You will have Variety and Novelty, which is nothing but unruly Fancy. It is only from Imitation – vannbrugghe.
(Laughing) Plagiarism! dyer. (With a grave countenance) -Only from Imitation that we have Order and Massiveness. vannbrugghe. (Sighing) Words, words, words breeding no thing but more Wordiness which represents no thing in Nature, either, but a meer Confused Idea of Grandeur or Terrour. Pray speak that you may be understood, Mr Dyer: Language was design'd for it, they say. dyer. So you would have me speak Plain, when then my Words would blast you! (Vannbrugghe raises his Eyebrows at this, and Dyer adopts a lower tone) Reality is not so plain, sir, and will escape you as the Mist escapes the Squab who puts out a Hand to grasp it.
Enter Potboy boy. Do you call, sirs, do you call? Coffee or Brandy, Gentlemen? I have a fresh Pot a making. vannbrugghe. Make it Brandy, for this is thirsty work.
He takes off his wig for a moment to cool himself, and Dyer notices his Hair. dyer. (Aside) It is strangely Black beneeth his Wigg: the clear Water has been used to turn it. vannbrugghe. (Staring at him) And you were saying? dyer. (In confusion, lest he was heard) I have lost my Thred. (He hesitates)
I am troubled by many Thoughts. vannbrugghe. Why so? Tell me your Affliction: do you speak of Mr Hayes? dyer. That Piece of Deformity! (He checks himself) No, I speak of Walter who is Sick. vannbrugghe. You are condemned dyer.
Condemned? To what? Speak! Quick! vannbrugghe. -You are condemned to be always fearful. It is your natural Temper. dyer. (Hastily) Well, enough of this. (Clumsily, to break the silence between them) And I can press my Theme still further, for Milton copied Spenser – vannbrugghe.
No doubt you were more charmed by Milton's Hell than by his Paradise. dyer. -And Spenser copied his master Chaucer. The world is a continued Allegory and a dark Conceit. vannbrugghe. And what is your Allegory, sir? dyer. (Somewhat drunken now) I build in Hieroglyph and in Shadow, like my Ancients. vannbrugghe. (Interrupting) So you speak of your Churches at last! dyer. No! But yes, yes, I do, I do. For just as in the Narration of Fables we may see strange Shapes and Passages which lead to unseen Doors, so my Churches are the Vesture of other active Powers. (He warms to his theme as the Brandy warms him) I wish my Buildings to be filled with Secresy, and such Hieroglyphs as conceal from the Vulgar the Mysteries of Religion. These occult ways of Proceeding were treated of by the Abbot Trithemius in his very learned and ingenious Discourse de Cryptographia… (He breaks off here suddenly and nervously) vannbrugghe. Do not be abashed, Mr Dyer. dyer. (In a lower tone) But this Art, like that of Painting upon Glass, is but little practiced now and is in great measure lost. Our Colours are not so Rich. vannbrugghe. But they are rich enough else where. dyer. How so? vannbrugghe. In the Elaboratory, or so I am told, they use Salts to turn blew into red, and red into Green. dyer. I see you have not understood this Discourse.
Both men growing uneasy, they turn to look at the Company; but the Hour is past Midnight, and the Tavern empty except for the Boy cleaning the Tables. vannbrugghe. I am tired now: I must find a Chair to take me home.
He comes forward, as Nicholas Dyer sleeps uneasily in his Cups, and addresses the Audience with a SONG What foolish Frenzy does this Man possess To cling to Ancients and expect Success?
To bring old Customs on the modern Stage When nought but Sense and Reason please this Age?
Goodnight, Mr Dyer.
He makes a low Bow to him, and exits. Dyer wakes suddenly and stares wildly around. Then he stands up unsteadily and delivers to the Audience another SONG And yet who was that miserable Creature Who trusts to Sense and coppies Nature?
What Warmth can his dull Reasons still inspire When in Darkness only can be seen the Fire?
He exits. boy. (Calling out after him) What, no Epilogue?
No, and there will be none, for this Play is follow'd by a Masquerade.
When I return'd to my Lodgings, much incens'd at the high talk of Vannbrugghe, I tyed an Handkerchief about my Head, tore a woollen Cap in many places, as likewise my Coat and Stockings, and looked exactly what I design'd to represent: a Beggar-Fellow, and one who might merit the World's just Scorn. Then I slipped out of my Closet at Two a clock, when all the Household was abed, proposing to make my way through the Streets without a Lanthorn. As I passed the Bed-chamber of Mrs Best I heard her call out, Lord what Noise is that?
And then a Man (so, says I to myself, she has found fresh Meat) replied, Perhaps the Dog or Catte. I was instantly in the Entry and came out at the Street-door without any other Disturbance. And as I |i walk'd the Street the fearful Lightness in my Head, which so afflicted f| me, passed away and in these Beggar robes I was once more fastened by the Earth: in that manner, all my Fears and anxious Perplexities left me.]
At Three in the Morning, with the Moon on my left Hand, I came to | an old House by Tottenham Fields and here I sank into a corner with i my Chin upon my Breast: another Beggar came but he did not like my Looks and was soon gone. Then I rous'd my self and walked into the i Pasture by Montagu House, close behind my new Church at Bloomsbury.
It was a silent Night but that the Wind made a low Sound like a Woman sighing; I laid my self down upon the grass curled like an Embrio and was recalling Days far gone when I heard a Whistling borne to me by the Wind. I rais'd my self upon my Knees, crouch'd ready to Spring, and then I saw a young Fellow crossing the Pasture i towards me: he was as like to have walked straight to the Bloomsbury Church, in which Path I would assist him. I stood upright and went to ›r him with a Smile: How do you do my little Honey, says 1, How do you ^; do my Sweetheart?; \ At that he was much affrighted and said, For God's sake who are you?
I am your pretty Maid, your merry Wren. And will you show me the Church yonder so that we may hug in its Shaddowe?
I see no Church, says he. But these were desperate Words, for he was tied like a dead Bird to a Tree. And it was some time after when I returned to my Lodgings, singing old Songs in the silent Feelds.
On the fifth Day after I did see an Advertisment for that pritty young Fellow: Run away on Friday last from his Master, Mr Walsall, in Queen's Square, a Boy about 12 Years of Age, Thomas Robinson; he had on dark grey Cloaths all of a sort, the Sleeves of his Coat faced with Black, a brown Peruke, a red Mark on one of his Hands. Whosoever brings him to Mr Walsall's aforesaid, or at the Red Gates in Grape Court, shall have £5 Reward and no questions ask'd. This is well put; ask no Questions and you shall hear no Lies, Mr Walsall, and I shall tell you this also without a Recompense: your Boy has more Marks now.
And so I busied my self about the Churches of Bloomsbury and Greenwich with a lighter Heart, and this in spite of the Fact that Walter had not return'd to the Office and, it was said, had grown so heavy with Hypochondriacall Melancholie that he was like to sink into the Ground. It was some Days following that I made a Visit to him in his Lodgings in Crooked Lane, on the east -side of St Michael's Lane, where a nasty slut his Landlady whisper'd to me as I enter'd through the Door: He is sick of the Feaver and we despair of him, sir, (at this she clinched her Hands as if there were Silver in them) and he speaks mighty strange and is sometimes crying or roaring like a little Boy that has been whipped. What shall we do, sir?
Then she led me to his mean Chamber which stank of Sweat and Piss like the Hovel of a Car-man; when Walter saw me he tried to rise from his Bed but I put my Hands upon him: No, no, 7 whisper'd, stay, stay, Walter. Then he showed Signes of great Terrour which perplexed me: Do you know me? I asked him.