The Fatal Falsehood Part 1

The Fatal Falsehood.

by Hannah More.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.

SPOKEN BY MR. HULL.

Our modern poets now can scarcely choose A subject worthy of the Tragic Muse; For bards so well have glean'd th' historic field, That scarce one sheaf th' exhausted ancients yield; Or if, perchance, they from the golden crop Some grains, with hand penurious, rarely drop; Our author these consigns to manly toil, For cla.s.sic themes demand a cla.s.sic soil, A vagrant she, the desert waste who chose, Where Truth and History no restraints impose.

To her the wilds of fiction open lie, A flow'ry prospect, and a boundless sky; Yet hard the task to keep the onward way, Where the wide scenery lures the foot to stray; Where no severer limits check the Muse, Than lawless fancy is dispos'd to choose.

Nor does she emulate the loftier strains Which high _heroic_ Tragedy maintains: Nor conquests she, nor wars, nor triumphs sings, Nor with rash hand o'erturns the thrones of kings.

No ruin'd empires greet to night your eyes, No nations at our bidding fall or rise; To statesmen deep, to politicians grave, These themes congenial to their tastes we leave.

Of crowns and camps, a kingdom's weal or woe, How few can judge, because how few can know!

But here you all may boast the censor's art; Here all are critics who possess a heart.

Of the mix'd pa.s.sions we display to-night, Each hearer judges like the Stagyrite.

The scenes of private life our author shows, A simple story of domestic woes; Nor unimportant is the gla.s.s we hold, To show th' effect of pa.s.sions uncontroll'd; To govern empires is the lot of few, But all who live have _pa.s.sions_ to subdue.

Self-conquest is the lesson books should preach, Self-conquest is the theme the Stage should teach.

Vouchsafe to learn this obvious duty here, The verse though feeble, yet the moral's clear.

O mark to-night the unexampled woes Which from unbounded self-indulgence flows.

Your candour once endur'd our author's lays, Endure them now--it will be ample praise.

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.

ACT I.

SCENE--_An Apartment in Guildford Castle._

_Enter_ BERTRAND.

_Ber._ What fools are serious melancholy villains!

I play a surer game, and screen my heart With easy looks and undesigning smiles; And while my plots still spring from sober thought, My deeds appear th' effect of wild caprice, And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.

What but this frankness could have won the promise Of young Orlando, to confide to me That secret grief which preys upon his heart?

'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy To seem too good: I am the _careless_ Bertrand, The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.

The follies I avow cloak those I hide; For who will search where nothing seems conceal'd?

'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.

Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford, Whom I could honour, were he not the sire Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap 'Twixt me and fortune: Rivers, how I hate thee!

_Enter_ GUILDFORD.

How fares my n.o.ble uncle?

_Guild._ Honest Bertrand!

I must complain we have so seldom met: Where do you keep? believe me, we have miss'd you.

_Ber._ O, my good lord! your pardon--spare me, sir, For there are follies in a young man's life, Vain schemes and thoughtless hours which I should blush To lay before your wise and temperate age.

_Guild._ Well, be it so--youth has a privilege, And I should be asham'd could I forget I have myself been young, and harshly chide This not ungraceful gaiety. Yes, Bertrand, Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes A rigid inquisition of the fault, Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.

Foibles that shame the head on which old Time Has shower'd his snow are then more pardonable, And age has many a weakness of its own.

_Ber._ Your gentleness, my lord, and mild reproof, Correct the wand'rings of misguided youth, More than rebuke, and shame me into virtue.

_Guild._ Saw you my beauteous ward, the Lady Julia?

_Ber._ She past this way, and with her your fair daughter, Your Emmelina.

_Guild._ Call them both my daughters; For scarce is Emmelina more belov'd Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.

The hour approaches too, (and bless it, heav'n, With thy benignest kindliest influence!) When Julia shall indeed become my daughter, Shall, in obedience to her father's will, Crown the impatient vows of my brave son, And richly pay him for his dangers past.

_Ber._ Oft have I wonder'd how the gallant Rivers, Youthful and ardent, doting to excess, Could dare the dangers of uncertain war, Ere marriage had confirm'd his claim to Julia.

_Guild._ 'Twas the condition of her father's will, My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!

He wish'd to see our ancient houses join'd By this, our children's union; but the veteran So highly valued military prowess, That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter To my young Rivers, on these terms alone, That he should early gain renown in arms; And if he from the field return'd a conqueror, That sun which saw him come victorious home Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!

The event of war is to the brave uncertain, Nor can desert in arms ensure success.

_Ber._ Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.

_Guild._ Ere since th' Italian Count, the young Orlando, My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest, The glory of my son is all his theme: Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy, Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm, As to his gen'rous heart pays back again The praises he bestows.

_Ber._ Orlando's n.o.ble.

He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature, Of honour most romantic, with such graces As charm all womankind.

_Guild._ And here comes one, To whom the story of Orlando's praise Sounds like sweet music.

_Ber._ What, your charming daughter!

Yes, I suspect she loves th' Italian Count: [_Aside._ That must not be. Now to observe her closely.

_Enter_ EMMELINA.

_Guild._ Come hither, Emmelina: we were speaking Of the young Count Orlando. What think you Of this accomplish'd stranger?

_Em._ (_confused._) Of Orlando?

Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend, I do esteem the Count.

_Guild._ Nay, he has merit Might justify thy friendship if he wanted The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to blame him.

_Em._ What has he done? How has he wrong'd my father?

For you are just, and are not angry lightly; And he is mild, unapt to give offence, As you to be offended.