THE HOTEL: OR, THE SERVANT WITH TWO MASTERS. AS IT WAS PERFORMED At the THEATRE-ROYAL, Smock-Alley, WITH DISTINGUISHED APPLAUSE.
CORK: PRINTED FOR ANTHONY EDWARDS, BOOK⯑SELLER. No. 3, CASTLE-STREET.
- Don Pedro, Father of Leonora, Mr. MITCHEL.
- Don Sancho, Father of Ferdinand, Mr. KANE.
- Octavio, Lover to Clara, Mr. PALMER.
- Ferdinand, Lover to Leonora, Mr. GRAHAM.
- Borachio, Maſter of the Hotel, Mr. FOTTERAL
- Lazarillo, Servant to Octavio, and to Clara as Don Felix. Mr. O'REILLY.
- Porters, Waiters, &c.
- Donna Clara, in Man's Cloaths as Felix, Mrs. INCHBALD.
- Leonora, Miſtreſs of Ferdinand, Mrs. HITCHCOCK
- A Maid, Mrs. GEMEA.
The HOTEL, &c.
ACT I. DON PEDRO's Houſe.
HERE's my hand. Is it a bargain?
Certainly—we'll have the wedding to⯑night. The young couple are ſo much in love, they will be glad to diſpenſe with ceremony—it really looks as if Heaven had a hand in this match, for if young Felix had not died ſo commodiouſſy at Sala⯑manca, we could never have been brothers-in-law.
Bleſs me your honour! is poor Don Felix dead then? he was a merry young gentleman—I'm ſorry for it with all my ſoul.
Ay, he is dead as King Philip the Second—but did you know Don Felix?
As well as any hogſhead in my cellar—I kept a tavern three years at Salamanca, and he was my conſtant cuſtomer. I knew his ſiſter too, a brave mettled damſel, that made no more of clapping on a pair of breeches, and ſtradling a horſeback, than if ſhe had never been laced in ſtays, or encumber'd with a petticoat.
[...] to her frolics, for ſhe has no brother left to reſtrain her. We ſent for you Borachio, to provide the wed⯑ding dinner. Let things be as they ſhould be.
Never trouble your head about it. I'll ſet you out ſuch a repaſt—the firſt courſe ſhall be as ſubſtantial as the bridegroom, and the ſecond as de⯑licate as the bride—then for wines and a deſert. I don't care if you aſk all the Benedictines to ſit in judgment upon their flavour and freſhneſs.
Sir, there's a ſervant of a ſtrange gentleman, who has a meſſage for you.
What does he want with me?
He will not tell his buſineſs to any one but your Worſhip. He has been fooling with me till I am tired of him.
Bid him come in.
Can you gueſs what buſineſs a ſtranger can have with you?
Ay, I ſuppoſe the old buſineſs—ſome needy ſpendthrift who has loſt his purſe at the gaming-table, and wants to try if I am fool enough to take a liking to him, and lend him as much more upon no ſecurity.
I have the honour to be gentlemen, with the moſt profound reſpect, your honour's moſt faithful, obſequious and obedient humble ſervant.
This fellow begins his ſpeech like the concluſion of a letter.
Have you any buſineſs with me, friend?
May I take the liberty to aſk your honour a queſtion?
Ay, what is it?
Pray, who may that pretty, plump, cherry-cheeked, round-hipped, buxom, genteel, light-paſ⯑tern'd, black-eyed damſel be?
What buſineſs is it of yours? ſhe's my daughter's maid.
I wiſh your honour much joy of her.
What does the fellow mean? To your buſineſs friend—Who are you? What do you want with me? Who do you belong to?
Softly, ſoftly, Sir—three queſtions in a breath are too much for a poor man like me to anſ⯑wer all at once.
I don't know what to make of this fellow—I believe he's none of the wiſeſt.
I ſhould rather ſuſpect he was none of the honeſteſt.
Are you married my pretty laſs?
What would the fellow be at? What's your buſineſs, I ſay?
Sir, to anſwer your queſtions—in the firſt place, I am my maſter's ſervant.
And my pretty one, as I was going to tell you, if the Don had not interrupted me—
Who the devil is your maſter?
He's a ſtrange gentleman, Sir, who has a ſtrong inclination to pay your Worſhip a viſit.
And now, as to the little affair between us—
Who is this ſtrange gentleman? What buſineſs has he with me?
Sir, he is the noble Don Felix de Silva, of Salamanca, who waits below to have the ſupreme felicity of kiſſing your honour's hand, and has ſent me before to make his compliments to you.
Well, my dear have you thought of the propoſal? Do you think me ſhocking?
Mind me fellow—what is this you ſay?
Sir, if you are curious to know particulars about me, I am Lazarillo, of Valencia, as honeſt a little fellow, tho' I ſay it, that ſhou'd not ſay it, as ever rode before a portmanteau.
What I pride myſelf for more than my other good quali⯑ties, is that I am the adorer, and faithful ſlave of your divine and inſurmountable beauty.
Turn this way, booby—you are either drunk or mad—Why Don Felix of Salamanca, is dead.
Dead! ay dead and buried.
You may get another maſter, honeſt friend, for poor Don Felix has no occaſion for you.
This is ſtrange news—It muſt be a very ſudden, death—perhaps it was only his ghoſt that hired me, but I never ſaw any thing ſo like a living creature; he gave me a rap over the ſhoulders juſt now, that I thought felt very natural. If he is really a ghoſt, he won't dare to pretend he's alive, and tell a lie before ſo much good company.
What do you think of this raſcal? Is he a knave or a fool?
To my thinking, he's compounded of both.
To my poor thinking, he's crazy.
'Fore Heaven brother-in-law that is to be, if Don Felix ſhould be alive, we two ſhould make but a ſilly figure.
Truly gentlemen, this is but indifferent treatment for a ſtranger, to tell a poor ſervant like me that his maſter was dead.
So he is, I ſay.
And I ſay that he is not only alive, but in good health, ſound as a biſcuit, and ſprightly as a bottle of champagne—and at this moment is ready to come in and give you proof poſitive by your own eye ſight.
What, Don Felix?
Ay, Don Felix.
Ay, De Silva.
Ay, of Salamanca.
I would recommend to you friend to loſe a little blood, and have your head ſhaved—you are mad.
This is enough to make me ſo—I ſay he is below at this moment waiting in the parlour.
I'll break your head, you raſcal.
Keep your temper. Stay, let us ſee this impoſtor, who calls himſelf Don Felix. Bid him walk up ſtairs.
Ay, ay, you're right—let's ſee this re⯑ſurrection.
In a twinkling.
We'll take another opportunity.
This is ſome ſham, ſome cheat, but I think we ſhan't be eaſily impoſed upon.
Let me alone—let me alone—he muſt riſe early brother, who makes a fool of Don Pedro.
Signior Don Pedro, after the many polite letters I have received from you, I could little expect ſuch extraordinary treatment to be kept half an hour cooling my heels among Muleteers and Lacquies.
Sir, I humbly aſk your pardon. But may I take the liberty to crave your name or title?
My name, Sir, is Don Felix de Silva.
Ha, what's this—why this is Donna Clara, the ſiſter of Felix—let's ſee what will be the end of this.
I'm ſtruk dumb with amazement—Sir, I rejoice to ſee you ſafe and ſound—which indeed is a little extraordinary, conſidering we had heard you was dead and buried.
I wiſh with all my heart he was under ground.
It was reported I know, that I was dead, but in fact I only received a fleſh wound in a quar⯑rel —a fainting fit ſucceeded the loſs of blood, and gave occaſion to the report of my death—but the moment I recovered ſtrength enough to travel, I mounted my horſe, and ſet out to pay my reſpects, and keep my engagement.
I really don't know what to ſay to it— you have the appearance of a gentleman, but I have had ſuch aſſurances that Don Felix was dead, that unleſs I have ſome ſtrong proofs to the contrary— you'll pardon me, Sir,— I mean no harm— but truly in a matter of this conſequence a little caution, you know—
Sir, you're perfectly right—but here are proofs—here are no leſs than four letters—this is from the Governor of the Bank—you know the hand and ſeal, I ſuppoſe.
Sir, will you permit me to congratulate you upon your recovery, and your ar⯑rival in Grenada.
Ha! confuſion! my old hoſt of Sa⯑lamanca—he'll certainly know and will diſcover me. I think I recollect you, friend.
I believe you may, your honour—my face is no ſtranger at Salamanca—Joſeph Borachio is as well known as the high road to Madrid.
True, true, I know I was acquainted with you—hark a word—don't betray me and this purſe has a twin-brother as like it—
Never fear, Madam—there's ſomething ſo engaging in your countenance, and ſo perſuaſive in your manner, that I would as ſoon pull down my ſign as diſcover you.
I am for want of a better, the maſter of the Eagle hard-by; and will be bold to ſay that for good treatment, ſoft beds, wholeſome food and old wine, Joſeph Bo⯑rachio will not give the wall to any publican in Grenada.
Get your beſt apartments ready, and I'll order my baggage there.
Why, certainly theſe letters are addreſſed to Don Felix—but there are ways you know of get⯑ting another man's letters—at the ſame time, Sir—
Nay, Sir, if you ſtill doubt—here's my old acquaintance Joſeph Borachio, he knows me; I ſuppoſe you'll take his word, tho' you ſeem a little ſuſpicious of mine.
Lord, Sir, I'll give my oath to him.
I tell twenty lies every bill I bring up for half a dol⯑lar and the Devil's in my conſcience if I can't tell one for a purſe full of dubloons.
Sir, I aſk a thouſand pardons, my doubts are vaniſhed—you certainly are Don Felix.
What do you think of this brother-in-law that was to be?
Why I think 'tis a little unlucky, that the dead ſhould get out of their graves to prevent our being relations.
Did you ſend for me, father?
I did ſend for you my dear—but matters are a little changed within this half hour.
Is that young Lady your daughter, Don Pedro?
Ay Sir, that is my daughter.
This then is the young lady I muſt pay my addreſſes to—I hope, Madam, the conſent of our families to my happineſs, has made no unfavourable impreſſion againſt the perſon of your humble ſervant.
What can I ſay to him—Yes, Sir—No, Sir—
An odd reception!—Yes, Sir—No, Sir— Pray Sir
how am I to underſtand the Lady
She's a little baſhful at preſent—ſhe'll be more intelligible by and by—ſhe is not much ac⯑quainted with you yet—ſhe'll come to preſently.
I hope ſo—This gentleman
I ſuppoſe is a friend of the family—a near relation.
A friend of the family certainly, but no other way a relation, than as I am to call this Lady my wife.
Right! ſtick to that—don't give up your pretenſions—my boy has ſpirit—that young coxcomb won't carry it ſo ſwimmingly.
How's this? I don't underſtand you, Sir—your wife!—What, does that Lady intend to have two huſbands!
Young gentleman, pray come with me —here has been a ſmall miſtake.—Your ſuppoſed death—but I'll explain every thing to you within— depend upon it I ſhall fulfil my engagements.
But hark'e, Sir—I ſuppoſe you are a cava⯑lier of honour, and don't imagine that the affections of a young Lady are thrown into the bargain when the old folks are pleaſed to ſtrike up a contract— you'll aſk Donna Leonora's conſent, I hope.
I don't know that. People of faſhion never embarraſs themſelves with ſuch vulgar ideas. Law⯑yers do all that's neceſſary on ſuch occaſions—if the conveyances are right, affection and that old ſtuff, follow of courſe you know.
This fellow ought to have been a Sove⯑reign Prince by his notions of matrimony, he'll take the wife, let who will chuſe the woman; as Kings are obliged to wed for the good of their ſubjects, this libertine takes a helpmate for the benefit of his creditors. I ſuppoſe he'd marry a Mermaid if there was a good Fiſhing Bank entail'd upon her.
Sir, I have not been ſo unſucceſsful in gal⯑lantry, as to apprehend that the Lady will object to me.
Sir, I perceive you have a very favourable opinion of yourſelf, but it would be more to the purpoſe if you could perſuade the Lady to have the ſame partiality. But, Sir, a word in your ear. You and I muſt talk of this matter in another place; you underſtand me.
Bravo! well ſaid—he's a chip of the old block—Don Pedro, or brother-in-law that was to be, you and I muſt talk of this matter in another place—you underſtand me.
Oh Lord! Oh Lord!
But charming Leonora, theſe gallants are ſo warm they have not allowed you an opportunity to ſpeak for yourſelf. What do you ſay to me, fair creature?
I ſay that I look at you with horror, and that my evil genius ſent you here to deſtroy my hap⯑pineſs.
What will become of me! I ſhall have a quarrel with that old ruffian in ſpite of me. I'll after him, and try what can be done with my daugh⯑ter by coaxing—if that fails, I muſt even have re⯑courſe to the old fatherly expedients of locking up, and a diet of bread and water.
Hold a moment—for Heaven's ſake no harſhneſs. Leave your daughter to me a little time, and my attention may perhaps bring her to reaſon. But in the interim, Sir, as I have occaſion for ſome ready caſh, and my letters of credit are upon you, I muſt trouble you for 200 piſtoles.
With pleaſure, Sir, I have not ſo much caſh about me, but if you will take the trouble juſt to ſtep to the next ſtreet.
I am much oblig'd to you, and will take the liberty to ſend my ſervant. I can depend upon his honeſty.
Well, I know not how this will end for other folks, but it has had a very promiſing beginning for me already—a hundred piſtoles for keeping a ſecret, which I could not get a Maravedi for diſcovering. Then there can be no fault found with my charges or my entertainment, tho' I ſerve up Crows for Par⯑tridges, and a delicate Ram-cat for a fricaſee of Rab⯑bits. But here comes my Adventurer.
Borachio! a word with you! as you know who I am, 'tis to no purpoſe to make a ſecret of any part of my hiſtory: My brother, you know is dead, died at Salamanca, but you don't yet underſtand why I have aſſumed his ſex and character.
I ſhall be glad to learn it, my ſweet young Lady; eſpecially if I can be of any ſervice to you.
My poor brother made too free with ſome choice wine at a vento near Salamanca; Octavio, my lover, happen'd to be of the party; a quarrel enſued between my brother's company and a ſet of ſtrangers who had juſt arrived at the ſame place; in the fray my brother was run thro' the body, and left dead on the ſpot—the officers of juſtice had orders to ſearch for, and ſeize all who were preſent as principals in the murder; to avoid the purſuit, Octavio, as I was informed, fled hither; and with the wardrobe, cre⯑dentials, and the name of my brother, here I have followed him.
Ay, Madam, you was always a young Lady of ſpirit, and egad I love ſpirit, and tho' I was never to touch a piſtole of the other purſe you was pleaſed to promiſe me, I would no more tell your ſecret than I would tell my gueſts my own ſecret, how I turn alicant into burgundy, and ſour cyder into champagne of the firſt growth of France.
I rely upon you—But I wiſh to ſee my apartment; pray inquire for my Servant, and bid him come to me immediately. I order'd him to wait for me near the Prado.
May I aſk where you pick'd up that fel⯑low?
I found him in my journey. He's an odd mixture of ſimplicity and cunning, but I have no rea⯑ſon to ſuſpect his honeſty, and that's the quality for which at preſent I have moſt occaſion.
My maſter deſired me to wait for him in the ſtreet, but I ſee no ſign of him—'tis twelve by the clock, but by my guts at leaſt four. There is no watch, clock or pendulum in the city, that points to the dining hour with more certainty than the ma⯑chinery of my bowels: I feel a craving that muſt be ſatisfied. Odzooks! what a delicate flavour of roaſt, boil'd and bak'd, iſſues from theſe purlieus! The very ſmell is enough to create an appetite. Ay, that way lies the kitchen—I know it by the attraction of the odour. I'll down—but hold, not a ſous by For⯑tune—my purſe is as empty as my belly.
Come along, you drunken raſcal!
Not a ſtep further without payment.
Why ſcoundrel! would you have your hire before you earn it?
Ay, that I would—as I'd like to make ſure of my ſtraw before I was to ſleep on it—pay me di⯑rectly, or here I ſtick as faſt as a mule up to the girths in the mire.
Carry in the portmanteau—there's the door, carry in the portmanteau—'tis not three yards, you ſot you.
Sot in your teeth—pay me.
What's this! egad I may get ſomething by it—it has an omen of dinner—I ſmell beef in it.
Why you drunken, ſtaggering, ſputtering beaſt of burden, with two legs and no conſcience, how dare you prate ſo ſaucily to a gen⯑tleman! Reel off, or I'll teach you manners.
So I find I'm to have no payment. The Corregidor ſhall hear of it.
A good ſmart fellow that—looks like a Servant, if he has no Maſter I'll hire him.
Come hither friend—do you know me?
No, Sir. I only know that you are a gen⯑tleman—that is, I don't know you are a gentleman, but I have a ſtrong ſuſpicion of it. You look for all the world as if you would not let a man who wanted his dinner, and had an excellent ſtomach, go with⯑out it.
Are you acquainted with the tavern?
I think I am very well acquainted with it. The cellars are full of old wine, the larder full of butcher's meat and poultry—would make a man's mouth water but to look at them. Sir, does your honour ſmell nothing?
Lord bleſs me, Sir! why there are ſuch ſteams from ſavoury pies, ſuch a fumette from plump partridges and roaſting-pigs, that I think I can diſtin⯑guiſh them as eaſily as I know a roſe from a pink, or jonquiel from a colly flower.
Are you at preſent in ſervice? have you any maſter?
I'll tell a bouncing lie, and diſown my maſter. No, Sir.
You ſeem to be a ready intelligent fellow—Will you be my ſervant?
Will I eat when I'm hungry? Will I ſleep when I'm weary? Can your honour doubt it? com⯑mand me, Sir, from one extremity of the kingdom to the other—give me but as much as will keep cold air out of my ſtomach, and I can never tire in your ſervice. Then as for wages, to be ſure my laſt maſter was a very princely ſort of a gentleman—he gave me, Sir—
No matter what—I ſhan't be more difficult to pleaſe, or leſs generous to reward than he was.—What's your name?
I will employ you immediately. Go to the poſt-houſe—take this piſtole—inquire if there are any letters for Don Octavio of Salamanca, and bring them here to me.
Well done, Lazarillo—between two ſtools they ſay a certain part of a man comes to the ground, but 'tis hard indeed, if I don't take care of myſelf between two maſters.
So my gentleman, is this your attention to my commands? I order'd you to wait for me at the Prado—I might have look'd for you it ſeems till morning, if by meer accident I had not found you here.
By your honour's leave, I waited for you till my very bowels began to yearn;—ſuch a craving came upon me, that had pikes, piſtols and pettera⯑ [...]oes oppoſed my paſſage, I cou'd not avoid entering the houſe in hopes of—
No prating—go directly order my baggage to be brought hither, then run to the poſt, and in⯑quire if there are any letters for Don Felix, or Donna Clara of Salamanca, and bring them to me directly.
Yes, here to this Hotel.
Zounds! what ſhall I do with my other maſter?
The poſt-office is but in the next ſtreet— if you ſhou'd miſs your way returning, inquire for me.
For you! and pray, who are you, Sir?
Joſeph Borachio, the maſter of the Eagle, every body knows me.
So Sir, you are the maſter of this houſe.
Then you are a happy man. I had a reſ⯑pect for the roundneſs of your belly, and the illu⯑mination of your noſe the firſt glimpſe I had of you, but now my reſpect is encreaſed to adoration. If you leave money for maſſes for your ſoul, take my advice, get the Fathers inſtead of praying you out of Purga⯑tory into Paradiſe, to pray you back into your own kitchen. In my opinion, no Paradiſe can be ſuperior to it.
Loſe no time with my baggage and my letters.
I fly, Sir.
If this be true that Felix is ſtill alive, I need conceal myſelf no longer—you ſay you ſaw him?
Saw him! yes, Sir, ſaw him, and converſed with him.
A very ſudden recovery! but ſince 'tis ſo, I have no buſineſs here; I'll juſt ſend for my letters, and then back to Salamanca. Borachio!
Let me have horſes ready, I ſhall ſet out this evening.
This evening! why your honour has had no time to refreſh yourſelf. Our roads of late are none of the ſafeſt after ſunſet. Why, Sir, not above a week ago, a calaſh of mine with a young cavalier and his new married bride, were attacked on the high-road by ſix of the moſt deſperate banditti that ever cried ſtand to a traveller.
Too true, Sir, two of my beſt mules were ſhot dead at the firſt diſcharge of their carbines; they wounded the gentleman, ſtunn'd my drivers, and rifled the poor young lady in a terrible manner. In truth, your honour had better not think of venturing 'till morning, when you have the day fairly before you.
No, hang it! ſuch fellows ſeldom attack ſingle traveller, beſides if your horſes are good, I think I could out-gallop them.
I'll anſwer for the horſes, better never came out of Andaluſia—they have ſtraw up to their wi⯑thers, and barley they may bury their ears in—poor dumb beaſts, I take as much care of them, and love them as well as if they were my fellow Chriſtians.
What noiſe is that? Away landlord, and order the horſes.
This way, this way my lads—what the deuce, my laſt maſter here ſtill!
Fall back raſcals, and wait for me in the paſſage.
I ſhall ſet out for Salamanca preſently.
Before dinner, Sir?
Mercy on me! no pity on my ſtomach. Truly, Sir, I am but a bad traveller on an empty belly—I get ſuch whims and vertigoes, the wind plays ſuch vagaries in the hollow crannies of my entrails, that you will have more trouble with me than if I was a ſick baboon, or a breeding lady of quality.
I ſent you to the poſt; where are my letters? quick, quick—what are you fumbling about?
Patience, Sir, a little patience. I thought I put them into this pocket—no, they are not there— then they muſt be in the other pocket.
The letters are ſo unwilling to come out for fear they ſhould be obliged to bear witneſs againſt me—I have mixed the letters of both my maſters, and curſe me if I know which I ought to give him.
You tedious booby! where are my let⯑ters?
Here Sir, here are three of them; but they are not all for your honour. I'll tell you, Sir, how I came by them: As I was going to the poſt, I met an old fellow ſervant who happen'd to be in a great hurry upon another errand, and he deſired me to aſk for his maſter's letters, and keep them for him; one of them belongs to him, but which I don't know, for to tell you the truth, Sir, my parents found I had ſuch fine natural parts, they would not throw away money in having me taught any thing, ſo reading was left out among ſome other little accompliſh⯑ments in my education.
Let me ſee them. I'll take my own and give you back what belongs to your friend's maſter.
What's this? To Donna Clara—Clara in Granada!
Have you found the letter, Sir, that be⯑longs to my comrade?
Who is your comrade?
An old fellow-ſervant of mine; a very honeſt fellow, I have known him from a boy, when he was not this high, pleaſe your honour.
His name, puppy!
His name, Sir—his name—Lopez, Sir—
Where does this Lopez live?
Starve me if I can tell, Sir.
How then could you know where to carry him the letter?
Oh, for that matter, Sir, I'll tell your ho⯑nour that in a moment.
Well, out with it.
Deuce take it! I am ſtung to the bone I believe.
What's the matter?
A Muſkito, Sir, a little, peeviſh, whiz⯑zing, blood-ſucking vermin! I wiſh Pharoah had baniſhed them beyond the Red Sea, with lice and locuſts, and all the venomous things of Jeruſalem.
Where I ſay, were you to meet Lopez?
I aſk pardon, Sir—in the Piazza.
What am I to think of this?
Dear Fortune get me out of this puzzle—
Won't your honour give me my comrade's letter?
No, I have occaſion for it; I muſt open it.
Open another gentleman's letter! Why Sir, 'tis reckoned one of the moſt unmannerly pieces of friendſhip a gentleman can be guilty of.
Peace I ſay—I am too much intereſted to mind forms at preſent.
Your ſudden departure from Salamanca, has occaſioned the greateſt conſternation among your friends. They have made all poſſible enquiries, and have diſcovered that you left this town in your brother's cloaths, and the general opinion is, that you are gone in purſuit of Octavio who was known to pay his addreſſes to you at Salamanca. I ſhall not fail to communicate any further intelligence of your affairs which comes to my knowledge, and I remain with great reſpect,
He little cares what may happen to me from his curioſity.
Clara fled from Salamanca, and in purſuit of me! Find this Lopez inſtantly, bring him here, and I'll reward him for his intelligence.
Yes Sir, give me the letter that belongs to him. But how am I to account for its being open'd. This may bring an imputation upon my honour, about which I am amazingly punctilious.
Your honour, Mungrel! ſay the letter was open'd by miſtake, and inſtantly find Lopez.
Find Lopez! gad if I do I ſhall be a lucky fellow, for I know no ſuch perſon. Lazarillo, thou haſt a head-piece never fails thee at a pinch: if I could but read and write, l'd turn author, and invent tales and ſtory-books. But what the duce ſhall I ſay about opening the letter? let me ſee is there no way to diſguiſe it? I remember my mother uſed to make wafers with bread and water, I have a few crumbs in my pocket, and with a little mouth-moiſt⯑ening, I don't ſee why it ſhou'd not anſwer; here goes for an experiment.
Gadzooks! it has ſlipp'd down my throat—it would not go againſt nature. My mouth's like the hole of a till, whatever goes in falls to the bottom. I'll take more care this time. There it is
I think it will do. After all, what ſignifies how a letter's ſealed, provided he likes the contents of it.
Was you at the poſt? did you get my letter?
Yes Sir—there it is—
Why this letter has been open'd.
I ſay it has, and here it has been patch'd up again with a piece of bread.
Agad that's very extraordinary.
Confeſs villain, what trick has been play'd with my letter—the truth inſtantly or—
Hold Sir, have a little patience, and I'll tell the truth: if you frighten me I ſhall never be able to tell it.
Quick then, this moment.
Then Sir, it was I open'd it.
Impudent varlet! for what purpoſe?
A miſtake, nothing but a miſtake as I am a Chriſtian: I thought it was directed to me and I open'd it.
And read it?
No Sir, no upon my veracity, I read no⯑thing but the firſt word, and finding it was not for me, I clapp'd in a wafer directly juſt as your honour ſees it.
You are ſure no other perſon ſaw it.
Sure of it! I'll take my oath. As I am an honeſt man, as I hope to die in my bed—if your honour has a book about you I'll ſwear by it. Any other perſon! no, no, Lord, Sir, I was never ſo much grieved in my life as when it was open'd, I gave myſelf a great knock in the head for vexation. I believe you may ſee the mark of it here juſt over my left eye-brow.
There's ſomething in that letter does not pleaſe him. I ſhall have enough to do to manage my two maſters.
There are the keys of my baggage, get my things ready for dreſſing.
Is your maſter at home?
Do you expect him back to dinner?
O yes, by all means Sir.
Give him this purſe when he returns, with my compliments—there are two hundred piſ⯑toles in it. I ſhall wait upon him myſelf in the evening.
Yes, Sir—but curſe me if I know which of my maſters tis intended for. I'll offer it to the firſt of them I ſee, and if it does not belong to him I ſuppoſe he won't take it.
Have you found Lopez?
No, Sir, not yet, but I have found a better thing for you.
A better thing! what's that?
Only a purſe—full of money. I believe there are two hundred piſtoles in it.
I ſuppoſe it was left by my Banker.
You expected money, Sir?
Yes, I left a letter of credit with him.
Oh then there can be no doubt it was left for you, Sir. Give it to your maſter, ſays he—yes, Sir, ſays I, ſo there's the money.
Hold! lock up this money till I want it—take care, put it up ſafely for I ſhall ſoon have occa⯑ſion for it. But go find Lopez, and bring him to me immediately.
Go find Lopez, and bring him to me immediately—but where I ſhall find him, is ano⯑ther matter—I'll go look for what I am ſure of find⯑ing a good dinner. What a fortunate fellow was I not to make any miſtake about the money!—If a man takes care in great matters, ſmall things will take care of themſelves—or if they ſhou'd go wrong, if the guſts of ill-look ſhou'd make his veſſel drive a little, honeſty is a ſheet-anchor, and always brings him up to his birth again.
I HAVE told you my ſtory; I rely upon your honour—you will not diſcover me
Don't fear me. You have relieved me from ſuch anxiety by your friendly confidence, that I wou'd rather die than betray you—nay, what is ſtill more, I wou'd rather loſe my lover.
Of that there can be no danger—let mat⯑ters proceed to the utmoſt, the diſcovery of my ſex puts an end at once to any impediment from my claim to you.
But may I not tell Ferdinand?
No. Pray indulge me; a ſecret burns in a ſingle breaſt; it is juſt poſſible that two may keep it, but if 'tis known to a third, I might as well tell it to the Cryer, and have it proclaimed at the Great Door of every Church in Granada.
Well, you ſhall be obey'd, depend upon it I will be faithful to you. Men give themſelves ſtrange airs about our ſex: we are ſo unaccuſtom'd they ſay to be truſted, that our vanity of a confidence ſhews we are unworthy of it
No matter what they ſay; I think half of their ſuperiority lies in their beards and their doublets. Since I have worn man's apparel, I find many ſtrange inclinations coming upon me; I begin to ſtrut, to ſwagger, to look big, to run my head into quarrels, and the Lord knows what, tho' I am at the bottom as arrant a coward as a Turkey-cock—he briſtles and ſwells if you retreat from him, but his creſt falls, and his tail drops, if you advance one ſtep to meet him.
My father calls me, farewell, dear Clara! ſhou'd you want my aſſiſtance you know you may command me.
So, Sir, I have found you. Do you know me, Sir?
I have ſo many acquaintances whom I ſhould wiſh not to know, that I don't like to anſwer that queſtion ſuddenly.
Do you take me for a ſharper, youngſter?
Sharpers wear good cloaths.
And puppies wear long ſwords. What means that piece of ſteel dangling there by thy effe⯑minate ſide? Is thy ſoft hand too weak to touch it? Death! to be rivall'd by a puppet, by a thing made of cream! Why, thou compound of fringe, lace and powder, dareſt thou pretend to win a Lady's affec⯑tions? Anſwer, ſtripling, can'ſt thou fight for a Lady?
He's a terrible fellow! I quake every inch of me; but I muſt put a good face upon it —I'll try what ſpeaking big will do—
Why, yes, Captain Terrible! do you ſuppoſe I am to be daunted by your bluſtering? Bleſs me! if a long ſtride, a fierce brow and a loud voice, were mortal, which of us ſhould live to twenty? I'd have you to know, damn me—
Draw your ſword, draw your ſword, thou amphibious thing! If you have the ſpirit of a man, let me ſee how you will prove it—
Oh Lord! what will become of me! hold, hold, for Heaven's ſake! what, will nothing but fighting ſatisfy you—I'll do any thing in reaſon—don't be ſo haſty.
Oh, thou egregious daſtard! you won't fight, then?
No, by no means. I'll ſettle this matter in another way—what will become of me?
Thy hand ſhakes ſo thou wilt not be able to ſign a paper, tho' it were ready for thee; there⯑fore obſerve what I ſay to you.
And if thou dareſt to diſobey, or murmur at the ſmalleſt article.
Firſt then, own thou art a coward.
Unworthy of Leonora.
Return inſtantly to Salamanca.
Ha, Leonora! Not till I have chaſtiſed you for your inſolence.
Heavens! what do I ſee! fighting! for ſhame Ferdinand! draw your ſword on a—ſtranger.
Don't hold me.
Hold him faſt, Madam—you can't do him a greater kindneſs.
Thou miſerable coward! thou egregious daſtard! thou poltron! by what name ſhall I call thee!
Do you hear him, Leonora?
Hold him faſt, Madam—I am quite in a fever with my rage at him. Madam, that fellow never ſhou'd pretend to you: he was juſt ready to ſign a paper I had prepared for him, renouncing all right and title to you.
By Heaven you injure me.
He had juſt conſented to leave this city, and was actually upon his knees to me for mercy.
Can I bear this?
Patience, dear Ferdinand.
When ſeeing you coming, he pluck'd up a little ſpirit, becauſe he knew you wou'd prevent us, and drawing out his unwilling ſword, which hung dang⯑ling like a dead weight at his ſide there, he began to flouriſh it about juſt as I do now, Madam.
Nothing ſhall reſtrain me—looſe me, or by my wrongs, I ſhall think you are confederate with him.
Ay, ay, threaten the Lady: you know ſhe can't hurt you. Go call me one of the waiters, get a bottle or two of courage, and then ſee if you dare meet me. Adieu, Ferdinand—conſider you owe your life to that Lady; and Madam, in return for my mercy, once more remember your engagement.
Remember your engagement! ſo Madam, now I underſtand why you was ſo anxious to prevent me from chaſtiſing that coxcomb, it was not your love of me, but your fears for him—ungrateful woman!
Dear Ferdinand, rely upon it you are miſ⯑taken —don't truſt appearances.
No, don't truſt my ſenſes, don't believe my ears—Remember your engagement! What engage⯑ment?
No matter, nothing that can ſhake my faith to you, or injure your honour.
Incomparable ſex! we are their fools ſo of⯑ten, they think nothing too groſs to paſs upon us—it is not above an hour ſince you firſt ſaw him, and then it was with abhorrence.—'Sdeath! Weather⯑cocks, wind and ſeathers are nothing. Woman, woman, is the true type of mutability—and to be falſe to me for ſuch a thing as that—I cou'd cut ſuch a man out of a ſugar'd cake—I believe a Confec⯑tioner made him.
Have you done yet?
No, nor ever ſhall till you ſatisfy me.
Of what! why the promiſe you made to him.
Then you never can be ſatisfied, not juſt now I mean, but you ſhall in proper time.
So it is very well, if you will let it be ſo.
Then you will not tell me?
No, I cannot.
Then adieu—you ſhall ſee me no more, but you ſhall hear of me. I'll find your Narciſſus, that precious flower-pot. I'll make him an example. All the wrongs I have ſuffered from you ſhall be reveng⯑ed on him. My name ſhall be as terrible to all future coxcombs as broad day light to a decay'd beauty, or a wet Sunday to a powder'd citizen.
I never was in ſuch perplexity; I like his anger as a proof of his paſſion, tho' I tremble for the conſe⯑quence—Clara will avoid him for her own ſake; and if ſhe ſhould find no other way to eſcape his fury ſhe has it always in her power to make a diſcovery from which honour muſt prevent me, without her per⯑miſſion.
I have often heard that gentlemen, that is fine gentlemen, had no conſcience; but I believe the truth is, they have no ſtomachs: they ſeem to think of every thing but eating, and for my part I think of nothing elſe. But here comes one of my maſters.
Has Don Pedro been here to enquire for me?
Truly Sir, I can't tell.
Was he here?
Ay, that he was certainly.
Did he leave nothing with you for me?
Not that I know of.
What, no money?
Ay, money.—I expected a purſe with 200 piſtoles.
I believe I have made a ſmall miſtake. The purſe belongs to this maſter, and I gave it to the other.
Are you certain you expected a purſe with 200 piſtoles?
Certain—yes—what does the fellow ſtare at?
You are ſure they were not for another gentleman that ſhall be nameleſs?
Is the booby drunk?
It muſt be with wind then. Why, Sir, I did receive a purſe with the ſum you mention, and from Don Pedro, but whether it was intended for you is a point that requires ſome conſideration.
What did Don Pedro ſay to you?
I'll tell you, Sir. Friend, ſays Don Pedro, there are 200 piſtoles for your maſter.
Well, dolt head! and who is your maſter?
There's the point now—there's the puzzle. Ah, Sir, there are many things you would not find it eaſy to explain, though you was educated at Sala⯑manca, and are no doubt a great ſcholar.
Give me the money fool, and no more of your impertinence.
There it is Sir, Heaven do you good with it; I think I know ſome people who wou'd be glad of juſt than ſum, eſpecially if they thought they had a right to it.
No more—I expect Don Pedro, bid Bora⯑chio get a good dinner; and here take this letter of credit, lock it up carefully, I ſhall have occaſion for a good deal of caſh, and this way 'tis moſt porta⯑ble: be careful of it, and make no miſtakes; I ex⯑pect dinner to be ready as ſoon as I return.
You ſhall not wait a moment. This is the pleaſanteſt order I have yet received from either of my maſters. Here comes Borachio—I'll try if my hoſt underſtands any thing of a table.
Signior Borachio, or Maſter Borachio, or Don Joſeph de Borachio, you come moſt opportunely. We muſt have a dinner immediately.
Name your hour. I am always prepared; two hours hence, an hour, half an hour;—my Cooks are the readieſt fellows—
Ay, but this muſt not be one of your every day dinners, the firſt thing comes to hand, toſs'd up and warm'd over again, neither hot nor cold, like a day in the beginning of April—that's villainous.
Do you think I have kept the firſt tavern in the city ſo long, not to know how to pleaſe a gen⯑tleman?
Some gentlemen are eaſily pleas'd, other gentlemen are hard to be pleas'd, now I'm of the latter order.
A gentleman's gentleman; that is, my maſter's maſter in moſt things, but in the buſineſs of his eating, abſolute and uncontroulable.
Very well Sir, then let me know your orders.
Maſter Borachio, learn to reſpect a man of ſcience. I liv'd two years with a Canon of the Eſtremadura—the greateſt eater in all Portugal; a church-man who did not eat to live, but lived to eat—he thought of nothing elſe, dreamt of nothing elſe: I have rode ten miles in a morning to get him a partridge that fed upon green corn, and a black lobſter with the pea in it. What do you think he diſcharged me for?
Good faith, I know not.
For putting ſix pullets eggs into a veniſon paſty.
If I had robb'd a Church and committed ſacriledge, he cou'd not have been more outrageous. He call'd it blaſphemy, a crying ſin againſt the firſt elements of cookery. I ſee him this moment before me—his huge paunch blown up like a feather bed, his gouty legs reſting on two down pillows, his eyes ſparkling, his mouth watering, the napkin tucked under his roſy gills, and the whole pie devour'd in imagination before he had taſted a morſel of it: but when it was uncovered, when he ſaw the eggs—Aſs! Blockhead! Villain! (cried he) Eggs in a brown pie! Eggs in a brown pie! out of my ſight, and let me never ſee thee more.
Was there no way to appeaſe him?
I knew it was in vain, ſo did not attempt it—but come Maſter Borachio, let us have your idea of a dinner.
To courſes to be ſure.
Two courſes and a deſert.
Five in the firſt, and ſeven in the ſecond.
Why in the middle I wou'd have a rich ſa⯑voury ſoup.
Made with Craw-fiſh—Good!
At the top, two delicate white Trout, juſt freſh from the river.
Good! Excellent! go on, go on.
At the bottom a roaſt Duck.
A ſcavanger! an unclean bird! a wadling glutton; his bill is a ſhovel, and his body but a dirt⯑cart: away with your Duck—let me have a roaſt Turkey, plump and full breaſted, his craw full with marrow.
You ſhall have it.
Now for the ſide diſhes.
At one ſide ſtew'd veniſon, at the other an Engliſh plum pudding.
An Engliſh plum pudding! That's a diſh I am a ſtranger to. How do you make it?
You take a proper quantity of plums and raiſins, ſpice, marrow and brandy, crumbs of bread and flower; mix them well together; boil it, and ſo ſerve it up to table.
It ſoulds like a recipe to an apothecary. I'll try it. The Engliſh are a good ſort of a rich, proud, melancholy, generous, unreaſonable ſea-faring ſort of people; fight too like their own maſtiffs, and bear taxes as an Elephant does palanquins and rice bags, but I'm not very fond of their cookery. Now Sig⯑nior Borachio, to your ſecond courſe.
Roaſt lamb at the top, partridge at the bot⯑tom jelly and omlette on one ſide, pig and ham at the other, and Olla Podrida in the middle.
All wrong, all wrong—what ſhou'd be at the top you put at the bottom, and two diſhes of pork at the ſame ſide. It won't do—it will never do, I tell you.
How wou'd you have it? I can order it no better.
It will never do. Mind, I don't find fault with the things, the things are good enough, very good, but half the merit of a ſervice conſiſts in the manner in which you put it on the table. Pig and ham at the ſame ſide! Why you might as well put a Hebrew Jew into the ſame ſtall at Church with the Grand Inquiſitor. Mind me, do but mind me, ſee now, ſuppoſe this floor was the table.
Here's the top, and there's the bottom—put your partridge here
your lamb there
there's top and bottom. Your jelly in the middle
Olla Podrida and pig at this ſide together,
and the omlette and ham at this—
There's a table laid our for you as it ſhou'd be.
Hey day! what are you about on your knees there?
Shewing mine hoſt how to lay out your honour's dinner; I'm no novice at theſe matters—I'll venture a wager—there are the diſhes.
Get up puppy—What's this? as I live, the letter of credit I left with him to put up for me, all torn to pieces!
Oh the devil! I was ſo full of the dinner, every thing elſe ſlipp'd out of my memory.
Upon my ſoul, Sir, I quite forgot it. I was ſo taken up about the main chance, I quite forgot the value of the paper.
Dolt! Ideot! A letter of credit for no leſs than four hundred piſtoles—what amends can you make for ſuch inconceivable ſtupidity?
The merit of a dinner con⯑ſiſts you know in the manner in which you put the things on the table. This was a confounded dear dinner, truly.
Plague upon it, it was your fault, and not mine, it never wou'd have happen'd if you had ſerv⯑ed up the courſe properly—pig and ham at the ſame ſide. Such a blunder was never heard of.
What can I do with this fellow?
The miſchief is not without remedy. You muſt take up the pieces, join them and paſte them on a ſheet of paper. Your Bankers won't re⯑fuſe it.
Hear you—do you underſtand Don Pedro?
Perfectly. But in truth, Sir, Borachio's ſtupidity was enough to drive every thing out of one's memory. He wanted, Sir—
Silence! take theſe fragments and join them as Don Pedro directed you. Make haſte, and attend at dinner.
Yes, Sir. They'll make twenty miſtakes, if I am not preſent to direct them.
Really, young gentleman, nothing cou'd be more apropos than your arrival. A day's delay longer had loſt you your miſtreſs, and a good portion into the bargain. Have you ſeen any thing of Ferdi⯑nand your rival ſince?
Yes, and was upon the point of a moſt deſperate combat, but your daughter ſtepp'd in and he ran to her for protection: but I frightened him ſoundly.
It muſt be ſome very great, ſome extraor⯑dinary provocation makes me draw, but when once my ſword is out I'm never tired of fighting: 'tis as natural to me as the cloaths on my back.
I don't doubt it, I don't doubt it. I was the ſame myſelf when I was young; but what with a little gout and rheumatiſm in my arms, and better than three ſcore years over my head, my appetite for the duello is ſomewhat abated, ſo do you hear, Felix, when your hand's in, if you wou'd frighten Sancho a little for me it wou'd not be amiſs. He left me when I ſaw him laſt with a menace, and ever ſince I think I have him before my eyes flouriſhing a long toledo.
Leave him to me, I can manage him as eaſi⯑ly as his ſon; I wou'd as ſoon fight two as one of them.
Don Sancho beſides was bred a ſoldier. Commerce and money dealing have been my buſineſs. To take a man in his own trade is a great diſadvan⯑tage. I might as ſoon think of working miracles with St. Jago, or killing a man ſecundumartem with Doc⯑tor Fillgrave, the firſt phyſician in Granada.
Right, Sir, right; leave it to me, and you ſhall never hear more of it.
'Tis not that I am afraid, only being out of practice, I am a little unwilling.
I underſtand, I underſtand; I have felt juſt the ſame way, more than once.
To think at my time of life of fighting myſelf out of the world with cold iron, when fur and flannel, can hardly keep me warm in it, wou'd be a very abſurd piece of precipitation.
You are perfectly right.
Then do you conſider how difficult it is to bring an old man up to my years. As to your young people they die, and are born every hour; few of them come to maturity, and no great matter—but a hale, healthy, ſtout old man as I am, is invaluable. Your young puny, tender ſhrubs are not miſs'd from a plantation, but if the old tree falls, think what a length of time it requires to replace him: my eyes run over when I reflect upon it.
No wonder, there's ſomething very melan⯑choly in the idea.
That all the care I took of myſelf ſhou'd be thrown away—never expoſing myſelf to the night air; never fatiguing myſelf beyond a gentle perſpi⯑ration, ſo careful of my diet, ſo regular in my hours, ſo chaſte in my amours, and after all this, in the evening of my days to have a long ſpado run through my guts, and look like a blue-breech'd fly with a corking pin ſticking in it!
Say no more, ſay no more, depend upon it you ſhall come to no miſchief.
I am prodigiouſly oblig'd to you: I feel as if a great weight was taken off me. I really am prodigiouſly oblig'd to you.
Gentlemen, your dinner will be ready in leſs than half an hour.
Half an hour! can't you get it ſooner? to ſay the truth, I'm a little hungry.
What was order'd for you can't be ready ſooner.
Let us have any thing that's ready. Appe⯑tite's the beſt ſauce. What ſay you, Don Pedro?
Ay, ay—better than all the cooks in France. Let me have ſomething ſoft, that can be chew'd eaſily, ſome ſpoon-meat, for to tell the truth, my teeth are none of the ſtouteſt.
Then be pleaſed to ſtep into that room, and you ſhall have ſomething immediately.
I follow you, pray no ce⯑remony.
Here waiters! waiters! what, are the fellows deaf? I knew nothing would be done 'till I got among them.
Who calls! here—
What have you got there? where are you going?
To carry it to your maſter.
What is it?
I don't know, the cook made it, not I.
Put it down, I'll carry it myſelf.
It ſmells well—What is it? I'll try.
Like a good ſoldier, or a good ſur⯑geon, I never go without my arms and my inſtru⯑ments.
Excellent faith—I'll try it again—better and better—but here it goes for my maſter.
Curſed ill luck, here's my other maſter.
Where are you going?
Going, Sir—Sir, I was going—I was going to carry this in for your honour's dinner.
Carry in my dinner! before you knew I was come home.
Lord, Sir, I knew you was coming home. I happen'd juſt now to pop my head out of the win⯑dow, and ſaw you walking down the ſtreet, ſo I thought you wou'd like to have your dinner on the table the moment you came in.
What have you got there?
'Tis a kind of a fricaſee, very good I pro⯑miſe you.
Let me have ſoup—what do you bring meat before ſoup, you blockhead!
Lord, Sir, nothing ſo common. In ſome parts of the world ſoup is the very laſt thing brought to the table.
That's not my cuſtom—carry that back, and order ſome ſoup immediately.
How unfortunate! to have ſearch'd ſo much, and to have heard nothing of Clara.
Now I may carry this to my firſt maſter.
Where is this man? Lazarillo!
Who calls? here I am.
Carry this to your maſter.
That I will—give it to me. I'll carry it to the firſt.
What do you want? here I am.
Here's a diſh for your maſter.
You're an honeſt fellow. Come, ſtir, ſtir, get the ſoup as faſt as poſſible.
If I can have the good fortune to ſerve them both without being diſcover'd—
Where is this ſtrange fellow, Lazarillo?
Who calls? here I am.
Do you attend one table, and we'll take care of the other.
Not all, not at all, I'll take care of them both.
Patience, a little patience. Coming!
Maſter what's your name, here's a pudding.
A pudding! What pudding?
An Engliſh plum-pudding.
Lay it down, lay it down.
This is a ſtranger, I muſt be civil to him. He looks like a Mulatto in the ſmall pox. Let's try how he taſtes.
Excellent! Admirable! rich as marrow, and ſtrong as brandy.
This is meat and drink, no truſting outſides. This Leopard-like pudding is moſt divine, I can't part with it.
I muſt get another ſervant. This fellow minds nothing. Where are you raſcal?
There he is cramming himſelf inſtead of attending me.
In a mo⯑ment, in a moment.
What are you about there? Don't you ſee me?
I was juſt—taſting this pudding for you.—I promiſe you, Sir—you'll like it.
Why, 'tis all gone.
It ſlips down ſo faſt, Sir, you can't tell the taſte of it 'till you eat a good deal.
Taſte that, and that, and that—
Hold, hold Sir, for Heaven's ſake! take care, Sir, you have no right to more than one half of me, t'other half belongs to another gentleman—Oh, oh, oh!
What's this? beating my ſervant! looſe your hold, Sir! What right have you to ſtrike my ſervant?
Confuſion! my ſecond maſter! I muſt be diſcover'd.
Your ſervant! he's my ſervant—but if you have taken a fancy to him, he's at your ſervice.
This muſt not end ſo, young gentleman; ſervants are under the protection of their maſters; a blow to the fellow who receives my wages, is an affront to me. You muſt account with me for this.
By all my hopes, Octavio!
If this comes to a duel, and one of them falls, I am for the ſurvivor.
You look ſurpris'd, Sir! What, is this doc⯑trine new to you?
I am not much accuſtomed to menaces from thoſe lips; do you not know me, Octavio?
Is my voice a ſtranger to you? Muſt you have ſtronger proofs that I am Clara—if ſo, let this embrace convince you.
O unexpected happineſs! Art thou indeed my Clara? the ſame ſincere, faithful, generous Clara I knew and loved at Salamanca?
The ſame, the very ſame, except that as you lov'd me when my brother lived, and I had little, I can now reward your diſintereſted paſſion with my hand, my heart, and an eſtate large enough to gratify all our wiſhes, and to relieve the neceſſities of all who may want our aſſiſtance.
Words are too weak, my life muſt thank you.
We ſhall find time enough for proteſtation hereaſter, however we are both obliged to this fel⯑low, tho' his blundering only brought us together.
Very true, Madam; I ſerved you both to the beſt of my power, but as you were to be man and wife, 'tis not ſtrange you know, that I ſhou'd not always be able to obey one without offending the other.
O very well—a ſufficient apology! but Don Pedro's in the next room; I'll ſtep and explain what has happened, and ſend immediately for Leo⯑nora and Ferdinand.
May I take the liberty of offering my poor congratulations on this joyful occaſion? Will you believe it, Sir, I had a ſort of an inkling, a divining, that ſomething of this kind would happen; for I dreamt all laſt night of cats and dogs and a ſpread eagle.
Your dreams I hope go by contraries; and you ſhall be a witneſs of our harmony, for I intend to keep you in my ſervice.
I will be bold to ſay, Sir, you never took a wiſer reſolution. Mercy on me, Sir, you don't know half I can do to ſerve you. I was Major Domo to the firſt Grandee of Arragon, he was call'd Don Guzman Poderoſo, y Chilos, y Figureroz, y Palidos, y Fu [...]dos, y Dumpos: he was a great man, Sir, and had a great many names.
So I perceive.
He loſt his only daughter, a moſt beauti⯑ful young Lady, who broke her heart for the death of her lover, and a favourite Squirrel.
A very ſuſceptible Lady, truly.
O yes, Sir, very ſurreptible. A certain Duke, a particular friend of my maſter's, came to condole with him (for poor Grandee, he was quite uncomfortable) and ſpying me wiping my eyes in an outward room, with a Barcelona handkerchief, as he was taking leave of my maſter, ſays he, Don Dumpos, I am ſorry for your misfortune, but be of good heart, pray be comforted, if you had loſt your wife as well as your daughter, I ſhould hardly know how to pity you, while you poſſeſs ſuch a treaſure in a ſervant as the incomparable Lazarillo.
You have a ready invention.
Invention! Sir, I have no more invention than an oiſter, all memory and ſtrict truth, I proteſt to you.
Joy, joy, I give you joy, this diſcovery has ſaved us all a great deal of perplexity. Our only ſtrife now, ſhall be who will fill the greateſt quan⯑tity of bumpers to the felicity of this double Gemini of Turtles.
Brother-in-law that is to be, give me your hand: we will preſently drown all animoſities in a bottle of honeſt Borachio's beſt burgundy.
Madam, your ingenuity has had already ſuch ample revenge for the rude language I uſed to you, that I hardly know how to offer an apo⯑logy for the effects of my miſtaken anger.
I am afraid if any apology were neceſſary, I ought to make it, for I was certainly the offender; but all unkindneſs muſt give way hereafter to eſteem and friendſhip.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 3336 The hotel or the servant with two masters As it was performed at the Theatre Royal Smock Alley with distinguished applause. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D131-7