MRS CASEY—HERE YOUR HONOR HERE'S YOUR HONOR'S BILL.WILLIAM SAVAGE, PRINTER,
LONDON.
The title of this play gives a sensation of both pain and pleasure.—Fontainbleau was a favourite residence of a number of the French kings, and the spot where the princes of the blood resorted, with all the nobility of the land, when the sports of the field, or the course, were the particular objects of their pastime. Pastime is a word no longer used in the vocabulary of the court of France—Every moment has now its impending cares, and teems with the fate of empires!
At the time this opera was written, (in 1784) the late Duke of Orleans frequently visited England, and was remarkable for his passionate attachment to British modes and manners. The character of Colonel Epaulette, in this drama, was supposed to be founded on this, his highness's extravagant partiality. There is that trait, indeed, of the duke's propensity, in Epaulette; but in all other respects, the colonel neither soars, nor grovels, with his royal archetype, in any one action of notoriety.
The author would not take the liberty to characterise a foreigner, without dealing, at the same time, equally free with one of his own countrymen. The part of Lackland was taken more exactly from life, than that of Epaulette, from a gentleman well known abroad by every English traveller; and whose real name is so very like the fictitious one here adopted, that a single letter removed, would make the spelling just the same.
The reader will observe in this Lackland, so much of debased nature, and of whimsical art; so much of what he has probably met with upon journeys, or amongst common intruders at home, that he will regret, that the author, in his delineation, swerves now and then from that standard of truth, to which he, possibly, at first meant to adhere; and for the sake of dramatic effect, has made this hero, in effrontery, proceed somewhat too far beyond its usual limits.
The family of the Bulls, especially Miss Bull and her father, are likewise portraits rather too bold; but they are humorous pictures, and, no doubt, perfect copies of such citizens, as inhabited London a few centuries past.
Squire Tallyho gives, like them, some idea of former times; for his manners do not exactly correspond with those of the modern gentlemen of the turf.
Lapoche is, perhaps, an exact Frenchman of the time in which he was drawn; and, as such, the most agreeable object for an Englishman's ridicule. The mistakes which occur, to both Mr. and Mrs. Bull, in respect to this insignificant, and that pompous man, Epaulette, are incidents of very rich humour, though they place the opera more in that class of the drama, which is called farce, than in that of comedy. Such is the incident, but more excellent in its kind, of Lackland's courtship of Miss Dolly, and her equal affection for her three suitors.
The real lovers, in this piece, would all be extremely insipid, but that they all sing; and music is called, "the voice of love."
When music had fewer charms for the British nation, operas were required to possess more of interesting fable than at present is necessary—for now, so rapturous is the enjoyment derived from this enchanting art, even by the vulgar, that plot, events, and characters of genuine worth, would be cast away in a production, where music had a share in bestowing delight.
| Lord Winlove | Mr. Incledon. |
| Sir John Bull | Mr. Waddy. |
| Colonel Epaulette | Mr. Farley. |
| Squire Tallyho | Mr. Munden. |
| Lackland | Mr. Lewis. |
| Henry | Mr. Bellamy. |
| Lapoche | Mr. Melvin. |
| Lady Bull | Mrs. Davenport. |
| Rosa | Miss Bolton. |
| Miss Dolly Bull | Miss Waddy. |
| Celia | Miss Davies. |
| Mrs. Casey | Mrs. Dibdin. |
| Nannette | Mrs. Liston. |
A Town.—Sign on one Side, the Lily of France, on the other, the British Lion.
Bells ring.—Enter Mrs. Casey and First Waiter.
Mrs. Casey. Come, Bob, what are you about, boy? The company tumble in upon us like smoke; quick, all the cooks at work, do you hear me now?
[Bell rings.
1 Waiter. Yes, ma'am. Coming, coming.
[Exit.
Lackland. [Within.] You scoundrel, I'll teach you to talk to a gentleman!
2 Waiter. [Within.] Oh, very well, very well, sir.
Mrs. Casey. Hey day!
Enter Second Waiter, stumbling in.
What's the matter now?
2 Waiter. Only Mr. Lackland, ma'am; you know you ordered me to keep the Globe for the large company; there, he takes possession of it; and though I told him it was bespoke, he would dine no where else:—orders a bottle of champagne, and because I didn't fly with it, kicked me down stairs, though I cried coming up, sir.
Mrs. Casey. Champagne, and not a Louis in his pocket!—d'ye hear, tell Mr. Lackland, it's my desire he'll quit my house.
2 Waiter. Your desire! Ecod, ma'am, he said he'd make you bounce.
Mrs. Casey. Make me bounce! A shabby, spunging——though without a second coat, the fellow's as proud as a Galway merchant.—Make me bounce in my own house!—pretty well, that, upon my honour!
Lack. [Within.] What! house!
Mrs. Casey. Run, don't you hear?
Lack. [Within.] Where is that infernal——
2 Waiter. Infernal! that's you, ma'am, he's calling.
Mrs. Casey. Hush! here he is. [Exit Second Waiter.] Because I'm a lone woman, he thinks to impose upon the house.
Enter Lackland.
Lack. Landlady, your attendance is shameful!
Mrs. Casey. Why, the truth is, sir, my waiters have enough to do if they properly attend on folks who have money to pay for what they call for.
[Takes out her Snuff Box.
Lack. [Takes a Pinch.] And even your snuff, is execrable!
Mrs. Casey. Lookye, Mr. Lackland, that you're a gentleman every body knows; and you've a good estate, only it's all gone; and you're allowed to be a six bottle man, and a choice companion. Ah! the beginning of a good song at the latter end of a bottle is a capital thing for a house—Now, here, during the race time, I'll give you your board at the table d'hôte, and money in your pocket to pay the reckoning, if you'll only be a good jolly fellow, and encourage the company to drink, by a funny song, or a comical story.
Lack. What! live by entertaining a company?
Mrs. Casey. Yes; that's what I call earning your bread like a gentleman.
Lack. Make me your decoy-duck? Mrs. Casey, you're a widow, you'll oblige me if you'll marry somebody immediately.
Mrs. Casey. And why so, pray?
Lack. Madam, that I might have the superlative honour of twisting your husband by the nose.
[Bows gravely.
Mrs. Casey. Well, upon my honour, you're a very mannerly fellow! but I wish I had a husband, for your sake—Oh, I wish I had a husband!
Enter Gagger.
Gag. Madam, there's a Paris chaise stopped, and the master of the Lily of France has got hold of them already.
Mrs. Casey. Then he shall soon quit his hold, that he shall, as sure as my name is Casey.—Bob, do you go and try to bring them this way, and I'll go see the rooms prepared myself. [Goes to the Door.] Ah, my dearee, I wish I had a husband!
[Exeunt Mrs. Casey and Gagger.
Lack. [Looking.] An English officer.
[Retires.
Enter Henry and French Postboy.
Henry. There—[Throws Money into the Boy's Hat, who is discontented.] never satisfied!
Postb. Monsieur, c'est toût poste royale, de Paris jusqu'a Fontainbleau.
Henry. Oh, double postage for the horses! Ay, ay, if we approach a mansion of the grand monarque, we must pay for it.—Seven posts.
[Gives more Money.
[Exit Postboy.
Lack. [Comes forward.] By Heaven, my old college chum, Harry Seymour!
Henry. Pray, friend, can you direct me to the best—[Stops, and looks attentively on Lackland.] Is it possible? but I heard something of this—Can you be Charles Lackland?
Lack. How d'ye do, Harry?
Henry. My poor fellow! [With Concern.] But how has all this come about?
Lack. Eh?
Henry. I feel for you, sincerely!
Lack. What d'ye mean? Oh, my—[Looking at his Clothes.] Pshaw! never mind a man's outside; I've a heart within, equally warm to an old friend, in snow, or sunshine.
Henry. That I have passed so many happy, happy days with!
Lack. Have—ay, and will again.
Henry. All gone?—Play, I suppose?
Lack. Ay, my dear fellow! play, and pleasure, and—but what the devil, musty melancholy! Come to sport here at the races, eh? flush?
Henry. Why, 'faith, Lackland, as to cash, my affairs, at present, are little better than your own.
Lack. Ahem! Egad, that's rather unlucky for us both.
Henry. But my mind, my dear Charles! I am this moment the most unhappy—in a word, you see me here an exile, fled from the hands of justice!—You remember my sister Rosa?
Lack. What, little romping Rose, that used to steal our fish, and throw our cards in the fire? Eh, did I dream, or wasn't there a match talked of, between her and Lord Winlove?
Henry.