns to wear, Restless his Nights, thoughtful his Days with Care; Whose Greatness, or whose Goodness cant secure From Outrages which Knaves and Fools procure?

Greatness, be gone, we banish you from hence, The noblest State is lowly Innocence. Here honest Wit in Mirth and Triumph reigns, Musick and Love shall ever bless our Swains, And keep the Golden Age within our Woods and Plains_.

THE CITY HEIRESS; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TREAT-ALL.

ARGUMENT.

The scene is London. Sir Timothy Treat-all, an old seditious knight, that keeps open house for Commonwealthsmen and true Blue Protestants, has disinherited his nephew, Tom Wilding, a town gallant and a Tory. Wilding is pursuing an intrigue with Lady Galliard, a wealthy widow, and also with Chariot, heiress to the rich Sir Nicholas Get-all, recently deceased. Lady Galliard is further hotly wooed by Sir Charles Meriwill, a young Tory, but she favours Wilding. Sir Charles is encouraged in his suit by his roystering uncle, Sir Anthony. Wilding introduces his mistress Diana to Sir Timothy as the heiress Charlot; and at an entertainment given by Sir Timothy, Charlot herself appears, disguised as a Northern lass, to watch the progress of Tom’s intrigue with the widow, who eventually yields to him. Sir Charles, none the less, backed by Sir Anthony, still persists, and after various passionate scenes forces her to consent to become his bride. Meanwhile Sir Timothy has arranged a marriage with Diana, whom he firmly believes to be Charlot. During the progress of the entertainment he is visited by a strange nobleman and his retinue, who offer him the crown of Poland and great honours. That night, however, his house is rifled by thieves and his money and papers stolen. He himself is pinioned hand and foot, the foreign lord bound fast in his own room, and all his followers secured. Sir Timothy having married Diana discovers that she is none other than his nephew’s mistress, and, moreover, the Polish ambassador was Tom in masquerade, the attendants and burglars his friends, who by obtaining his treasonable correspondence are able effectually to silence the old knight. Wilding is united to Charlot, whilst Lady Galliard weds Charles Meriwill.

SOURCE.

The City Heiress is most manifestly borrowed from two main sources. Sir Anthony Meriwill and Charles are Durazzo and Caldoro from Massinger’s _The Guardian_ (licensed 31 October, 1633, 8vo, 1655). Mrs. Behn has transferred to her play even small details and touches. The burglary, that most wonderful of all burglaries, is taken and improved from Middleton’s _A Mad World, My Masters_ (4to, 1608), Act ii, where Sir Bounteous Progress is robbed by Dick Folly-Wit, his grandson, in precisely the same way as Sir Timothy is choused by Tom. On 4 February, 1715, Charles Johnson produced at Drury Lane his _The Country Lasses; or, The Custom of the Manor_, a rifacimento of Fletcher’s _The Custom of the Country_ and _The City Heiress_. It is a well-written, lively enough comedy, but very weak and anaemic withal when compared to Mrs. Behn. B. G. Stephenson, in his vivacious libretto to Cellier’s tuneful opera, _Dorothy_, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, 25 September, 1886, has made great use of Johnson’s play, especially Act i, where the gallants meet the two ladies disguised as country girls; the duel scenes of Act v; and the pseudo-burglary of Act iii. He even gives his comic sheriff’s officer the name of Lurcher, who in Johnson is the rackety nephew that tricks his hospitable old uncle, Sir John English. The _Biographia Dramatica_ states that Mrs. Behn ‘introduced into this play (_The City Heiress_) a great part of the _Inner Temple Masque_ by Middleton.’ This charge is absolutely unfounded, and it would not be uninteresting to know how so complete an error arose. The two have nothing in common. It must be allowed that Mrs. Behn has displayed such wit and humour as amply to justify her plagiarisms. Sir Timothy Treat-all himself is, of course, Shaftesbury almost without disguise. There are a thousand telling hits at the President of the Council and his vices. He was also bitterly satirized in many other plays. In Nevil Payne’s _The Siege of Constantinople_ (1675) he appears as The Chancellor; 1680 in Otway’s Shakespearean cento cum bastard classicism _Caius Marius_ some very plain traits can be recognized in the grim Marius senior; in Southerne’s _The Loyal Brother_ (1682) Ismael, a villainous favourite; in _Venice Preserved_ (1682) the lecherous Antonio; in the same year Banks caricatured him as a quite unhistorical Cardinal Wolsey, _Virtue Betray’d; or, Anna Bullen_; in Crowne’s mordant _City Politics_ (1683) the Podesta of a most un-Italian Naples; the following year Arius the heresiarch in Lee’s _Constantine the Great_; in the operatic _Albion and Albanius_ (1685), Dryden does not spare even physical infirmities and disease with the crudest yet cruellest exhibition, and five years later he attacked his old enemy once more as Benducar in that great tragedy _Don Sebastian_.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

_The City Heiress; or, Sir Timothy Treat-all_ was produced at the Duke’s House, Dorset Garden, in 1682. Downes specially mentions it as having been ‘well acted’, and it was indeed an ‘all star’ cast. It had a tremendous ovation but in spite of its great merit did not become a stock play, probably owing to the intensely political nature of much of its satirical wit, a feature necessarily ephemeral. It seems, however, to have been presented from time to time, and there was a notable revival on 10 July, 1707, at the Haymarket, for the benefit of Husband and Pack. Sir Timothy was played by Cross; Tom Wilding, Mills; Sir Anthony, Bullock; Foppington, Pack; Lady Galliard, Mrs. Bradshaw; Charlot, Mrs. Bicknall; Clacket, Mrs. Powell. It met with a very favourable reception.

To the Right Honourable _Henry_ Earl of _Arundel_, and Lord _Mowbray_.

MY LORD,

’.is long that I have with great impatience waited some opportunity to declare my infinite Respect to your Lordship, coming, I may say, into the World with a Veneration for your Illustrious Family, and being brought up with continual Praises of the Renowned Actions of your glorious Ancestors, both in War and Peace, so famous over the Christian World for their Vertue, Piety, and Learning, their elevated Birth, and greatness of Courage, and of whom all our English History are full of the Wonders of their Lives: A Family of so Ancient Nobility, and from whom so many Heroes have proceeded to bless and serve their King and Country, that all Ages and all Nations mention ‘em even with Adoration: My self have been in this our Age an Eye and Ear-witness, with what Transports of Joy, with what unusual Respect and Ceremony, above what we pay to Mankind, the very Name of the Great Howards of Norfolk and Arundel, have been celebrated on Foreign Shores! And when any one of your Illustrious Family have pass’d the Streets, the People throng’d to praise and bless him as soon as his Name has been made known to the glad Croud. This I have seen with a Joy that became a true English heart, (who truly venerate its brave Country-men) and joyn’d my dutiful Respects and Praises with the most devout; but never had the happiness yet of any opportunity to express particularly that Admiration I have and ever had for your Lordship and your Great Family. Still, I say, I did admire you, still I wish’d and pray’d for you; ‘twas all I cou’d or durst: But, as my Esteem for your Lordship daily increased with my Judgment, so nothing cou’d bring it to a more absolute height and perfection, than to observe in these troublesome times, this Age of Lying, Peaching, and Swearing with what noble Prudence, what steadiness of Mind, what Loyalty and Conduct you have evaded the Snare, that ‘twas to be fear’d was laid for all the Good, the Brave, and Loyal, for all that truly lov’d our best of Kings and this distracted Country. A thousand times I have wept for fear that Impudence and Malice wou’d extend so far as to stain your Noble and ever-Loyal Family with its unavoidable Imputatious; and as often for joy, to see how undauntedly both the Illustrions Duke your Father, and your Self, stem’d the raging Torrent that threatned, with yours, the ruin of the King and Kingdom; all which had not power to shake your Constancy or Loyalty: for which, may Heaven and Earth reward and bless you; the noble Examples to thousands of failing hearts, who from so great a President of Loyalty, became confirm’d. May Heaven and Earth bless you for your pious and resolute bravery of Mind, and Heroick honesty, when you cry’d, _Not Guilty_; that you durst, like your great self, speak Conscientious Truths in a Juncto so vitious, when Truth and Innocence was criminal: and I doubt not but the Soul of that great Sufferer bows down from Heaven in gratitude for that noble service done it. All these and a thousand marks you give of daily growing Greatness; every day produces to those like me, curious to learn the story of your Life and Actions, something that even adds a Lustre to your great Name, which one wou’d think you’d be made no more splendid: some new Goodness, some new act of Loyalty or Courage, comes out to cheer the World and those that admire you. Nor wou’d I be the last of those that dayly congratulate and celebrate your rising Glory; nor durst I any other way approach you with it, but this humble one, which carries some Excuse along with it.

Proud of the opportunity then, I most humbly beg your Lordships’ patronage of a Comedy, which has nothing to defend it, but the Honour it begs, and nothing to deserve that Honour, but its being in every part true Tory! Loyal all-over! except one Knave, which I hope no body will take to himself; or if he do, I must e’en say with _Hamlet_,

--Then let the strucken Deer go weep--

It has the luck to be well received in the Town; which (not for my Vanity) pleases me, but that thereby I find Honesty begins to come in fashion again, when Loyalty is approv’d, and Whigism becomes a Jest where’er ‘tis met with. And, no doubt on’t, so long as the Royal Cause has such Patrons as your Lordship, such vigorous and noble Supporters, his Majesty will be great, secure and quiet, the Nation flourishing and happy, and seditious Fools and Knaves that have so long disturb’d the Peace and Tranquility of the World, will become the business and sport of Comedy, and at last the scorn of that Rabble that fondly and blindly worshipt ‘em; and whom nothing can so well convince as plain Demonstration, which is ever more powerful and prevailent than Precept, or even Preaching it self. If this have edifi’d effectual, ‘tis all I wish; and that your Lordship will be pleas’d to accept the humble Offering, is all I beg, and the greatest Glory I care shou’d be done,

MY LORD, Your Lordship’s most Humble and most Obedient Servant, A. BEHN.

THE CITY HEIRESS; or, Sir _Timothy Treat-all_.

PROLOGUE,

Written by Mr. _Otway_, Spoken by Mrs. _Barry_.

_How vain have proved the Labours of the Stage, In striving to reclaim a vitious Age! Poets may write the Mischief to impeach, You care as little what the Poets teach, As you regard at Church what Parsons preach. But where such Follies, and such Vices reign, What honest Pen has Patience to refrain? At Church, in Pews, ye most devoutly snore And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar: Ye go to Church to glout, and ogle there, And come to meet more loud convenient here. With equal Zeal ye honour either Place, And run so very evenly your Race, Y’ improve in Wit just as you do in Grace. It must be so, some Daemon has possest Our Land, and we have never since been blest. Y’ have seen it all, or heard of its Renown, In Reverend Shape it staled about the Town, Six Yeomen tall attending on its Frown. Sometimes with humble Note and zealous Lore, ’.wou’d play the Apostolick Function o’er: But, Heaven have mercy on us when it swore. Whene’er it swore, to prove the Oaths were true, Out of its much at random Halters flew Round some unwary Neck, by Magick thrown, Though still the cunning Devil sav’d its own: For when the Inchantment could no longer last, The subtle Pug most dextrously uncas’d, Left awful Form for one more seeming pious, And in a moment vary’d to defy us; From silken Doctor home-spun Ananias: Left the leud Court, and did in City fix, Where still, by its old Arts, it plays new Tricks, And fills the Heads of Fools with Politicks. This Daemon lately drew in many a Guest, To part with zealous Guinea for--no Feast. Who, but the most incorrigible Fops, For ever doomed in dismal Cells, call’d Shops, To cheat and damn themselves to get their Livings, Wou’d lay sweet Money out in Sham-Thanksgivings? Sham-Plots you may have paid for o’er and o’er; But who e’er paid for a Sham-Treat before? Had you not better sent your Offerings all Hither to us, than Sequestrators Hall? I being your Steward, Justice had been done ye; I cou’d have entertain’d you worth your Money_.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Sir _Timothy Treat-all_, an old seditious Knight, | that keeps open House for Commonwealthsmen | Mr. _Nokes_. and true blue Protestants, Uncle to _T. | Wilding_, | _Tom Wilding_, a Tory, his discarded Nephew, Mr. _Bctterton_. Sir _Anthony Meriwill_, an old Tory Knight of Mr. _Lee_. _Devonshire_, Sir _Charles Meriwill_, his Nephew, a Tory also, | in love with L. _Galliard_, and Friend to | Mr. _Williams_. _Wilding_, | _Dresswell_, a young Gentleman, Friend to Mr. _Bowman_. _Wilding_, _Foppington_, a Hanger-on on _Wilding_, Mr. _Jevon_. _Jervice_, Man to Sir _Timothy_. _Laboir_, Man to _Tom Wilding_. Boy, Page to Lady _Galliard_. Boy, Page to _Diana_. Guests, Footmen, Musick, &c.

WOMEN.

Lady _Galliard_, a rich City-Widow, in love with | Mrs. _Barry_. _Wilding_, | _Charlot_, The City-Heiress, in love with _Wilding_, Mrs. _Butler_. _Diana_, Mistress to _Wilding_, and kept by him, Mrs. _Corror_. Mrs. _Clacket_, a City Baud and Puritan, Mrs. _Novice_. Mrs. _Closet_, Woman to Lady _Galliard_, Mrs. _Lee_. Mrs. _Sensure_, Sir _Timothy’s_ Housekeeper. _Betty_, Maid to _Diana_. Maid at _Charlot’s_ lodging.

SCENE, _Within the Walls of_ London.