Chatterton

Burgum. [Pompously.] Mr. de Burgum, Madam. I trust that I shall have a more honorable title soon;--eh, daughter?

Bertha. There is no more honorable title, father.

Burgum. Bah! romantic.

Mrs. Angell. He surely will return soon: he is seldom out in the evening.

Burgum. I'll await his coming. I must see him on a matter connected with the de Burgum Pedigree, which he was fortunate enough to discover. I say "fortunate enough," since otherwise some one else would have discovered it--birth, like murder, will out.

Mrs. Angell. Pray be seated, sir. [Burgum sits R. of table; Bertha, L.]

Burgum. [Looking around the room.] The rewards of poetry, my dear.

Bertha. The rewards of poetry, father, only poets know.

Burgum. Another romantic speech! If you must worship a poet, worship my collateral ancestor, Master John de Bergham, a Cistercian monk, one of the greatest ornaments of his age--so the Pedigree reads--and a translator of the Iliad. This boy never can be a poet: he knows no Latin and Greek.

Bertha. He is not writing Latin and Greek.

Burgum. I regret that I permitted you to come. You are a sentimental girl likely to fall in love with such a vagabond as Chatterton.

Bertha. Do not call him a vagabond, father: you owe so much to him.

Burgum. For what?

Bertha. Your Pedigree.

Burgum. He has been paid.

Bertha. Yes--a crown.

Burgum. Hem! He shall have more after the College of Heralds has passed upon my claims--not before.

Bertha. In the meantime he may starve.

Mrs. Angell. Indeed, lady, he is starving now.

Burgum. Nonsense! One-half the troubles in life are due to gorging. Besides, I heard before we left Bristol that he had sent his mother some china and dress patterns--even British herb-tobacco and a pipe for his grandmother. Starving?--nonsense!

Mrs. Angell. That was over a month ago, sir. Then he always was telling of what he was going to do for his mother; but now he seems so hopeless, and still he writes so hopefully to her. I do not believe he has had a morsel of food these two days. He is too proud to take anything from me. He says he is not hungry, and yet he looks almost famished.

Bertha. Poor Chatterton!

Burgum. Why does he not work?

Mrs. Angell. He does work, sir--all night sometimes--writing, writing, writing.

Burgum. I mean at something profitable--looking up pedigrees, for instance,--the boy has a genius for pedigrees.

Mrs. Angell. I believe he is trying to get an appointment as a surgeon's mate. My husband, good man, offered to secure him a place as a compter; but Mr. Chatterton stormed about the house.

Burgum. A poet's gratitude.

Bertha. A poet's indignation 'gainst a clown.

Mrs. Angell. My husband is no clown, lady.

Bertha. I beg your pardon, Madam.

Burgum. [To Mrs. Angell.] Pay no attention to her: she is as crazy as Chatterton.

Bertha. I would I were.

Burgum. Bah! You are half in love with the beggar already.

Mrs. Angell. If he had a chance, sir, I think he would make something great.

Bertha. I am sure of it!

Burgum. You never met him.

Bertha. But I have seen him, and have read his poems.

Burgum. That doggerel in the "Town and County"? [Taking a paper from table.] Here is more of it. [Glances at paper.] What's this? [Reads.]

"Gods! what would Burgum give to get a name And snatch his blundering dialect from shame?"

The ingrate!